Pengelly's Daughter (25 page)

‘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 reection and was horried 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 spurred 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

M
iss 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 inuence 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.

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 rufed 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.'

‘Bring the map, Mr Warren, I'd like to see where this creek is.' Thomas Warren sucked in his already hollow cheeks and crossed the room to search the drawers of a large bureau. I squared my shoulders, keeping my gaze steady to meet Sir James's enquiring look.

‘What good can it be to you, Miss Pengelly? If it oods it can be no good to you as a boatyard.' I sensed his challenge.