Mistress Of Polrudden

Book 3: Jagos of Cornwall

by E.V. Thompson

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When Dewi Morgan arrives at Polrudden Manor, it is to find a disappointing welcome. She had expected to take up the position of governess to Nathan Jago's son, Beville but Nathan is determined to have a local girl for the post. It takes a dramatic rescue for Nathan to have a change of heart and by then Dewi's gentle ways and sense of fun have made her a favourite with the entire household. Cornwall in the early years of the nineteenth century is a place of social upheaval and change. With the welfare of the villagers always at the front of his mind, Nathan is eager to build a proper harbour at Pentuan, which will bring increased prosperity and trade. But there are those who think an ex prize fighter has no business as Master of Polrudden... There are disappointments, too, in affairs of the heart. Nathan is much taken by Sir Kenwyn Penhaligan's beautiful niece Abigail, but she has given her affections elsewhere, though is eager to extend the hand of friendship. And meanwhile Dewi makes herself an indispensable member of the household, trying to disguise her growing affection for the handsome Cornishman who is her master...

Release date: July 5, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 608

Sample

To:


Nathan Jago, Esq.

Polrudden Manor

Pentuan

Cornwall

20th March 1817

Dear Mr Jago,

I thank you for considering me for the vacant post in your household. I am confident I will be able to perform my duties to
your full satisfaction.


I will be arriving for an interview on Thursday, 7th April (weather permitting).

Your obedient servant,

Dewi Morgan (Miss)

Frowning, Nathan Jago read through the brief, neatly penned note for the third time, but it made no more sense to him than
at the first reading. He knew no ‘Dewi Morgan’. Neither, as far as he was aware, was there a vacancy on the small domestic
staff at Polrudden. On the rare occasions when one occurred a girl would be taken on from the village. Such matters were dealt
with without reference to him.


‘Mary!’ Nathan called to the servant from the top of the wide stairway that curved down to the main hall. ‘Who brought this
letter to the house?’


‘One of they sailors from the ship unloading coal down on the beach, Mr Jago. I know’d that’s what he was ’cos his face was more familiar with coal dust than with soap and
water. Cheeky with it too, he were.’


‘A sailor, you say?’

Suddenly, the reason for the letter became clear. Almost a year ago, a sea captain from one of the ships that traded into
Pentuan had toiled up the hill to pay a call at Polrudden. The purpose of his visit was to offer condolences to Nathan for
the loss of his wife, Amy, who had died in a fire that gutted two rooms at Polrudden. It was a tragedy that still hurt just
to remember.


During the course of the visit the conversation between the two men was constantly interrupted by Nathan’s young son, Beville.
Apologising for the antics of the four year old, Nathan had commented that he would need to find his son a nursemaid or governess
before he became completely unmanageable.


The sea captain had suggested one of his nieces might be suitable for such a post. Nathan remembered now that the captain’s
name had been ‘Morgan’, the same as the surname of the girl who had written the letter. The conversation had taken place so
long ago it had slipped from Nathan’s memory. Furthermore, as far as he was aware, he had made no positive response to the
captain’s suggestion at the time.


Since then, it was true, the need for someone to take care of Beville had become more pressing. Nathan’s sister, Nell, had
been looking after him, but pregnancy was almost an annual event with her and the latest baby was due in a matter of weeks.
Nathan had intended finding someone from the village to take on the task. A Cornish girl.


With annoyance he realised that today was the sixth of April. This uninvited applicant for the post of governess to Beville
was due to arrive tomorrow.


Through the window Nathan could see the clouds scudding low across the horizon beyond the foam-ridged waves. ‘Weather permitting’
was what the girl had written. There was an easterly near-gale blowing. With any luck her arrival would be delayed for a few days. By then he would have found a local girl to take charge of young Beville.


Dewi Morgan was not the type of young woman who would allow bad weather – or anything else – to prevent her from keeping her
word.


Pale-faced from the sea-sickness which had laid her low for much of the voyage from Newport in Wales, she stood defiantly
before the master of the brig Priscilla.


‘Mr Powell,’ she said in her singsong Welsh voice, ‘my uncle paid you good money to get me to Pentuan today. I have an interview
with Mr Nathan Jago at Polrudden Manor tomorrow. It is very important to me. Very important indeed.’


‘Begging your pardon, Miss Morgan,’ said the captain deferentially, ‘so is the safety of my ship. It would be folly to try
to beach the Priscilla at Pentuan in an easterly gale. If they had a decent harbour, now, it would be a different story.’


‘How long do you expect the storm to last, Captain Powell?’

The movement of the ship caused the ship’s master to sway in a manner she found nauseous. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sometimes
an easterly will last for a week or more. On the other hand it might blow itself out in a matter of hours.’


‘What do you intend doing while the weather makes up its mind?’

‘We’ll stay out here and hope it improves. If it’s still bad after a day or two I’ll put into Falmouth. No doubt you’ll be
able to catch a coach from there.’


‘I have no money to waste on coaches, Captain Powell, and by then the date for my interview will be long past. I am disappointed
in you. Very disappointed indeed. I wish now I’d waited for my uncle to bring me to Pentuan. He wouldn’t allow a little storm to prevent
him meeting his obligations.’


In truth, Dewi’s stomach threatened another rebellion at the thought of suffering the violent movements of the Priscilla for even an hour longer than had been anticipated.


Unwittingly, she had put forward the one argument calculated to persuade Captain Powell to complete his voyage to Pentuan.
He and Dewi’s uncle were both employed by the same Welsh ship-owner. Each hoped to manage the company when the ageing owner
took a less active role in the business in the near future. The suggestion, however unfounded, that he lacked the skill and
daring of Captain Morgan might just tip the scales in favour of his rival.


‘I’ll go in close enough to take a look at the beach – but I’m promising nothing more, mind.’

Tacking a mile offshore, Captain Powell studied the coast carefully with the aid of a leather-bound brass telescope. It had
once been possible to berth small vessels alongside the tiny breakwater that marked the entrance to Pentuan’s equally small
harbour. But both harbour and breakwater had fallen into disrepair many years before and any vessel wishing to trade here
needed to beach on the sand.


On either side of Pentuan’s long, low-lying sandy beach the waves leaped high up the sheer brown rock face of the tall cliffs.
The thunder as the water crashed back to the sea was discernible above the wind, even at this distance.


Yet a beaching was not entirely out of the question. The sea was not so angry along the length of the beach, and the tide
was due to begin ebbing very soon. It might just be possible to run his ship ashore and secure the vessel before the next high tide returned. A glance at the barometer
suggested there could be an improvement in the weather by then.


Captain Powell decided to give it a try. Ordering a further reduction in the storm-reduced sail carried by the Priscilla he told the helmsman to prepare to ease the vessel on to the sand. The sight of two other vessels safely secured on the beach, not far from the village, was reassuring.
He ordered the helmsman to steer a course that would bring him in close to them.


Dewi was on deck when the captain took his decision to beach the Priscilla. So too was every member of the crew. Her delight at the prospect of keeping the appointment at Polrudden Manor was not shared
by those on deck about her.


As the vessel neared the shoreline crew members began to mutter darkly that the vessel was travelling far too fast.

Very soon the noise of the waves crashing against the cliffs on either side of the beach became alarming. Captain Powell seemed
belatedly to share the misgivings of his crew. Shouting above the din, he called for the last remaining sail to be lowered.
Dewi knew they would be riding in on the surf, at the mercy of the running sea. Suddenly it did not seem such a good idea.
The waves racing in to break on the sand appeared much larger than when she had watched them from a mile off shore.


The ships already on the beach had been to the right of the Priscilla when the Welsh vessel began its run in. Suddenly, Dewi realised they were falling away to the left. Ahead now was not soft
sand but dark, glistening rocks, and a towering cliff had taken the place of distant hill and grey sky.


‘Hard a’port, Mister!’ Even as he gave the order to the helmsman, Captain Powell was gesticulating to the crew members on
the deck. ‘Shake the sail out … And be quick about it! We need to tack out of this.’


‘She’s not answering, Cap’n. We’ll end up broadside on to the sea.’

‘Damn you, man! Do as you’re told … Get those sails out!’

Frightened and bewildered now, Dewi watched in growing alarm as the men about her scurried to obey. Captain Powell was making a desperate bid to save his ship from the rocks at the foot of the cliff.


For many terror-filled moments it seemed the power of the running sea would beat the Welsh captain. The Priscilla heeled over so far it seemed nothing could save her. Then slowly, reluctantly, the ship righted itself in defiance of wind
and sea and was once more heading for the beach.


But the sea had not yet admitted defeat. A wave broke over the stern and a wall of water raced the length of the deck. Dewi
would have been swept away had Captain Powell not snatched at her arm and held her until she managed to scramble to her feet
once more.


A moment later the ship grounded, the stern rising as a wave forced the vessel higher up on the sand.

‘You, girl – there’s still a chance we’ll be swept back off the beach! Go below and get your things. Then go ashore over the
bow. There are villagers there to help you off the ship …’


His instructions were cut off as another wave poured along the deck and threatened to carry her with it once more.

When Captain Powell released her, Dewi ran for the nearest hatch, the one that led to her cabin. Behind her she heard the
captain of the Priscilla bellow new instructions to his crew.


Here, away from the howling wind, the sound of the ship’s keel grating on the sand was almost as noisy as the storm above.
Dewi found her cabin ankle-deep in sea-water, poured down the hatchway from the upper deck. It was also more unsteady down
here than she had anticipated, as though sea and wind were fighting each other in a ferocious bid for control of the Priscilla.


The bag containing her belongings was half submerged and the water added considerable weight to the contents. Struggling against
the erratic movement of the vessel, Dewi reached the ladder to the deck with her burden. Here, a crewman sent after her by the captain reached out for the bag.


‘No! I’ll keep hold of it.’ Dewi clung determinly to the bag and, after trying unsuccessfully to part her from it, the seaman
pulled her and her belongings together up the ladder behind him.


Dewi was not the first to go ashore from the beached Priscilla. A number of crewmen were already on the beach. Helped by the villagers they heaved on thick ropes which stretched between ship
and shore. Others dragged heavy timbers across the sand. These would be affixed to the ship’s side to keep the vessel upright.


With the help of some fisherwomen who had gathered to watch the exciting beaching, Dewi scrambled down a rope ladder to the
sand. When she was safely ashore the women helped her to where a cluster of small cottages nestled at the foot of the hillside,
at one side of the beach.


She had lost one of her shoes and the other squelched soggily with every second step she took. Her long thick black hair had
come undone from the neat braid in which it was normally kept and hung lank and wet about her face. Sodden clothing clung
to her and its icy coldness chilled her to the bone. She was angry, both at her condition and the ignominious manner in which
she had been forced to disembark from the Priscilla.


As the group of women passed a small building that reeked of fish, they met a man hurrying in the opposite direction.

Tall and fit-looking, he was about thirty years of age but his dress was not that of a fisherman.

When he saw Dewi he stopped. After only the slightest hesitation, he addressed her.

‘You, girl. Are you from the ship that’s been run on to the beach?’

‘I am.’ Dewi found she could hardly speak for shivering, much of it due to nerves. ‘And … if I don’t get out of these wet
clothes I’ll be as dead as if the damn’ sh-ship had foundered on the rocks!’


She would have hurried on but the man spoke to her again.

‘What’s your name?’

Her teeth were chattering as she said testily, ‘It’s Dewi. Dewi Morgan – but I doubt if you’re any the wiser for knowing.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Dewi Morgan. I’m Nathan Jago. I believe you’ve come to Pentuan to see me?’

Turning away from her, he said to the women, ‘Take her to Polrudden. Tell the servants to prepare a room with a fire and find
some dry clothes for her.’


Nathan was seated at his desk writing a letter when Dewi was shown into his study at Polrudden. It was the day after the arrival
of the Priscilla and the weather had improved dramatically. Through the open window behind Nathan, Dewi looked out at a flat, calm sea and
a watery blue sky almost devoid of cloud.


Nathan’s glance shifted from the letter to Dewi – and it remained with her. This was not the cold, shaken and bedraggled woman
he had seen immediately after her scrambling disembarkation from the storm-swept Welsh brig.


Convinced she had made a disastrous first impression upon her prospective employer, Dewi had taken particular care with her
appearance this morning. Her long, black hair had been drawn back and plaited, the single plait folded twice and secured behind
her head. The hair style emphasised both her height and slim build, as did the high-necked plain dress she wore. The dress
was the only ‘best’ dress she possessed. Taken from her sodden bag and hung up to dry in her room, it had been carefully pressed
with an iron borrowed from a sympathetic servant.


‘Sit down, Miss Morgan. I trust you’re none the worse for the soaking you had yesterday?’

‘No, thank you, sir.’

There was a brief pause in the conversation, but before Nathan could put another question to her, Dewi said, ‘I’d like to
apologise for the way I spoke to you yesterday, Mr Jago. I was cold and wet, and angry with Captain Powell – angry with the whole world. But it was no excuse for
being rude.’


‘Had I been in your state I’d have been rude to any damned fool who kept me standing in the cold asking stupid questions.
But I’m pleased to see you looking far more relaxed and comfortable today.’


Nathan felt ill-at-ease. He had already made up his mind that Beville should have a girl from the village to take care of
him. By talking to this girl he was merely wasting her time, and his own. Yet she had voyaged a long way for the interview.


‘Tell me something about yourself.’

‘Well, I was christened Deirdre, but when my young brother was learning to talk, he called me Dewi and it stuck. Silly really,
Dewi being a boy’s name, but calling myself by anything else doesn’t sound right now, somehow.’


Dewi leaned across the desk that separated them and placed two sheets of paper in front of him. ‘I’ve brought two references
with me. One was written by a minister who has known me since I was a girl. The other is from a schoolteacher. I sometimes
help with her pupils. I enjoy teaching children.’


Nathan glanced down at the two sheets of paper. One was written in a neat scholarly hand. The other was a scrawl that reminded
him of his own preacher-father’s untidy scrawl. But Dewi Morgan was talking …


‘I’m almost twenty-one years old and have been an orphan since I was twelve.’

When Nathan looked up quickly she shrugged, almost apologetically, and explained, ‘My father was a coalminer. He was killed
in an underground accident. A roof-fall. My mother lived for only another two weeks. I believe she died of a broken heart.
She had run away from home to marry him, when she was young. They were very close.’


Nathan murmured a few meaningless words of sympathy, but Dewi shrugged. ‘It all happened a long time ago now. I looked after a young brother by myself for a few months until one
of my elder sisters took us in. She was a mine-widow with five young children. I took care of them, taught them to read, write
and do sums, and sometimes helped out in the local school. Then my sister married again.’


Dewi shrugged again. ‘A new husband doesn’t want two women in his house. Since I left her home I’ve been living with an aunt – Captain Morgan’s sister. They were both related
to my mother. She was a Morgan too before she married. Never had to change her name, you see. But the aunt is a spinster,
getting on in years and set in her ways. Although she’s never said anything I know she’ll be happy now I’m out of her house.’


The implication of Dewi’s words was not lost upon Nathan. ‘What happened to your young brother?’

It was an irrelevant question. At the same time Nathan was aware that the Welsh girl’s brief account of her life hid a great
deal of unhappiness. He was not an unkind man and found himself reluctant to break the news to her that she would not be taking
up a post in his household.


‘Daniel’s at sea. On his way to China when he last wrote to me. Captain Morgan – everyone in the family always gives him his
full title – says Daniel will likely be a ship’s captain himself one day. I’m sure he’s right. Daniel’s a bright young man.
Our ma would have been proud of him. I’m sure you’re proud of your son too, Mr Jago. Beville, isn’t that his name? I can’t
wait to meet him. I’m very fond of little boys.’


‘Yes, Beville’s his name. Sir Beville. But …’


‘Sir Beville?’ Dewi gave him a dark-eyed look of puzzlement. ‘But you’re not a sir, or a lord, are you?’


‘No. Beville inherited his title from his grandfather – the father of my first wife. She died at Beville’s birth.’

‘And you’ve just lost a second wife?’ Dewi appeared genuinely shocked. ‘Life’s been cruel to you, Mr Jago. Cru-el.’ She made the single word sound like two. ‘It’s terribly sad for young Beville … young Sir Beville, too. When can I meet him?’


Nathan braced himself. He could not allow this intense young girl to continue in the belief that the post of governess was
hers. ‘Look, Miss Morgan. I don’t know what your uncle has told you, but it came as a great surprise to me when I heard you
were coming here expecting an interview for a post as a governess. I did tell Captain Morgan I thought I’d have to employ a governess, and he mentioned he had a niece who’d be ideal for the post.
However, it never went further than that. Had I been able to stop you coming all this way I would have written to you, but
I only received your letter the day before yesterday.’


Dewi’s expression of deep dismay made Nathan wince, but he reminded himself that this situation was not of his making.

‘But … I … Captain Morgan spoke as though it had all been settled – subject to satisfactory references, of course. I … I’ve
brought all my things. Left my aunt for good …’


‘I’m sorry, Miss Morgan, I really am, but it’s always been my intention to take on someone from the village. Not a stranger
to these parts.’


Dewi swallowed hard and nodded her head vigorously, ‘Of course. You must have someone who suits. It’s that foolish uncle of
mine. Got it all wrong, I’m sure. So anxious to cheer me up, I expect.’


She stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr Jago.’ She made a brave attempt at a smile but did not quite
succeed. ‘And given you some cheek too! I’ll go now, if you don’t mind.’


‘You don’t have to leave Polrudden immediately. The Priscilla won’t be ready to make the return voyage for a couple of days. Keep your room until then. The servants will look after you.’


‘Thank you. I’ll try to keep out of your way.’

Dewi fled from the study averting her eyes and Nathan felt as though he had just kicked a happy young puppy that had bounded
up to greet him.


He felt even worse later that same day when he heard voices in a far corner of the garden and went to investigate.

Peering, unseen, over a hedge he saw Dewi and Beville engrossed in the study of a toad that was held in the palm of the Welsh
girl’s hand as she crouched beside the small boy. Dewi was telling Beville about the habits of the creature and the two were
so engrossed in what they were doing together they did not notice Nathan.


Walking back towards the house, he told himself that Beville would be equally happy with anyone who was prepared to devote her time to him.


Dewi fled from Nathan’s study to the room where she was staying. With the door closed behind her against the world, she tried
to busy herself. Scooping up all the clothes draped over a clothes-horse at the side of the fire, she crammed them haphazardly
inside the bag she had brought with her from Wales.


No sooner was the bag full than Dewi pulled them all out again. She was not leaving for a day or two. Her clothes would be
badly creased by then in the bag, especially in view of the slap-dash manner in which she had crammed them in.


When the clothes were hung over the wooden clothes-horse once more, Dewi sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Unconsciously
clasping her hands in her lap, she tried to push the hurt she felt behind her and gather her bewildered thoughts together.


Foolish old Captain Morgan! He really had led her to believe he was far friendlier with Nathan Jago than was, in fact, the
case. She had arrived at Polrudden assuming the interview was to be little more than a formality. Convinced that her uncle
and Nathan had reached agreement on her employment.


Glancing out of the window at the sea on which she had sailed to Pentuan, Dewi wondered how she could have been so stupidly
gullible. Everyone in the family knew that Captain Morgan was prone to ‘stretch the truth’.


It was not that he deliberately set out to deceive. He was a kindly man who tended to say what he thought others wanted to
hear.


‘There’s a post as governess at Polrudden if you want it, Dewi,’ he had said when he visited her at the home of his sister
– her aunt. ‘Mr Jago is looking for someone to take care of his poor, orphaned young son. I’ve told him all about you and
he says you are just the girl he is looking for. You get yourself to Cornwall and the post is yours. You’ll find Mr Jago is
a good man to work for. No airs or graces with him.’


Dewi, who should have known better, accepted every word he had told her as the truth. She realised now that she had believed
him because she wanted to believe. She was honest enough to admit this to herself.


The time spent living with her aunt had been a very unhappy period of her life. Strict chapel, was Aunt Phoebe. More than
strict, really. ‘Fanatical’ was perhaps a more accurate word. Sundays were days of sheer misery. Chapel morning and evening,
with the remainder of the day spent in the house with the blinds drawn, reading the bible. Any conversation would be about
the message contained in the Good Book.


Dewi had been allowed no friends. If a young man so much as looked in her direction she would be subjected to a tirade on
sinfulness from the barbed tongue of her spinster aunt.


Captain Morgan had provided her with a means of escape from her aunt by his offer of the post of governess at Polrudden. She
could not go back to that house. Would not go back.


Suddenly, the view of the sea outside misted over. Lying back on the bed, Dewi spilled her tears on the pillow.


On the morning of her departure from Pentuan, Dewi received support from an unexpected source. Nathan’s sister Nell, heavily
pregnant, came to Polrudden to plead the Welsh girl’s cause.


Seated uncomfortably on the edge of the same chair where Dewi’s hopes of a post at Polrudden had been dashed, Nell looked
across the desk at Nathan.


‘She’s intelligent, straightforward – and she and Beville get on very well. In fact, I’ve never seen Beville take to anyone
as he has to her.’


Looking up from the mass of documents spread before him in confusion on the desk, Nathan frowned irritably. ‘Nell, I’m wrestling
with paperwork on a matter that affects the future of every man, woman and child in Pentuan. I’ve got more to do than waste
time over a young woman who came here uninvited, to take up a post that doesn’t exist.’


‘Well, you’ll need to do something, and quickly. Judging by the weight and the fidgeting of this one it won’t be long in coming.
I’ve been taking Beville most mornings, but it’s becoming too much for me. I’m so far gone I can’t do the farmwork as fast
as it needs doing – and there are my own three to take care of.’


As though to emphasise her words, Nell linked both hands beneath her grossly distended stomach.

‘I’m aware of all that, Nell. I’ve made arrangements for a Pentuan girl to be taken on as Beville’s nursemaid next week.’

‘Who is she?’ Nell asked sharply. ‘I can’t think of any girl in the village I’d trust my children with.’


‘I’ve half promised Harry Wicks I’ll take on his youngest …’

‘Sally Wicks! She hasn’t got an ounce more sense than she was born with. You ask our father. He’s tried hard enough to teach
her to read and write, but without any success as far as I can gather.’


When Nathan remained unmoved, Nell struggled heavily to her feet. ‘Still, you’ll at least know where to find Sally when she’s
missing. She’ll be in the bushes down at the Winnick with a boy. That’s where she spends most of her time – as everyone in
the village knows.’


The Winnick was the area of sand, rough grass and bushes, stretching back from the beach.

Glancing down at the profusion of papers strewn on the desk top, Nell said, ‘But Sally Wicks is your business. What’s this
life-or-death decision you have to take for the village?’


‘It’s a plan to build a proper harbour here. Now the war with France is over everyone’s rushing to trade with Europe once
more. Sir Christopher Hawkins bought the old harbour some years ago, now he wants to build a new one. To take large ships.
He believes a number of Cornish landowners would like to see China clay and stone from our quarries going out through Pentuan.
In return we’d see more goods coming in and have money spent in the village on supplies and services to the ships.’


‘That would mean a big change in their way of life for the villagers. Not all of them will welcome it.’

‘True,’ agreed Nathan, ‘but changes need to come. The fish haven’t been running lately and there’s little enough money to
be made for those of us with fishing-boats. Another factor that needs to be taken into account is that ships are being built
bigger and with deeper draughts. They won’t be able to run up on a beach to load and unload. Unless we have a harbour in Pentuan,
ships will go elsewhere.’


Nell’s husband, Tom, was a farmer at Venn, a mile or so along the road to Saint Austell. The problems of Pentuan and its harbour
were remote from her everyday life. ‘You know, Nathan, I think I liked you more before you became Lord of Polrudden manor.
There was time to think about people then. You weren’t wrapped up in business the whole time.’


With this cutting and not entirely accurate observation, Nell made her ponderous way from the study. In the doorway she paused
to say, ‘If you want Beville, you’ll find him with me – for today. I’m taking him down to the beach to say farewell to Dewi.’


When Nell had gone, Nathan grimaced at the image of himself conjured up by the sister who was almost ten years his junior.
Yet, to a certain extent, Nell was right. He had been aware of this for some time. He also knew such a change in himself was
inevitable.


It was more than six years since Nathan’s return to the village; he had left when he was fifteen years old. The son of Pentuan’s