by Nicola Pryce
‘It’s not kind at all,’ she replied, turning haughtily away. ‘Mr Tregellas’s silk is worth far more. If you insist I keep it, then I am merely discharging my debt to you while at the same time making a handsome prot.’ She arched her exquisite eyebrow at Mother, who quickly hid her smile.
‘What colour will my new working dress be?’ I asked.
‘Red, of course. Fiery red. Nothing else will do.’
‘Fiery red it is, then,’ I replied, smiling. I was almost through the door when I remembered why I had come. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I came to say I think I ought to spend at least a couple of hours each week entering your accounts for you, because if I don’t I have a terrible feeling everything will get back in a muddle again. I’ll start tomorrow.’
Madame Merrick’s second eyebrow shot up and Mother could no longer conceal her smile.
Mother’s smile seemed to reect the mood of the whole town. There was always excitement when a large ship put in to port, but a huge naval frigate was likely to cause as much bustle as a carnival.
‘Come on, Jimmy, let’s go.’
We pushed our way through the throng of people and crossed the main square. It was busier than I had expected and increasingly dangerous as carts rumbled past, heedless of those around them. We were swept along by the tide of people pushing down to the quayside and I grabbed Jimmy’s hand in fear of being separated.
Every food-seller in Fosse seemed determined to gain by the ship’s re-provisioning. The roads were blocked, wagons lining up two or three deep. Disorder reigned and scufes broke out between drivers anxious to unload their carts and return with more. Sides of pigs, great rumps of salted meat, sacks of our, piles of vegetables, barrels of ale, even hogsheads of salted pilchards, stood piled high on the wagons. The din was deafening. Everyone was shouting. Beside us, a cartload of chickens squawked in their wicker baskets. As frustration turned to anger and tempers ared, I hung on to Jimmy’s hand, darting down a side alley, the huge masts of the frigate looming above us, blocking out the sun.
A delicious smell began wafting over the stench of the sewers, drawing us as surely as the masts of the ship. ‘It’s a hog they’re roasting, Miss Pengelly. It smells so good.’
‘It certainly does.’
‘It’s making me stomach ache.’
‘Perhaps if you make yourself useful, they’ll give away scraps.’
We turned the corner. Dwarng the quayside was the biggest, most elaborately carved frigate I had ever seen. She was fully dressed in naval ags, their breath-taking colours glowing brightly in the sun. ‘Each ag means something, Jimmy, that’s how ships communicate with each other – that’s how they give orders. And that big red ag with the jack means she’s under naval command.’
‘Just look at them cannons! Come on, Miss Pengelly, you said we’d count them.’
We counted thirty-two on the gun deck and ten smaller, carriage-mounted guns on the quarter deck and forecastle. We would have counted them all again if a juggler had not arrived to keep Jimmy open-mouthed for the next ve minutes.
I had a chance to study the ship. Father always took me to every ship that docked in Fosse or Porthruan, saying that a boat-builder learns something new from every boat he sees. I knew he would quiz me intently about this frigate, so I started looking carefully at its construction, but with all the crowds it was hard to see the lines of the hull and with all that was going on, hard to concentrate.
Navy men were everywhere, like ants in a nest. Some were rolling barrels up the gangplanks, some stowing provisions. Others were scrubbing the decks or polishing the brass. Many towered above us, high in the rigging, balancing on the footropes, tidying the sails. Above the noise of the crowd, I could hear them chanting as they set about their tasks; the sun reecting on their white trousers. As they sang, they gazed across English soil, happy at last to cast aside the hardships of their long ocean voyage.
‘Want some cockles, miss?’ We were being hustled on every side by food-sellers crying their wares. I shook my head.
‘Like a pie, miss?’
I shook my head, then saw the longing in Jimmy’s eyes. I checked my purse. ‘Just one for the boy,’ I replied.
‘Thank you, miss.’ The pie-seller pocketed the coins and handed me a pie.
‘She’s a ne ship – d’you know where she’s from?’ I asked.
‘Dominica.’
‘How come she’s docked? Is there a problem?’
‘No problem. She’s on escort duty – bringin’ a rear admiral to Fosse.’
‘Why would a rear admiral come to Fosse?’
‘It’s rumoured he’s Sir Charles Cavendish’s brother and home for a holiday!’
I gave the pie to Jimmy who immediately bit into it, the juices running down his chin. He was even more excited by the news, but for me the ship had lost some of her sparkle.
A cry went up from the sailors, high above us in the rigging and all eyes strained upwards, watching the sailors point up river. In a ash, the crowd saw what they were pointing to and a huge cry swept along the quayside.
‘Porpoises!’ The cheer was deafening. ‘Swimmin’ up river – a whole pod of them – means the pilchards are massin’.’ It was always the rst sign.
‘The shoals’ll be here soon enough.’
Whoops of delight echoed round the quay and my heart jumped, catching the excitement. I clutched my basket to me. I had to get the letters posted. If the shoals were massing, the seine boats would soon be needed – I just had to hope my gamble would pay off.
I left Jimmy to the excitement, crossing the quay to push my way up to the posthouse. Passing the windows of the new bank, I caught my reection and was horried to see what a sight I looked. My bonnet had been knocked sideways by someone in the crowd and I stopped to adjust it. A movement in the glass caught my attention and I turned to see Jenna waving frantically in my direction. I waved back, watching as she pushed her way through the crowds towards me.
‘That basket’s very full, Jenna. What’ve you got in there?’
‘I’ve been to Coombe House,’ she said, pulling back the cloth. ‘Mrs Munroe’s calf foot jelly for Mr Pengelly…and these rabbit pies.’
‘He’ll love them. How was he this morning?’
‘Not well…not really – that cough ain’t shifting.’
‘I know. How are they at Coombe House?’
‘They’re that busy getting the place aired…they asked when we’d be moving back.’
‘It won’t be for a while – if at all. These legal cases go on for ever. Sir George may never get us back. We’ve no guarantee it’s going to happen.’
‘He must think it’s going to happen – him keeping Mrs Munroe and everyone on, paying their wages and all that. Can’t be that long – I think it’s as like to be soon enough.’ Though she spoke with optimism, she seemed preoccupied, her expression grave. It was most unlike her. She linked her arm through mine. ‘If ye’re going to the posthouse, I’ll go with ye.’
We edged away from the bank, heading towards the square where the crowd was thin enough for us to walk side by side. She seemed in no hurry and I was surprised she waited patiently in the posthouse queue until my transactions were complete. Her basket was heavy and I thought she would want to rush home, but she remained standing close to me, her expression uncomfortably solemn. Something was obviously troubling her. ‘Are you alright, Jenna?’
‘Right as rain, it’s just…’ Grabbing my arm, she led me round the back of the town hall. There was an arched portico held up by several pillars and a number of roughly hewn benches set back against the wall. There was hardly anyone there.
‘D’you need to sit down?’
‘No…but ye may need to.’ She had certainly got my attention. I had never seen her so jumpy. She put down her basket, dgeting with her hands.
‘For goodness sake – what is it?’
She seemed to be hesitating, but my sharp tone must have spu
rred her on. She took a deep breath, looking straight in my eyes, her own full of concern. ‘That frigate brought Rear Admiral Sir George Cavendish – Governor of Dominica.’
‘I know, Jenna. He’s Sir Charles’s brother. They’re here for a holiday and though it doesn’t ll me with any great pleasure, I can live with it – it’s not the end of the world.’
‘Sir George has come with his family…with Lady Cavendish and his daughter…Miss Arbella Cavendish.’
Into my mind came a moonlit night, the soft breeze blowing against my cheek. I was back on the rock, surrounded by gorse. What was it he had said? While I was there, circumstances arose, making it necessary I return to England. My heart thumped painfully against my chest. ‘Well?’ I replied.
‘Ye’ll hear soon enough, but I wanted ye to hear from me rst. Sir George and Lady Cavendish ain’t here for a holiday – they’ve come for a wedding. Their daughter, Miss Arbella Cavendish, is engaged to be married.’ Her eyes could barely look at mine. ‘…Miss Arbella is engaged to Sir James Polcarrow – they’ve come to see her wed.’
A searing pain shot through me.
‘Miss Rosehannon, are ye alright? Ye’re as white as a sheet. Shall I get you some ale? Here, use my skirt to get some air owing…’
The ground was swaying in front of me. I thought I would vomit. The shelter had been used as a latrine and stank in the midday sun. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I needed to be alone. ‘Was there anything else – or d’you think you’d better get those pies home?’ I snapped.
‘Can I leave ye?’
‘Why ever not?’ I could not look at her.
‘Ye sure ye don’t want nothing?’
‘Nothing at all. Please, go home and take Father his calf’s foot jelly.’ I could not move, my body racked with pain. Two gulls were ghting over a fallen pie. With wings outstretched and necks extended, they squabbled and screamed, their plaintive cries drowning the cries from my heart. I had known all along, known he was lying. My head had been warning my heart and I had not listened. He had tried to seduce me, that was all.
Chapter Thirty
Miss Arbella Cavendish. I could just imagine her – the glittering jewel of Government House, pandered and spoilt, living off the backs of slaves, never lifting a nger other than to embroider or play the pianoforte.
Absorbed by my thoughts, I was surprised to nd I had already reached the gatehouse of Polcarrow. The church clock was striking the quarter hour and I had very little time to calm myself if I was to see James Polcarrow with any sense of composure. His attempt to seduce me had been despicable. How dare he? I had been drawn perilously close to a dangerous world where powerful men saw it as sport to indulge their passions. Father was right – James Polcarrow was just like the rest of them. What if I had believed his talk of love?
The sun beat mercilessly against the cobbles. I crossed the road to seek the shade, my cheeks burning not only from the heat. Did he gaze at her like he had gazed at me? Did he hold her as tightly and kiss her as deeply? Having sought the shade, an icy chill now made me shiver. Miss Arbella Cavendish. I hated that name. I hated her and I hated everything she stood for.
A cart trundled past. Two dogs started ghting until somebody threw a stone at them. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. I was Rosehannon Pengelly, intelligent and strong. I was not a woman to be played with and, besides, it now seemed so simple. If Sir James Polcarrow had thought he could use me for his own gains, then I had no qualms about using him for mine. I would get my log pool.
‘Miss Pengelly? Sir James is expecting you, so if ye’d follow me, I’ll show ye the way.’ The gatekeeper led me to a small door concealed within the outer gates. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in a red livery jacket with the gold Polcarrow crest embroidered on both lapels. He unlocked the inner door and nodded, ‘Go through this door, miss, and straight up the drive.’
I was conscious my empty basket made me look like an errand girl. ‘Could I leave my basket with you?’ I asked. He nodded, holding his hand out to take it.
Stepping onto the drive, I was struck by how different it seemed compared to the last time I had walked up to the house. It was surprisingly tranquil. Sheep grazed the parkland and ahead of me three gardeners were clipping the privet bushes that lined the drive.
I still had nightmares about Mr Roskelly. If rumours were correct, Mr Roskelly was suffering little hardship. According to gossip, he was in a single cell in Bodmin Gaol being attended to by at least two servants. Apparently he dined like a lord, drank claret and brandy by night, and wore a freshly laundered shirt each morning. If this was true, he must be paying a fortune and it worried me that a man who wielded so much inuence could buy himself out of gaol. I just prayed Sir George Reith was as good as they said he was. We had so much depending on him.
I found myself enjoying the fact that the house was so grey and ugly. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it made me smile, wondering how Miss Arbella Cavendish would take to living in such a hideous place. I hoped she hated it.
He had never trusted me, yet he must have told her everything.
Henderson glared at me from the top of the sweeping steps and I glared back, determined not to use the tradesman’s entrance. But it seemed he was expecting me and he led me disdainfully across the echoing hall to the thick oak door of Sir James’s study. ‘Miss Pengelly,’ he announced, still glaring his disapproval as he shut the door behind me.
It was the same room I had been in before with its dark panelling, dense beams and ancient furniture, but all trace of tobacco fumes had gone and the air was surprisingly fresh. The heavy drapes, that had so easily concealed the two attorneys, had been pulled back; allowing light to ood the room. For the rst time, I noticed French doors leading directly onto a wide terrace and steps leading down to a formal garden, laid with box hedges and fountains. The doors were open and the delicate scent of lavender lled the room. I could even smell the sea and feel a breeze gently cooling my cheeks.
Sunlight reached across to the replace, lighting up a tapestry which stood in front of the re irons. There was no sign of the mastiffs and I was surprised to see a large bookcase, crammed with books, pushed against the panel through which Sulio Denville had escaped. There were so many books and I had to ght my longing to go over and touch them, to breathe in the smell of their leather covers.
Two men were sitting either side of the desk and stood up at my entrance – one was the impeccably dressed gure of Sir James Polcarrow, the other I had never seen before.
‘This is a pleasure, Miss Pengelly’ said Sir James, bowing. ‘May I introduce my steward, Mr Thomas Warren?’
‘Mr Warren,’ I said, making a small curtsey.
‘Miss Pengelly.’ Mr Warren bowed, his eyes appraising me like a prize cow in a show ring. When his gaze rested on my bosom, my esh crept and I felt immediate dislike for this wiry man with his ne tailored jacket, silk cravat and silver buckles. He was middle-aged, about my height, with hollow cheeks, a grey complexion and an oily brown wig. As he smiled or, more accurately, sneered he revealed darkly stained and rotting teeth.
‘Miss Pengelly, can I offer you any refreshment?’ James Polcarrow waved his hand towards the chair Thomas Warren had just vacated.
‘No refreshment, thank you. I come for business, not pleasure.’
Thomas Warren pulled out the chair and I immediately regretted not remaining standing. Leaning closely towards me, his fetid breath stinging my nostrils, I could feel his hands pressing against my shoulder. His caress was momentary and swiftly executed, but it made me stiffen. I was furious at his appalling liberty but Sir James had clearly not seen.
Unperturbed, Thomas Warren crossed behind the desk and stood immediately behind Sir James. Both men stood staring at me from across the desk and for the rst time since I entered the room, I allowed myself to look straight into the eyes of the man who, only weeks ago, had begged me to marry him.
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p; He must have seen my anger; I thought I saw a icker of surprise cross those piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a well-tting morning jacket, an embroidered, silk waistcoat and a silk shirt with a slight ruff at the sleeves. His breeches were tightly tted and tucked into long boots. Round his neck he wore a neatly folded silk cravat. He seemed at ease, though his colour was perhaps heightened and his hair rufed by the hand he passed over it.
‘Business, Miss Pengelly?’
My mouth hardened. ‘I’d just like to know whether you’re considering buying the creek that’s come up for auction.’
Thomas Warren stiffened. His eyes shifted away from my bosom as a distinct shadow crossed his face. He stared at me with evident hostility. James Polcarrow was also looking intently at me. ‘I haven’t heard of any creek for sale.’
‘It’s upriver from Pont Pill. It’s only a small parcel of land that oods with the tide – it has no value for pasture or crops and is virtually worthless.’ I knew I was speaking too quickly and tried to slow my pace. ‘But if you were thinking of buying it, I’d ask to lease it from you.’
‘Why do you think I’d be interested in buying this creek?’
‘It’s surrounded by Polcarrow land, I just assumed you’d want it back,’ I replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
James Polcarrow’s face darkened. He swung round to Thomas Warren. ‘Did you know about the creek, Mr Warren?’
‘Yes – though Miss Pengelly’s right. The land’s no worth – it’s useless. I thought no more of it when I saw it was for sale.’ Though he spoke to Sir James, Thomas Warren kept his eyes xed rmly on me.
‘Do you not think it is your job to inform me when there’s land to be purchased and my decision what land I buy?’
‘You may remember, Sir James, the creek was lost as a wager by your grandfather to his groom,’ Thomas Warren replied through tight lips. ‘It was a long time ago and the Polcarrow estate’s never been affected by the loss.’
