Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
A Safe Harbour (14 page)
She wondered why the Adamsons, mother and son, continued to live in the village when they knew how much they were despised. Even their generous donation towards the building of the new lifeboat house hadn’t eased the situation. Some of the older fisherfolk could remember when Richard Adamson’s grandparents lived in the house now occupied by the American artist and how his grandfather had fished out of the tiny harbour in his own coble, struggling to make a living like the rest of them.
Perhaps his grandson felt that the family were still part of the community. It was sad, Kate thought, that it didn’t seem as if they were going to be forgiven for working hard and making life easier for themselves.
There was a short path leading to the door. Briefly Kate noticed that the small garden area on each side of the path was laid to lawn, with a rock border and a few close-growing plants that could survive the winds that blew in from the sea. She climbed the steps but hesitated before pulling the bell knob. Then, conquering her nerves, she gave it a tug and was startled to hear the resulting clanging echoing from inside the house. As the bell’s reverberations died away they were replaced by approaching footsteps.
When the door opened Kate found herself staring up into the surprised eyes of a tall man of about thirty. Kate was taller than most of the village lads, including her brothers; Jos and she had been the same height. She couldn’t remember having to look up into anyone’s face since she had been a child.
The eyes that were staring at her were grey and they were set in a strong-featured face that somehow did not match the fine clothes Richard Adamson wore. His dark hair was neatly combed and barbered but it looked as though it had been a battle to tame it.
‘Good morning,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed to stare but I was expecting Miss Lawson.’ His voice bore hardly any trace of the local way of speaking.
‘Miss Lawson is my aunt. She asked me to come today.’
‘Is she well?’
Kate knew she had benefited from Jane’s elocution lessons but, nevertheless, she took care to form what she thought might be a correct reply. ‘Thank you, sir, she is in good health.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. But there’s no need to call me sir. Your aunt never does.’ Richard Adamson smiled and Kate noticed how attractive and almost boyish it made him look.
She remembered her aunt’s tale of how she had once picked Richard Adamson up and carried him home and walloped him into the bargain. She found she couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’m helping her,’ she said.
‘I’m glad of that. Meg is . . . Meg is getting on in years. It pleases me that her family think enough of her to want to help. But it’s a hard trade you’ve chosen to follow.’
Kate felt her blood rising. Without warning her easily roused temper prompted her to tell him that it was all the harder since his trawlers had plundered the fishing grounds. No matter that reason told her you couldn’t stand in the way of progress, there was something about being here, in the doorway of this grand house a mere stone’s throw from the humble dwellings of the men whose trade was dying, that taught her for the first time how hatred could grow.
Richard Adamson could not have known anything of the battle that raged within her because he said, pleasantly, ‘Shall we see what you have to offer?’
Kate swung the creel from her shoulder and placed it on the doorstep alongside the wicker basket that contained the crabs and lobsters. She felt her brief flash of fury subsiding but she couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘Why do you buy fish from my aunt?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You own a fleet of trawlers. Surely you can bring as much fish home as you like.’
Kate was aware that her tone had not been as respectful as perhaps it should have been and she waited uncomfortably for his reply. Her eyes were fixed on her baskets but she had the impression that he was scrutinizing her carefully.
‘I do,’ he said at last. ‘I bring home anything I fancy. But it pleases me to buy from your aunt. She’s one of those people who brings something to life. I fear I’m putting this badly, but she can cheer up your day. Don’t you feel that?’
Kate was surprised by his answer but it made her smile, because no matter that he thought he’d put it badly she knew exactly what he meant. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and was relieved to find that the awkwardness that had arisen between them seemed to have vanished. I’d better get on with the business of selling fish, she thought.
She lifted the lid, which also served as a filleting table, from the top of the creel, and pushed forward the basket containing the crabs and the lobsters.
After a moment Richard Adamson said, ‘I’ll take four of the codling and two of the lobsters.’
Kate took her filleting knife from its slot in the creel and picked up one of the codling.
‘No,’ Richard Adamson said, ‘leave the filleting. The cook will do that.’
Kate was relieved. She would have felt uneasy carrying out the tricky task under the watchful eyes of Mr Adamson. More than likely her nerves would have made a fool of her. ‘Very well, s—I mean Mr Adamson.’
But, in spite of her nervousness, she realized that she didn’t feel overawed by this man. There was a warmth in his eyes and he had a ready smile. Yet for all that, she reminded herself, he must surely have a ruthless side to his nature to account for his success in business. She must not forget that agreeable as he had just been he was causing untold misery in the village.
She reached for wrapping paper from the wad she kept under her blouse at her back where it absorbed moisture from the fish and acted as a cushion between her spine and the creel.
‘No,’ Richard Adamson said again, ‘wait a moment.’
He turned and walked to the hall table where a large willow-pattern dish, probably a meat server for a huge roast, Kate thought, was waiting. When she’d placed his purchases on the dish and slipped the payment into the money pocket in her apron, she hoisted the creel on to her back once more. She was conscious that Richard Adamson was watching her every move – and that he was frowning, although she couldn’t fathom why.
Kate thought he looked odd standing there in his smart and no doubt expensive business clothes clutching a dish of fish and lobsters. She suppressed a smile at the idea that his dignity was somehow being undermined by a dish of codling.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You were smiling.’
‘Was I?’ Kate managed to inject deep surprise into the question. She saw him frown. ‘Well, that was probably because I’ll be going home soon. I’m almost finished selling fish for the day.’
‘Hm.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘And will you be calling again next week?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever my aunt decides.’
‘Give Meg my regards, won’t you?’
‘I will.’
Kate turned to go when he called, ‘Wait a moment. I don’t know your name.’
‘Kate. Kate Lawson.’
‘Good day, then, Kate.’
‘Good day, Mr Adamson.’
She realized that the leave-taking had been awkward and she wasn’t sure why the constraint had returned. As she walked down the steps she had to fight a powerful desire to turn to see whether Richard Adamson was still standing there. She had not heard the door close. I won’t look back, she thought. There’s no reason to. She realized that the encounter had left her feeling thoroughly unsettled.
Richard watched the tall, fiery-haired girl walk away from him. It’s like a disguise, he thought: the drab clothes and the heavy working shoes. But the clothes can’t hide her beauty, nor her work as a fish lass hide her spirit. And then an unsettling idea surfaced. She was laughing at me. I’m sure of it, but I don’t know why.
He stood and watched until he saw her turn and go down the area steps of one of the other houses, then he shut the door. It was time he gave the fish he’d bought to the cook, said goodbye to his mother and set off for his business premises on North Shields Fish Quay. He thought perhaps he might walk there today. It was only a couple of miles away and perhaps the wind coming off the sea would help clear his head and blow clean away the image of Kate Lawson’s troubling secret smile.
Jane leaned towards the mirror on her dressing table, and turning her head from side to side she smoothed her blond ringlets, pulling each one down a little and letting it bounce back into place. Unbidden, her friend’s voice echoed in her memory.
Torture!
Kate had once exclaimed when Jane had explained to her her nightly routine of curling rags, followed by help from the curling tongs the next morning.
Sheer torture. I could never put up with all that discomfort and fiddle-faddle!
Kate had once exclaimed when Jane had explained to her her nightly routine of curling rags, followed by help from the curling tongs the next morning.
Sheer torture. I could never put up with all that discomfort and fiddle-faddle!
It was all very well for Kate, Jane thought now. Her hair needed no more than a thorough brushing to make it look good. Jane hardly liked to admit it but she was a little jealous of her friend’s looks. She told herself she shouldn’t be. After all, Kate’s beauty was very different from her own.
Kate was tall whereas she was small; Kate although slender and shapely enough did not have the truly womanly curves that Jane herself possessed. Jane knew that she would have to take care not to become plump – not to say stout – like her mother. And Kate, being out in all weathers, would have to take care that her naturally clear complexion did not become wind-roughened and tanned like an Amazon’s.
Jane had read in one of Mrs Coulson’s
Lady’s Journal
s that women should compare themselves to delicate flowers and aim to look pale and interesting. Pallor could be induced by drinking vinegar and avoiding fresh air. A pale skin was a mark of gentility. It meant that a lady could afford not to work outdoors getting suntanned, which was to be considered vulgar and coarse. And a lady’s crowning glory was her hair.
Lady’s Journal
s that women should compare themselves to delicate flowers and aim to look pale and interesting. Pallor could be induced by drinking vinegar and avoiding fresh air. A pale skin was a mark of gentility. It meant that a lady could afford not to work outdoors getting suntanned, which was to be considered vulgar and coarse. And a lady’s crowning glory was her hair.
Jane looked in the mirror thoughtfully. Kate’s hair was certainly glorious – but she wondered if red could be considered a fashionable colour? Probably not. And as for the matter of skin colour, Jane’s own complexion was pale with a delicate hint of rose in her cheeks. One thing she had not told Kate, or even her own mother, was that she had taken to helping this faint rose blush with the tiniest touch of rouge. She had picked up this trick while helping Mrs Coulson at her toilette, and she had also learned how to apply a dusting of powder to stop her nose looking shiny. These days she always carried a tiny book of
papier poudré
in her reticule. Each little book contained leaves of coloured paper impregnated with floral-scented powder, just sufficient to remove the shine from nose, cheeks or forehead if the need arose.
papier poudré
in her reticule. Each little book contained leaves of coloured paper impregnated with floral-scented powder, just sufficient to remove the shine from nose, cheeks or forehead if the need arose.
Jane sat back, pleased with the arrangement of her hair, but she paused before reaching for her hat. Her eyelashes were satisfyingly dark but she wondered if she would ever dare darken them further. She had long ago discovered that the burnt matchsticks in the little glass dish on Mrs Coulson’s dressing table did not mean that her mistress had taken to secretly smoking cigarettes.
No, one evening when Jane was helping her dress for dinner her mistress had laughed and told her that she might as well confess. Jane had watched in awe as Mrs Coulson struck a match, waited for it to go out and cool a little and then applied the tip to her eyelashes. So far Jane had been deterred from trying it by the knowledge that tiny specks of soot sometimes fell on to Mrs Coulson’s cheeks where they became smeared as the evening wore on.
No, for the moment she would be satisfied with a discreet touch of rouge and the lightest dusting of powder. And she didn’t think she would ever have to drink vinegar. When she’d been a child her father had delighted in calling her his little china doll and her mother had encouraged her to believe that her pale complexion, dark-fringed blue eyes and angel-fair hair added up to a ticket that would carry her away from the village and secure her an altogether different existence in town.
So far her mother had been right, although Jane knew how much she owed her parents for paying for the deportment and elocution lessons and encouraging her skill with the needle. Jane had accepted that, no matter how attractive she was, no handsome prince nor even a ‘gentleman’ was likely to want to marry a girl from a fishing village. But she was enough her parents’ daughter to have the determination to succeed in her own right. If her plan came to anything her mother and father would be pleased with her. They would not be pleased if she married William Lawson. But she had decided to try with all her might to make both her dreams come true.
With her hat firmly pinned in place Jane smiled at her reflection. She was being sent into town in the carriage to look at the new fabrics in Bainbridge’s. Fabrics suitable for autumn and winter clothes – and for London. Mr Coulson had political ambitions and had met Mr Gladstone. Soon there was to be another meeting and Jane was going to help her mistress look as elegant as possible. For, she had told Jane, the master may stand for Parliament and we will have to have a house in London. Mrs Coulson had made it plain that although she wanted Jane to go to London with them, nevertheless she would not stand in the way of Jane’s plans.
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