Pengelly's Daughter (39 page)

Miss Arbella Cavendish leant carefully out of the carriage with immediate effect on the watching men.
Like moths to a ame
. Her pale-lemon gown glowed in the sun, her blonde ringlets dancing as she turned back for her parasol. As she descended the steps, the footman's pride at being hers to command showed clearly in his face. He danced her attendance, following her with his eyes as Mrs Jennings descended the coach unaided.

They began climbing the steps to Madame Merrick's, Morcum Calstock bowing deeply as they passed. He must have made an impact on Celia Cavendish as she stopped and glanced back in his direction, prompting him to bow again. She passed through the door, looking pointedly at my parcel, and raised her eyebrows, smiling a mischievous smile as the blood rushed to my cheeks. Mother and Elowyn came rushing forward and would have curtseyed had not Arbella Cavendish stumbled as she reached the top step.

Gripping Mrs Jennings' arm, she steadied herself against the door frame, looking so white, I thought she would faint. Mother must have thought so too. She came rushing over with a chair as Celia Cavendish and Mrs Jennings waved their fans to create some air. As her colour returned, she smiled faintly.

‘I'm sorry, it's the heat and the smell. I've never smelt anything so strong. It just made me feel ill, but I'm ne now.' She was clearly struggling and, for a moment, I felt sorry for her. Did she know people were gossiping?

Her fainting attack had certainly not surprised Mother or Elowyn. ‘I'm afraid it's the pilchards, Miss Cavendish,' said Mother kindly. ‘They're pressing the sh – it's the oil that smells and this hot weather's making it worse. If it's too much for you, we can take your gowns to the hall and do your ttings there.'

Celia Cavendish ashed her impish smile. ‘Oh, Mrs Pengelly, don't for a moment suggest that! What would we do if we didn't have you to come and visit? Life at the hall can be very dreary – Arbella and I need diverting, and there's nowhere more diverting than coming here.' She glanced in the direction of an elaborate glass punch-bowl which stood in pride of place on the table. It was a very large punch-bowl, with eight glass dishes hanging delicately by their handles. The punch bowl was empty and Madame Merrick nowhere to be seen. ‘Are we too early?' she continued. ‘I know we're not expected for another hour but Aunt Martha has a fearful headache and Mamma needs the carriage. We've escaped on our own for a bit of excitement!'

Crossing to the window, she looked down on the yard. Morcum Calstock had joined Tom and Mr Melhuish, and all three of them were sitting on the forge steps, drinking jugs of ale. Mrs Jennings frowned across at her.

‘Don't look at me like that, Mrs Jennings, you know I don't mean anything by that. It's just we've been so cooped up lately and I've nished all my books.' Elowyn stood gazing at Celia Cavendish and I could see she had taken a great liking to this grand lady with her hint of rebellion. ‘Miss Pengelly?' Celia Cavendish turned her lively eyes to mine. ‘Where's the circulating library? You do have books, as well as pilchards, in this little town of yours, I hope.'

‘I'm afraid I don't know if there's a library – there may be one but I've never used it. I don't read novels.'

‘You don't read novels? Miss Pengelly – that can't be true!'

‘No. I've never read a single novel.'

Celia Cavendish's eyes widened. She looked genuinely astonished. She glanced at her cousin, who, looking much recovered, shrugged her shoulders and smiled back. I resented the glance that passed between them and would have made my excuse and left, but Celia Cavendish turned straight back to me, her face suddenly serious. ‘Then you're wiser than I thought, Miss Pengelly. Why waste your time reading novels when you've so much to occupy you?' She coughed slightly and glanced out of the window. ‘Your life is already full of excitement. You've used your time far more sensibly and you lead a much more productive life because of it. Indeed, I envy you.'

‘Envy me, Miss Cavendish?'

‘Absolutely. You do accounts and keep books. You're practical and sensible and you haven't lled your head with romantic nonsense. Novels are all lies, Miss Pengelly. They peddle nonsense to us poor women who are silly enough to believe them. They do us no favours. What man do you know would fall on his knees to declare his undying love? And even if he did, what woman would be foolish enough to believe him?' She spoke harshly, almost with bitterness.

Mother glanced nervously at Mrs Jennings, who smiled eetingly. Elowyn looked stunned by the intimate turn the conversation was taking. Arbella Cavendish, however, leapt to her feet, her sickness quite recovered. ‘Cousin Celia – I'll not have you be so cynical – of course such men exist.' A beautiful pink blush was spreading across her cheeks. Her eyes were shining, her voice strong. ‘I can't have you say that. Men do love – passionately and with undying devotion. You're too hard on them.' She watched our astonished faces and her blush deepened. There were tears in her eyes as her bottom lip began to tremble. ‘They do exist,' she repeated more softly. ‘I've found such a man.'

Celia Cavendish's smile was full of sadness. ‘Then I envy you, too, dear cousin. I would wish the same for all of us.' She paused for a moment. ‘But one of us has to be a
Countess
and Mamma is counting on me marrying Viscount Vallenforth. I cannot, as yet, see any evidence of his
undying devotion
but I can live in hope. One day he may prefer me to his horses though I won't hold my breath.'

Her tone held such resignation that, for a moment, nobody moved. A ash of sadness crossed Mother's face, then relief as she glanced out of the window. Madame Merrick had seen the carriage and was hurrying across the yard. ‘Madame Merrick will be that sorry to keep you waiting – she only went out to buy some—'

‘Some ingredients for the punch, Mrs Pengelly?' interrupted Celia Cavendish, her usual high spirits returning. ‘I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to tasting some of Madame Merrick's punch. Poor Aunt Martha will be so disappointed she didn't come!'

I could have enjoyed Celia Cavendish's teasing. I could have enjoyed the irony that Madame Merrick had been out to buy inferior brandy when a bottle of her best cognac lay concealed in her bottom drawer – but all sense of fun had left me. All I could hear were empty words, echoing round my empty heart.
We are like strangers, nothing more. There is nothing between us
. I curtseyed to Celia Cavendish, wishing everyone a good day. I was not good company. I would go home and get under Jenna's feet. Better still, I would curl up with Mr Pitt and eat my sugared almonds.

As the ferry crossed the river, I sat in the bow, trailing my ngers through the water like I had done as a child. I would do that, or I would pretend to be a gurehead, standing with my hands behind my back, my chin held high, ploughing the waves on a journey to foreign lands. Whether it was the sugared almonds that made me think of my childhood, or the intimacy of the conversation we had just had, I found myself wishing for my sisters that lay buried in the churchyard.

The conversation had unsettled me. I had never shared such intimacies before, always shunning the frivolity of feminine chatter. I had never had occasion to dress prettily: never been to an assembly, never read novels. There had been little laughter in my childhood, next to no teasing and no suppressed giggling. Everything had been so political and intense. I could see now, what a very lonely child I had been and what a sad life Mother had led.

At the cottage, I could hardly squeeze past the enormous trunk that lled the hall. We were to move the next day and Jenna had clearly been busy. We did not have many possessions but what we did have, had been carefully packed. Father's papers were nowhere to be seen, the borrowed chairs returned to Mrs Mellor. The dresser was empty, the table standing uncluttered against the wall.

The parlour was similarly sorted with baskets of pots and pans neatly stacked, one on top of another. One large pan remained on the table and, lifting the lid, the delicious smell of boiled ham and potatoes lled the room, but Jenna was nowhere to be found. Even the chickens had gone. The yard was swept, the clothes line empty, the slops rinsed and cleaned. Upstairs, my clothes had been placed into a trunk and though the bed remained made, everything else had been packed away.

Disappointed not to nd Jenna, I called out, squeezing back along the hall to check if she was coming up the hill. I felt a rising sense of sadness. This would be our last night in the cottage and, though I hated it with vengeance, I began to feel strangely reluctant to leave. I would miss the intimacy of these shabby rooms with their damp discolouration on the walls, the tiny casements blocking more light than they admitted. I would miss the memories they contained – the sound of a soft thud, the silhouette of a man in the moonlight, the crush of hot lips.

On the step, Jenna was clutching Mr Pitt in her arms.

‘Didn't you hear me calling, Jenna? Are you turning deaf in your old age?' My teasing died on my lips. She had been crying. Tears streaked her face. ‘What is it? Why're you crying?' I gathered up my skirts to sit next to her on the step. She shrugged her shoulders, fresh tears forming in her eyes. With a faint smile, she buried her face in Mr Pitt's soft fur. ‘Is it because of Mr Pitt?' She nodded then shook her head, her mobcap slipping to one side. ‘Is it because we're going back to Coombe House?' She nodded again, shrugging her shoulders once more.

‘But, Jenna, I thought you'd be happy we're going back. You've worked your ngers to the bone here…all that fetching water and scrubbing and having to go the bakehouse every time you wanted something cooked. You'll be back to a proper range and running water. I thought you'd want that – to have a proper bed to sleep in, not having to sleep under the kitchen table any more – surely that's got to be better?'

She nodded and tried to smile. Freeing one hand, she used her apron to wipe her tears. ‘I know, don't mind me, Miss Pengelly – I'm just being stupid.'

We sat in silence. It felt strangely lonely. Over the last year, the differences between us had been almost swept aside. She was our maid, yes, but she was also my only friend. She had been with us for seven years. I had taught her to read and write and Mother had taught her to sew almost as well as she could herself. She was the nearest thing I had to a sister, yet she was still our maid. It seemed so wrong. ‘No, Jenna,
we're
not going to go back to how it
was
. We can't…not now – not after what we've been through – things will be different.'

‘No, they won't – ye know they won't.'

‘Yes, they
will
, Jenna.'

‘No, they won't. They can't. Mrs Munroe's very particular. You know she'll never let a cat in her kitchen—'

‘I don't care how
particular
Mrs Munroe is. From now on, things are going to be different.'

Jenna wiped away her tears, clutching Mr Pitt closer, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Ye're beginning to sound just like Madame Merrick!'

‘Am I? Well, I'm glad. She's a woman who gets what she wants – Mr Pitt's coming with us whether Mrs Munroe
likes
it or not. Find him a stout basket and butter his paws – he's family now and our whole family's going home.'

She smiled a watery smile. I put my arm round her shoulders and we sat lost in our own thoughts. The breeze was cool against our cheeks. Above us, gulls circled, their wings spread wide as they glided effortlessly on the rising draughts. Suddenly I remembered the sugared almonds. ‘Look, Jenna, we've got a treat. Sugared almonds – that's got to make everything better.' I undid the ribbon, holding out the delicate white bonbons looking like birds' eggs in a silken nest.

Her eyes widened. ‘Where'd they come from?'

‘They're a present from Mr Calstock.'

‘Well, Miss Rosehannon Pengelly, this
is
a turn up!' she cried, her tear-stained face breaking into the biggest smile. ‘Ye sly old puss – ye've kept that very quiet. So it's Morcum Calstock who's in love with ye? Well, of course he is…who wouldn't be? And Mr Pengelly likes him too. It's wonderful!'

‘Jenna, stop it! It's just his way of saying thank-you for a very small service I rendered him. It doesn't signify anything.'

‘No – and my name ain't Jenna Marlow and summer don't follow spring.'

We lingered over our choice of bonbons but, as I bit into the delicate treat, the anticipation of pleasure died on my lips. My stomach began churning in disgust. The sugared almond was too sweet. Instinctively, I spat it out. How much blood had been shed to cover these almonds? How many African men and women forced from their homes, shackled and whipped, transported across oceans in horric conditions? How many tortured, degraded or died so that these almonds could be dipped in sugar to be given to someone who did not need them?