The Master's Wife (3 page)

‘I need no reminder.’

She tipped her head in acknowledgment as a pulse throbbed in her throat. ‘Then surely you see I can be useful.’ As the silence stretched her restraint crumbled. ‘You must let me – I cannot stand – everywhere I turn I see them. I hear their voices.’

He grasped her hand, held it to his chest. It was the first spontaneous move he had made in nearly a year. She fought the urge to lean on him and weep.

‘We can move. I’ll sell the house –’

‘No! No. I love this house. But I need to leave it for a while.’ She needed far more than that. She wanted the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had chosen her, with her damaged foot and untameable chestnut hair, above all the others he might have had. But after eight years, two children and tragedy, they were no longer the same people. There was no going back, so the only way was forward. Even at the risk of more pain she could not continue living as she was.

‘I love this place. But being here all day – and you have said so little.’

‘You thought I didn’t care?’ His expression was appalled.

‘No, I never made that mistake. I know you feel deeply. But you hold your emotions under iron control. Your stoicism – I felt abandoned, Jago.’

As he looked away she saw the muscles bunch in his jaw. He was the only man she had ever loved. She had pledged him her heart and soul. But no longer would she accept being pushed to the fringes of his life.

Outside the door the housekeeper coughed loudly.

Jago released her hand. Caseley remembered a time when he would not have done so, a time when he never missed an opportunity to touch. Even outside the privacy of their bedroom they had found comfort and promise in the brush of fingers, linked arms, his gloved hand covering hers, confidences whispered and private smiles that made words unnecessary. It seemed so very long ago.

‘Come in, Rosina.’ Caseley crossed to sit on a sofa and waited while Rosina placed a tray of tea on a low table in front of her. ‘Ask Ben to fetch my trunk down from the attic, will you?’

The housekeeper’s eyebrows shot up. Then she frowned and opened her mouth. Caseley didn’t give her the chance.

‘Now, please? I’ll be with you shortly. There’s a lot to do.’

Closing it again, Rosina bobbed a stiff curtsey, and with lips pursed in anxious disapproval, she sailed out.

Jago shook his dark head. ‘I cannot like it.’

Caseley’s hand trembled as she poured a little milk into each of the bone china cups. Setting the jug down, she reached for the teapot. Then she spoke. ‘I do not ask you to. But for this at least you need me.’ The silence that followed hummed with tension and too much left unsaid. He broke it.

‘Forgive me if I do not join you. I must return to the yard.’ He paused at the door. ‘Caseley, are you sure –’

She didn’t let him finish. ‘Both trunks will be packed and ready to be carried to the ship first thing in the morning. Will you hire a cab?’

He shook his head. ‘It’ll be quicker for Hammer and Jimbo to collect them by boat from the slipway across the road. Have your dinner. Don’t wait for me.’ He left.

The front door closed. She poured tea then set the pot down carefully.

Was she sure? No, she wasn’t. But if she didn’t get away she would go mad.

Jago strode through the town. He should have refused, but how could he argue with her need to escape the constant reminder of her loss? Though slender as a reed, she had always been strong. Now her pale fragility, emphasised by her black mourning gowns, increased his guilt.

She could not blame him more than he blamed himself. Had he been at home – it would have made no difference. Dr Vigurs had assured him that Mrs Barata, Rosina and Liza-Jane had done everything possible. Indeed, he had been forced to speak very sharply to Mrs Barata to get her to rest at all.

What tore at Jago was that for those final terrible days, and afterwards, he had not been here to comfort and support her. At sea, he had not even known his sons were ill. By the time he arrived back in Falmouth, they were buried. When his family had needed him most he had failed them. How did he live with that? A man was supposed to protect those he loved.

His sons, two fine boys, were gone. His beloved wife, the light of his life, was suffering and he couldn’t put it right. His helplessness made him ashamed and deepened his guilt. He had not protected. But he could provide.

In the past ten months he had sailed to the Azores for fruit and twice to Halifax in Canada for timber. The Atlantic in winter was wild and lashed by storms. At least Egypt promised warmth.

‘You can’t!’ Rosina wrung her hands. ‘You aren’t thinking straight. Look at you. Lost pounds, you have. A strong breeze would blow you over.’

‘I’m going, Rosina, and that’s final. What I want you to do is help me sort out which clothes to take.’

‘Listen, you got more sense than to take any notice of gossip –’

‘What are they saying?’ Caseley pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone to ease the sharp pain beneath. ‘Poor Caseley Barata lost her sons and cannot keep her husband happy?’

Grabbing her shoulders, Rosina shook her. ‘You stop that right now! None of this is your fault. You’re still grieving. You need looking after. Last thing you should be doing is gadding off to some heathen country on the other side of the world.’

Caseley pulled open a drawer and took out several neatly folded shifts of fine linen. ‘It will be hot there, so –’

‘Beg y’ pardon, ma’am,’ Liza-Jane said, poking her head around the door. ‘Your brother have just come. I’ve put ’n in the morning room.’

Laying the shifts on the bed cover, Caseley smoothed the front of her black silk dress. She never enjoyed her brother’s visits. Thankfully, they were rare. What misfortune had befallen him this time?

‘You wanted me out of my mourning clothes, Rosina. You have your wish.’

‘Listen, bird –’

‘I cannot wear black there. ’ Caseley turned at the door. ‘Questions would be asked. I would have to explain. I could not bear –’

Hurrying across, Rosina hugged her. ‘All right, my sweetheart. I don’t like it, not at all I don’t. But if you’re set on going –’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Right, you’ll want your lightest dresses. I got a length of holly green ribbon. Won’t take me long to add a bit of trim to your white spotted muslin. There’ll be enough to trim your second-best straw bonnet. The lilac is all right as it is and so’s your floral cotton. For the boat you can wear that navy jacket and skirt. I’ll pack the gold and green dress in case you got to go anywhere formal. You’ll want bed linen, towels, and I’ll put all your underwear in a spare pillowcase.’ She sighed. ‘You best get on down and see what your brother want. He’ll be whingeing about something. Or on the scrounge. ’Tis the only time he ever come near the place.’

Entering the morning room, Caseley saw her brother sprawled in a chair. His clothes were unkempt, his hair greasy and overlong. His eyes were bloodshot, his pallor unhealthy, but at least he was sober.

‘Good afternoon, Ralph. How are you?’

‘As if you care.’ He gazed round the room with a dissatisfied frown.

Smothering a sigh, Caseley perched on the edge of a chair and folded her hands. ‘Of course I care, you’re my brother and I –’

‘Then let me come and live here. You can’t say now that you don’t have room.’

Air hissed between Caseley’s teeth at his casual cruelty. He didn’t even notice.

‘It’s not fair. I’m no good at looking after myself. George Trembath is refusing to pay for his portrait. All right, it was a few weeks late. But a painting takes as long as it takes. Do you know what he called it? A travesty. Perhaps that’s what I’ll call him: Travesty Trembath. The man has no taste. He wouldn’t recognise talent if it jumped up and bit him on the a –’

‘Ralph, was there a reason for this visit? Only I’m rather busy.’

‘Doing what?’ he sneered. ‘You really ought to stop wearing black. You look positively Gothic.’

Caseley stood up. ‘I’m going to Egypt.’

Ralph sat up. ‘Can I come?’

‘No. I’m sailing with Jago. He has business there.’

He brightened. ‘Can I stay here while you’re away? Rosina and Liza-Jane could look after me –’

She shook her head. ‘No, Ralph, you can’t. I’m sorry –’

‘No, you aren’t. You don’t give a damn about me. You’re just like the rest of them. It’s not my fault if –’

‘It never is,’ Caseley said quietly.

He lurched to his feet. ‘If that’s your attitude I may as well go.’ But he didn’t move towards the door. Caseley knew he was waiting for her to back down or offer a compromise. He expected it, believed he was entitled. But she had nothing left to give.

‘I think that would be best.’

He pushed past her, leaving a stale sour reek in the air. A moment later the front door slammed.

Caseley pitied her brother. He was a talented painter. But he was lazy, nursed grudges, and when things went wrong he blamed everyone but himself. His visits, thankfully rare, always unsettled her, provoking worry that she ought to do more for him, even though her help in the past had made no difference whatsoever. He took everything offered, wanted more, but refused to help himself. He hadn’t changed. It appeared unlikely he ever would.

Though she wished he hadn’t come, seeing him gave her strength to fight the doubts crowding in to undermine her. The house was full of devastating memories, yet the prospect of leaving its security and the reassuring presence of Rosina, Liza-Jane and Ben terrified her. But if she wanted things to change, she had to change them. No one else could do it for her.

––––––––

C
ygnet’s
mate, Nathan Ferris, welcomed Caseley aboard; his callused hand enfolding hers was reassuring as he helped her onto the deck. Beneath the long cloak of navy serge that had kept her warm and doubled as an extra blanket during past voyages, she wore a hip-length fitted jacket over a white camisole and a petticoat with flounces at the back to support the plain navy skirt that fell straight to her instep in front. It was two years old but the gathered fullness at the back gave a nod to fashion.

Because of her damaged foot she always wore ankle boots that were flat or had a low chunky heel. Easier for walking, they were also far safer on the brass stairs or a sloping deck. Her simple straw bonnet had a broad brim and two navy ribbons that tied under her chin. She had studied her reflection in the long glass before leaving.

Etiquette demanded full mourning for a year. She was still two months shy of that. Guilt pricked like sharp thorns. She fought it. This voyage was not about her, and black would provoke questions, elicit sympathy. She didn’t want that, for her sake and Jago’s. He had a job to do.

For the first time in years he needed her help. Could this be the first step on their journey back to each other? A vivid memory of Louise Downing’s triumphant smile made her recoil. She closed her eyes, breathed. She had lived through the worst a woman could suffer. She would survive this.

‘Good to see ’e again, missus.’

‘Thank you, Nathan. I hope your family is well?’

‘Going on fine they are.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘All right, missus?’ Hammer and Jimbo each touched a knuckle to their foreheads in a salute as they hurried to unlash the two huge fore-and-aft sails and haul them up the masts.

Seeing Martin, now a stocky muscular twenty-year-old, stowing sacks and crates of provisions in the galley shack, Caseley remembered the skinny twelve-year-old he had been on her voyage with Jago to Spain. Glancing up, he gave her the same salute. Caseley made herself smile. ‘Are you still the cook, Martin?’

‘He isn’t fit for nothing else,’ Jimbo panted, heaving on a rope.

‘We keep ’n in the shack so he don’t get under our feet,’ Hammer agreed.

‘If it was left to you pair we’d starve,’ Martin shouted back. ‘Burn water, you would.’

‘Truth is,’ Nathan told her, ‘Mart do a good job. He got a gift for it.’

‘I hope you’ll find these useful, Martin.’ Caseley handed the young man a cloth bag. ‘Two fruit cakes, two fresh loaves, a crock of butter and two jars of homemade raspberry jam.’ Rosina had been busy baking until late last evening while Liza-Jane ironed then carefully rolled Caseley’s dresses so they wouldn’t crease.

Martin flushed, grinning with pleasure. ‘Proper job, missus. Much obliged. Go down a treat, they will. We never go short of porridge and treacle, meat and veg. But cake,’ he held up the bag. ‘Good as Christmas this is.’

As Caseley descended the brass stairs she saw the door to Jago’s day cabin wedged open. His trunk was pushed against the ship’s side below the sliding door of sea berth.

He was sitting writing the log and rose as she entered, sliding out of the narrow space between the triangular table and the padded leather bench.

‘Thanks, Nathan. I’ll be up directly.’

As the mate returned topside, Jago’s gaze lingered on her cloak. Was he remembering Spain? ‘If you’ve changed your mind it’s not too late –’

‘We’ve already had this conversation,’ she broke in quietly. ‘My trunk?’

Gesturing towards an alcove screened from the cabin by the folds of a thick dark curtain, he moved to the open doorway. ‘You know your way around. I want to get underway.’

‘Yes, of course.’

They were husband and wife and as wary as strangers. He disappeared and she heard his boots clang on the chased brass treads of the companionway. Alone now, she pressed a gloved hand to her dry throat as her heart thudded.
Not too late
 
...
 With all her heart she hoped so.

Everything was as she remembered: the table designed to fit the narrowing stern and edged with a wooden lip to prevent things sliding off, the shelf above filled with books and sea junk secured by a beautifully turned fiddle rail, the shallow brass lamp suspended beneath the open skylight.

Her gaze moved from the clock and barometer to the squat stove standing on its protective metal plate in front of the forward bulkhead and bracketed by a full coal-bucket and basket of logs.

Through the open skylight came the sounds of a ship making ready for sea: the rattle of blocks, snapping canvas and the crew’s banter. Six years had passed since her last trip and it was exactly as she remembered.