Pengelly's Daughter by Nicola Pryce

‘These letters don’t seem to be in English,’ I said, putting them nearer the candle.
    Jim glanced at them. ‘That’s because they’re in French.’
    â€˜French? Then we won’t know what they say,’ I whispered, staring in surprise as he looked to be examining them in detail.
    â€˜I speak French,’ he replied, ‘an’ read French,’ he added, with a icker of a smile.
    â€˜Then what do they say?’ I snapped, annoyed he was enjoying a joke at my expense.
    He held the letters closer to the candle. ‘This one…’ He stopped, glancing up at the closed shutters. Carriage wheels were rumbling along the cobbles, hooves clattering quickly towards us and we froze like statues, listening to them stop below the window. Someone was shouting, a command ringing through the night air.
    â€˜Quick.’ Jim blew out the candle. ‘We’ll take these with us.’ Throwing everything into the brocade cloth, he gathered the edges into a tight bundle, twisting it several times before he threw it over his shoulders. Almost immediately, the empty hall erupted into life. Footsteps emerged from the servants’ quarters, light ooded the hall. The front door ung open and an angry voice shouted more orders. Only the large stairwell separated us from Mr Tregellas. I stood, too petried to move – if he came upstairs to his study, we would surely hang, if he chose the drawing room, we still had a chance. ‘Bring brandy to the drawing room for Mr Roskelly,’ he shouted.
    My heart was hammering so hard, I could hardly breathe. I felt sick with fear. We heard the drawing room door shut and I led the way, retracing our steps as silently as I could. Jim followed behind. The top corridor seemed so much longer, the distance so much further. In the bedroom, Jim eased open the window, the rain wetting our faces. The branch was swaying, swiping at us as it brushed against the glass. Jim grabbed it, helping me onto the sill, his hands steady over mine.
    â€˜Don’t look down,’ he whispered, ‘an’ be careful, it’s slippery.’
    I breathed in for courage. Fear gave me the strength I needed. It may have been dangerous, but far more dangerous was to be caught like the thieves we were. I reached the trunk and felt the branch dipping beneath Jim’s weight.
    Now all we needed to do was get those papers home.

Chapter Seven
    S torm clouds raced overhead as we turned towards the sea.
    â€˜Walk. Don’t run or you’ll attract attention.’ With the stolen books slung over his shoulder, Jim walked quickly ahead, turning almost immediately down an unlit passage. ‘Keep close behind me.’
    â€˜Are you sure this is safe?’
    â€˜No, that’s why we’ll use it – the night watchmen never come down here.’
    I hurried close on his heels, my heart racing. It was lthy, dark and narrow. I could feel my boots sinking ankle-deep in mud, squelching through sh heads lying stinking in our path. I was desperate not to stumble. Peering through the darkness, I stepped over broken crates, striding quickly over the heaps of sacking blocking the way. Men lay huddled in doorways, too drunk to move. Shufes and grunts came from moving shadows and a woman’s voice called out, enticing us over. Jim kept up his pace, going deeper into the maze of buildings, stopping only when the alley widened and we could see the quayside.
    â€˜Where’s your boat?’ he whispered.
    â€˜Behind the brewhouse.’
    The squall had whipped the sea to an angry chop, tossing the moored boats like weightless corks. We found the boat wedged rmly between the two yawls and I needed all my strength to pull it towards us. Foam frothed against the steps, the sea rising and falling. Even the larger ships were pitching, their masts creaking in the darkness above us. Jim put down the makeshift bundle,