Pengelly's Daughter Page 3
‘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 condent 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 horried. 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 difcult 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?
Madame Merrick and Mother could not have been more delighted by the latest London fashions worn by those who alighted from the ship. Madame Merrick insisted we were witnessing true quality but all I saw was a bad-tempered, middle-aged man, ornately dressed with a thick bandage round one calf, and a tall, very thin woman dressed in a green silk travelling dress, whose only concern seemed the welfare of the white pug dog she carried in her arms. Neither looked pleased to have arrived.
Wiping his brow in a urry of lace, Sir Charles Cavendish was ignoring the cheering crowds, prodding his way instead to the waiting carriage where I saw him curse the footman and bark orders at the coachman. Madame Merrick was ushed with pleasure. ‘But, Miss Pengelly, you cannot see properly from there!’
‘I’ve seen all I need to see,’ I replied. ‘Sir Charles Cavendish has no business here, nor ever has.’
‘Miss Pengelly! How can you speak like that?’
‘He’s only here because he wants his friend, Robert Roskelly, to join him in parliament – otherwise he’d have stayed in London.’ I kept my voice calm but my heart was thumping. Madame Merrick’s face puckered in disgust. Mother’s hands began to tremble but I could not stay silent. ‘It’s wrong and corrupt, that’s all. Buying his vast estate assures him of the voting rights but he cares nothing at all for the people here.’
‘What foolish nonsense!’ replied Madame Merrick, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘We all depend on great men like Sir Charles – without them there would be nothing. No employment, no estates to maintain, no houses to run…no patronage, no positions, no trade contracts. You speak foolishly, Miss Pengelly – dangerously and foolishly.’ Straightening her gown with her long ngers, she glared with undisguised dislike. ‘You would be wise to curb your tongue, young lady. You have been much too inuenced by your father’s foolish talk.’
At the mention of Father, tears welled in my eyes. A lump caught in my throat. ‘You didn’t know Father – he was clever and articulate. He believed every man has rights, regardless of wealth or position. He believed all men should have the franchise.’
‘Pah! Your father was a dangerous radical, a political agitator. No better than a revolutionary! Liberté, qualité, fraternité ou la mort! Where did it get him? What good is leaving your wife and daughter to starve?’ Her chest rose and fell, the muscles round her mouth tight with anger. ‘Miss Pengelly, you are a woman blessed with uncommon beauty. You would be wise to use it well. Your father was wrong to stuff your head full of his ridiculous notions – God knows, your position is precarious enough already.’ She began fanning her very ushed cheeks.
Mother came through from the back, clearly trying to make amends. ‘Mrs Hoskins will be here soon…I’ve brought the muslin and the new rolls of satin. I’m sure she’ll love this…or maybe this?’
Madame Merrick was hardly listening. Her eyes were following the carriage as it pushed through the crowds. Taking a deep breath, she spoke through pursed lips. ‘It is not the likes of Mrs Hoskins I need to patronise my business, Mrs Pengelly. I need Lady April Cavendish to be my patron.’
Even Mother looked shocked. ‘But Lady April has the whole of London at her disposal! You saw her clothes – she wants for nothing. You really think she might buy from here?’
I was still smarting from Madame Merrick’s vicious attack but the eager tone in Mother’s voice cut me like a knife. It seemed such betrayal. She had abandoned all Father’s principles and it hurt. It really hurt. In all the dark days since Father’s death, I had never felt so alone, and watching them bending over the rolls of fabric seemed to increase my sense of isolation. I could never be part of Mother’s new life, I knew that now.
Putting away my quill, I placed the ledger carefully back in the top drawer. I put on my bonnet and stopping momentarily at the door, bobbed an indifferent curtsey. If they heard my sullen farewell, they did not look up.
There would be thunder soon – no gulls in sight, no hint of a breeze. I closed the door. This uncanny stillness was always a sign of thunder. The air was thick and suffocating, ies buzzed noisily among the nets left drying on the quayside and even the smell of dead crabs in the blackening seaweed seemed stronger than usual. I made my way through the crowd, now boisterous from beer. Notices advertising political meetings were pinned to the pillars of the wooden overhang and I managed to peer over the heads of everyone crowding round to read the posters. They conrmed what I already guessed – the meeting would start at nine. My heart started racing. I, at least, would never forsake Father.
Chapter Four
Wednesday 26th June 1793 9:30 p.m.
I pleaded a headache, telling Mother and Jenna I needed an early night. They were visiting Mrs Tregony, so I would seize my chance. I changed quickly into the newly washed clothes Jenna had replaced in the bottom of my trunk – time was running out, the blanket left in my bed the best I could think to do. There was thunder in the air, the wind freshening, but reaching the quayside, I felt condent I could row the river. Untying Father’s boat, I slipped the mooring and drifted upstream on the incoming tide.
The river was unusually crowded, more ships than usual seeking shelter from the impending storm. Large numbers of sailors massed along the quayside, their drunken voices ltering across the water. The quays were packed three or four deep and I searched to nd somewhere to moor the boat. There was hardly anywhere, just one small space and I knew it would be tight. Squeezing between two shing boats, I secured the boat. It was the wrong end of town and a long way from Coombe House, but it would have to do. I would cut through the alley and take the lane behind the dockside.
The alley was dark and smelt of tar, an upturned barrel lying halfway across the entrance. There had already been ghts. Bottles lay smashed against the wall and I hesitated, knowing I was being foolish. I should turn back. I should return to the boat and moor further up but time was against me and I was already late. The alley narrowed, loud shouts began echoing behind me and I turned round to see the bulky frames of a group of sailors blocking the entrance. They were clearly the worst for drink and were coming in my direction.
The alley was longer than I thought, the walls towering above me. I searched for a doorway, frantically hoping for a place to hide. The sailors had seen me. They were calling out, goading me to g
ht, their taunts growing more vicious as their footsteps got nearer. Ahead of me, lights from the Anchor Tavern glowed through the darkness and I began to run. I had no option. The Anchor Tavern may be the last place in the world I would want to enter but it was that, or the sailors. The door to the tavern was closed. Without hesitating, I grabbed the handle, opening the heavy oak door, shutting it rmly behind me.
The stench of burning seal oil made me want to retch and I fought to control my nausea. It was hot, stuffy, the tobacco smoke thick and choking. Oil lamps hung from the densely beamed ceiling and lanterns cast shadows over the faces of sailors crammed into every corner of the rooms. Some of the men were playing dice, some eating pies; all were smoking clay pipes, drinking from large earthenware mugs. I stared through the haze, my eyes beginning to sting. On a table nearby, two men spat on their hands, shaking on a deal. On another, a ship’s captain was imprinting the thumbs of two boys in a ledger. The boys, no more than eleven or twelve, looked like frightened rabbits caught in a trap.
This was my rst time in a tavern and I could hardly believe my eyes. The serving girls looked just like living gureheads. In a corner a man wearing a doe-skin hat and a brown corduroy jacket was sitting legs akimbo, a serving girl sitting on each thigh. The girls’ hands were everywhere, running over his waistcoat, undoing his buttons, their ngers even sliding beneath his shirt. I had never seen anything so wanton and I could hardly tear my eyes away.
Each serving girl was offering the man a large tankard of ale and it was increasingly apparent that whichever one he chose would leave the other completely desolate. Bets were changing hands and the two serving girls, with a playfulness that was turning serious, began offering him more and more inducements to be the woman of his choice. With one hand holding aloft their beer, their other hands began straying further over his body. The guffaws were getting louder, the betting more frantic, the girls re-doubling their efforts, their huge bosoms taking on a life of their own. Appalled, I looked away, but something made me uneasy. The man seemed strangely familiar.