Pengelly's Daughter

by Nicola Pryce

  I felt suddenly struck, winded. I could not believe what I had heard. I would know nothing? I had no ability, no sense of business? All those years of striving for Father’s approval, trying to make up for the son he always wanted, reading his pamphlets, desperately hoping he respected my judgement and valued my opinion! Who was it who had got the business running again? The letters sent? The new contracts? How dare he?

  Anger burnt my cheeks. It was all for nothing, the worst kind of betrayal, and to humiliate me in front of James Polcarrow made it even worse. I was responsible for getting the commissions. I balanced our outgoings with our income. For years, I had chased unpaid bills, and bargained for better deals, haggling over the price of our materials. At that moment, I hated Father. I hated him for what he had led me to believe and what he had just taken from me. But I would not be so easily silenced.

  ‘Father, with the rent so low, we should take it. Other boatyards will jump at the offer – if Nichols gets the lease, it would work against us.’

  ‘I’ll make my own way in this world and I don’t need Sir James’s charity. I work an honest day and I pay men to do likewise. The days of serfdom are passed. Men shouldn’t depend on patronage and favour. My yard’ll prosper an’ I’ll not have other men think I prosper because of James Polcarrow.’

  ‘I offer a business proposition, Mr Pengelly, that’s all.’

  ‘And like a lap dog, you think I should be grateful for the scraps you throw? Accept with blind obedience and remain faithfully at your heels?’

  ‘No, of course not. I ask nothing of you and expect nothing in return.’

  ‘I know very well what you expect in return.’

  James Polcarrow’s already thunderous face darkened. ‘Have a care, Mr Pengelly. They’re already calling you an English Jacobin. These are dangerous times and you’re treading a dangerous tightrope.’

  ‘Better to tread a tightrope of me own makin’ than to dance to another man’s tune.’

  ‘You risk imprisonment.’

  ‘I risk enslavement.’

  James Polcarrow could no longer contain his fury. His eyes ashed. ‘You don’t even know the meaning of that word, or if you did, you wouldn’t use it so lightly. I’m sorry you’re not taking up my offer – it seems our business is at an end. Good day, Mr Pengelly.’ He turned his back, his hands clenched by his sides.

  What had Father done? What pig-headed stubbornness had made him refuse? James Polcarrow had just offered Father probably the most valuable lease in Fosse. James Polcarrow knew its worth. He could have kept it for himself and yet he had been prepared to offer it to Father. And to be met with such rudeness! I was furious. Furious with Father’s overblown self-importance. And to humiliate me like that about Mr Calstock – a man I had only just met?

  I marched in front of Father, storming across the hall, my footsteps echoing in the vast expanse. Knows nothing about business? Who did he think had kept the boatyard from bankruptcy for so long? If Father had been left in charge, no bills would have been paid, no accounts settled and our boatyard would have been bankrupt long before Mr Tregellas stole the cutter – and even that would not have ruined us, if Father had been insured.

  I was so furious I thought I would go straight home but, reaching the bottom step, I breathed in the earthy dampness and slowed my pace. I could not let history repeat itself. I would have to see Father secure the insurance.

  Ben was running towards me, his boots caked with mud. He had a smudge of earth across his left cheek. ‘Are ye alright, Miss Rose’annon? Only you look s-s-so sad. Don’t be sad.’

  ‘I’m not sad, I’m cross – but it’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘We’re diggin’ up where the old cottages burnt down. See all those men with w-w-wheelbarrows? We’re making it at so we can make a new garden.’

  Following his pointing nger I saw the charred rubble of the old cottages had been cleared and work was in progress. A team of men were levelling the ground, their wheelbarrows carting and dumping great mounds of earth. Mr Moyle looked to be measuring while the lady gave directions. Father came slowly towards us.

  ‘Hello, Mr Pengelly, we’re buildin’ a new garden.’

  ‘So I see, Ben.’

  ‘It’s goin’ to be sunken with arbours an’ arches an’ a sundial in the middle – but the best bit’s the wall round it! A wall! Ye can grow just about anythin’ with a wall round it. Oh look, here’s Hercules…’

  In great danger of his large paws tripping over his long ears, the little spaniel puppy was charging across the grass, his sole intention to reach Ben. Tail wagging, body shaking, he threw himself at Ben’s feet, rolling over with all four legs in the air, his little round belly soft and inviting.

  ‘’Tis Lady Polcarrow’s dog – look how soft he is…but he’s my friend an’ likes to have his tummy tickled.’

  Father looked puzzled. ‘Lady Polcarrow’s dog? Is that Lady Polcarrow?’ We looked across at the auburn-haired lady, watching her point to the ground, then up to the air as if indicating an arch. I must have spent too long in Madame Merrick’s company because my rst thought was how dowdy her gown was. ‘I’m surprised Sir James lets her remain – I’d have thought he’d have sent her packin’ a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh no,’ cried Ben, ‘d-d-don’t say such things…Lady Polcarrow’s a lovely lady and Sir James is very kind to her – and he’s kind to Master Francis. He bought them Hercules – he mustn’t send them away…he mustn’t…’ He grabbed the puppy and clasped him.

  Once again, I was furious with Father’s lack of judgement. ‘Of course he won’t send her away – not now he’s given her a garden.’

  ‘’Tis not her garden, ’tis his garden – he asked her to plan it, that’s all. He wants a rose garden…he wants a red rose always on his desk…but ye can get lovely yellow and orange roses…so we’re growin’ them all – but we’ll pick the red ones for his desk.

  Father was watching me, his eyes boring into mine. He cleared his throat, ‘Why’d he want a rose on his desk?’ I said nothing but I could feel my cheeks ushing. His eyes narrowed. ‘There are rumours in this town which I’ve chosen to ignore. Take care, Rose. Sir James is a determined man and men like that always get what they want.’

  I could not believe my ears. ‘How dare you!’ I retorted.

  Ben’s stricken face crumpled. He inched as if in pain. The puppy started whimpering but I could not stay to comfort them. Grabbing my skirts, I ran down the drive, frustration making my blood boil.

  Damn the insurance. Damn Father. And damn James Polcarrow.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Wednesday 21st August 1793 11:00 a.m.

  I still could not settle. I had spent the previous day walking the cliffs, lying in the ower-lled meadow, watching the skylarks singing above me. I had sat by the sea’s edge, clambering over rock pools, disturbing the crabs, all the while nursing my grievance. Yet somehow I had returned to the yard.

  The keel pieces had arrived and the new sawyers were preparing the pit. Father and Mr Scantlebury were going over every inch of the elm trunks, searching for aws, but I hardly cared. Even the good news that Mr Ferris was prepared to offer upward of thirty shillings a cartload for our bark chippings did not excite me the way it should have done. Father’s words still hurt and resentment was taking its toll.

  It was hot and airless: I needed to get out. Besides, the thought of Thomas Warren’s threats still rang in my ears and I needed to check if Madame Merrick was properly insured. A re in the warehouse would ruin her, and if Father did not value me – or even pay me for that matter – then I was free to go when and where I liked.

  Without even glancing at the new timber, I crossed the yard. Tom and Mr Melhuish were deep in conversation, shackles of various sizes lying in piles around them. Tom saw me and smiled. Mr Melhuish nodded. I would have nodded back, but there was a playfulness in his glance of appraisal, his eyes lingering too long on my new gown. I was just about to turn my ba
ck when I saw his smile fade and a frown cross his face.

  Mr Calstock was walking towards me, a small packet held carefully in his hands. He was wearing a well-cut corduroy jacket and doeskin breeches, a simple cravat and the same tall hat. He bowed in greeting, the sun catching the light in his hair. ‘Good morning, Miss Pengelly, I hope I nd you well.’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Calstock,’ I said, smiling, suddenly very glad to see him.

  He, too, stood smiling. Nodding to the other two men, he held up the parcel he was carrying. ‘These are for you, Miss Pengelly – they’re sugar bonbons. I hope you like them.’

  The pouch was made of ne cream silk, tied with pink ribbon, and as he placed it in my hands, I felt a rush of almost child-like pleasure. ‘Sugar bonbons...for me, Mr Calstock?’

  ‘Sugar-coated almonds. They’re to say thank you for directing me to my new lodgings – your map was excellent and my room’s very comfortable. They’re meant for your desk, but I see you’re leaving. Can I have the pleasure of accompanying you somewhere, Miss Pengelly?’

  ‘I’m only going up those steps, Mr Calstock.’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to accompany you to the steps,’ he said, proffering his arm, ‘though I’d prefer it was further.’

  This was only the second time we had met, yet somehow I felt at ease with this handsome stranger who had rendered me such a service. I liked his eyes. I liked the way he looked at me. He was not pushy – just kind. He spoke and treated me with respect and his friendliness was refreshing. Compared to the way Mr Melhuish’s eyes had become so bold, I could not take exception to the way Mr Calstock smiled at me at all.

  Tom had worked wonders on Madame Merrick’s rickety steps. Elowyn had insisted Madame Merrick’s grand cus­tomers could easily fall and hurt themselves and Madame Merrick had taken heed, but even more impressive was the freshly painted red sign, gleaming above the door. Madame Merrick’s name was clearly displayed in large gold letters: underneath were those of her patrons – Lady April Cavendish, Miss Celia Cavendish and Lady Cavendish.

  I took a moment reading the colourful new sign before climbing the staircase, leaving Mr Calstock smiling up from the ground below. I was just about to say goodbye when a grand carriage came slowly across the yard, stopping right next to the steps below. Tom and Mr Melhuish immediately stopped their conversation, all of us watching the immaculately dressed footman dismount from the back and run quickly to the door to pull down the steps for the three ladies inside.

  First to emerge was Miss Celia Cavendish. Shaking the creases from her beautiful cream gown, she looked around, shading her eyes from the sun. Tom bowed very low, his awe plain to see and Mr Melhuish bowed likewise – though not so low. Celia Cavendish adjusted her bonnet and turned, briey acknowledging their greeting with a discreet nod, before looking up at the gleaming new sign, smiling as she saw her name.

  Miss Arbella Cavendish leant carefully out of the carriage with immediate effect on the watching men. Like moths to a ame. Her pale-lemon gown glowed in the sun, her blonde ringlets dancing as she turned back for her parasol. As she descended the steps, the footman’s pride at being hers to command showed clearly in his face. He danced her attendance, following her with his eyes as Mrs Jennings descended the coach unaided.

  They began climbing the steps to Madame Merrick’s, Morcum Calstock bowing deeply as they passed. He must have made an impact on Celia Cavendish as she stopped and glanced back in his direction, prompting him to bow again. She passed through the door, looking pointedly at my parcel, and raised her eyebrows, smiling a mischievous smile as the blood rushed to my cheeks. Mother and Elowyn came rushing forward and would have curtseyed had not Arbella Cavendish stumbled as she reached the top step.

  Gripping Mrs Jennings’ arm, she steadied herself against the door frame, looking so white, I thought she would faint. Mother must have thought so too. She came rushing over with a chair as Celia Cavendish and Mrs Jennings waved their fans to create some air. As her colour returned, she smiled faintly.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s the heat and the smell. I’ve never smelt anything so strong. It just made me feel ill, but I’m ne now.’ She was clearly struggling and, for a moment, I felt sorry for her. Did she know people were gossiping?

  Her fainting attack had certainly not surprised Mother or Elowyn. ‘I’m afraid it’s the pilchards, Miss Cavendish,’ said Mother kindly. ‘They’re pressing the sh – it’s the oil that smells and this hot weather’s making it worse. If it’s too much for you, we can take your gowns to the hall and do your ttings there.’

  Celia Cavendish ashed her impish smile. ‘Oh, Mrs Pengelly, don’t for a moment suggest that! What would we do if we didn’t have you to come and visit? Life at the hall can be very dreary – Arbella and I need diverting, and there’s nowhere more diverting than coming here.’ She glanced in the direction of an elaborate glass punch-bowl which stood in pride of place on the table. It was a very large punch-bowl, with eight glass dishes hanging delicately by their handles. The punch bowl was empty and Madame Merrick nowhere to be seen. ‘Are we too early?’ she continued. ‘I know we’re not expected for another hour but Aunt Martha has a fearful headache and Mamma needs the carriage. We’ve escaped on our own for a bit of excitement!’

  Crossing to the window, she looked down on the yard. Morcum Calstock had joined Tom and Mr Melhuish, and all three of them were sitting on the forge steps, drinking jugs of ale. Mrs Jennings frowned across at her.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Mrs Jennings, you know I don’t mean anything by that. It’s just we’ve been so cooped up lately and I’ve nished all my books.’ Elowyn stood gazing at Celia Cavendish and I could see she had taken a great liking to this grand lady with her hint of rebellion. ‘Miss Pengelly?’ Celia Cavendish turned her lively eyes to mine. ‘Where’s the circulating library? You do have books, as well as pilchards, in this little town of yours, I hope.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know if there’s a library – there may be one but I’ve never used it. I don’t read novels.’

  ‘You don’t read novels? Miss Pengelly – that can’t be true!’

  ‘No. I’ve never read a single novel.’

  Celia Cavendish’s eyes widened. She looked genuinely astonished. She glanced at her cousin, who, looking much recovered, shrugged her shoulders and smiled back. I resented the glance that passed between them and would have made my excuse and left, but Celia Cavendish turned straight back to me, her face suddenly serious. ‘Then you’re wiser than I thought, Miss Pengelly. Why waste your time reading novels when you’ve so much to occupy you?’ She coughed slightly and glanced out of the window. ‘Your life is already full of excitement. You’ve used your time far more sensibly and you lead a much more productive life because of it. Indeed, I envy you.’

  ‘Envy me, Miss Cavendish?’

  ‘Absolutely. You do accounts and keep books. You’re practical and sensible and you haven’t lled your head with romantic nonsense. Novels are all lies, Miss Pengelly. They peddle nonsense to us poor women who are silly enough to believe them. They do us no favours. What man do you know would fall on his knees to declare his undying love? And even if he did, what woman would be foolish enough to believe him?’ She spoke harshly, almost with bitterness.

  Mother glanced nervously at Mrs Jennings, who smiled eetingly. Elowyn looked stunned by the intimate turn the conversation was taking. Arbella Cavendish, however, leapt to her feet, her sickness quite recovered. ‘Cousin Celia – I’ll not have you be so cynical – of course such men exist.’ A beautiful pink blush was spreading across her cheeks. Her eyes were shining, her voice strong. ‘I can’t have you say that. Men do love – passionately and with undying devotion. You’re too hard on them.’ She watched our astonished faces and her blush deepened. There were tears in her eyes as her bottom lip began to tremble. ‘They do exist,’ she repeated more softly. ‘I’ve found such a man.’

  Celia Cavendish’s smile was full of
sadness. ‘Then I envy you, too, dear cousin. I would wish the same for all of us.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But one of us has to be a Countess and Mamma is counting on me marrying Viscount Vallenforth. I cannot, as yet, see any evidence of his undying devotion but I can live in hope. One day he may prefer me to his horses though I won’t hold my breath.’

  Her tone held such resignation that, for a moment, nobody moved. A ash of sadness crossed Mother’s face, then relief as she glanced out of the window. Madame Merrick had seen the carriage and was hurrying across the yard. ‘Madame Merrick will be that sorry to keep you waiting – she only went out to buy some—’

  ‘Some ingredients for the punch, Mrs Pengelly?’ interrupted Celia Cavendish, her usual high spirits returning. ‘I can’t tell you how much we’re looking forward to tasting some of Madame Merrick’s punch. Poor Aunt Martha will be so disappointed she didn’t come!’

  I could have enjoyed Celia Cavendish’s teasing. I could have enjoyed the irony that Madame Merrick had been out to buy inferior brandy when a bottle of her best cognac lay concealed in her bottom drawer – but all sense of fun had left me. All I could hear were empty words, echoing round my empty heart. We are like strangers, nothing more. There is nothing between us. I curtseyed to Celia Cavendish, wishing everyone a good day. I was not good company. I would go home and get under Jenna’s feet. Better still, I would curl up with Mr Pitt and eat my sugared almonds.

  As the ferry crossed the river, I sat in the bow, trailing my ngers through the water like I had done as a child. I would do that, or I would pretend to be a gurehead, standing with my hands behind my back, my chin held high, ploughing the waves on a journey to foreign lands. Whether it was the sugared almonds that made me think of my childhood, or the intimacy of the conversation we had just had, I found myself wishing for my sisters that lay buried in the churchyard.

  The conversation had unsettled me. I had never shared such intimacies before, always shunning the frivolity of feminine chatter. I had never had occasion to dress prettily: never been to an assembly, never read novels. There had been little laughter in my childhood, next to no teasing and no suppressed giggling. Everything had been so political and intense. I could see now, what a very lonely child I had been and what a sad life Mother had led.