Pengelly's Daughter (2 page)

Jenna was three years my junior and had been our maid for seven years. I'm sure she only stayed with us because she held Mother in such high esteem. We hardly paid her and the fact she remained with us was a miracle as anyone else would have left long ago.

‘It's a trap, Jenna. Nothing but a trap.'

‘Then ye have to nd someone else.'

Her words annoyed me. ‘Why? Why's
marriage
the only answer? Why should my future depend on marriage?'

‘Ye must marry…and quick too…' Her voice became coaxing, her eyes pleading. ‘With yer looks, ye could get any man ye want. Ye just needs smile…atter them…pretend to be stupid.'

‘I don't see why I should pretend to be stupid just to please someone who is.'

Reproach crept into her voice. ‘Have ye never wondered why ye've so few admirers? They're that scared of ye – that's why. Yer politics and wild thoughts do scare them off. Ye're beautiful and clever but ye must let go yer anger – honest, ye'd get anyone. Men are simple creatures, for all their wealth and position. Any woman can get a man…'

‘Yes. As long as she isn't fussy!'

Jenna's frown deepened. Glancing up at the sky, she peered over to the next-door yard. ‘That wind's freshening – I'll see to Mrs Tregony's wash. Her pains have started and she'll not get that lot in.'

The south-westerly was indeed picking up, wispy mares' tails blowing across the sky with a speed that heralded a storm. The clothes were already apping on the line. Where was I to nd enough money to repay our debt? My bookkeeping was too sporadic, Mother's new job would not pay enough and we could expect no credit – that was for certain. Mr Tregellas had been Father's main creditor. In lieu of payment, he had been handed our old house, handed the lease of Father's boatyard, and had stepped straight into Father's shoes. Just like that. He had everything. Absolutely everything.
Let go my anger?
Jenna had no idea.

Everything about Mr Tregellas screamed treachery. I had no evidence, I just knew him to be scheming – his trap for Mother proof enough of that. I tried to think rationally. I knew I needed to discredit him, but what could I do? What would a man do? I needed evidence he cheated Father, anything at all that would hold up in court and free us from this debt.

Jenna began unpegging Mrs Tregony's washing, her apron blowing in the wind. ‘They do say at Coombe House Mr Tregellas keeps everything ship-shape – not like yer father, bless his soul. His papers were always a terrible muddle, but Mrs Munroe says Mr Tregellas keeps everything in neat, tidy piles. She do say…' Her words were lost as she turned her back, but I was no longer listening. My mind was whirling. She had folded Mr Tregony's clothes and an idea was beginning to take shape.

If I disguised myself as a man, I could row across the river, walk unhindered through the streets of Fosse and break into our old house. I would search the study. Any proof, no matter how small, must surely be concealed among all those neat piles. I knew the house like the back of my hand and I knew Father's old study better than anywhere.

‘Jenna, go to your mother and pick up a set of your brother's clothes – anything you can get hold of. Quickly, before he gets back from the elds.'

Jenna's hands went straight to her hips. Swinging round, she faced me with that look I knew so well. ‘Why'd I do that?' she said.

‘Because I say so…and don't tell anyone.'

‘Why'd you want me brother's clothes?'

‘Just get them, Jenna. Please?'

We had lived in Porthruan for over a year. Our cottage was one of a row of houses rising steeply from the harbour's edge. For nearly sixty years, their thick stone walls and slate roofs had huddled together, resolutely defying the vagaries of our weather. I hated the damp, the smell of rot, but at least the upstairs room was divided in two and I had to be grateful for that. I pressed my ear against the wooden partition separating our rooms and could just make out Mother's steady breathing. She was asleep.

It was past eleven o'clock. I was dressed carefully. My borrowed clothes chafed my legs and the heavy boots were several sizes too big, but glancing in the mirror, I felt reassured. With my height in my favour and my hair pinned beneath the cap, I would pass very well for a man. The house was quiet, the dark night perfect for concealment. Too many eyes would be watching the road so I would skirt the back of the cottages and take the cliff path.

I crossed the yard, quietly shutting the gate. The clouds were black and heavy with rain, the wind ercer than I thought. It seemed so much further in the dark and even knowing the path as well as I did, it was hard not to stumble in the pitch black.

Down to my left, the sea pounded the rocks. Across the river mouth, the lights of Fosse glowed in the dark. Lanterns burnt on the ships in the harbour and I could just make out the distinctive rig of HMS
Thistle
which had put in to port for minor repairs. My stomach tightened. Our yard should have been doing those repairs – not Nickels. Father had fought the Corporation tooth and nail for that commission, but now Nickels had our contract, William Tregellas had our yard, and Father lay dead in his grave.

The wind was whipping my coat, tugging my collar. I hunched against its force, jamming my cap further down my forehead, my sense of disappointment deepening with every step. I knew I ought to turn back. It would be madness to row the river in such a gale, yet to turn back would be to give up too easily. Besides, if I could only get Father's boat from its hiding place, I would, at least, have accomplished something. The cliff fell steeply to my left with little, or no, protection but my eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark and I began to feel more condent. To stay safe, I would keep close to the hedge.

The path began to narrow, thorns catching on my jacket. A weathered oak, struck more than once by lightning and blown eastward by the prevailing wind, loomed in front of me, obscuring the path. In daylight the exposed roots were never a problem, but at night they snaked in front of me in uneven coils and I slowed my pace, choosing my steps with greater care.

From out of nowhere, my arm was grabbed from behind, my elbow wrenched forcibly against my back. I tried to twist, pull away, but a searing pain shot up my arm, stopping me in my tracks. I could not break free. Someone was jolting me forward, his erce grip pushing me towards the tree. Almost at once I was forced against the trunk, my cheek pressing painfully against the rough bark. ‘Thought you'd catch me?' whispered a voice in my ear.

‘Let me go!' I yelled, my arm burning.

‘You're going nowhere – not 'til you say who sent you.' The power of his hold left no doubt of my captor's strength. The more I struggled, the rmer I was held.

‘Nobody sent me. Let me go, you're hurting me.'

His grip loosened. He spun me round, once more pinning my arms behind my back. The clouds thinned and a shaft of moonlight lit the darkness. The steel of his dagger glinted in the half-light and I held my breath, too petried to move. ‘Not quite what you seem,' he said, the tip of his dagger slowly sliding under my cap. ‘Calm your terror. I'll not hurt you an' I'd not have frightened you had I known you're a woman.' He icked his dagger and my cap ew to the ground. Released from its hold, my hair cascaded round my shoulders.

Once again black clouds plunged us into darkness, but not before I had seen he was a sailor. His waistcoat and breeches were dark, his boots muddied. He was wearing a loose-sleeved shirt which lled in the wind. Around his head he wore a scarf, fastened in a knot. Hanging from his belt was a leather pouch. He let go of my arm and, relieved to be free, I turned to face the wind, hoping to bring some order to my hair.

From the direction of the river mouth, I caught the sound of angry shouts and dogs barking. The barking was vicious, the shouts instinctively dangerous, full of menace. My assailant had heard them too. He stood straining his ears in the direction of the sound.

‘They've caught my trail! Go – afore the dogs get here. They're ferocious beasts an' their blood's up – they'll attack on sight. Run!' His voice was low, urgent.

Turning his back, he reached into the base of the tree and I could just make out a coil of rope hidden among the gnarled roots. He secured one end to a sturdy root and I watched him pick up the coil and start edging towards the cliff, clearly intending to tie the rope around the tree. This was madness. I knew the tree well. Recent landslips had left the roots dangerously exposed, the ground was loose, the drop perilously steep. If he slipped, he would fall to certain death.

The men's voices were getting louder, more distinct. They sounded as if they were already at the blockhouse, heading up the cliff path and would soon reach the top. I knew I should run but something held me back. The sailor must be eeing from the navy, or escaping the king's shilling. Perhaps he had been caught smuggling. Either way, I baulked at the ogging that awaited him. I had no faith in the justice of our system, but even less faith in the justice of an angry mob. And who was I to judge him guilty?

‘Stop!' I shouted, peering at him through the darkness.

‘I told you to go – those dogs'll tear you apart.'

‘No. Wait!' I had to shout as the wind was blowing my words away. ‘It's too dangerous to go round that side. The cliff's loose – the ground will give way. Stay there. Wait for me. I'll catch the rope. You can throw it to me.'

I worked my way round the tree until I was opposite him. The wind caught my hair, rain streaked my face. Down to my left, waves crashed against the rocks but I saw little in the darkness. ‘Ready!' I said. He threw the rope. I heard it lash against the tree but could not reach it. ‘Throw it again,' I shouted. I heard a thud and grabbed. The rope was rough and slippery but I gripped it rmly, pulling it securely against my chest.

Quick as lightning, he was at my side. With the rope round the trunk, he took hold of the end, twisting it into a bowline with strong, swift movements, pulling it rmly to test its strength. There was no doubt it would hold his weight. The voices were getting louder, the lanterns swaying to the rhythm of people running fast. The dogs would be ahead of them and soon approaching but I stood, too appalled to run. I could not believe the sailor was about to descend the cliff.

‘Go! For the love of God, go!' he commanded. ‘Take the path so your scent mixes with other trails. Run! It's my trail they're following – the dogs should stop. But run, don't stop!'

A wave of fear brought me to my senses and I stumbled blindly through the darkness, my cumbersome boots causing me to trip. As I picked myself up, a shaft of moonlight shone through the parted clouds and I glanced back, bracing myself to see the sailor begin his dangerous descent. He had not moved. He was crouching on the ground, watching me, his black eyes staring into mine. Our eyes locked in an unsmiling stare.

The barking was getting louder. I ran like never before, running in terror of the dogs, brushing against the thorns with no thought but to reach the safety of the cottage. In the yard, I stood with my back against the closed door, gasping for breath. The house was quiet, Mother and Jenna still undisturbed. As I climbed the stairs, my legs seemed like jelly beneath me. I was safe but, even so, when I pulled the bedclothes round me, my heart was still pounding.

I could not settle. The look in those black eyes kept lling my mind.

Chapter Two

Tuesday 25th June 1793

D
awn broke at ve. As usual, the same two cockerels vied to rouse the town. Joseph Williams was already stoking the res in the bakehouse and, down by the harbour, an oxen cart was rumbling over the cobbles. The dairy herd would soon be gathering outside my window, but worse than that, Mrs Tregony's baby had been born during the night and the cries of her newborn infant ltered through the adjoining wall. Ducking under the bedclothes, I pulled the pillow rmly over my head.

The night had passed in bursts of terrifying dreams. One moment I was being chased by dogs, the next I was watching the sailor dangling over the cliff, his pursuers poised to cut the lifeline that held him hanging above the rocks. I could hardly distinguish the dreams from the truth. But whether he had survived, or was oating head down in the sea, was no longer my concern. I had enough problems of my own.

There would be no more sleep. The cries from next door sounded like the cries of a baby who would survive and I knew Mother would be lying awake, reliving the heartache of her lost hopes, remembering the awful silences as she cradled yet another lifeless baby in her arms. Jenna knew it too. I heard her close the latch to Mother's door.

As she entered my room, her usual, cheerful greeting died on her lips. ‘Jigger me,' she cried, staring at her brother's clothes lying in a heap on the oor.