Pengelly's Daughter (17 page)

She was wearing her cotton nightdress and nightcap, her hair falling in a long plait down her back. The lines on her face were softened by the glow of the candle. It felt so comforting, watching her needle ash in and out of the material and I tried to calm my nerves. I must stay strong. We had come so far and I had to believe we could clear Father's name.

‘I'm so happy, Mother – and I know you'll be too.' I so wanted to tell her.

‘Something's changed in ye, Rosehannon – something for the better,' she said softly. ‘Ye've got your old sparkle back – but I'm troubled. Only days ago, ye told me Mr Tregellas was the last person in the world ye'd marry, yet now the thought seems to bring ye so much joy.' She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. ‘I'm that worried I've interfered too much – even forced ye into liking him…but has Mr Tregellas done something to make ye love him?'

Her eyes searched mine, eager for reassurance. I longed to tell her everything, but of course I could not. Neither could I lie. ‘You know my head will always rule my heart, Mother. I'm not so foolish. I'll not pretend to love him, but I'm happy – and I know you will be too. We'll soon be back in Coombe House, like we were.' I bent to kiss her goodnight. ‘And I want our yard back.'

‘If ye're sure ye know what ye're doing,' she replied, reaching for my hand. She was smiling, but the eyes that looked down were brimming with sadness.

Night was always the time when my fears would surface. As a child I would listen to the howling of the wind, believing it to be the souls of drowned sailors returning across the oceans. I would stare at the moon, seeing demons chase across the sky and listen for the cries of children lost to the fairies in the woods. Such furtive imaginings lled my nights with fear, but the thought of the man watching me was more terrifying than any childhood terror.

The room was stuffy, airless, despite the open casement. No breeze blew. I wore my imsiest nightgown, and lay stretched out on my bed, undoing the buttons round my neck in an effort to remain cool. I must have fallen asleep. I was woken by the sound of a soft thud and opened my eyes, my ears straining in the silence, my heart racing with the dreadful realisation that someone had just entered my room. I lay rigid, trying to control my breathing, frantically hoping I would have the strength to ward off my attacker.

Through the stillness, I heard a whisper. ‘Rose, it's me, Jim.'

The night was bright, the moon large. I could see the outline of his body silhouetted against the window, his head ducking under the eaves. He took a step forward, shrinking my room with his tall frame. ‘What on earth are you doing coming into my room?' I whispered, relieved, but shocked nonetheless. ‘If anyone's seen you…'

‘No-one's seen me, an' I couldn't use the front door. You're being watched.'

‘I know, by a man stupid enough to smoke a very distinctive brand of tobacco.'

‘Very stupid, but then he doesn't realise who he's up against.'

‘How's Father?' I whispered, ignoring his attempt at attery. I ung a shawl round my shoulders. ‘Where is he? Is he alright? How are his wounds?'

‘Improving and anxious to see you – his appetite's increased and he's a lot stronger than he was. I've no doubt he'll do well so you needn't fear – he's in good hands.'

‘Did he ask why we never visited him? Poor Father, he must've thought we'd deserted him.' There was so much to ask, so much to nd out.

‘He knew you thought him dead.'

We were talking too loudly. I crossed the room, standing closer so our voices could not be heard. We were next to the casement. Jim put out his hand, drawing me away and I realised we could be seen from the yard below. I felt the heat of his hand through the cotton of my nightdress – it was imsy and worn, no barrier at all, and I tensed under his touch. I backed away.

He, too, backed away but even in the darkness I could see his eyes travelling down my throat, lingering on my bosom, following the outline of my legs under my nightdress. I felt a tingle of excitement – a rush of pleasure as I watched his appraisal. ‘Forgive me for coming to your room like this, but we need to talk and I'd no way of getting you a message.' He seemed to be having difculty tearing his eyes from my undone buttons.

‘Where's Father? Is he well hidden?' I said, drawing my shawl around me.

‘Your father's in good hands, trust me, but I need to leave him – I've to go to Truro. My plan's risky, but it's the only way I can think to snare Mr Tregellas. That's all I can tell you.'

‘
Can
tell me or
will
tell me?' I challenged.

‘You've to trust me, Rose. Be at the gates of Polcarrow at seven on Thursday evening, an' I'll be there with your father.'

I had trusted him before and where did it get me? I needed more information. ‘Not Polcarrow – don't take Father anywhere near Polcarrow. Mr Roskelly was the magistrate who imprisoned Father so, for goodness sake, just bring him to me and give me back my ledgers. We'll nd a good attorney and make a legal case against Mr Tregellas.' I could hear my voice rising.

‘No, Rose. Think. No attorney would take this on – the evidence is too weak. You've no case, an' even if you did, Roskelly's still the magistrate – you'll be playing straight into his hands. You've to trust me, one more time.' His voice was almost pleading.

The light from the moon lled the room, bathing him in light. I could see the outline of his dagger hanging from his belt. ‘Why should I trust you?' I whispered back. ‘You're a wanted man. It's dangerous, you're dangerous. Your dagger scares me…you're violent and…'

A ash of anger crossed his eyes. ‘No, Rose, I'm not violent and I'm not dangerous. I live in a world of treachery, that's all…and I bear the scars of great violence….Yes, I watch my back an' fear to look men in the eye, and, yes, I sleep with one eye open an' one hand on my knife, but it hasn't always been like that.' His chest was rising and falling. ‘I never start violence and I never draw my dagger rst. You judge too harshly.'

‘I'm only harsh because I judge on what I see.'

The lines round his mouth tightened. ‘You see wrongly. I was born with honour an' a sense of justice, now I live with dishonour and injustice – a disastrous turnaround for any man. You judge me wrongly – such is the cruelty of life.'

I thought of Ben, poor Ben, who would never hurt anyone. ‘You were cruel to Ben.'

‘Cruel?' he mocked, his voice thick with outrage. ‘You accuse me of cruelty? You don't know the meaning of cruelty.'

He gripped his shirt, pulling it over his head and throwing it to the oor as he stood in the half-light, his bare chest rising and falling with the force of his anger. I stared at him, our eyes locking, but it was not anger I saw staring back at me – it was anguish. Anguish, outrage, pain and, for a moment, my heart seemed to stop. It was as if I was staring deep into his soul, his pain screaming at me with no sound, piercing my heart so completely. He turned his back to me and, in the soft light of the moon, I caught my breath.

‘This is cruelty, Miss Pengelly,' he said, his words seemingly wrenched from his heart, ‘this is man's inhumanity to man.'

Across his shoulders and all the way down his back, huge red wheals cut a criss-cross of livid scars. In places the scars formed raised knots, in others dips and craters. Putting my hand over my mouth, I stied my cry. Nowhere was the skin smooth or the esh untouched and I stared in horror, feeling the pain and suffering each scar must have brought. But the deepest, most-violent scar was the worst of all – circling his neck in an angry red clasp. No wonder he always wore a scarf.

I put out my hand, tracing the scars with my ngers, soothing them as if, somehow, I could hope to lessen their horror, wipe away the memory of the pain. I could not help myself. Jim stood silently, his head bowed, his back glistening with sweat, his skin hot and sticky. I tried to speak, but my emotions had gone beyond the power of words.

I followed the contours of the scars across his shoulders, breathing in the scent that sent my pulses racing the night the press gang forced us to hide. Tracing the scars round to his chest I stood in front of him, my ngers lingering over a branding mark that puckered and discoloured his breast. I had never witnessed such violence and my heart was crying. Jim stood motionless, his eyes downcast. With a cry of despair, he clasped my hand, pressing it against his heart. ‘Your touch is the balm my heart craves,' he cried, his voice hoarse, full of longing.

I could feel his heart hammering against my open palm. I was shocked by the tautness of his skin, the rmness of his muscles, unnerved by the strength beneath my hand. He leant closer, his hair brushing against mine. ‘I love you, Rose.' His voice was unrecognisable in its tenderness. ‘I loved you the moment I rst saw you scowling by the tree. I love your spirit, I love your mind. I love the way you toss your hair, how you arch your eyebrows, how you glare at me. I love your beauty, Rose. I love your body. I love everything about you. We are meant for each other, you and I – it's our fate, our destiny.'

He released my hand from over his heart, his ngers travelling upwards towards my face. Gently, he caressed the outline of my jaw, softly tracing the contours of my lips. I felt the pressure of his nger lifting my face towards him and shut my eyes, feeling his lips brush softly against my own. His kiss was tentative, like a buttery, slowly touching one side of my mouth, then the other.

My body ached for him, every inch of me calling out to him. My heart was racing, knowing I had wanted this from the moment our eyes rst locked. I tried to hold back, but his lips sought mine with an urgency that left me reeling. I had never been kissed before and had often wondered what it would be like, but never in my wildest imagination could I have known how hard and how deep a man could kiss. As we fused to one, the taste of him, the desire in him, sparked sensations in me I felt ashamed to acknowledge.

It seemed I would never breathe again. Slowly and reluctantly, he released me, our lips breaking away just enough for us to catch our breath. His arms closed around me. ‘Could you nd it in your heart to love me, Rose?' he whispered, his lips once more seeking mine.

I could so easily have succumbed. I could have lost myself to the velvet darkness, taken the course my body yearned to take, but his words triggered something in me, returning me to my senses. I pulled away. ‘How can you ask someone to love you if they don't know who you are?'

‘Does it matter who I am?' he replied coaxingly.

‘Of course it matters. You're a stranger to me, Jim…I know nothing about you.'

‘Couldn't you love me for myself alone?'

‘No, of course not – to love someone there must be no secrets.'

‘Oh, Rose,' he moaned, ‘and you accuse
me
of cruelty!' He let go of my arms, turning abruptly away, running his hands through his hair. It was damp, clinging to his forehead. ‘Rose, why must you always…?'

But he was not to nish. A sound caught our attention, a movement, a light ickering under my bedroom door. Mother was calling, ‘Are you alright, Rosehannon?'

Dashing across the room, I opened the door a fraction to delay her entrance. Jim had grabbed his shirt and was balancing on the casement sill. I opened the door wider, to see Mother looking distraught. ‘Dear Lord – ye're not well. Ye look feverish – yer eyes are burning…yer face's all ushed. And yer lips, Rose…yer lips are red and swollen.' She put her hand against my temple. ‘Yer pulse is racing, yer breathing's too rapid – all the signs of a fever. We must call Jenna. D'ye feel unwell?'

‘No, Mother, I'm very well – it's just hot. It's such a warm night and I can't sleep for the heat.'

Mother looked at the open window. ‘It's just I thought I heard talking…'

My already beating heart beat even faster. I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to look mystied. At once, a loud and very angry caterwauling lled the yard – Jim must have landed on the sleeping Mr Pitt.

Mother jumped. ‘What on earth is that?'

‘It's Mr Pitt, Mother.'

Mother looked horried. ‘Mr Pitt…? Apart from the obvious, who's Mr Pitt?'

‘Jenna's tomcat.' I was thinking fast. ‘He crept into my room and woke me. Poor thing, I had to throw him out – it must have been him you heard me talking to.'

‘It's because yer window's wide open,' she said. ‘I'm not surprised Mr Pitt climbed in. Perhaps ye encouraged him too much?'

‘I don't think so…well, perhaps I did.' My body was tingling from Jim's touch. I could still feel his lips pressing against mine. I could still taste him. ‘I didn't mean to encourage him and I certainly won't again.'