Pengelly's Daughter (32 page)

Thomas Warren was no more than ve feet away and I felt my fear turn to panic. With my head down, I pushed forward, concealing myself as best I could, leaning forward to speak to the auctioneer.

‘Ten guineas for a worthless piece of land?' The auctioneer was clearly ustered. He looked down at his papers. ‘You've paid well over its value but who'm I to complain? I'll add my cut. What name?' He was hampered by poor light, the noise level rising, and he was getting cross. People were crushing against the table, knocking his papers, and beads of sweat were glistening on his brow. He seized the document he sought, reaching for his quill. A pair of glasses balanced on the end of his nose but he did not glance up, his eyes remaining xed on the parchment in front of him.

I pulled my hat lower and took a deep breath. ‘Sir James Polcarrow,' I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

‘Speak up, boy. You his steward?'

‘No, sir, but he sent me to learn the ropes.'

‘He should know better than send a boy to do a man's work. I'll get the deeds sent round tomorrow.' He cleared his throat, ‘If we could have quiet, please, gentlemen. The next piece of land's a lease and release on Bodmin Moor – a dwelling house with a messuage of twenty acres. Could we have the door shut? The rules of the candle auction clearly state no-one must leave or enter whilst the bidding is in progress. No draughts and no lights.'

I had only seconds to get out of the room. Diving low, I pushed my way through the astonished crowd, ignoring their angry rebukes, making frantically for the door. I grabbed the sleeve of the man holding the latch and squeezed through the narrowing gap. But even as I ran down the corridor, I could hear a volley of oaths behind me.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Y
ouths blocked the way to the front door so I turned quickly, stumbling down the ill-lit hall, ducking under the lintels as the passage narrowed. The footsteps behind me were growing louder and I knew my only chance would be to hide. I could smell malt and a low, vaulted room opened before me, a rush light casting shadows over the barrels stacked against the wall. I would squeeze behind the barrels. I looked around. The back door lay straight ahead of me, the handle within my grasp. I reached towards it and opened the door, a blast of icy air sending shivers down my spine. All at once, I was encased by a wall of fog, so thick, it was impossible to see my hands in front of my face.

‘Damn it, we'll lose him in this fog,' came a voice behind me.

‘It's a blind alley – she can't escape.'

‘She?'

‘Pengelly's daughter – Sir James's whore!' Thomas Warren was only feet from where I stood. He raised his voice, ‘There's nowhere to run, you conniving whore. Did you really think you'd get away with it?'

I fell to my hands and knees. Every seafaring person dreaded the fog which came from nowhere, wrecking ships and leaving children fatherless, yet now it might just save my life. But a blind alley? I crept slowly forward, keeping close to the side of the inn. The cobbles were wet, soiled by slops, empty barrels and sacks lying across my path. I knew I must not make a sound. Thomas Warren was thrashing the air behind me, his stick swiping at everything within his reach. A barrel crashed to the ground and rolled beside me.

‘Get the dogs – we'll ush her out like a vixen. Be quick, for God's sake – we need to get her back to the auction and expose her for the lying whore she is.' His voice turned in my direction, ‘Did you hear that, my beauty? The dogs know what they're about – they'll make short work of you.' He laughed as he struck a int, the glow barely visible through the solid fog. ‘But I like a chase,' he said, sucking on his pipe, ‘By God, I like a chase and when I catch you, I'll have you – see if I don't.'

I began inching across the yard, desperately trying to keep my bearings. I had no way of knowing which direction I was going – but for his voice, I could have been heading straight for him. The cobbles were rough and broken in places. I could not tell how far I crawled, perhaps twenty feet. Suddenly, my hand came up against a solid wall and I ran my hands quickly over the stones, standing up to explore how high they went. The wall stretched well beyond my reach and I knew it was the huge wall that encircled the Polcarrow estate. There would be no climbing it.

The sound of mufed barking was getting louder, the same petrifying sound I had heard when Jim had been chased. I remembered the size of the dogs as they lay drugged and began crawling faster along the damp stones. They were wet, slimy, covered with moss, and stinking of urine. The wall seemed to go on forever, but my hand knocked against something hard and my hopes soared – a huge barrel. I ran my hands round it. It seemed full, the lid securely fastened. I dug my huge boots against the iron rim, hoisting myself to the top and knelt precariously on the lid, clutching the rim.

The pipe glowed in my direction. ‘Give yourself up, you stupid bitch, before I turn angry – you won't like it when I'm angry.' There was the sound of loud hawking and spittle hitting the ground. ‘It's me or the dog – not that there's much difference – they say I'm a dog when my blood's up…'

Crouching on the barrel, I tried to calm my breathing. The air was freezing, the fog penetrating my jacket, but the chill I felt was fear. Steadying myself, I ran my hands against the wall, reaching high on my toes, stretching as far as I could. A part of the wall felt different – bumpy, even crumbly. Brick not stone. Part of an outhouse. My ngers made contact with the top of the wall and I knew I just needed a foothold.

I had no choice but to give away my position. The bricks were old and I dug at them, scratching with my nails. I began gouging out the mortar, hollowing out a patch until a small area began to crumble. I rocked the loosening brick, clawing with my ngers, gripping it with a strength born from desperation. It went crashing to the ground and I felt for the space. It was all I needed. I wedged my cumbersome boot into the gap and reached above me with all my strength. With one push I gripped the top of the wall and heaved myself up, my foot kicking over the hogshead, sending it clattering across the cobbles, the yard echoing with the sound of vicious barking.

‘She's behind the barrel – spread out, I want this bitch caught.'

Somehow, I steadied myself on top of the wall. It was no more than a foot across, the fog smothering me, making it hard to keep my balance. On one side Thomas Warren, on the other, the long drop to the Polcarrow estate where dogs roamed freely at night. The Polcarrow gatehouse would be to my left. To my right would be the churchyard.

Inch by painful inch, I felt my way along the narrow wall, stretching like a cat over the crenulations as they heeded my progress. Only when the barking faded, did I dare to stop, and only then did I realise I was shaking uncontrollably.

Chapter Forty

C
lose beside me the church clock struck ten. Across the graveyard the mist was lifting, the church just visible through the thinning fog. Hazy shapes swirled round the tombstones – the very essence of my childhood terrors, but I paid no heed. I was in far greater danger from the living.

Clutching the top of the wall, I lowered my legs and dropped to the ground, crouching behind a large tomb, listening from the shadows. A mule brayed in the distance and I heard hurried footsteps run towards the quay. These fogs could go as quickly as they came, but while it lasted, I stood a chance. I had to get home. I had to hide the clothes that would incriminate me.

As the fog thinned, the streets became busier. Keeping to the edge of the street, I skirted the houses, hiding in the shadows of the overhanging gables. An oil lamp half-lit the town quay, its suffused light trapped by the swirling mist. A brazier glowed red on the quayside and groups of people stood hunching their shoulders against the cold. I could not tell whether they were warming themselves, or waiting for the ferry, so I ducked into a doorway, concealing myself behind a crate. The crate was full of sh guts, its smell so appalling I had to ght the urge to retch.

Across the river mouth the hazy lights of Porthruan could just be seen; the splash of oars indicating the return of the ferry. The wharf dropped steeply to one side and with the town quay lling up with people, there was nowhere else to hide. I would stay where I was, crouching behind the stinking crate. If there was room in the ferry, I would leave my hiding place and make a dash before it pulled away.

A scent of tobacco came sifting through the air; the foul, pungent smell, mixing with the stench of sh guts. It was sickly-sweet, the fumes laced with vanilla and cinnamon. The exact smell, the same distinctive brand. I drew back, my heart thumping against my chest. It was coming from a doorway not four feet away. I had to think. I had to calm my terror. Running would draw too much attention. I would have to control the shaking in my legs and walk calmly back the way I had come.

A group of men were crossing the quay and I saw my chance. Pulling my hat low, I slipped from the doorway, falling silently into step as they walked towards the old jetty. The passage was dark and narrow, the wharf towering above me on one side, the river falling away to the other, but I kept pace, grateful one of them was holding a lantern. The noise of their footsteps made it hard to hear if I was being followed but, somehow, I resisted the temptation to look round.

‘Aye, 'tis clear enough – 'tis lifting.'

‘Aye, well – ‘till tomorrow then. Goodnight, Jack.'

One by one, they left the group to board their boats and I found myself alone on the creaking jetty. In places the wood was rotten, jagged gaps revealing the black sea beneath me. It was very slippery, the planks wet from the fog and I walked with care, not knowing where I was going. At the end of the jetty, I stopped, not believing my eyes. A small rowing boat was hitched to the rail, its oars still locked in place. The owner would only be gone for a short while and I stared at the small boat, knowing I had little time to decide. I could swim or I could row. I had never swum the river before, but neither had I ever stolen a boat.

With the fog thinning, I could hesitate no longer. I untied the painter and pushed the boat into the calm black water. As I grabbed the oars, salt stung my hands. I had not noticed the grazes before, or the blood that covered my ngers. With the rst stroke, I steadied the boat. With the second I turned. With the third, I pulled clear of the jetty. With the fourth, I headed for home.

My feet ew along the cliff path as my mind raced. I would have to warn Sir James Thomas Warren could not be trusted. First thing in the morning, I would tell him about the auction and warn him of my suspicions. High on the cliff top, I breathed the salt-laden air. The fog had all but lifted, dispersed by the soft breeze now blowing across the sea. The sky was cloudless, the moon and stars bright above me. I stared at the huge moon, with its knowing face, the ache tightening around my heart. But I would be safe soon, the cottage lay ahead of me, only fty yards further and I would be safe. I opened the back gate.

I saw a movement in the shadows. A huge man loomed at me, lunging through the darkness and I screamed in terror.

‘It's Miss Pengelly,' said a voice as strong arms reached out to steady me. ‘Are ye alright, Miss Pengelly?' His voice was familiar but I could not place it.

‘No, she's not alright. She looks terrible,' said Jenna, rush­ing to my side. ‘She looks t to drop – quick get her in.'

I was shaking, my legs barely able to walk as they helped me through the door. I was clutching Joseph Dunn, but somehow I could not let him go. I clung to him, my whole body trembling. ‘I'm sorry,' I said at last, ‘it's just…I'm so glad to see you.'

‘Ye're as white as a ghost,' said Jenna, taking off my hat and freeing my collar.

‘I'm ne, really I am…don't wake Mother.'

‘She's not here – with all that fog and Mr Pengelly being in Mevagissey, Mrs Munroe persuaded her to stay at Coombe House – we're alone.'

Joseph Dunn lit a candle and for the rst time I caught a proper look at him. He was a huge lad – that was for certain. His hair was cut shorter than I remembered and stubble shadowed his chin. He had a pleasant face, covered with freckles and eyes that lit up when he smiled. He was smiling at me now, the same respectful smile that had made me warm to him before. His shirt was unbuttoned, his chest exposed, and a vast expanse of nely worked muscles clearly visible beneath his loosened garment. He must have seen my look of surprise, as the next moment he turned his back, hurrying to restore some order.

Jenna was not wearing her cap; her luscious blonde curls foaming in abandon around her. Nor was she wearing a chu and her soft shoulders shimmered in the ickering candlelight. The top of her bodice was undone. Indeed, the top ve eyelets gaped open, the soft curve of her beautiful bosom rising invitingly from beneath the lace. She saw my gaze and hastily tightened her laces.