Lakeland Lily (53 page)

‘So long as it isn’t you who has to deal with the problem, eh?’

Selene had the grace to smilingly concede this to be the case. ‘What a fusspot she is! I swear she grows worse.’

‘She’s only concerned for you.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of running my own life.’

‘Or ruining it, according to your mother.’ Both girls laughed. A sort of truce, if not exactly friendship, had grown between them over the last few years; nurtured, surprisingly enough, more by Selene than Lily.

‘At least she’s accepted you at last?’

Lily cast her a sideways glance. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say accepted. We rub along.’

‘Perhaps young Thomas has won her round. I think she’s rather fond of the little lad despite her grumbles. She prattles about him enough to Edith Ferguson-Walsh. He’s a little charmer, so why not? And handsome, like his father, eh?’

Lily felt a tightening inside her.

‘Do you see much of Nathan Monroe these days?’ Selene asked, confirming the thought processes which led to this question as she idly hooked an arm through Lily’s with a feigned air of innocence. The gesture rather took Lily by surprise and she took a moment to collect herself before answering.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I never see Nathan Monroe at all. Why should I?’

‘Why indeed? I only thought you might run across each other, since you are both in the same line of business.’

‘No.’

‘He’s none too pleased with the competition you’re giving him.’

Lily had no wish even to think of Nathan Monroe. Wasn’t she struggling to put him out of her life? It didn’t occur to her to wonder at Selene’s motives for saying this. ‘I doubt we’ll make much of a dent in his annual profits.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure. Rumour has it that Nathan was ranting on about how your boats "get under his feet" the whole time.’ This drew no comment from Lily, but a cold chill descended upon her stomach.

‘Not too good, eh? And he’s not a man to offend.’ Selene drew out a long ebony holder and fitted a Turkish cigarette into the end of it. ‘I’d watch your back if I were you, darling.’

But I’m not you, Lily thought. Thank God.

Two days later Lily did indeed receive word from Nathan, in the form of a letter.
‘Meet me,’
it said.
‘Usual place. Usual time.’

How dare he? Hadn’t she made it clear she didn’t want to see him? Crooks his little finger and thinks I’ll come running. No doubt he wishes to call me to task for ‘getting under his feet’ - drat the arrogance of the man! I will not be bullied and I will not go. Could Selene have been speaking the truth and he was just a little bit jealous? In which case it’s just as well I’ve
 
put him out of my life, Lily told herself stoutly.

When a second note arrived she tore it up, unopened. But then it was much easier to take this attitude than to risk temptation.

Each and every morning without fail Ferryman Bob walked down to the lake to feed the ducks and wild fowl. Despite his outwardly untidy appearance, he was a very particular man. His modest home, above the waiting room adjacent to the boathouse, was as clean as a new pin. He personally had built many of the neat cupboards which were stowed in every corner of the cottage, using restored chestnut panelling from an old Liverpool cutter he’d once sailed on. Nailed upon these panels were a selection of ships’ flags collected with great love and many fond memories over the years. There wasn’t one which didn’t have a story attached, and which he would relate at the least provocation.

But Ferryman Bob was tired. There were days when he didn’t have the energy to crack even a single joke on his ferry journeys - not even the one about draining the lake at back-end to clean it out, which always brought wide-eyed wonder to tourists’ faces. Believe anything, they would, if he kept his face straight during the telling.

He’d even found himself groaning recently when he heard the clanging of the bell. Relinquishing his fishing rod, or leaving his fireside, to row some chinless wonder across the blustery surface of the lake, held less appeal than it had once done.

‘You should have a steamboat,’ Lily kept telling him. ‘We could restore one for you, like the big one on Windermere.’ But he refused to countenance the idea.

‘I’ve allus rowed, and I’ll carry on rowing till I drop.’ Only he had to admit to himself that it was hard work. The oars were getting heavier by the day. ‘This little boat were good enough for me old dad, so it’s good enough for me.’

Now he rummaged in his woolly cap, found a half-smoked cigarette and stuck it between his lips. He didn’t light it yet, merely anticipated the pleasure.

Mind you, he liked helping Lily right enough. Aye, she were a grand little lass. He couldn’t be any prouder of her if she were his own kith and kin, something he didn’t have the pleasure of, him always being off-shore. It was true he loved the hiss of escaping steam, the smell of Welsh sea coal and the sound of the steam whistle, and could always help out a bit more, if he had the time. Life was for living and nobody could go on for ever. He wouldn’t mind freedom to please himself a bit more, before his number came up.

What to do about the ferry though? that was the question. For the first time in three generations there was no son to follow on.

Bob sat on the end of his jetty and began a long and tedious search for a match to light his cigarette. He didn’t hurry because decisions didn’t come quickly to him. Only he’d been chewing over this particular problem for some time.

The question was, should he speak to Lily first?

She was fair bouncing with energy and ideas, that lass. Never still for a moment, and bonny as a picture. But underneath the surface he could sense a deep sadness, like brooding rocks under the glassy lake. He thought about this for a while, forgetting his hunt for the match.

Happen it was time he did put his oars up. Maybe let somebody else have a go. Somebody who could run a proper ferry that would take more people than the half dozen he could manage. He’d had long enough to make up his mind. Yes, it was past time he put the solution into effect.

His fingers produced a match, as if by magic, and struck it on the steel tip of his boot. The cigarette flared as he lit it, and his thoughts were tranquil as he drew the smoke into his old lungs. Then, eyes creased against the thread of smoke, he untied the painter and climbed into the boat. Enough thinking. It was time to make a move. And best, he decided, that it come direct from him.

‘I can’t quite believe it,’ Lily said, grinning at Rose in open astonishment. ‘My father has actually agreed to join us! Mind, he’s going to lease a steam boat from me to use as the new ferry. Can’t buy one and won’t borrow.’

‘Fair enough,’ Rose said. ‘We all have our pride.’

‘And he might agree to do a bit of joinery for me, if he can spare the time.’

‘Everything’s coming right at last.’ Very slowly, Lily’s laughter faded.

‘More or less.’ She remembered how she’d looked in on Bertie before going to work that morning. He hadn’t been in his bed but had lain, unconscious and fully clothed, on the floor, as if the effort of getting into it had been too much for him. ‘Considering.’

‘Good.’ Rose busied herself tidying the small booking office, little more than a wooden hut. Straightening papers that didn’t need straightening, locking things that were already locked. ‘All right if I go now?’

‘Of course.’ On a sudden impulse, thinking of yet another dull evening ahead listening to Margot’s moans, Lily suddenly said, ‘Why don’t you come round for supper tonight? Like the old days.’ She watched as a slow crimson flush spread over Rose’s cheeks. ‘Made other plans, eh?’

‘Aye, you could say so. I’m sorry, Lily. Some other time.’

Now Lily looked at Rose properly she seemed different somehow, not exactly smart but certainly more glamorous. She wore a peacock blue frock with a dipped hem and a flower pinned to the collar. And she’d bobbed her hair quite short. ‘You’ve got a new boy friend. Who is it? Does he live in The Cobbles?’

‘He used to.’

‘Anyone I know?’

After a moment Rose said, ‘No one you know well, anyroad. I’ll be off then.’ And she picked up her coat, a smart new red one, Lily noticed, and fled.

Margot sat on a hard chair in the overheated bedroom, adjusted her face into a suitable expression of compassion and prepared her attack. She’d come ready to let fly but one glance at the pasty-faced woman lying limply between the starched sheets had tempered even her virulence.

‘So you see, my dear Mrs Kirkby - or may I call you Catherine? - Selene is in danger of staying on the shelf which would never do. The poor girl will very soon be past her prime.’ She mouthed ‘Thirty-three’, as if by not speaking it aloud she could deny the shameful truth about her daughter’s age. ‘She deserves a good husband and children of her own to cherish before it is too late, as I’m sure you’ll agree. I rather thought, when she came here… Not that I blame you in any way, of course, dear Catherine. After all, how can you ... in your state of ... But I’m sure you’ll understand now if I ask, nay, insist, that I take my daughter home. As a good mother, what else can I do?’ She made a helpless little gesture, meant to unite them in the conspiracy of womanhood. Only then did Margot pause to allow her listener the opportunity to reply. She did not.

Whether Catherine Kirkby would ever have risen to the occasion was hard to say, for at that moment the door opened and Marcus himself entered. Margot had quite forgotten what a tall man he was, and how very forbidding. Particularly in the confined space of the airless bedchamber.

‘Mrs Clermont-Read. To what do we owe this honour?’ His smile, she noticed, was not especially welcoming. He seemed stiff and formal, not even extending a hand in greeting.

‘I was passing.’ The lie brought a flush to her cheeks and again he smiled, though not a muscle flickered around his eyes.

‘Charming. Had you thought to telephone first - you do own a telephone - I might have saved you the trouble. As you can see my wife is not up to callers.’

He was already grasping Margot’s elbow, ushering her to the door. ‘In fact, she abhors being disturbed. I’m surprised the housekeeper didn’t warn you.’ His voice indicated that he would have something to say to the woman on the subject, even though the housekeeper had not yet been born who could keep Margot from a course of action she was set upon. Certainly not the skinny woman with the sour face who had tussled with her at the foot of the stairs.

‘I would’ve thought a little company would cheer her,’ Margot persisted, attempting to regain control of her arm. ‘Doesn’t do to languish.’

As if she would never dream of doing such a thing.

Despite her protests, her furious attempts to remain, or even bid the silent patient goodbye, she was entirely thwarted. Within seconds she found herself not only out of the stuffy bedroom but standing on the slate doorstep of Rosedale Lodge, her host thrusting her coat and umbrella very firmly into her gloved hands. Naturally she had not removed her hat.

‘Thank you for the kind thought,’ he was saying, and almost had the door closed before Margot collected herself.

‘I came for Selene. I wish her to return home at once.’

This time there was no smile, only the coldest, fiercest glare Margot had ever encountered.

‘Home? You mean to Barwick House? I don’t think so, Mrs Clermont-Read. This is Selene’s home now. And always will be.’

‘Indeed it is not. I mean to find her a husband forthwith. Make her give me grandchildren…’ But Margot’s last desperate words met only with the solid oak door.

As she stamped down the drive, shoes crunching on the splinters of slate underfoot, she well knew who to blame for this dreadful state of affairs, for the reason her darling Selene had never married. Oh, yes, indeed she did.

Marcus Kirkby sacked the housekeeper on the spot. Within half an hour she was following Margot down that long empty drive. Then he very thoughtfully took a cup of hot chocolate up to his wife, together with a small sleeping draught to calm her. He sat with her till she slept, like the adoring husband he was.

Next he collected Selene from the parlour where she’d been napping, in between reading one of her favourite magazines, and took her to his bed where he pumped out his fury into her yielding body, making her scream with pleasure and pain. Since there was no one of any account in the house to hear, what did it matter?

Power. That was what Marcus enjoyed, nay, thirsted for. More and more power. He certainly could not tolerate overprotective mamas interfering with his life, which was, in his opinion, very nearly perfect. He never relinquished a prize once he had won it. And there were other prizes that he had long had his eye on.

Selene smiled, as if reading his thoughts. Reclining naked upon the silk coverlet she gazed adoringly up at him out of kohl-lined eyes, hoping she resembled one of the heroines in the Ethel M. Dell novels she read so avidly. She certainly had the figure for it. Nice girls, of course, didn’t have bosoms. But then, Selene did not consider herself a nice girl. She’d shingled her hair, crimsoned her wide mouth, even pencilled her eyebrows. She was a vamp, wasn’t she? Much more fun.

‘We’ve just been honoured by a visit from your mother,’ Marcus informed her. ‘She has grown strangely protective of your virtue lately.’