Pengelly's Daughter (26 page)

‘I'd like to use it as a log pool,' I replied. ‘With a boom of logs chained from edge to edge, it would hold a great deal of timber. Wood needs to season – oak needs to soak at least one year for every inch of width, so I'm planning for the future. If we can season our own logs, I can buy cheaper. The naval yards are taking everything they can and small yards are struggling to nd good supplies.'

‘So you propose to be a timber merchant now, do you, Miss Pengelly? Not just a boat-builder – how very ambitious.'

He spoke harshly, using the tone Jim had used when he had questioned me with such contempt. I had been free to speak my mind then, but now I bit my lip, looking coldly across the desk at the man who had thought to seduce me. There was anger in both our eyes and I heard the responding harshness in my voice. ‘Yes, I do propose to buy timber. There's a rumour Nickels is using bad timber, which is good for us, of course, because he's our biggest rival, but competition's erce and a boatyard will stand or fall on the quality of the wood it uses. If I need to deal in timber, then I will, even if I have to buy from Plymouth or Penzance. Or direct from Norway. But we'll need somewhere to season the logs.'

James Polcarrow sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my face, ‘How is business, Miss Pengelly? Do you have contracts to build?'

‘We will have,' I said, momentarily thrown by the kindness in his voice, ‘but repairs and maintenance pay quicker returns. The commissions we've been offered are too low and I won't let Father go bankrupt again.'

‘What's your commissioning rate, if I may ask?'

His question threw me. I took a deep breath. ‘That depends on the vessels' weight and the timber used but, on average, the cost per ton could be between four and seven pounds.'

‘And is that the same in every boatyard?'

‘Round here the price is fairly xed, but in London or Wales, the prices can reach ten pounds a ton. Are you thinking of commissioning a boat, Sir James?'

‘No, I'm afraid not,' he said with a hint of apology, ‘but why don't you increase your prices in line with other towns?'

‘Surely I don't need to tell you that,' I answered tartly. ‘The Corporation and Sir Charles Cavendish keep the prices low so they can sell the ships on at huge prot.' At the mention of Charles Cavendish, I saw Sir James's mouth tighten. I bit my lip. I felt like shouting at the top of my voice, that yes, we were talking about his precious new uncle by marriage – his soon-to-be family.

‘And this creek, Miss Pengelly, would your father bid for it had he the money?' He had been writing something, his eyes remaining xed on the desk, but as I hesitated he looked up, a eeting smile crossing his face. ‘I take it your father knows about all this?'

‘Of course,' I lied.

‘Because he would need to sign the lease.'

‘I know full well I wouldn't be considered sufciently capable to sign a lease.'

‘That's not what I think, Miss Pengelly, as well you know. It's the law – that's all.'

Thomas Warren had obviously sensed the friction between us and had been silently watching, his weasel eyes darting from one of us to the other, studying our faces for clues to our hostility. In the silence that followed Sir James's remark, he stepped forward, carefully placing several rolls of parchment on the desk in front of him. He began to unroll them in turn, eventually nding the one which showed the elds and estate boundaries of the land in question. The area was larger than I expected and, as Sir James stood up to atten the map, he seemed pleased with the discovery. I noticed, however, that Thomas Warren was looking thunderous.

‘When's the auction?'

‘Friday evening, Sir James.'

‘You must go and bid, Mr Warren. I want this land back. Whatever it costs – do you understand?' Thomas Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise and began collecting together the unwanted maps. Scowling, he walked over to the bureau to replace them in the correct drawers.

James Polcarrow leant over the desk, carefully studying the remaining map. He turned his head, looking up at me through the shock of hair that fell forward across his face. His eyes held mine, like blue arrows piercing my defences; his words barely above a whisper. ‘I'm glad you thought to ask me, Rose. The land's yours – use it how you will. I'll draw up a lease with a low rent and your father can sign it when it suits him. Is he well enough to venture out yet?' His eyes were devouring me, like they had that night on the foaming sea. There was a time I might have drowned in that look, but I did not ounder. I had learnt my lesson and would swim against the strongest current. All the same, I did not want either Sir James or Mr Warren coming anywhere near our cottage.

‘Father will be well enough to come here,' I replied quickly.

The door opened. Henderson crossed the room, carrying a silver tray with an embossed calling card on it. A loud disturbance was echoing across the hall and angry voices could be heard, chastising the servants. Sir James looked enquiringly at Henderson, who caught his unspoken question. ‘They're having a bit of trouble getting Sir Charles out of his sedan chair, Sir James.'

Sir Charles Cavendish. The thought of coming face to face with that man lled me with horror. Two of the most powerful landowners in the county were soon to be united and their power would be absolute. This was no place for me.

‘Thank you for the log pool, Sir James,' I said, making my way across the room. At the door, I turned to hold his gaze. He had absolutely no right to look at me like that. I took a deep breath. ‘And may I congratulate you on your engagement to Miss Arbella Cavendish?'

He looked as if he had been struck. His head shot up, his mouth tightened, and a scowl creased his brows as those blue eyes turned to ice.

Chapter Thirty-one

I
brushed past Sir Charles Cavendish, nearly tripping over his walking stick as he stabbed the marble oor in front of me. I hardly saw him, nor did I care. All I wanted to do was get out of that house. This was the second time I had been in a hurry to leave and there would not be a third.

Halfway down the drive, I was surprised to hear my name being called. One of the gardeners had stopped clipping the hedge and was waving at me. I had not recognised him before, but I instantly knew his voice. It was Ben. Intrigued, I watched him ask permission to stop work and, almost at once, he started running towards me. Removing his hat, he stood shyly in front of me, a huge grin spreading from ear to ear.

‘Ben, what are you doing here? I didn't recognise you – just look at you, you've grown so strong.' He was looking so well, I had to blink hard to force back the tears welling in my eyes.

‘I'm an under-gardener now, Miss Rose'annon…I can stay long as I like. I eat three times a day – that's why I've grown so strong!' He twisted his hat in his hands, smiling at me all the time. ‘I live with Mr Moyle, h-h-he's head-gardener and he tells me what to do. He says I learn quick…he says I've a feel for owers…he says I can stay as long as I like.'

Ben seemed to have grown. He had certainly put on weight. He stood before me in his new smock, his face a picture of pride. ‘How come you're here, Ben?'

‘He came up the cliff…he came to my garden but I hid. I saw him comin' and I was that afraid, cause you said they'd h-h-harm me if they found me. So I hid in the wall and wanted him to go away. I was scared they'd be angry with me.'

‘Did Mr Moyle come and nd you?'

‘No. Sir James came on his horse. He was callin' my name sayin'…“Ben, Ben, I know youse up here”. He went on callin' and callin' and I was that scared and hid. It was rainin' but he got off his horse and come lookin' for me. He said it was alright...' He smiled his huge, lopsided grin, his eyes shining. ‘He said you was his friend and it was alright…he said Miss Rose'annon w-w-would want me to go. Said I was good with owers and he'd look after me…so I come out of me hidin' place and he put me on his horse and we come here. I've been with Mr Moyle ever since.'

I wanted to cry. I wanted to put my hands over my face and howl. Howl, with gratitude, regret, with what might have been, but somehow I managed to hold myself in check. ‘That's wonderful, Ben. Work hard and do everything Mr Moyle tells you, won't you? Is there a Mrs Moyle?'

‘She makes lovely food. We've our own vegetables and eggs…and we've rabbits from the parkland. My job's to fetch water and carry slops…but I've stopped long enough, Miss Rose'annon. Mr Moyle don't like me wastin' time. I'm so lucky. I can't think of a nicer place to be.'

I smiled across at Mr Moyle, who was dofng his hat, watching Ben's retreating gure. I had never thought of Polcarrow as a beautiful place but, looking round, I could see what he meant. To the south, the church tower stood square against the grey rooftops. To the east, the golden shades of Porthruan were shimmering through the ship's masts. Far out to sea, white sails ploughed the waves while, to the north, the river sparkled blue in the height of the tide. To the west, purple moorland fringed the skyline. High above us, skylarks were singing.

If Ben was happily settled, then it was all the consolation I needed.

I could not bring myself to tell Father about the log pool, nor could I tell him about the bark chippings – or my letters refusing credit. I knew I would have to tell him soon enough, but I did not have the stomach for a discussion which I knew would turn into an argument. I managed a rather half-hearted description of the brig, but my heart was not in it. Besides, his tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air and my head was throbbing. Neither of us was good company so I pleaded a headache and retired early to bed.

Before long, Jenna's footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘I've brought ye some camomile tea,' she said, tentatively pushing open the door. ‘Ye've not eaten a thing tonight.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘But it was Mrs Munroe's pie.'

‘Maybe that's the reason, it was too rich – I like your pies better…no, don't look so surprised, you make much better pies.'

Jenna blushed and clucked her tongue. ‘Better not say that again…it's like blasphemy to say such things.'

‘I know someone who
does
like Mrs Munroe's pies,' I said, stroking Mr Pitt, who was sprawling on the bed beside me.

‘Don't know what's to be done with Mr Pitt – Mrs Munroe won't stand for him in her kitchen – she'll kick him out to catch rats.'

‘Poor Mr Pitt – you wouldn't like that, would you?' I said, rubbing his huge belly. Mr Pitt rolled over, purring louder. It was stuffy in my room and airless, despite the open window. In the yard below, Mother was talking to Mrs Tregony. A baby was crying. ‘I'm very sorry I snapped at you, Jenna.'

‘Can't say I noticed,' she replied with a grin.

I smiled back. ‘I saw Ben today. He's an under-gardener now at Polcarrow. He's apprenticed to Mr Moyle.'

‘I know,' Jenna replied.

‘How d'you know?'

‘Well, I heard – that's all – ye know me and gossip. I just heard.'

There was something rather furtive about Jenna's reaction. She had spoken too quickly, not looking me in the eye and, for some reason, it reminded me of Mr Warren. There was something thoroughly unpleasant about that man. I could not help feeling he was probably as untrustworthy as he was lecherous. What if he told other boat-builders my intentions and others tried to steal the log pool from under my nose? What if someone bribed Thomas Warren to lose the bid? There was only one thing to do – I would go and watch him bid.

But what if, being there, I alerted other boat-builders? That would be like shouting out my plan and take away our advantage. Suddenly, my mind cleared – they would notice me as a woman, but not as a man. Why not? It had worked before, so why not one more time?

I sat bolt upright, scaring Mr Pitt off the bed. ‘Jenna, go to your mother's tomorrow and get your brother's clothes again – I'll need everything. You know – boots and a large cap.'

Jenna swung round, her lovely face horried. ‘Them clothes are back…and that's the end of it.'

‘Jenna, get them…once more, please…and don't tell Mother.' I could not explain.

Chapter Thirty-two

Wednesday 14th August 1793 11:30 a.m.

M
adame Merrick's accounts, though still not entirely above board, were at least in order. I was just nishing the last of the invoices when carriage wheels clattered across the yard. Elowyn slammed down the bobbins she was threading and rushed to the window. ‘It's Lady Cavendish's carriage – I recognise that crest.' Her face was as white as her apron.

Madame Merrick seemed caught unaware, unable to take her eyes off the carriage. ‘Eva, Eva…come quickly. Elowyn, don't just stand there
gawping
like a sh – tidy away those threads…no, Elowyn, come back…go to the door and remember to curtsey
very low
– not just a bob…and whatever you do, do
not
look them in the eye. Is it Lady April, Eva?'