Moon Rising (14 page)

‘Mr Stoker!' I cried breathlessly, waving as he turned. I had the immense satisfaction of seeing a similar delight as he recognised me. He swept off his hat and came striding down the hill with arms outstretched in greeting.

‘Damaris Sterne! How wonderful to see you!' His smile embraced me, and, for a moment as he grasped my hands, I thought he would catch me up and spin me round as he'd done once before. He didn't, but I was giddy with delight anyway, and could scarce speak for laughing.

‘Well, I said I'd come back, didn't I? Are you busy?' he demanded, pressing my arm, ‘or will you have tea with me? Do say you will, I've been looking for you ever since I arrived!'

‘And how long's that, sir?'

He consulted his pocket-watch. ‘Oh, at least two hours!'

Laughing again, I suddenly thought of my grandmother and how unladylike she would say I was; but Mr Stoker didn't seem to mind my unrestrained amusement. In fact I suspected him of encouraging it, since he barely stopped talking all the way to the tea-shop. He seemed to be enjoying a thoroughly boyish sense of freedom, wanting to know how I was and what I'd been doing since last we met. Even as I struggled to frame an acceptable reply he was telling me what a long winter it had been in London, exhausting in spite of the successful season they'd been enjoying at the Lyceum.

‘But it's so good to be here,' he said warmly, ‘I feel better already! I needed a holiday – or at least everyone's been telling me so,' he added with a grin. ‘To be honest, I think I was driving them all mad – they wanted rid of me for a while!'

I wondered who ‘they' were exactly, but he gave me no chance to ask. As I faced him across the tea table I thought his light, jesting manner probably disguised a lot of truth, and although the beard covered much of his mouth and jaw it seemed to me he was thinner. There were shadows I'd not noticed before, and a nervous tic below his right eye of which he seemed unaware. I wanted to smooth it away with my fingertips, but it was hardly the thing to do in public. Anyway, my hands were never my best feature; even in my best crocheted gloves I was conscious of wanting to hide them.

‘I'm supposed to be on a walking holiday,' he confided, ‘using Scarborough as a base. I've sent lyrical cards to all – but they can't get in touch with me here, and that's the beauty of it!'

‘You're in hiding, then?' I whispered, making a joke of it, wondering why it mattered so much.

‘I am,' he said seriously. ‘I've had enough of them all. Florence as well as Irving and the rest.'

‘Florence?' But I hardly needed to ask.

‘My wife,' he said bleakly. His gaze met mine and held it, revealing a darkness quite at variance with the laughter of only moments ago. Disturbed by it I had to look away.

Mistaking the reason, his hand sought mine, found my fingers under the table and gently squeezed them. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't want to deceive you.'

‘That's all right,' I said, forcing a smile to cover my disappointment. ‘I knew you had to be married – too nice not to be!'

Under the table, my fingers were almost crushed. ‘Does that mean we might still be friends?'

‘Oh, I should think so,' I said lightly, disengaging my hand and reaching for the teapot. Excitement made me nervous, and it was a long time since I'd presided at a properly laid table with pretty china and silver teaspoons. Somehow I managed to pour without spilling a drop, and passed the cup across with a hand that was shaking only slightly. ‘How long are you planning to stay?'

‘I don't know – a few days, a few weeks, who knows?'

‘You should stay for the summer,' I said decisively, reaching for the scones. ‘It would do you good.'

‘Perhaps I will – I've been considering it. Do you know of a place I could stay? For more than a night or two, I mean. I'd need a cottage, something like that – somewhere quiet where I could do some writing. That's essential.'

I didn't, but thought Jack Louvain might. There was also the local paper, I said, and an office near Whitby Town station which advertised properties to let. He wanted me to accompany him to the studio but I knew Jack would be busy; and anyway, I was reluctant to intrude with matters like that. Besides, I hadn't been home all day.

‘But you'll meet me later, I hope? We'll have supper together, like last time?'

So I said yes, of course I would; but with the feeling that something rather more than supper had been agreed, I arranged to meet him later in the gardens above the Cragg.

~~~

I was nervous and wished for something different to put on that evening, but had nothing as flattering as the clothes I'd been wearing. So I set the iron to heat, some water to boil and, having refreshed my dress, hung it to air by the open window in my room. Then I turned my attention to myself. When Bella came bounding up the stairs I was brushing my hair, trying, without much success, to persuade the thick curls into ringlets. She saw at once what I was after, and took the brush and comb from me.

Frowning in concentration, she worked on the ringlets then looped them all in a skein of hair, anchoring both sides with tortoiseshell combs. There we are,' she said, smiling: ‘looks a treat now, Damsy.'

As I thanked her and turned to examine my dress, she said: ‘So where're you going then, what're you getting done up for?'

I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my voice, to sound more amazed by the coincidence than impressed by Mr Stoker's interest. ‘Well, you'll never guess who I bumped into on my way back here. My gentleman friend – the one who helped Jack Louvain on the day of the storm – you know, when he was trying to photograph the wrecks.'

‘No,' she said quickly, compressing her lips, ‘I don't remember.'

‘Yes, you do,' I insisted sharply. ‘There haven't been that many gentlemen in my life. If you recall, he treated me to supper.'

‘Oh,
that
gentleman – the one who kissed you good-night and had you sighing for weeks. D'you know, for a minute there, I thought you meant young Markway.'

She used his name like a knife under the ribs, and for a moment I couldn't speak.

‘You see,' she went on, ‘the last I heard, young Jonathan was the one you wanted – so much, you were going to have to leave here and get a job, just so he wouldn't be ashamed to be
seen
with you!'

With that she flung herself out of the room. Furious, I was hard on her heels. ‘I never said that! Just what d'you think you're getting at?'

‘Nothing,' she said bitterly from the stairs. ‘But just remember – the ones with money are the worst, especially when they're hunting for bargains!'

Before I could answer, she was down the stairs and away. At that, I slammed the door, so hard it rattled the windows and my dress fell in a heap on the floor.

The joyousness of that meeting on Cliff Lane was well-nigh destroyed. I could not believe that a few hours could make such a difference, that I could have been so delighted by that moment of mutual recognition, yet going to meet him now on leaden feet. Bella's parting shot was bad enough, but the fact that he was married gave it credence, and made a travesty of what should have been innocent enjoyment.

I made an effort to be lighthearted and thought I was succeeding until we were settled at our table in the White Horse. But with the order given, Mr Stoker went straight to the heart of the matter and asked why I was so ill at ease. ‘Is it the fact that I'm married – does it offend you so much?'

‘No,' I declared, which was mostly true. What continued to bother me was the ugly light Bella had cast over everything – including my motives and his intentions. But because I couldn't tell him that, I said this evening out had caused trouble at my lodgings.

Frowning for a moment, he said: ‘But not with the young man you mentioned last time we were here? The one with a gorgon for a mother.'

I shook my head, astonished that he should remember Jonathan and the troubles I'd had then. ‘No – no, he's been gone since before Easter. That's the problem,' I said with affected lightness: ‘all the likeliest lads go off to sea, and leave their womenfolk at home.'

‘And you don't want that?'

‘Not if I can help it,' I said pertly, and he laughed and squeezed my hand.

I could tell he didn't quite know when to take me seriously, often mistaking a wry observation for jest, and a teasing joke for gospel truth. But there again he told stories that were impossible for me to judge, relating bits of theatrical gossip over the roast and household names over the pudding that had me sitting there with jaw agape. I gasped and laughed at his quick character sketches of royalty and politicians, the plays they'd attended, things they'd done and said; laughed even more at his backstage tales of practical jokes and near-disasters, often rescued at the last minute by his own intervention.

If his stories of the rich and famous sometimes seemed incredible, they were also great fun, but as the evening progressed he became more serious. I began to understand that the demands of his work in London had increased enormously over the winter. Quite apart from daytime responsibilities, he was at the theatre every night, ironing out problems, charming important patrons, even organising supper parties, so that his precious Mr Irving might relax amongst friends after a performance. He was rarely home before two in the morning, and sometimes, depending on the company, it could be daybreak as he left to walk down the Strand. It was all part of his job, he said; but even I could see it was wearing him down.

‘You needed to escape,' I said with sympathy.

‘Oh, yes,' he agreed with feeling, ‘I've known that for months. I was hoping to get away at Easter, but it simply wasn't possible. And then – well, I'd finally had enough the other night. Told Irving what I thought about his behaviour and my working hours. I said I was due some time off, that I was taking it as of that moment, and wasn't sure when I'd be back. He said I should be careful – I might not have a job to come back to!

‘That was when I walked out,' he confessed. ‘Didn't even bother to answer. Went home, packed my things, took the train the following morning. Best thing I ever did!'

He grinned then, like a schoolboy playing truant, but when I said: ‘Good for you, Mr Stoker!' he remonstrated, saying it made him feel old, so I must call him Bram, as did all his friends in the theatre. And he would call me Damaris, which was such a delightful, old-fashioned name. I agreed it was old-fashioned, said I didn't like it; but he said the
maris
part of it reminded him of the sea, and suddenly, after that, I didn't mind at all. Hearing my name on his lips made it seem special, somehow, softer and prettier than it had ever sounded before.

After the candlelit interior of the White Horse, we were surprised to discover that twilight was still lingering outdoors. It was an hour when Whitby was at its most peaceful and relaxed, and it seemed to me as we strolled up Kirkgate that my friend had done well to return. It felt like a compliment too, and that brought a smile to my lips. Seeing it, he offered a penny for my thoughts, but I was bold enough to say they were worth far more than that.

‘Well, I confess freely,' he said with a sidelong smile, ‘that I've been thinking of you all winter. Stealing glimpses of you in your fishergirl's garb...'

‘You haven't!' I protested. ‘Not those photographs Mr Louvain sent you?'

‘The very same!' He reached into an inside pocket and brought out the wistful one, the one I'd always liked best. His grey eyes danced as they surveyed me now, blushing and giggling and thankful of the dusk.

But as we reached the Duke of York he wanted to take a look at Collier's Hope, where the Russian ship had foundered. I told him the schooner had been sold and broken up long ago, her ballast of silver sand dispersed to the sea. We stood for a while looking out beyond the piers, beyond the lighthouses, and I was intensely aware of him then, not just his physical presence, but a deeper sense of intimacy between us, as though we'd known each other always. I had a sense of that quiet moment being a necessary pause between what had gone before, and what was yet to be. But then he moved and turned, and it was gone.

Climbing back up to the pier, I asked whether he'd found the accommodation he was looking for.

‘No, the office you mentioned was closing. But your friend the photographer said he knew of several places out of town – empty cottages done up for the summer, that sort of thing. He said he would tell you where they were, so you could take me to look at one or two tomorrow. That is,' he added, ‘if you're able to.'

‘Yes, of course,' I said blithely, disregarding my need to find a job. All at once it didn't seem nearly so important.

This time we managed the Church Stairs with ease. As we neared the top, my companion paused to look up at the homely outline of the church with its short square tower and shallow roof. Against a gathering dusk the abbey ruins were in somnolent mood, while the monuments to Whitby's dead were gilded by the last of the light from the west.

His glance met mine, and it was as though he read my thoughts. ‘So different from the last time we were here...'

‘We don't always have storms,' I murmured, hoping he was not disappointed.

He took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Oh, I think I've had enough of those in recent months.'

Then he turned to look back – and saw the view, that tremendous sweep of sea and sky and cliffs stretching away into the distance of Kettleness. The sun had gone down, casting the town below into smoky shadow; but up here on the east cliff all was bathed in the afterglow. We might have been angels with all of heaven as our domain.

‘And you say you want to leave
this
?' he whispered.