Pengelly's Daughter (13 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday 30th June 1793 11:30 a.m.

A
steady grey drizzle was falling against the window. I could hear church bells ringing across the river. Burying my head under the covers, I had no intention of getting up. Mother had come into my room before she had left for church, but with no will to face her, I had lain pretending to be asleep. Jenna's bucket was clattering above the clucking of the hens and I could hear her talking to Mrs Tregony over the yard wall. There would be a lot of chattering going on out there, that was for certain.

All night I had re-lived the violence of Jim's actions, the harshness of his grip, the pain in my wrists as he bound me with his rope. I could not get Ben's stricken face out of my mind, but what hurt me most was why Jim had not explained his plan to me. Why had he caught me so unaware and used me so violently? I had trusted him and he had not trusted me in return. Somehow that made it worse.

Jenna was making her way slowly up the stairs. She entered my room, a steaming bowl of soup balancing on a large tray. Putting it on the oor, she began ufng up my pillows.

‘I'm not hungry, Jenna.'

‘Have just a bit.'

‘I can't face it,' I said, lying back against the pillows.

‘Ye must have something or ye'll fade away.' She crossed the room and opened the window. Immediately she clapped her hands. ‘Shooo…Go away – that's hens' food not yers. Honest to God, that black and white tom's getting that bold ye'd think he lives here.'

‘That's because you encourage him.'

‘I don't.'

‘Yes you do. I've seen the scraps you leave for him.'

‘Well, he's that hungry, poor mite.' She frowned across at me. ‘Try some at least. This'll pass – and soon there'll be no more tongue-wagging.' She started busying herself with my clothes, brushing the dust off my red dress. I hated that dress now: it felt so tainted.

‘What are they saying? The truth, please, Jenna.'

‘They do say the drovers saw it all. They do say the highwayman tried to rob ye with a pistol and threatened ye…but ye put up such a ght – screaming and thrashing, but ye wouldn't give him yer money. They do say…' Jenna stopped, biting her lips.

‘What do they say?'

‘They say the highwayman was that overcome with yer beauty that he…'

‘What?'

‘He was going to ravish ye…and 'twas only because the gaol coach came he couldn't…and he was that cross with them, he let the prisoner go. There, ye asked, I told.'

‘Then my reputation's in tatters and I won't be able to face the town.'

‘Yer reputation ain't in tatters – I may not be as clever as ye, but I know that for sure. There's talk ye put up a real ght.'

‘Yes, but it won't be long before they're saying I should never have gone in the rst place and I was asking for trouble.'

‘Maybe, maybe not – it don't matter. Drink yer broth, it'll give ye strength. And ye can't stay here all day…Ye're going to have to get out of that bed and face the gossip. We'll take no heed of what people say.'

She stood ready to defend me, standing so ercely, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands on hips. Suddenly, I realised how much I loved her, how much Mother and I depended on her. For so many years, I had taken her for granted, yet now I could not imagine life without her.

‘Jenna, it won't always be like this,' I said, my voice breaking. ‘One day I'll make it up to you. I'll make sure you're alright. One day you'll have your own cottage and a whole brood of children and chickens and as many cats as you can t in the yard. You deserve so much better – I don't know why you stay with us.'

She sat on the bed, a slow smile crossing her face. ‘I'll want a proper bed, mind, not one like this one,' she said, prodding the mattress. ‘And a proper stove – not one that goes out all the time…one like Mrs Munroe's at Coombe House and I'll want a copper pan and kettle and a table…and a big rocking chair and I'll want me own pump…'

‘Steady on, Jenna, I won't be made of money.'

‘Then drink that broth and let me get on with yer hair.'

Jenna was right. There was nothing to do but to face the sniggers and judgemental looks, the raised eyebrows and nudges. I had done it before and survived and I would just have to do it again. I always left owers on Father's grave on Sunday, so today would be no exception. Besides, the walk to Porthruan church was only a mile and the fresh air would clear my head.

The day was mizzling with overcast skies and a damp fog blanketing the cliffs. I decided on my warmer brown dress and my largest bonnet. Wrapping my shawl tightly round me, I headed for the church. Jim's plan had worked well, there was no denying that. He had freed the prisoner, both of them had escaped, and the men building the enclosures had given exactly the account he wanted. He had been clever, very clever.

But what was unforgivable was the way he had not conded in me. He should have warned me rst. He should have told me what he intended to do and I would never have taken Ben. He had used me cruelly, with no regard for my safety or reputation, and he had left me to my fate. I would never forgive him. Without Joseph Dunn, anything could have happened.

The lane was no more than a grassy track. Pools of water had gathered in the ruts and droplets of rain still clung to the ox-eyed daisies as I picked them into a neat bunch. At the wicket gate, my heart sank. There must have been a lot of people at church that morning as the path was a well-churned quagmire. My shoes were already covered with mud, the hem of my dress already soiled and, reluctant to make matters worse, I thought I might just as well try the path that cut through the churchyard a little further up the lane – after all, it could not be any worse.

The short distance accomplished, I turned inwards, making my way through the dripping overgrowth, a damp, heavy scent lling the air. This part of the churchyard was always full of birds and today was no exception. It was always peaceful here. It was where my grandparents and great-grandparents lay buried and where we had laid Father. It was also where, one by one, we had buried my brothers and sisters. It always saddened me to see their names on the tombstone, the span of their short lives measured in hours and days. As a child I used to run my ngers over their names, trying to touch something of them, feeling guilty only I had survived. I will always feel regret for the brothers and sisters I might have had.

The square tower of the church was directly ahead, the path leading to the porch no more than ten feet away. I would seek shelter for a while. Crossing the path, my eyes were immediately drawn to two men, half hidden between the porch and the buttress. They were deep in conversation, their backs towards me. Instantly, I recognised them both and ducked behind a large tomb, holding my breath. Mr Tregellas was talking to a man whose bulky gure I would never forget – Mr Sulio Denville.

I hardly dared move. I crouched where I was, my cheek brushing against wet lichen as I watched the two men responsible for my father's downfall. Sulio Denville's huge frame was barely contained in his blue jacket. He was short, thick-set, in his late fties. He wore the hat of a ship's master, his head beneath it shaven. Large, bushy eyebrows sliced angrily across his forehead, his chin covered by an untidy grey beard. I sank back, leaning against the tomb, ghting to stay calm.

Jim must be dead. He must be lying in a ditch, strangled by those huge hands. Sulio Denville's neck was like a tree trunk, his arms like hams – no-one could better him in a ght. Jim must be dead, this was worse than ever. Without Jim, I had no evidence. No proof against them. The slightest movement made me look round. I could just make out the eeting shape of a man running across the churchyard, ducking behind the gravestones in an effort to remain undetected. He ran quickly, his sure-footed agility making him tread without sound.

‘I didn't expect you'd be so glad to see me,' Jim whispered as he threw himself beside me.

‘I'm not glad to see you, I'm just glad you're not dead. And if you didn't still have the ledgers, I'd never want to see you again.'

‘It was the only way, Rose. I know I've lost your good opinion, but it had to look real.'

‘I'll never forgive you – never. Not after what you did to Ben.'

‘I didn't know you were bringing a simpleton.'

‘He's not a simpleton, he's my friend. He's harmless and there was no need to be so cruel.' He looked tired, his stubble rough, his hair unkempt. I saw his jaw stiffen and his mouth tighten. I looked away. This was only the second time I had seen him in daylight and what I saw did nothing to dispel my unease. There was something forbidding about this man. For a brief, unwanted second I remembered the touch of his hands against my breast. ‘So Sulio Denville gave you the slip, did he?'

‘Captain Denville, if you notice – he's ship's master now.'

‘I don't see how that's possible.'

‘Sulio Denville wasn't our prisoner, Rose.'

‘Oh, that's just what I needed to hear. You've just ruined my reputation and scared Ben witless – all for nothing. Great plan!'

‘Somehow I knew you'd say that.' He smiled.

‘How can you smile when you used me so badly and left me to the mercy of those men?'

‘I didn't leave you to their mercy.' His face was serious again. ‘I knew you'd be safe with Joseph. He's known throughout Cornwall for his wrestling skills – he's a champion.'

‘You sent Joseph? I don't believe you. I think you're just trying to make me think less badly of you.'

‘You can think what you like, but we've no time to argue. I've been following Mr Tregellas all morning and he's led me straight to the man we seek. Captain Sulio may not be our prisoner but we've found him at last. He looks well, don't you think?' He raised his eyebrow, the small scar disappearing into the creases of his forehead. ‘But then, the proceeds of the black market make most men prosperous – with a fast cutter at his disposal, he can out sail the Revenue.'

‘Of course! How stupid of me – he's master of
L'Aigrette
, after all.'

‘Yes, an' I'm certain she'll be anchored up one of these creeks, concealed by the mist. If I follow him, I'll have a good chance of nding where they're hiding her.' He edged forward, peering round the side of the tomb.

They were still talking, standing under the overhang of the buttress. Sulio Denville was walking backwards and forwards like a caged bear, impatiently shrugging his shoulders, the frown deepening on his already thunderous face. It was obvious they were engrossed in a conversation that pleased neither of them.

I noticed Jim looking at me, his smile briey returning. ‘I'm surprised you've not asked about the prisoner you helped release,' he whispered.

‘I'm sure he was very grateful – grateful and surprised!'

‘The poor man was in a terrible state, wracked by coughing an' very weak. He's riddled with lice, covered in sores and as light as a feather when I carried him to safety.'

‘Poor man.'

‘It took me a long time to cut through his chains an' wash away the prison lth. He was hungry an' confused, sleeping tfully, often crying out, but by daybreak he seemed much stronger an' even spoke his name.'

‘You tended him all night?'

‘Of course – I could never leave anyone in that state.' I was surprised to see Jim's face soften. His eyes looked surprisingly tender. Lifting his hand, he placed a nger against my lips, ignoring my glare. ‘What I'm about to say will shock you – really shock you, but you must make no sound. No sudden cry. I hoped to tell you this when we were far from anyone, but we haven't time – remember, don't make a sound.' I nodded and he edged closer. ‘The man we saved was no ordinary prisoner. He's your father, Rose – Pascoe Pengelly.'

His words seemed to suck all breath from me. Father alive? I felt giddy, faint, barely able to take it in. Father was alive. The churchyard began whirling round me and I must have cried out for Jim's hand closed quickly over my mouth. He held me gently against his shoulder while I fought to regain my senses. Father was alive. I felt weak as a kitten, my heart racing.

Jim kept hold of me, whispering into my ear, my shock so great I could hardly hear him. ‘Tregellas didn't want to risk an investigation, or a chance your father's debt could be cleared, so they told everyone he'd died. They swapped him with a prisoner who'd died of gaol fever, burying him in your father's place. Believe me, Rose, there's as much corruption in gaol as anything found outside. The guards knew the fever to be rife and your father would die soon enough. All they had to do was keep their mouths shut, call him by the other name and claim brain fever was addling his wits.'