by Nicola Pryce
He was sitting at a table, deep in conversation. His companion was smartly dressed, his head bent, his tall hat pointing at the crowd as if to keep us at bay. He looked up and my initial dislike spiralled to hatred. He was Philip Randall, steward of Pendenning Hall, Sir Charles’s land agent. Very few people in Fosse or Porthruan could look at him without fear or loathing. His forced eviction had left Jenna’s family homeless – he had showed no pity, just trampled his way into their homes and lit the res. The cottages were in the way of the great park. A lake was to be created; whole families left without homes for the sake of the view.
I tried to think rationally. Thomas Warren and Philip Randall would obviously know each other – they were both powerful men and had been stewards of neighbouring estates for many years, but watching their hunched shoulders and urgent conversation, their deepening scowls and obvious displeasure, I felt increasingly uneasy and ducked behind the man with the tattooed snake, afraid they would see me watching.
‘The door, if you please,’ a man’s voice rang out and the crowd surged forward, stragglers pushing their way into the last remaining spaces. The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock.
‘You know the rules, gentlemen,’ the voice of the auctioneer boomed. ‘The door’ll remain locked till the auction’s completed. It’ll stay locked throughout the proceedings an’ only be opened after the nal bid. All bids must be nancially sound, all bids are binding an’ must be paid by ten o’clock tomorrow or the sale will be rendered void.’
He was sitting at the table, one hand searching through the many papers strewn in front of him, the other taking hold of a chain which hung from the beam above. One of the lamps was extinguished, making the room even darker and with so many people cramming into the space, I began to feel suffocated. ‘First auction is for the freehold of the land known as Tideswell Creek, just upriver from Pont Pill. It comprises the creek an’ a small stretch of dense woodland. The creek submerges in the tide an’ the land can only be accessed by the river. Gentlemen, I’ll start the auction. Is the door locked?’
‘Yes, Mr Owen,’ came a voice from the dark.
‘The rules are those of any candle auction – we’ll burn one inch of tallow an’ the last bid before the candle’s extinguished is the winning bid. This bid will be binding.’ A murmur of assent went round the room.
The remaining lamp was extinguished and darkness engulfed us. A int was struck and the chain rattled, hoisting the candle over our heads. The tiny ame wavered, gradually steadying as it penetrated the darkness above us. Like everyone else, I lifted my eyes to the ickering light. A copper plate had been placed under the candle, hiding it from view, and all I could see was the surrounding glow. Bidders could only guess the rate at which it would burn and I had no idea how long that might be. Twenty minutes, maybe fteen? Only those at the front had seen the width of the candle and I took heart that Thomas Warren had positioned himself so close to the table.
The rst bid came promptly, then the second, then the third. The voices came from the back of the room. Thomas Warren cleared his throat. ‘Two guineas,’ he shouted.
‘Two pounds, ten shillings,’ came the responding bid.
‘Three guineas,’ replied Mr Warren.
‘Four guineas,’ came the immediate reply.
The room grew silent, everyone staring at the glow of the candle. Shadows danced across the ceiling, dark shapes leapt from the corners. This was a game of nerves – if a person bid too soon he would give away his interest and would raise the price. I only hoped Thomas Warren knew how long to wait.
‘Four pounds, ten shillings,’ came a voice from the back of the room.
Trickles of sweat ran down my back. My face was burning and I began to regret my decision to use coal dust to darken my chin. The bids seemed to stop. The room was silent.
‘Five guineas,’ shouted Phillip Randall.
Another bid from the back. ‘Six guineas.’
‘Seven guineas.’ Phillip Randall’s reply was instant.
‘Eight guineas.’ was the immediate response.
The ame oundered and the room plunged into darkness. Murmurs grew louder as everyone peered through the dark. I caught my breath. The copper plate was swallowed by blackness but, as we waited, the faintest light began to show and I stared at the tiny icker, willing it to glow. The ame spluttered, gained in strength and once again cast eerie shadows in the darkness.
‘Nine guineas,’ shouted Phillip Randall.
I knew Thomas Warren’s token bid would not be repeated. He had no intention of securing the land – he was in league with Phillip Randall who clearly wanted it. The log pool was slipping from my grasp. Frustration welled inside me. I was a woman and counted for nothing. I had no right to property or land. I was nobody. I could do nothing but watch my dream being snatched away.
Why did I not ask Mr Scantlebury to come with me? Anger burnt my cheeks – anger against myself as much as against the injustice of my situation. But I could not, would not, lose this creek. Suddenly, it seemed so simple. I was dressed as a man, I would bid – the slimmest chance, maybe, but I would have to take it. My mind was racing. My timing would have to be perfect. Thomas Warren and Phillip Randall would be alerted and would bid against me. Surely the whole room could hear the thumping of my heart.
I remembered the huer’s hut when Jim and I huddled round the candle. We had an inch of candle and I remembered it ared just before it died. Did all candles are at their dying? If they did, I would watch for a change of brightness. I strained my eyes, knowing if I called too soon, all would be lost. Then I saw it – the slight surge of a nal are. ‘Ten guineas,’ I shouted as the room plunged into darkness.
‘Ten guineas,’ came the voice of the auctioneer. ‘Sold to the gentlemen in the middle. Your name, sir? Get a lamp lit, for God’s sake. We’ve got more than enough to get through.’
A lamp was lit and I knew I must make my way to the auctioneer’s table. Thomas Warren was looking in my direction, his face distorted by rage. For a moment, I thought he must have seen me but he was looking at the huge man in front of me. I saw him mouth the words ‘get him’ and I ducked to one side, my heart pounding. The tattooed man turned his great bulk away from me and I breathed with relief.
Thomas Warren was no more than ve feet away and I felt my fear turn to panic. With my head down, I pushed forward, concealing myself as best I could, leaning forward to speak to the auctioneer.
‘Ten guineas for a worthless piece of land?’ The auctioneer was clearly ustered. He looked down at his papers. ‘You’ve paid well over its value but who’m I to complain? I’ll add my cut. What name?’ He was hampered by poor light, the noise level rising, and he was getting cross. People were crushing against the table, knocking his papers, and beads of sweat were glistening on his brow. He seized the document he sought, reaching for his quill. A pair of glasses balanced on the end of his nose but he did not glance up, his eyes remaining xed on the parchment in front of him.
I pulled my hat lower and took a deep breath. ‘Sir James Polcarrow,’ I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
‘Speak up, boy. You his steward?’
‘No, sir, but he sent me to learn the ropes.’
‘He should know better than send a boy to do a man’s work. I’ll get the deeds sent round tomorrow.’ He cleared his throat, ‘If we could have quiet, please, gentlemen. The next piece of land’s a lease and release on Bodmin Moor – a dwelling house with a messuage of twenty acres. Could we have the door shut? The rules of the candle auction clearly state no-one must leave or enter whilst the bidding is in progress. No draughts and no lights.’
I had only seconds to get out of the room. Diving low, I pushed my way through the astonished crowd, ignoring their angry rebukes, making frantically for the door. I grabbed the sleeve of the man holding the latch and squeezed through the narrowing gap. But even as I ran down the corridor, I could hear a volley of oa
ths behind me.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Youths blocked the way to the front door so I turned quickly, stumbling down the ill-lit hall, ducking under the lintels as the passage narrowed. The footsteps behind me were growing louder and I knew my only chance would be to hide. I could smell malt and a low, vaulted room opened before me, a rush light casting shadows over the barrels stacked against the wall. I would squeeze behind the barrels. I looked around. The back door lay straight ahead of me, the handle within my grasp. I reached towards it and opened the door, a blast of icy air sending shivers down my spine. All at once, I was encased by a wall of fog, so thick, it was impossible to see my hands in front of my face.
‘Damn it, we’ll lose him in this fog,’ came a voice behind me.
‘It’s a blind alley – she can’t escape.’
‘She?’
‘Pengelly’s daughter – Sir James’s whore!’ Thomas Warren was only feet from where I stood. He raised his voice, ‘There’s nowhere to run, you conniving whore. Did you really think you’d get away with it?’
I fell to my hands and knees. Every seafaring person dreaded the fog which came from nowhere, wrecking ships and leaving children fatherless, yet now it might just save my life. But a blind alley? I crept slowly forward, keeping close to the side of the inn. The cobbles were wet, soiled by slops, empty barrels and sacks lying across my path. I knew I must not make a sound. Thomas Warren was thrashing the air behind me, his stick swiping at everything within his reach. A barrel crashed to the ground and rolled beside me.
‘Get the dogs – we’ll ush her out like a vixen. Be quick, for God’s sake – we need to get her back to the auction and expose her for the lying whore she is.’ His voice turned in my direction, ‘Did you hear that, my beauty? The dogs know what they’re about – they’ll make short work of you.’ He laughed as he struck a int, the glow barely visible through the solid fog. ‘But I like a chase,’ he said, sucking on his pipe, ‘By God, I like a chase and when I catch you, I’ll have you – see if I don’t.’
I began inching across the yard, desperately trying to keep my bearings. I had no way of knowing which direction I was going – but for his voice, I could have been heading straight for him. The cobbles were rough and broken in places. I could not tell how far I crawled, perhaps twenty feet. Suddenly, my hand came up against a solid wall and I ran my hands quickly over the stones, standing up to explore how high they went. The wall stretched well beyond my reach and I knew it was the huge wall that encircled the Polcarrow estate. There would be no climbing it.
The sound of mufed barking was getting louder, the same petrifying sound I had heard when Jim had been chased. I remembered the size of the dogs as they lay drugged and began crawling faster along the damp stones. They were wet, slimy, covered with moss, and stinking of urine. The wall seemed to go on forever, but my hand knocked against something hard and my hopes soared – a huge barrel. I ran my hands round it. It seemed full, the lid securely fastened. I dug my huge boots against the iron rim, hoisting myself to the top and knelt precariously on the lid, clutching the rim.
The pipe glowed in my direction. ‘Give yourself up, you stupid bitch, before I turn angry – you won’t like it when I’m angry.’ There was the sound of loud hawking and spittle hitting the ground. ‘It’s me or the dog – not that there’s much difference – they say I’m a dog when my blood’s up…’
Crouching on the barrel, I tried to calm my breathing. The air was freezing, the fog penetrating my jacket, but the chill I felt was fear. Steadying myself, I ran my hands against the wall, reaching high on my toes, stretching as far as I could. A part of the wall felt different – bumpy, even crumbly. Brick not stone. Part of an outhouse. My ngers made contact with the top of the wall and I knew I just needed a foothold.
I had no choice but to give away my position. The bricks were old and I dug at them, scratching with my nails. I began gouging out the mortar, hollowing out a patch until a small area began to crumble. I rocked the loosening brick, clawing with my ngers, gripping it with a strength born from desperation. It went crashing to the ground and I felt for the space. It was all I needed. I wedged my cumbersome boot into the gap and reached above me with all my strength. With one push I gripped the top of the wall and heaved myself up, my foot kicking over the hogshead, sending it clattering across the cobbles, the yard echoing with the sound of vicious barking.
‘She’s behind the barrel – spread out, I want this bitch caught.’
Somehow, I steadied myself on top of the wall. It was no more than a foot across, the fog smothering me, making it hard to keep my balance. On one side Thomas Warren, on the other, the long drop to the Polcarrow estate where dogs roamed freely at night. The Polcarrow gatehouse would be to my left. To my right would be the churchyard.
Inch by painful inch, I felt my way along the narrow wall, stretching like a cat over the crenulations as they heeded my progress. Only when the barking faded, did I dare to stop, and only then did I realise I was shaking uncontrollably.
Chapter Forty
Close beside me the church clock struck ten. Across the graveyard the mist was lifting, the church just visible through the thinning fog. Hazy shapes swirled round the tombstones – the very essence of my childhood terrors, but I paid no heed. I was in far greater danger from the living.
Clutching the top of the wall, I lowered my legs and dropped to the ground, crouching behind a large tomb, listening from the shadows. A mule brayed in the distance and I heard hurried footsteps run towards the quay. These fogs could go as quickly as they came, but while it lasted, I stood a chance. I had to get home. I had to hide the clothes that would incriminate me.
As the fog thinned, the streets became busier. Keeping to the edge of the street, I skirted the houses, hiding in the shadows of the overhanging gables. An oil lamp half-lit the town quay, its suffused light trapped by the swirling mist. A brazier glowed red on the quayside and groups of people stood hunching their shoulders against the cold. I could not tell whether they were warming themselves, or waiting for the ferry, so I ducked into a doorway, concealing myself behind a crate. The crate was full of sh guts, its smell so appalling I had to ght the urge to retch.
Across the river mouth the hazy lights of Porthruan could just be seen; the splash of oars indicating the return of the ferry. The wharf dropped steeply to one side and with the town quay lling up with people, there was nowhere else to hide. I would stay where I was, crouching behind the stinking crate. If there was room in the ferry, I would leave my hiding place and make a dash before it pulled away.
A scent of tobacco came sifting through the air; the foul, pungent smell, mixing with the stench of sh guts. It was sickly-sweet, the fumes laced with vanilla and cinnamon. The exact smell, the same distinctive brand. I drew back, my heart thumping against my chest. It was coming from a doorway not four feet away. I had to think. I had to calm my terror. Running would draw too much attention. I would have to control the shaking in my legs and walk calmly back the way I had come.
A group of men were crossing the quay and I saw my chance. Pulling my hat low, I slipped from the doorway, falling silently into step as they walked towards the old jetty. The passage was dark and narrow, the wharf towering above me on one side, the river falling away to the other, but I kept pace, grateful one of them was holding a lantern. The noise of their footsteps made it hard to hear if I was being followed but, somehow, I resisted the temptation to look round.
‘Aye, ’tis clear enough – ’tis lifting.’
‘Aye, well – ‘till tomorrow then. Goodnight, Jack.’
One by one, they left the group to board their boats and I found myself alone on the creaking jetty. In places the wood was rotten, jagged gaps revealing the black sea beneath me. It was very slippery, the planks wet from the fog and I walked with care, not knowing where I was going. At the end of the jetty, I stopped, not believing my eyes. A small rowing boat was hitched to the rail, its oars still
locked in place. The owner would only be gone for a short while and I stared at the small boat, knowing I had little time to decide. I could swim or I could row. I had never swum the river before, but neither had I ever stolen a boat.
With the fog thinning, I could hesitate no longer. I untied the painter and pushed the boat into the calm black water. As I grabbed the oars, salt stung my hands. I had not noticed the grazes before, or the blood that covered my ngers. With the rst stroke, I steadied the boat. With the second I turned. With the third, I pulled clear of the jetty. With the fourth, I headed for home.
My feet ew along the cliff path as my mind raced. I would have to warn Sir James Thomas Warren could not be trusted. First thing in the morning, I would tell him about the auction and warn him of my suspicions. High on the cliff top, I breathed the salt-laden air. The fog had all but lifted, dispersed by the soft breeze now blowing across the sea. The sky was cloudless, the moon and stars bright above me. I stared at the huge moon, with its knowing face, the ache tightening around my heart. But I would be safe soon, the cottage lay ahead of me, only fty yards further and I would be safe. I opened the back gate.
I saw a movement in the shadows. A huge man loomed at me, lunging through the darkness and I screamed in terror.
‘It’s Miss Pengelly,’ said a voice as strong arms reached out to steady me. ‘Are ye alright, Miss Pengelly?’ His voice was familiar but I could not place it.
‘No, she’s not alright. She looks terrible,’ said Jenna, rushing to my side. ‘She looks t to drop – quick get her in.’