Pengelly's Daughter (35 page)

‘It's back-breaking work under a burning sun. The relentless heat, the ies. No shoes. No hat. No water. Just the faraway look in the men's eyes and their singing. Their heart-wrenching, agonising singing about a land where they were free and a home they'll never see again. Runaways are brought back and ogged, yet every day you plan your escape.'

I wanted to put my arms around him, to soothe away the pain, but I sat motionless, my heart breaking.

‘I was chained to Chevego when we saw our chance – a eeting oversight of a careless overseer. We dived into a ditch and waited all day, expecting any time to be found and ogged. But dusk fell and we crawled to freedom. Through thousands of acres of tobacco plants.

‘Can you imagine how hard it is to break free of chains? It took us weeks, travelling by night, hiding by day. We were weak, our progress slow, and only when we chanced on a hut with an axe, did we manage to smash the iron bands that held us together. ‘He looked up, pain deep in his eyes. ‘I'd have starved if Chevego hadn't known what plants to eat. His people were Native Americans who live by the land. We'd no language in common but words were unnecessary. He taught me how to walk unheard, how to use the rope, how to hide from danger.

‘We stayed constantly on the lookout. Everyone has to carry discharge papers, or have signed permission to travel. Bounty money's good – people are always on the watch for runaway slaves. Chevego taught me to trap animals and catch sh, how to use animal skins and sharpen ints but I knew he was getting restless. One morning I found him putting dried meat into his pouch. His homeland was calling, he needed to return to his people. He was my only friend and I can't tell you how hard it was for me to watch him walk away.'

He had lowered his voice to no more than a whisper. ‘I made my way to Charlestown, Virginia. It's a new town with money being invested in buildings. I found work for a pittance, no questions asked, no papers needed. I even found lodgings and kept my head down. My plan was simple. I'd earn enough money to return to England. Somehow, I'd prove my innocence. I was determined to expose Robert Roskelly for the murderer he was. Do you really want to know all this, Rose?'

‘Of course I do.' The pain was almost unbearable.

‘There's a criminal network who arrange for convicts to return to England. Their fee's substantial, of course, but when I thought I had enough, I met a man on the docks and my hard-earned money was exchanged for a ticket back to the ‘old homeland' – that's how he put it. The ship was to sail on the tide. Two days out at sea, we were attacked by a French privateer seeking English blood.

‘I survived by speaking the French taught to me by my tutor. I spoke just enough to convince them I wasn't English and I survived – but swapped one hell for another. The life of a privateer is brutal and murderous and, once again, it was living hell. The crew were captive men and the captain knew we'd jump ship at any opportunity. He kept us out at sea and when we docked, kept us locked below decks. I didn't step foot ashore for more than two years. Two years, Rose, of endless looting and plundering, of drunken violence, lashings and disease.

‘But I learnt to survive and rose through the ranks. My French was uent by this time and I learnt to navigate. Then chance stepped in. Sickness was rife, sailors dying and we needed more men. As land took shape, I went to the captain and persuaded him we needed more men. I said I knew what I was about and laughed as I touched my knife. He needed men like me. He gave me a jug of rum and slapped my back.

‘Our raiding party set out at nightfall. As we rowed ashore, I felt the rst glimmer of hope. The last eight years of my life had been cruelly stolen – my youth, my education, my prospects ripped from me, but I was alive and heading for dry land.'

‘Where was it?'

‘Havana – a lawless hotbed of vice. Each man in that raiding party slipped silently into the darkness but to survive in a place like that, you needed the sort of skills Chevego had taught me. I hid in the shadows, stepping over the victims of stabbings and, for over a year, I lived without trace.'

He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth, his hand shaking. ‘Then, one night, a chance encounter brought me face to face with an Englishman – a Cornishman, to be precise. We were eeing from the same Spanish sailors and as we dived behind a mud shack, our knives drawn, he asked me my business and where I was from. He spoke with a Cornish accent and for the sake of our shared heritage, he invited me back to his lodgings. His name was Denzel Creed.'

I could see uncertainty in his eyes, ‘Do you really want to hear all this, Rose?'

‘Of course I do, James,' I whispered, trying to keep the sadness from my voice. ‘Was Denzel Creed a good man?'

‘No he wasn't, but we talked of Cornwall. He was on his way to be tutor to the Governor of Dominica. The son was destined to follow his father into the navy but until he started his commission, he needed a tutor. As we talked, my resentment grew. I had been expected to go to Oxford. I was a baronet's son, educated and well read, yet my education was long forgotten.

‘His boat was to sail in two weeks and I asked him to let me stay and read the few books he'd brought. I wanted to reacquaint myself with Virgil and Plato, smell the leather bindings, imagine I was back in my father's library. He said I could do what I liked, so for two weeks I sat reading what I could. My brain was like a parched sponge.

‘Denzel Creed was never at the lodging. He was a gambling man, a heavy drinker. The early hours would see him lying drunk in the roadside. Then, one morning, after he'd not come back for two days, I went in search of him and found him lying in a ditch, the knife wound black with ies.

‘You can guess the rest, Rose, but don't judge me harshly – it's what happens. Any time you could be robbed or murdered and your identity stolen. If I hadn't pretended to be him, someone else would have taken his papers.'

‘I'm not judging you,' I whispered, ‘I'd have done the same.'

A silence fell between us. Above us, pink streaks lit the grey sky. Dew had settled on the step, and across the silence, the rst hesitant crowing of a cockerel. I knew my time was up. I would have to go and quickly, too – before he spoke her name. I wrapped my cloak round me but, as I prepared to stand, he gripped my hand.

‘Hear me out, Rose – let me nish.'

No, not her name. Please do not speak her name.

His voice was soft, hardly above a whisper. ‘I settled well as a tutor, relishing every book in the library. Frederick Cavendish was slow and indifferent, but it suited my purpose. I studied for myself, tirelessly pursuing knowledge.' My mouth was dry. I really, really did not want to hear this.‘…and for nearly eighteen months, I was drawn by the magnetic beauty of Arbella Cavendish – Frederick's twin sister. She could dazzle a man from across the room and I was drawn, like a moth to a lamp, unable to take my eyes off her.

‘Finally, I could no longer keep my thoughts to myself and I sought her out. I chanced upon her in the garden, hiding from her maid, and I seized the opportunity to tell her how much she meant to me. She was kind but very rm. She told me her parents expected her to marry “well”, not throw herself away on a penniless tutor. She
valued
my company but it was out of the question and I was never to mention my feelings again.

‘Rose, you were right when you said I'd not be able to stand by if someone dismissed me as inferior. The long years of abuse and servitude, of hiding and pretending to be someone else came boiling to the surface and I spoke in anger. Before I could stop myself, I told her who I really was.'

The knot in my stomach tightened. I turned away, but he reached for my hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. ‘I don't love her, Rose. I've never loved her, I can see that now. I was infatuated with her beauty, in love with the idea of love, but I've never yearned for her like I do for you. I love
you
, Rose. We are destined to love one another. She and I are like strangers – nothing else. There's nothing between us – no warmth, no love, no spark.'

He held my ngers to his dry lips. ‘I ache for you,' he whispered, turning my hand over to kiss my palm. ‘Every night I dream I'm holding you in my arms. I imagine you're lying beside me – your hair spilling over the pillow. You smile at me and I smile back and my heart bursts with the love I have for you. Then dawn breaks and my heart breaks, too, knowing that, somehow, I have to get through the day without you.'

I could not believe what he was saying. How could he do this to me? To her? I pulled my hands free, tears of disappointment springing to my eyes. How dare he make love to me! Sir James's whore, had he heard that too? I stood up, grabbing the latch, clutching it with desperate hands, but before I could open the gate, he blocked my way.

‘Rose, stop running away. We're meant for each other.'

I stared in disbelief. ‘I thought you came back to clear your name – to restore your reputation and live with honour.'

‘Why should we deny ourselves happiness for the sake of
honour
? For some
foolishness
that happened long before I met you? Arbella means nothing to me and our marriage would be a sham. Would you have me trapped in a loveless marriage, wanting you every day? Longing for you every night?'

I began struggling with the latch, my hands shaking. He took a step closer, pulling me to him. I could feel the warmth of his body, the touch of his lips against my hair. His voice was tender. ‘Let me love you, Rose. Let me cherish you the way you deserve. I'll end my engagement to Arbella. She and her family can return to Dominica and I'll willingly never see them again.'

How could he say that? How could James Polcarrow be prepared to abandon a woman who was carrying his child? A man who lived by such ideals, ghting for justice, standing alone against the Corporation? A man who would unshackle the slaves? I had been wrong in my judgement of James Polcarrow and Father had been right. Everyone knew the consequences for Arbella Cavendish. If he was capable of abandoning Arbella and his unborn child, then he was not the man I thought he was, and not a man I could love.

‘No, Sir James,' I said, my voice taking on a tone I hardly recognised, ‘I've refused you before and if you think I'll change my mind, you're mistaken. You should be grateful for what you have, rather than hanker after something you can never have. We've a business arrangement, that's all, and I'm grateful to you for that – but that's all there is between us.'

His arms loosened their hold as he swung swiftly away and I hurried through the gate, slamming it shut behind me. In my bedroom, my rst instinct was to bar the window. I reached for the shutters, drawing them towards me. In the distance a cock crowed and I thought of betrayal. I ripped off my dress, throwing myself on the bed, my sobs so violent they wracked my body. I could hear a woman wailing – a deep, visceral cry, full of longing, and I realised it was me. I gripped my pillow, holding it against my chest, burying my face deep within it, curling myself into a ball as if I was a child. I had never cried like this before. Never ached so terribly.

I did not hear Jenna open the door. She held me to her, rocking me gently. I laid my head on her shoulder and clutched her to me, needing the warmth of her body to take the chill from my heart. My tears subsided though my chest still heaved and I lay exhausted, all emotion spent. Without a word, she tucked the blanket round me, pushing a matted strand from my face. When she judged me asleep, she tiptoed from the room, retrieving my torn dress from the oor.

I never saw that dress again.

Chapter Forty-four

Monday 19th August 1793 8:00 a.m.

I
watched Tom load the last of the bark chippings onto the cart. He was anxious to get going and even the oxen seemed to pick up his excitement. They pulled restlessly against the harness, shaking their heavy heads, their nostrils aring in the early morning drizzle.

‘You'll take care, won't you, Tom? The ruts will be awful if this rain continues – they could be dangerous. You mustn't get stuck.'

‘I'll be careful, Miss Pengelly, but we're not that loaded – we'll be ne. Besides, I wouldn't go if I was worried.'

‘Make sure you speak to Mr Ferris, not his foreman. The tannery's behind Pydar Street but I think there're several there, so be sure you nd the right one.'

‘We won't let you down. Seth's been to Truro several times and we're grown men – I think we can handle the journey without gettin' into too much trouble!'

Along with the stubble on his chin, Tom had grown in condence, but going to Truro was fraught with difculties and I was not that reassured. Part of me wished I was going with them, but there was work to be done and I was secretly glad Father had not yet returned from Mevagissey. Sending our bark to Mr Ferris was just the rst thing on my list.

All the accounts had been settled promptly, the yard was now empty of repairs, and within the week we would begin to build Mr Warleggan's recently commissioned lugger. Mr Scantlebury's plans were spread across Father's desk. It seemed strange that Mr Scantlebury – a man with much less education than Father – always drew careful plans while Father always worked to a model. It seemed the wrong way round, but the combination worked well. Our ships were renowned for their robust construction and I could see this lugger would be no exception.

I was alone in the ofce. Mr Scantlebury was with the sailmakers, trying to convince them that a dipping sail would reduce the wear on the new lugger's canvas and, for some reason, Mr Melhuish had not yet red up the forge. It seemed strangely quiet. No banging, no hammering, no sound of sawing, no smell of pitch. All eerily quiet on a mizzling day, with the north wind bringing with it the smell of wet elds and rich manure.