Pengelly's Daughter Read online

  His words seemed to suck all breath from me. Father alive? I felt giddy, faint, barely able to take it in. Father was alive. The churchyard began whirling round me and I must have cried out for Jim’s hand closed quickly over my mouth. He held me gently against his shoulder while I fought to regain my senses. Father was alive. I felt weak as a kitten, my heart racing.

  Jim kept hold of me, whispering into my ear, my shock so great I could hardly hear him. ‘Tregellas didn’t want to risk an investigation, or a chance your father’s debt could be cleared, so they told everyone he’d died. They swapped him with a prisoner who’d died of gaol fever, burying him in your father’s place. Believe me, Rose, there’s as much corruption in gaol as anything found outside. The guards knew the fever to be rife and your father would die soon enough. All they had to do was keep their mouths shut, call him by the other name and claim brain fever was addling his wits.’

  My wonderful, beloved Father was still alive. I put my head in my hands to stop the dizziness. I still could not speak. My hands were trembling, tears stinging my eyes. Jim held me tenderly, slowly peering round the side of the tombstone.

  ‘They’ve stopped talking – they’re going, Rose, I’ll have to leave you. I’ll get you word about your father but don’t tell anyone. Nobody must know. Keep it secret – especially from your mother. D’you promise, Rose?’ His whisper was urgent.

  I glanced round the tomb. Sulio Denville’s blue coat tails were heading up the path in the direction of the shrubs. ‘Yes…yes…I promise…but at least let me tend him. Where is he?’

  ‘Safe. Trust me.’

  ‘But…you must let me…’ My plea fell on empty air. In an instant, Jim slipped from my side, ducking behind tombstones as he made his way silently across the churchyard.

  From my hiding place, I watched Mr Tregellas walking down to the gate, my anger making my face burn like a furnace. Never before had I felt capable of direct violence, but as I knelt on that tomb, I had to hold myself in check. I wanted to run after him, lash out at him. I remembered the day he had come knocking on our door, his face full of grief, telling us he was heartbroken to lose such a dear friend. We had begged him to let us see Father, to say our last goodbye, but he had shaken his head, saying that the putrid fever was too foul and contagious to risk us going anywhere near him.

  I could not imagine the horror Father had gone through, kept in lth with nothing but water and stale bread. They must have expected him to die at any moment, every day expecting he would weaken and collapse, but they did not know Father. They did not know he would cling to life, desperate to thwart them by staying alive. My beloved, wonderful, stubborn father – too strong for them to subdue, too determined to ght his cause.

  A steady drizzle was blowing across the churchyard, the posy of owers squashed in my hands. Not to place them on Father’s grave would be as good as admitting I knew he was alive. The vipers were indeed loose and they would be watching my every move. Mother’s owers were where she always put them and I placed my posy next to hers, wondering who the man laying buried next to my brothers and sisters was. As I knelt, damp penetrated my gown but nothing could daunt my spirits. Father was alive.

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me – the soft tread of someone stopping. Even without looking round, I knew who it would be. Why had he come back? Had he seen me, or had he thought to check the owers on Father’s grave? I took a deep breath, lling myself with much-needed courage, knowing I must not give him even the slightest reason to doubt me. He cleared his throat and I looked round, staring straight into the treacherous eyes of the man who had stolen everything from us and who had not the slightest compunction about leaving Father to rot in gaol.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Pengelly. I’d have thought you’d have had enough excitement to be out again so soon.’ He hovered above me like an executioner, his hateful voice heavy with threat.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, quickly covering my face in my hands.

  ‘Come, Miss Pengelly, tears where there’s usually such pride? I thought nothing could daunt the ery spirit that keeps Miss Pengelly at loggerheads with everyone in authority.’ His voice was angry, his laugh dismissive.

  ‘You’ve caught me in a moment of weakness, Mr Tregellas, that’s all. Most people think I’m ery all the time, but I have moments when I’m not strong at all, far from it.’ I tried to keep my voice calm.

  He thrust his handkerchief towards me. ‘Your face is covered with dirt.’

  ‘But this is silk – I might ruin it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Keep it – your need is greater than mine.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ The words almost stuck in my throat. My heart was racing, banging furiously against my chest. I had underestimated this man’s power, certainly underestimated his cruelty. I cleared my throat, ‘I’d no idea of your kindness till only the other day when Mother told me of your great generosity. If I’d have known how indebted we were to you, I’d have made a point of thanking you – well before now. I’d no idea that, without you, we’d be destitute and Father would be in a pauper’s grave...’ Once again, I lifted the detestable silk handkerchief to my eyes.

  ‘Your father was my friend as well as my business associate. I could never leave you homeless. Indeed, it was my intention to see you and your mother comfortably settled well before this. Get up, Miss Pengelly, you’re wet and your dress is getting ruined amongst all that dirt.’

  Rain was gathering on the capes of his travelling coat, drops falling from the edge of his wide-brimmed hat. Though his voice had lost something of its cruelty, his eyes remained cold and disdainful. Putting out his hand, he helped me rise. ‘Let me take you home, Miss Pengelly. This drizzle’s set to continue and your cloak’s getting soaked. You’ll catch a chill in those damp clothes and you’re in no t state to walk home. My trap’s at your disposal.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d be very grateful.’ It was as much as I could do to stop the shudder I felt at the touch of his hand. ‘You’re right, I’m in no t state to be seen – my dress is ruined.’

  ‘It’s not your appearance I’m questioning, but the fact you are out alone again so soon. Do you not learn from misadventure, Miss Pengelly?’ His eyes were accusing me of collusion, staring at me; judge and jury. I stared back, this time not looking away.

  ‘You mean the highwayman? I didn’t know you’d heard.’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard – the whole town’s heard. It’s all everyone’s talking about.’

  ‘I was very lucky the highwayman didn’t steal anything. Madame Merrick’s money was not touched. He was disturbed before he could take anything.’

  ‘I cannot think what induced you to attempt anything so foolish! Especially with that crazed boy as an escort. What were you thinking? Madame Merrick was wrong to let you go, but what induced you take such a risk? That’s what interests me. Why put yourself in such danger? If it hadn’t been the highwayman, it would’ve been the vagrants or cutthroats, so why insist on going? That’s what I’m curious to know.’

  I said nothing but looked at the ground, stepping carefully round a puddle that had formed on the path. Despite my damp clothes, I felt perspiration trickling down my back. He’s no proof, I said over and over in my mind. He’s no proof. I would give myself away if I showed the slightest fear.

  ‘Please don’t press me, Mr Tregellas,’ was all I could think to say.

  We were making our way down the muddy path towards the wicket gate. So much depended on him believing I was innocent and my mind was racing. At the gate I stepped to pass in front of him but he stood squarely in front of me, barring my way. ‘But I am pressing you, Miss Pengelly.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t ask.’

  ‘But I am asking. I will know, and you will tell me.’ He interlocked his hands, clicking his ngers in front of me, the threat so obvious it made my stomach turn.

  ‘Then you must promise not to thi
nk badly of me, because I’d rather you didn’t know.’

  ‘Indeed? I am intrigued, please, carry on.’

  ‘Mother’s told me of the great honour I might expect from you on my twenty-rst birthday, but that’s less than three weeks away and…as you may have noticed, I’ve no decent clothes. I’ve only this dress and two others which are worn and threadbare and I hate them being so shabby. Madame Merrick has beautiful fabrics – the most beautiful fabrics – but they’re too expensive…so I thought that if I went to St Austell to get Madame Merrick’s cotton, I could buy some material that we could afford.’ I was talking too quickly, but I could see he was listening. There was just the slightest chance he might even believe me. I kept my eyes lowered, my voice soft.

  ‘Mother can make even the cheapest fabric look wonderful and I was hoping that when you came on my birthday, you’d be pleasantly surprised…’ I put my hand against my mouth as if reluctant to continue. ‘Because…I was scared you might change your mind. There – I’ve said it now and I wish you hadn’t made me say it.’

  It was my only option. If he believed me, it would buy me time. For a moment I thought he would laugh or accuse me of lying, but he stood watching me, his unsmiling eyes showing no emotion. We walked on in silence, stopping at the wicket gate. ‘Wait, while I fetch the trap,’ was all he said. A blackbird was singing in the hedgerow, drops of rain were falling from the trees. Puddles pooled by the gate and I passed slowly round them, edging carefully through the mud, not knowing whether he believed me or not.

  The pony and trap was making its way down the lane and I hardly dared look up. I watched him jump down and hold out his hand to help me mount. As he did so, his eyes travelled up and down my body – greedy, possessive, full of want and domination. In that instant, I knew he thought I was his for the taking, and looked down, hiding the ash of triumph sweeping through me. Wrapping my shawl round me, I stared ahead, sitting in silence as the cart splashed through the gathering puddles. As the cottage came in sight, he slowed the pony. I knew what he was going to say, even before he spoke.

  ‘Does this mean I can tell Parson Bettison to call the banns, Miss Pengelly?’

  ‘Could you wait three weeks, Mr Tregellas?’ I replied, my carefully thought out excuse at the ready. ‘You know Mother. She’ll want to do everything properly – it’ll take her that long to make some new dresses and she’ll want Jenna to prepare a ne meal. She’ll be determined to receive you in her best style.’

  We reached the cottage door. Holding the reins tightly, Mr Tregellas dismounted. I knew I had to sit and smile, hide my loathing, curb my hatred. He was a thief, he had left my father to rot, yet I had to hide my anger and show no fear. Helping me down, he stood closer to me than was comfortable, pressing my ngers more tightly than was necessary. In response, I held his hand for a little bit longer than was customary. Hiding my distaste, I leant slightly towards him, almost touching him. His body tautened, his breathing deepened. A ush began spreading across his face. Beads of sweat started glistening on his upper lip.

  ‘Good day, Mr Tregellas,’ I said a little breathlessly.

  ‘Good day, Miss Pengelly,’ he said, his voice thick with desire.

  Mother and Jenna stood open-mouthed, staring at my mud-splattered clothes. I brushed past, desperate to get to the safety of the cottage. I had never lied so blatantly and never, ever used my body like that. Part of me was disgusted, the other part strangely exhilarated.

  I had news that would turn their worlds upside down. I wanted to tell them. Dear God, I wanted to tell them. Father was alive and we would soon have him home. I wanted to sing, dance, tell them their frowns were misplaced – they should be sharing my joy. But I would have to wait.

  ‘I’m starving, Jenna,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘What’ve you got to eat? There must be something in this larder of yours – have you any apple dumplings?’

  They followed me into the kitchen, Mother holding the sleeve she had been sewing in one hand, the attached needle in the other. ‘Rosehannon, was that Mr Tregellas you were with?’

  ‘It was, Mother.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Simpering, fawning and pretending to be stupid,’ I said, winking at Jenna who stared back, incredulous.

  Mother’s frown deepened. ‘You’re making no sense whatsoever. What does she mean, Jenna? Could one of you please tell me what is going on?’

  ‘Absolutely everything and absolutely nothing,’ I said, cutting a large slice of bread and smothering it with lard. I felt invincible. I had Mr Tregellas eating out of my hand. All we had to do now was nd a good attorney. We had three weeks and all the evidence we needed but, best of all, Father would soon be home with us.

  ‘Rosehannon, you’re talking in riddles – just like your father,’ Mother replied, putting down her sewing, ‘and it was one of his least likeable habits…and just look at the state of your dress! What’ll the neighbours think? As if we aren’t talked about enough already. And why were you alone with Mr Tregellas? Honest, from now on you need go everywhere with me or Jenna. What d’you mean, simpering and fawning…?’

  I felt ushed with success. I wanted to put my arms round Mother and hold her to me, grab Jenna by her hands and whirl her round the kitchen. I wanted to shout that Father was alive. I wanted them to know I had outwitted Mr Tregellas and everything was going to be alright. But instead, I smiled.

  ‘Don’t you fret, Mother, I won’t go anywhere on my own again. I’ll be the perfect daughter. Everything’s going to be alright. We’re going to be so happy again – just you wait and see.’

  Mother looked unconvinced, the worry in her eyes plain to see, but I felt almost light-hearted with joy. Father was alive. The impossible had come true.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday 1st July 1793 7:00 a.m.

  I woke in a cold sweat. If Sulio Denville was working for Mr Tregellas, there was no-one to turn king’s evidence. Mr Tregellas would ourish a bill of sale, claim he did not know it was the same ship, and insist the mistake in Father’s identity had nothing to do with him. He would claim the contagious nature of his death meant he had not actually seen the body but he had relied on the prison guards for his information. Robert Roskelly would be the presiding magistrate, Father would go straight back to gaol and be hanged for escaping. It was worse than ever.

  My untouched breakfast did not go unnoticed. Mother was watching me intently. As we sat in the ferry, her eyes barely left my face. I was so glad I had not told her – glad she was not feeling the same fear. Besides, what could I tell her? Father was alive but in more danger than ever? Jim was right; if she knew, she would not be able to hide her anxiety.

  We reached the warehouse and began climbing the steps. Across the yard, the sound of hammering lled the air and a pang of longing lled my heart. It was as if the boatyard was beckoning me back. Glancing through the arch, I could see the men already hard at work.

  ‘Mother, I’ll only be a minute – I’m going to say hello to Mr Scantlebury.’

  Father had owned this boatyard for ten years. He had left Porthruan to start out on his own and his decision had proved sound. His boats were the best to be had and the town soon knew it. His reputation grew, commissions came pouring in and we were set to prosper. We would be prospering still, if the Corporation had not taken against Father. Until that moment, it had been too painful even to look into the yard, let alone walk under the arch, and I had not been back for over a year. I could smell the sawdust, the varnish, the new paint and I breathed it in, delighting in the acrid smell of burning pitch. It was all so familiar, so very dear.

  The sign Tregellas Boatyard made my blood boil. How dare they steal it from us? This boatyard was in every part of me, just as it was in every part of Father. We were born to build boats, my forefathers before me, each generation seeking new ways to harness the wind, new ways of pitting their wits against the power of the sea. I strode angrily under the arch, my feet following the
path I knew so well.

  Joseph Melhuish was wielding his hammer against the hot trivet he was forging. His furnace was blazing, with more faggots lying ready to be burnt. Even at this early hour, he was stripped to the waist, his body glistening, a pile of newly crafted shackles cooling on the stones around him. He had known Father for many years and looked pleasantly surprised at my nod of greeting. Two sawyers stood gossiping in the sawpit, a huge oak trunk waiting to be planked. As I passed, I heard their sniggers and caught the insolence in their eyes. ‘What are you staring at?’ I snapped, glaring down at them with the full force of my fury.

  ‘Come on, miss. Who could resist such a pretty sight?’ the tallest replied, his eyes as bold as brass.

  ‘D’you want a boat?’ said the other, nding his words so funny he almost choked.

  I did not nd him funny. Anyone could see they were lazy and if I had anything to do with the yard they would have gone long ago. Anger made my cheeks burn. This was Father’s yard and no-one would take it from us. No, I did not want a boat – I wanted the boatyard. I wanted every hoist and pulley, every plank of timber, every pole and spar. I wanted every coiled chain, every barrel of nails, every shackle, every trunnel, every pot of paint and varnish. I wanted every sack of hemp, every bag of oakum and every last handful of horse hair. I wanted it all back. All of it.

  Across the yard, a three-masted lugger was having a nal coat of varnish and the nameplate Dolphin nailed into position. The letters were bright blue, the gold background painted with elaborate red and green swirls. There were matching swirls adorning the bowsprit and two dolphins painted either side of the bow, but she was a beautiful boat – despite the nish. Mr Scantlebury came hurrying towards me, his face lled with pleasure. ‘Oh, Miss Pengelly,’ he cried, ‘it gladdens my eye to see you.’