The Florentine Quilt

2. Amelia

2

AMELIA

‘CLARENCE’, MELBOURNE, 1903

MOONSTONE: Moon and tides energy; feminine power; serendipity; intuition

I was a fool to ignore the signs forewarned the day he crossed my path. A tiding of magpies should never be taken lightly; to happen upon six or seven was as far removed as night from day. And so it was I turned my back to the lone sentinel, the one that watched from a crumbling stone post on the crest of the hill. Instead , I picked blackberries from their stalks and licked the stain of juice from my fingers, the bird’s presence promptly forgotten. It was a time before I understood the gravity of my neglect; the omens I ought to have trusted.

Raised to be virtuous and respectful, I follow the auld ways and the new. Yet , what came to pass at that time defied the laws of God and reached beyond the realm of mortal man. I did not comprehend the strength of will and might needed to endure the consequences.

Nor , how powerless we are to halt the path of destiny.

Now we are settled at Clarence , our own home by the sea, I write this diary, my love, seeking absolution. Before memories of that dark time fade with the years to no more than a vision in my dreams. The process of flowing ink across the pages is a spiritual release and offers both a voice and the ear of another. I trust it may serve as a chronicle; an explanation of what came before and all that was lost. In my writing I will bare my soul to you. I alone bear the cost of my transgressions.

You remain forever my joy, my hope, and my mainstay.

Forgive me, darling Maudie .

C ornwall , 1896

Mother rises at first light to stoke the embers in the grate, then quietly sets the salves and tinctures in her basket. Momentarily discomfited by the thought of days alone, I hide a sigh and cover my nightdress with my shawl. During my convalescence, her sainted patience has been a blessing. However , in Penzance , an elderly maid with a litany of ailments has a more pressing need for Mother’s attentions.

‘ I shan’t return within the sennight.’ A tight smile fails to hide her concern. The walk across the clifftops alone will take until midday, and then some. ‘ I regret, the widow is not long for this world. I shall remain until she is at peace. ’ Tis our good fortune the bal maidens are too occupied at present to seek our ministrations. I hear there’s a bounty of ore at the wheal to be dressed and spalled.’

Mother has taught me all manner of herbs and healing: well enough to provide for us both until Thomas sends for me.

It was the promise of gold that had lured my husband from the mines of Cornwall and across the sea. Like a bud yearning for the first kiss of sun in the spring, I long for word to follow him. The fluttering of wings spread through me with thoughts of his good counsel and tender-hearted ways. I sorely miss my dearest friend and companion.

‘ Take care, and ready the stores for market day while I’m gone if you’re not feeling too poorly.’ The words tug in my chest; her concern is as formidable and steadfast as ever.

‘ Of course, Mother . I am hale and hearty now and have plenty of chores to fill my days. Go on with you.’ I squeeze her shoulder. ‘ You will return soon enough.’

Though I’ve bravely spoken, ’tis time I cast aside melancholy and face my duties.

The sun breaks through a billow of fast-moving clouds while I attend to my physic garden. With only the rhythmic hum of the ocean for company, I lift my head from my toil and take stock of the shifting breeze. After a time, I return inside with the necessary herbs to attend to our preparations.

The aroma of freshly baked blackberry pie has my stomach rumbling and it is still cooling under a cloth when a sharp knock on the door stills the silence of my peaceful day.

‘ Missus —where you to?’

I look up from my task: what could they want with me? Mine is a talent best left until nightfall, not sought in the hours when the sun sits high on the gables of thatched roofs and folk go about their business in plain sight.

‘ Quick as you come, maid! Man ’ere needs help.’

A sharp breath hisses between my teeth and I wipe my hands on my apron. Men are not our usual clientele, nor would Mother approve of me admitting one alone. More commonly we are called on to relieve lurgies and maladies, or the aches and pains that trouble the fairer sex during their courses. Or draughts to quell cantankerous husbands full of the devil’s drink when their surly tempers prove too perilous for good wives to endure.

I wrestle with the idea of remaining silent yet cannot in all good conscience ignore any living creature in need.

The door groans open and two men stagger towards me; a third hangs between them like a sack of grain with heels dragging in the dust. A dark bloodstain resembles yew berries fit to burst; it leaches into his moleskin jodhpurs and pools at his thigh.

‘ Come ,’ I say, ‘place him here.’

They haul the larger man inside with some great effort. One takes his underarms and lifts, while the other slides his feet onto the quilt covering my bed. I leap into action but curse under my breath for the dirt and muck they rake in. The poor man is barely conscious. In truth, ’tis far easier to launder a quilt than leave a man at death’s door.

‘ Cut badly he be—help him maid, can ye?’ John Nancarrow’s eyes search mine. ‘ Will be hell to pay down pit!’ His wizened stare gazes back to the man groaning on the bed.

His brother Richard hovers behind them, shuffling nervously with cap in hand. Is he afraid I’ll gobble them up like Little Red’s wolf?

I kneel by the man’s side and consider the depth of the wound. ‘ Help me cut away his breeches,’ I instruct over my shoulder. ‘ No —best we remove them.’ I hand them a cloth to cover him with while I prepare the poultice. ‘ And bring fresh water from the well. We must sponge down his body to cool the fever.’

One scurries away, and I thrust a cup of elderflower wine at the other, motioning him to offer sips to the injured man. I select leaves of comfrey and lavender, and freshly picked yarrow to ease his pain and discomfort. If I cannot staunch the blood flow he may not survive the night.

‘ When did this happen?’

‘ Back some hour or more, it be. Saw yonder smoke from wheal and come ’ere dreckly. Passed out a time ago, he did; prayed thee’d be ’ere, maid.’

I make haste to attend him and grind the herbs with my mortar and pestle. Next , I prepare a muslin pouch and add boiling water from the pot over the stove, then wait for the pulped leaves to steep.

Caught between consciousness and delirium, the injured man moans. He writhes on the bed with his bare leg bloody and wound gaping, but his manhood concealed. John steps back and twists his cap, watching him with the reverence of a god spirited here from Mount Olympus .

‘ Who is he?’ I ask.

‘ Mr Carrick . Jago Carrick . Mine manager at Wheal Tregonning . Caught , he be, between pair of hewers and came out some wrong side. Struck leg clean through with pick. Naught but accident.’

‘ Mr Carrick ? Can you hear me?’ I lift his head and gently remove the scarf from his throat. He moans and squirms away from my touch. Tousled hair the colour of jet falls about his face. I brush stray strands from his eyes and where it catches on his lips. I press one hand on his forehead to still him and affix the poultice firmly over the wound with the other. His face pales and his lips draw tight. The gash is deeper than I had hoped.

Suddenly , dark lashes flutter open and the intensity of a familiar stare burns my face. He braves a half-smile, and I am drawn into the depths of an azure light. We have never met, yet my soul knows him all the same. My nervousness temporarily disappears.

‘ What dream is this, to be tended by so fair a maid?’ Carrick winces as another wave of pain takes him and lines rail tight across his forehead. ‘ By God those men know how to wield the iron.’

‘ Hush now, Mr Carrick . You’ve a large wound and ’tis essential we halt the bleeding. Please lie back and be still. Calm and rest are best for healing.’

The shake in my voice sounds foreign to my ears. Perchance I should listen to my own advice and calm my racing heart. Why does he affect me so? He is a stranger….

An hour or more passes until the men’s irritation grows. ‘ Must away, dreckly. You will need help, maid—’ere alone, are ye?’ Nancarrow shuffles to the door.

‘ For a time.’ I hesitate to impart the scope of Mother’s movements.

‘ Send wife to thee then: be for best.’ At his pointed look towards Carrick , his brother nods in agreement. ‘ Not proper he be ’ere alone, with the maid.’

Carrick rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. ‘ Good God , man! I’m in no position to ravish the maid. Might as I may have a mind to, were I in better health,’ he whispers under his breath. Eyelashes flutter open again and his gaze meets mine.

I lower my head over his wound. The blood flow has slowed, but the injury will require rest and firm binding. Weakened by his efforts, he drops back to the pillow.

‘ I thank you, Mr Nancarrow , if indeed your wife can be spared. But rest assured, I will manage.’

That I must. It will be a time before Mary Nancarrow reaches here. Their farm is beyond the rise of the valley, and at last count, she had three little ones to attend to. A twist lurches in my stomach.

Sitting silently by Carrick’s side, I check the wound and after a time refresh the poultice. He dips in and out of slumber, still warm with fever. I cradle a small pebble of amber against the base of his neck for healing, but the warmth of his head beneath my hands and the nearness of his male body unsettles me.

I cannot help but notice his finely drawn features and aquiline nose while in repose, the perfect curved bow of his mouth. I try not to stare at his smooth skin, a shade darker than mine despite his pallor—finally sleep comes to him more soundly.

As night falls, I listen to the rush of the Celtic Sea . The tide is fierce and strong tonight, reeling me closer. Or is it the proximity to this stranger that invades my senses?

I remove Carrick from my line of sight and wrap arms about my body, shamed by the unholy draw of mine to his. Perhaps I have been without the tender touch of a man for too long. Calling forth a picture of my Thomas , I hold fast and deny the heat in my thoughts.

I sift my fingers through my pockets until I touch the smooth, cool stone I need: the stone that opens the path to wisdom and inner knowing. Moonstone channels the power of the moon; it pushes and pulls the way of the tides and oceans and guides and unlocks emotions and the secrets within. With it pressed tight against my heart, I pray to be granted clearer sight now, and tremble at what it means, and what might yet unfold.

T he next morn, while my patient sleeps fitfully, I finish mending stockings and add them to those balled and nestled in the basket beside the hearth. In truth, I take pains to find any chore that removes me from Mr Carrick’s bedside, and gaze from the window periodically, eager for Mrs Nancarrow to arrive.

I read the only letter I have received from my husband, though by now, I know the contents by heart.

We made our way south, to the colony of Victoria , named in honour of the British Queen , Thomas wrote. I will send your passage once work is secured, and a fine house built for a family .

The remaining lines and signature appear scribbled hastily and slide from the edge of the page. I see Thomas in my mind, crouched in the dim light scratching his words, then gathering pail and cap to hurry back down the pit.

Alas , there is no word of when his summons will come.

By dusk that eve, I accept Mrs Nancarrow will not grace my threshold, nor safely cut Loe Bar until daybreak. Her home is on the far side of the shingle ridge, beside the very pool of water where Sir Bedivere took three attempts to cast King Arthur’s Excalibur back to the Lady of the Lake . With a black moon rising, a velvet cloak of darkness soon covers the sky. From the neatly stacked woodpile by the cottage, I gather logs for the night. Mr Carrick is sleeping deeply, more comfortable with my herbal brew inside him.

I return to my needlework until the fire burns low and late into the evening. Hours pass silently with embers aglow, throwing colour throughout the room like a summer sunset. Suddenly , the rumble of a deep voice curls through my body.

‘ You are real. It appears my eyes and ears do not deceive me, after all. I imagined some form of otherworldly visitation.’

‘ You are awake at last, sir.’ Pleased he has stirred, I jump to my feet and move closer, placing a hand to his forehead to check the fever has broken. ‘ I have made a broth. Let me bring you a bowl. You must be hungry.’ I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘ I am grateful for your care, madam.’ He coughs and shuffles to sit up. ‘ Indeed , please forgive my poor manners and allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jago Carrick , and you are?—?’

‘ Mrs Thomas Treloar .’ My answer flies quickly, but sharper in tone than I intended. I twist the edges of my apron and avert my regard.

‘ Treloar , you say? How fortunate a man to have so caring and attentive a wife.’

I feed him a spoonful of broth filled with barley and herbs and carrots and swedes from my garden. With peregrine-like intensity, his eyes follow my every move. I am aware of the heat of his body in each movement I make and concentrate to move my fingers from spoon to bowl, feigning focus on steadying the broth from spilling into my lap.

‘ Perhaps you might tell me about your good self, Mrs Treloar . I must confess, I am not accustomed to such periods of great silence.’

I would prefer less engagement. I turn and move a safer distance away to place the bowl on the table, frustrated by how easily he unnerves me. ‘ There is naught to tell, sir. I am but a maid who goes about her business, as I ought.’ I dare not encourage him further.

‘ I am appreciative of your attentive care, Mrs Treloar ,’ his deep timbre persists. ‘ Though perhaps we can dispense with formalities. Might I be permitted to address you by your Christian name?’

The man is incorrigible. There will be no ignoring him now he is rested. I am loath to reveal details of my life to him; nor do I intend to ask for his. It feels a betrayal of trust simply to speak with him.

‘ Surely there is no impropriety. After all, we are well-acquainted now, are we not? And you have seen me at my lowest ebb.’ Mr Carrick’s full lips curl across pearly white teeth. His smile teases, and the hint of a dimple settles beside his lips.

‘ Amelia ,’ I answer with a sigh. ‘ I was named for my grandmother.’

‘ A beautiful name too, befitting its owner.’

Heat fills my face. I am not skilled in manners of male conversation and cower under his close scrutiny.

He struggles to his elbows with a grunt of pain. The giant of a man looks ridiculously uncomfortable on the narrow bed. I move the bolster and settle it behind him. Even in his weakened state he holds his frame with arms astride, sturdy and regal.

‘ Damn this leg! You have me at a distinct disadvantage.’ He slaps down a hand, and glares at the quilt he’s moved askew. He’s like a newborn otter pup teetering on a submerged log. My stomach twists in sympathy. ‘ I am unaccustomed to finding myself in a maid’s chamber, infirm and in disarray.’

I avert my eyes from his naked limbs, and my heart beats faster. I tuck the quilt across him, and heat scalds my fingertips as they graze his skin. I cannot remove the picture of the man in my bed from my head.

I love my husband. We are avowed, and I faithfully adhere to my wedded promises.

Yet there is mystery in this encounter. In his soft and pure expression, I believe he feels it too. Mr Carrick and I share an undeniable connection; we are drawn together with the potency of a compass needle pointing north. When I cross the room to bring him water, his gaze is upon me again, unwavering. Large hands cradle mine and dwarf them when I offer the cup to his lips.

‘’ Tis best you rest now, Mr Carrick . I have a garden to attend to.’ I turn my back and leave him no time to retort.

Later , he sleeps, and I check his wound. His forearm slides to mine and fine dark hairs sting the soft skin of my wrist like nettles. My breathing stills. He is so near that our lungs and hearts beat in time, with the rhythm of one body. Never before have I felt such a pull of destiny.

The dark moon is a time of introspection, for spirits and souls dance about us on the earth. ’ Tis a dangerous time to have this man in our home, and I must not lose focus tonight or the magical effects will endure forever. The influence surrounds us, silently pulling and tugging like the force of the wind. I pray in the ways of the auld and the new for guidance. Help me remain ever vigilant. And able to keep Jago Carrick a safe distance away from me.

I n the gleam of morning’s welcome, I arise from my chair beside the hearth. While he sleeps, I steal to his side like a piskie, admiring the beauty of him. A fine fringe of ebony lashes fans across each cheekbone while he sleeps. The point of his chin tips to his chest and his strong and angular jawline is lightly dusted in stubble. Hair the colour of coal and tar rests on the white lace pillowslip embroidered by my own hand. If ever I were to meet a god on earth, he would surely take the form of this man. Of that I am certain.

I hover my palms over his form and sweep healing hands atop the invisible plane of his body. I continue massaging from head to toe and take care not to break the energy field or allow my skin to touch his. His body is virile and muscular and appears more used to physical work than others of his station. Yet before me he lies in the peaceful slumber of a child. All the while I am in awe of him.

Where can she be? I stand at the window, praying for Mrs Nancarrow to arrive. I polish the top pane of the glass inside and out, busying myself with cleaning tasks already set and done.

Beyond today, we may never meet again. Drawn to check on him once more, I swallow down a lump in my throat. Deep inside, I believe our souls have known each other before. In another world, another lifetime. I do not profess to understand the way of it; I am only certain that our paths have crossed on an ancient and mystical path. A path predetermined by destiny. In my heart I know that in time, in another realm, we will be together. And this gives me peace.

I lay my deck of divining cards in a spread to read my future. I foresee the lesson of sacrifice is the one to learn here and now.

While our souls might be tempted to seek a relationship in the present, we will not be offered one in this lifetime. For I remain faithfully married to my husband, Thomas Treloar .

T he sun sets and rises twice before Mary Nancarrow arrives at my door. Her offer of help is well timed; too long have we spent alone. Surrounded by the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, she bounds into my cottage like she knows it well, emptying a basket of preserves from her stores and a pint of fresh milk for our refreshment.

‘ I only be here until dark, Mrs Treloar . Must get back to the little tackers.’

We both understand her role of chaperone but skirt around the mention of it, prattling instead about how well her hens are laying and when the apples in her meadow will ripen. I compliment the creaminess of her milk and the texture of the grainy loaf she kindly offers.

‘ Will anyone come for him, do you think, from the estate?’ she whispers, looking from the bed to me. Her hands are clasped together, the raw red skin, wrinkled long ago, a sign of a life of arduous hard work.

‘ I had no means to send for help. But the wound is healing nicely. With luck, another day or two and he will be well enough to leave of his own accord.’

Eyebrows lower over nuggety brown eyes that are as hard as coal to boot. ‘ I heard said you be a conjuror or a pellar and marked with the sight. Make sure you protect yourself while he be here. Might be for best, since you be here alone.’

‘ Mother will soon return.’ I smile, fighting the flutter deep in my stomach. ‘ We will be no more than a day without another’s company.’

My declaration is as hollow as the bell in the tower of St Piran and St Michael . I picture Mr Carrick alone, and of having him to myself. ’ Tis wrong, and God forgive me, but I feel the want of it, nevertheless. Heat courses through my body like a tidal inlet racing to the shore. The draught I prepare abets deep sleep, which his healing body needs. Each day he becomes stronger, and he is brighter this morning, more alert and comfortable after a restful night. And when silent, the stirring of his voice cannot disturb my thoughts.

Mrs Nancarrow stands by the bedside and helps me bathe him. I move the flannel over his skin and lather the soap to wipe away the remains of fever and freshen him. My face flushes when I slip an old nightshirt over his head: the sleeves are too short at the cuffs and inches of skin are visible at his wrists. I feel Mrs Nancarrow’s gaze and struggle to keep my expression plain. Breathing deeply, I work through the motions with the gentle rhythm of hands ticking on a clock face. Step by step, I methodically replace his bandages, and then plump the pillows around him.

‘ Blessings , my dear ladies.’ Mr Carrick nods, inclining his head towards Mrs Nancarrow . ‘ I cannot explain how pleasurable it feels to be cleansed and have the grime washed from me. How grateful I am to have the attentions of two such considerate nursemaids.’

Mrs Nancarrow blushes and swats his words away in the air before removing the ewer and basin to empty. She chuckles all the way out the door.

When it closes behind her, his hand reaches for mine. I jump at the sting of his fingers on my skin.

‘ By God , Amelia ! That was the most difficult experience I ever had to bear. I am grateful indeed for your care, but I can almost smell your fear. Please tell me you are not afraid of me. What can I do to put you at ease?’

His eyes ravage my face to read me. Mine gaze at his lips, broad and full, with a cupid’s bow too perfect for a man. Quivering like a chick, I close my eyes. I feel the visceral thrum of his heartbeat in the air and inwardly curse the image that clouds my thoughts. I taste his lips on mine.

‘ I swear that is not my intention. I would never do anything to frighten or harm you, Amelia .’ He whispers the words, but they deafen me with meaning. ‘ What spell you have cast upon me, pray tell? I am completely undone…’

I run my tongue over parched lips. Warmth floods my face like the heat from a washerwoman’s copper. ‘ Please . You must excuse me now.’

‘ You mean, please… Jago .’ He smiles and dimples appear beside his lips. Such impudence. I will not say his name. It is too intimate. I cannot.

I avert my eyes for fear my face says too much.

‘ No ? Suit yourself,’ he says. ‘ I am humbly in your service, regardless.’

I step away as Mary Nancarrow enters the room. ‘ What do you say to a nice brew, Mr Carrick ? Mrs Treloar ?’

How fortunate she has not read the scene correctly, for I am floundering. I pat my hair into place and then shuffle to rearrange items on the table in time with my quickening heartbeat. My body is aglow from top to toe from the ardour of his intentions.

‘ Mrs Nancarrow , what a splendid idea!’ Jago answers in an even tone. ‘ You are far too kind. A saint, in fact. I must endeavour to remind Nancarrow of the fact when next I see him.’

‘ Oh , sir. What a lark! He don’t notice, nor do he appreciate his good fortune.’ Mary’s plump face floods with colour in response to the flattery, and a beaming smile reveals a missing front tooth.

Some hours later, the sun commences its descent beyond the rise, and the golden glow shines through my windowpane. Mary Nancarrow draws her shawl about her shoulders and takes my hands in hers. She has shown me more favour in one day than I ever recall. ‘ I be sorry to leave you, maid. I will send Nancarrow dreckly with a cart to take his lordship home. I seen the way he looks at you, me luvver. It’s not fitting.’ She nods, looking at me sternly. ‘ People will talk some. They already speak of what you and your mother be, without knowing your ways.’

I bow my head, accepting her kindness.

‘ I pay no mind to simpletons who shun the old ways. But be careful here, maid.’ She inclines her head to where our patient slumbers. ‘ Think of your good husband, if nought else.’

I walk her to the path and wave her on until her figure is a speck of dust on the horizon, and she follows the sun to the far side of the valley.

Alas … I fear her warning is too late.