The Cornish Captive

A sweeping historical romance for fans of Bridgerton

Nicola Pryce

• Publisher: Corvus
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781838954598
• eBook ISBN: 9781838954604
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

The sixth novel in a stunning series set in eighteenth-century Cornwall, perfect for fans of Poldark, Tracy Rees and Dinah Jefferies Cornwall, 1800. Imprisoned on false pretences, Madeleine Pelligrew, former mistress of Pendenning Hall, has spent the last 14 years shuttled between increasingly destitute and decrepit mad houses. When a strange man appears out of the blue to release her, she can't quite believe that her freedom comes without a price. Hiding her identity, Madeleine determines to discover the truth about what happened all those years ago. Unsure who to trust and alone in the world, Madeleine strikes a tentative friendship with a French prisoner on parole, Captain Pierre de la Croix. But as she learns more about the reasons behind her imprisonment, and about those who schemed to hide her away for so long, she starts to wonder if Pierre is in fact the man he says he is. As Madeleine's past collides with her present, can she find the strength to follow her heart, no matter the personal cost?

Fraternité

Chapter Thirty-two

Tuesday 24th June 1800, 3 p.m.

The sound of Mrs Munroe’s singing drifted up the stairs, so, too, the rich aroma of onions, carrots, parsley, and the special wine she had found for her poulet au vin. Pierre was to join us at five, and I stared at my reflection like a giddy young woman preparing for her first beau. The beginnings of flesh filled my cheeks, my brows neatly arched, my complexion losing its redness, but best of all were my eyes. There was a sparkle in them, a softening, a look of hope. A look of love. I could not stop smiling.

The singing stopped and I heard Mrs Munroe climb the stairs. Slipping from my dressing table, I looked down from the landing.

‘Oh, there you are, Miss Madeleine. Only I need more potatoes . . . Captain Pierre’s very partial to his potatoes. Likes them cooked in cream and garlic.’ She must have grimaced. ‘Only that leaves ye on yer own.’

‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’

‘Tamsin and Rowan are playin’ with Little Eva . . . and Sam’s at the brewhouse. And Mrs Pengelly won’t be back till four. Will ye be all right?’

‘Yes . . . of course. Is there anything I can do to help?’

Her laughter echoed up the stairs. ‘No, Miss Madeleine. Just get yerself as pretty as a picture. That man adores ye. Never seen a man so smitten, bless his dear heart.’

I returned to my dressing table, carefully easing on the cream turban with its thread of pearls. My fingers were all thumbs, my body tingling, jittery, my pulse racing. I looked up. Loud hooves were clattering down the road, a horse at speed, a man shouting for directions and I rushed to the window.

The man wore the uniform of an express courier, his horse foaming at the mouth. Digging in his heels, he urged his horse forward and stopped beneath my window. Swinging his leg over the saddle, he slipped to the ground and made towards the front door. An express. Sent here? He was about to bang on the door and I leaned out. ‘Can I help you?’

His flushed face looked up, sweat covering his brow. He took off his hat, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. ‘I’ve an express for Mrs Barnard. Does she live here?’

The urgency in his voice made me instantly fearful. ‘I am Mrs Barnard. One moment, please.’ I felt winded – this was my summons from Marcel. I stared down at him, not wanting to open the door. I did not want to leave Fosse. Not now, not ever. Yet I must go down.

He stood staring back at me. ‘I need proof it’s you. I’m only to give it to a lady in a blue turban with curls on each side . . .’

‘I am Mrs Barnard. I have two turbans.’

He wiped his elbow across his brow. He was a young man, polite yet firm. He shook his head. ‘I’ve very strict instructions.’ ‘One moment.’ I was even more fearful now, unease making my hands fumble. I thrust the blue turban on and raced downstairs, almost missing the last step. I was trying to be rational – the horse was sweating, it had been ridden hard. This express had not come from the harbour, but from quite some distance.

He nodded when he saw my blue turban. ‘An’ I’m to ask ye Mrs Reith’s name. Who she was before . . . and before that.’

I could feel the blood drain from my head. Such precise questions. ‘She was Lady Polcarrow . . . and before that she was Miss Alice Roskelly.’

‘Thank you. That’s all. Here’s the express.’ He turned and grabbed the reins, nodding in farewell as he led the horse away. My name was on one side, a large red seal on the other. The courier was halfway down the road and I shut the door. Slipping the seal, I glanced at the signature. It was from Matthew Reith and looked to be written in haste.

2 Pydar Street

Truro

24th June 1800

Dear Mrs Pelligrew,

Something in the diaries alerted me to a grave concern. Straight away we returned to Truro and further enquiries proved my suspicion not only true but of the gravest nature. I wish it was otherwise. Madeleine, you must prepare yourself for grievous news.

Your brother was taken prisoner in July 1790 and held without charge in Saint-Malo dungeons for seven months. A trial was conducted in the prison on 16th January 1791 and your brother was condemned to death by the town’s Commune. He was taken from the prison to the town square where he refused to beg for pardon and was hanged alongside twelve other ‘traitors’. Your cousin, Etienne St Just, was among those men. Both of them now lie buried in a communal grave outside the town.

Your father died of natural causes the previous year, and the de Bourg estates were seized. Together with your house, they are now in the hands of the Commune.

Madeleine, your grief must not cloud your thinking. Who is your brother’s friend?When did he last see your brother? I have further matters to investigate but we shall return as soon as possible. Hopefully tomorrow. In the meantime, do nothing and say nothing, until I have returned.

Yours in haste,
Matthew Reith

The hall floor was spinning: somehow I managed to reach the chair in Mrs Pengelly’s drawing room, my heart pounding so fast I thought I might be sick. He must be wrong. My brother was alive. I put my head on my knees, I had to calm myself, to reread the letter.

Yet Matthew Reith seemed so sure. Tears splashed the page. I had no nephews or nieces, no sister-in-law, yet Marcel Rablais had talked of them. He had told me their names, told me my niece was called after me. Why search for me and tell me my brother was alive if he was dead? I needed air. I needed a drink of water.

Making my way down to the kitchen, I leaned against the table, the smell of the cooking pot turning my stomach. The silence was unnerving, my panic growing, a return of the irregular beats to my heart. I needed air, I needed to think. Someone was banging on the front door and my heart lifted. Tamsin and Rowan must be back, or perhaps it was Sam? Running up the kitchen stairs, I opened the door.

A young boy in tattered clothing thrust a note at me. ‘Fer Mrs Barnard. Only Mrs Barnard. Is that ye?’ I nodded, backing away. I did not want another letter. The boy could only have been seven, dirty-faced, wide-eyed, with gaps between his teeth. He thrust the note nearer. ‘Said to give it to ye as quick as I could. Gave me sixpence, so take it . . . please.’

My name was written across the front, and I took it from him, glancing down the road to see if anyone was coming. Mrs Munroe waved at me from the corner and I leaned against the wall hardly daring to read. It was not sealed, and tears sprang to my eyes. It was from Pierre.

My Dearest Madeleine,

I entreat you to come. I have news of great importance. Meet me by the steps of the OldWharf – not the new wharf, but the one reached by Dog Lane. Please, hurry. What I have to say can only be told to you – you alone. Bring Rowan but tell no one you’re coming, only please hurry.

Your Obedient Servant, and most loyal friend,
Pierre de la Croix

I held the letter to my heart, a rush of tenderness easing my anxiety. He had discovered the same news – maybe in a discussion with Lady Pendarvis. He understood. Of all men, he understood. Yet Rowan would not be back for several hours and his note sounded urgent. I reached for my jacket.

‘Well, bless my soul . . . Miss Madeleine, are ye all right?’ Mrs Munroe stared up at me from the bottom step. ‘Ye don’t look well at all.’

‘I am well, Mrs Munroe.’ I held up the note. ‘Only this is from Captain Pierre . . . he’s asking me to meet him.’

Her frown disappeared, her smile broadened. ‘Bless ye heart. Go on then – I’ll tell Mrs Pengelly ye couldn’t wait another moment.’ She shook her head, clucking like a mother hen as she squeezed past me. ‘Tell him I’m doing him those fancy potatoes . . . no, on second thoughts, let it be a surprise.’

My brother had been hanged and Pierre had found out. Tears blurred my eyes, my breath fast and furious. Dodging the crowds, I did not care that they stared, I saw only my brother hanging from the gibbet in the town square. Murderers, all of them. Seagulls were screeching, a queue of people waiting for the ferryman. A crowd had gathered on the quay, a new catch being packed into crates. Fishermen were mending their nets, men with barrels of water washing the cobbles and I stopped to reread Pierre’s note. He definitely said Dog Lane.

I passed the Ship Inn, leaving the crowd behind me. It was quieter on the back streets, and I looked around. There was no one there, I was by myself. I knew Dog Lane from old, knew it as a place no lady should venture down alone. The houses looked even poorer now, with broken windows and paint peeling from the doors, and I glanced at his note again. Tell no one you’re coming, only please hurry. He would not send for me unless it was important. Ahead of me, the filthy cobbles looked uneven and loose in places, the imprints of heavy boots left in the mud.

I lifted my skirt and stepped forward, trying to avoid the putrid water pooling in the puddles. It was hardly a lane, more an alley, narrowing considerably as I hurried down it. Barely any light penetrated the rooftops, the gables crushing above me, the doorways dark down either side. Pierre should have known better than to ask me to meet him down such an alley; he obviously did not know the town as well as I thought.

I stopped, reluctant to continue. I was less than halfway to the wharf, the place stank of urine, piles of soiled sacks and smashed bottles lying in my path. A cat was watching me from a broken window, a rat scuttling through a heap of rubbish, and I knew to turn back. I would retrace my steps and see if I could approach the Old Wharf from some other way. Footsteps sounded behind me and I swung round. A man was standing at the end of the alley, waving to attract my attention. He wore a large black hat and heavy black coat, his collar turned up at his neck, and my heart lifted. But the alley was dark, he was quite some way away, and as I watched him, my joy turned to fear. His stance was unfamiliar.

‘Mrs Pelligrew?’ His voice was sharp, urgent. Not waiting for my reply, his arm gestured for me to follow. ‘You got Captain Pierre’s note? Come . . . quickly . . . follow me. Please, you have to hurry.’

Chapter Thirty-three

The man ran ahead of me, twisting down the steep alley, waiting just long enough for me to see him before he turned the next bend. I was following a shadow, his footsteps, no instructions, only glimpses of his black coat as it disappeared in front of me. The thick walls were damp on both sides, no broader than two men standing side by side, and I stopped to catch my breath. The man was nowhere in sight. All I could see was a flight of worn steps leading down to the river. Water lapped against the stones, the seagulls screeching above me. Across the river lay the town of Porthruan. There was nowhere else to go – only the possibility of retracing my steps.

The river mouth was busy, anchored ships rising and falling in the swell. Two large warehouses rose behind me, a stretch of rocks down one side, the partly collapsed wharf on the other. The timbers were groaning, the wooden poles creaking, and I caught the outline of the black hat and coat. The man was on the wharf, standing by a ship’s gangplank. ‘You’ve done well, Mrs Pelligrew. Quick, allow me.’ He held out his hand. ‘Captain de la Croix needs your absolute secrecy. You told no one you were coming?’

He was a stocky man with broad shoulders and a full black beard. He looked powerful, yet his movements were nimble, jumping on to the gangplank with obvious ease. The ship was a lugger, I knew that from old – a two-masted lugger, about forty-five feet, her bowsprit lifted on to the deck. An...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Family Tree
• Attrapez-les!
• Liberté
• Égalité
• Fraternité
• Acknowledgements