by Nicola Pryce
‘It seems the slow wheels of justice can be speeded up if you’re the Vice Sheriff of Cornwall or one of the most inuential attorneys in the land. These people don’t like to wait, so I’m in your debt, Rose – we’re to benet from your powerful friends.’
‘How so, Father?’
He waved the letter, which caught the breeze and apped in his hand. ‘Roskelly’s been found guilty of murder, aye, and guilty of false accusation, false witness, violence and assault against James Polcarrow. He’ll hang and James Polcarrow has a full pardon and takes back his rightful title – not that he hasn’t already! Your friend has enough money and inuence to do what he likes.’
‘He’s not my friend, not any more than he’s yours,’ I replied quietly. ‘What news of Mr Tregellas?’
‘Tregellas turned king’s evidence. He swore he heard Robert Roskelly admit to murder – like I told you, they’ve struck a deal. He’s been found guilty of theft, violence and perjury, but he’s not to hang. He’s got fourteen years’ transportation and, like I said, he’s set for Botany Bay.’
My spirits soared. ‘That means you’re cleared of all wrong.’
He turned towards me and I realised he had been struggling with his emotions. His eyes, too long dull and expressionless, were glistening with the warmth and vigour I had always loved. He gave me the letter. ‘Aye, we can go home. We can go home to Coombe House and everythin’ can get back to normal.’
The letter from Sir George was written in a close hand. With tears blurring my eyes, I found it hard to read. The rst page outlined the trials and the verdicts, the second thanked us for our written evidence, telling us he was glad he had not had to call us as witnesses. The third page thanked us for our patience, wished us all good health, assured us of his best attention and begged that if there was anything further he could do, we only had to ask. I handed the letter back.
‘What about his fees?’ I said, knowing Father’s freedom would not come cheaply. The boatyard would not make a prot for several months and if Sir George’s fees were too high, Father would be in danger of being sent straight back to the debtors’ gaol.
Father reached into his jacket and produced another letter. As he held it out, I almost snatched it from his hand. I unfolded the single page, not believing what I read. Sir George had overseen the sale of the cutter, bidding had been erce, and the nal sum had reached six hundred and fty guineas. All the money, minus sale expenses, had been deposited into the bank in Father’s name. There would be no fees.
‘No fees? That’s impossible.’
‘Course it’s impossible – what attorney would ever waive his fees?’ Father’s voice was bitter. ‘No, our fees have all been paid and we both know who’s paid them.’
I felt giddy, nauseous, my stomach tightening. If I had only known, I would never have asked for the creek – as if I was not grateful enough. James Polcarrow knew all along Father had enough money to buy the creek and could bid for it himself.
‘And can we return home?’ I managed to say.
‘Aye, even after our debts are paid, we’ll be in pocket. Coombe House was falsely taken from us and we’re to have the lease returned. Course, I’ll repay Sir James every farthin’ for the fees, but for the moment we’ve enough to see us straight.’
We linked arms, turning towards the cottage. James Polcarrow had cleared our debts, restored Father’s fortunes and promised me the log pool. He had even redressed the wrong he had done to Ben. I should have been smiling, laughing, running ahead to tell Jenna, but Arbella’s smile still lodged in my mind, lling me with a sadness I could not shake off.
At the gate Father paused. ‘There’s an election meetin’ in the town hall tomorrow night, will you come with me? It’ll be like old times.’
Like old times. I took a deep breath and squeezed his arm. Let them have each other. Let Arbella Cavendish have her happiness and let James Polcarrow deserve her. But one thing was certain. I would work day and night to free us from our obligation.
Chapter Thirty-four
Thursday 15th August 1793 7:00 a.m.
I woke to the sound of Father’s angry voice ltering through the oorboards. His words were indistinct but the fury evident. Throwing my shawl round my shoulders, I crept downstairs to nd Jenna with her ear pressed against the door. ‘He’s that cross, I fear for Mrs Pengelly!’ she whispered.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Says she can’t go to Madame Merrick’s no more…says she doesn’t need to work now ye’ve yer standing back and he’s forbidding her to go – says she’s to have nothing more to do with that ridiculous woman.’
‘Oh no! Poor Mother!’
‘She’s pleading with him but he’ll not be moved – says her place’s at home now. Says he never wants her to work again…not now. Poor Mrs Pengelly – she’s that happy there…she loves her sewing. It’ll break her heart.’
I squeezed next to Jenna, pressing my own ear against the door. Mother was sobbing. ‘I can’t bear to hear her cry, Jenna.’
‘Nor me.’
I pulled my shawl tighter round my shoulders and pushed the door. Father was standing with his back to the grate, Mother on the chair by the re, her handkerchief held against her face. Kneeling by her feet, I took hold of her trembling hands and turned to Father.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Rose – this has nothin’ to do with you. I don’t see why your mother’s makin’ such a fuss. She’s no need to wear herself out, sewin’ all hours, strainin’ her eyes, hurtin’ her ngers. I’ll provide for my family. She needs have nothin’ more to do with Madame Merrick.’
His words were spoken harshly and I felt Mother wince, the tremor in her hands increasing as I held them in mine. I looked down, worried Father would see the anger in my eyes. His dislike for Madame Merrick had turned to jealous hatred and I knew if I was not careful I could make things worse. But I was too cross to hold my tongue.
‘Madame Merrick’s doing her best in a difcult world and you know better than most how hard it is out there,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘Worse still, she’s a woman on her own, ghting against great odds…but she was there for us when we needed her most and she needs us now. Mrs Mellows is ill, Josie has been called to look after her sister and Elowyn has only just started, so Mother is vital to her.’
I could tell Father was listening to me and I tried to keep the anger from my voice. I felt indignant he had not listened to Mother, hardly letting her speak, as if she had no voice. ‘Yesterday, Madame Merrick took orders for four new dresses and without Mother she won’t be able to full her order. Everything could be lost – her hard-won reputation will collapse and her business will fail. It would be like Mr Scantlebury deserting us when we needed him most.’
Father snorted in contempt and I could see he was about to dismiss my comparison, but somehow his look seemed to spur me on. ‘You wouldn’t desert any fellow worker who needed you, Father, so you shouldn’t expect Mother to desert Madame Merrick. At least let her nish these gowns – they’ll take no more than two weeks.’ As long as he never found out whom the gowns were for, I thought we stood a chance.
‘I see you take your mother’s side,’ he said, looking from one of us to the other, his face stony. It was the rst time I had stood up to him for Mother’s sake and I knew he was thinking the same. ‘You’ve two weeks, Eva,’ he said at last, ‘then you nish with that place.’
He slammed the door behind him and we breathed a sigh of relief. Mother’s smile was weak, but the hand that gripped mine was as hard as iron.
I deliberated all day, deciding, in the end, to wear my new sprig gown to the election rally, even though I knew it would infuriate Father. Somehow I was prepared to face his disapproval. Jenna was spending an extraordinarily long time coaxing my hair into compliant ringlets, but even I could see the benet of my patience.
‘There ain’t another woman in the whole of Cornwall with yer beauty.’
‘There is,’ I replied sadly. ‘There’s someone with far greater beauty.’
‘That’s nonsense and well ye know. Ye’ll turn every head – they’ll be drooling like dogs over a bone. Did I tell ye Mrs Pengelly’s got me some material? I’m going to make meself a new gown.’
‘You deserve so much more, Jenna.’
I entered the parlour expecting a furious reaction. Father’s face turned ashen, his eyes hardened. I took a deep breath, my words at the ready. ‘They must think we prosper, Father. The town needs to know you’re back in business.’
He said nothing, just picked up his hat and headed for the door. Will Tregony was waiting to take us to the harbour and, as we climbed into the cart, the slanting rays of the evening sun caught my dress. Disloyalty to Father still tainted my enjoyment of it, but it was not vanity prompting me to wear it. I had taken Madame Merrick’s advice – we had to look prosperous. We needed to show the town that Pengelly Boatyard was back in Father’s hands.
The town hall was already crowded; grooms calling out, carriages jostling for position. Arms were waving, whips lashing, coachmen growing increasingly frustrated by the groups of bystanders blocking the way.
‘Are you feeling well enough for this, Father?’
‘Course,’ he replied. ‘Just like the old days – you and me against the corruption in our town.’ He smiled, putting out his arm and I could see he had forgiven me. But as we pushed our way through the crowd, my earlier courage began to fail and I saw myself for what I really was – ridiculously over-dressed. My dress was too bright, my hair too formal, my bonnet too fancy. What was I thinking? I wanted to turn back, but Father was gripping my arm, ushering me towards the door.
The hall was full and unbearably stuffy. Rush lights were lit against the walls and candles were burning in the overhead chandeliers. I could hardly breathe through the tobacco smoke clogging the air. I felt terribly out of place, growing increasingly anxious for a place to sit. Chairs had been placed down a central aisle, but most were already taken. The noise was deafening and I looked about, unsure where to go.
A gradual hush spread through the room, people stopping mid-sentence and looking in our direction. It began to become obvious we were the centre of their attention, everyone staring in amazement. It was horrible, quite the worst thing to happen. Two men were approaching us – Mr Mitchell and Mr Hoskins, the bank manager, who must have known Father’s money had just been deposited into his bank. Both were Corporation men and I held my breath, hoping Father would bide his tongue. We had no reason to be there, Father was a leaseholder not a freeholder, but to my amazement both men bowed to us in turn. Mr Hoskins even offered me his arm.
‘Miss Pengelly, allow me, there are seats free at the front. Let me see you settled into one of them.’ I took his arm, somehow walking up the aisle as if it was an every day occurrence but my legs were shaking and my heart racing. Everyone was nodding or bowing in our direction and I saw the calculating glint in their eyes. I was right to wear my new gown.
‘Course, this is all nonsense,’ Father whispered as we sat down. ‘They’re not pleased to see me back, they just want to distance themselves from William Tregellas and Robert Roskelly. They’ve as much to hide and they’re scared it’ll come to light.’
Father had dressed with care. He was wearing a new, brown, corduroy jacket and matching breeches. The buckles on his shoes shone, as did the buttons on his waistcoat. His necktie was plain but neatly tied and his hat sat comfortably over his new wig. He looked well, despite his cough. His eyes had lost their sunken look, his cheeks had lled and although he was still far too thin, he looked like a man who was ready to resume his role in life.
But it was not so much his physical wellbeing that worried me, more the absence of his old humour. He had lost the ability to laugh and was even now scowling across at Thomas Nickels, who was talking to Mr Drew, the new warehouse owner, and Mr Warburton who had been recently appointed as burgess to the Corporation.
‘I see Nickels’ amongst friends,’ he muttered.
A commotion drew everyone’s attention. We were too near the front to see the election party as they walked up the aisle but, as they reached the makeshift stage and began climbing the steps, they passed so close I saw them clearly. Leaning heavily on a stick, Sir Charles Cavendish ascended with difculty, pufng and blowing in his agitation. Following him, was a middle-aged man, elaborately dressed in a blue frockcoat. He heaved his huge belly up the stairs, his ornate wig sitting heavily on his head, his face as red as Sir Charles’s.
‘That’s George Wyndham – the new candidate,’ murmured Father. ‘Just like the last – a business associate and long-term friend of Sir Charles Cavendish.’
Behind him walked a younger man whose elaborate attire seemed more tting for a court occasion than a town bi-election. He was tall and haughty; his bored and disdainful expression hardly helped by the huge mole on his chin. He stood staring down at the chair he was offered, grimacing at the thought of having to sit on it. Lips pursed, eyebrows raised, he icked his lace handkerchief across the chair. Still unconvinced, he ventured down with great disdain, lifting his coat tails behind him, sitting straight-backed and uncomfortable as he laid his cane across his knees.
‘He’d whip us like he whips his servants,’ Father whispered.
‘Who is he?’
‘Viscount Vallenforth – father’s the Earl of Mount Eddscombe.’
A gradual murmur replaced the respectful silence which greeted the arrival of the election party, everyone staring at the empty chair remaining on the platform. ‘There needs be at least one other candidate – even if the whole thing’s rigged,’ whispered Father. ‘Wyndham will get elected, but it looks better if they can say the seat was contested!’
The hum grew louder. Mr Wyndham smiled condently at Sir Charles, who looked down at his fob watch and nodded to the town clerk. No other candidate was needed, it seemed, so the town clerk jumped up, clearing his voice to start proceedings. Suddenly, the door of the hall ung open and the sound of hurried footsteps rushed up the aisle. Mr Wyndham’s jaw dropped, Sir Charles gripped the edge of his chair.
James Polcarrow bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time. He stood, impeccably dressed, though slightly breathless, glaring across the stage at the astonished mayor. The hall fell silent. ‘Mr Dunwoody may not see t to contest the election,’ he said, looking pointedly at Sir Charles, ‘but I do. I seek to represent this town, just like my father did before me and my grandfather did before him.’
Chapter Thirty-five
The hall erupted, everyone shouting at once. Sir Charles’s fury was evident. Summoning over the mayor, he began shaking his head, forcibly banging his stick on the oor. Mr Wyndham’s face went from red to purple and even Viscount Vallenforth showed his displeasure by twitching his cane. The shouts grew stronger. A number of men started stamping their feet, waving their papers high in the air. The more the noise level rose, the more hounded the mayor looked. Still shaking his head, Sir Charles was made to concede and Sir James Polcarrow took possession of the empty chair.
‘This is better,’ I heard Father say, but I could not reply. James Polcarrow sat down, looking quickly up to survey the hall, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. The bright ribbons on my bonnet were acting like a beacon and his eyes were drawn straight to me. I saw them widen in surprise and looked quickly away.
Viscount Vallenforth got to his feet and the room went silent. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a bored tone, ‘as a representative of His Majesty’s government, I am here to endorse the government’s candidate, Mr George Wyndham – a man with impeccable credentials.’ With that, he sat down and replaced the cane across his knees.
Sir Charles must have been expecting a longer speech. He seemed caught unprepared. The evening was obviously turning out very badly and his displeasure was evident. He hesitated, frowning at the crowd, as if waiting for something. At length, a single cry went up. ‘You’ll see
us right, Sir Charles.’ It was a half-hearted cry, with all the insincerity of a paid supporter.
‘Not enough grog as yet,’ muttered Father with a hint of a smile.
‘Gentlemen, I have known Mr Wyndham for over twenty years,’ began Sir Charles. ‘He is a man of great courage and great vision – clearly a man of business.’ There were murmurs of approval, Sir Charles lifting his hand as if to stop them. ‘His rise to prominence lies in his ability to predict the future of our country. He believes, as do I, that we must steer this country to greater prosperity.’ A roar of approval made Sir Charles nod in agreement.
Father leant towards me. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t say Mr Wyndham could walk on water.’
‘Hush, Father, or you’ll be arrested and thrown back in gaol.’ Jugs of ale were being distributed round the hall. Father took one, raising it to me in mock salute.
‘To our Mr Wyndham,’ he said, smiling with his old sarcasm.
I felt suddenly tense, glancing up at Sir James, anxious to see if he had seen Father’s mocking salute. For some reason, I could not bear for him to think ill of Father. But Sir James was staring straight ahead, his nely chiselled prole set in a rm, unyielding frown.
Mr Wyndham got to his feet, motioning to a servant to bring a decanter and glass. The contents consumed, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and began speaking in an unfamiliar accent. I believe he came from the Midlands.
‘Viscount Vallenforth, Sir Charles, what’s a man to say after such praise has been lavished on him? But it’s true. My prosperity is well known – and my prosperity will lead to your prosperity. It’s no secret I own a vast number of shipyards and a vast number of ships. It’s no secret I’ve a vast number of contacts. Contacts I’ll use for this town, gentlemen. You’ll grow rich. You’ll prosper. You’ll reap huge rewards in having me as your representative in Parliament. Contacts for Contracts – those are my words and that’s my election promise.’
