by H D Coulter
“We prepared a roast chicken tonight, Sarah and I. A reminder of home, with fresh herbs. Joshua... I was thinking - I know we have talked about this before, but it doesn’t seem right – I mean, that Sarah helps us to prepare dinner and then doesn’t eat with us.”
“She has a home to go to. You have asked her before, and she said no. We have to respect her wishes.” He came out of the doorway and stood a foot away from her; she could smell his sweat and the grime from the harbour. She almost reached out to stroke his muscles, but stopped herself at the last second. “You haven’t had servants – help - around the house before. I suppose it doesn’t seem normal, but trust me, that’s simply... how it is.”
“Just because that’s how it is, doesn’t mean that’s how it ought to be.” She gave him one of her stern-but-playful looks that always made him smile.
“Maybe one day, my love.” He hovered for a moment, an awkward temptation hanging between them. His eyes held a spark of lust as they gazed downwards from her face to her breasts before resting on the undeniable bump. There they froze for a second, then drifted back upward as he placed another kiss on top of her head. He strode back into the dressing room abruptly. The high-pitched dinner bell called out below. Bea tried to heave herself up off the bed, one hand on the bed post and the other on the mattress.
“Would you like a hand?” Joshua called as Bea rocked herself back and forth to gain some momentum.
“No, no, I can...” Joshua scrambled back into the bedroom just as Bea had swung herself to a standing position. Their two bodies collided; their lips pressed tightly together as one bent and the other rose to keep her balance. Joshua felt Bea about to fall back onto the bed as he wrapped his arms around her. Without thinking, she kissed him. Her hand stroked the side of his cheek and felt the evening stumble breaking through. How much she had missed him. The hunger stirred inside of him in return as he kissed her back with force, sending a shiver trickling through her body.
He stroked one hand firmly down her back as his tongue played with hers. Then the baby kicked, softly at first, then harder. As if startled awake, Joshua jumped back, looking at Bea with a stunned expression. Slowly, a stiffness crept over his face as the past seven months flooded back.
“I... had better finish getting ready – it’s not fair on Sarah if the food goes cold.” His head lower, he strode back into the dressing room.
Bea collapsed onto the bed. She forced herself not to cry at the sudden rejection from her only love. She closed her eyes and stroked the now active bump. She repeated the same lines, “You are loved – you are mine,” muttering away to herself as usual. It was not their fault her husband couldn’t touch her anymore. None of what was happening was their fault. Her fault; she was sure it was a girl.
“Bea... would you mind if I ate my dinner in my study this evening? I have just realised I have some paperwork to look over before tomorrow - and I wouldn’t want to bring work to the dining table.”
“Of course, I understand.” She adopted on a falsely bright voice, almost happy to the point of being uncomfortable. “I’m a little tired. I might have Sarah bring a tray up to the room.”
“That’s a good idea. You rest, and I will tell Sarah. I’ll see you at bedtime, love.” He hovered in the doorway, unsure if he should give her another customary kiss on the head; perhaps they had had enough kissing for one day. Without another word, he left by the other dressing room door so as not to walk past her.
Chapter 5
Each Tuesday and Thursday Bea took her morning walks around Beacon Hill. At first Sarah insisted on accompanying her, telling her that some streets weren’t as friendly as she would like to believe them. But Bea dismissed the notion, uncomfortable with the concept of a servant walking two steps behind, as was the custom in the area, especially a person of colour.
Sarah handed her the simple teal cloak Bea had bought when they first arrived off the ship, now too small with her bump sticking out in front.
“I’ll be gone an hour.”
“Yes, Mistress,” came the gentle reply as Sarah opened the door.
Bea nodded her head. Over the past couple of weeks, she had asked Sarah many times not to address her as ‘Mistress’. But Sarah had refused, saying that it wasn’t the done thing, and giving her a suspicious look as if the suggestion was some sort of trick, a way to make a fool of her. After that, Bea had stopped trying. It only made their relationship uncomfortable. One day, she hoped Sarah would trust her, and then she would approach the subject again. One day.
The streets were alive, carriages travelling up and down the main road, gentlemen on horseback docking their hats at the image of an elegant woman with child. Bea bowed at each gesture, as per Joshua’s painstaking instructions of how a lady of her standing must behave. The actions felt strange, mimicking other gentile ladies strolling down the street, their heads held high and on constant display. She had been born a coastal cottage girl and now she was a lady. But it was all a lie. It wasn’t how she had thought it would be. She carried so many secret labels that she had given up wondering which one was her true calling; a lace-maker, a cottage girl, a wife, a mother, a murderer; a fugitive?
Bea headed right and walked up the hill towards Boston Common. It would have been easier to turn left, to walk downhill, past Louisburg Square and their own private garden, and on to Mount Vernon Street, to walk past the more elite homes. When they had moved to their new home, Joshua had encouraged her to become more involved with society, to accept an invitation from the wife of a new business acquaintance for afternoon tea. She had agreed tentatively, but when the onslaught of questions came about her background and her family back in England, Bea had all but crumbled. Her former life had been all over the newspapers, as had the trial, and her escape from the hanging. She couldn’t tell a living soul the truth for fear of their judgement, and the prospect of Joshua losing the precious job he had barely begun. So, she lied. She could no longer be Beatrice Lightfoot, and Beatrice Mason was full of lies. Upon her return home, full of anger and shame, she had told her husband that she never wanted to attend another social event without him at her side leading the way. After responding thereafter to similar events with a handful of rejections, blaming it on the pregnancy, the invites had stopped, and Bea Mason had made a point of avoiding that area of town.
Spring had arrived in Boston Common. The extensive area of greenery was a welcome relief. It wasn’t the wilds of nature she was used to, but the chance to sit under the trees and listen to the birdsong, helped her to rediscover a part of her former self. The large space was elegant in design, with old, solid-looking trees lining the edges, two simple paths crossing from one side to the other, and a few iron benches dotted here and there along the way. She made her way to the base of the common, the delicate sweet scent of almonds and floral blend drifted towards her. Her back ached with the pressure and the bench looked inviting for a brief rest. After taking a quick glance left and right, she leant her head right back luxuriously onto the cool curved iron, and gazed straight upward, eyes narrowed. The sky was clear blue, almost the shade of cornflower. The sun soaked into her aching bones and warmed her face. She placed her hands over the bump and felt it roll from one side to another, distorting the shape of her stomach as the baby turned over in its sleep. For a moment she could believe she was back at the harbour wall, in that pocket of time which was filled with happiness, before the night that changed everything. It was strange; she had earned for adventure across the water, wanted away from Ulverston, and create a new beginning. But now that it had happened, she had escaped with the man she loved; reality didn’t match that of her daydreams. Part of her yearned for home. She smiled as a woman walked past, pushing a pram the size of a carriage, and just as ornate. The woman glanced at her, then put her head down once more and kept walking. Hauling herself up reluctantly, Bea cut through the trees lining the East side of the common, and watched the men landscaping the Back Bay, the once-great rope yard of Boston, into a new b
espoke park everyone was talking about. She watched the workers dig out holes for the trees and new plants, in places where there had once been large wooden wheels and spokes hammered into the ground for the rope to run through. How practicality gave way to grandeur, she thought sadly, much like herself. She made her way back onto the path, and then out on to Charles Street. The road was full of shops, from Ladies fashion, grocers, butchers and ironmongers, to bookshops, jewellers, and a tiny haberdashery. The quiet stillness of the common gave way almost instantly to the bustle of gentlemen, soldiers, entrepreneurs, servants, and ladies. People of all shapes and colours, people from distant countries she had never even seen in pictures before strolling past. Bea kept her head down, bracing herself for each noise and smell, praying she didn’t get one of her episodes. The rules of society were hard to get used to; where she had once been useful, needed and wanted, she was now forbidde. Sarah had to be the one who ordered the weekly supplies of food, coal, and wood for the house, and the one who was responsible for all the cleaning and washing. Bea could only enter the more lady-like shops and occasionally help prepare the meals. Still getting used to the fact she had a disposable income, she struggled to enjoy spending it. To Joshua it was a very little, to Bea it was a fortune. Twice a week she would get a popular novel from the bookshop, and then on the way home drop by Mrs Potter’s Emporium for more thread and wool for her bonnets. Mrs Potter was a friendly, older woman, who loved to chat to her customers and took a genuine interest in Bea. She was saddened, and not a little confused when, each time she tried to make conversation about the projects she was working on or enquired about the baby, Bea would merely nod her head, and give the briefest, stumbling replies. She suspected Mrs Potter was lonely, and once upon a time she would have enjoyed the odd meaningless conversation with an older woman who knew something of the city. But these days she was in no mind to filter the words and expand on her false story more than was necessary. So she would her bid good-day and leave as quickly as possible with her purchasers, and an empty smile.
Bea, uneasy at the concept of knocking on her own front door to have it opened for her, let herself in. Relieved to be in the sanctuary of her home and away from the hordes of unknown people, she closed her eyes and smiled when she heard Sarah in the kitchen, singing. Her joyous songs were the opposite of any hymn Bea had heard in Ulverston - one of her ‘workin’ songs’ she called them. Bea held back for a moment, listening to the words and the power of her voice behind them. She filled it with love, loss, soul, and heartbreak. Sarah never sang in Bea’s presence, and she only hummed when sufficiently distracted by her task to forget where she was. Twice, Bea had asked if Sarah could sing to her, or teach her the songs, but straight away the quiet, dark-eyed woman would softly refuse, and remain guarded for the rest of the day. Bea understood somehow and didn’t press the matter further. There was a loneliness to her home that wore Bea down, but Sarah relieved that a little, and Bea relied on her in ways she didn’t fully understand.
She was about to head up the stairs when she remembered Sarah had asked her to make herself known upon her return, so she knew her mistress had arrived back home safely. Bea took her foot off the first step and followed the singing towards the kitchen. She knocked on the kitchen door so as not to startle her companion and waited.
The singing stopped. “I’m back,” remarked Bea with a small smile, standing in the doorway.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh - yes please.” Bea waddled into the kitchen to take a seat at the table.
“I will bring it up in a minute - I’ve made some lemon cake.” Being able to buy lemons was one benefit of having money that was entirely acceptable to Bea.
“Thank you, Sarah, that’s lovely - I would prefer to take it down here; if you’re not too busy?”
“Yes mistress – take a seat.”
“Thank you, this little one is really pressing on my hips today.”
Sarah was nodding, as if she knew exactly what Bea meant. “It will get into position – you only have a month to go.”
Bea picked at the cake in front of her, ignoring the cake fork at its side. “Nothing is ready – I’m not ready.”
“I know a talented carpenter who can make you a cot.”
Bea glanced up at the unexpected remark and smiled again. “Really? Back in- I mean, back home, Da would know the men to ask, or there’d be handed down one, from my Mam – but here, I don’t know who to ask, and Joshua...” There was a note of doubt in her voice.
Sarah poured out the tea and placed a cup out for Bea and one for herself. She sat down at the table opposite. “Tell me what you think you’ll need, and I’ll see if I can help – there are lots o’ men I know who would welcome the work – it might help you prepare yourself too, Mistress.” She cut Bea another slice of cake.
“Thank you, Sarah, you’re very kind.” Bea tasted the sharp tang of the lemon, followed by the sweet crunchy sugar dissolving on her tongue, and felt a slight loosening around her shoulders, and in her chest. “I’ll work on the list this afternoon – if you will help me – I would be grateful for your guidance.” There was almost a plea to Bea’s voice that she hadn’t intended to show.
“I shall do me cleanin’ first – but yes, I can help – I will make a start on the dinner and then come up to you.”
“What if... what if I help you prepare the dinner, and then... you can help me?” Bea smiled hopefully.
She was surprised and more than relieved to see Sarah smile back. “You have yourself a deal, Mistress.”
Chapter 6
Joshua had been aware of Bea’s restlessness during the night, blaming it on the baby, as she apologised for waking him again. All too often he had watched her wriggle in her sleep, fighting against the nightmare, reliving the same events in her mind, and covered in a cold sweat. These past months he had felt helpless, as a part of Bea disappeared and became lost. He longed for the young lady he had met at the old harbour wall or at the ball, and the spark of hope and confidence she had carried inside. So much had happened in a year. It shook him daily how much a person could change.
He gazed at her, lying there asleep, like a fell protruding out in its humble surroundings. He watched as the baby inside wriggled, the shape of the bump shifting ever so slightly. He wanted to reach out, stroke and sooth the child; bond with his future son or daughter. But then, it wasn’t really his, however much he told Bea the contrary. He knew he could never love it in the same way as if it had been his own child in there. There were moments he would forget, as Bea grabbed for his hand and placed it on the kicking child; to please her, he would smile and make an encouraging comment. He saw all too keenly how her sanity hung delicately on a cliff’s edge, clinging on to the possibility of normality finding its way back into their lives once again.
He left her sleeping and made his way to his dressing room. Downstairs, Sarah had already arrived. She was a good worker and a kind woman; she had been recommended by a neighbour, and her experience, and her living on the North Slope, a few streets away, had made her the ideal candidate. He had known immediately after meeting with her she would be a steady, friendly source of company for Bea. Bea herself had resisted the idea of a servant at first, insisting she could look after the house alone, uncomfortable at the idea of another person coming into their home and taking care of the work. Joshua had tried to see it from her point of view, realising the contrast of his own comfortable upbringing against her own. But the truth of the matter was, she wasn’t able to look after the house. She could barely look after herself. The arrangement gave her the space and freedom to focus on the baby, and after a shaky start, they had settled into a routine.
“Mornin’, Mr Mason,” Sarah said, handing him his morning cup of coffee. “Breakfast?”
“Morning Sarah, yes, thank you.” Sarah nodded, then made her way out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.
Joshua sipped his first cup of the day. The coffee in Boston was stronger than
he was used to, with a rich nutty taste. Next to his place setting lay the daily paper, ‘The Boston Morning Post’. He scanned over the morning headlines and articles. It was an unusual layout compared to what he was used to, with narrow articles running down, side by side, unlike the more leisurely paragraphs of the Lancaster Gazette. His eyes scanned over the morning poetry, ‘Summer Fete’ by Thomas Moore, Esq, knowing Bea would read it later. He skimmed the rest of the front page before turning to the shipping news on the second page.
Sarah returned with a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of gammon and eggs in the other.
“Thank you, Sarah.”
“Anyt’in’ else I can do for you, Sir?”
“No, that will be all... Mrs Mason is sleeping in late this morning.”
“Very good, Sir.” She nodded and left the room.
A stillness descended on the breakfast table. Joshua broke the perfectly made egg yolk and watched the golden liquid trickle towards his slice of gammon. He finished his breakfast absent minded and downed his last cup of coffee. Sarah stood at the front door, in time, holding his leather shoulder-bag and coat. He peeked in the hallway mirror, straightened his white cravat, and tugged down his grey waistcoat and jacket. Satisfied with his appearance, he placed his arms into the held-out overcoat and took the bag from Sarah’s hand.
“Thank you, Sarah.” He gave her a sincere smile, knowing Bea would be well looked-after in his absence, sighing heavily as the door closed behind him.
Along Pinckney Street, there was a hive of activity. The coal merchant was dropping off his goods with the help of skinny soot-covered lackeys, dragging large sacks to each front door; children shouting and racing a small dog down the street, whilst more familiar men of Joshua’s class strolled to work. There was no need of carriages and horses if you lived and worked on Beacon Hill, unless you belonged to the Gentry or the Brahmins of the area. Instead, there were common stables, where you could stable your horse, hire one, or rent a carriage if you had occasion to attend a business meeting in the centre of Boston, or, like Joshua, worked at the harbour, on the Back Bay. He had bought the mare from an acquaintance of their landlord, and she was a beauty, her chestnut coat stamped with a creamy marking below her ears, and possessing a pleasant temperament. Joshua had wanted a horse which was used to the loud noises at the harbour, not a gentile animal used to the quiet streets of Beacon Hill. He felt himself awaken fully as he trotted on to the Exchange and Merchant Row. There was current, a charge flowing through him; this was where he knew he could breathe freely, forge a path, build his name up to a new respectability. For miles, the piers stretched out along Boston harbour, from the slim, shorter lengths owned by small, independent family companies, to the large, overbearing ones belonging to entire countries, asserting their own share of Boston Harbour for all to see. The largest piers were owned by the big shipping companies who had claimed harbours across the world, from the Far East, Africa, Europe, England, to South America and the West Indies. The Wentworth Shipping Company was one of the largest in Boston; owned by a Brahmin, the central figure of power both in Beacon Hill and Boston itself. Joshua guided his mare to the back stables attached to the large company building, running along its grand pier. Already the harbour was full of ships, sailors and business-owners as far as the eye could see. The beating heart of Boston was up and ready for business.
