Salting the Wound

by Janet Woods

  His mouth pursed and colour touched his cheeks. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we concentrated on your problem, rather than exchange pleasantries.’

  Was that what they’d been doing – exchanging pleasantries?

  She received the same advice as she would have given herself if she’d been doing the doctoring – only the benefit of his wisdom was offered to Daisy, who was padding around like a nervous tabby cat in the background.

  Lucian raised his voice, as if he suspected her of deafness. ‘Mrs Thornton has suffered a shock. She should stay in bed for a day or two and rest. No visitors, no excitement, and light meals only. She’ll need to gather her strength together for her lying-in if the outcome is to be a healthy baby. A glass of warm milk will make her feel more rested.’

  ‘I’ll go and make her some.’ Daisy trotted off obediently about her given task.

  Lucian wore his responsibility with too much awareness of his own importance, Marianne thought. It was hard to believe they’d been children together, that their fathers had visited each other, and they’d had adventures on the heath. That he’d been a boy who’d cried at the sight of his own blood if he’d so much as scraped the skin from his knees, or who poked his tongue out at the housekeeper behind her back, so Marianne would get a fit of the giggles, then get into trouble because she couldn’t stop.

  Marianne felt like crying now. She wanted to shake Lucian out of his adult skin and find the boy inside him – the boy she’d loved. ‘Lucian, remember when you used to be afraid when you saw blood?’ she whispered.

  He dropped his guard and gazed at her, the expression in his eyes pensive and sad, as if he’d caught a glimpse of the childhood he’d left behind. ‘I remember, Marianne. I had to grow up.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll ever grow up?’

  ‘You have, beautifully.’ To her surprise he stooped to gently kiss her cheek. ‘I wish things could have been different between us.’

  ‘They couldn’t have been. I love Nick.’

  ‘Your husband is dead, my dear. You must reconcile yourself to the fact.’

  ‘He’s not dead. In my heart and my mind he’s still alive, and anyway, he’ll live on in his son.’

  ‘You would never have loved me that strongly, Marianne.’

  ‘And you’d never have coped with my passion for living. You would have kept me trapped inside, stitching pretty flowers and leaves on canvas with coloured thread. They’d be beautiful, but without smell or life, and would never have been tossed by the wind, but would have been kept hidden from the sun lest they’d faded. And I’d want to run barefooted on the heath and have the wind blowing through my hair – and swim in the sea like a fish with the water cold against my naked skin, just like we used to.’

  When he sucked in a scandalized breath, she whispered, ‘Nick understands those feelings in me, and so did you once. Now they shock you.’

  ‘Passion for living is best kept under control when you’re an adult, I feel, since quite often it’s mistaken for vulgarity, which embarrasses others. But we can still be friends, can’t we?’

  After telling her she was vulgar and an embarrassment? She hid the smile building up inside her. The few short weeks she’d had of living with Nick was better than a lifetime of Lucian. How joyless he was now. ‘Yes, we can still be that, Lucian.’

  And with that lie being established by both of them, they found there was nothing left to say to each other.

  Marianne had slept better than she’d expected to, though she’d cried herself to sleep.

  It was almost dawn when the pains woke her. The night light Daisy had brought in just before she went to bed was guttering in a pool of warm wax, making the shadows leap and dance.

  At first she was disorientated, for she’d thought she was back at Harbour House. She’d dreamed that she was small and that her mother was seated on the side of her bed, holding her hand and looking down on her with much love in her eyes. Indeed, she imagined she could still feel the warmth of her hand, and felt comforted by it.

  Swinging her legs out of bed she crossed to the window. A glance showed a scape of pewter sky, water and town buildings, as if night had drained her surroundings of all colour. Soon the sun would repaint the canvas again, exactly as it had been the day before, except for a flake of paint missing here, a blossom flying there, a cloud in a different place, and a wrinkle added to an old man’s face.

  Downstairs, the clock chimed five. Her infant had woken her up to tell her he’d started his journey. ‘You’re in too much of a hurry,’ she chided him softly.

  Nick was dead, she’d been told. He’d never know his son. He was drowned. His lungs and stomach were filled with water, his last breath had been expelled into the deep, blue/black depth of the ocean. It had travelled fast up through the water to explode his life into the air. She wondered, how long had he hung on to that last, painful breath? Had he thought of Charlotte when he died, taken her image with him into the darkness to comfort him. She didn’t mind him having the comfort of his lost love in his dying moment.

  She opened the window and breathed the air deeply, captured and saved it. It would help her through the strenuous day, and if it contained any of Nick’s life – help her to bring Nick’s son into the world.

  Beneath her window a horse and cart clopped by. It was market day in Dorchester. People would make an early start.

  Another pain came, long drawn out like the one that had woken her from sleep. It was like the rise and fall of a note on a cello, exquisitely painful. Marianne welcomed it. It stopped her thinking about Nick. Going out on to the landing she turned up the gaslight and knocked gently at Daisy’s door.

  ‘The baby’s coming early,’ she said when Daisy poked her tousled head out. ‘I just thought I’d tell you.’

  ‘That doctor of yours said you were not to be excited? Besides, the infant isn’t due for another four weeks, so you’ve probably got indigestion. Go back to bed.’

  She smiled, remembering Boston. ‘I think I may have miscalculated?’

  Marianne made herself comfortable while Daisy dressed. They readied the bed, removing the blankets and spreading clean sheets.

  Daisy was calm. ‘I’ll bring you up some warm water so you can wash.’

  The pains came at more frequent intervals. They washed over her like waves on the shore, where Nick had run, his feet bare and covered with grains of sand. Erasmus was sent to fetch the midwife.

  By the time the sun was overhead pain was chasing pain. Marianne panted like a dog and groaned as she stretched a little bit more. It was coming quicker than she expected.

  ‘I can see the head, he has dark hair,’ the midwife said. ‘It won’t be long now. This is the hard part.’

  Even though exhausted, Marianne managed a smile. Of course he has dark hair, she thought, and he’ll have dark eyes and he’ll look exactly like his father.

  Sweat coated her face and body now. Her next push widened her a bit more, so she felt as though she was stretched as far as she could go. Her water broke with a gush.

  ‘Push as hard as you can,’ the midwife urged, and she did.

  ‘Harder.’

  Marianne groaned with the effort, and wondered how the baby felt being squeezed from her body. Sorry, my love, she thought.

  ‘Rest.’

  Rest, when the monster of all pains was upon her, and she couldn’t resist its pulsating strength? ‘I can’t . . . rest . . .’ She found inside her the breath she’d captured, and it joined with her own. Nick’s breath. The thought of Nick calmed her. The pain was relentless and she gripped tightly the hands that Daisy offered her.

  When her pain reached a crescendo Marianne gave a long, drawn-out cry. There was a small gush of water and her infant slithered out. He began to bawl loudly.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ Daisy cried out, sounding so surprised that Marianne laughed out loud.

  Soon her son was washed in warm water, wrapped in flannel and placed in her arms.

  As she knew he
’d be, he was his father’s son. Dark hair, eyes the colour of liquorice. Her son was instant love. Instant joy. She kissed his frowning forehead, his turned-up nose and the frail shells of his hands. ‘You’re so beautiful, and I adore you,’ she whispered, and her tears fell on his face.

  He turned his head towards her voice and seemed to be listening intently as she whispered words of love to him. Then his head began to move from side to side and he began to nuzzle, open-mouthed against her.

  Marianne had seen enough of Charlotte’s early attempts to breastfeed to know exactly what he wanted. Opening her stained and crumpled nightgown she allowed him access, then laughed when, with unerring aim, her son’s mouth claimed her nipple. The practice sucks he gave before he tired and fell asleep were strong, they reached right down into her.

  The midwife smiled. ‘There a bonny one for you. He knows where it’s at and how to go about getting in. He won’t give you any trouble. I’ll put the lad in his cradle so I can clean you up, Mrs Thornton.’

  ‘I’ll see to the boy,’ Daisy said quickly, and gently took him up. ‘The very image of Nicholas, he is,’ she said, tears gathering in her eyes. She gazed down on him fondly before she laid him in his crib. ‘I’ll go down and make some tea. I daresay we could all do with a cup.’

  Later, Erasmus smiled down on the boy with pride. ‘What will we be calling the lad?’

  ‘I thought I’d call him Dickon after his grandfather, Nicholas after his father, and Erasmus after you. Do you approve?’

  ‘Aye, it’s fitting, since they’re all family names,’ he said gruffly, trying not to look pleased at being included. ‘I’ve been thinking. The boy’s arrival has taken on an importance to me with regards to family matters. What if Caroline’s girl did survive? Perhaps I’ll make enquiries when I return – see if I can find out what happened to her.’

  ‘Charlotte won’t like it.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what your sister likes and what she doesn’t. If the girl is alive, which I very much doubt, and if she turns out to be my daughter, which is also doubtful, all to the good. If she bears more resemblance to the Honeyman family, then at least she’ll have one sister who will welcome her home, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she will. Thank you, Erasmus.’

  Erasmus was gone a few days later. Before he’d left he visited her and said, ‘It’s the Australian run so it will be six months. While I’m there I’ll try to get some definite news about what happened to the Samarand. It’s certain that something has. Our agent would have made some enquiries by now, and if any survivors turn up he’ll know about them.’

  But Erasmus hadn’t sounded very positive.

  Marianne was not about to observe the normal lying-in, and was up a week later. The no-nonsense Daisy didn’t put up any objections, except she banned her from lifting anything heavy. Marianne wrote a note to Charlotte telling her she’d safely given birth to her son, and advising her that Nick was feared drowned.

  She got no answer to her note, but there was a trickle of visitors, and Seth came with a gift of a soft shawl for Dickon. He seemed downhearted.

  ‘What is it, Seth? Are the twins unwell?’

  A brief smile touched his face. ‘They’re very active now, and getting into all sorts of mischief. It’s John I’m worried about.’

  Alarm stabbed at her, in case it was something that could be passed on to her own infant. ‘John’s ill?’

  ‘He’s run away from his grandfather’s home. He left a note saying he was coming to Harbour House. But that was ten days ago, and he hasn’t been seen or heard of since. We’re worried out of our minds.’

  ‘John’s a sensible child. He’s got a good sense of direction. If he’s lost, he’ll find his way home, I’m sure.’

  ‘But he’s such a small boy to be wandering around on his own. Aye, but why am I worrying you about this when you have enough worries of your own? I’m so sorry to hear about Samarand. I liked Nick a lot.’

  ‘I can’t really believe he’s dead, Seth. Sometimes I tell myself he is, then the next moment something inside me says strongly that he’s alive, and will one day walk through the door. He was too alive, and had too much enjoyment of life to die. No! I refuse to believe it. And I’m sure John will get back to you. How is Charlotte keeping?’

  ‘She’s sad, and she’s quiet. Things have been too much for her of late. First . . . well, you know . . . then John and now . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She’s not coping very well. I think her conscience is beginning to bother her.’

  ‘Charlotte has no reason to concern herself on my account. She only has to live with the guilt she feels over turning me out. And neither does she have the right to grieve over Nick. She treated him badly, and she made her own free choice. Seth, don’t pander to her, else she’ll never respect you. You must tell her how you feel about what she’s doing, not only to herself, but to others. I do not have the generosity inside me now to share Nick with her, not even his memory. That, she doesn’t own or deserve.’

  ‘I can’t condemn her for what she feels. I can only be there for her.’ He rose to leave.

  ‘You love her, don’t you, Seth?’

  ‘Aye, I do, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘If she ever stands to lose you she’ll soon realize your value. You can’t have Nick’s ghost present in your marriage. It’s not fair on either of you. Nick is part of her past, but he’s part of my present, my marriage, and he’s the father of my son. She has to let go of him. Tell her that.’

  ‘Won’t that be salting the wound?’

  ‘That’s exactly what she did to me, except she caused the wound in the first place. Her own is self-inflicted. As you know I’ve tried to reconcile our differences on many occasions, and I won’t contact her again, Seth. Charlotte’s taken this too far. If she wants to see me again, the approach must come from her.’

  She watched him walk away, his head bowed. Seth was too nice a man to have attracted all this trouble. All he’d wanted was a home for himself and his son. She could only pray that John was safe, and they’d be reunited.

  Eighteen

  They were making good time. Cunningham was a solid, unflappable individual with a good reputation and a regard for safety.

  He’d welcomed Nick on board, congratulating him on his survival, expressing his relief at having someone on board who knew his job.

  After Nick had stowed his few belongings on board, Cunningham said, ‘Take her out, Mr Thornton. We’ll be heading for Wellington to pick up passengers. The usual route through Cook Strait. You’ve been through before, I take it.’

  He smiled when Nick grimaced. ‘Good, then I don’t need to tell you how tricky the Strait is to navigate.’

  Nick had never handled a ship of this tonnage, and said so. Cunningham stood at his shoulder without saying a word until they’d cleared harbour, then he uttered only a dozen. ‘You can now handle one, Mr Thornton. Carry on, I’m going below.’

  And that was the last Nick saw of him until midnight, when the man relieved him, his eyes glassy and his breath smelling of brandy. When Nick look askance at him, he said, ‘Don’t worry Mr Thornton. I can sail this ship in my sleep, and it won’t happen again. Go and get some sleep.’

  Nick presented himself to the salon the next morning, to breakfast with the sprinkling of passengers – two women and some half a dozen men. Some of them looked a little on the pale side.

  Nick was not used to passengers and found the small talk with strangers tedious, especially since he was ravenously hungry.

  ‘Captain Cunningham said you’d been shipwrecked, how exciting!’ a young woman lisped.

  Frightening would have been a more accurate description. Nick had been given to understand that this was Miss Garfield, and she was on her way to England to marry advantageously. ‘Unfortunately, most of my crew perished.’

  ‘Goodness . . . the poor souls. Don’t you think so, Miss Carter?’

  Miss Carter was older, about forty, her face already lined in
places with spinsterish discontent. ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Garfield. I understand you were rescued by natives, Mr Thornton.’

  Nick speared a sausage with his fork. ‘Three of us made it to shore. My cabin boy suffered an injury, but the natives nursed him back to health then guided us back to civilization.’

  ‘That must have been thwilling.’ Miss Garfield’s eyes were as round as saucers. She couldn’t have been much more than seventeen, was precocious, and seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. One or two of the men were eyeing her up. Nick couldn’t decide whether her lisp was an affectation or not.

  ‘Is it twue that they’re cannibals?’

  Nick chuckled. ‘If they are I didn’t notice. They served up wallaby and lizard for dinner, and sometimes small lobster-like creatures that live in the streams. And now and again we had snake.’

  ‘You ate snake?’ Miss Carter sounded outraged. ‘How extremely bizarre.’

  ‘There was very little choice, and actually it was quite tasty. I’m sure it was better than eating human flesh.’

  Miss Garfield grinned, her eyes lit up, and she seemed quite eager to continue with the conversation. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . we must be quite tasty ourselves if cannibals like to eat us, don’t you think so, Miss Carter?’

  Her companion turned a paler shade of pale, and shuddered. ‘That’s a disgusting thing to say. Come, Miss Garfield, we must go to our cabin. I’m not feeling at all well. Cannibals, indeed.’

  ‘Oh, poor Miss Carter,’ Miss Garfield cooed. ‘I feel perfectly well myself. Perhaps it was all that bweakfast you ate. You should have had the oatmeal. It was lovely after I’d picked the weevils out.’

  ‘There are no weevils in my oatmeal, young lady,’ Cunningham said as the two females retreated, and then, keeping a straight face, ‘It was probably a cockroach.’

  The man had a dry sense of humour when he chose to exercise it, Nick thought, and the Garfield girl began to giggle.

  ‘Aye, Aye, Captain.’ She turned Nick’s way and simpered, ‘Mr Thornton, you must teach me how to steer the ship.’