Moon Rising (23 page)

‘I know and I'm sorry,' he murmured. ‘Forgive me, my love – I'm not myself this evening.'

I took a deep breath. ‘We should go back -'

‘No – let's walk a little further.'

We did, hand in hand, his fingers crushing mine. It was a measure of my distraction that I paid no attention to where we were. Did I love him? I imagined I must, since I'd said so, but that declaration had astonished me as much as Bram. And yet he said he knew. And was sorry. For what? For his anger, or because I loved him? My head was bursting with hope and despair, with a riot of questions and blind-alley solutions, until I had to risk putting one of them into words. ‘Perhaps,' I began tentatively, ‘if you really feel you can't bear to leave Whitby, then -'

‘It's not that. London's the problem, Damaris – I don't want to go back to London.'

I felt those words like a knife to the breast, and was thankful I'd put Whitby in place of myself. That way I'd saved us both from embarrassment. But it was wounding to realise that his sense of anger and loathing was so much stronger than the love he professed for me.

Initially I was too upset to wonder why, too upset to notice anything very much, except that we were walking and I was thankful for it. I was even thankful for the dark, although as sense returned I realised that Saltwick Bay was long behind us and we were some distance along the cliffs. Flashes of light over the horizon warned that it would be wise to go no further, and by mutual consent we stopped and turned and began to retrace our steps.

With London on my mind I found myself thinking of Florence, a beautiful woman with many admirers. I wondered if she'd become involved with one of them, whether in fact she had taken another man to her bed and that was the heart of Bram's dilemma.

It would have explained a great deal. I was using it to settle my mind when he said unexpectedly: ‘The problem is that Emma du Maurier will now write to George, and even if she doesn't immediately write to Florence as well, George will no doubt mention it to Irving...

‘In fact,' Bram added with what seemed unwarranted harshness, ‘I wouldn't put it past George to go round to the Lyceum with the express purpose of relaying such information – it's the sort of thing he'd find amusing.'

‘Why should it matter?'

‘Why? Because at the moment they don't know where I am. Irving doesn't know. I told you – I was supposed to be away for a week or ten days, but he hasn't been able to contact me for almost a month! In all this time,' he added, pulling me close as we walked, ‘I've been safe, in control of my own destiny. I've been here with you, Damaris, and not one of them has been able to touch me! Loving you,' he added earnestly, ‘has saved me.'

‘From what?'

As I slowed and stopped, Bram bent his head to kiss me, cupping my jaw in his hand. ‘From myself,' he confessed against my mouth.

Confused, even a little alarmed by that strange mood, I backed away but he caught at my arm.

‘Please,' he whispered passionately, ‘don't walk away from me. I can't bear that. I love you. If I could marry you, I'd do it tomorrow. I can't live without you. You've freed me, given me back my life, made me see what love is. I can't go back to that other existence – it's false, artificial, an illusion, no better than one of Irving's plays. And I'm just an onlooker, don't you see?

‘I can't
touch
anything...' His voice broke on a note of distress and he turned away, shaking his head. As I reached out to comfort him, he said again, harshly: ‘I can't
touch
anyone, don't you understand? Everything is forbidden to me. I can't even hold my
wife
. . .'

His pain overrode my own. I didn't understand, but I heard the words
marry you
and
can't live without you
and responded at once. He couldn't marry me, but he wanted to: that was the main thing. I felt a great surge of love and gratitude and, in that moment, would have willingly laid down my life for him. I hugged him fiercely and reassuringly, while his mouth sought mine and we kissed with such intensity that I was dizzy. For a moment he broke to gaze down at me, to caress my throat and jaw, and then he was rubbing his thumb over my chin and lower lip, forcing it down, biting into it, thrusting his tongue so deep into my mouth I could hardly breathe. I felt the stinging flow of blood and heard the plea to bite into his lip. I struggled but he held me fast, breathing hard as he forced his mouth on mine again.

The bitter-sweet metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, I realised he'd bitten hard into his own lip, so that his blood and mine were flowing together. For several moments, as sheet lightning lit up the horizon, it seemed we were melded together in shock; and then as I coughed and swallowed and retched, he picked me up as easily as though I'd been a child, and set me down on a grassy slope.

‘You're mine now,' he whispered soothingly, kissing and caressing me gently, ‘and I'm yours, always and forever. I'm part of you, just as you'll always be part of me – nothing and no one can change that.'

As I shuddered and drew back, thunder muttered not far away. He was keen to make love, but I wanted none of that. Pushing myself free, I wiped my lip and scrambled to my feet. About to render a verbal lashing, I was stopped in mid-breath by the sound of voices.

I listened hard, trying to determine how close they were, and suddenly, as odd words became clear, I realised I knew them. My lips froze, my hand gestured Bram to be silent; Bella and her father were coming this way.

I strained to hear what was being said, knowing Bella was raging yet striving to suppress it, while her father was trying to ignore and outpace her words. We were already some yards from the path, but as Bram stood up I gripped his arm and dragged him with me behind a patch of bushes. ‘I know them,' I hissed, ‘so for heaven's sake keep quiet!'

Although they were still some way off, their voices carried; Magnus's voice, raised in protest, rivalled the approaching thunder. ‘You're daft – touched by the moon, ye silly little bitch! Now get on home if ye canna leave me be – I've work to do!'

‘Not till you promise to leave her alone!' There came a low, unintelligible growl of words, followed by Bella's voice, raised to a shriek: ‘You bastard! I'll kill you! You're evil, rotten, spawn of the devil – how does God let you
live
?'

Lightning flashed, brighter now, and Bram's eyes glittered at me through the darkness; then, closer, came a yell of rage, followed by shrieks and curses. A scuffle was going on, out there on the cliff, but we could see nothing.

There was a deep rumble of thunder; then all went quiet, and that was worst of all. I could feel the pulse thumping in my throat, and Bram's grip, almost crushing my wrist. A sudden torrent of abuse from Bella set us both breathing again; Magnus barked some retort, and I could feel the sweat standing out on my skin. On the tail of another rumble I thought I heard something else – a cry, a scream, perhaps – but it seemed far off and I couldn't be certain.

I stood up then, trying to make out where they were, what was happening. Peering hard enough to make my eyes ache, I could see nothing. The sky lit up, but succeeded only in blinding me. I stumbled in darkness down to the path and, with Bram on my heels, set off in pursuit.

We were both rocked by the ferocity of that argument, fearful of the outcome as much as the imminent storm. But more than anything else I was frightened for Bella, and Bram seemed to understand that. We hurried along, watching the cliff edge, scanning the path as best we could. The wind sprang up, a sudden gale off the sea, accompanied by cracks and flashes overhead and huge, thumping spots of rain. Within moments we were drenched, battered and blinded by the downpour, deafened by the noise.

We seemed an impossible distance from home, but another sheet of light showed the Black Nab, and a marionette figure ahead in the rain. It had to be Bella. The sight urged us on. We caught another glimpse of her across Abbey Plain, and then, with a stitch in my side, I begged Bram to ease his steps. I'd had some idea of catching up, talking, finding out what happened, but I abandoned it. I knew she was safe, that was enough. I preferred not to think about Magnus.

At the top of Kirkgate Bram barely hesitated, dragging me straight into the Duke of York, where the Russian seamen had been welcomed the year before. I dare say we must have looked equally in need as we stood on the threshold. It was already after midnight and the landlord was on the verge of closing, but he produced a towel and a bottle from under the bar. With little more than a raised eyebrow, he handed over two generous measures of the best French cognac instead of the drinks we had ordered. Bram was mystified until I nudged him and said to ask no questions.

We sat in silence, not looking at each other, too battered to speak. But with the brandy warming my blood, I realised what Magnus Firth and Bella were doing up there on the cliffs, and on a night with no moon. Warmed even more by relief, I had to restrain a smile. While the boys took out the coble and provided an alibi for Magnus, he and Bella would have been making their way to one of the hidden coves between Saltwick and Bay, to meet a boat, probably one of the Dutch coopers, bearing a lucrative cargo of gin and tobacco with no customs clearance. The dutiable goods would no doubt be hidden somewhere in the cliffs to wait for transport inland on some other dark night – or that would have been the plan.

The storm may have changed things, but Magnus Firth wouldn't be dead, not when the devil looked after his own. Knowing him, I imagined he was still there, waiting for the boat while sheltering in a nearby cave...

Bram had been pestering me about Robin Hood's Bay, and against my better judgement I'd agreed to take him there next day. After our soaking on the cliffs, however, and the hours we'd spent talking before a revived kitchen fire, I thought the visit would be postponed. But the rain had stopped before we went to bed and when we woke the sun was shining. Bram's mood seemed equally sunny. It was as though the events of the night before had never happened.

To my surprise he was up early, cooking breakfast, and saying his writing could wait; it was a shame to waste such a glorious day. Since I was just as eager to put the night behind us, I pinned a smile on my face, stood before the mirror, and prepared myself to face a difficult few hours in Bay.

Once more taking the path along the cliffs, I was glad we'd breakfasted well. There was a searching wind blowing in from the sea, ruffling the waves far below and the heather above, reminding me that I'd walked this way too often before on an empty stomach, particularly the previous winter. From the twin headlands of Robin Hood's Bay ahead, right round to Saltwick Nab and Kettleness behind us, the seas were busy with billowing sails. Pink and buff and brown, skimming their way northwards to the Tees or tacking down to Scarborough or the Humber, or even to the Thames. The sea was there alongside us, impossible to ignore, and even though we pretended to be studying the style of sails and rigging, hazarding where the ships were bound, what they might be carrying, I'm sure we were both thinking of the night before.

I'd told Bram about the Firths as we were drying out before the fire, hesitating at first over the worst details, simply because I couldn't find words to describe what Magnus did to his daughters. It was Bram who used the word
violation
, and that seemed to express everything. He was appalled, but somehow less shocked than I'd imagined; he was even able to explain why Magnus Firth had never approached me, and why Bella was being passed over for her younger sister, Lizzie. It was a regrettable fact, he said, that some men preferred young girls. But for a man to violate his own daughters was truly unforgivable.

In that light, Bella's rage – even the worst of her curses – became understandable. A matter for sympathy, we both agreed. Nevertheless, we were both wondering at the outcome of that argument.

~~~

We kept on towards Bay, coming out on to the road below Bank Top. The descent was steep as it swept down from there, but just as it seemed the road could become no steeper without being vertical, the chimney-pots and red roof-tiles of Baytown appeared, apparently growing out of gorse and grass at the very edge of the cliff. Gulls wheeled and hovered above the rooftops, while the cobbled road fell yet again, to become a street of shops and houses, with footpaths leading off to either side.

It felt strange to be back home again, but I knew Bram would appreciate the miniature streets and tiny, cheek-by-jowl houses that made up Baytown. To me it was still the hidden, secret place of childhood, a maze of delights and constant surprises, of sunny, south-facing windows and back walls hunched against the cliffs and the weather; a place of hide-and-seek and games of catch-me-if-you-can.

In part at least. But where houses clung together for protection, the inhabitants were close neighbours indeed, and, while they might have prided themselves on being staid and upright citizens, not all were above listening to gossip. For that very reason I'd been apprehensive about going there, especially with Bram. The word would go round that young Damaris Sterne had been seen in company with a gentleman, and somewhere a connection would be made with Newholm and housekeeping. Before the day was over, no doubt Old Uncle Thaddeus would have had his worst suspicions confirmed.

For all Bram's concern about being seen with me, that morning he gave no sign of it. He was ready to be charmed by Baytown, by what he called its ancient and romantic character. He insisted on seeing everything, so I led him into the maze, past high stone walls and whitewashed cottages, up steps and through archways to all the surprise views I remembered. A mass of rooflines, a curving expanse of sea dotted with ships and fishing boats, all appeared in their minute variations like a series of framed pictures. It was a place popular with photographers and artists alike, particularly watercolourists, who seemed to enjoy setting up their easels in the least convenient spots.