Chapter Eight
Bella and Clara arrived in Falmouth on the afternoon of the fifth day of her flight from Pemberley.
They had endured uncomfortable and cramped conditions, but nowhere had approached the squalor or atmosphere of The Crown, for which Bella was eternally grateful.
She had learnt to speak only in short, clipped, informative sentences and allow Clara to take the lead in any negotiations.
The arrangement had served them well and they had travelled peaceably, if not comfortably.
For the last two miles, their hired carriage had been making an ominous squeaking sound and Bella was relieved when they finally passed through Penryn and the road began to rise towards Falmouth.
The countryside had changed during the last day of their journey.
The broad fields and gentle hills had given way to steeper lanes bordered by high banks and thick hedges, with glimpses of deep green valleys appearing whenever the road climbed.
There was something different in the air too, a freshness Bella could not place until the carriage crested another rise and the land suddenly opened before them, revealing a wide vista.
She sat forward so quickly that her bonnet struck the edge of the window.
Below them, Falmouth seemed to tumble towards the water.
Houses crowded one above another on the sloping ground, their pale walls and dark roofs broken here and there by church towers and chimneys, while beyond them stretched the greatest expanse of water Bella had ever seen.
The harbour widened between long green hills, the opposite shore rising in wooded slopes before falling away towards rocky points and little inlets.
Beyond the shelter of the bay, she caught a narrow glimpse of open sea sparkling like a sapphire beneath the afternoon sun.
But it was the ships that held her attention.
There were more than she could count. Masts rose beyond the rooftops like a winter forest stripped of its leaves, great vessels lay at anchor further out, while smaller boats moved constantly between them and the shore.
White sails caught the light, gulls wheeled overhead and even from this distance she could see the bustle along the quays below.
After five days of dusty roads and coaching yards, Falmouth was glorious.
"Clara," Bella said, pressing closer to the window. "Look at it. Isn't it the most beautiful place you have ever beheld?"
Clara leaned across her and squinted towards the harbour. "Looks like a lot o' boats to me, miss, an' I've seen plenty of them in Bristol. I’ll grant you the sea is pretty enough."
The driver drew the carriage to a halt before the Royal Hotel, a substantial three-storey building that occupied a prominent position close to the waterfront.
It looked the height of respectability compared with some of the establishments Bella had endured during the previous four days, with shining steps and a neatly painted frontage.
Somewhere behind the hotel came the unmistakable noise of a stable yard, while beyond the buildings opposite she could see the tops of masts and hear the cries of gulls circling above the quay.
They alighted and the driver helped them bring their luggage to the front of the building.
"Is there anything else I can be helping you with, miss?
" he asked politely, and Bella realised, rather belatedly, that she had made no fixed plans beyond this point.
She had been so focused on reaching Falmouth that she had given little thought to what they would do once they arrived.
"No, thankin' you kindly, sir," said Clara, stepping in before Bella could formulate an answer, and within moments the man was back on his box and disappearing into the bustle of the town traffic.
"Where does your auntie live then, miss?" Clara asked, turning towards her.
Bella was forced to admit that she had no idea.
She knew Aunt Lydia lived in Falmouth, but beyond that she had nothing, and the town appeared much larger than the quaint fishing port she had imagined.
"I had assumed we would ask for her," she admitted, feeling foolish.
"How many Mrs Wickhams can there possibly be? "
Clara clucked her tongue but did not waste much time dwelling on Bella's lack of foresight.
"Right then. Let me see if they'll keep our things here an’ we'll make some enquiries.
If your auntie's half as pretty as you, someone'll know 'er.
" She rushed into the hotel before Bella could answer, leaving her alone beside the luggage to look around properly for the first time.
The air tasted of salt, though beneath it were the rather less romantic smells of horses and fish drifting up from the waterfront.
The street bustled around her, shopfronts lining the road and narrow passages disappearing between buildings towards the harbour.
Men rolled barrels noisily over the stones, a boy hurried past carrying a coil of rope almost as large as himself and somewhere nearby a sailor was shouting something Bella could not make out over the clatter of wheels.
Bella smiled broadly. Whatever happened next, she had done it. She had travelled hundreds of miles from Pemberley and reached the Cornish coast under her own steam. For the first time since she had ridden away from home, the adventure she had imagined while planning her escape felt real.
Clara emerged from the hotel a few minutes later with a porter, who efficiently relieved them of their cases and carried them inside.
"They don't know any Mrs Wickham in there, miss," Clara said. "But the lady were ever so nice and said we should try the Post Office. She gave me the direction an' all." She held up a scrap of paper in triumph.
The postmaster was curt but not impolite and informed them that he knew of no Mrs Wickham living in Falmouth.
From there they tried a tearoom, where a kindly woman behind the counter thought for several moments before shaking her head and suggesting that they ask at one of the shops nearer the harbour.
Bella thanked her and they continued on, though she felt the first tendrils of real worry as the shadows began to legnthen and they had not recovered the slightest bit of useful information.
By the time they had enquired at a bookseller and then a small grocer's, Bella was losing hope and patience.
It seemed impossible that a woman could live in a town for years and leave no trace of herself whatsoever.
Clara, on the other hand, appeared to have endless energy for their endeavour and had begun stopping people almost at random.
"Excuse me, sir," she called to a passing man carrying a basket of fish. "You don't happen to know a Mrs Wickham, do you?"
The man looked from Clara to Bella, shook his head and carried on.
Bella sighed. "Clara, I do not believe accosting every person in Falmouth is going to improve our chances."
"Got to find 'er somehow, miss," the maid said with determination, before striding off to interrogate a sailor smoking his pipe on the harbour wall, leaving Bella to trail after her.
???
George Harwood was annoyed. He had spent most of the day in a coffee shop that appeared to serve little more than dishwater disguised as coffee and stale cakes, waiting to see if Silas "Sly" Trevethan would make an appearance.
Since leaving the Navy, George had provided his expertise to the Customs service in a strategic and discreet capacity.
It suited him well enough. The sea was in his blood, he knew the ports, the ships and the men who worked them, and unlike many of the officials who spent their days behind desks, he preferred to be out where he could see for himself what was moving through the harbour and who was moving it.
For the last several weeks, Sly Trevethan had been his principal concern. The man was a prosperous merchant to most of Falmouth, but George was almost certain that a significant amount of contraband moved through the port with his knowledge, and more than likely, under his direct command.
By mid-afternoon, Trevethan had still failed to appear and George was beginning to suspect he had wasted an entire day.
Across the street stood the narrow, nondescript house he believed to be central to Trevethan's operations, rather than the respectable offices the man maintained closer to the quay.
Men had been coming and going since morning, some carrying papers or small parcels, but Trevethan himself had yet to show his face.
To add insult to injury, George was now likely to have to come to the aid of what appeared to be a foolish young woman and her guileless maid.
He had first noticed them more than an hour ago, largely because the lady in question was the sort who made a man look twice.
She had large, dark, expressive eyes set in a fine-boned face, with full lips that seemed to be fixed in a perpetual scowl.
Curls of dark hair had escaped from beneath a rather ridiculously large bonnet and her dress, though clearly fine, was now peppered with dust.
At first George had assumed they were shopping, but after seeing them hurry in and out of nearly every establishment in sight, from the butcher to the bookseller, and then begin stopping random passers-by with their enquiries, her maid enthusiastically flagging down anyone who came within their orbit, it became obvious that they were lost or perhaps looking for someone.
Whatever was going on, something was clearly amiss, and he could see no carriage or chaperone nearby that was likely to belong to a lady of her class.
He had no desire to involve himself in this feminine misadventure, but he knew it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
The young woman now looked exhausted as well as lost. When he had begun his observations she had been standing very straight and looking about her with determined confidence, but much of that had now faded.
Her shoulders drooped and she kept glancing along the street as though hoping against hope that whoever or whatever she sought would materialise in front of her.
George sighed and looked once more towards what he presumed were Trevethan's premises.
Still nothing. When he looked back, the maid had stopped another man and was gesturing enthusiastically while her mistress stood several feet away, leaning against a wall with her eyes closed.
She looked exhausted. He rose to his feet with little enthusiasm and threw some coins on the table before exiting the shabby coffee shop and striding across the road to see if he could be of assistance.
He took off his hat and bowed as he approached the pair. "Ladies, is anything amiss? Can I be of any assistance?"
"No," said the tall, pretty one, her scowl becoming almost a snarl, and he took a small step back.
Wonderful, he thought. This one is all charm.
"I could not help noticing that you appeared to be looking for something, or perhaps someone. I know the town very well. May I point you in the right direction?"
"Oh, sir, that'd be right helpful," said the small, fiery-haired maid.
Her mistress gave her a stern look. "Clara, we agreed that we are not to engage with strange men," she said through gritted teeth.
George gave serious thought to walking away and leaving them to their plight.
He was exhausted and hungry and had little time or patience to deal with a woman who had judged him a rogue or a rake after a few words.
"I appreciate this is an unusual introduction.
I am Captain George Harwood, recently of His Majesty's Navy.
I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me. "
"He ain't hardly one of them leery ne'er-do-wells from The Crown, miss," said the maid in a broad West Country accent.
The young woman hesitated, still regarding him with suspicion. "Very well. My name is Miss Bennet. I am looking for my aunt, Mrs Wickham. I have not seen her for some time, but I know she lives in the area. Could you help me locate her?"
George noticed her expression soften, and felt his own ire dissipate. He considered the name for a moment, then shook his head. "I do not know any woman or indeed any man by the name of Wickham in Falmouth."
Her face fell and he had the oddest urge to reach out and take her hand in his. He secured his hands behind his back and shook his head to dispel the ridiculous impulse.
"But you said your name was Bennet?"
She looked at him warily. "Yes."
"I do know a Mrs Bennet. She lives not far from the town. Is she another relation of yours?"
Bella frowned. "Possibly. Can you describe her?"
George thought for a moment. "Fair hair. A handsome woman of middle years. Quite lively and, er... not backward in sharing her political opinions."
Bella's expression changed. The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Does she have a very loud laugh? When I was a child, it reminded me of a peal of church bells," Bella said. "You could hear it from the other end of the house. And it was a rather large house."
George could not help answering her small smile with one of his own. "I believe we are speaking of the same woman."
"Oh, thank goodness." Bella let out a breath and clapped her hands together. "That is my Aunt Lydia. Although I had no notion she was politically minded. I have not seen her for some years, you see."
"There now, miss," the maid said brightly. "Found 'er in the end."
"I can direct you to her house," he said, and began explaining the route, which involved several turns and a narrow lane leading away from the town.
Miss Bennet looked towards the jumble of streets, her brow creasing, then back at him. She must have been on her feet for hours, and it showed now in the droop of her shoulders and the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
George rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and exhaled slowly. "Or, if you prefer, I can show you."
Her large eyes widened in surprise and she opened her mouth as though to refuse the offer.
"Thank you, Captain," Clara said brightly before she could. "And I’m Clara, by the way."
Miss Bennet turned to glare at her maid.
"What?" Clara said. "No sense bein' rude when the gentleman's offerin' to help."