Pengelly's Daughter (41 page)

‘It'll fail – I give you less than a year.'

‘It'll thrive. Mother's granddaughter will inherit her school.'

‘You've changed, Rosehannon, and not for the better.'

‘I haven't changed, Father. I'm what you made me, but I've become my own woman.'

‘Not your own woman – someone else's woman! The town's already talkin' and I'll not have my daughter called…'

‘As you say, but it's your choice.'

My voice sounded calm but I was in turmoil. I tried to look busy, staying at my bureau, hoping, praying, he did not call my bluff. We sat in silence until he rose from his chair and strode out of the ofce, steadying himself by the door as he grasped his stick. If he turned towards the boatyard I was lost, but he turned towards Madame Merrick's and I felt almost giddy with relief. Climbing the now sturdy steps, he paused at the top, reading the sign carefully before opening the door and entering for the rst time.

For too long, I had struggled in a man's world. I could see that now. From now on, I wanted to thrive in a woman's world. Like Madame Merrick, I wanted to be surrounded with fun and laughter, share the intimacies of the dressing room, be privy to the gossip and condences that it brought. I was going to wear lace and ribbons. Maybe even silk. Jenna would no longer be a servant. A whole new world was opening up – we lived in changing times – and I, Rosehannon Pengelly, had every intention of helping them change.

Closing my account book, I retrieved my bonnet, casting my eyes round the room for one last time. This ofce had seen me change from a girl to a woman. I saw the mark left by my rst peg before I could reach the taller pegs; the stool I used to stand on before I could reach the top shelves. I saw the models I had so lovingly held as I sat by Father's feet, the vast number of box les I had created, the account books I had so meticulously kept. I loved everything about the place but my eyes were dry.

I would never set foot in here again. Not unless Father begged me to do so, and not unless he paid me an honest day's wage.

Chapter Forty-nine

I
shut the door behind me, pleased when Tom joined me to cross the yard. He was carrying some broken caulking hammers and was looking for Mr Melhuish. ‘I can't think where he's gone,' he said, leaving the hammers on the anvil. ‘Jimmy's gone too – they must be fetchin' something.'

‘That's a shame. I was hoping Jimmy would come with me.'

‘D'you need an errand doing?'

‘No. I just felt like company, that's all.' Seeing Tom was fortuitous. ‘Tom, just because we're moving back to Coombe House doesn't change anything – I'll still expect you and Elowyn to come on Sundays.'

Tom looked at the ground. ‘I'm not so sure we should, Miss Pengelly.'

‘Tom, it won't make any difference. We can sit in the kitchen if you like, Mrs Munroe won't mind – in fact, if you give her one of your smiles she'll pile you with more food than you can eat.' I hoped the thought of food would do the trick.

‘It won't seem right, Miss Pengelly. We'd better…'

‘Nonsense,' I said, cutting him short, ‘I'll expect both of you. We're not stopping now you've come so far.' Giving him no chance to protest, I skipped beneath the arch with a new lightness in my step. I never thought I would ever want to leave the yard but my mind was racing with plans for Mother's new school.

We would train dressmakers to sew top-quality gowns for Madame Merrick, but as our sales would determine our success, we must not compete with her business. I had lain awake most of the night trying to think what could be sewn by inexperienced seamstresses, yet sold for prot and now I had an idea. What if our school produced clothes for the domestic sphere, like my
working gown
which Madame Merrick so detested? Housekeepers' gowns, maid's dresses, aprons and hats to reect the wealth of the households they came from? Every garment bearing the interwoven initials of the family buying them – just like Elowyn had sewn on mine? New money was pouring into Cornwall and, after all, the aristocracy had their livery, so why would the newly rich not want their servants recognised?

Clouds, heavy with rain, darkened the sky. The wind showed no sign of lessening but I needed to be out in the air where I could think clearly. I pulled my cloak round me and headed to the town square. The town was deserted, everyone busy sorting the pilchards, all hands salting or gutting the sh. The cellars would be teeming, every last ounce of esh stripped, every drop of oil pressed, the bones sent to the elds.

I sat on the edge of a horse trough. We would benet from a patron, but could I ask Celia Cavendish or would her forthcoming marriage to Viscount Vallenforth prevent her? I had only seen Viscount Vallenforth that one time but I had not liked what I saw and felt saddened at the thought of such a lively lady married to such a man.

The streets seemed so empty and even planning our new school could not stop my growing sense of loneliness. The sight of Arbella's wedding gown still lodged in my mind and I had no idea it would make me feel so empty. At any other time, I would have been happy to study the ships laying three abreast against the quayside, but the thought of doing that now left me cold. I felt strangely numb, not wanting to go back to Coombe House to see the tree with the recently cut branch. Seeing the open window in my room would bring back too much pain.

A man came towards the trough, leading two plough horses by their halters. They were beautiful animals, slow and dependable, their soft eyes belying their enormous strength. I left them drinking and wandered up the road to where a shop was selling household goods. I had not looked before at aprons and caps and if such things were for sale, I would make a note of their quality and price.

So many new shops seemed to have opened and I was glad of an excuse to see what they were selling. A bow-fronted window, full of bonnets and matching parasols, caught my attention and I stopped to look. Behind me, a woman rushed quickly past and I caught her reection in the window. She was clearly in a hurry, wrapped in a large cloak, the hood pulled well down and I swung round to get a better look. She had already disappeared round the bend but I could have sworn it was Arbella Cavendish. Who else had ringlets of golden blonde hair? I felt suddenly curious. After all, if it was her, she was bound to be lost and may need some help.

As luck would have it, the man with the two plough horses was making his way up the lane and, as the bend narrowed, the horses blocked the way. The hooded woman stood to one side, waiting for them to pass and I gained some ground but as she heard my footsteps, she drew her cloak round her, covering her head completely. There was no trace of blonde hair and immediately, I felt so foolish, thinking my mind was playing me tricks. Ever since I had seen her beautiful dress, my thoughts had been far too full of Arbella Cavendish.

I should have left it at that. I should have gone back to Coombe House to help Jenna unpack, but as I watched the woman disappear down an alleyway, something drew me forward. It was the alley that Jim had led me down and in the daylight, I saw it for what it was – a rat-infested hellhole, home to some of the poorest people in Fosse. It was shameful: no-one should have to live like that. I may have quarrelled with Father, but I still believed him to be right. The Corporation was failing in its duty and whoever owned the buildings should be held to account.

The stench was overpowering. Rats, the size of cats, seemed unconcerned by my presence. Everywhere was black with scum. Puddles of putrid water lled the path. The buildings were rotting, mould covering the few remaining doors. None of the windows had glass and I looked around searching for the woman but she had vanished, probably stepping into one of the doorways. I should never have thought to follow her and, lifting my skirts high over the lth, I started back the way I had come.

My heart sank. A tall man was coming down the alley towards me, his hands held wide on either side. He was walking slowly, deliberately, his feet squelching the mud, his huge frame blocking the entrance. Just one glance at his tall hat, the familiar set of his huge shoulders and my fear turned to panic. The knife glinted in his tattooed hands and I screamed. There was no-one there, no-one to hear me. I picked up my skirts and ran. I had no choice but to run deeper into the maze of rotting buildings, the foul stench suffocating me as I ran.

Darting between barrels, I jumped the discarded sh crates, dodging between the piles of rubbish strewn across my path. My shoes sank into the ground, the mud slowing my progress, but I did not dare to look round. Zack was behind me. Ahead, I could see the tops of masts visible above the rooftops and I remembered the alley led to the wharf behind the brewhouse. My bonnet had long since fallen off, my hair ying behind me in a tangled mess. A terrible stitch stabbed my side but if I could just reach the wharf, I would stand a chance.

The alley widened and I reached the water. There was no-one there, only a gig moored along the quayside, a sailor carving a gurine in his lap. I looked frantically around. The dark walls of the warehouse rose high beside me, pressing down on me, the river rough; huge swells tossing the gig against the wharf. I had no choice. I had to ask the sailor to help. Throwing myself towards him, I stood clasping the boat, gasping heavily, almost too breathless to speak. He seemed not to notice, but continued carving, slowly whittling away at the wood in his hands.

I saw the pipe before I smelt the tobacco. Pungent fumes lled my nostrils – the scent of vanilla smoke wafted around me, choking me. Not a sailor. Not an ordinary sailor, but the man who had been watching me, waiting for me. I was powerless to run. From the corner of my eye, I saw Zack raise his st and pain gripped the side of my head – a searing pain so severe it felt like a thousand knives were plunging through my skull. I thought I would vomit. I tried shielding myself from the second blow but it was too late.

Bright lights ashed inside my head, exploding like gunpowder in my brain. I was spiralling downwards, whirling deeper and deeper down a spinning black tunnel. Falling and falling. Spinning out of control, swirling weightlessly through nothing but darkness, nothing but blackness. Then nothing at all.

Chapter Fifty

I
could hear voices drifting around me, wordless and indistinct. Angry, abrupt voices, one moment barely audible, the next pounding in my ears. My head throbbed. I felt such pain. Blinding pain and such intense nausea, I thought I would vomit.

‘I said use force…not kill her, for chrissake.'

‘She'll live.'

‘She better wake soon – damn her.'

I could feel swaying, rolling. I tried to move but my limbs were lifeless, my head clamped in a vice. I could not open my eyes but lay listening, ghting my nausea, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The air was thick with tobacco smoke but other smells, too, ltered through my swimming senses – dampness, wood polish, the smell of tar.

‘We leave on the tide. We've got till four.'

‘She'll wake I tell you.'

Through the pain and blackness, their words made no sense. I could hear and I could smell but I could not move – like living, but being dead.

‘The bitch's wakin' – look, her eyelids are movin'. She's comin' round. Fetch a bucket of water, for chrissake.'

A violent splash of cold water must have jolted me to my senses. As my vision cleared, I could make out the shapes of three men towering above me.

‘Get her to the chair but keep her gagged – she's got a scream like a witch's cat.'

Half-pushed, half-carried, I was grabbed round the waist and heaved onto a chair. My head was forced back, my hands tied behind me. I could feel my legs already bound and a gag bit painfully into my mouth. My head was swimming but as they tossed me about like a rag doll, my vision began to clear. I was on a ship – that much was easy.

I could see highly polished wood, elaborate carvings and such grandeur could only mean I was in the cabin of a very large ship. My chair was pushed against the central table, which was bolted to the oor. A painted chest lay roped by my feet and a solid brass lantern swung freely from the deckhead above. A man was glaring at me, his thick-set gure looming over me through the half-light. Built like an ox, his huge hands pressed down on the polished table. To my muddled mind, he looked familiar.

‘We meet again, Miss Pengelly,' said Sulio Denville.

The gag was pulled from my mouth. I tried to speak but my tongue was too dry, my lips too swollen. ‘What d'you want?' I managed to whisper.

‘We want the creek.'

‘The creek's not ours.' My head was throbbing. ‘We've nothing to do with the creek.'

A man stepped from the shadows, the light ickering on his bald head. Without his wig, Thomas Warren looked older, greyer, and I hardly recognised him. ‘Lying whore! You bid for it right under our noses and now you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do. You're going to write to your father and tell him if he ever wants to see his precious daughter again, he's to sell us that creek.'

I had to concentrate on what he was saying. My senses were hazy, my hearing mufed. ‘He can't sell you the creek…you've made a mistake – we don't own it…we wanted to lease it…and I even suggested it to Sir James…but we never bought the creek. Father doesn't own it.'

Sulio Denville laughed. I remembered his laugh. I also remembered the look on his face when he had tried to kill James Polcarrow. ‘You expect us to believe that? I'm afraid you've to do a lot better than that. I want that creek and I always get what I want.'

‘It's the truth...on Father's life, I swear it's the truth…we don't own the creek or the land…I swear it.' Though I sounded weak, my mind was clearing.