A Safe Harbour (35 page)

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Authors: Benita Brown

Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction

BOOK: A Safe Harbour
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‘I like to make sure that Mrs Adamson has a proper plateful,’ she said. ‘If she tells Joan that she doesn’t want much the lass gives her not much more than a poached egg and mebbes one slice of bacon. And Mr Adamson asked me to make sure that his mother ate a good breakfast seeing as how she won’t eat much more until he comes home.’
 
Sam understood now why Richard had been pleased for Caroline Travers to visit his mother so often. No doubt the young woman’s company would encourage Mrs Adamson to eat luncheon. He watched as Mrs McDonald filled her mistress’s plate with egg, bacon, a slice of black pudding and a couple of grilled kidneys. On the table were already set bread rolls, toast, butter, marmalade, a teapot, a coffee pot and jugs of hot water and hot and cold milk.
 
‘Go on, sir, fill your plate,’ the cook-housekeeper told him. ‘Why not take a couple of those lamb cutlets? They’re delicious.’
 
‘Doesn’t Mrs Adamson want one?’
 
‘She can’t abide them. Says they’re too fiddly and is too ladylike to pick them up.’
 
Mrs McDonald had not lowered her voice when talking about her mistress before, nor did she now. Sam heard Grace utter a harrumphing sound. He turned to see the two women smiling at each other and was struck by how easy their relationship must be. But he had long ago noticed what a comfortable atmosphere there was in this household. A fair and just relationship between master and servant that even allowed for friendship.
 
If Richard married Caroline Travers and brought her here things might change. He couldn’t imagine the beautiful and well-educated Miss Travers allowing servants to speak thus, no matter how thoughtful and progressive she believed herself to be. But any man would surely be only too happy to suffer a little domestic tyranny from a wife such as Caroline. It would be a small price to pay.
 
Sam filled his plate, helping himself to a couple of the cutlets as Mrs McDonald had suggested. Just as she was about to leave the room, he asked, ‘If Mrs Adamson doesn’t like the cutlets why do you prepare them?’
 
‘For Master Richard and Mr Munro, of course. And that’s who those little potato cakes are for. Mr Munro loves them – but I’m sure he won’t mind if you try one or two.’
 
‘Mr Munro?’
 
‘My nephew,’ Grace Adamson said. ‘Now off you go, Mary. I know you like your well-deserved cup of tea while I’m having breakfast. Mr Munro is an artist,’ she told Sam when Mary McDonald had gone. ‘You might have heard of him?’
 
‘Oh, yes. He’s set up a studio in the village, hasn’t he?’
 
‘He has. And my sister is convinced that, left to his own devices, her son will neglect himself. So I’ve persuaded him to at least have breakfast with me every morning. Sometimes he forgets but more often than not he honours me with his company.’ Grace smiled. ‘We shall see if he turns up this morning. And now, Sam, please sit down and eat your breakfast while everything is hot. Then, over our tea or coffee, you can tell me about the girl.’
 
Grace’s smile had vanished and Sam picked up his knife and fork, grateful that he had been granted time to think. He wished he knew more about what was going on here. Had Richard simply found the girl in distress as he had claimed or was there more to it? And if there
was
more to it, did Richard’s mother know? He got the impression that she wasn’t pleased that Richard had brought her here.
 
So how much should he divulge? He would be able to say truthfully that Kate Lawson had a feverish cold. That in his opinion she should stay in bed until she was quite well. Otherwise she would be endangering two people: herself and the child he was sure she was expecting.
 
Chapter Fifteen
 
‘Goodness, Betsy, this is an early hour to call upon a gentleman.’
 
Howard Munro, still struggling with a collar stud, stared at the bedraggled apparition on his doorstep. She was wearing a coat he’d never seen before, but she’d put her old shawl on top of it, tying it round her shoulders. If only she’d had the sense to pull the shawl up over her head, he thought. Her wet hair hung down like the proverbial rats’ tails.
 
‘Take me to see Kate,’ she said.
 
The child looked anguished. Howard sensed that this was more than an example of Betsy’s eccentric behaviour. ‘You’d better come in and explain,’ he said.
 
 
At the Adamsons’ house Sam Phillips helped himself to the last piece of toast. He scooped up another spoonful of apricot preserve. ‘This is delicious,’ he said.
 
‘Shall I ask for more toast and a fresh pot of coffee?’ Mrs Adamson’s dry tone was almost drowned out by the sudden jangling of the doorbell. The sound echoed through the house. ‘Ah. I think my nephew has arrived.’
 
The door from the hall opened and Sam glanced sideways, expecting to see Howard Munro enter the room. However, the person who entered was a flustered-looking maidservant. She was alone.
 
Mrs Adamson frowned. ‘What is it, Joan?’
 
‘Mr Munro is here.’
 
‘Well, of course he is. Why don’t you show him in?’
 
‘He’s not alone.’
 
‘Explain.’
 
‘He’s got that daft lass Betsy Smith with him and he says they want to see Kate Lawson.’
 
Sam understood little of this. Who was Betsy Smith and why had Howard Munro brought her here? It was clear that the usually good-natured Grace Adamson was vexed.
 
‘Tell Howard to come in here immediately,’ she said.
 
‘He won’t come into the house unless I let Betsy in too.’
 
‘You mean you’ve kept my nephew waiting on the doorstep?’
 
‘It’s his own fault. He won’t come in without her.’
 
Sam suspected the young maid, driven by her own bad humour, was straying near the edge of her mistress’s benevolent tolerance of her servants’ eccentric ways. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ the elderly lady snapped. ‘Remember your place and show my nephew in – and the girl as well.’
 
‘Yes, madam.’ The young woman’s tone was sullen.
 
‘Joan,’ Mrs Adamson called as the maid turned to leave the room.
 
‘Yes?’
 
‘I know you were trying to do the right thing, but show them in and then bring us a fresh pot of coffee and more toast.’
 
Howard Munro proved to be tall and good looking. His hair flopped over his forehead in a way that Sam imagined young women would find romantic. His clothes were well made and elegant – the only hint that he might be ‘artistic’ was the collar coming adrift from his shirt over the not-quite-properly-adjusted tie. But that could happen to anyone who dressed in a hurry, Sam supposed.
 
The artist wasn’t given the chance to speak. ‘What’s this about?’ his aunt asked even before the maid had closed the door behind her. She gestured towards the child who had followed him in and was now looking round the room and the people in it like a wary cat.
 
‘I’m told you have Kate Lawson here,’ her nephew said.
 
‘The fish lass?’
 
‘Yes. If you must describe her as such.’
 
‘What is your interest in her?’
 
Howard Munro’s slight hesitation aroused Sam’s interest. ‘She . . . she’s been posing for me . . . I’m painting her portrait.’
 
‘Ah, yes. Along with those of other village folk. Including this child’s grandmother.’
 
‘You know about that?’ Howard was obviously surprised.
 
Mrs Adamson allowed herself a slight smile. ‘I know about many things that go on in the village. Servants are a great source of gossip, you know. So, you have heard that Kate Lawson is unwell and was brought here—’
 
‘By Richard.’
 
‘—by my son, and because you are concerned about her welfare, you have hurried along in a state of undress to enquire about her.’
 
‘Undress?’
 
‘Your collar and tie.’
 
Howard frowned and his hands rose to his neck. He began to fiddle with his collar.
 
‘Leave it,’ his aunt snapped, ‘and have your breakfast.’ She sighed and bestowed a less forbidding look on Betsy. ‘And I suppose this child had better have some, too.’
 
‘Mrs Harrison gave me bread and dripping.’
 
It was the first time the girl had spoken and Sam looked at her properly. Wet and bedraggled though she was, he could see that she was beautiful. But there was a look in her cat-slanted eyes that was not quite – how could he phrase it – not quite ‘right’.
 
‘The cobbler’s wife?’ Grace asked.
 
‘Yes.’
 
‘Well, I won’t ask you what you were doing there. The answer might take too long. But are you so full of bread and dripping that you are unable to eat anything else?’
 
Sam was surprised by her kindly tone and then he remembered that she had been a schoolteacher before she married. He suspected that her pupils might have regarded her as a ‘tartar’ but she had obviously been a tartar with a kind heart.
 
‘Do I help meself?’ the girl asked, glancing at the dishes still being kept warm on the sideboard.
 
‘Yes you do – there are some clean plates there, too. But I’d be grateful if you would remove your coat and shawl before sitting down. Mr Munro will take them and hang them in the hall with his own coat.’
 
Mrs Adamson gave a nod of command in her nephew’s direction and Howard did as he was bid. Then he shepherded his protégé to the sideboard and helped her to fill her plate.
 
‘Now tell me why you have brought Betsy here,’ his aunt said as they took their places at the table.
 
‘Betsy is a friend of Kate’s. She is worried about her, as I am.’
 
‘Well, no doubt the whole village knows she is here by now so I might as well confirm it. This is Dr Phillips, by the way. Your unorthodox arrival prevented me from introducing you properly. Sam, this is my nephew, Howard Munro.’
 
The two men nodded at each other.
 
‘
Dr
Phillips?’ Howard asked.
 
‘Yes. Richard insisted on hauling his poor friend out of bed at an unearthly hour to come to see to the girl. And before you get too concerned, I think he will assure you that all that is the matter with her is a cold. At least, that’s what it looked like when Richard brought her here last night.’
 
‘A feverish cold,’ Sam amended.
 
‘Very well,’ her tone betrayed her irritation, ‘a
feverish
cold. I’ve sent a message to her mother asking her to bring some clean clothes along, and as soon as she’s rested she can go home.’
 
‘Er . . .’ Sam began.
 
‘What is it?’
 
‘That might not be for a while.’
 
‘A while? Be more precise, please.’
 
‘A week – maybe more.’
 
‘And why not?’
 
‘I mean that it would be best for Miss Lawson to stay here until I am satisfied that her condition will not worsen.’
 
‘Worsen?’
 
‘She could develop complications.’
 
‘Such as?’ Grace was terse.
 
‘You know . . . bronchitis . . . pneumonia.’ He tried not to flinch under her cool stare. ‘Well, that’s my professional opinion.’
 
Before Grace could answer, the strange child looked up from the plateful of sausage and bacon she was demolishing and asked, ‘Can I see her?’
 
‘No,’ Sam said. ‘She must rest.’ He spoke to Betsy but he was looking at Howard. ‘It’s better if she sees no one.’
 
Howard inclined his head. He had understood. ‘Anything she needs,’ he said. ‘Just tell me.’
 
‘That’s all right,’ Sam replied. ‘Richard has already offered to foot the bill.’
 
Sam watched as the American’s eyes narrowed and his open boyish expression became that of a man with dark thoughts. Suspicions? Was he jealous of his cousin and, if so, why? Until now Sam had been inclined to suspect that his upright friend might have been conducting some sort of affair with the girl. He would be disappointed if that turned out to be true but, after all, Richard was a man and the girl was beautiful. It could be a simple case of sowing his wild oats before committing himself to marriage and Caroline.
 
But what should he think now? Here was Howard Munro in a state of great agitation because Kate Lawson was not only sick but had been brought to his cousin’s house. Were both men involved with the fish lass somehow? How distasteful if that were true.
 
However, the arrival of Howard and Betsy had saved him from an embarrassing conversation with Richard’s mother. He would not have had the right to discuss what he thought to be Kate’s condition with Grace Adamson unless she had revealed that she already knew about it. He had already decided to tread carefully until he’d had a chance to quiz Richard. But now he couldn’t even do that. The situation was more complicated than he had first imagined. Either man could be the father of the child the girl was expecting, and the other might know nothing about it. Or they might, and that was disturbingly unsavoury.
 

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