The Sea Between (28 page)

‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte replied, struggling to hold back tears.

John clicked his tongue in disgust. ‘The woman should be locked up for the damage she’s done. Telling such flagrant untruths! How did you find out she was lying?’

‘She admitted it later.’ It was the explanation, the lie, that she and George had agreed upon. Whatever lies they told would have to tally. She had, in fact, considered a number of lies to explain away the cancelled wedding. Initially, she’d wondered if she should simply say that either she or William had changed their mind, but if she’d said William had changed his mind it would have put him in a bad light, which was unfair, and if she’d said she had changed her mind…well, that explanation wouldn’t have gone down at all well. So she’d settled in the end for the explanation which was closest to the truth.

‘We’ll have to send word to the neighbours who we’ve invited to the wedding, John,’ Letitia said. ‘We should do it as soon as possible, before people buy gifts, although I expect some have already.’

‘Well, I’m not doing anything about it until after Christmas!’ Clasping his hands behind his back, John walked over to the window.

‘They’ll want to know why the wedding has been cancelled. You’ll have to make some excuse, John, or be vague,’ Letitia said.

‘Vague?’ John jerked his head around. ‘How exactly do you suggest I be vague, Letitia?’

‘I know it’s very difficult, John,’ she said. ‘But you can hardly tell
them the truth, can you? William won’t want the story broadcast. No one wants their name associated with scandal. And the truth won’t do your daughter much credit either, John.’

‘Do you think I don’t know all that?’ he snapped.

Letitia gave him a cool look, pursed her lips and held her peace.

‘Well, what about you, Charlotte? Do you have any suggestions as to what damned excuse I can offer?’ John demanded.

She looked up and shook her head. Tears were spilling down her cheeks. She couldn’t hold them back any longer. She dug her hand into her pocket, dragged out her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming in a steady stream.

‘Oh, go to your room and weep!’ John waved his hand impatiently. ‘I’ll speak to you in the morning.’

Needing no second asking, Charlotte fled to her room. As she ran past the open door of the parlour, she caught a brief glimpse of the rest of the family, standing in a huddle, talking. They would all know by now. Her father’s voice had been loud enough to carry to every room in the house, and George had no doubt been coerced into doing some explaining. Not that he would be telling them the whole story by any means. The full story would never come out, only half of it, the half that did her no credit at all, while the other half, which would have shown where the real blame lay, would never come to light.

Escaping to her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her eyes fixed tearfully on the bed. Carefully laid out were three gifts. A beautifully appliquéd bed quilt. A pair of monogrammed pillow slips,
W
embroidered on one,
C
on the other. And a finely stitched sampler, edged with flowers and birds; in the centre, stitched in gold thread, were the words:

Bridal gifts from Letitia, Sarah and Ann. Gifts they had spent hours making. Gifts she would have to return.

Falling to her knees beside the bed, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

Some time later, an hour, maybe two or three—she had lost all track of time—a tap sounded on the door.

‘Charlotte, may I come in? I’ve brought you a tray of supper,’ Ann said quietly.

Reluctantly opening her eyes, Charlotte lay for a moment or two in silence, plucking at the edge of the pillowcase with her fingers. She was sorely tempted to tell Ann to leave the tray at the door, but that would only hurt Ann and achieve nothing. She would have to talk to Ann at some stage and answer the inevitable questions. Pushing herself up from the bed, she walked across to the door and opened it.

‘Come in, Ann,’ she said in a voice that sounded every bit as miserable as she felt.

Stepping past her, Ann carried the tray in and set it down on the chest of drawers beside the bed. She turned back to face Charlotte, her brow wrinkled with worry lines. ‘Charlotte, I’m so sorry,’ she said softly. ‘George told me all about it, but you mustn’t blame yourself, you truly mustn’t. You reacted as any woman would have done in the circumstances. Men are so arrogant when it comes to their reputation. If the boot was on the other foot, if it was their wife’s or
their fiancée’s reputation that was in question, I’ll guarantee they’d be asking quite a few questions before they made up their mind who was telling the truth.’

Charlotte threw her a grateful, guilty smile then looked away. She would have to lie to Ann now, and there was no way around it. Out of all the family, Ann, who had generously welcomed her into her home and become her closest friend, would be by far the hardest to lie to. Ann, shrewd Ann, was also the one who was most likely to smell a rat. The rat in question, however, seemed to have done a fairly good job of putting her off the scent thus far.

‘I’ll pour you a cup of tea,’ Ann said. ‘Then we’ll talk about it. George has told everyone what happened.’

‘Is my father still here?’ Charlotte asked.

‘No. He and Letitia have gone home. He’s calmed down,’ Ann said over her shoulder as she poured the tea. ‘I’m sure he won’t be so angry tomorrow when he’s had time to think things over.’

‘What about everyone else?’

Ann gave a small shrug, then, with her usual gentle honesty, said, ‘Edwin and Sarah are more shocked than anything—not so much at you as at that woman who accused William. George looks very strained. It’s difficult for him, being both your brother and William’s partner.’

Taking the proffered cup and saucer from Ann’s hand, Charlotte sat down on the edge of the bed. She had removed the embroidered linen and the appliquéd quilt—the sight of them, spread out so beautifully, had been just too upsetting. They were now draped less obviously over the wooden clothes airer, which seemed to have found a home in her old bedroom.

‘Oh, what a mess, Ann,’ she said wearily.

The bed gave a creak as Ann sat down beside her. ‘Well, messes happen, I’m afraid. They’re part and parcel of life.’ She placed her
hand comfortingly on top of Charlotte’s, then turned to look at her. ‘How do
you
feel about what’s happened, Charlotte? About the wedding not going ahead?’

‘Guilty,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘I feel guilty about
everything.
I feel guilty because I didn’t believe William; I feel guilty because I’ve hurt him; and I feel guilty because…’ She looked away ashamedly. ‘Because I don’t feel broken-hearted that the wedding is off.’ She shook her head, her eyes fixed sightlessly on the wall. ‘It isn’t that I was having second thoughts about marrying William—I think we could have been reasonably happy together—but now that I’m not going to marry him I just don’t feel broken-hearted about it, and I know that I should do. I’m really sorry that I hurt William the way I did, but that’s not the same as being broken-hearted, is it?’ She gave a shuddery sigh, then turned back to face Ann. ‘And on top of all that, I feel guilty about the embarrassment I’ve caused my father. It’ll take him a long time to forgive me for this.’

Ann patted her hand comfortingly, but said nothing. Like Charlotte, Ann knew that it would take a month or two for the dust from this upset to settle.

They sat in silence, both wrapped in their own thoughts, while Charlotte mechanically sipped her tea. Eventually, Ann spoke.

‘Well, if you’re not feeling broken-hearted, Charlotte, I think you need to ask yourself why that is,’ she said quietly. ‘As for William, if you want my honest opinion, I don’t think he’ll be too broken-hearted, either. Oh, I think he loved you in his way, but the truth is, some men love deeply and some men don’t, and I think William’s love was of the shallow kind. Did he ever tell you that he loved you?’

Charlotte looked away again and shook her head. She had never told William that she loved him, either. They had both largely taken it for granted.

There was a short silence, then Ann said hesitantly, ‘You’re sure
the woman who accused William
was
lying, Charlotte?’

The question surprised Charlotte so much that she nearly tipped the saucer off her knee, and only just managed to save it.

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

Ann gave a small shrug. ‘I just wondered because…well, you must have noticed how William flirts with Eliza sometimes. She flirts with him, too, and with George, for that matter. If William flirted with Eliza, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he flirted with this other woman, too. Flirted and a bit more, maybe. She did name him, after all. George said she changed her story afterwards and said it wasn’t William who’d got her with child but…well, she did name him.’

Pushing herself to her feet, Charlotte set the cup and saucer down on the tray and walked over to the window. Her head felt as if it was about to explode.

‘Who is she, Charlotte?’ Ann enquired bluntly. ‘Did you recognize her husband? When I asked George about him, he said he didn’t know who he was. He said William hadn’t said.’

Charlotte folded her arms tightly across her middle. ‘No, I didn’t recognize him,’ she lied, and left it at that.

‘I wonder what her husband will do. Move her out of town, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Ann murmured.

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. Ann was as shrewd a judge of behaviour as she was of character. As for what she’d said about William…did Ann really believe that he might have fathered the anonymous woman’s child? Or had Ann placed a question mark over him, hoping to make Charlotte feel less guilty about doubting him?

She opened her eyes and looked down at her ringless finger. The reality was that it was impossible to know with absolute certainty who was lying and who was telling the truth. George had definitely
committed adultery with Eliza—he’d admitted it—but as to whether he was the only man who had committed adultery with her…

She could see now why people called this kind of thing ‘a dirty business’. Mud stuck, and it stuck as readily to a clean shirt as a dirty one. For her own part, though, Charlotte thought it unlikely that both William and George had committed adultery with Eliza.

The bed creaked again as Ann stood up and walked over to her. ‘Do Richard and Eliza know about what’s happened?’ she asked quietly.

Charlotte shook her head. Another lie, and lots more to come yet, she thought bitterly.

‘Ann, did George give Letitia and my father a letter?’ she asked, suddenly remembering the letter that Richard had asked George to deliver.

Ann shook her head, frowning. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t. From Richard, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll remind George to give it to them tomorrow,’ Ann promised. ‘I suppose Richard will be giving them his apologies for not being here.’

‘Yes, I imagine so,’ Charlotte agreed. The letter would also be telling them that he was taking his wife back to England. And not only his wife, but also Letitia’s hopes of a grandchild.

A
s Ann had predicted, John did calm down the next day, and ironically Richard’s letter was the main cause. The news that Richard was taking Eliza to England hit Letitia hard, effectively dashing her hopes of soon holding a grandchild in her arms, with the result that John had little option but to calm down and do his best to cheer his wife up.

Edwin, perhaps because it was Christmas, for once kept his opinions, whatever they were, to himself and applied himself to solving the thorny problem of what they would tell the neighbours. With some input from Sarah, he eventually came up with a feasible lie and it was agreed that they would give out the story that William’s business was taking him to Auckland, Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to settle there, so by mutual agreement they had called off the wedding. It would probably be believed. Having come up with the story, Edwin then coerced George into riding around the neighbours with him, to advise them of the change of plans. On the surface of it, the mess had been sorted out remarkably easily, but it didn’t do a great deal to improve the strained atmosphere between Charlotte and her father.

The eight days at the farm were both long and draining and it was with a profound sense of relief that Charlotte disembarked from the train on the Lyttelton station platform on New Year’s Eve, with George and Ann. Leaving a lad with a handcart to load up their
luggage and cart it up to the house, they made their way the short distance home on foot, George carrying his sleeping son in his arms. It had been a wearying journey. Charles had cried just about all the way in the coach, then finally fallen asleep in the train.

As they reached Exeter Street, Charlotte looked back over her shoulder. There was a good view of Erskine Bay from there. The
Nina
was still in port—she could see it lying at anchor. She glanced across at George, wondering if he had noticed its presence, too.

‘Oh, it’s good to be home again, George,’ Ann said as the house came into view.

‘It is,’ George agreed and glanced quickly at Charlotte.

She was ready for it and met his eyes coolly. If Lyttelton was going to be uncomfortable for her, as it inevitably would be for the next month or two, she intended to make sure that it was equally uncomfortable for George. It wouldn’t be difficult: she lived with him, a constant accusing reminder of what he’d done. She was utterly disgusted with him and would not miss an opportunity to let him see that she was. A well-timed glance could speak volumes. Realistically, though, she knew very well that at some stage she would have to bury the hatchet. Ann could sniff an atmosphere as quickly as she could smell burnt toast, and while she was no doubt putting the very obvious tension between her husband and sister-in-law down to the difficult situation that events had created for the two of them, if it continued for too long Ann might start to look for other explanations.

As they reached the house, George rearranged Charles in the crook of his left arm, freeing up his right hand so that he could dig the door key out of his trouser pocket. Standing to the right of him, Ann rubbed the small of her back with her knuckles and arched her spine. Hearing her sigh, George glanced at her as he pushed open the door.

‘You look weary, Ann,’ he said quietly.

Ann threw him a tired smile and nodded. ‘It’s been a long day.’ As she stepped past him, George reached out and rested his hand briefly on the small of her back. Charlotte had seen him do it many times—a small gesture of no practical use at all, but it was his way of saying that he knew Ann’s back was hurting her again.

Although Charlotte didn’t care to admit it, George loved Ann enough to give up his marital rights—and for a man in his prime, as George was, that probably wasn’t an easy call. For Ann’s sake, he had made a decision to be celibate, and, had it not been for the arrival of Eliza on the scene, he might have managed it. Eliza was a flirt, though; Ann was right. And what was it that George had said about the night in question? Eliza was willing, very willing. As for what the future held for Eliza, if the brief conversation that George had had with her was correct, it appeared she had traded a name for a promise from Richard that he wouldn’t shame her. Presumably, therefore, Richard was intending to stay married to her. Not that it would be much of a marriage. If Eliza had seen little of her husband before, she’d see even less of him now, poor woman. Poor woman, indeed. In a day or two she’d be leaving for England. Her marriage was ruined and she had little to look forward to, other than raising the child she was carrying, but she would be raising it alone. In more charitable moments, such as this, Charlotte pitied her. Eliza was in many ways a victim of circumstance. For that matter, so was George. In such moments, she could feel some pity for him, too. Pity was one thing, but at some stage she would have to work on the more difficult business of forgiving him.

‘I don’t think I’ll stay up to see in the New Year,’ Ann said, the last two words half-swallowed by a yawn. ‘I’ll put Charles to bed, then I’ll go to bed myself, George.’

‘I won’t be staying up, either,’ George returned as he followed her down the hallway. ‘I’ll wait until the lad arrives with the luggage,
then I’ll join you. I’ve got a pounding headache.’

‘Oh dear. Shall I make you a drink of tea?’ Ann asked.

‘I’ll do it, Ann,’ Charlotte volunteered. ‘I’ll light the fire and put a kettle of water on.’

‘No, don’t trouble yourself on my account, Charlotte.’ Risking another frosty look from her, George glanced back over his shoulder. She didn’t disappoint him.

The stairs creaked as Ann, with George close on her heels, climbed them. As they reached the landing, Charlotte heard Ann say quietly to George, ‘We must call on Richard and Eliza tomorrow, George. They’ll be leaving soon. Shall we call in the afternoon? If we go in the afternoon, Eliza may be feeling a little better.’

Charlotte didn’t hear George’s reply, but presumed he’d agreed. What else could he do?

The following morning, during breakfast, Ann broached the question of saying farewell to Eliza. Charlotte had her answer well prepared.

‘Will you give her my apologies,’ she replied. ‘I think I’d find it difficult. Richard and Eliza don’t know that I won’t be marrying William, and I’d rather you told them.’

‘We understand, Charlotte,’ Ann replied quietly. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought you might not want to accompany us, so I talked to George about it last night and he’s agreed to tell them what’s happened.’

‘Only if they mention it, Ann,’ George qualified.

‘I’m sure they will,’ Ann said.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ George returned.

George is on rock-solid ground there, Charlotte thought silently. The very last names that Richard and Eliza would drop into the conversation were hers and William’s.

Charlotte left for the haberdashery as soon as she’d washed the breakfast dishes. The shop bell tinkled cheerily as she pushed open the door, and tinkled again as she closed it. Leaning into the window, she pulled out the sign:
Premises, including business, goodwill and stock, for sale—enquire within.
Well, she thought, as she dropped the sign on the counter, if the events of this last week or so have worked out well for no one else, they’ve worked in Rose’s favour. Rose would be delighted when she learned that the business wasn’t to be sold after all and that she’d be keeping her position.

As it was Sunday, and also New Year’s Day, the shop was closed. An opportune time to do an inventory of the stock. Charlotte cast her eye over the shelves and the neatly stacked bolts of material—they would be easy to record. The laces, trims, buttons, fasteners, silk and cotton threads, thimbles, pins and needles, bodkins, hatpins, skeins of wool, handkerchiefs, stockings, whalebone stays…and the contents of the drawer labelled
Miscellaneous
would take considerably longer to count. There was no need to count them at all, in fact—she and Rose had made a full inventory of the stock only two months before, in anticipation of the business being sold. She was repeating the process purely and simply because it was something to do, and something she could hopefully concentrate her thoughts on. She would rearrange the window display, too, while she was there, she decided.

Reaching under the counter for the ledger, she made a start on the inventory. Far from focusing her mind, though, she found it constantly wandering, zigzagging between Richard and Eliza, George and Ann, and William. She counted and, after losing count, recounted buttons, sometimes several times, and in the end gave up on the inventory and set about designing a new display in the shop window. She did
that several times, too. After the sixth or seventh attempt, she had something that she felt reasonably satisfied with, and went back inside to tidy away all the things she’d rejected. She was crouched down beneath the counter, putting away a box of braids, when the shop bell tinkled.

Can people not read? she thought. The sign on the shop door clearly said
Closed.
She popped her head up, all set to say ‘I’m sorry—the shop is shut today’, but only one word came out: ‘Richard.’

As she stood up, Richard pushed the door shut then walked over to the counter. He looked every inch the sea captain in his brass-buttoned jacket, a very different figure from the one she’d seen at William’s house, a man she’d barely recognized, a man in a violent rage.

‘You look somewhat calmer today,’ she remarked in clipped tones. She hadn’t intended to be brusque, but that was how the words had come out.

Richard sank his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘I’m not sure that “calm” is how I’d describe myself at the moment. I’m under a lot of strain.’

‘So am I,’ she returned.

Richard nodded. ‘I know you are. That’s why I came to see you. To see how you are. George told me you were here. I’ve just been to his house to deliver a letter to him and Ann, from Eliza. She isn’t receiving visitors. You’ll appreciate why.’

‘How is she?’ Charlotte asked evenly.

‘As can be expected.’ His gaze flicked up and down her face. ‘How are you, Charlotte?’

‘As can be expected,’ she returned.

A muscle in Richard’s cheek twitched as he compressed his lips. ‘I know you’re hurting, and so am I. Let’s not make it any worse for each other than it is already.’

She looked away, closed her eyes for a moment, then turned back and said simply, ‘I’m sorry.’

She walked from behind the counter into the shop, where there was more space and where she could escape his eyes. There was a time when she’d loved him looking at her as if she was the only thing in the room. Today, she found his gaze merely unsettling. To avoid it, she walked slowly around the shop.

‘It isn’t only you and I who are hurting,’ Richard added quietly. ‘My mother will be hurting too. I didn’t find it easy to tell her that I’d be taking away her grandchild, denying her the chance to be a grandmother at last. God knows what she thinks of me for not going to tell her in person, for just sending her a letter.’

‘Well, my father isn’t very pleased with me, either,’ Charlotte replied. ‘He was hoping to see me married soon.’

‘Your plans to marry Fairfield—’

‘Are off,’ she chipped in.

There was a brief silence, then Richard said, ‘I’m sorry. Sorry you’ve been hurt the way you have, Charlotte.’ He leaned against the counter, watching her as she paced back and forth. ‘Do you blame me for what’s happened to your wedding plans?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I blame the father of your wife’s child.’

‘Fairfield.’

‘So your wife says. William says differently.’

‘He’s a liar,’ Richard said definitely.

She glanced across at him as she paced past the bolts of linen. ‘What about you? What about your marriage, Richard?’

‘If you mean will I divorce Eliza—no.’

‘Well, a bargain’s a bargain,’ she said, then turned sharply away as she realized too late that she oughtn’t to know anything about the bargain he’d struck with Eliza. To make matters worse, her cheeks
were flooding with flustered, telltale heat. Desperate moments sometimes spawned divine inspiration, however, and, thank God, this moment did. ‘You vowed to stay married to her until death,’ she added quickly.

‘I did. And Eliza vowed to be faithful to me,’ Richard returned, making no attempt to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘God knows, she deserves to be divorced, but I can’t bring myself to do it. She committed adultery because she was lonely, and I must take some of the blame for that. And anyway, I said that if she named the child’s father I wouldn’t shame her, and I won’t.’ Pulling his left hand out of his pocket, he picked up the for-sale sign that was lying on the counter, then tossed it down again. ‘You’re planning on selling the shop, I see.’

‘Not any more.’

‘You mean to stay on in Lyttelton, then?’

‘For the time being. Unless the gossip-mongers wear me down.’

Richard’s mouth twisted in a crooked smile. ‘They won’t. You’ve never been short of courage, have you, Charlotte? If you can face a wild pig, you can face a bit of gossip.’

‘Wild pigs are easier to kill than gossip,’ she retorted cynically. ‘When do you sail?’

‘Tomorrow, with the tide.’

‘It’s a long journey for a pregnant woman.’ There was no censure in her voice. It was merely a statement of fact. Even so, Richard’s reply was defensive.

‘Eliza stopped being sick five days ago. I’m not expecting her to die on the voyage or I wouldn’t be taking her. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about Eliza’s health.’

She glanced across at him again. ‘What did you come to talk about?’

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she continued to
pace about, accentuating the silence as she waited for him to reply. It was a good half minute before he answered, and when he did his reply was so quiet that she couldn’t make out his words above the noise of the creaking boards.

She stopped, the better to hear him, then looked at him and said, ‘I didn’t hear what you said, Richard.’

Pushing himself from the counter, he walked over to her. ‘I said I came because I wanted to see you. One more time.’