Pengelly's Daughter (18 page)

Mother looked suddenly serious. ‘We must hope he doesn't climb back in.'

‘He won't, I'm sure. I'll shut my window. Goodnight, Mother, let's try and get some sleep.' One thing was certain, from now on I would sleep with my windows shut, even in the stiing heat.

I went straight to the window, my face burning with shame. I had encouraged him. I had touched his scars with a shocking lack of reserve. Even worse, I had responded to his kiss with almost no restraint. How could I? Where was the woman of reason? The one whose head always ruled her heart? I had no idea physical passion could be so sudden, so powerful, so able to take control, but I was warned now, and I would never let it happen again.

I lay awake in the stiing room, trying not to re-live every moment of our stolen kiss. Suddenly, a thought struck me and my heart leapt. He had not been wearing the chain round his neck. No chain meant no ruby ring.

Now what was keeping me awake was how extraordinarily pleased that made me feel.

Chapter Nineteen

Thursday 4th July 1793 6.00 p.m.

W
e could hear shouts, footsteps running down the street. Jenna threw down her sewing and rushed to open the door. I followed close behind, looking over her shoulder to see a large plume of smoke rising high above Fosse.

‘'Tis a re,' she said.

‘Is it near the boatyard?'

‘No…higher, nearer Polcarrow.'

‘Tell Mother I'm going to check the warehouse. If the wind picks up – or turns westerly, the warehouse might be in danger. Tell her I won't be long – I'll be very careful.'

Before Jenna could make any protest, I grabbed my bonnet, joining the steady stream of people rushing to the quayside. Strange though it may seem, I could not believe my luck. I had been worrying all day what excuse I would use and now I had a perfectly good reason to leave the house. With no word from Jim, I had no option but to follow his instructions and meet him where he said.

The agony of waiting would nally be over. Soon I would see Father, but the thought of going anywhere near Polcarrow lled me with fear. Robert Roskelly had risen to power on the back of his sister's marriage. He was as bad as them all – ruthless and harsh; enclosing land, putting up rents, evicting everyone who could not pay. I hated him long before he had Father jailed. Why risk going near him? Why meet at the gate­house of the most powerful and unscrupulous man in Fosse?

The boats were already heavily loaded and waiting to cross the river but I was in luck, and squeezed into a small gap just as the ferry began to leave. Men were holding empty buckets, their faces turned anxiously towards the thin black plume rising high in the air above Fosse. ‘Quay's safe – seems it's Polcarrow land,' I heard someone say.

‘Aye – well, if 'tis Polcarrow land, I'll not help. Let 'im burn.'

‘Don't be daft. If the wind turns, town'll burn like tinder.'

The ferry docked and the men dipped their buckets into the sea, running quickly to the end of the chain, passing the buckets from hand to hand. The road was almost blocked. Tradesmen were frantically pushing carts, produce spilling onto the road around them. Horses were rearing, dogs barking, children crying. A basket of whelks was jerked from a woman's arms, squashed in seconds by scores of rushing feet. Everywhere was noise and chaos – men shouting furiously for people to make way for the carts laden with hogsheads of seawater.

I followed behind, heading up the steep road to the shops and houses crammed against the huge, crenulated wall encircling the great estate. The gates of Polcarrow were always kept shut but today they were wide open, a long snake of men stretching along the drive. The men were passing full buckets in their right hands, empty buckets with their left. The pace was furious, sweat streaking their faces. A group of bystanders was staring through the gates.

‘They're gaining,' I heard a man say.

‘Aye,' replied another. ‘Looks worse than 'tis – they'll soon have it out. 'Tis only the old cottages – they're burnt to a cinder but there's nought else to catch. They'll need beer, mind. This'll cost Roskelly.'

My stomach turned. Mr Roskelly was standing outside the great house, shouting orders to the footmen and servants who were scurrying round in great confusion. They looked like ants in a disturbed nest, going backwards and forwards, almost in circles, most of them carrying buckets, some holding pitchers. Wagons full of empty hogsheads were turning to reload; others waited on the drive, the men rolling the heavy barrels down planks to the ground. Amidst the chaos, Mr Tregellas stood watching and my fear rose – this was such a dangerous place to bring Father.

A shout began spreading, ‘Fire's easing. There'll be no spread.'

The smoke was lessening though there was still work to be done. I heard the church bell chime quarter past six. Not long to wait before I would see my beloved Father, but I would also have to face Jim. Since our last encounter, my nights had been full of dreams, too vivid to recall without blushing.

The confusion was lessening, the servants stopping to talk rather than rushing about, so the danger was obviously passing. I stared at the long drive sweeping up to Polcarrow, at the two lines of privet hedges clipped to within an inch of their lives. A wrought-iron fence separated the formal drive from the parkland; an immaculate lawn on one side, sheep grazing beneath the trees on the other.

The house looked ancient, forbidding, built hundreds of years ago and given to James Polcarrow by Queen Elizabeth in recognition of his valour during the Armada. Not just a house, but a baronetcy, as well, so his descendants could live in idle luxury off the backs of the poor. It always galled me that nobody recognised the same gallantry in the unarmed peasants forced into battles with nothing but their picks and shovels, or the ordinary sailors blown to pieces as they manned the cannons in ships the navy knew were not t to sail. Where was their recognition, their baronetcy?

I stared at the ugly house, at its sombre, crenulated facade built of dark stone and slate. It stood, squat and square, on rising ground halfway between the sea and the wooded hills behind. More like a castle than a house – grey and forbidding, with turrets and pointed windows. As a child it had lled me with dread. I would lay awake, imagining the long, dark corridors leading to airless, gloomy rooms. The deep dungeons beneath it.

The church clock struck the quarter hour and I peered above the crowd. Perhaps they might not see me. Instantly, I ducked behind the man in front. Sulio Denville was making his way through the crowd, his face full of anger, his bulky frame jostling the people around him. He was heading straight for the gates and as he marched up the drive, my fear turned to panic. This was madness. Complete madness. What was Jim thinking? I knew not to greet Father too warmly. People might recognise me and to keep him safe, I would have to pretend we were on nodding terms only.

A slight thinning in the crowd gave me a glimpse of two men and I had to stop myself from crying out. Father was barely recognisable. He was stooped and frail, aged well beyond his years; his frame a fraction of Jim's who towered above him. I clamped my hands over my mouth, reeling with shock, hardly able to take in what I saw – my once-strong Father, now so weak and aged, leaning heavily on Jim's arm. His corduroy breeches made his legs look like spindles. He was wearing an old brown jacket, his grey hair hanging in wispy threads, his beard wild and unkempt. His hat was too big for him, no doubt to keep him disguised. I fought back my tears, holding back my horror. They were nearly with me.

I needed to compose myself. I took a deep breath, wiping away my tears. I wanted to run to him, throw my arms around him. I wanted to clutch him, tell him how much I loved him, how desperately I had missed him, but I held myself in check. I would have to wait. He looked up and saw me and, through my tears, I saw his joy, his love. I saw the anger, too, the regret, the icker of shame as he took in my clothes and saw how poor we had become. When he smiled, the child in me sobbed. We could not embrace, Jim's manner made that quite clear. His face was stern, his voice brusque.

‘Time enough to talk – we've to hurry,' he said looking round. ‘We've an appointment to keep an' we're in danger of being late.' His clothes were crumpled, his appearance unkempt. He looked rougher, thicker stubble, his hair untidy. He was wearing the red scarf round his neck. To my horror he began leading Father towards the open gates of Polcarrow.

‘Jim, no!'

‘We must – it's the only way. I've discussed it with Mr Pengelly an' he agrees. Come, quickly. We're not to keep them waiting.'

I turned to Father. ‘You're not strong enough – it's far too dangerous.'

‘We've no option, Rose – we're in Jim's hands.' He shrugged his thin shoulders beneath the huge jacket. ‘We've no choice but to trust him.' Despite his frail appearance, his voice was stronger than I dared to hope, more resolute.

Jim urged us forward. He was walking quickly and I had to hurry to catch up with him. Considering what had passed between us, I was furious with his high-handed manner and lack of explanation. We were halfway through the gates of Polcarrow before I caught his attention. ‘Jim, stop…could we at least please discuss what you've in mind?' I was used to his grim expression, but I had never seen him look so agitated. He seemed preoccupied, unable to look at me in the eye – he seemed even furtive. Every instinct screamed danger and I stopped abruptly. ‘I'm not going any further.'

He swung round, a glimmer of uncertainty in those blue eyes. ‘You've to trust me, Rose.'

‘They're all there, you know that don't you?'

‘I've arranged it so. Please leave it at that. We've to hurry.'

I followed reluctantly up the drive, Father leaning on my arm. A thin line of smoke rose from the blackened rubble and as we passed the long line of men, I could hear them complain of their thirst, a number calling for barrels of beer. Jim marched ahead. Why here? This could not be right. ‘Father, this can't be safe,' I whispered. ‘What's he told you?'

Father frowned. ‘Very little, my dear – but we've no choice. He has the ledgers and all the evidence. We're in his hands.'

Chapter Twenty

A
s if fearing our desertion, Jim held onto Father's arm, holding it tightly until we reached the end of the long drive. Large stone steps swept up to an elaborately carved portico. Mr Roskelly had gone and there was no sign of any servants. It was as if nothing had happened. The house looked silent, austere, the huge front door black, studded with iron rivets. I helped Father up the steps. Jim paused, staring at the elaborate iron knocker, forged in the shape of a galleon in full sail. His hands clenched into sts by his sides, ‘Leave the talkin' to me,' he said, lifting the knocker.

The door was opened by a liveried footman in a powdered wig and a red jacket embroidered in gold thread. On his hands he wore cream kid gloves. At the sight of us, his eyes widened, his jaw dropped and a look of horror spread across his face. Almost too indignant to speak, he would have slammed the door in our faces, had not Jim forced his shoulder against the door, wedging it open with his boot.

‘Round the back – scoundrels! Round the back!' shouted the footman, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘Go round the back where you belong.'

‘Mr Roskelly is expecting us an' I'll use any door I please. What's your name, sir?' There must have been something in Jim's tone which made him answer.

‘Henderson,' he replied stify.

‘Well, Henderson, I suggest you open the door an' tell Mr Roskelly his guests are here. He's expecting us so I suggest you don't keep him waiting.'

Henderson opened the door, walking slowly backwards across the hall, indicating with his frown of disapproval for the other servants to watch us closely. They were all clutching at mops, no doubt still cleaning the oor after all those running feet, but at the sight of us, they stood gawping, their eyes incredulous.

The door shut behind us and I glanced at Father. Jim had brought us here with no explanation. Was he going to pay Father's debts? Perhaps he had found someone willing to lend us money so we could wipe the slate clean. He must be condent we would be safe, but why not tell us? It felt so wrong. I had been expecting a sign of tenderness, some recognition of his stolen kiss, anything I could grasp at to lessen my fear, but it was as if Jim was turned to stone. He stood staring ahead and, as I watched his back, I could sense hostility in the set of his shoulders. Something was wrong.

A heavily engraved wooden staircase rose majestically from the centre of the room, sweeping and curving as it divided in two, the highly polished handrails carved with birds and animals massing together in elaborate swirls. Gold-framed portraits of complacent gentry looked down from the walls, their hands resting on their well-fed bellies. In the corner, a suit of arms stood silently to attention, its reection caught in the polished black and white marble oor, shining like a mirror beneath it.

The servants were watching us, some mopping, others blatantly staring, clearly intrigued by our poor clothes and unkempt appearance. I had to ght the urge to take Father, open the door and run down the drive. Somehow, I stayed, watching the evening sun ood through the oval window, sending coloured shafts of light through the candelabra hanging on chains from the ceiling above. Each one must have contained a hundred candles – more than most people would use in a year.

To my right was a stone replace, simply sculptured, but huge, the blackened reback recognisable as the Polcarrow crest. Above the replace was a portrait of a boy holding the bridle of a ne black stallion. Behind him stretched the vast Polcarrow estates and, in the distance, the house itself, standing in its formal gardens. The boy looked spoilt, demanding, his ne clothes unsuitable for riding, the horse obviously too big for him. Jim was staring at the portrait, his face impassive.