The Cornish Captive by Nicola Pryce

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

Chapter Twenty-eight

The air was warm, no breeze to blow away the flowers’ perfume. It hung heavily in the air, the petals burning under the scorching sun. Even at the brow of the hill there was no hint of wind, just the vast blue sea and the flower-strewn clifftops. Despite my parasol, the sun seemed too bright, and I squinted across to the linhay, hurrying through the long grass to seek the shade of the stone walls.

I felt listless, hardly knowing if I wanted to go or stay. Matthew Reith might take years to build up his case against Sir Charles, I should be with my family. I should not remain to harbour my envy, my thoughts of other people’s happiness poisoning me. Other people’s families. I should return to my childhood home and devote myself to my nephews and nieces. Worse still, what if Marcel had already left town?

Below me, a schooner was anchored perilously close to the rocks, her white sails hanging limp and shouts echoing across her decks. The sailors were taking down the sails, throwing ropes to men in small boats waiting to row them into the harbour.

‘They should have done that an hour back. They’ve anchored now but those rocks are treacherous – they could still founder. They had neither wind nor tide, yet they thought to enter!’

I swung round. Not Marcel, but Pierre de la Croix, and I turned to hide my sudden blush. ‘Looking for more insects, Captain de la Croix?’

A smile flashed across his face. He reached for a bag hanging from his shoulders, his voice tentative. ‘No. I’ve been waiting . . . hoping . . . that you might come for your daily walk. I thought perhaps you might bring Rowan.’ He opened his bag, the sun on his face, the flecks of grey glinting in his sideburns. His hands were strong, elegant, his fingers fine-boned, his nails clean and well cut. He drew something out. ‘I’ve carved this for you – it’s your seagull . . . the driftwood you saw. The shape was already there, I just followed the contours.’

He held out a beautiful white seagull with outstretched wings. He had smoothed it, polished it, mounted it on another piece of wood – the seagull I had seen, taking flight, about to soar free. He had given it life and I forced back my tears. ‘Thank you . . . it’s beautiful.’

‘By way of a peace offering.’ His voice was thick, hesitant, his elegant hands doing up the buckle of his bag.

Our eyes caught. ‘How very clever you are . . . how very talented. To be able to craft something so beautiful is a rare gift.’

‘Mrs Pelligrew, I believe I may have offended you in some way. I think, perhaps, it’s because you believe me a coward? Yet . . . I . . . wish it were otherwise. I would so much prefer your good opinion.’

I could hardly breathe. He called me by my name, he knew everything about me.

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