A Cornish Betrothal by Nicola Pryce

Author:Nicola Pryce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books

Chapter Twenty-eight

Town House, Truro

Friday 9th February 1798, 11 a.m.

A good night’s sleep showed in Constance’s face; the shadows under her eyes had lifted, her newly washed hair dancing in curls around her shoulders. Mother had lent her a dark burgundy shawl and black pearl-drop earrings which swung as she talked. ‘That must be him now,’ she said, peering out of the window.

A gentleman in a heavy overcoat and tall hat was hurrying across the cobbles. Mother put down her pen, getting up from her writing desk. ‘And right on time, too.’

Mr Burrows stood at the door, handing his hat and cane to the footman. His wig was grey, his thin face flushed. He had taken off his overcoat and stood in smart tweed breeches and jacket, a buttoned-up woollen waistcoat and a carefully pinned cravat. A pair of round glasses perched halfway down his nose, the eyes above them hardly frightening at all.

Mother, dressed in a conventional silk morning gown and demure headdress, smiled elegantly back at him. Introductions Ag dispensed with she said, ‘It’s very kind of you to come. How do you find Truro?’

‘Very handsome . . . there are some fine buildings. And I’ve been very well looked after in the Red Lion.’ His tone matched his clothes, educated and respectful, even a touch shy.

‘Splendid. My daughter has laid out her drawings on the table by the window. We thought the light would be best there.’

He went straight to my paintings and I could barely breathe, my heart pounding as he drew out a magnifying glass. He said nothing but slowly examined each drawing in turn, holding them to the window with fixed concentration. A frown creased his brow and Constance handed me a glass of lemonade. I could not drink it.

‘Are you familiar with any of the books we publish, Miss Carew?’ he said at last.

‘Yes, I am. By pure chance, we’ve just recently come across The Botanical Prints of Oriental Spices that you published some time ago. Didn’t we, Constance?’

He looked up. ‘The Botanical Prints of Oriental Spices?’

Constance nodded. ‘Yes, I believe you were commissioned by my uncle.’

His frown cleared. ‘Miss Melville? How remiss of me not to recognize the name. I remember your father and I was very sorry to hear of his death.’

‘You knew my father?’

‘Yes. It was Sir Richard who commissioned the work, not your uncle – the prints of oriental spices were collected and published at your father’s request. I remember it very well – indeed, it was my first day at work and no one forgets their first day. My father compiled the book and I had just joined the firm.’

He glanced out of the window. ‘I delivered the book on a snowy day not unlike the weather we’re having now. February, it was – because I joined the firm on my seventeenth birthday. I remember rushing through the snow desperate not to slip. Sir Richard was thrilled with the book and so was Mrs Bainbridge. They were going to

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