Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [186]
Mary could almost smell pilchards cooking, she could hear the slap of the waves against the quayside, the shriek of the seagulls and the wind in the trees above the town. She wanted to fill her lungs with that clean, salty air, to hear those Cornish voices, and submerge herself in the simplicity of village life. She didn’t belong in London.
‘I think I must get a passage back to Cornwall,’ Mary said to Boswell one evening when he’d called to see her.
He didn’t say anything for a while, just sat looking quizzically at her. ‘Yes, you should,’ he said eventually. ‘But I don’t want you to go.’
‘Why?’ she asked, thinking perhaps he thought she would have a brighter future in London.
‘Because I’ll miss you,’ he said simply, and to her utmost surprise she saw he had tears in his eyes.
Mary didn’t know what to say. Was he implying he was in love with her? If so, what was she supposed to say or do?
‘You won’t miss me. You can go and visit all those grand friends you’ve neglected for so long,’ she said flippantly.
‘I’ve neglected them because they are all shallow compared to you,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘You have given me a purpose in my life, opened up so many new vistas.’
‘That is a lovely thing to say,’ she said, a little overwhelmed. ‘But I have even more to thank you for. You gave me back my life.’
He shook his head a little, looking down at his lap. ‘I’ve been something of a fool for most of mine,’ he said in a small voice. ‘But I feel honoured that Fate singled me out to help you. Mary, you are the most astounding person I have ever encountered. You have taken what life threw at you with courage and fortitude. I have never heard you utter a word of blame against anyone.’
‘There is no one to blame,’ she said tartly. ‘Only me for doing wrong.’
He began to laugh. ‘Oh, Mary,’ he spluttered, ‘that is the absolute essence of you. If the whole world was to share your attitude, it would be a far better place. All my life I have been surrounded by those who seek to blame someone for their misfortune. I too have blamed my father, my mother, my dear departed wife, whores, drink, lack of money and even food for my failings. I wish I were a younger man and could start out on the road through life with you at my side.’
He ran his fingers over her hair affectionately, then, picking up a curl, he took a pair of scissors from Mrs Wilkes’s sewing basket on the table beside him and snipped it off.
‘A little memento,’ he said, tucking it into a small purse he took from his pocket.
‘I’ll keep all my special memories of you in here,’ Mary said, putting her hand over her heart. ‘And make sure you get my friends pardoned or I will blame you.’
‘It will come soon,’ he assured her. ‘Henry Dundas has it in hand.’
On the evening of 12 October Mary and Boswell were at Beals Wharf in Southwark where Mary was to board the Anne and Elizabeth, due to sail to Fowey on the early morning tide.
It was a windy, wet night, and they hurried into a tavern nearby for shelter. When Boswell had called to collect Mary and her box of belongings from Little Titchfield Street, he had brought James, his fifteen-year-old son, to meet her.
Young James Boswell had the same beautiful dark eyes and full lips as his father, but he was taller, slender, graceful and clear-skinned. He was understandably shy, but eager to meet her. He said his father had told him and his sisters her whole story, and that they all wished her well for the future.
James arranged to meet up with his father later that evening, and as the cab rattled along the wet, windy streets towards the Thames, Mary was silent, her mind whirling with misgivings. She wasn’t so sure now about returning to Cornwall, and especially about leaving Boswell, her dear friend and saviour. She glanced at him many times during the journey, sorrow welling up unbearably within her. She knew he wasn’t in the best of health. His high colour and the