Pengelly's Daughter (28 page)

Celia Cavendish persuaded her aunt to order two new gowns, though agreeing on the style of these new gowns was proving difcult. Madame Merrick was quietly cajoling.

‘Believe me, Lady Cavendish,
nobody
of high fashion wears a bustle any more – they're quite a thing of the past. Look, waists are getting higher and sleeves are getting narrower…'

‘How can you be certain, Mrs Merrick? How do I know these plates are recent?'

‘I am right, am I not, Miss Cavendish? Perhaps you can reassure Lady Cavendish this is what
everyone
of fashion is wearing in London.'

Celia Cavendish smiled. ‘Yes, indeed! I love the idea that waists are rising. And even if you hate the fashion, just think of the practicalities – with no restraining stays, we ladies can loosen our corsets and no one need know.' She had spoken light-heartedly, but Lady Cavendish looked furious, her eyes narrowing as she glared at her niece. ‘I'm sorry, Aunt Martha – I meant only to jest. It's just it would be so liberating not having to wear corsets all the time.'

Madame Merrick intervened, asking Arbella Cavendish if she was ready to be measured. Arbella nodded her consent and Madame Merrick pointed to the tting room. ‘Through here, if you please, Miss Cavendish.'

‘Measure her here,' snapped Lady Cavendish, her tone turning decidedly sour.

As if struck, Madame Merrick raised her eyebrows, but Miss Arbella only nodded and smiled. She answered softly, with little enthusiasm, ‘I'm happy to be measured anywhere, Madame Merrick.' She seemed indifferent to all the excitement and I found myself getting increasingly angry with her. It seemed her cousin was more excited than she was.

‘You must make your choice, Arbella. Which design is it to be?'

Arbella Cavendish pointed to the second fashion plate and Madame Merrick began frowning with concentration as she wielded her tape measure, her deft ngers darting backwards and forwards like butteries. Standing on the stool, suspended in air, a shaft of sun striking her blonde hair, Arbella Cavendish looked even more like an angel. Everything about her was radiant and delicate and my stomach tightened. She was looking down at me and, reluctantly, I caught her eye. I have never seen such a look of happiness and when she smiled her shy smile, I felt I was being bathed in honey.

Madame Merrick put down her tape measure. Lady Cavendish struggled to her feet, heaving herself out of the chair in order to see the nished sketch. She pointed to the measurements written alongside. ‘You'd better widen the waist and add width to the bosom.'

Madame Merrick looked horried. ‘Lady Cavendish…
my
measurements are
never
wrong.'

‘That may be the case but Miss Arbella has been ill these past months. The long sea voyage has not been kind to her – she's had terrible sickness. But that's now ended and her appetite has increased – quite considerably, it would seem, and I'm glad to see she is regaining her fuller gure – men do not like a skinny woman, Mrs Merrick.'

Madame Merrick shrugged her shoulders, ‘I suppose I could…'

Lady Cavendish cut her short. ‘What I am saying is that her gown should err on the side of looseness, rather than tightness. Therefore more allowance round the bosom, Mrs Merrick, and a corresponding loosening of the waist,
if
you please, or we will go elsewhere.'

Madame Merrick looked astonished. Celia Cavendish glanced at Arbella who, lifting her quivering chin, turned her back to everyone in the room. Only Elowyn remained oblivious to the tension. She was intent on sorting the lace from the ribbon and was carefully separating the threads. She was growing very particular about how the material was to be stored. She liked everything to be just so, and it was obvious Madame Merrick's untidy rolls were beginning to annoy her.

Chapter Thirty-three

M
adame Merrick watched the ladies depart, curtseying deeply and smiling happily. She nodded quite particularly to Mrs Jennings, who glanced backwards out of the carriage as it jolted across the courtyard. She even managed a small wave from the top of the steps before crossing the room in great haste, making directly for the bottom drawer of her desk. Opening it quickly, she took out what looked like a very expensive bottle of French brandy and three rather nely cut crystal glasses. Uncorking the bottle, she poured a generous portion into all three glasses.

‘There are times when only brandy will do,' she said, handing Mother one of the glasses. She turned to me. ‘Will you join us, Miss Pengelly? Or does all that rightful indignation of yours forbid you a small celebration?'

I smiled, ‘Are we celebrating or recovering?'

‘Celebrating, of course, Miss Pengelly,' said Madame Merrick, downing the contents of her glass in one gulp, ‘although I will concede Lady Cavendish is a trie
trying
.' With steady hands, she poured more brandy and raised her glass. ‘Let us drink to the health of the future Lady Polcarrow.' Mother raised her glass and, she too, nished her drink in one gulp. Mother never drank brandy.

‘I could not ask for anything more…' Madame Merrick said, taking out a delicately embroidered handkerchief to dab her eyes. ‘Have you ever seen such
rare
beauty? Lady Polcarrow will be my new patroness and everyone will want to emulate her...and Miss Celia Cavendish – though not quite such a beauty – is so knowledgeable about fashion. That organza she chose is my absolute
nest
and she spotted it straight away…but then it is in her blood…she has true
breeding
you see. Her grandfather – on her mother's side – is an
earl
and her uncle is a
marquis
. You are either born to quality or not, and she is, very much so. Miss Pengelly, will you not celebrate my success?'

‘To the success of your business,' I said, raising my glass, ‘long may you prosper, Madame Merrick.'

The brandy was smooth, burning my throat. I had tasted brandy many times as Father always celebrated a launch with a glass of brandy. I would sit by his chair, watching the ames leap in the re and sip the ery liquid, feeling hot on the outside and warm on the inside. But the thought of drinking a toast to the Cavendishes galled me.

‘Madame Merrick, you shouldn't have to fawn like that,' I said, before I could stop myself. ‘You've more nesse in your little nger then Lady Cavendish has in her whole body. She's overbearingly rude and you deserve better. I hate to see you treated like that by a woman who has no merit.'

Mother was leaning against the table, two red spots, the size of plums, glowing like beacons on her cheeks and more hair than usual escaping from under her bonnet. She looked so happy. ‘But you're wrong, my dear,' she said, her eyes shining, ‘Lady Cavendish has great merit, because for every gown she buys, we'll need at least three gown's worth of fabric.' She stied a giggle. ‘Madame Merrick's set to make a prot out of Lady Cavendish and that can only be seen as merit.'

Madame Merrick dabbed her eyes. It had been the day she had long dreamt of and I decided to leave the two of them together. They had already begun fussing over the designs and were busy collecting together the chosen fabrics, when Madame Merrick's voice suddenly rang across the room. ‘What
are
you doing, Elowyn?'

I looked round, anxious at the sudden change of mood. Elowyn was rolling away the fabrics. She had nished tidying the lace and was standing with the sorted rolls and several slips of paper on the table in front of her. In one hand she held a pen, in the other a measuring yard. She was writing on the slips of paper before pinning them to the rolls.

‘I'm gettin' a little bit bothered 'bout not knowing how much's left on the roll,' she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘So I'm measurin' how much we've got
left
and pinnin' a note on the end. That way…if we take away the amount we use, we'll know how much we've got left – we'll not need to measure it each time.'

Madame Merrick looked speechless. Holding her lorgnettes beneath her perfectly arched brows, she stared at Elowyn before turning to Mother. Mother shrugged her shoulders, biting her bottom lip. ‘Rosehannon's been teach­ing Elowyn a few calculations,' she said softly.

Madame Merrick inched. ‘Now, why does that
not
surprise me, Mrs Pengelly? I knew it would be only a matter of time before that daughter of yours took it upon herself to incite
sedition
and
riot
among my women. Calculations…for goodness sake, whatever will she think of next?'

But whether it was the brandy or just the light, the eyes that turned on me seemed less like a hawk and more like a dove. And whether it was the brandy, or Mother's smiling face, I found myself responding with a glow of warmth. Suddenly, inexplicably, I was lled with a ood of affection for this extraordinary woman who had become so very important to us both.

At the cottage there was no sign of Father or Jenna. The kitchen door was ajar and though a lardy cake stood temptingly on the kitchen table, I left it untasted, crossing the back yard instead, to search the cliff path, worried that Father would tire himself if he went too far. Almost immediately I saw him standing on the cliff top, facing the sea, a letter in his hand.

‘I never gave up hope of smellin' the sea again,' he said, his back to me. ‘I clung to hope even at my most desperate. Stubbornness – that's what most people call it – but I call it hope. We must always have dreams.' I felt a change in him. He was standing tall, his head held high, and I noticed he had come without his stick. ‘Aye, Rose, what it is to have friends in high places!'

My heart sank.
He knows about the log pool
, I thought.

‘It seems the slow wheels of justice can be speeded up if you're the Vice Sheriff of Cornwall or one of the most inuential attorneys in the land. These people don't like to wait, so I'm in your debt, Rose – we're to benet from your powerful friends.'

‘How so, Father?'

He waved the letter, which caught the breeze and apped in his hand. ‘Roskelly's been found guilty of murder, aye, and guilty of false accusation, false witness, violence and assault against James Polcarrow. He'll hang and James Polcarrow has a full pardon and takes back his rightful title – not that he hasn't already! Your friend has enough money and inuence to do what he likes.'

‘He's not my friend, not any more than he's yours,' I replied quietly. ‘What news of Mr Tregellas?'

‘Tregellas turned king's evidence. He swore he heard Robert Roskelly admit to murder – like I told you, they've struck a deal. He's been found guilty of theft, violence and perjury, but he's not to hang. He's got fourteen years' transportation and, like I said, he's set for Botany Bay.'

My spirits soared. ‘That means you're cleared of all wrong.'

He turned towards me and I realised he had been struggling with his emotions. His eyes, too long dull and expressionless, were glistening with the warmth and vigour I had always loved. He gave me the letter. ‘Aye, we can go home. We can go home to Coombe House and everythin' can get back to normal.'

The letter from Sir George was written in a close hand. With tears blurring my eyes, I found it hard to read. The rst page outlined the trials and the verdicts, the second thanked us for our written evidence, telling us he was glad he had not had to call us as witnesses. The third page thanked us for our patience, wished us all good health, assured us of his best attention and begged that if there was anything further he could do, we only had to ask. I handed the letter back.

‘What about his fees?' I said, knowing Father's freedom would not come cheaply. The boatyard would not make a prot for several months and if Sir George's fees were too high, Father would be in danger of being sent straight back to the debtors' gaol.

Father reached into his jacket and produced another letter. As he held it out, I almost snatched it from his hand. I unfolded the single page, not believing what I read. Sir George had overseen the sale of the cutter, bidding had been erce, and the nal sum had reached six hundred and fty guineas. All the money, minus sale expenses, had been deposited into the bank in Father's name. There would be no fees.

‘No fees? That's impossible.'

‘Course it's impossible – what attorney would ever waive his fees?' Father's voice was bitter. ‘No, our fees have all been paid and we both know who's paid them.'

I felt giddy, nauseous, my stomach tightening. If I had only known, I would never have asked for the creek – as if I was not grateful enough. James Polcarrow knew all along Father had enough money to buy the creek and could bid for it himself.

‘And can we return home?' I managed to say.