The Sea Between (3 page)

‘Indeed they don’t,’ agreed Isobel with an amused chuckle.

‘It is not a silly game—it is a contest of strength!’ Edwin gritted.

‘Yes, and a very unequal contest,’ Charlotte returned.

‘My point exactly!’ Looking irritatingly smug, he slid his elbow back along the table. ‘You won’t take me on, because you know you don’t stand a chance of winning. Yet you took on a wild boar!’

‘That’s entirely different, Edwin, and you know it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t have time to weigh up the odds or the likely outcome this afternoon. There was no time. I acted on impulse. And if I was faced with the same situation again—and I hope I never will be—I would probably do exactly the same.’

‘Well, for God’s sake don’t tell Father that!’ he said. ‘And if you want a piece of good advice: just acknowledge to him that you behaved irresponsibly and have done with it. I suppose you won’t, though. You’re too bloody pig-headed!’

‘What an apt choice of words, Edwin,’ Isobel complimented drily.

On another occasion Edwin would have laughed, but not this time.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. A moment later, the door swung open. It was John. ‘I think the new foal will be dead before morning,’ he said to Edwin impassively. ‘Its breathing is bad and we can’t get it to stand. We’ve covered it with blankets, but I doubt they’ll do any good.’

Edwin nodded grimly.

‘Charlotte.’ John nodded at her, his big hand still clasping the brass doorknob.

Pushing back her chair, she stood up, glanced at Edwin, who gave
her a sour look, then walked across to her father.

Once in the study, Charlotte seated herself on the sofa, while John remained standing, with his back to the mantelpiece. There was a soft whirring sound, then the wooden mantel clock began to loudly strike the hour. As they waited for it to finish, she looked down at her late mother’s likeness, set in its ornate gilt frame on the small oval table beside the sofa. It was an ink sketch of her, done in England just before the family had emigrated eight years ago. The thin clear lines had captured Ellen Blake’s looks perfectly. Charlotte stared at it, thinking how much George resembled her, then with a sigh turned her attention to her father as the last strike finally rang out.

‘Well?’ John prompted.

She looked up, well aware what question her father’s ‘Well?’ was asking. Well, was she going to admit that she was wrong and apologize for her behaviour? Well, no, she wasn’t. ‘Could you have stood by and watched, and done nothing, Father?’ she asked.

‘What
I
would have done is not the issue,’ he returned sharply. ‘You are the issue, Charlotte. You! You could have been killed! You do realize that, do you?’

She lowered her eyes, uncomfortably aware that her cheeks were filling with heat.

‘God, I’ve lost one woman I loved dearly. I’ve no wish to lose you, too, not on account of foolishness such as this.’ John shook his head, frowning.

Charlotte looked away, feeling her eyes prick with tears. It was seven years since her mother had died. She’d taken ill suddenly one Sunday morning, complaining of severe pains in her stomach. They’d all thought that she’d eaten something that had disagreed with her, all thought she’d be as right as rain the next day. But the next day she was much worse, and two days later they had buried her.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll try to be more sensible in future.’

‘You’ll do more than try. You
will
be,’ he said.

She glanced up and nodded.

Seemingly satisfied, John sat down in the armchair opposite her. ‘If the Steeles ask, you’re to say that Edwin shot the boar. I don’t want them to know about your reckless behaviour. Do you understand?’

She nodded again.

‘They’ve invited us for supper tomorrow evening,’ he said.

S
till doing up the knot in his tie, Richard tacked between the furniture in the parlour, circumnavigating the circular rosewood table with the ornately carved pedestal, a family heirloom that had belonged to his great-grandmother. Used to a spartanly furnished cabin, he always took a few days to adjust to the crush of furniture in his parents’ home. In addition to the rosewood table, two armchairs, a rolled-arm sofa, four upright chairs, a whatnot, a grandfather clock, a piano and a sideboard had somehow been crammed into the parlour. Still, the sideboard had its uses, he conceded as he reached into the left-hand cupboard for the sherry decanter. Stooping, he retrieved some glasses from the lower shelf and set them out on the silver tray, another family heirloom, inherited from his father’s side of the family. ‘Who in God’s name invented heirlooms?’ he murmured. The house was awash with them.

‘What else did Mother ask me to do?’ Richard frowned, trying to remember. Light the other oil lamp, that was it. He manoeuvred around the sofa, lit a taper in the fire, then went to light the lamp on top of the piano. He’d just got the flame burning steadily when the door opened.

‘Richard.’ Letitia beckoned him over as she ushered their guests into the parlour.

Smiling, Richard walked over to greet them.

‘Mrs Wyatt,’ he said, with a polite nod. He’d been warned about
Isobel Wyatt. His mother had cautioned him to be wary of the woman, describing her as outspoken and provocative. Not mincing his words, his father had added bluntly, ‘She’s bloody rude!’ Richard had laughed and assured them that he would approach Mrs Wyatt with the same healthy caution that he would use when facing one of his father’s bulls. He had to say she didn’t look particularly formidable. She was small, almost diminutive in stature, and looked as if she would blow over in a strong wind. The only thing to hint that Isobel’s unimposing frame might house a few surprises were her eyes. They were a very dark brown colour, sharp and intelligent, and he had no doubt that behind them lay a sharp, intelligent brain.

He turned his attention to George’s wife, Ann—a fair-haired very pretty young woman, but rather too thin. ‘Mrs Blake,’ he said in the same polite tones. Finally, he turned to Charlotte. He was fully expecting her to turn the colour of a ripe cherry and look away in embarrassment. Not that he’d blame her. She couldn’t find it easy having to meet him again tonight, after being violently sick in full view of him yesterday. To his surprise, though, Charlotte Blake looked him straight in the eye, smiled, and said pleasantly, ‘We’ve been looking forward meeting you, Captain Steele. We’re hoping to hear about your voyages.’

‘I’m afraid that Edwin and Sarah won’t be joining us this evening,’ John apologized from behind Isobel. ‘Edwin’s leg has been paining him all day, so he’s decided to rest it. Naturally, Sarah is keeping him company.’

‘Has his leg swollen much?’ Richard asked.

John nodded. ‘It’s as fat as a marrow. Sarah’s going to make him a poultice to put on it before he goes to bed. There’s no sign of infection, but we’ll keep a close eye on it, of course.’

‘Where’s Ben? Does he know we’ve arrived?’ Isobel looked pointedly at the closed parlour door. Ben was their host and she was
letting it be known that he ought to be in the parlour, welcoming them.

‘My father will be here presently, Mrs Wyatt,’ Richard replied. His tone was pleasant but unapologetic. ‘While we’re waiting for him to arrive, may I offer you a glass of sherry?’

Isobel looked at Letitia, clearly hoping to get a more satisfactory answer from her. Getting none, she accepted the proffered drink and went to sit on the sofa to await its arrival.

‘A sherry, ladies?’ Richard offered pleasantly, looking from Ann to Charlotte.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Ann replied.

‘A small port, please, if you have some,’ Charlotte said.

Leaving their guests to chat among themselves, Richard went over to the sideboard and poured out the drinks. His mother had gone across to talk to Charlotte, no doubt to enquire if she’d recovered from her ordeal with the boar. He ran his eye over Charlotte. She was wearing a white high-necked blouse and a pale green skirt, and she looked a picture. He hadn’t paid much attention to her looks yesterday. All he’d noticed was her bloody dress. He’d overheard her telling her father that it was boar’s blood, not Edwin’s, but how the hell had she managed to get it all over her dress? The only explanation he could come up with was that Edwin had killed the boar, then she’d fainted at the sight of all the blood and landed on top of the slain animal. He couldn’t think how else she could have ended up looking like a slaughterer’s apprentice. No doubt during the course of the evening John would furnish them with an account of what had happened. Richard eyed Charlotte speculatively, trying to assess her age. In her early to mid-twenties, perhaps? He turned to look at the door as the sound of brisk footsteps reached his ears. It swung open, and his father appeared, hastily doing up the buttons of his jacket.

‘Apologies for not being here to welcome you,’ Ben said, striding
into the room. ‘I’ve been getting cleaned up. That blasted woman Letitia employed yesterday set the kitchen chimney alight half an hour ago. There were flames coming out of the top of it. It’s a miracle she didn’t burn the house down.’ Dragging a handkerchief from his pocket, Ben wiped his sweating forehead. ‘You should have seen how much wood she piled on the fire. I didn’t think you could get so much wood on a grate.’

John frowned, well aware of the dangers that fire could pose to a house constructed entirely of timber. ‘Is the chimney safe now, Ben?’

Ben nodded and stuffed his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket. ‘I threw a pailful of water on the blazing wood, and Richard climbed up on to the roof and put a wet blanket over the chimney. It smothered the fire straight away, but we had a kitchen full of smoke for a while and a pile of soot fell down the chimney. I’ve just been clearing the worst of it.’

‘You should have let the woman who caused the fire clean up the mess,’ John said. ‘Who is she? Is she a local woman?’

Ben shook his head. ‘She’s an itinerant labourer.’

‘I offered her a fortnight’s work,’ Letitia explained. ‘She looked down-at-heel and I felt sorry for her. She told me she could cook, so I asked her to make some scones for tonight’s supper. I suppose what happened was partly my fault, because I told her to make sure the oven was good and hot before she cooked them.’

‘The oven certainly was good and hot, Mother,’ Richard said, as he handed Isobel her sherry. ‘The scones she cooked look like cinders.’ With a smile he handed the other glass to Ann.

‘Well, we’ll not employ another itinerant worker,’ Ben said. ‘Once bitten, twice shy, I say.’

‘But then the good will suffer as well as the bad,’ Isobel commented.

Ben nodded. ‘They will, but I’m afraid that’s the way of the world.’

‘Ah yes, the world,’ Isobel said.

Richard looked at her, waiting for her to finish, then realized that she had finished. He breathed a discreet sigh and went to fetch Charlotte’s port.

Quarter of an hour later, everyone had been supplied with a drink and found a comfortable seat and the conversation had moved on from the chimney fire to more general matters.

‘What d’you think of your father’s farm, Captain Steele?’ John asked.

‘From the little I’ve seen of it, it looks a very fine piece of land,’ Richard returned. ‘I’m planning to explore it more thoroughly before I leave.’

‘You’ve no plans to trade the sea for a life on the land?’ John asked.

‘Not at present,’ Richard said. ‘I know the sea isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I enjoy it.’

‘Richard comes from a long line of seamen,’ Ben commented. ‘My father was captain of a barque, and my grandfather served in the merchant navy.’

‘You own a barque, too, do you, Captain Steele?’ Charlotte asked.

Richard nodded. ‘I do. As for
own
…’ He gave a short laugh. ‘At present the bankers own nearly as much as I do.’

‘How much interest does a bank charge for a loan these days?’ John asked.

‘Too much,’ Richard said drily.

‘You might do better with a private loan,’ George suggested. ‘Private company loans are very competitive.’

‘It depends what you mean by “better”,’ Richard replied. ‘Private
companies sometimes go bankrupt. If they do, when you have a loan with them, it can be a time-consuming and expensive business to sort out. A bank may not have the cheapest interest rates, but it’s secure.’

‘Richard, I’m sure our guests don’t want to listen to talk of bank loans all evening,’ Letitia interrupted in mildly reproving tones. ‘They want to hear about your travels, not your finances. Not many people have had the good fortune to visit every continent in the world, as you have.’

‘Not
every
continent, Mother,’ Richard corrected. He tossed her a slightly impatient look, wishing she wouldn’t refer to his sea voyages as ‘travels’. He’d asked her before not to do it. It led people to expect that he was widely travelled in a way that he wasn’t. His ‘travels’ were across oceans, not land. In terms of land, which was what people wanted to hear about, he’d seen very little.

‘You’ve been to India, I believe, Captain Steele? Your mother showed us a carved ivory tusk that you bought for her a few years ago in Bombay,’ John said.

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, Bombay is an interesting place. It’s recently become quite a prosperous port, largely thanks to the civil war in America. They do say that one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and Bombay has certainly profited from America’s troubles. Demand for Indian cotton has soared, with so little being exported from America at present.’

‘Will some of that cotton end up in your hold, Captain Steele?’ Charlotte asked.

He nodded and smiled. ‘It certainly will. There’s plenty of demand for it in England, in the Lancashire cotton mills.’

‘You’ll be looking forward to the shipping canal between Port Said and Suez being completed, then,’ John remarked. ‘It’ll shorten your journey from India to England considerably.’

‘It will indeed,’ Richard agreed. ‘But I believe it will be another five years before the canal is completed.’ Suddenly recalling an amusing incident, he settled back in his armchair and continued, ‘I had an interesting experience in Bombay last time I was there. I was overseeing the loading of my cargo when an Indian approached me. He had a young woman with him, carrying a bowl of freshly cooked food. I knew he was trying to peddle it—the docks in Bombay are rife with peddlers trying to sell their wares. Normally I just wave them away, but the food in the girl’s bowl smelled quite appetizing so I pulled some coins out of my pocket and bought it. Then the trouble started. The girl wouldn’t hand over the bowl of food. I kept saying, “Give me the food”, and I’d point at the bowl and hold out my hands, but she just stood there with her eyes fixed on the ground, clutching the bowl to her chest, and wouldn’t part with it.’

‘Why didn’t you just take it from her?’ Ben asked. ‘You’d paid for it, after all.’

‘I did in the end,’ Richard said. ‘And I started walking towards the ship with it. But the next thing I knew the Indian had rushed in front of me to block my way, and he was shouting and pointing at the
Nina
and then at the girl, and getting extremely agitated. Well, in Bombay it doesn’t take much of an incident to draw a crowd, so very soon there were twenty agitated Indians gabbling at me, and none of them had a single word of English. My first mate came to see what was going on, then half a dozen of my crew joined us. I could see that the situation could easily turn into a brawl, so I sent one of my men off to find someone who could understand the language and hopefully sort out what the devil was going on. He eventually came back with an Indian who could speak English, who duly informed me that I’d purchased not just the bowl of food, but the girl as well.’

‘Surely not!’ Ben exclaimed.

‘That was my reaction, too,’ Richard said with a grin. ‘I have to admit I was partly to blame for the misunderstanding, but the problem is that when neither party can understand one word the other is saying it’s very easy to give the wrong impression. You see, when the Indian was trying to sell me the food—at least, that’s what I thought he was trying to sell me—he kept pointing to the girl and I kept smiling and nodding, thinking he was explaining to me that it was she who had cooked it. I discovered afterwards that he was telling me that she was an excellent cook and would make a very good servant. And there I was, nodding and smiling in agreement.’

John’s face split into a wide grin. ‘How did you get out of your predicament?’

‘I had to buy my way out. I’ve discovered over the years that there are very few problems that money won’t resolve. It turned out to be an extremely expensive bowl of food.’

They all laughed, except for Isobel, who didn’t appear to find the story the least bit amusing.

‘You’re sure the Indian peddler wasn’t trying to sell you a wife, Captain Steele?’ Charlotte asked, her eyes still sparkling with pearls of laughter.

Richard smiled and shook his head. ‘If it had been a wife he was offering me,
he
would have been paying
me.
’

‘Oh, a dowry, you mean,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘That’s probably why her father was trying to sell her, so he wouldn’t have to provide one for her eventually.’

‘How do poor families manage to provide dowries for their daughters?’ Charlotte asked.

‘With difficulty,’ Richard replied succinctly.

‘How do women fare in India? Any better than in this country?’ Isobel asked.

Richard frowned, not certain what she meant, but, before he had a chance to ask, John broke in impatiently: ‘Isobel, women fare very well in this country.’

‘Being a man, you would say that, John,’ she returned.

John gave her an irritated look. ‘Plenty of women would wholeheartedly agree with me. Not everyone shares your discontent with the laws of the land. Most women aren’t in the least interested in politics and the running of the country.’ Turning to Richard, he said crisply, ‘My sister thinks that women are hard done by. She thinks they should have the right to vote in municipal and provincial elections.’