Moon Rising (35 page)

After the first few months, when I'd more or less recovered from the trials of Whitby, I began to understand that I was attractive to men of a certain age; but, since most of them were married and I was far from willing to be impressed, I took little notice. As time went on, however, and I gained in confidence, I began to use their interests and intelligence for my own ends. Always modestly, always discreetly, so that no one could say I was flirting or teasing or making overtures; nor, more importantly, that I was garnering information. But I was. And making decisions. My nest-egg was growing, and I wanted it to grow even more. I wanted to be my own mistress, and never be dependent again.

Henry Lindsey was less gullible than his peers, and more observant than most. Since he had never been one to underestimate women, it took him no time at all to figure out what I was doing. At first, he confessed, he thought the Addisons were using me as some kind of spy. Determined to find out the truth, he pursued me over several visits, until he was reassured that my interests in shipping and cargo rates were purely selfish. Oddly enough, I think he admired that. He was certainly amused. My resistance on other fronts intrigued him, and then became something of a challenge. After all, he was an extremely eligible widower, childless, and not more than three or four years over forty. I think he wanted me to be impressed by his attentions, and the fact that I was not made a dent in his pride.

But then he left suddenly, and afterwards, to my surprise, I found I missed the battle of wits. By comparison the others were not much of a challenge, but he had a certain style that appealed to me. From our conversations I knew he was a native of King's Lynn in Norfolk, but his connections in Hull were increasingly important, hence his dealings with the Addisons. The main part of his business, however, was as a broker with the Baltic Exchange in London. The idea of London still sent pangs of anguish through my heart, but at least the business of the Exchange – negotiating cargo prices between ship-owners and charterers – was something I was beginning to understand.

It was several weeks before he returned to Mrs Addison's drawing room, but he was obviously pleased to see me, and I was sufficiently charmed by that to abandon my habitual defensiveness. Telling myself that it would be churlish to ignore him, I sat with Mr Lindsey for quite a while that evening, and discovered that I liked the way his mind worked even when we were not crossing swords. He had wit and good humour, and, although his colouring and features were unremarkable, I found them quite pleasing. Certainly, he was nothing like Bram, and that was a bonus.

I liked Henry Lindsey, admired him, enjoyed his company – and yes, I was flattered by his interest. Over a period of about a year I saw him perhaps once or twice a month, and he never forgot to ask me, teasingly, how my sixty-fourths were doing. It was his way of referring to the part-shares in ships and their cargoes which were being bought and sold on my behalf by Mr Richardson. I always said they were doing well, which generally they were, whereupon he would tap his nose and threaten to steal me away from the Addisons.

‘Do you know, my dear,' old Mrs Addison said one day after he'd gone, ‘I really do think he means it.'

She was right, he did. As winter gave way to spring, Henry Lindsey set about courting me with determination, in a charming, old-fashioned way that won Mrs Addison's favour at once, and made me feel both honoured and valued. At Easter, he called almost every day for a fortnight, bringing primroses and early violets, scented boxes of Turkish delight, a journal or two as well as the latest novel; and ultimately, as a joking reference to my maritime passions, an old copy he'd found of Nathaniel Bowditch's
Practical Navigator.

I was aware of his sense of humour, but I think that piece of evidence endeared him to me more than anything else. And I felt honoured to be courted in such a way, to know that I had a suitor, and a most respectable one at that. He was an excellent prospect, far better than a young woman in my position could expect. As I went up to bed that night with Nathaniel Bowditch under my arm, I couldn't help thinking how pleased my grandmother would have been by such a match.

Henry kissed me first of all one afternoon in Mrs Addison's library, but although it was a tender moment, I was aware of stronger desires burning away in the background. And not only on his part. In the warmth of his embrace I felt myself responding, bending into him before awareness caught me and made me flustered. I backed away, blushing, while he was obviously charmed by what he took for virginal modesty, and that embarrassed me even more.

For a long time, after the emotional and physical tolls of Whitby, there'd been nothing much left in me beyond a desire for survival. My sexual needs were so diminished I'd imagined them gone for good; and as for affection, I'd wanted nothing and no one. My girlish fancies about men had been destroyed. I'd ceased to expect love and tenderness, much less a romantic courtship with marriage as the conclusion, so what was happening with Henry was rather a surprise.

The next evening, he told me he would have to return to London in a few days, and might not be able to visit again for some time. Part of me was relieved, because in anticipating the next step I felt in need of time to adjust; even so, disappointment struck hard. The time we'd spent together had been enjoyable, and I knew I would miss him.

A moment later, he took my hand and said he had something to ask me, something important that he hoped I could answer before he went away. The approach was hardly original, nor was the question entirely unexpected, but I was overwhelmed. In response I found myself blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl, as though his proposal was the one thing in life I needed to make me happy; yet in reality I was unsure of myself, and little short of terrified of what might happen if he were to find out about Bram.

But I accepted, of course I did. I could do no other. Mrs Addison was genuinely thrilled by the news, like a mother in the way she clucked and fussed over the forthcoming arrangements. I disappointed her by insisting on a quiet wedding – she would have asked a hundred guests and willingly footed the bill – but in truth there were so few people to invite on either side, it seemed a nonsense to make a fuss. Nevertheless, I wrote to Bella and to Mr Richardson, and, at Mrs Addison's prompting, I penned a line to Old Uncle Thaddeus, mainly to let him know that I'd managed to save myself from perdition after all.

But if he was surprised, I was astonished when he volunteered to come to the wedding and give me away. He said I was still his brother's granddaughter and my grandmother's namesake, and he would not shame me or the Sternes of Robin Hood's Bay by letting me pretend that I had no family. Reading those sentiments I was ridiculously touched; even more so when he arrived at the house, immaculately groomed and as hawk-like as ever.

‘I was glad to hear from you,' he confessed, reaching out to clasp my hands. ‘It was about time...' He stood back, while those penetrating blue eyes took in everything about me. ‘You've grown up,' he said at last, decisively, ‘and you seem to be blooming, praise God. That pleases me – there was a period when I was concerned...'

He didn't say more. He didn't need to. Meeting that glance I had a vision of Magnus Firth's body on the beach, and the inquest at the Dead House. He'd probably seen me there, while letting me think I'd remained unnoticed. He probably knew about Bram, too. Remembering all my sins and shortcomings, I could scarcely believe I'd been forgiven, and yet the head of the Sterne family was here, ready to give me away in marriage to Mr Henry Lindsey, ship-broker and member of London's Baltic Exchange. I had a speechless moment, thinking he might be about to tell all, but then I decided that even Old Uncle Thaddeus might be feeling impressed by how well I'd done. That dispelled the fear.

~~~

I was married in the summer of 1890, the summer Bram finally returned to Whitby.

But I was not there, and he was not alone. He came with his wife and nine-year-old son; and he came in August with everyone else, all the artists and writers who made Whitby famous. George du Maurier even penned a little cartoon of the family Stoker, which I happened to see in
Punch
when Henry and I returned from our honeymoon in the Lake District.

It cut me to the heart to recognise the house and gardens which were the setting for that cleverly observed cartoon, and of course I knew Bram at once. I have it still. There he is in the sketch, tall, long-legged, leaning forward in a wicker chair, soft, broad-brimmed hat shading his face as he watches his son; even the beard is sketched to perfection. The little boy, Noel, in his sailor suit, is trying to attract his mother's attention, but she is reading a book and does not wish to be disturbed.

‘Little boys,''
Florence says sternly,
‘should be seen and not heard
.'

‘ Yes, Mamma,'
the poor child retorts, ‘
but you don't even
look
at me . .
.'

A successful marriage, I believe, is generally based on compromise, and – particularly for a woman – the adjustment of romantic ideals to reality. Since my romantic ideals had taken something of a battering in Whitby, I told myself that this time I was using my head, not my heart. If I was not in love when I married, at least I had the benefit of fewer illusions. Nevertheless, I had some, and they caused trouble enough.

Thankfully, the question of my virginity never arose. Although I worried about it before the wedding, Henry did not appear to wonder about my previous history and I was never called upon to explain. But that first night I was as nervous and apprehensive as any virgin bride. Apart from a few kisses and restrained embraces, Henry and I were strangers to each other, and, although I wanted to be with him, I'd long ago lost the innocent enthusiasm that prompted my response to Bram. Henry was different, less hesitant, more practised somehow, lacking that strange combination of intensity and emotion that gave birth to such passion in Bram. He had none of Bram's sensuality, or even his perversity, which had always given an edge of danger to our encounters.

But if Henry was predictable, he was also considerate. He had no desire to hurt me, rather the reverse; and, if he failed to set my world on fire, at least we managed to achieve a level of satisfaction in the marriage bed that Bram and Florence would have envied. Unfortunately, our early days in London were less equable, largely because there were so many adjustments to make on other fronts.

Henry had been married before, and his home had been furnished by his first wife, which made me feel like a visitor or an employee, unsure of my welcome as well as my duties. He found it difficult to understand my feelings, and regarded my requests for change as criticism of the dead. He was hurt, I was hurt, and the fact that his household had been run by a pleasant and capable housekeeper for many years made everything so much more difficult to handle. I had nothing to do. He thought I should enjoy that, but I had been brought up to different expectations, and to be a lady of leisure was not one of them.

I was bored, and no assurance that I would have plenty to do once the children came along was enough to cure my hunger for activity. Also, despite the stomach-churning reaction whenever I thought of it, I was afraid that one day curiosity might lead me to the Lyceum on the Strand, and that if Bram and I were to meet again, even by chance, no good would transpire. I was less afraid of passionate embraces than of furious rows as I gave vent to my sense of injury and injustice, the kind of scene that might even erupt into violence. In five years I'd forgiven him very little, least of all for ignoring my letters. And the fact remained that when Irving crooked his finger, Bram went running, so I hated Irving too. I didn't think I could ever bear to see the man again, not even upon a stage.

I needed distractions. So, whilst making small changes throughout the house, I pleaded for something more challenging to do, an opportunity, perhaps, to put my burgeoning financial knowledge to good use. But that was tantamount to asking for a job – unthinkable as far as Henry was concerned. It soon became clear that my interests in the shipping world were acceptable only as an eccentric kind of hobby, and that was a severe blow, since I was proud of my achievements. I had been vain enough to think that Henry had married me for my wits as much as my looks and apparent good health.

During one heated exchange I dared to say so, which provoked an angry retort. He said he'd chosen me as a suitable mother for his children, but as we'd been married for over a year, he supposed he was bound for disappointment again.

The accusation stopped the breath in my throat. I felt despised for my failure, and was bitterly hurt; doubly so because I felt inadequate as well as guilty, as though I'd cheated him by injuring myself before we even met. I was already beginning to fear that Nan Mills, or the fever I had endured afterwards, had somehow ended my chances of becoming a mother.

It would have been easy then to slip into melancholy or self-pity, and indeed I suffered both for a while, until anger and self-respect came to my rescue. Unwittingly, I'd married Henry Lindsey under some kind of false pretence, yet in a way he'd managed to deceive me too, so perhaps we were even. We'd both married selfishly, trusting the other to provide what we most wanted from life; and to some extent we were both disappointed. And we were different. He was neat, precise, methodical, his days planned from dawn to dusk. His clocks, which at first fascinated me and then drove me almost to distraction with their ticking and striking, said so much about his life; whereas I'd spent almost twenty of my twenty-four years with the sun as my only timepiece.

By comparison I must have seemed careless, unreliable, pleasure-loving, and I often thought he liked to see me that way, fitting the mould of the frivolous young bride, making him quite the man to be envied by his contemporaries. That was irritating, but I put it down to the difference in our ages. Henry would persist in treating me like a child, and seemed unable or unwilling to grasp the idea that I wanted his care and appreciated his protection, but did not need him to think for me. I was perfectly capable, I said, of doing that for myself.