Pengelly's Daughter (7 page)

‘Quick.' Jim blew out the candle. ‘We'll take these with us.' Throwing everything into the brocade cloth, he gathered the edges into a tight bundle, twisting it several times before he threw it over his shoulders. Almost immediately, the empty hall erupted into life. Footsteps emerged from the servants' quarters, light ooded the hall. The front door ung open and an angry voice shouted more orders. Only the large stairwell separated us from Mr Tregellas. I stood, too petried to move – if he came upstairs to his study, we would surely hang, if he chose the drawing room, we still had a chance. ‘Bring brandy to the drawing room for Mr Roskelly,' he shouted.

My heart was hammering so hard, I could hardly breathe. I felt sick with fear. We heard the drawing room door shut and I led the way, retracing our steps as silently as I could. Jim followed behind. The top corridor seemed so much longer, the distance so much further. In the bedroom, Jim eased open the window, the rain wetting our faces. The branch was swaying, swiping at us as it brushed against the glass. Jim grabbed it, helping me onto the sill, his hands steady over mine.

‘Don't look down,' he whispered, ‘an' be careful, it's slippery.'

I breathed in for courage. Fear gave me the strength I needed. It may have been dangerous, but far more dangerous was to be caught like the thieves we were. I reached the trunk and felt the branch dipping beneath Jim's weight.

Now all we needed to do was get those papers home.

Chapter Seven

S
torm clouds raced overhead as we turned towards the sea.

‘Walk. Don't run or you'll attract attention.' With the stolen books slung over his shoulder, Jim walked quickly ahead, turning almost immediately down an unlit passage. ‘Keep close behind me.'

‘Are you sure this is safe?'

‘No, that's why we'll use it – the night watchmen never come down here.'

I hurried close on his heels, my heart racing. It was lthy, dark and narrow. I could feel my boots sinking ankle-deep in mud, squelching through sh heads lying stinking in our path. I was desperate not to stumble. Peering through the darkness, I stepped over broken crates, striding quickly over the heaps of sacking blocking the way. Men lay huddled in doorways, too drunk to move. Shufes and grunts came from moving shadows and a woman's voice called out, enticing us over. Jim kept up his pace, going deeper into the maze of buildings, stopping only when the alley widened and we could see the quayside.

‘Where's your boat?' he whispered.

‘Behind the brewhouse.'

The squall had whipped the sea to an angry chop, tossing the moored boats like weightless corks. We found the boat wedged rmly between the two yawls and I needed all my strength to pull it towards us. Foam frothed against the steps, the sea rising and falling. Even the larger ships were pitching, their masts creaking in the darkness above us. Jim put down the makeshift bundle, holding the boat as I jumped in the bow. Handing me the stolen evidence, he began taking off his jacket. ‘Use this to keep that dry. Don't let it get wet.' With one leg on the steps, he pushed against the boat and we began gliding through the swirling water, spray drenching us, waves rocking the boat from side to side. I wrapped Jim's jacket around the damp bundle, praying it was not already too late.

‘It's a southerly – we've got wind against tide,' I shouted.

‘An' it's a spring tide,' he shouted back. ‘The waves are building – it's going to be rough.'

The wind was blowing straight through the gap that formed the river mouth. Jim grabbed the oars and began to pull, pitting his strength against the tide pulling us out to sea. Waves splashed against the boat, covering us with spray. My cap blew from my head, disappearing into the blackness around us. Hair swirled round my face, spray stinging my eyes. My lips tasted of salt. It was a wild night for a small boat and I should have been scared. I should have been gripping the sides in terror, fearing for my life, but for all the danger we were in, I was not afraid. I am a child of the sea. I have rowed these waters all my life and in the toughest of conditions. I become alive on the sea. I felt invincible. I had risked my life and escaped – and I was holding evidence that would clear Father's name.

The movement of the boat steadied, Jim's rowing was condent, we were making progress. For the rst time in a very long while, I felt happy, carefree, and I threw back my head, relishing the wind blowing through my hair. I began smiling, laughing, looking back at Jim to share my pleasure. The smile died on my lips and I caught my breath. He was staring at me with a ferocity that made my stomach tighten, his eyes all but devouring me. For a moment I held his stare before he turned away, scowling into the darkness, redoubling his efforts against the tide. I, too, turned away, a furious blush burning my cheeks. It had been a look of naked desire and I had never been looked at in that way before. Licking the salt from my burning lips, I stared out to sea, startled by the thrill of pleasure passing through me.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. His chin, set hard with exertion, looked grim and determined. His hat had long since blown away, his hair now loosened by the wind. Dark strands streaked across his forehead, falling across his eyes. As he strained against the tide, his shirt clung to his chest. I could see the power of his muscles, the strength of his grip and I looked away. Porthruan harbour could not come soon enough.

‘We'll leave the boat round the back of the smokehouse and take the cliff path,' I said stify. ‘There's an old huer's hut on the top of the cliff – we can shelter there for a while.'

Jim nodded in agreement, his face every bit as sombre as mine.

Chapter Eight

T
he tail end of the squall was driving dark clouds across the moon. We left the harbour, slipping behind the bakehouse, climbing the cliff path as fast as we could. Ahead of us, the slate roof of the huer's hut shone silver against the dark sky.

The huer was Joshua Trewellyn, who lived in the cottage next to the smokehouse. For weeks he had been scanning the horizon, searching for shoals, watching, dawn to dusk, for the rst sign of gannets diving headlong into the sea to gorge on the pilchards. It had been a good year for mackerel with the pilchards yet to run, but on a night like this there would be no sightings and it was no secret the lure of his bed would be too strong to resist. He would return at rst light.

As a child I was once on the cliff top when the shoals came in. I will never forget the way the sea rippled and seemed to boil as the sh massed in their thousands. I remember the cry of the gulls, the diving of the dolphins, the excitement I felt as the huer blew his horn to announce their arrival. I was convinced they were my pilchards. I had seen them rst and I had given them to the town. It was what everyone wanted – every ear tuned for the sound of the horn, every hand waiting to drop what they were doing; every man, woman and child, ready to run to the boats or prepare the cellars. I had watched the nets drop, the seine boats circle, the sh come glistening out of the sea like liquid silver and nothing could shake my belief that they were my sh. I suppose, ever since, I have wanted to recapture that feeling of giving people what they most need.

The wind was lessening, the clouds thinning, the steep, well-trodden path easy to climb. At the highest point, the hut stood bathed in moonlight and we stopped to catch our breath.

Jim motioned for me to wait. ‘Let me see if it's empty,' he said, walking the last few yards alone. I understood his meaning. Over the last month, a large number of vagrants had come to Porthruan – it was just possible they had found it rst. ‘We're in luck,' he called, opening the door.

It was more of a shack than a hut. A shaft of moonlight shone through the door, lighting the cramped interior. In one corner, a small table littered with the remains of a meal, in the other, a wooden pail balanced on a stool. Along the back, a dirty mattress lay on the oor, straw bursting from it through several large holes. It was a dismal place but warm and dry and a welcome refuge, despite the rancid smell. Until then, I had not realised how wet we were. Jim saw me shivering.

‘I'm afraid there's nothing by way of a re,' he said, reaching down for the blanket lying strewn across the mattress. ‘Take your jacket off and wrap yourself in this.' I hesitated, the look he had given me still fresh in my mind. ‘You can trust me, Rose. I'll not harm you.' Helping me off with my soaking jacket, he wrapped the blanket round my shoulders. ‘Though, you're very likely to get lice,' he added without a smile.

Lice or no lice, I felt instantly better and as the welcome warmth spread through me, I grew anxious to examine the ledgers. Sitting down on the low mattress, we dragged our stolen bundle across the dirt oor, the brocade now silver-grey in the moonlight. Jim undid the knot and reached into his jacket. He drew out the tinderbox, the remaining stub of candle. ‘Have we enough?' I asked.

‘Yes, though we may not get it lit – the wick's rather wet.' Rolling the wick in his ngers, he struck the int. ‘That's got it.' We were in luck, three strikes and the candle bathed the hut in soft yellow light.

He started placing the contents into separate piles, his scowl deepening. There was a lot to get through – letters, receipts, several account books, all jumbled in front of us in a tumbled mess. I helped smooth out the papers, placing them in front of him, watching him skim through their contents, any doubt of his ability to read quickly dispelled. ‘Well? What do they say?'

He pointed to the rst pile. ‘These letters are from a sea captain based in Jersey – they are receipts for maintenance and repair of a ship called
L'Aigrette
.'

‘
L'Aigrette
?'

‘It's French for egret.'

‘Go on.'

‘These bills are for nails, tar, varnish, trunnels. This is a blacksmith's bill an' this one looks like it's from a sailmaker.' He held the bill nearer the candle, ‘No, a ropemaker. An' this one's for the repair of a broken spar.'

‘Why'd you pay expensive repair bills in Jersey when you've your own boatyard in Fosse?' I asked, already knowing the answer.

‘This one contains expenses for the crew. Look, here it lists the master, rst mate and three other sailors. This column's their food, this one…rum…this one must be wages an' this one's harbour dues…'

‘When do the expenses start?' I could wait no longer. Leaning over Jim, I icked back the pages of the neatly written entries. My ngers were trembling. ‘Mai 14th 1792. Mai is May, isn't it? That's exactly two weeks after the cutter was stolen! It's got to be the cutter. This must be the proof I need.'

Jim was not smiling. ‘The letters are addressed to Mr Tregellas an' it's his ship, right enough, but is it your father's cutter?' His unshaven face was dark against the shadows, his scar visible in the ickering candlelight. It was unnerving the way he never smiled, his jaw always rm, his mouth always grim. ‘All this means nothing – not till you nd
L'Aigrette
…' His eyes seemed to pierce mine. ‘An' you'd need to identify her. Would you be able to do that?'

Able
? He had no idea. Nobody did. Nobody thought a woman capable of anything other than sewing or cooking. ‘Of course I would! D'you think I don't know one boat from another? I'd know her a mile off – I know everything there's to know about that ship. I spent hours studying the plans. I helped choose the keel pieces. I watched every plank being sawn. I'd know her on sight.' I began gathering up the evidence, drawing it together in neat piles, ready to tie the edges back into a knot. Jim put his hand on my arm.

‘Rose, stop, I meant no disrespect...'

The candle guttered, ickering brightly before it died, the last thin coil of smoke slowly dispersing. We were left sitting on the low mattress, bathed by the light of the moon shining so brightly in on us and I knew there could be no more reading. The thunderclouds had passed and with them the blackness of the night. It would be dawn soon. Already a grey haze was visible in the east. We had risked everything. We had stolen the evidence and had escaped uncaught. My anger was misplaced – I should be grateful to this man, not are at him at the slightest provocation. After all, he had risked his life for me.

‘Father used to engrave a rose on every ship he built,' I said more softly, ‘even small shing boats. It was our mark – our secret. I'd go searching the ship, looking everywhere until I found it, but I always found it. Even now, I could go straight to every rose, on every boat. I could go straight to the cutter and identify her.'

Jim leant against the back of the hut, wrapping another blanket around his shoulders. The thought of Father had saddened me and in the silence that followed, I thought I would cry. ‘You'd climbed into that window before, hadn't you?'

I nodded. Whether it was the soft lilt in his voice, the intimacy of the hut, or the sheer beauty of the moon, I do not know. I yearned to answer. I had been holding back my feelings for so long and seeing Father's study had opened wounds I had tried to heal. ‘Many times,' I replied.

‘An' why was that?'

‘Mother had several miscarriages and ve stillbirths. I'm the only child that survived. One boy lived until he was three weeks old.' I hesitated, nding it hard to speak the words I had never spoken before. ‘Father was overjoyed to have a son to carry on the yard. I was ten years old – his beloved child – but when I saw him holding his son in his arms, I knew I didn't count. When the baby died, something died in him. I knew he wanted a son, not me. It's the hardest thing, knowing you don't count.'

Jim said nothing but pulled his blanket more tightly around him, making space for me to rest against the wall. It was a friendly gesture and tugged at the emptiness I felt inside. I so wanted to talk. I wanted to tell him how wonderful Father had been, how he had taught me everything about the boats we had built. I sat back, wrapping my blanket rmly round me.