Lovers Meeting (36 page)

Felicity’s scrawl was jagged with rage and hate. She had read the report in
The Times
of the salving of the
Northern Queen
. ‘Now I know why you sailed on that dirty little ship! Because of
Mrs Miller
!’ This was heavily underlined. ‘The harlot you called a cook. That is what you were up to behind my back when you were engaged to
me
! Everyone will be sniggering at me! But I won’t set you free. I’ll take you through the courts for breach of promise! I’ll ruin you and that trollop!’

Tom read it with rapidly mounting anger. Then he became aware of the horse standing outside the window, the cab waiting at the door. He thrust the letter into a drawer of the desk and hurried out. He told himself he must try to put this poison out of his mind. What needed to be done had to be done coolly. But it would be hard to keep his temper now.

In the house behind him, Josie wiped her eyes. She heard movement again, this time on the far side of the door to the nursery, and knew that Charlotte would be calling her soon. Josie slid out of the bed, bathed and dressed listlessly. She had to put on a show again but it would be for just this one more day.

‘Mrs Miller!’ Charlotte called.

‘Coming!’ Josie replied, and went to her.

Charlotte greeted her excitedly, jumping up and down on her bed – she had been promoted out of her cot some months ago. ‘This is the day of the party!’

Josie smiled. ‘No, it isn’t. That’s tomorrow.’ Charlotte pouted in disappointment but giggled when Josie tickled her.

In the kitchen they talked of the party and planned for it as they cooked breakfast for the seamen boarders. Kitty said, ‘I’ll be coming home at ten o’clock. I’ll be ready for me bed by then.’

Josie warned, ‘I don’t think you should leave before because Captain Collingwood won’t be there and I must bring Charlotte home at eight – or soon after.’

Charlotte, sharp of hearing, demanded, ‘Is that early?’

‘No, it’s late,’ Josie assured her, straight-faced, as Annie grinned.

Kitty told Annie, ‘I’ll bring your little ’un home, if you like. That’ll give you and Dan a chance to enjoy yourselves.’

‘That’s good of you, Kitty,’ said Annie. ‘Thank you.’

Josie chanced to look around and found one of the seamen boarders standing at the door from the hall. He held his empty mug in his hand and grinned at her. ‘Any chance of a drop more tea, ma’am?’

‘Why, yes.’ Josie remembered his name now: Barty Kavanagh. ‘Let me have your mug.’ She gave him his tea and he went away.

Dan rose from his seat at the table, his breakfast finished. ‘I’m looking forward to this do. It’s a long time since I did any dancing.’ He planted a kiss on Annie’s cheek and she squeaked and blushed. Then Dan looked at Josie and asked, ‘Is it all right if I wash down the yard now? Then I’ll get along to the chandler’s.’

‘Yes, fine,’ replied Josie.

Dan got out the long hosepipe, connected one end to the tap over the kitchen sink and ran the other end out to the back yard. Soon the splash of water from the hose, and the scrubbing of the bass broom in Dan’s hands, made a rhythmic background to the chatter in the kitchen.

In the evening, Josie went into the office to make up her books as she did every day. She found it hard to concentrate and worked slowly, with long periods spent staring wearily ahead of her. When she found she needed more ink for her pen she searched for another bottle. In the second drawer she came on a letter written in a jagged scrawl. A name leapt out at her, heavily underlined: ‘
Mrs Miller
!’ The letter was brief, barely a note; she took in its contents at a glance before thinking, I was not meant to read this. But she had read it, and felt sick.

Josie closed the drawer. This only confirmed her decision. She would not be the cause of Tom Collingwood being maligned in court. The crew of the
Macbeth
would testify that he and Josie had not misbehaved, but she would not be there. If she went to court her identity would be disclosed. How credible would her testimony be when she had practised a deception for almost a year? Tom, and others, would think she had posed as ‘Mrs Miller’ to worm her way into the house, pursuing some dark scheme of her own.

No. What she felt for Tom – and he for her? But she knew there was no question mark there – what they shared, she would not have that soiled.

Josie laid her head on her hands and wept.

That evening, Barty Kavanagh met Reuben Garbutt in the little pub down by the ferry. They talked in low tones and Barty said, ‘There’s not much to tell you. I don’t know if any o’ them are going anywhere today.’ Then as Garbutt glared, Barty pleaded, ‘Give us a chance. I can’t hang about that kitchen all day. They would wonder what I was up to.’

Garbutt growled, ‘Then what do you know?’

‘Just that tomorrow night, they’re all going to this party – but we’ve known that for days, they’ve been talking of nowt else. The only difference now is that she’s bringing the bairn home early, at eight o’clock, and the old woman is coming back a coupla hours after. She’s bringing the babby o’ that Annie so the lass can stop on till the finish, like all the rest.’

‘What do you mean, “all the rest”? Everyone in the house, boarders as well?’ Garbutt’s glare was fixed now.

‘Aye,’ Barty answered. ‘Everybody has been invited and not just them in the house. All them living in the square are going. Well, what d’ye expect? Free grub and beer, a band and dancing, o’ course they’ll be there. I will.’

Garbutt was silent. He had hoped at best to be able to catch Mrs Miller walking alone one night, but this! He smiled and Barty did not like it, remembered the knife and said uneasily, ‘Look, I told you, I can’t hang about—’

‘Never mind.’ Garbutt cut him off and passed him a sovereign. ‘You’ve done your best. Meet me here tomorrow, same time.’ He left the pub and Barty tucked the sovereign away, but wondered if he should return the next day. The money was good but this bearded stranger was scaring him.

Garbutt did not intend to return. He expected to finish his business the following night.

When Tom boarded the
Dorothy Snow
where she lay in the Pool of London, he found the ship’s agent waiting for him, and apologetic: ‘I’m afraid a large item of your cargo has been delayed; it won’t be ready for another two days. I’ve notified the passengers due to board this evening, by telegram, that they will be boarding two days hence.’

‘Very good.’ Tom nodded and told his steward, ‘See my kit gets stowed in my cabin. I’m going ashore for an hour or so. I have some business to attend to.’ He strode off, grim-faced.

The steward, who knew him, muttered, ‘I wouldn’t like to be the business he’s going to deal with!’

Tom took a cab to the Blakemore town house in Mayfair. A butler answered the door and informed him, ‘The family do not return until late this evening, sir. Might I suggest you call again tomorrow?’ Then he flinched under Tom’s glower.

‘I see.’ Tom wanted this settled but now his ship was not sailing for another two days. He conceded grudgingly, ‘Very well. Please tell Mr Blakemore,
and
Miss Felicity, that I will call on them at ten tomorrow morning.’

The butler was quick to agree. ‘Certainly, Captain Collingwood.’

So Tom returned to the ship and unpacked his kit. He had a sleeping cabin with bathroom and a separate day cabin. The latter was spacious, designed so that he could entertain a few chosen passengers in there. It held a large desk gleaming with polish and several comfortable leather armchairs. The desk was empty save for a blotter. Tom took from his case the framed photograph of Josie and Charlotte and stood it on the desk. He had obtained this privily from the photographer the day after Josie had shown him the original. Then he sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and looked at the photograph until his steward called that his dinner was served.

He returned to the Blakemore house at five minutes to ten the next morning. He wore his best uniform, brushed and pressed by his steward, the buttons and gold braid gleaming. He had come to tell Felicity that he would not marry her and she could sue and be damned. He had made his decision – or had it thrust upon him – when he and Josie had steered the
Northern Queen
into the River Wear and the port of Sunderland.

The butler took his cap as he entered. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Felicity is not here. However, Mr Blakemore is waiting to see you in the drawing room.’ Tom thought, She’s keeping out of my way. But he followed the butler.

The drawing room was over-furnished with small tables and ornaments, as if the room and its contents were there to display Mr Blakemore’s wealth. He stood at the window, a florid, portly man in checked tweeds with a thick gold watch chain looped across his paunch. ‘Ah! Captain Collingwood. Be seated, please.’ His tone was hushed, his manner mournful, yet Tom felt the man was acting.

But no matter. This business could wait no longer and Tom would start now. ‘I’ve come to—’

‘To see Felicity, of course.’ Blakemore coughed, embarrassed. ‘She told me about the letter she had written, but only after she had posted it. I can assure you, sir, I would have stopped it if I could.’ Tom believed him. Blakemore would not want the family name blazoned in the newspapers. Now Blakemore went on, ‘And I’m afraid my daughter isn’t here. I must tell you – it has come as a terrible shock – that Felicity has run off with Major St Clair. We were staying at his place in Biarritz but we – Mrs Blakemore and I – we suspected nothing. Nothing! Then yesterday we woke to find them gone and just a note saying they were to be married in Paris. My wife is prostrate, of course. She was making plans for the wedding in October.’

Tom stared at him, incredulous, for a moment, then he asked drily, ‘Has he money?’

Blakemore shrugged as if that did not matter, but admitted: ‘He’s very wealthy as it happens. His uncle, the Vicomte, died barely a month ago and left him a fortune. And the title, of course.’ He could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice as he said this last.

Tom grinned to himself, but said thoughtfully, ‘I still don’t see why she eloped. Why not come back to London for a spring wedding?’ Because that was much more Felicity’s style. Blakemore shook his head and Tom thought again that the man was acting – and uneasy.

The butler handed Tom his cap and let him out. As he strode away he almost collided with a girl who stepped out of an alley leading to the rear of the house. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Tom put one hand to his cap in salute and steadied the girl with the other as she staggered.

‘’S all right.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘I was watching for you. Ventris – that’s the butler – he said you were calling this morning and I saw you come in. Captain Collingwood, isn’t it?’ And when he nodded, she went on, ‘I saw you up in Sunderland a few times. I’m Susie Evans. I was on the quay when you brought that ship in what was sinking. I was Miss Felicity’s maid.’ Tom remembered her, and the last time he had seen her, with the Blakemore car while the chauffeur was delivering Felicity’s note. But Susie was going on, with a jerk of her head towards the house, ‘Did they tell you about her running off?’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes.’ He now realised the girl had been drinking. Some of her words were slurred and there had been that initial unsteadiness.

She said solemnly, ‘I’m sorry for you, sir.’

Tom grinned at her. ‘I’m not.’

‘Oh?’ Susie brightened. ‘That’s good. ’Cause I came to give you a tip, see.’

Tom recalled something said earlier. ‘You say you “were” her maid?’

Susie pulled a face. ‘She sacked me a week back. Just happened to catch me wearing one of her outfits. Wouldn’t care, but the bloody dress won’t fit her in a month or two, anyway. I came back yesterday with old Blakemore and his missus.’ Now she giggled. ‘They were putting it on that they were all upset over her running off with that Major St Clair as he called himself. But what I wanted to tell you, because I like that Josie Miller and you, was why she run off with him. You’re well off out o’ that. I could tell you some tales.’ She winked at Tom. ‘Anyway, I heard the three o’ them talking, Blakemore and his missus and Miss Felicity—’

Susie stopped then, to peer about, making sure she was not overheard. But there was only a scissor grinder with his wheel some ten yards away, sparks flying as he sharpened a knife. Reassured, Susie lowered her voice and said, ‘This was a month back. Her ma was saying she had to get rid of it and Felicity was bawling her eyes out wi’ fright. That’s why she eloped. She’s expecting and she can’t wait till next October to be married, never mind next spring. But the major was courting her heavy so – I reckon – she told him old Blakemore wouldn’t have him for a son-in-law but she would run off with him. An’ they did.’

Tom took a breath, then said, ‘Well, it seems Felicity has fallen on her feet.’ He could be magnanimous now. ‘But what about you?’

‘Oh, I can get another job easy.’ Susie flapped a hand impatiently, then used it to grab Tom as she staggered again, off balance. ‘Whoops! I had a drop of old Blakemore’s sherry this morning, just to wish them all luck. Fallen on her feet? More like on her arse.’ Susie laughed outright this time, then, shaking Tom’s arm, she told him, ‘Afore I got this “place” I worked for an old girl called Smurthwaite. Only stopped there a week ’cause I heard her son was coming home and the girls there told me how he mauled ’em. But I saw Hubert afore I left and that’s him: Major St Clair as he calls himself now. I would ha’ told them if they’d treated me proper, but they didn’t.’

Tom blinked at her, taking this in. Susie sniffed. ‘Serves ’em right, I say. And that Hubert, I’ll lay he thinks Blakemore will buy him off, but he’s got another think coming. The old feller loves his money and he won’t part with it. Hubert will finish up in a jail in France or Italy.’

Susie would be proved right. Major St Clair had only leased the villa in Biarritz with its staff for the summer and the owner’s agents were seeking him for the unpaid rent. Inside a month he would be torn from the arms of his wailing young bride. Before the year was out Major St Clair, alias Commander Sackville RN, who had defrauded a Frenchwoman, alias Hubert Smurthwaite, would hear the cell door of a French prison slam behind him.