The Sea Between (13 page)

Richard raised his brows in surprise as he regarded his wife’s reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of this trip, Eliza.’

She tilted her head to the side and brushed her hair crossly. ‘I was going to suggest it to you this evening. Can you not get the local carpenter to look at the roof? It’s not as if you can’t afford to pay a tradesman.’

He could quite easily arrange for a carpenter to repair it, but he was damned if he would bow to petulant behaviour like this. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I told my mother that
I
would look at the roof.’

‘Another morning when I shall see nothing of you!’ The tortoiseshell hairbrush landed with a thud on the dresser. She gave him a sour look, then strode over to the bed and sat down on it. ‘I know your mother’s been recently widowed, and I don’t grudge coming here so that you can spend some time with her, but I do take objection to your repairing her roof while we’re here—especially when it’s not necessary—and expecting me to amuse myself as best I can while you’re mending it.’

‘Eliza, I think you’re making a great deal of fuss about nothing,’ Richard said.

‘It isn’t nothing to me, and it isn’t only the roof—it was the middle of the morning when you came back from your ride. I know you went riding because you couldn’t sleep, but you didn’t make any effort to get back in time to have breakfast with me.’ She turned her
head to the side and impatiently raised her hand to wipe away the tears that were sliding down her cheeks.

Richard looked away, part of him feeling annoyed with her for trying to stop him from mending his mother’s roof, part of him feeling guilty because he knew damned well she was right—he hadn’t made any effort to get back for breakfast. He looked back again as Eliza gave a hiccupping little sob. He drew in a deep breath, then walked over to the bed and sat down beside her.

‘Here.’ He held out a handkerchief.

She looked up at him through tear-fringed lashes, then took the handkerchief from him and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hoarsely as she handed it back. ‘It’s just…everything seems to get spoiled. The lantern show last Saturday evening. The walk this morning. And now the plans I had for tomorrow.’

Tossing the handkerchief on to the quilt, Richard pulled Eliza into his arms, drawing her close to him so that her head lay against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. Her hair was loose and was spread across his shirt in a dark, silky curtain. He ran his fingers through it, alternately fanning it out and stroking it. ‘I’ll take you out for a ride in the morning, Eliza,’ he said quietly.

She lifted her head and pulled away so that she could see his face. ‘What about the roof?’

‘I’ll look at it now.’ He would let her have her way regarding her plans for tomorrow, but he wasn’t going to have her dictating who should mend the roof.

It took Richard all afternoon to find what was causing the leak and do the necessary repairs. As it turned out, it was just as well that he mended it then; the wind turned southerly during the night, and they woke the next morning to the sound of heavy rain beating against the bedroom window.

Eliza lay on her back, staring gloomily at the curtains.

Richard watched her for a minute or two, then reached for her. ‘Come here,’ he said softly.

She turned her head to look at him, disappointment written in her eyes.

‘Come here,’ he said again.

She rolled over, into his arms. He kissed her, then made love to her.

June 1867

F
ather, it’s so good to see you again,’ Charlotte said warmly as she helped him out of his wet coat. She hadn’t seen him since Christmas.

‘It’s good to see you too,’ he agreed, pushing a dripping lock of grey hair back from his forehead. ‘How are you, Charlotte? You sound as if you have a cold.’

She shook the rain from his coat before hanging it up on the cloak-stand. ‘Just the remains of one. We’ve all had coughs and colds. Are you well?’

‘Oh, I can’t complain.’ He turned to look down the length of the hall, running his eye over the dark wooden panelling, then lifted his head to look at the ornate plaster moulding on the ceiling.

‘Well, does it meet with your approval?’ she enquired. It was the first time her father had seen George’s house. It wasn’t the house he had come to inspect, though; it was his new grandson, Charles, now nearly a month old.

‘What I’ve seen so far looks to be all right. George is still at the office, is he?’ John asked, turning back to face her.

She nodded. ‘He won’t be home for another hour. Ann is upstairs, resting.’

‘How is she?’ He glanced back at the stairs, frowning.

‘Improving, but she tires easily. The doctor says she has to rest as much as she can to build up her strength again.’ Ann had had a long, hard labour that had ended in a painful forceps delivery, and her recovery was not being helped by a baby who demanded to be fed every two hours.

‘And how’s my grandson?’ John asked.

‘He’s very well. He’s upstairs with Ann, sleeping,’ she said. ‘You’ll hear him soon. He’s due to wake, and when he does he’ll let the whole house know about it.’

John gave a soft laugh. ‘Is he gaining weight?’

‘Rapidly.’

‘Good. He needs to,’ John said, his face serious again. ‘I was quite concerned when I received George’s letter and he said the baby weighed only six pounds. Edwin’s three children all tipped the scales at seven.’

Charlotte smiled reassuringly at her father. ‘The doctor says he’s very healthy.’ She didn’t tell him the rest of what the doctor had said. She’d overheard him telling George that if Charles had been any larger Ann’s life might well have been in jeopardy. ‘Go into the parlour, Father. I’ll tell Ann you’ve arrived,’ she said.

‘No, don’t disturb her,’ John said, lifting his hand to stay her. ‘Let her rest. I’ll sit and talk to you until she comes downstairs.’

‘How was your journey?’ she asked, leading the way to the parlour.

‘The journey to Christchurch was very pleasant. But the Sumner Road isn’t one I’d care to travel on very often. The road is in a very poor state, littered with fallen rocks. The coach was lurching all over the place.’

‘We’ve had a lot of rain over the past month. Heavy rain always washes rocks and debris down on to the road. You aren’t the first to complain about it.’ She stooped to remove the newspaper from the
seat of the armchair where George had left it, and tossed it on to the occasional table, before sitting down on the sofa.

‘How long until they finish the rail tunnel?’ John asked.

‘They’re saying it should be completed and the railway operating by the end of the year.’

‘It’ll make a big difference to the port.’ John’s forehead puckered into a slight frown as he settled himself into the armchair opposite her. ‘Will it have an adverse effect on your shop, do you think? You may find you lose some of your custom to Christchurch.’

‘I may do. Or I may gain by it. It’s hard to say,’ she said.

‘Is the business making a profit?’

‘A modest one.’

John’s eyes flicked briefly around the room, appraising the furnishings, then returned to his daughter. ‘I don’t know why you purchased a haberdashery,’ he said in disapproving tones. ‘You’ve no experience in managing a business or purchasing stock or bookkeeping. I’m damned if I know why you decided to invest in something you know nothing about.’

‘George thought the shop would be a very sound investment,’ she defended.

‘So he told me, but he was speaking in general terms when he said that to you. He didn’t know you were considering purchasing it. You know Sarah’s pregnant again, I suppose?’ he asked, evidently deciding to let the other matter drop.

‘Yes, Edwin told us in his last letter,’ she said with a smile. ‘How is she?’

‘The same as she always is for the first three months,’ he replied matter-of-factly.

Sarah suffered from morning sickness in the early stages of her pregnancies, something which Ann hadn’t suffered at all. Ann’s difficulties had come at the end of her pregnancy. ‘The children—are
they well?’ she asked. ‘Edwin mentioned in his letter that Arthur had a fever.’

John nodded. ‘He did. He’s as right as rain again now, though. It’s Mary Ellen who’s ailing at present. Sarah’s been up to her three or four times every night. I think she’s getting a bit weary of it.’

‘I expect she is,’ Charlotte agreed. The blessings of children were as mixed as they were plentiful. ‘And how is Letitia?’ she enquired.

‘She’s very well. She sends her regards,’ he added with a smile.

‘Has she come to terms with the loss of her husband, do you think?’

‘I think so, in so much as one ever comes to terms with something like that,’ John said. The armchair gave a soft creak as he leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. ‘Anyway, tell me your news, Charlotte. George’s partner, William Fairfield—you’ve been seeing quite a bit of him, I hear.’

She didn’t need to ask how he’d heard: she knew very well that George kept her father well informed about her activities.

‘I’ve accompanied him to one or two shows,’ she admitted.

‘And had dinner with him,’ added John.

George
had
been thorough in his reporting.

‘I didn’t dine with him alone. There were four other guests besides me,’ she said, putting it into perspective.

‘Are you fond of him?’

She gave an ambivalent shrug. ‘I enjoy his company.’

‘He appears to enjoy yours. I’d like to meet him while I’m here.’ John fixed a patriarchal eye on his daughter. ‘Just in case things should progress further between the two of you.’

‘I believe George has invited him for dinner tomorrow evening. He’s invited Eliza, too,’ she added.

‘Do you see much of Eliza?’ John asked.

‘I don’t, but Ann does,’ she replied. ‘I’m usually at the shop when she calls.’

John eyed his daughter shrewdly. ‘Is that deliberate?’

‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she lied. The truth was, she avoided Eliza as much as she possibly could.

Clearly not convinced, John said, ‘You don’t find it awkward, with her living in the same town and forming a friendship with Ann?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘She’s Richard’s wife. You had strong feelings for him once. And he for you. Letitia is concerned that you might find the situation difficult,’ John said quietly.

Rising to her feet, Charlotte stepped across to the brass woodbox and tossed a log on to the fire, sending a flurry of red and gold sparks floating up the chimney. ‘There’s nothing between Richard and me any longer, Father. It makes no difference to me where his wife lives. So you can reassure Letitia next time you see her that she needn’t concern herself on my account.’ She put another log on the fire, and turned back to face him.

John studied her for a moment, then smiled. ‘It was actually for myself that I was seeking reassurance, Charlotte.’

They both turned to look at the window as the gate creaked open, footsteps sounded on the path to the front door, followed by a knock on the door.

Excusing herself, she went to see who it was.

The visitor was a uniformed constable, who introduced himself as Constable Marsh from the Lyttelton constabulary. A silver brooch matching the description she had furnished had been found and he had brought it along for her to identify. She closed the door behind him, then examined it.

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ she said, turning it over in her hand.

‘The clasp is broken, I’m afraid, miss,’ he said, pointing to the
broken claw. ‘But I’m sure a reputable silversmith will be able to repair it for you.’

She nodded. There was no silversmith in Lyttelton, though—she would have to wait until she was next in Christchurch to see about getting it mended. ‘Where did you find it?’ she asked.

‘In a pawn shop in Christchurch. The pawnbroker recognized it from the description we’d circulated. He told the vendor that he was willing to buy it, but said he couldn’t pay him until the next day. He then contacted the Christchurch constabulary.’

‘That was very public-spirited of him,’ she said.

Constable Marsh gave a dry laugh. ‘No, miss; it was very sensible of him. If he’d been found with it in his window, offering it for sale, we could have charged him with receiving stolen goods.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘And what about the thief? Did you apprehend him?’

He nodded. ‘He’ll be appearing in court in two days’ time. He’ll be charged with unlawful entry, burglary and assault.’

She looked down at the brooch again, then held it out to him. ‘I suppose you’ll want this back, to use as evidence.’

Marsh shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. The man has admitted his guilt, so it won’t be required in court. I shall need your signature on this, though.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a document. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. ‘It’s to verify that the brooch is the one that was stolen and to confirm that it’s in your possession again. You’ll need to sign in two places—here and here,’ he said, pointing.

‘Yes, all right. I won’t be a moment,’ she said.

Leaving him in the hall, she went into the parlour. ‘It’s a constable. The man who assaulted William has been apprehended,’ she said, glancing across at her father as she walked over to the writing bureau.

‘Yes, I overheard your conversation with him,’ John said.

Leaning over the desk, she signed her name in the required places, then waved the document about to dry the ink.

‘Will you have to appear in court to give evidence?’ John asked.

‘I hope not. I’ll ask him,’ she said. Folding up the document, she carried it back to the waiting constable.

To her relief, she wasn’t required in court. The guilty plea made that unnecessary, Marsh informed her.

‘Is he a local man?’ she asked curiously as she opened the door for him to leave.

Marsh shook his head. ‘No. He’s from England. A seaman. He’d apparently lost his position aboard his ship—for brawling—and was looking for another vessel. He didn’t have any luck, though; ran out of money, and turned to theft.’

‘It was his first offence then?’

Marsh’s mouth curled into a cynical smile. ‘It’s the first time he’s been caught.’

‘He’ll go to gaol, I suppose?’

He nodded. ‘A first offence of theft…’ He shrugged and screwed up his mouth. ‘That usually incurs a sentence of three months, but assault is much more serious. He’ll find himself facing two years of hard labour, I should think.’

Charlotte shook her head, frowning. ‘All for the sake of a few pounds.’

Marsh nodded and pulled on his gloves. ‘Most thefts are for only a few pounds. It makes you wonder why they do it.’

Why indeed, she thought, as she watched him stride off down the street. A few pounds was all Rose had stolen. God alone knew why.

‘A glass of port, father?’ George reached into the cupboard in the sideboard and brought out two of his best glasses.

‘Thank you, George,’ John said, settling back into the armchair beside the fire.

‘Ann?’ George glanced over his shoulder, hands poised to reach into the cupboard again.

‘Just a very small one,’ she replied.

‘Charlotte?’

She smiled and nodded, then sat down beside Ann on the couch. ‘Oh dear, I’ve eaten far too much,’ she said, rubbing the palm of her hand over her stomach.

‘How did you find the pork? I thought it was a bit tough.’ Frowning in concentration, George eased the stopper out of the bottle of port.

‘At least it tasted of pork and not cloves,’ John commented drily. ‘It doesn’t matter what kind of meat Mrs Hall cooks, she seems to feel obliged to skewer it with sprigs of this, that and the other.’

Charlotte laughed. Herbs were a constant bone of contention between her father and Jessie Hall. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little, Father,’ she said, rallying to the absent cook’s defence. ‘She doesn’t always use herbs. It’s usually just the Sunday roast she likes to experiment with.’

‘The Sunday roast, Charlotte, usually lasts for three or four days,’ John returned. ‘Ah, thank you, George,’ he said, as a glass of port appeared over his left shoulder.

‘Father, would you like to propose a toast to your newest grandson?’ George invited as he passed glasses to Ann and Charlotte.

‘Indeed I would,’ John said. He waited until George had got himself comfortably settled in his armchair, then stood up. ‘Would you raise your glasses,’ he said quietly. He looked over to the wicker crib in the alcove where Charles lay, fast asleep, and lifted his glass
towards it. ‘And join me in wishing Charles health, prosperity, long life and lasting friendships.’

‘Health, prosperity, long life and lasting friendships’ came the echo from around the room. It was an old family tradition to propose a toast whenever a child was born. The words were always the same, spoken very softly, almost as a prayer. Charlotte didn’t know why, but they always brought tears to her eyes.

‘And now I should like to propose a toast,’ George said, raising his glass. ‘To my wife, Ann.’

‘To Ann,’ John said, raising his glass to her.

‘To Ann,’ Charlotte echoed warmly.

She had barely swallowed down the mouthful of port when John lifted his glass again to propose yet another toast. Charlotte glanced at George and smiled. This toast would be to him, the proud father.

‘One final toast,’ John said, as he looked from face to face. ‘To Letitia Steele.’ He paused, and with a smile added, ‘Who has graciously consented to be my wife.’