The Florentine Quilt

11. Amelia

11

AMELIA

CORNWALL, 1899

LAbrADORITE: Strength and perseverance through change

T he path from Breage is rugged at this time of year, and the stench of mud and constant mizzle add to our discomfort. Finally , after our years of separation, Thomas has sent for us. We will be reunited. We are leaving behind the wild beauty of the rugged cliffs and coves of the Cornish coast. Our home. But my Alice is oblivious; she’s wide-eyed at the sight of the locomotive awaiting us at the railway station, and claps hands like a baby seal when steam rises from a bulbous funnel and the whistle sounds its alert.

With a heavy heart and lips aquiver, I stare from the window until tears blur the last trace of Mother and Penzance from sight. I dare not blink for fear of missing a moment of our final farewell.

When she slipped the smooth amethyst into Alice’s hand, I read in her soulful eyes she had more to say. But it appeared she dared not breach the moment nor fathom the words. A great one for caring, Mother imparted wisdom through deeds, not words, and the gift of a stone for my daughter’s protection was no great surprise. Hands ready at the waiting, Mother watched over her kith and kin like a lioness, yet with touch as gentle as the fey. I’m grateful for having learnt strength in the ways of women beside her.

I catch my lip between my teeth to shift the source of pain that aches inside me. I lament the times I vexed her, moments when impetuousness bested me and caused her suffering. I wish from the depths of my heart it was never so.

With love and care she prepared pasties for us to take on our voyage; the kneading requires a light but deft hand. Laden with vegetables from our garden and baked with a small portion of peppery beef she could ill afford to spare, they weigh heavily in my pocket.

Before he left for Australia , Thomas used to take a pasty down pit to stave off hunger and sustain him through the darkness and grit until the bell sounded his finish. I was proud to pack his pail and will bake again for him soon. ’ Tis my solemn vow to be ever the good wife to him.

First , bound for London , Alice and I travel inland, parting the wide-open moors of Devonshire and velvet fields of emerald down, with the miles stretching between. Soon , the Celtic Sea will distance me from my past.

By nightfall, we find ourselves in London , said to be the grandest city of all. It does little to impress me. A great cloud of grime sits above Londoners like a gruesome fog, a heavy grey band that swallows every breath of fresh air. The smell of soot and bog and foul noxious substances I cannot name surround the city walls. London is choked with smog and melancholy, crime and deceit, and I am eager to leave it.

London holds no fond memories for me; ’tis a purgatory I wish to forget. This city devours nature’s gifts as swiftly as the snout of a greedy sow and is infested with all manner of folk. People are cast together like oddments swinging from a hawker’s barrow, and live like wild animals, carousing and shouting, screeching and belching. I cannot wait to leave the vile stench of such a place.

At daybreak we make our way by railway to the port of Liverpool , ready to sail to Australia . ’ Tis a day later when my hands hold firm to the handrail of the steamship Ortona on her maiden voyage.

Finally , we set sail for the home Thomas has built for us in the mining town of Walhalla . Alice is both excited and anxious in the same breath. Eyes the colour of lady fern glance hither and thither, aglow at the bustle of activity when passengers join us at the railing. Heavy with salt, the sea air acts like a tonic, urging her to behave more vigorously, and braver than she is wont to be. Perhaps she was a mermaid or selkie in another life? With a blink I sweep aside the memory of her birth. How will Thomas react when he greets us? Will he love my daughter as I do?

The Ortona ’s ropes are released and my stomach lurches. Staring towards the horizon, we sail away under a fog of steam with only the ocean afore us. Soon the shrinking shoreline is all that remains of our homeland. I brace my body against the crisp sea air and shiver. Wind lashes my face like cold fingers of knowing that touch my soul. What will we encounter on the other side of the world?

I take Alice’s hand and we return to our cabin. With her sweet-tempered ways, my daughter is the gift of life, ever a joy to me. My only wish is she be loved and accepted in her innocence. None of this is her doing. Still , I pray I am able to keep my dark secret from my husband. Thomas is dear of me; I dare not dwell on his reaction if he were to learn we are raising another man’s child. Alas , I wish I did not have to keep such a pretence.

Yet how can I expect him to understand the great pull of destiny? The madness that stole my senses from me and urged me to behave in a manner foreign to that which was instilled in me? For shame. Thomas has ever been my dearest companion, and I love him deeply. I vow to be a dutiful wife and will meet him in all ways expected from now on. It has been years since I felt his kind hand on mine, or the warmth of eyes the colour of sea mist shining on me and glowing full of love. Indeed , he is the best of men and far better than I deserve.

Mining is hard and dangerous work, but my Thomas is never one to protest. In Cornwall , he started as a young hurrier, alongside miners from counties near and far. For six long days a week, his job was to hitch his body to a pulley and sink to the bottom of the pit. There , he would fill his cart full of blocks of the dark metal that keeps the country in riches and push and drag it to the surface.

At the close of each day, Thomas left behind the dangers of the wheal without complaint. Instead , he would take up his cornet with a delighted smile, eager to entertain. In the early days of our marriage, he dropped his bag and splashed a flush of water on his face, then scooped me into his arms and kissed me deeply. To be the cause of his rapture and see his eyes bright with happiness made my heart light.

When Thomas and his beloved cornet left for Australia , his seed was planted in my belly, but it was too early to know it for certain.

What happened after was a grim and difficult time to bear. After the loss of our child, I was poorly, and fell victim to melancholy. Dear Mother tried her best to console me. My sweetest salvation was found in my books, skipping fingers along the lines of print, lost in the bounty of words on each page. I teased my way back to health, reading stories from the heart. Stories of people and imaginary lives, stories of ancient lands lost in time.

I cannot imagine what my life will be beyond Cornwall without the open fields and hedgerows, carpets of matted moss or raging winds that whip spirits into a thrill of excitement. Or days spent with Alice at my feet while I toil at my herbs and plants in the fertile soil. What of the evenings lost in the beautiful prose of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King while the candle burns low? Or time spent before the stone hearth, with its keystones worn smooth over the centuries by those who have shared the embers and warmth of its fire? What life can compare to this; the only life and land I have ever known and loved?

In the dawn of a new century, I voyage far from Cornwall where centuries of standing stones and the auld ways hold the answers to a colony where the history is unknown. I must learn about a land where convicts have paved the way afore us, where fortunes are built out of opportunity by folks like Thomas and me. A land that offers the promise of a new life—a better life for all. We will make good and be a family at last. I swallow the memory of what has passed before and set my mind on redemption.

I break the last of Mother’s pasties in two to share with Alice , feeding small pieces of the buttery crust between her rosebud lips. Thomas writes with fondness and asks after her in his letters. I tell her that her father is a good man, and what a fine life we will have together. My daughter is part of my future and the reason for my past. She fills my heart with pride. Licking the crumbs from her fingers she savours the hearty flavours. I hope nature’s gifts grow well in the soil of Walhalla too.

At night, I toss and turn in my bunk. I shudder at the thought of who will guide me when I cross great oceans to settle in a land barely grown. What shall I do without the eternal wisdom of others like me?

Mother preferred stones and the stars for her divinations, but cards called to me from under a pile of books at a village fair one day, and I couldn’t resist them. The Renaissance -style drawings portray maidens with flowing golden hair and have lettering in a medieval style. I know not who owned the cards before me, but I cherish them as though sacred.

Over the centuries, all manner of bountiful treasures made their way to Cornwall from lands far away. ’ Tis my fancy to imagine the cards were smuggled into Perran Cove by a lone corsair whose contraband was intercepted and abandoned after his capture in a tavern. Tales of pirates and smugglers are rife in Cornish folklore.

One day I might teach Alice how to read them. But I have never forgotten the words of the gypsy woman: ‘ Take care to protect yourself from folk who refuse the old ways.’ Then she pointed to her ring and a black tear-shaped stone in the centre.

Perhaps I have greater need of Mother’s stone than Alice ?

Though my path is intended, if it were possible, there’s only one thing I would change. The call from the past is my burden to bear. I have no means to stop its rising swell. As sure as the moon and tide draw waves to the shore, and the ocean dashes its mark upon the rocks and sands, I am certain to meet Jago Carrick in another life.

The cards show this new land will provide for us, but there will be a heavy price to pay. A cool chill walks my soul, and I shudder, knowing my path is written. And if the signs are to be trusted and believed, it is I who will pay most dearly. ’ Tis my destiny.