Dangerous Waters

Dangerous Waters by Jane Jackson

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2012

ISBN 9781909335073

Copyright © Jane Jackson

The right of Jane Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

Also by Jane Jackson

Chapter One

The bitter pungency of herbs and brandy stung the back of Phoebe's nose as she carefully poured the dark liquid from basin to jug. She tipped the thick mush into a second bowl lined with muslin then, gathering up the cloth, squeezed the remaining liquid from what was left of the elder flowers, peppermint and yarrow that had been steeping for two weeks above the warmth of the kitchen range.

Shaking the mush from the cloth into a third bowl, already half full, she set it aside. Later she would spread it on her herb garden to nourish the soil and strengthen the new shoots. First the tincture must be poured into the waiting row of small brown bottles.

The winter had been cold and wet with easterly gales from the Channel. Howling along the streets that ran parallel to Falmouth's inner harbour, the wind had sliced like a blade through coats and shawls, spreading epidemics of colds and influenza. Spring should have brought relief. Instead the warm moisture-laden air had acted like a smothering blanket. Phoebe had never known so many cases of bronchitis, and the herb cupboard had never been so bare. She was dispensing remedies faster than she could replace them.

Tipping the last drops from the jug, she corked the bottles tightly. The labels waited, secured beneath a small stone mortar. She had written them the previous evening. Uncle George had been out at a supper party. So while Mrs Lynas and Mary gossiped comfortably in the kitchen, she had sat alone by the fire in the drawing room with her notebooks and her memories.

She had known for a while that change was coming. It was inevitable. And fear of the future feathered like cold breath across the back of her neck.

She picked up the mortar, its stone bowl cool and smooth beneath her fingers. It had been one of Aunt Sarah's favourites. She pictured her aunt's beloved face furrowed in concentration then softening into a smile at the first cry of a healthy newborn baby.

Though Phoebe experienced that same satisfaction at a safe delivery, hers was still tinged with amazement, awe and relief. This was not surprising given the contrast between her aunt's long experience and the brevity of her own. Yet despite the fact that she only twenty years of age and as yet unmarried, women once delivered by her aunt now asked for “Sarah's girl” to attend them. To Phoebe this was a source of great pride. And a constant reminder of the debt she owed her aunt.

Inhaling the scents of melted beeswax and lavender, of thyme, wintergreen and marigold, she felt a sharp stab of loss. Then, hearing her uncle in the passage she realised from his purposeful tread towards the kitchen that the post-boy had brought a letter. Would it be the news he hoped for? The prospect of another prolonged stay in London filled her with dread. She just had time to compose herself before the door swung open. Seeing his downcast expression Phoebe's tension eased.

“Ah, there you are. Well, my cousin has replied.” Her uncle waved the sheet of paper in his fingers. As she glimpsed the crossed and re-crossed lines Phoebe swallowed. “I daresay you will not be surprised to learn,” he continued, glancing at her from under thick wiry brows, “that Amelia has declined to present you for a second season.”

A tremor ran down Phoebe's legs, making her knees feel oddly weak. But well schooled in hiding her feelings she ensured her relief did not show on her face. “How is Mrs Winnan?” she enquired politely.

“Well enough. However, she's made it plain –” he broke off at the sound of footsteps on the back stairs. The latch rattled up and the housemaid whirled in.

“Oh, beg pardon, Captain, I didn't know you was – “

“It's all right, Mary.” Quickly Phoebe untied the apron covering her high-waisted gown of lavender muslin and hung it on the back of the scullery door. “Leave everything on the table. When Mrs Lynas gets back tell her I'll make sure it's all cleared away before she needs to start lunch.” She tugged down close-fitting sleeves she had pushed up her forearms to avoid splashes on her cuffs. “Shall we go through to the morning room, uncle?”

A fire burned in the grate; dancing flames throwing warmth and cheer into the high-ceilinged room. Phoebe welcomed both. For though the tall window faced east it was still only April and the mid-morning sunlight held little heat.

As her uncle closed the door with a firmness that betrayed his frustration Phoebe crossed to a Queen Anne chair upholstered in worn green damask and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Since her aunt's death she had hoped something might happen that would allow her to remain here in the only home she could remember. In fact something had: though she didn't think her uncle was aware of the offer made in his name. In any case as far as she was concerned the price was too high. So what now?

“I was a sad disappointment to her,” Phoebe pulled a rueful face.

George Oakes slumped into a chair opposite, heaving another sigh as he rubbed his face with his free hand. “I think we're all agreed on that.”

Phoebe braced herself. “What exactly does she say?” Her uncle had not been himself for over a week, lurching between frowning preoccupation and false heartiness. She suspected his abstraction was in some way connected to her future, and if he didn't tell her soon she would have to ask. Though she dreaded change,
not
knowing was even worse. But this must be dealt with first.

He sighed, pursing his lips as he scanned the letter. “She found your lack of enthusiasm deeply hurtful. She also considers that for a young female with so little to recommend her you demonstrated an astonishing lack of gratitude for the opportunities she had gone to such trouble to arrange.”

Phoebe bent her head and tucked a feathery tendril behind her ear. Her hair had been yet another cause of friction. All the rage in London when she had been there the previous year, the new style had only just reached Cornwall. In Falmouth and Flushing fashion-conscious young women sported hair cropped into a helmet of curls over the top and sides with the back left long to be dressed in loops or ringlets.

Phoebe's quiet but unyielding refusal to have her thick tresses cut into a style that required hours of attention from a personal maid had further infuriated cousin Amelia who considered it a personal attack on her own fashion-sense.

Rather than submit to the scissors Phoebe twisted her hair into a coil high on her crown during the day, and for evening arranged it in a fall of glossy black curls. “I'm sorry, Uncle. I should have been more appreciative. I know it was very kind of her and that everything she did was with the best of intentions but – It was – I felt –”
bullied.
Phoebe shrugged helplessly. “I felt exactly like a cow being paraded at the market.”

Shock and the briefest spasm of a smile were instantly smothered by irritation. “For heaven's sake, girl! Good God, no wonder Amelia found you impossible.” His vehemence surprised Phoebe. “You
know
that's the way these things are done. How else would well-brought-up young women meet a future husband if not at properly supervised social events? That's the whole
point
of all those parties, suppers and dances. And it worked. You attracted the attentions of not just one, but
two
gentlemen. That was what upset Amelia so much. You received
two
proposals. And you declined them both.” He shook his head and waved the letter. “She still hasn't got over it.”

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe repeated. She had wanted to please Uncle George and cousin Amelia by doing what was expected of her. Yet she had been haunted by Aunt Sarah's face.

Both gentlemen had been excellent dancers, and had kept her amused with conversation and flattery during their frequent encounters at the various balls, parties and suppers. Each in turn after talking at length about his property and his many acquaintances and preferred pastimes, had quizzed her about her own interests.

She had seen no reason to dissemble. If she were truly honest with herself she had perhaps been guilty of unbecoming pride at her involvement in work so important and so satisfying. She had assumed – hoped – they would understand. But on each occasion she had watched her escort's surprise harden into disapproval. When both gentlemen had declared her occupation “totally unsuitable” and made it clear that if she wished to further the relationship she could not possibly expect to continue such activities, she had known marrying either of them was out of the question.

“Please,” she had begged her uncle who, between voyages, had visited in the hope of being asked for her hand. “Please don't ask me to accept. It would be a betrayal of everything Aunt Sarah taught me. She called my talent a blessed gift from God. Giving it up would be like – like losing a limb. How could I be happy? I have the knowledge and ability to alleviate suffering yet they would forbid me to use it. How could any man who would demand such a sacrifice be the right husband for me? To marry such a man would be –” She searched wildly for a suitable analogy. “It would be like punishing me for a crime I haven't committed.”

Taken aback by her distress her uncle had tried to calm her. “Now, now,” he flapped his hands, shifting uncomfortably. “There's no need for that. Don't take on so. I only thought – And I am bound to point out that if
both
gentlemen who offered for you made the same stipulation, then you must see that it will not be easy to find another who thinks differently.“

“Not in London perhaps,” Phoebe agreed, her heart still thudding against her ribs. “Clearly gentlemen from outside Cornwall are more conservative in their outlook. It's very plain they would be happier with a bride willing to devote herself exclusively to running a home and rearing children. Believe me, Uncle, I do not intend any criticism. But such a life is not for me. I was raised differently. You and Aunt Sarah were far more liberal. Did you not encourage her in her work?”

Wry and fond, George Oakes's snort of laughter echoed his expression. “Encourage? She never needed that. No, I married Sarah knowing she must and would do what she was born to. And with me away at sea so much of the time it was good for her to have an interest, especially once the boys were out of leading strings and growing away. But –”

“Please, Uncle George, believe me, I could not be happy with anything less.” As the conversation replayed itself in her head, Phoebe watched her uncle re-read the letter.

“Oh well.” Blowing out a breath he pushed a large scarred hand through his cropped hair, now streaked with silver though he was only fifty-four. “There's no point in raking over dead coals. But the fact is …” he cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers as she waited. “The fact is, and I'm sure you must have realised this yourself, things can't just drift on the way they have. It's almost two years now since we lost –” He looked away for a moment. “I daresay it was harder for you than it was for the boys. They were already away at sea. And from the day you came to us you spent more time with your aunt than we ever did. That's not to say I don't miss her. I do. I think of her every day. But – “

“But it's nearly two years,” Phoebe repeated quietly, letting him know she understood what he meant even if he could not bring himself to put it into words. Just before Christmas she had begun to hear his name linked with increasing frequency to those of two very different but equally determined widows.

These murmurs had coincided with her uncle's acceptance of an increasing number of invitations to the parties, suppers and balls that were so much a feature of a packet captain's life ashore. As a senior captain on the Lisbon run his round trips lasted less than a month. His relatively short absences were the only reason she had been able to remain in the house with only the cook and maid for company without the situation giving rise to gossip.

As he nodded she read in his gaze shame, defiance, and a plea for understanding. Then he raised the letter, shaking it. “If only you could have – Two proposals,
two
.” He shook his head. “No wonder Amelia – Still, what's done can't be undone. But we have to think about your future.”

“And yours,” she said gently.

“What?” Clearly startled, he frowned. “How did – ? Who – ? What are you talking about?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “When I was down in the town yesterday I met Mrs Tonkin. She left me in no doubt that there is a strong attachment between you. She also gave me to understand that when you both feel the time is right to marry she would be happy for me to continue living here. And she is sure I would be pleased to repay that generosity by assuming the role of nanny and governess to her three children. Unpaid, naturally.”

“She
what
?” George Oakes spluttered, flushing. “But I never – I mean I haven't – She actually said – ? Well! Good God!”

“I have to tell you, uncle, much though I appreciate the offer, I would not be able to accept. The thought of spending all day looking after her appalling children – “

“Phoebe!” A flush darkened his weather-beaten face. “Still, I take your point. They are a bit of a handful. Though that's hardly surprising when you remember how long they've been without a father's discipline and guidance. Martha's done her best since Henry died –” As Phoebe's brows climbed, he raked his hair again. “All right, she's not as firm with them as she might be. But you would soon –”

“No, uncle,” Phoebe was quietly firm.

He met her gaze. “No. You're right. You deserve better than that: and better than those two in London. You do have a gift, girl. I don't know about such things. But Sarah did, God rest her. I miss her something awful, Phoebe. Lord knows I'd do anything to have her back.” His gesture held both anger and helplessness. “I don't expect you to understand. How could you? But the thing is – You see, I –” His chin jutted defiantly but his gaze pleaded for understanding. “I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone.”