A Cornish Betrothal

A heart-warming saga of friendship, family and love

Nicola Pryce

• Publisher: Corvus
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9781838950910
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

The fifth book in a sweeping historical romance series set in Cornwall, perfect for fans of Poldark Cornwall, 1798. Eighteen months have passed since Midshipman Edmund Melville was declared missing, presumed dead, and Amelia Carew has mended her heart and fallen in love with a young physician, Luke Bohenna. But, on her twenty-fifth birthday, Amelia suddenly receives a letter from Edmund announcing his imminent return. In a state of shock, devastated that she now loves Luke so passionately, she is torn between the two. When Edmund returns, it is clear that his time away has changed him - he wears scars both mental and physical. Amelia, however, is determined to nurse him back to health and honour his heroic actions in the Navy by renouncing Luke. But soon, Amelia begins to question what really happened to Edmund while he was missing. As the threads of truth slip through her fingers, she doesn't know who to turn to: Edmund, or Luke?

Chapter One

Town House, Truro
Saturday 30th December 1797, 2 p.m.

‘There . . . no, a bit higher. Let me fasten it again.’ Bethany’s hands trembled as she re-pinned my brooch. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs. Honest, it’s like I’ve never done this before.’

Her eyes caught mine in the mirror. I was wearing my new apricot silk, high-waisted and edged with lace, my hair loosely coiled and threaded with pearls. I looked flushed, almost giddy, my eyes shining like an excited child. She stood back, clasping her hands, and I shook my head at the glittering diamonds. ‘No . . . perhaps not.’

She nodded, her smile turning conspiratorial. ‘Well, it is ye birthday and ye might very well be given a present of some jewellery . . .’ She put Uncle Alex’s brooch back into its silk-lined box, pursing her lips. ‘You may be given a necklace, or maybe a ring?’

‘Bethany!’

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed two and Bethany ran to the window, peering down with the same jumpy excitement. The pursed lips were back, the terrible attempt to hide her smile. ‘Oh, goodness, he’s come early. Perhaps it’s on account of seeing to Lady Clarissa’s ankle . . . or perhaps he wants a quiet word with Lord Carew? Perhaps he’s got something of great importance to ask?’

I joined her at the large sash window, my cheeks flushing. She was worse than Mother – they all were: the maids running up and down the sweeping staircase, singing as they dusted, the footmen smiling as they polished the silver. ‘It’s only a small birthday gathering,’ I whispered, trying not to look too eager.

The day was overcast, a thick blanket of clouds sitting heavily above the town. Men stood hunched against the biting wind, the corner of High Cross almost deserted. Luke was right on time, dressed in his heavy overcoat, his collar pulled up, his hat drawn low over his ears, and I thought my heart would burst. He was smiling up at me, that loving smile that made my whole body flood with warmth.

‘Yer mother’s foot’s done very well under Dr Bohenna’s attentive care. His daily visits have made all the difference.’ Bethany was as flushed as I was, and well she might be, all of them thinking I had fallen for their ruse. ‘I do believe Lady Clarissa will soon be up and able to walk on her broken ankle.’

Luke had not yet knocked on the door and stood smiling up at my window. I leaned against the pane and smiled back. ‘I take it Papa has had no more of those dizzy turns?’

‘None that I know of . . .’

‘And Cook’s headaches have stopped . . . and Seth’s indigestion is better?’

Bethany had the grace to giggle. ‘All better. All thanks to Dr Bohenna.’

The footman must have opened the door because Luke picked up his heavy leather case and disappeared under the pillared portico. Across the square, the stones of St Mary’s church were growing increasingly grey, the spire now swallowed by the darkening sky.

Our house was set away from the main commerce of the town, one of the few houses to have its own stabling and coach house. Built thirty years ago, Mother had named it ‘Town House’ mainly as a penance. Must we go to the Town House? was her frequent lament. Our country estate, Trenwyn House, was only five miles downriver, but we wintered in Truro like most of society. Neither my farmer father nor my mother – a freethinking believer in Nature – liked the protocol and gossip of town. Society can be very trying, was another frequent saying of theirs and usually I agreed. But not this year. This year had been different. This year I had danced at balls and laughed at plays; I had dressed in my best gowns and attended all the concerts.

‘That’s a north wind,’ I said. ‘Those clouds look as if they might bring snow.’

The trees by the church stood bare of leaves, the tips of the branches rustling in the wind. People were hurrying from the market, men pushing barrels or staggering under furze packs; women were carrying heavy baskets, clutching their woollen shawls tightly to their chests. It had snowed before on my birthday, a fine dusting of white powder covering the vast heaps of coal on the quayside and thin layers of ice on the decks of the ships. Perhaps it would snow today, too.

I turned back to the warmth of my bedroom. All the fires in the house were blazing, every room filled with warmth and laughter. I caught a glance in the mirror and hardly recognized myself – I looked like a giddy girl of seventeen, not a mature woman of twenty-five.

Bethany wiped a tear from her eye, her plump cheeks the colour of plums. ‘Miss Amelia, ye must know what’s meant is meant?’

I smiled at her, warmed by the love in her eyes. Her blush deepened to a fiery red. ‘I’ll bring your shawl down for ye. Ye might need it . . .’

I flew down the stairs as if I had wings. As a child, Frederick had taught me to slide down the banisters and I had taught each of my nephews in turn. A useful skill, I had assured them, like climbing trees and making bows and arrows from saplings; like rowing and fishing and cooking marshmallows round an open fire. Like rising with the dawn to gather dew-covered herbs, catching the first call of the songbirds, the air so fresh it cut you to breathe.

The marble floor was gleaming, the mahogany front door polished to a shine. A large parcel rested on the hall table, a footman trying to hide it from my view. The door to my father’s study was ajar, the sounds from within too hard to resist, and I peeped into the room. Papa and Luke were standing with their backs to the roaring fire; both were laughing, Father with a glass of brandy in his hands.

‘Amelia, dear child, come in.’ He coughed, smiling at Luke. ‘No need to tell your mother about this.’ He held up his glass, finishing it swiftly. ‘Doctor’s orders, nothing more.’

Luke bowed formally, his eyes setting me alight. He always dressed smartly, always with the same professional decorum, and I loved him all the more for that. His dark jacket and breeches were good quality, his boots polished and shining; never any silver buckles, just a white cravat, neatly folded and pinned with an enamel pin.

‘Happy Birthday, Amelia,’ he said, and my heart leapt even higher.

There was a time when his smile had been tentative, when he had been too scared to look me in the eye, always glancing down, his natural good manners and shyness at once endearing. But not now. Now, the love in his eyes sent ripples racing through my body: the love of true friendship and complete trust.

‘Is that large parcel in the hall from you, Luke?’

He smiled, shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid not. My present’s in my pocket. Actually, I have two presents for you – and both are in my pocket.’

‘Indeed, and what a present it is.’ Papa put down his glass. He was wearing his adored red felt cap and woollen housecoat, his strong farmer’s frame tied like a parcel in gold braid. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my dears, I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get changed. I believe our guests are to arrive any moment.’

We followed Papa to the door, watching him cross the hall and mount the stairs. Luke reached for my hands, pulling me back out of view of the footman. I knew he would. I had been anticipating this stolen moment all morning. He held my hands to his lips. ‘You look beautiful, Amelia.’ He covered my palm with kisses. ‘I’m sorry, I missed that bit . . . I’ll just have to start again. Happy Birthday, dearest, dearest Amelia.’

Footsteps hurried across the hall, last-minute instructions echoing up the stairs, and I leaned against Luke’s strong chest, his arms closing round me. His lips brushed my hair.

‘Who did they send you for this time? We haven’t had illness in our house for years, and suddenly we’re falling like a pack of cards! Mother’s quite outrageous.’

‘And my mother. They’re in league and thank goodness they are. I think they’re scared that if they didn’t summon me I’d catch my death of cold standing outside, just hoping for a glimpse of you.’

‘Except Mother’s foot – that’s real. I saw her fall and how painful it was.’

His arms tightened. ‘It’s mending well. I’ve forbidden her from climbing any more ladders. Do you think she’ll take my advice?’

‘Mother, do what she’s told? The idea’s preposterous.’

He laughed the soft laugh I loved so well. ‘Amelia, now we’re alone . . . while I have you to myself . . .’ He released his hold, looking deep into my eyes. He seemed hesitant, as if gathering his courage. ‘Your father’s been extremely kind, he’s given me every encouragement . . . both Lord Carew and Lady Clarissa have.’ He knelt down, reaching into his jacket and my heart began thumping, jumping, racing so hard I could hardly breathe. In his hands he clasped a smooth walnut box.

His bluest eyes searched mine, full of tenderness and understanding. Deep furrows etched his forehead, eight long years of studying and his patients’ suffering leaving their mark. His brown hair was worn short, receding slightly at the temples, his chin was freshly shaven. His cheeks were flushed, a slight tremble in his hand. He was not smiling but looked suddenly nervous. How I loved him. How I adored him.

A sound of scuffling was followed by a breathless shout. ‘Aunt Amelia . . . Aunt Amelia . . . Oh, here you are – we’ve been looking all over for you.’ My two young nephews beamed with pleasure, their faces flushed from the cold. Their smiles widened. ‘Oh, gosh. Good afternoon, Dr Bohenna, I didn’t see you down there. Have you dropped something? Only we can help you look for it. We’re good at finding things.’

Luke smiled at me, getting up from his knees. ‘No, nothing’s lost.’ Our eyes locked and I wanted to throw myself in his arms.

William and Henry embraced me in turn. ‘Happy Birthday, Aunt Amelia . . . we can’t wait to give you our present. Are you coming? Everyone’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’ They slipped their arms around my waist, both growing so fast they almost reached my elbows. ‘There’s a simply enormous present from Captain de la Croix in the hall. What d’you think it could be?’

Mother sat on the chaise longue, her bandaged ankle resting on a cushion. Jewels glinted in her green turban, a host of dark eyes bobbing in the feathers above her. Her oriental green gown was threaded with gold, her embroidered shawl sparkling with exotic animals. Papa had somehow been persuaded to swap his favourite corduroy waistcoat for embroidered silk, his felt hat begrudgingly replaced by his grey wig. His smile grew mischievous as he handed Mary Lilly a glass of punch.

‘I hope this isn’t as strong as your Christmas punch, Lord Carew?’ Mary Lilly smiled up at him, her soft Irish lilt full of reproach. She had the same blue eyes as Luke, the same tender smile, and the soft lines on her face showed the same gentle compassion. Her white hair was tied back in a loose bun, her velvet hat matching her blue, silk gown. Dearest Mary, with her plain speaking and her inordinate good judgement, had become Mother’s closest friend: they sat on several charity commissions together and were a formidable force for women’s education. I loved everything about her.

‘Mr Lilly sends his apologies. He’d like to be here, but . . . well, you know how his work takes him away.’

I smiled back, unable to answer. I was being dragged across the room by William and Henry. My sister-in-law held out her arm, embracing me warmly. ‘Have we surprised you?’ She held the youngest of my nephews in her other arm and he sque...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Family Tree
• New Sheets
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen
• Chapter Sixteen
• Chapter Seventeen
• Chapter Eighteen
• Chapter Nineteen
• Chapter Twenty
• Chapter Twenty-one
• Chapter Twenty-two
• Chapter Twenty-three
• Chapter Twenty-four
• Chapter Twenty-five
• Chapter Twenty-six
• Chapter Twenty-seven
• Chapter Twenty-eight
• Chapter Twenty-nine
• Chapter Thirty
• Chapter Thirty-one
• Chapter Thirty-two
• Chapter Thirty-three
• Chapter Thirty-four
• Chapter Thirty-five
• Chapter Thirty-six
• Chapter Thirty-seven
• Chapter Thirty-eight
• Chapter Thirty-nine
• Chapter Forty
• Chapter Forty-one
• Chapter Forty-two
• Chapter Forty-three
• Chapter Forty-four
• Chapter Forty-five
• Chapter Forty-six
• Chapter Forty-seven
• Chapter Forty-eight
• Chapter Forty-nine
• Chapter Fifty
• Acknowledgements