The Fisher Lass (19 page)

‘Meeting him? How? Where?’ And then before Jeannie could speak, Tom answered his own question. He gave a nod of his head and said flatly, ‘Of course. Aggie’s.’

Mutely, Jeannie nodded and they stood staring at each other for several moments oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the dockside going on all around them.

Wearily, Tom held out his hand towards her. ‘Come on, we’d best go home.’

‘Don’t you want to hear the other piece of news?’ she asked, a trace of sadness in her tone now that the bad news had obliterated any chance of joy and excitement at her
own.

‘Of course,’ Tom said, but she could sense that whatever it was, he was scarcely interested.

‘Tom, we’re going to have a baby. I’m expecting too.’

In the intimacy of their bed that night, Tom took Jeannie in his arms and held her close. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered against her hair, ‘that your
wonderful news was spoilt by – by Grace.’

Jeannie snuggled closer but said nothing. She was not about to say, ‘It’s all right’ because it wasn’t. Her happy surprise had been spoilt and she felt cheated.

‘What are we going to do?’ came Tom’s deep voice.

Jeannie lay perfectly still, wondering, for a moment, if she had misunderstood. He, Tom, the man of the house, was asking her what they should do. The realization came slowly, creeping into her
being like icy water, then flooding through her like a tidal wave of disappointment.

The man she had married was not the man she had thought him to be. His father, yes, now George Lawrence had been a strong, steadfast man. Mistakenly she knew now, she had thought that his son
would take after him.

But Tom’s outbursts were not those of a strong character, determined and sure, but the bluster of a man who had perhaps always lived in the shadow of a more dominant man. And even though
that man was gone now, the son had not the personality to step into his shoes. Yet Tom was a good man, she would not deny. And that he loved her, she was sure. But she knew that it was she who was
the rock to which they all clung. Even Nell, since George’s going, had floundered helplessly in the raging torrent of her loss and had turned to Jeannie for strength and fortitude. It was
odd, Jeannie pondered, how the whole family had so readily leant on her, the girl who had come as a stranger into their midst. Why did Nell have no friends amongst her neighbours? Was it merely
because she was the wife of a skipper and perhaps set slightly apart from them? Or was there something more?

And now Grace. Jeannie sighed. Silly, foolish, gullible Grace. Now she would have to see to Grace too.

With her cheek still against his chest, she let out a long sigh. ‘We’ll take care of her, of course. And the child.’

His arms tightened about her in unspoken gratitude, but again his voice rumbled deep in his chest against her cheek. ‘But ought we to do something? I mean, about the father?’

‘What can we do? A Hayes-Gorton will never the marry the likes of us . . .’ As the words came out of her mouth, in her imagination it was not her husband lying by her side, holding
her, but Robert Hayes-Gorton, with his gentle smile and his dark, brown eyes and his deep voice whispering in her ear. The feeling was so overwhelming that Jeannie pulled back, frightened by the
power of her emotions and the wickedness of her imagination.

‘Jeannie? What is it? What’s the matter?’

Overcome with a sudden rush of affection and guilt that she should even think of being unfaithful to this good man, she reached for him and pulled him into her arms. ‘Let’s forget
Grace,’ she whispered softly. ‘Just for tonight, the one night you’re home.’

When Tom went back to sea, anxious, for once, to be gone and away from all the trouble at home, Jeannie marched to the house two streets away and rapped sharply on Aggie
Turnbull’s door.

‘Jeannie—’

‘Dinna you “Jeannie” me,’ she snapped as the woman she had come to see opened the door herself. ‘How could you let her do it? How could you encourage her to come
here? She’s no more than a bairn. Sixteen—’

‘Seventeen next month,’ Aggie countered swiftly.

‘Och aye. Old enough to become one of your whores, I suppose?’

‘She came here for one thing only—’

‘Aye, and we know what that was.’

Aggie, two pink blotches of anger showing in her cheeks, took a step towards Jeannie. ‘She came here for a little fun. To dress up in pretty clothes and escape from the stink of fish. Just
for a few hours. And she came to escape from the endless cod net on the wall and Nell always working—’

‘Good, honest work.’

Aggie continued as if Jeannie had not spoken. ‘And to try – just for a while – to forget about her dad.’

For a moment, Jeannie was silent and then it appeared that Aggie had taken in exactly what Jeannie had just said, for she went on, ‘And as for Nell being a good, honest woman. Well, I
could tell you a thing or two about Nell Lawrence. Oh yes, indeed I could.’

‘There’s nothing that you could tell me about that family that I’d want to hear.’

Aggie shook her head. ‘No, Jeannie, I don’t suppose you would want to hear anything that I might have to say. I don’t think you would like it.’

‘My name’s Mrs Lawrence to you,’ was Jeannie’s only reply as she began to turn away.

‘Mrs Lawrence,’ Aggie said softly, seeming to almost savour the name on her lips. ‘Mrs Lawrence.’

Glancing back, Jeannie was shocked to see sudden tears in the woman’s eyes. All her anger had evaporated, leaving only a pensive, wistful expression. ‘I am sorry about Grace,’
Aggie said gently now. ‘More sorry than you’ll ever know. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen.’

Jeannie stopped and twisted round to face her again. ‘Tried to warn her? Well, you didna try very hard. You could have stopped her coming to your house very easily. Stopped her meeting him
here.’

‘I could, yes.’ Surprisingly, Aggie agreed. ‘But she would only have met him some other way. She loves him, really loves him.’ She paused and then added, ‘Watch
over her, Jeannie. Please. I’m so afraid of what she might do now he has deserted her.’

‘Och, the Lawrences wouldna let the likes of him bring them down.’

‘Are you sure, Jeannie?’ Aggie said softly.

But as Jeannie now turned away finally, she was not so sure herself of her own vehement statement.

It was not the first time she had been to the offices of the Hayes-Gorton Trawler Company. She had come to collect pay due to Tom, lining up with all the other
fishermen’s wives to be sure that they had enough money to feed their family before it all disappeared behind the bar at the Fisherman’s Rest. She would not so easily forget the
incident over the hat and, in future, she intended to hold the purse strings.

But it was the first time she had ventured beyond the pay window and further into the building to find the offices of the partners. Her heart beat a little faster and her hands felt clammy.

The woman in the outer office was middle-aged and spinsterish. Small, round, steel-framed spectacles and straight, grey hair cut short with a heavy fringe did nothing to enhance her appearance.
Her thin-lipped mouth did not even stretch itself into the pretence of a smile.

‘I would like to see Mr Hayes-Gorton, if you please? Mr Francis Hayes-Gorton.’

The woman looked up and then slowly her gaze travelled down to Jeannie’s shoes and then up again, assessing her from head to toe. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ The voice
affected superiority but far from intimidating Jeannie, it only made her more determined and icily polite.

‘No, I dinna have an appointment, but if that is the way things are done, then I would like you to make one for me.’ She paused ever so slightly and added again, ‘If you
please.’

Languidly the woman flickered over the pages of a diary. ‘He’s very busy just now. I really don’t know when he would be able . . .’

Jeannie heard the door open behind her and without needing to turn round, she knew who had entered the room. She could feel his presence, feel him close to her. Resolutely, she licked her dry
lips and continued to stare at the woman in front of her.

‘Jeannie?’ Robert began as he closed the door and came around her to stand to the side of the secretary’s desk. Then, hastily, he corrected himself. ‘Mrs Lawrence? What
brings you here? Is there anything wrong?’

Jeannie opened her mouth to reply but the woman forestalled her. ‘She’s requesting an appointment to see Mr Francis, sir, but I really don’t think . . .’

Robert held up his hand. ‘It’s all right, Miss Forbes, I will attend to this. Please . . .’ He turned towards Jeannie and spread his hand in a gesture of invitation to precede
him from the room. ‘Won’t you come into my office? Maybe I can help?’

‘But I dinna think . . .’ she began and then, glancing briefly at the tight-lipped expression of disapproval on the secretary’s face, with a spark of devilment Jeannie nodded
agreement and turned in the direction he indicated.

Closing the door of his office behind them, he gestured towards a chair. ‘Please, sit down. May I get you a cup of tea – or anything?’

Jeannie shook her head but took the seat he offered whilst Robert went around the desk and sat down in the swivel chair on the opposite side. He leant his arms on the edge of the desk and bent
forward a little towards her.

She’s here, he was thinking, she’s really here, in my office, sitting opposite me and I can’t think of a sensible thing to say to this woman who has become the object of my
every waking moment and even most of my sleep too. It is her I think of when I wake in the morning and she is the last face I see in my mind’s eye in the darkness of the night before I sleep,
hoping to dream about her too.

Now here she is. Sitting in front of me and I am like a tongue-tied schoolboy. And she looks so calm, so dignified, so in control. But then, he reminded himself sadly, why shouldn’t she?
She dislikes me, perhaps even hates me. The thought saddened him so that when he spoke, his voice was devoid of all emotion, flat and almost unfriendly.

‘How may I help you?’

Jeannie tried to still the rapid beating of her heart, tried to sit facing him calmly and without a trace of the tumult of emotion inside her from showing on her face. How could she be so
foolish as to even allow herself to feel like this when she was married to another man and expecting that man’s child? How could she let herself think such wild, wicked thoughts? Why did she
keep wondering just what it would be like to be held in this man’s arms, to feel the touch of those lips on her mouth, to dig her fingers deep into that thick, dark brown hair and pull his
head down on to her breast and hold him close . . .

Aloud, her voice harsh, she said, ‘It’s Mr Francis I need to see.’ She licked her lips and added deliberately, ‘Sir.’ His smooth forehead puckered in a frown and
his brown eyes were unfathomable depths.

Robert felt his heart plummet and there was a pain in his chest. There was a cold edge to his voice as he said, curtly, ‘I see. Then I can’t be of assistance?’

Jeannie swallowed. Now she had made him angry. She could see it on his face. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a delicate, personal matter. I must see him.’

He could hear the urgency that was almost a desperation in her voice. And deep in her eyes was a haunted look that tore at his heart. What the hell had his dear brother been up to now to make
Jeannie look like that?

Robert stood up suddenly. ‘Please – stay here a moment. I’ll see if he’s in the building.’

‘Oh – I . . .’ She made as if to rise when he did, but at his bidding she sank back into her chair.

Whilst he was out of the room, Jeannie looked about her. Though her mind was occupied with the problem and she thought that she hardly took in her surroundings, later she was to find that she
had remembered Robert’s office in minute detail. An antique mahogany desk with polished brass handles and a green leather top. The walls were lined with mahogany bookcases and over the
fireplace hung a portrait of an elderly man dressed as the skipper of a trawler. Jeannie guessed he was Robert’s grandfather and supposed he must have dressed up like that for the painting.
But then she remembered Flora’s story of the Gortons. This was the man who had started out with one boat, which he had skippered himself. She looked again at the picture. He wore the clothes
with a comfortable familiarity. This was no upper-class gent dressing up. The man in the painting was a genuine, born and bred fisherman.

The door opened and Robert appeared. ‘He’s in his office. Come along, I’ll show you the way.’ Now she rose and followed him along a corridor and passed into a similar
office as he held open the door for her, though here the furnishings were modern, sleek lines of wood and metal that, for Jeannie, had neither warmth nor soul.

Francis was sitting behind the desk, leaning backwards, his hands linked behind his head. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mrs Lawrence. Protector of the young and innocent.’ He
laughed, a cruel sound. ‘Though they’re not so innocent as she’d like to believe. Eh, my dear Jeannie?’

Robert had closed the door but had remained in the room. Now he came and stood between them, to one side of the desk so that he glanced first at one and then at the other.

Jeannie took her gaze away from Francis for a brief moment and said, ‘This is between me and Mr Francis, sir.’

At once Robert made as if to leave. ‘I’m sorry—’ he began but Francis interrupted. ‘There’s nothing you can have to say to me that my brother shouldn’t
hear.’

For a brief moment, Robert and Jeannie stared at each other, the one mystified, the other embarrassed by what she was being forced to say in front of him.

Tight-lipped, she turned her bold, green gaze upon Francis Hayes-Gorton. ‘Very well,’ she said in a voice that was deceptively quiet. ‘You must ken why I’m here. What are
you going to do about Grace Lawrence?’

For a moment there was complete stillness in the room until Francis, still rocking gently back and forth on two legs of his chair, said with a calculated indifference and a glitter of malice in
his eyes, ‘Absolutely nothing.’