Children of the Tide (28 page)

Betsy squeezed Billy’s arm as they mounted the steps of the hotel. ‘I wish you luck with your life, Billy.’

He blinked and came back to the present. ‘And I wish you the same, dear cousin.’

The landlady brought in tea and chocolate and small sweet cakes. ‘Nothing for me.’ Billy seemed absent-minded and preoccupied. ‘I’ll say goodnight to you all.’

‘I’m going to bed too,’ Betsy said. ‘I’m tired and I feel rather sick.’

‘Too much champagne. We’re not used to such lavish living.’ Sammi sat down and poured tea for herself and Tom, and said she would come up shortly.

Tom stretched his arms and then loosened the stock about his neck. ‘I shall be glad to get out of these fancy clothes,’ he grinned, ‘and back into my boots and breeches.’

‘But these clothes suit you very well, Tom,’ Sammi said shyly. ‘Yet you seem different – not the same person that I know so well.’ She hesitated, should she ask the question that had been bothering her? ‘I – I wanted to ask you something,’ she began diffidently.

‘What is it, Sammi?’ He came and sat beside her on the small sofa, and she moved up to accommodate him. Crinolines took up a ridiculous amount of room, she thought.

‘I shall be going back home in a day or two,’ she began. ‘You know that I said I thought that Mark had
gone away because of me?’ He started to protest, but she interrupted him. ‘I know. You did explain that it wasn’t anything to do with me, and I accept that, but – but I think that it is better that I go, though I will come back to visit if Luke Reedbarrow should call on Betsy.’

He frowned but she continued, ‘Mrs Bishop has agreed to nurse Adam for six months, so there is no need for me to stay in Tillington any longer. But I also realize that it was unfair of me to come and stay as I did. It was unfair because I realize now that I was imposing on
you
. I shouldn’t have done that, and though you haven’t complained, I can tell that it has been a strain on you, having me there all the time.’

He gazed at her for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Whatever do you mean, Sammi? A strain on me?’

‘Oh, I can tell, Tom.’ She hunched her shoulders and then gave a sigh. ‘I have known you all of my life. I know when something is troubling you. You’ve been uncomfortable with me living at the mill. You haven’t been your natural self at all.’

A smile broke on his lips and he reached for her hand. ‘Have I not behaved in my usual cousinly manner, Sammi? Have I been impolite?’

‘Oh, no, Tom. I didn’t mean that!’ Her eyes searched his face, begging for understanding. ‘You have always behaved well towards me. I have always been assured of your regard and affection.’ She looked away again. This was the whole point, if she could only explain it properly. She could not now hold a proper conversation with him. She was almost tongue-tied and embarrassed, as if she didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s just that things seem to be different between us now, Tom,’ she said softly. ‘It’s as if we don’t have the friendship we once had; we seem to have lost something – as if we have grown away from each other.’

He still held her hand and gently ran his long
fingers across it, tracing up and down her fingers. His hands were surprisingly smooth, in spite of his rough work, and there was something soporific about the movement. ‘I’m sorry that you feel like that, Sammi.’ His voice was almost inaudible. ‘I don’t quite know what I can do about it.’

He lifted her hand to his lips and closed his eyes. She watched him in amazement; that was the second time he had done that. She gazed at his wide forehead, his thick eyebrows, his straight nose and the way his dark hair curled behind his ears. He must be very unhappy, she puzzled, and was taking some comfort from her presence.

He opened his eyes and saw her watching him. He gave a slight smile but kept his lips on her hand.

‘What is it, Tom?’ she whispered. ‘Have we lost something, you and I? Do say that we haven’t?’

He kissed her hand and gently lowered it. His smile disappeared and he touched her cheek. ‘Yes, Sammi. I’m afraid to say that I think we have.’

In the house in Charlotte Street, the maid had left a small brass kettle filled with water in case they wanted a drink. A fire was burning in the sitting-room, and when Gilbert ran upstairs to check the fire in the bedroom, he saw that the covers had been turned back on the bed and there was a vase of roses on the bedside table, just as he had ordered.

He divested Harriet of her cloak and she took off the flowered coronet from her hair. She moistened her lips with her tongue and whispered, ‘Has the girl gone to bed?’

‘Yes. I told her not to wait up. She can clear the things away in the morning.’ He glanced at the tray with the china cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. ‘Would you like anything before, er, retiring, Harriet?’

She shook her head and looked at him with her large eyes. It had been her eyes which had first
attracted him to her, those and her gentle manner. ‘No thank you, Gilbert. I’m very tired. It has been a long day.’

‘But an enjoyable one, my darling.’ He came towards her and gently stroked her face. He felt her cringe. Only slightly, but it was there, nevertheless. He put his arms around her and pulled her towards him. ‘You don’t need to be nervous,’ he whispered, his lips touching her hair.

‘But I am, Gilbert. Even though I love you, I am afraid.’

‘But why?’ He held her away from him and looked at her. She was shaking, her lips trembling and her lowered eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Not if I can help it.’

She lifted her eyes to his. ‘I know that you will be considerate, Gilbert. And I know that this, this has to be done. I will be a good wife to you. I will try to keep you contented and bear your children, and look after your home so that you will always be glad to come back to it. And I shall put up with, with – what a woman has to put up with, without complaint.’

‘Put up with?’ He stared at his new wife in disbelief. ‘Put up with? Who has told you this?’

‘My mother. She says that there are some things that women must endure, as she has had to do all these years.’

He turned away. He was so angry. Devastated by what she had said. How could anyone believe that this act of love should be simply for a man’s satisfaction and a woman’s discomfort?

An image came into his mind, an image that he had fought hard to diminish. A mental picture of a young girl, dark like Harriet, who had lain with him and loved him and had not complained. Had she simply put up with it? He thought not. She didn’t have to stay, but she did, all night, and nor did she expect any payment, for the next day she had gone, disappearing from his life until her mother
had brought her child and said that she was dead.

He took Harriet by the hand and led her up the narrow stairs. He had remained celibate since that night, not wanting any other woman. Tonight was his wedding night, but he would not force his wife. He would wait. Wait until she was ready. He opened the bedroom door. The lamp by the bed was lit, giving a glow to the yellow roses. The firelight flickered and the room looked cosy and inviting.

‘Turn around,’ he said, and started to undo the buttons and ribbons on her gown. It slipped to the floor and he helped her out of the wide cage. Beneath the cage she wore a silk shift and white stockings, and she put her arms across her breasts and bare arms and looked at him, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Without speaking, he took the pins and combs from her chignon and her hair fell onto her shoulders in a mass of dark curls; he twisted a curl around his finger and then bent to kiss her bare shoulder. He felt so sad. Thoughts of birth and death mingled with his marriage vows, and he couldn’t have made love to her tonight, not now, not even if she had been willing.

He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. ‘Go to bed, my love. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He turned on his heel and went out of the door, closing it behind him.

‘Well, Da, ’wedding will be over. They’ll be starting ’music and dancing about now. Our Tom will be trying out his few steps.’ George sipped a mug of tea and bit into a slice of bread. ‘I hope they think to bring us a few treats back, a bit of cake or pie or summat.’

His father stretched himself out in his chair and grunted. ‘They’ll not be thinking of thee, they’ll be too busy enjoying themselves. I’m sorry tha couldn’t go, lad. Would tha have liked to?’

George shook his head. ‘No, not me, Da. I’d rather
be here. I don’t care for ’town life. I’d rather be here in Tillington where I belong. Besides, somebody has to be here for ’mill and ’builders and all.’

Thomas smiled and lit his pipe. There wasn’t often time for conversation with his sons, they were always so busy.
Perhaps that’s been my mistake
, he thought.
Maybe that’s why Mark has gone off. If I’d had the chance to talk to him he might not have felt he wanted to leave
. He looked at his youngest son sitting opposite him in the kitchen. All the furniture except for two wooden chairs and a table had been moved into the parlour. The kitchen extension at the other side of the wall was slowly being built up, and in another few days the dividing wall would be knocked down.

‘Hast tha got a young lady, George? Or anybody that’s caught thine eye?’

George blushed at his father’s directness. ‘No, not me, Da. I haven’t met anybody I’m partial to. Though there’s plenty of lasses in ’village who give me ’eye.’ He grinned. ‘They all think that ’miller’s sons are a good catch.’

‘But not ’miller’s daughter?’ Thomas queried. ‘Don’t young fellows think that our Betsy is a good catch?’

‘Nay,’ George said disparagingly. ‘Betsy let them know a long time ago that she wasn’t in ’marriage market for ’lads round here. Farmers’ sons maybe, or somebody wi’ a bit of land, but she’ll not let herself go cheap, won’t our Betsy.’

So you haven’t heard about Luke Reedbarrow
, his father mused.
It’s not general knowledge then. Or maybe Betsy hasn’t made up her mind
. He fretted.
Yet she’s been seeing him on the sly. Now that worries me. He’s a fine-looking fellow, but some of ’family are not stable. It’s not fair to judge ’lad on his forebears I know, but …!
He sighed.
Aye, that worries me a lot
.

‘Da? What will happen if our Tom should get wed? Would I have to move out? It’s not likely that a young woman’d want three men to look after.’

‘Can’t see Tom getting wed. He’s like our Betsy, a cut above ’village lasses. So, tha’ll probably be wed afore him, George, and want to find a nice little house in ’village for thyself and thy wife. Aye, that’s how it’ll be.’ He bit on the stem of his pipe and gazed into the fire and painted an idyllic picture. ‘And afore I know where I am I’ll have grandchildre’ riding on my back and playing around my knees.’

They both sat up as they heard a sudden gush of wind down the chimney and a scattering of soot fell into the fire; both men reached for their boots, which they had taken off while they had their supper.

‘We’d better get aloft.’ Thomas fastened his laces. ‘I’d hoped we might have had a night off tonight.’

‘There’s a storm brewing up. I can smell it,’ George said. ‘It’s been that clammy all day.’

They went out into the mill yard. The air was heavy, and a huge black cloud over the sea was moving swiftly towards Tillington.

‘I don’t like ’look of that,’ George muttered, ‘and I don’t like ’sound of that wind getting up. We’ll have all on, Da, without Tom here to give us a hand.’

‘We’ll manage.’ His father knocked the dead ash from his pipe and put it in his pocket. ‘As long as we don’t get tail winded.’

George nodded. The greatest fear of all millers was when the wind changed its course and gusted onto the backs of the sails, wrecking the shades and the main shaft. His father had had a fantail fitted many years ago at the rear of the domed cap, which alleviated most of the problems of tail winding, but it was a danger of which they were always aware, and after stormy weather they often heard reports of caps being blown off and mills being so badly damaged that they had to be dismantled and rebuilt.

George went into the bagging room and started to shift the sacks of grain to be ready to hoist onto the chain, which, propelled by wind power, travelled up to the bin floor, passing through a series of trap doors
set into each intervening floor and which opened on leather hinges for its entry and closed with a thump behind it.

He called to his father who was mounting the access ladder to open up the trap doors. ‘There’s a drop of oil needed on ’drive wheel, Da. ’Sack hoist’s not been running smoothly.’

His father shouted back, ‘I’ll do it! I’m going up into ’cap. I don’t like ’sound of that wind. We might have to abandon if there’s a storm. Check ’balance of ’weights on ’vanes, wilt tha?’

As George went out into the yard, the wind caught the door, pulling it out of his hand and crashing it back against the hinges. He closed it firmly and looked up at the sails. They were set at rest in the St Andrew’s Cross position, with the shades open to reduce the wind pressure and to ensure no damage was done during a high wind. The sky was dark above him, the storm seemed to be gathering over his head. He dashed round to the rear of the mill and, putting his hand to his forehead, he peered up at the fantail. He narrowed his eyes: there seemed to be a wobble on one of the fly posts beneath the fantail sheers, and he hoped that it wasn’t loose. A flash of lightning momentarily lit up the sky and he saw it more clearly. Yes. He was sure that it had come adrift.

He ran back inside to warn his father; there would be no milling tonight, it would be far too dangerous if the fantail came loose or the wind reversed its direction, for it could then quite easily turn the shades inside out.

‘Da!’ He shouted up to the top of the mill. ‘Da! ’Fantail’s adrift. I’d better come up and try to fix it.’

His father’s muffled shout echoed down to him. ‘I’m up here already. I’ll take a look.’

George chewed on his lip. He wished that Tom was here, he didn’t like the idea of his father leaning out of the access door to check the fantail, even though he had been doing it for years. They had all noticed
that he was not as agile as he once had been, and often the pain he felt in his aching legs was etched upon his face; in the last few months he had given way to Tom and let him do the jobs which previously he had insisted on doing himself.