Pengelly's Daughter E-Book

Nicola Pryce

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A stunning eighteenth-century Cornish romance, perfect for fans of Poldark! Cornwall: 1793. Rose Pengelly's father has been ruined - he has lost his boat yard and his fortune, plunging Rose and her mother into poverty and debt. There appears to be only one way out of their terrible circumstances; for Rose to marry Mr Tregellas, a powerful timber merchant and the man Rose believes is responsible for her father's downfall. He has made his terms clear; either she marries him or faces homelessness and destitution. Desperate, Rose sets out to find evidence of Mr Tregellas's wrongdoing. In her search, she encounters a mysterious young sailor called Jim, who refuses to disclose his identity. Even as she falls in love with him, she questions who he really is. He may help her restore her fortune and her good name, but does he ever tell her the truth?

Leseprobe

Pengelly’s Daughter

NICOLA PRYCE trained as a chemotherapy nurse before completing an Open University degree in Humanities. She is a qualified adult literacy support volunteer and lives with her husband in the Blackdown Hills in Somerset. Together they sail the south coast of Cornwall in search of adventure.

For my husband Damian:my very own Jim.

Contents

Family Tree

Rising Tide

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

High Water

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Ebb Tide

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Acknowledgements

‘The tide rises, the tide falls,The twilight darkens, the curlew calls.’

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Rising Tide

Chapter One

Porthruan

Monday 24th June 1793

‘No, Mother. Never! I’d rather salt pilchards all my life than marry that man. Mr Tregellas is corrupt and dangerous. I’m sure he tricked Father into bankruptcy…and you expect me to marry him?’

Flinching from my tone, Mother avoided my eyes. She had changed so much in the last year. Always so proud and hardworking, she was now fragile as a sparrow; her dress, with its invisible mending and reworked seams, drab and worn. She had aged, too, for her forty-five years. But it was her expression of resignation that frightened me – she was like a spring with no recoil.

‘We can make do,’ I said more gently, guilty I had shouted so fiercely. ‘My bookkeeping’s bringing in some money and your sewing’s paying the rent. We’re managing well enough – we can go on as we are. There’s no need for me to marry – least of all William Tregellas!’

Despite the warmth of the June sun shining so brilliantly outside, the parlour was cold and musty, the small, leaded window seeming to block, rather than admit any light. It was sparse and cheerless with dark patches of damp showing brown against the lime-washed walls. Two high-backed chairs faced the empty grate and a dresser stood crammed against the wall. I knelt by Mother’s feet, taking hold of both her hands. They were worn and rough, her fingertips reddened by excessive sewing. ‘I’ll take care of you, Mother – we’ll be alright.’

‘I wish it was that easy,’ she said. ‘Since your father died, Mr Tregellas’s been very kind to us. We couldn’t get Poor Relief and I didn’t know what would become of us.’ She began fumbling for her handkerchief. ‘I told you Mrs Cousins let us have this cottage cheap, but it wasn’t true.’ She held her handkerchief against her mouth, as if to stop her words.

‘Don’t tell me Mr Tregellas’s been paying our rent! Don’t tell me you’ve accepted money from that man!’

Her shoulders sagged. ‘I thought ’twould only be for a short while…’ She hesitated, as if too scared to go on, ‘…but that’s not all. There was no public gift for your father’s burial – Mr Tregellas paid for it all.’

‘Mother, no!’

‘What else could I do?’ The tears she was holding back now began to flow freely. ‘Would you have your father rot with vagabonds? Lie alongside some stranger in a pauper’s grave? What choice did I have? Mr Tregellas is a kind man and he’s been good to us – he wants to help but you’re too set against him to see any good in him. And…’ Her voice turned strangely flat, ‘…over the past year, he’s grown that fond of you…and he doesn’t want to wait any longer.’

I felt dizzy, sick, the walls of the room crushing against me as the unpalatable truth began to dawn: I was being bought by one and sold by the other, as surely as if I was a slave on the market block. ‘What arrangements have you made, Mother? I take it you have made arrangements?’

My fury made Mother wince. ‘Rosehannon, think what he’s offering – a position in society, a steady income…servants. He’s a respectable timber merchant and he’s that taken with you – it would secure your future.’ Her face took on a look of longing. ‘And we’d go back to Coombe House – to where your father always wanted us to live – instead of scratching a living in this damp cottage. Your father would want that.’

‘Father? Approve of me marrying the man who cheated him?’ I could not believe my ears. I missed Father desperately and needed his counsel so badly. Mr Tregellas had been manipulating Mother, I could see that now. He had been drawing her in like a fish on a line until he could land his catch – only, I was the catch. Bile rose in my throat. ‘Perhaps you should marry him, Mother – after all, he’s nearer your age than mine!’

‘You know very well it’s not an older woman he wants.’

‘He disgusts me and I’ll not marry him. And that’s all there is to it.’ I lifted my skirts, striding angrily to the door.

Mother’s voice followed me across the room. ‘That’s not quite all there is to it,’ she said slowly. ‘He’s given us until your twenty-first birthday – then he wants his answer…or he’ll call in his loan.’

‘But that’s in three weeks’ time!’

‘I know,’ she said, staring at the empty grate.

I thought I would faint. The room was spinning round me, pressing in on me. I needed to breathe the air that gave me courage. I am born of Cornwall, born from generations of fishermen and boat-builders. The wind is my breath – the sea is my blood. I draw my strength from the remorseless gales that lash our coast, the waves that pound our rocks, the gulls that scream, the wind that howls. I needed to escape the close confines of that hateful cottage.

The door to the scullery was open. Wiping her hands on her apron, Jenna left the dough she was making, following me out to the sunshine. She had heard everything, of course. No need to press her ear against the crack in the parlour door, for we had spoken loudly enough. Strands of blonde hair were escaping from under her mobcap and flour dusted her cheeks. With eyebrows raised and mouth pursed, she whistled in disbelief.

‘What?’ I said, pushing past her, scattering the hens in my anger.

‘Will ye marry Mr Tregellas?’

‘No! Of course not!’

She took my arm, leading me across the yard. The stone step behind the back gate was far enough away, but near enough if Mother wanted either of us. Over the last year we had found ourselves sitting on it, more often than not, and it had borne witness to our growing friendship. Instinctively we made our way there, the warmth of the sun beginning to take the chill from my heart. ‘Here,’ she whispered, her hand diving under her apron, ‘these might help.’

Her dimples deepened. Wrapped inside a cloth were two apple dumplings. She handed me one and without another word, I took a bite. It was delicious – the suet light and fluffy, the apple juicy and tart. Licking our fingers, we leant against the gate, gazing across the grass to the cliff’s edge. A soft sea breeze blew against our faces, rippling the grass in front of us. Behind us, our neighbour’s gate began banging on its last hinge.

Jenna was three years my junior and had been our maid for seven years. I’m sure she only stayed with us because she held Mother in such high esteem. We hardly paid her and the fact she remained with us was a miracle as anyone else would have left long ago.

‘It’s a trap, Jenna. Nothing but a trap.’

‘Then ye have to find someone else.’

Her words annoyed me. ‘Why? Why’s marriage the only answer? Why should my future depend on marriage?’

‘Ye must marry…and quick too…’ Her voice became coaxing, her eyes pleading. ‘With yer looks, ye could get any man ye want. Ye just needs smile…flatter them…pretend to be stupid.’

‘I don’t see why I should pretend to be stupid just to please someone who is.’

Reproach crept into her voice. ‘Have ye never wondered why ye’ve so few admirers? They’re that scared of ye – that’s why. Yer politics and wild thoughts do scare them off. Ye’re beautiful and clever but ye must let go yer anger – honest, ye’d get anyone. Men are simple creatures, for all their wealth and position. Any woman can get a man…’

‘Yes. As long as she isn’t fussy!’

Jenna’s frown deepened. Glancing up at the sky, she peered over to the next-door yard. ‘That wind’s freshening – I’ll see to Mrs Tregony’s wash. Her pains have started and she’ll not get that lot in.’

The south-westerly was indeed picking up, wispy mares’ tails blowing across the sky with a speed that heralded a storm. The clothes were already flapping on the line. Where was I to find enough money to repay our debt? My bookkeeping was too sporadic, Mother’s new job would not pay enough and we could expect no credit – that was for certain. Mr Tregellas had been Father’s main creditor. In lieu of payment, he had been handed our old house, handed the lease of Father’s boatyard, and had stepped straight into Father’s shoes. Just like that. He had everything. Absolutely everything. Let go my anger? Jenna had no idea.

Everything about Mr Tregellas screamed treachery. I had no evidence, I just knew him to be scheming – his trap for Mother proof enough of that. I tried to think rationally. I knew I needed to discredit him, but what could I do? What would a man do? I needed evidence he cheated Father, anything at all that would hold up in court and free us from this debt.

Jenna began unpegging Mrs Tregony’s washing, her apron blowing in the wind. ‘They do say at Coombe House Mr Tregellas keeps everything ship-shape – not like yer father, bless his soul. His papers were always a terrible muddle, but Mrs Munroe says Mr Tregellas keeps everything in neat, tidy piles. She do say…’ Her words were lost as she turned her back, but I was no longer listening. My mind was whirling. She had folded Mr Tregony’s clothes and an idea was beginning to take shape.

If I disguised myself as a man, I could row across the river, walk unhindered through the streets of Fosse and break into our old house. I would search the study. Any proof, no matter how small, must surely be concealed among all those neat piles. I knew the house like the back of my hand and I knew Father’s old study better than anywhere.

‘Jenna, go to your mother and pick up a set of your brother’s clothes – anything you can get hold of. Quickly, before he gets back from the fields.’

Jenna’s hands went straight to her hips. Swinging round, she faced me with that look I knew so well. ‘Why’d I do that?’ she said.

‘Because I say so…and don’t tell anyone.’

‘Why’d you want me brother’s clothes?’

‘Just get them, Jenna. Please?’

We had lived in Porthruan for over a year. Our cottage was one of a row of houses rising steeply from the harbour’s edge. For nearly sixty years, their thick stone walls and slate roofs had huddled together, resolutely defying the vagaries of our weather. I hated the damp, the smell of rot, but at least the upstairs room was divided in two and I had to be grateful for that. I pressed my ear against the wooden partition separating our rooms and could just make out Mother’s steady breathing. She was asleep.

It was past eleven o’clock. I was dressed carefully. My borrowed clothes chafed my legs and the heavy boots were several sizes too big, but glancing in the mirror, I felt reassured. With my height in my favour and my hair pinned beneath the cap, I would pass very well for a man. The house was quiet, the dark night perfect for concealment. Too many eyes would be watching the road so I would skirt the back of the cottages and take the cliff path.

I crossed the yard, quietly shutting the gate. The clouds were black and heavy with rain, the wind fiercer than I thought. It seemed so much further in the dark and even knowing the path as well as I did, it was hard not to stumble in the pitch black.

Down to my left, the sea pounded the rocks. Across the river mouth, the lights of Fosse glowed in the dark. Lanterns burnt on the ships in the harbour and I could just make out the distinctive rig of HMS Thistle which had put in to port for minor repairs. My stomach tightened. Our yard should have been doing those repairs – not Nickels. Father had fought the Corporation tooth and nail for that commission, but now Nickels had our contract, William Tregellas had our yard, and Father lay dead in his grave.

The wind was whipping my coat, tugging my collar. I hunched against its force, jamming my cap further down my forehead, my sense of disappointment deepening with every step. I knew I ought to turn back. It would be madness to row the river in such a gale, yet to turn back would be to give up too easily. Besides, if I could only get Father’s boat from its hiding place, I would, at least, have accomplished something. The cliff fell steeply to my left with little, or no, protection but my eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark and I began to feel more confident. To stay safe, I would keep close to the hedge.

The path began to narrow, thorns catching on my jacket. A weathered oak, struck more than once by lightning and blown eastward by the prevailing wind, loomed in front of me, obscuring the path. In daylight the exposed roots were never a problem, but at night they snaked in front of me in uneven coils and I slowed my pace, choosing my steps with greater care.

From out of nowhere, my arm was grabbed from behind, my elbow wrenched forcibly against my back. I tried to twist, pull away, but a searing pain shot up my arm, stopping me in my tracks. I could not break free. Someone was jolting me forward, his fierce grip pushing me towards the tree. Almost at once I was forced against the trunk, my cheek pressing painfully against the rough bark. ‘Thought you’d catch me?’ whispered a voice in my ear.

‘Let me go!’ I yelled, my arm burning.

‘You’re going nowhere – not ’til you say who sent you.’ The power of his hold left no doubt of my captor’s strength. The more I struggled, the firmer I was held.

‘Nobody sent me. Let me go, you’re hurting me.’

His grip loosened. He spun me round, once more pinning my arms behind my back. The clouds thinned and a shaft of moonlight lit the darkness. The steel of his dagger glinted in the half-light and I held my breath, too petrified to move. ‘Not quite what you seem,’ he said, the tip of his dagger slowly sliding under my cap. ‘Calm your terror. I’ll not hurt you an’ I’d not have frightened you had I known you’re a woman.’ He flicked his dagger and my cap flew to the ground. Released from its hold, my hair cascaded round my shoulders.

Once again black clouds plunged us into darkness, but not before I had seen he was a sailor. His waistcoat and breeches were dark, his boots muddied. He was wearing a loose-sleeved shirt which filled in the wind. Around his head he wore a scarf, fastened in a knot. Hanging from his belt was a leather pouch. He let go of my arm and, relieved to be free, I turned to face the wind, hoping to bring some order to my hair.

From the direction of the river mouth, I caught the sound of angry shouts and dogs barking. The barking was vicious, the shouts instinctively dangerous, full of menace. My assailant had heard them too. He stood straining his ears in the direction of the sound.

‘They’ve caught my trail! Go – afore the dogs get here. They’re ferocious beasts an’ their blood’s up – they’ll attack on sight. Run!’ His voice was low, urgent.

Turning his back, he reached into the base of the tree and I could just make out a coil of rope hidden among the gnarled roots. He secured one end to a sturdy root and I watched him pick up the coil and start edging towards the cliff, clearly intending to tie the rope around the tree. This was madness. I knew the tree well. Recent landslips had left the roots dangerously exposed, the ground was loose, the drop perilously steep. If he slipped, he would fall to certain death.

The men’s voices were getting louder, more distinct. They sounded as if they were already at the blockhouse, heading up the cliff path and would soon reach the top. I knew I should run but something held me back. The sailor must be fleeing from the navy, or escaping the king’s shilling. Perhaps he had been caught smuggling. Either way, I baulked at the flogging that awaited him. I had no faith in the justice of our system, but even less faith in the justice of an angry mob. And who was I to judge him guilty?

‘Stop!’ I shouted, peering at him through the darkness.

‘I told you to go – those dogs’ll tear you apart.’

‘No. Wait!’ I had to shout as the wind was blowing my words away. ‘It’s too dangerous to go round that side. The cliff’s loose – the ground will give way. Stay there. Wait for me. I’ll catch the rope. You can throw it to me.’

I worked my way round the tree until I was opposite him. The wind caught my hair, rain streaked my face. Down to my left, waves crashed against the rocks but I saw little in the darkness. ‘Ready!’ I said. He threw the rope. I heard it lash against the tree but could not reach it. ‘Throw it again,’ I shouted. I heard a thud and grabbed. The rope was rough and slippery but I gripped it firmly, pulling it securely against my chest.

Quick as lightning, he was at my side. With the rope round the trunk, he took hold of the end, twisting it into a bowline with strong, swift movements, pulling it firmly to test its strength. There was no doubt it would hold his weight. The voices were getting louder, the lanterns swaying to the rhythm of people running fast. The dogs would be ahead of them and soon approaching but I stood, too appalled to run. I could not believe the sailor was about to descend the cliff.

‘Go! For the love of God, go!’ he commanded. ‘Take the path so your scent mixes with other trails. Run! It’s my trail they’re following – the dogs should stop. But run, don’t stop!’

A wave of fear brought me to my senses and I stumbled blindly through the darkness, my cumbersome boots causing me to trip. As I picked myself up, a shaft of moonlight shone through the parted clouds and I glanced back, bracing myself to see the sailor begin his dangerous descent. He had not moved. He was crouching on the ground, watching me, his black eyes staring into mine. Our eyes locked in an unsmiling stare.

The barking was getting louder. I ran like never before, running in terror of the dogs, brushing against the thorns with no thought but to reach the safety of the cottage. In the yard, I stood with my back against the closed door, gasping for breath. The house was quiet, Mother and Jenna still undisturbed. As I climbed the stairs, my legs seemed like jelly beneath me. I was safe but, even so, when I pulled the bedclothes round me, my heart was still pounding.

I could not settle. The look in those black eyes kept filling my mind.

Chapter Two

Tuesday 25th June 1793

Dawn broke at five. As usual, the same two cockerels vied to rouse the town. Joseph Williams was already stoking the fires in the bakehouse and, down by the harbour, an oxen cart was rumbling over the cobbles. The dairy herd would soon be gathering outside my window, but worse than that, Mrs Tregony’s baby had been born during the night and the cries of her newborn infant filtered through the adjoining wall. Ducking under the bedclothes, I pulled the pillow firmly over my head.

The night had passed in bursts of terrifying dreams. One moment I was being chased by dogs, the next I was watching the sailor dangling over the cliff, his pursuers poised to cut the lifeline that held him hanging above the rocks. I could hardly distinguish the dreams from the truth. But whether he had survived, or was floating head down in the sea, was no longer my concern. I had enough problems of my own.

There would be no more sleep. The cries from next door sounded like the cries of a baby who would survive and I knew Mother would be lying awake, reliving the heartache of her lost hopes, remembering the awful silences as she cradled yet another lifeless baby in her arms. Jenna knew it too. I heard her close the latch to Mother’s door.

As she entered my room, her usual, cheerful greeting died on her lips. ‘Jigger me,’ she cried, staring at her brother’s clothes lying in a heap on the floor.

‘Jenna! Don’t speak so coarsely – and not so loudly.’

‘I’ve a mind to speak more plain than that! How did them clothes get like that?’ She held up the sodden, mud-bespattered clothes, glaring at me across the room. ‘And what’s happened to yer hair?’

‘What you don’t know, you can’t fret about.’

‘Not fret? It’ll take all morning doing yer hair and all afternoon washing them clothes…and you tell me not to fret?’

She pursed her lips and began tugging at my tangled hair with more force than usual. Wincing, I said nothing – I was too busy thinking. I needed to find out exactly how much money we owed Mr Tregellas and while Mother was at work, I would take the opportunity to go through the bills and accounts. But as the day wore on, and the heat of the sun filled the yard, I began to feel listless, unable to concentrate. It was as if some magnet was pulling me back to the tree, compelling me to retrace my steps of the night before.

I could bear it no longer. I slipped out of the backyard, cutting quickly across the grassy cliff-top. Not a breath of wind blew. No one was about. Only four sheep watched me push through the swathes of flowers burning under the midday sun. Yet despite the beauty and the butterflies dancing around me, the bitter taste of injustice soured my enjoyment. This was common land, used for generations by the people of Porthruan, but it belonged to the Pendenning Estate and was soon to be enclosed. Fences were already appearing. Sir Charles Cavendish had bought the great hall with its vast estate, seven years ago. He had evicted tenants, Jenna’s family among them, created a vast park, and had returned to London as our Member of Parliament. He had never been seen since. How could that be right? How could one man own everything when so many people had nothing?

Skylarks were singing above me, their song filling the air. Crossing the stile, I climbed the cliff path, the sun hot against my skin. I was wearing my green cotton dress, the lightest of my three dresses. It used to be my favourite, but now I was ashamed it was wearing so thin. Even with Jenna’s care, the lace at my elbow was greying, the black stitching on the bodice faded and dull. Checking to make sure only the sheep were watching, I stripped off my fichu, removed my bonnet and despite Jenna’s dire warnings, shook my hair free from its hold. It felt wonderful to be so unconfined.

Only the faintest breeze blew. There was no sign of the storm that had lashed the cliffs the night before. It was peaceful and still. Waves lapped the rocks and sunlight glinted on the sea, like thousands of glass shards. I shaded my eyes, scanning the horizon, skimming the water’s edge for a lifeless body. Drawing closer to the tree, I began searching the ground, hoping not to find signs of a struggle. Nothing seemed untoward. There was no rope round the trunk, no blood stains, nothing – just a mass of muddy footprints, their indentations still damp in the shadows beneath the overhanging branches.

Relieved, I edged round the tree, making my way to the place where I had caught the rope. The shade was so dark I saw nothing at first, but as I looked closer I saw something on the ground and caught my breath, my heart beginning to race. A beautiful red rose was lying where I had knelt the night before and my hands began to tremble as I picked it up. Breathing in its heady fragrance, I brushed it against my face, feeling the velvet softness of the petals against my lips. The scent was intoxicating, dangerous, yet the very danger seemed exciting, sending frissons of pleasure tingling through my body.

I began smiling at the audacity of the sailor. But as I held the rose, I noticed the thorns had been removed by a knife and a vision of his dagger flashed through my mind. The sailor was a violent and desperate man, and I, Rosehannon Pengelly, clever, articulate and well educated, should know better than to be beguiled by a rose from such a man.

Above me, a rustle in the leaves caught my attention and I glanced up to the overhanging branch. I jumped in fright. Through the dappled light, I saw the dark shape of the sailor standing in the tree. He was watching me. ‘You’re quite safe – I’ve no dagger this time,’ he said, landing a few paces in front of me, his tall frame towering above me.

A shaft of sunlight shone on his white shirt. It was unbuttoned at the neck and loosely tucked into his breeches. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. He was younger than I thought, probably late twenties. Around his neck was a red scarf. His face was coarsened by the sun, his chin unshaven, a small scar visible on his forehead. His hair was black, his brows dark, his expression grim and resolute. He stood staring at me through intensely blue eyes. ‘By way of thanking you,’ he said, pointing to the rose. ‘I’m in your debt, ma’am. My name’s Jim.’ He bowed formally, his eyes never leaving my face.

‘Jim who?’ I found myself replying.

‘I’m known only as Jim.’

‘Then you must have something to hide,’ I replied abruptly. His accent was local, his words softly spoken, but he had startled me and I did not like the way he was looking at me.

‘Perhaps I’d have done better to have left you to the mob.’

‘I’m grateful you didn’t.’ His face remained impassive, stony, his eyes lingering on my face before he looked out to sea. ‘Thanks to you, I got back to my ship.’

He sounded so assured, so familiar. He had been waiting for me and, like a fool, I had walked straight into his trap. I did not like to be second-guessed and I certainly did not like to be spied on. With a sickening thud, I realised he would have seen me throw off my fichu.

‘Don’t insult me!’ I snapped, covering my shoulders and replacing my bonnet.

‘Insult you?’ He sounded genuinely surprised, ‘How’d I insult you?’

‘What ship would be waiting in a lee gale? No boat would survive the rocks down there and no master would endanger his ship – or her crew – in weather like last night. You couldn’t have had a ship waiting.’ I saw his eyes widening at the truth of my words and faced him in triumph. ‘You hid in the tree, didn’t you?’

‘That I did.’ He was staring back at me, no hint of a smile.

‘Why go to so much trouble – tying the rope round the tree?’

‘If people see something, they believe it. If they see a rope going over a cliff, they’ll think I’ve used it. The dogs can sniff an’ bark all they like, but they’ll call them off. Meanwhile I get to look at my pursuers.’

It was a clever move – dangerous but clever. ‘And did you?’

‘I did.’ His fists clenched by his sides, a look of hatred flashing across his face. He turned away, picking up a stone, aiming it at another before sending both flying over the cliff to the rocks below.

‘And did you know them?’

‘No.’

His look had frightened me but the coldness in his voice now scared me. I had been very foolish to come and even more foolish to speak to him. I would leave him to his hatred. Gathering up my skirts, I began stepping over the gnarled roots. I was almost clear of the tree when his words ripped right through me. ‘Goodbye, Miss Pengelly.’

I swung round. ‘How d’you know my name?’

‘I asked,’ he replied, his face impassive.

‘What d’you mean you asked?’

‘In Porthruan, I asked the men in the tavern.’

‘What? You just happened to ask who is the lady who runs around at night dressed in breeches?’ I was furious – furious and scared.

‘No, I asked who was the most beautiful woman in Porthruan an’ they all agreed – must be Pengelly’s daughter.’ He was tall, assured, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the blue of the sea, his arms crossed, his head flung back, staring at me with those piercing, blue eyes. ‘They also said you were proud, too clever by half, had a sharp tongue in your head, an’ I’d stand no chance of winning your favour – I’d be wasting my time. Seems no man will ever be good enough for Miss Rosehannon Pengelly.’ His eyes did not waver. But nor did mine.

‘Well they were right,’ I said, flinging the rose in the dirt by his feet.

My head was pounding. I did not have airs and graces. I did not have a sharp tongue. I was educated, certainly, but why should a woman not be educated? And why should I not have opinions? My stomach was tightening with every step. How dare he bandy my name about. What if someone had seen us? What if they were already talking about us in the tavern?

The air was thick with lassitude as I made my way slowly up the cobbles. Sleeping dogs lay stretched in the shade and only a handful of women sat in their doorways, their lace bobbins, for once, hanging idle. I nodded, even summoning up a smile where necessary, desperately hoping tongues were not already wagging, but at the bend in the road my heart sank – Jimmy Tregony stood holding the reins of a pony and trap.

Stepping out of our front door was the last man in the world I wanted to see. It was too late, he had seen me and there was to be no escape. I had always disliked William Tregellas, but seeing him now, I hated him. He knew he was in good shape for a man of his years. His well-cut frock coat emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and his breeches, tucked into riding boots despite the heat, must have been chosen to emphasise the slimness of his hips. His silk cravat, mother-of-pearl buttons and silver buckles screamed his ever-increasing wealth, but it had not always been like this. Father would never have approved.

Mother was wringing her hands. She could barely conceal her panic. ‘Oh, there you are, Rosehannon – Mr Tregellas’s been waiting for nearly half an hour. Have you done all the errands I sent you on?’

‘Yes, Mother, all complete,’ I replied, grasping the excuse she had just handed me.

Mr Tregellas bowed slowly, his hat barely moving, his pale-grey eyes unblinking, like the grass snake I had been watching in the meadow the day before. ‘Miss Pengelly, you seem unwell.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, relieved to have an excuse to cut short our conversation, ‘this heat’s given me a terrible headache. I need to go indoors to rest.’

‘I can’t think what madness persuaded you to go out in the first place.’ He kept his eyes on my face though I had long since looked away. ‘We can’t have you falling ill so near to your birthday – not now I’m looking forward to celebrating it with you.’ Mother’s small frame seemed to shrink even further and my unease turned to nausea. I needed to breathe, but the air was hot and stifling. Mr Tregellas saw me sway and held out his hand.

‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Tregellas,’ I replied, flinching from his touch. My sharp tone must have angered him. His thin lips creased into a false smile and I could hear Father’s voice warning me never to trust a man whose smile did not reach his eyes. Yet Father had trusted him.

‘Mr Tregellas has called to tell us Sir Charles Cavendish is expected from London,’ said Mother quietly. ‘The town’s that packed. There’s a bi-election meeting tomorrow night and there’s likely to be trouble. There’ve been fights already, what with the navy in town – and Mr Tregellas is telling us to stay indoors.’ She looked distraught, knowing any mention of the election would rouse anger in me. She was right.

‘Then Sir Charles would be wiser not to distribute so much free ale and grog. People who have so little will naturally drink to excess. Perhaps if Sir Charles spent more time down here, with the people he’s meant to represent, he could find better ways to relieve their misery – more appropriate ways of gaining their support.’ I said it before I could stop myself. I bit my tongue but already I could see Mother wincing.

The lines round Mr Tregellas’s mouth hardened. ‘I can see you’ve been too long in the sun, Miss Pengelly. You need to rest.’ His face furious, he snatched the reins from Jimmy Tregony. Mounting the trap, he lashed the whip. ‘Good day,’ he said curtly.

The trap jolted forward and I watched his receding back with an equal mix of fear and loathing. Holding out her hands to help Mother, Jenna’s eyes were deep with reproach and, immediately, I regretted my words. My anger would get us nowhere. No, worse than that, it could plunge us into even greater poverty. They had every reason to look at me like that.

Yet why should I not have an opinion? I had the education and intelligence of any man, so why must I always stay silent? Besides, everything was not lost. I had been handed the one piece of knowledge I needed most. Tomorrow night, Mr Tregellas would be at the meeting and his study would be empty. Tomorrow would be my chance.

Chapter Three

Wednesday 26th June 1793

Itried to make amends with Jenna, sitting patiently on the three-legged stool while her deft hands brought order to my hair.

‘They do say Madame Merrick’s a spy…d’you think she spies for the French?’ she muttered, her mouth full of hairpins. ‘They do say she’s the centre of a smuggling gang.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’

‘…and there’s talk she’s the fancy woman of three rich men.’

‘What? Madame Merrick? No, surely not…well maybe she is…!’

‘They do say she ran off as a young woman and married an English sea captain.’

‘Jenna, you must be finished by now!’

Pursing her lips, she tugged my hair and I knew I was to be held captive a little bit longer. ‘Mrs Pengelly says I’m as good as any of them seamstresses Madame Merrick employs but that’s only ’cos Mrs Pengelly taught me so well.’