by Nicola Pryce
‘Madam, allow me,’ he said, straightening the chair. ‘Please sit down, you look very shaken.’
‘I’m ne, thank you. It’s just a silly disagreement.’
‘This is more than a disagreement’ he said, pointing to the mess. ‘This is violence against a person and a person’s property. Did they hurt you, miss…?
‘Pengelly…my name’s Rosehannon Pengelly.’
‘Morcum Calstock, Miss Pengelly – at your service,’ he said, making a formal bow. ‘Shall I get someone to help you, or would you perhaps like me to walk you home?’
‘No, Mr Calstock,’ I said, trying to stop my legs shaking. ‘Thank you for your kindness but it takes more than a few crumpled papers to intimidate me.’ I hoped my smile looked convincing.
He smiled back. He had a beautiful smile, strong and condent yet strangely intimate and reassuring. His face was browned by the sun, his hair tied behind his neck. It was almost blonde in places as if the sun still shone on it. His jaw was square, his forehead broad, his nose straight with a slight snub at the end. His was one of the friendliest faces I had seen – and one of the most handsome.
‘What if they come back, Miss Pengelly?’
‘They won’t come back. They want a log pool but Sir James Polcarrow owns the land and they’re angry – they’ve taken it out on me but they’ll soon realise their mistake.’
Morcum Calstock looked relieved, though I could tell he was still anxious. ‘At least let me help you restore some order,’ he said, returning my bureau to its upright position. ‘Allow me to be your servant, Miss Pengelly.’ His smile revealed strong, beautifully straight teeth.
Papers were strewn all over the ofce and, as we bent to pick them up, my fear subsided. Smiling at each other, we retrieved the papers, placing them once more in neat piles on the bureau or Father’s desk. We were almost nished, only Mr Scantlebury’s plans remained on the oor. Morcum Calstock laid them on the desk, smoothing his hands over them with a reverence I found touching. ‘These are ne drawings,’ he said, ‘and beautifully executed. Are they your father’s?’
‘No, they’re Mr Scantlebury’s – he’s our master shipwright.’
‘He’s a steady hand and a real air for detail,’ he said examining them closely. ‘I’d be proud, very proud if I’d done these.’
‘Are you a shipwright?’ I asked, my heart leaping.
‘No – I’m a land agent by profession but I’ve secret dreams to be an architect.’
‘Then you must follow your dreams,’ I said, throwing all etiquette to the wind. I must have sounded harsh. Or disappointed. Or even envious. He glanced up from studying the plans, looking curiously, as if he detected there was something I was not saying.
‘And you, Miss Pengelly? Do you have dreams?’
I hesitated, yet there was something about this man which made me feel comfortable. Something solid and steady – like a dependable rock. He had just put himself in grave danger on my behalf and here we were, discussing dreams. It was as if all formality was over and we were already well acquainted. ‘Yes, I do have dreams, though it’s highly unlikely they’ll ever be realised. One day, when Father’s no longer capable, I’d like to run his boatyard. Can you ever see that happening?’
A thoughtful expression crossed his handsome face. ‘We live in changing times, Miss Pengelly, who knows what the future may bring? If we don’t dream we dare not hope.’
Outside, the deluge of rain had dwindled to faint drizzle. A tiny patch of blue was breaking through the grey sky – it would be sunny again soon. I found I was smiling. If Jenna had been there, I would have danced round the room with her. Morcum Calstock had taken me seriously; he had not scoffed at my dreams. The ofce restored, Morcum Calstock smiled as he picked up his bag and his still-dripping coat.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Calstock,’ I said, walking him to the door. ‘I’ll always be in your debt, and if there’s any way I, or Father, can help, please ask.’
‘Well, you could just point me in the right direction for Mrs Abigail’s lodgings,’ he said, his eyes creasing into their laughter lines. ‘I thought it was down here – I was looking for it when I heard you scream.’
‘It’s a bit difcult to nd…here…let me draw you a quick map – it’ll be easier than if I give you complicated instructions…’ The map completed, I could hear whistling and looked up. Father was back from Mevagissey and crossing the yard.
Jenna’s food had done wonders for his health. He looked well – still too thin, but strong and upright. His new jacket and breeches made him look prosperous, his hat lent him gravitas, his new side whiskers a distinct look of wisdom. He was carrying a leather case and, for a moment, a pang of disappointment surged through me. Gone was the father I remembered. In his place was someone I hardly recognised – more a politician than a boat-builder.
Father must have seen me hand Morcum Calstock the scribbled map. He stood, eyeing us intently. ‘This is Mr Calstock, Father.’
‘D’you want to commission a boat, Mr Calstock?’
‘Alas, sir, I don’t have the funds.’
‘Is it employment you seek?’
‘It is, sir, but not in a boatyard. I’m a land agent – I seek employment but I’m only passing through your town. I need to go inland – to the moors – to where there’re large estates.’
‘Large estates? Why spend your life labourin’ for some wealthy landowner with too much money and too much land?’ Father said with a smile. ‘Workin’ for a pittance at someone else’s beck and call all your life? Have you never thought to work for yerself, strike out on your own? Be your own man not some lackey, jumpin’ at orders, touchin’ your forelock and doin’ another man’s work.’ Though his words were harsh, Father could be charming and persuasive. He smiled kindly at Morcum Calstock, patting him on the back as if he was his son.
‘My father’s a steward, and his before him – it’s the family business, so to speak.’
‘But still, you must make your own life, Mr Calstock – be beholden to no man. I build boats to my own design. I have freedom of choice, but in your job you’ll have no freedom. We’re born free – yet you’d shackle yourself to some overfed aristocrat? Times are changin’; we don’t need to wear shackles of our own makin’ any more. Perhaps we can persuade you Fosse is a place you could prosper – come back and see us.’
Mr Calstock smiled broadly. ‘I’d like that, sir,’ he said, bowing. He turned to me, his hazel eyes sparkling, ‘Good day, Miss Pengelly. I hope we shall meet again.’
‘Good day, Mr Calstock.’ I replied, almost wishing he was not going. But for this man, things would have been very different.
Suddenly, I found myself blushing under Father’s erce scrutiny. Flinging his hat on the chair, he crossed to his desk, barely glancing at the plans as he placed his case on the top of them.
‘How was Mevagissey?’ I asked.
‘Mevagissey’s much the same.’
‘Did you meet with the boat-builders?’
He chose to ignore my question, ‘Where’s Thomas…and the men?’
‘Mr Scantlebury’s with the sailmakers and he gave the men leave – work on the new lugger starts tomorrow and the repairs are complete.’
‘So you had the yard to yerself. That was convenient.’
‘I met Mr Calstock by chance, Father – he was looking for Mrs Abigail’s lodging house.’
‘No need to quarrel, Rose. Your Mr Calstock seems a nice man – obviously educated and with a hint of independence about him which shows promise. Aye, you needn’t worry, I liked the look of him. Fact is, I hope we see more of him.’
Father sifted through his letters. ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Why’ve I got the honour of a letter with the Polcarrow seal?’ My heart sank. Everything was happening too quickly. I had wanted Mr Scantlebury to suggest the log pool and Father to approach Sir James. Now that was impossible. He slammed the letter onto his desk. ‘Condescendin’ bastard!�
�� he muttered, ‘interferin’, meddlin’, condescendin’ bastard. Why’d I want a log pool? And he dares suggest a rent so low it’s an insult. He requires I contact him at my earliest convenience, does he?’
I took a deep breath. This was worse than ever. Father could be roused to terrible temper and I could never reason with him in this state. Besides, we really needed Mr Scantlebury to tell him it was his idea. I hoped he did not hear the quiver in my voice. ‘He may have got wind of the new brig contract…perhaps he thinks it would be advantageous if you had your own log pool.’
Father swung round. As he guessed the truth, I saw his ash of anger, saw him bite his tongue. Part of me wanted to run to him, throw myself at his feet, but I was not a child any more. I was a grown woman, struggling in a man’s world, and even I doubted I should be there. I could still smell Thomas Warren’s foul spittle on my damp curl, still feel his thrusting pelvis.
Father’s eyes turned to my new dress. ‘Are you expectin’ to go where your new gown will be appreciated? Like Polcarrow? I’d momentarily forgotten I had a daughter with friends in high places. Perhaps we should go together, to celebrate our good fortune in being offered a log pool at such an advantageous rate?’
‘I’ve no wish to go to Polcarrow,’ I said furiously, ‘and I’ve absolutely no intention of seeing Sir James again. I’m grateful for his past help but you’re wrong to call him my friend.’
Father’s eyes softened. ‘Rose, my dear,’ he said, taking off his glasses, ‘perhaps we’d best start again. My business in Mevagissey was very useful. I visited St Austell and intend to go to Polperro. We’ve set in motion a Friendly Society – there’s a need out there for greater unity and men are interested. We’ll soon gain strength.’ He smiled and pinched my cheek, a gesture that used to make me blush with pride. ‘And you look beautiful, Rose. I love your new gown.’
I did not blush with pride but smiled to hide my fear. Friendly Societies were beginning to be thought seditious and Father’s actions could prove dangerous. He could lose everything and he would take good boat-builders with him. As if it was not hard enough already.
Thomas Warren’s threats were still ringing in my ears. ‘Did you take up the insurance with Mr Mitchell?’
Father looked surprised. ‘I’ve done what you insisted.’
I could tell he was lying. Just like the last time. Just like the time we lost everything because he had thought it not necessary to insure the cutter.
‘So everything’s covered: boats, warehouse, storerooms – covered for theft and re as well as storm damage? Father, please don’t tell me we’re still not insured. You promised me never again.’
‘I’ll do it this afternoon.’
‘Father – we need to be insured,’ I began feeling really alarmed.
‘Then we’ll do it together,’ he said, watching me carefully. ‘First, you can accompany me to Polcarrow, then we’ll sort out the insurance.’
Was there irritation in his eyes? A note of impatience in his voice? I could not tell. Somehow I felt he was testing my loyalty and I knew I could not refuse. If accompanying him to Polcarrow would guarantee our getting insurance, I had no choice but to go.
Chapter Forty-six
On the way to Polcarrow, bells began peeling as shouts echoed across the town. The pilchards were running – they were to the south of Gribbon Head, heading straight for Polridmouth Bay. It was a lee shore, but hardly any wind and they were there for the taking. Rumour had it the shoal was so huge, the sea had turned silver.
I held Father’s arm, pressing against the tide of people running past us, and entered the gates of Polcarrow, relieved to be leaving the mayhem. Once again, I found myself walking up the immaculately manicured drive, climbing the imposing sweep of steps to the large front door. To my surprise, Henderson was expecting us.
With the same stiff reserve, though not the same discourtesy, he opened the door, asking us to wait while he informed Sir James of our arrival. Father stood squarely, his feet apart, his hands behind his back, staring in disdain at the elaborately carved staircase. The chandeliers gleamed, the marble oor shone, the highly polished furniture reected the ne blue and white china vases, but something was different.
A large portrait of a woman had been hung above the replace. She was tall, beautiful, wearing a owing white gown, her wide hat covered in white feathers. Her hands were pressing lightly against a tree, her head and shoulders turned towards the viewer. Her smile was playful, her eyes seeming to sparkle with mischief. Under her hat, black curls foamed around her. She looked young, carefree and condent. At her feet, a spaniel with uffy ears and huge brown eyes looked adoringly up at her. The lady had been picking owers. Next to the spaniel was a basket, not full of formal owers like lilies or roses, but wild owers from the elds around her. It was a beautiful portrait, radiating warmth, and somehow changing the whole atmosphere of the hall. Henderson saw me looking at it.
‘Who’s the lady in the portrait?’ I asked.
‘Lady Elizabeth Polcarrow – Sir James’s mother. She died shortly afterwards. Now, if ye’ll follow me, Sir James’s waiting.’
We entered the study to nd the room in disarray. Mounds of papers were heaped on the desk and drawers in the bureau lay open. Piles of documents and huge, leather-bound rent books lay open on the oor. Maps, held at at the corners, covered the carpet. Sir James Polcarrow was buttoning up his silk frock coat, tidying himself for our arrival. His hair was dishevelled, his face sombre. He bowed formally but his eyes turned quickly to Henderson.
‘Is Mr Warren in his ofce?’
‘No, Sir James. No-one’s seen him.’
‘I want to be informed the moment he arrives.’ He turned to Father, ‘Good day, Mr Pengelly, I hope I nd you well. Miss Pengelly,’ he said, avoiding my eyes.
‘Do we intrude?’ replied Father with a slight bow, ‘you look busy.’
‘Certain irregularities, that’s all…well, a dammed sight more than irregularities, but I’ll get to the bottom of them. My steward’s missing and I’ve reason to believe he may not return. In fact, I have every reason to believe he’s been dishonest.’
Dishonest, violent and lecherous, I thought, but I said nothing. Father’s presence stopped me from speaking. Nor could I look at James Polcarrow and James Polcarrow was certainly not looking at me.
‘Then you’ll be needin’ a new land agent,’ said Father.
‘And quickly,’ replied James Polcarrow, scowling at the papers strewn around the room.
Something was wrong; Father was smiling his most charming smile, ‘Well then, you’re in luck. I know a land agent lookin’ for a position.’ He paused, his voice turning at once conspiratorial. ‘Though I don’t know him as well as Rose does – he’s her particular friend but I’m sure she can vouch for his credentials. Your Mr Calstock would be just perfect for the position, wouldn’t he, Rose?’
I turned away, blushing furiously. James Polcarrow stiffened, his hands suddenly clenching on the desk. ‘I’m afraid I need a steward with experience. I’m about to build cottages for my workers – each cottage with a third of an acre. I intend to put in drainage and water pipes so I need a man who knows what he’s about, not some callow youth looking for a chance to raise his standing!’ He sounded bitter, dismissive and I swung round, facing him for the rst time.
‘Morcum Calstock’s no callow youth,’ I replied crossly. ‘He’s an authoritative and very capable man. He’s kind and courageous and, besides, he wants to…’ I stopped mid-sentence, both of them staring at me. I could not reveal Mr Calstock’s dreams of becoming an architect – he had told me that in condence and I had no right to betray his condence.
A half-concealed smile played on Father’s lips but James Polcarrow looked furious. ‘He wants to what, Miss Pengelly?’
‘It’s of no consequence,’ I replied, turning my back, walking towards the French window. I needed air. My face was burning and I needed to feel th
e breeze. The rain had passed, the sun slowly emerging from behind the clouds. The air smelt damp, earthy and renewed. On the path a lady was playing with a small spaniel puppy, just like the one in the portrait. She was throwing a ball to the puppy, laughing with delight, her hair glowing as it caught the sun.
Father cleared his throat. ‘Though, I have to say, Mr Calstock shows great interest in our yard and I may’ve need of his services myself. I’m sure it won’t take much to persuade him to join us – and a man like that would certainly be an asset.’ He smiled, adding, as if in afterthought, ‘I hope we don’t end up ghtin’ over Mr Calstock, Sir James.’
Father’s smile was a little too xed and, for a moment, both men stared at each other with thinly veiled hostility. James Polcarrow ran his hand through his hair. ‘Indeed, Mr Pengelly, I’ve no desire to ght, as you put it. On the contrary, I have here your lease. I’ve drawn it up myself – the words are taken from a similar lease so it’ll be binding. I just need your signature and our business will be complete.’ He picked up a parchment from his desk, his scowl deepening.
Father stood with his hands behind his back, his feet apart. ‘Thank you, Sir James, but I’ve no need for your lease. I’m sure it’s kindly meant, but I’ve no desire for your creek and no need for a log pool.’
I stared at Father in astonishment. How dare he refuse something so freely given and so badly needed? How could he be so pig-headed? Of course we needed that log pool. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see that. Boatyards were going to the wall and only those with sufcient resources were surviving. It was as if he had no sense at all.
‘Father…!’ But I was too proud to plead, too ashamed of what James Polcarrow must be thinking. Furious, I bit my tongue.
James Polcarrow was staring at me, a slight rise in his eyebrow. ‘And what about you, Miss Pengelly? Do you think my proposition is a good idea?’ He was shielding me from my father, protecting me. I began to speak but Father interrupted me, his voice impatient.
‘We can leave Rose out of this, Sir James – she’s a woman and knows nothin’ of business.’
