Pengelly's Daughter (4 page)

‘What? Madame Merrick? No, surely not…well maybe she is…!'

‘They do say she ran off as a young woman and married an English sea captain.'

‘Jenna, you must be nished by now!'

Pursing her lips, she tugged my hair and I knew I was to be held captive a little bit longer. ‘Mrs Pengelly says I'm as good as any of them seamstresses Madame Merrick employs but that's only 'cos Mrs Pengelly taught me so well.'

‘I hope that doesn't mean you're going to leave us and join Madame Merrick?'

‘Might...depends…' Jenna tucked the last ringlet into the clasp and stood behind me, admiring her handiwork. Our eyes caught in the mirror. ‘No, course I won't,' she said. ‘Things will turn out right – honest they will.'

‘Perhaps I need to be more like Madame Merrick?'

‘Well, they do say she's that clever – everyone's buying her gowns...' She paused as Mother's voice echoed up the stairs.

‘Rosehannon, what's keeping you? I can't be late…if you're not ready, I'll take the ferry on my own.'

I hurried downstairs. We needed Mother's job and we needed Madame Merrick, but as far as I was concerned, putting Madame Merrick's accounts in order was proving more trouble than it was worth. The sooner I was nished, the better.

Fosse and Porthruan glower at each other across the river mouth, Fosse condent in its greater prosperity. You are either from Fosse or Porthruan, but with the ferry so well established, people nd work where they can. Father and I were born in Porthruan: Mother's family moved there when she was a small child. I was ten years old when Father moved us to Fosse and although Mother's heart will always remain in Porthruan, my loyalties will always be to Fosse.

We left the ferry and made our way past the malt house, the sweet smell of barley lling the air. It was a bright morning with a cloudless sky and even at this early hour the sun felt warm on my face. Fosse was always busy and today was no exception. The road was teeming. Tradesmen were straining under baskets piled high with produce and a cart was already blocking the way. A crowd was forming and as people pushed passed, tempers began to are. A mule driver stared down at me, and as I returned his glare, he spat at my feet, his foul spittle narrowly missing my shoes. Two men were rolling a barrel towards us.

‘At this rate we'll be late,' said Mother, stepping into the road.

‘Be careful,' I cried, pulling her back as the barrel passed dangerously close.

Her frown softened and she smiled. Hesitantly, she squeezed my arm, tucking it gently into hers before continuing behind the cart. It was a small gesture, but it meant more to me than any words and lled me with such pleasure.

Our journey took us past the blacksmith and across the square. Whether Mother had really forgiven me for my rudeness to Mr Tregellas, or was just hoping I would give in to her wishes, was not important. What was important was I felt happier than I had done for a very long time. Walking arm in arm with Mother was how a mother and daughter should walk, and we had rarely done that before.

We crossed the road and I could feel my mouth tighten. Black Dog Lane, with its crowded houses and overshadowing eaves, was always rancid and foul. No sunlight penetrated the alley and the air remained damp and fetid. Holding our breath we hurried our pace, stepping over the stagnant sewer as best we could. This part of town was a disgrace, with fever at every turn. It could never be right. How could the Corporation let people live in such poverty when those who own the tenements lived in such richness?

We passed under the arch of the Ship Inn, walking quickly through the market which was already crowded with stalls, and only at the foot of the wooden, slightly rickety, staircase, held together by iron railings, did Mother let go of my arm. Madame Merrick's dressmaking business was on the rst oor.

Madame Merrick was clearly busy, her eyes unusually bright. She was a middle-aged woman with an enviable gure and always dressed with care. Her green cotton gown was plain, though fashionable, her mobcap demure. Her chu was edged with local lace, but while her appearance gave the impression of being dressed for service, the sheen on her dress, her expensive brooch, and the rustle of her ne silk petticoats were not lost on either her wealthy clients, or every other tradeswoman in town. Her height, her elegance, her aloof expression, prominent nose and beady eyes, gave her the look of a bird of prey. Already she looked as if she had her next victim in sight and was hovering, ready to swoop.

‘We have
another
new tting, Mrs Pengelly – Mrs Hoskins is coming at noon. Mrs
George
Hoskins,
no less
, the wife of the new banker.' Her French accent was only slightly discernible in her impeccable English. ‘And once Mrs Hoskins has one of my gowns,
everyone
will want one.'

‘What is it she wants?' It was good to see Mother's excitement. Not losing a moment, she replaced her bonnet with a mobcap and began tying her apron round her waist.

‘A day dress – probably muslin as she is feeling the heat – but she has not yet made up her mind. Bring the samples, Mrs Pengelly. We can show her the new sprig that came only yesterday…and the dotted rose that arrived last week – I am condent
her
budget can stretch to that.'

Mother rolled up her sleeves but had barely made it to the storeroom before Madame Merrick called after her. ‘Josie has to redo the seams on Mrs Mead's bodice to allow another quarter of an inch and Mrs Mellows will have to nish the embroidery on Mrs Wilkes's gown…only she must use more silver thread as we are getting short of the
gold
...You can sew the lace into Mrs Warleggan's evening gown only take
great
care as the silk is
particularly ne
and very easily caught.'

She drew breath, but not for long. ‘And, Mrs Pengelly, keep an eye on Elowyn…that girl is probably more trouble than she is worth. Check she washes her hands properly and wears a clean apron. I'll not have my shop
stinking of pilchards
. She cannot press pilchards and work for me. If any oil gets
near
my fabrics they will be ruined.'

I glanced into the back room where Elowyn was already hard at work, her face and hands scrubbed to a gleaming shine. She caught my eye, raising her eyebrows, and I wondered whether working for Madame Merrick could be any better than working in a pilchard cellar.

Everyone in town was astonished when Madame Merrick took the lease of the rst-oor warehouse next to Father's old yard. Gossip had been rife. The Corporation had given her days, maybe months, but nobody had reckoned with her extraordinary sense of business. It was as if she could sniff out new money waiting to be spent – as if she knew it was only a matter of time before all the women in Fosse would want her lighter fabrics. Even I had to admire her for that.

The early morning light was pouring through the large windows, dust dancing in the shafts of sunbeams as they lit up the tapestry back of my chair next to the bureau. I hung up my shawl and bonnet and resumed my work. Only months ago, a jumble of receipts and invoices had spilled out of these tiny drawers in a confusion that left me horried. Madame Merrick was far better at needlework than she was at bookkeeping and only after weeks of work was I nally managing to clear her muddle. I had gone through all her papers, entering every farthing she had spent, every farthing she had earned, recording it all in a brand-new ledger.

I opened the top drawer, inhaling the smell of the rich leather binding. It was hard to explain my love of bookkeeping. Most people thought it strange for a woman to keep accounts and nding employment was proving far more difcult than I hoped. Many assumed me incapable, but money and bookkeeping had always held a fascination for me. Ever since I was a child, I recognised that gures did not lie. To have exact calculations was like taking control.

My work nearly nished, I had lost all track of time and was surprised to hear the church bells chiming eleven. I was even more surprised to see Madame Merrick and Mother leaning out of the window, their ankles exposed among a mass of white frills.

‘Who's in the carriage, Mrs Pengelly? Can you see the crest?'

‘No, the footman's in the way.'

‘Why are they waiting in the square? How
dreadful
for them to be surrounded by such a large crowd. Elowyn, don't just stand there gawping like a sh – nd out who is in the carriage.'

Elowyn scurried to the door. Mrs Mellows and Josie dropped their embroidery, rushing to the window to watch Elowyn push herself through the crowd. The landlord of the Ship Inn was positioning tables next to his cart full of barrels and a band of musicians, playing loudly on pipes and ddles, began to cross the square. Groups of children had begun dancing to their lively jig, and as yet more people came crushing down the lanes, it was beginning to look like the circus players had come to town.

Within minutes, Elowyn came bursting through the door. She bobbed a curtsey. ‘If ye please, Madame Merrick, it's Mr Roskelly, Lady Polcarrow, and the young Sir Francis Polcarrow.' Dreading she would get her message muddled, she slowed her speech, concentrating hard, ‘They're waitin' the arrival of Sir Charles and Lady April Cavendish – from London…with the whole family, it is said.' Pleased she had remembered everything, she curtseyed again – twice for good measure.

‘Of course,' said Mother, ‘how silly of me! Mr Tregellas told us yesterday Sir Charles and Lady April Cavendish are coming to Fosse – but I didn't think they'd come by ship.'

The carriage door was opening. Madame Merrick held her lorgnettes to her eyes and frowned. ‘Mr Roskelly has a good tailor and he clearly spares no expense…those silver buckles are very ne but, dear me,
no
, that high collar is
not
to my taste.' She raised her nely arched eyebrow at Mother before resuming her scrutiny. ‘I hope those buttons on his waistcoat are well secured as they are under
quite
some pressure…and if he is preparing to stand for parliament, then someone should advise him to wear a taller hat – it would add greatly to his stature.'

‘That's his sister, Lady Polcarrow, getting down from the carriage – I've only ever seen her once before.'

Madame Merrick had already focussed her lorgnettes on the lady of slim build wearing a blue satin dress with matching jacket. She clearly did not meet with approval either. Madame Merrick looked incredulous. ‘I will
never
understand the English. Lady Polcarrow is still a young woman, so why is she wearing such a large bustle? If you are well connected, wealthy and beautiful, why would you not wear the very latest gowns? No French woman of quality would ever be so dreadfully out of
mode
.'

Mother seemed just as surprised. ‘She's never seen in public and they say she never goes anywhere – not even to the grand dos they have in Truro. She lives that quietly at Polcarrow with her son and brother and hardly ever comes out. Mr Roskelly runs the estate and does everything for her. They do say she's a devoted mother, though. That must be her son, the young Sir Francis. What is he? Must be about eleven or twelve by now?'

Madame Merrick nodded. ‘He's a good-looking boy.'

‘He's got his father's height and dark looks – not that he knew his father, poor boy. Sir Francis died in a riding accident when he was just a babe…' Mother lowered her voice. ‘There was a lot of gossip when Sir Francis married Alice Roskelly. She was nearly thirty years younger – her father was a local squire and always the worse for drink, but she was that beautiful and nobody blamed him. We all wished him well – then there was all that trouble with his rst son. It was very sad…and her, left alone with her young son…'

A fanfare echoed across the square. A few of the crowd started pointing upwards and necks began craning to watch the mastheads of a large ship inch slowly towards the town quay. From my vantage point, I could see she was a ne, two-masted schooner carrying a square rig, and my heart leapt in anticipation before diving with annoyance. Even from where I sat, I could see the bowsprit was over-large, too ornately carved, and the gurehead ridiculously gaudy, smothered in gold paint. Who else but Sir Charles Cavendish would choose to arrive in Fosse in a ship displaying all the hallmarks of a fancy London shipyard?