Emma’s hand was still on Mr Smythe’s shoulder, and gently she removed it.
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m telling you, possibly, rather more than you might be expecting to hear. And why I’ve sent for you.’
‘There must be other, older …’
‘There are, but you’re the only one here who speaks French.’
‘French?’ Emma said. And then it came to her that Mr Smythe had called his wife Claudine – a French name. ‘Your wife is … was … French?’
‘Yes. And the twins, Sidney and Archie, are – were – being brought up by-lingual. And the baby …’
Mr Smythe put his head in his hands again, turned away from Emma back towards the window.
‘Has the baby died, too?’ Emma said, a lump in her throat that it might have.
‘No. Thank the Lord.’ Mr Smythe stood up, took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped his eyes. ‘And that’s where I need your help, Emma. My daughter won’t know her mother – they’ve been separated almost since the birth because of Claudine’s infection – but I’ll do my best that she will know her mother’s language and her culture. Do you think, Emma, that you could tutor my sons in French, and be nursemaid to Isabelle on the nanny’s day off? I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said. How could she have said anything else? At the same time, she wondered just how much of her own life she might have written away with that single word.
Mr Smythe had found a position for her, hadn’t he? – even if it probably wasn’t one of the options he’d been considering.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma sat on the rug in the centre of the drawing-room in Mr Smythe’s private quarters, surrounded by books. Boxes and boxes of them had come down by train, and been delivered by the carrier’s cart to Nase Head House. It had taken two men well over an hour to bring them all into the house and up the two flights of stairs to where Emma now sat poring over them.
Alexandre Dumas. Georges Sand, Guy de Maupassant. She drank in the French names on the covers, opened them and devoured the language she’d so loved to speak with her papa.
Mr Smythe had asked her to put them on shelves he’d had hastily built along one wall. There were some children’s books which Emma thought perhaps Sidney and Archie might be able to read themselves at six years old. She put those to one side. Then she arranged the books in alphabetical order. Her guess was that Claudine Smythe had bought some of the books – the adventure story ones by Alexandre Dumas in particular – for the boys to read when they were older.
Further along the corridor the nanny was settling the children into their rooms. Emma had had only a glimpse of two, small identical boys, their heads bowed, being led by their father up the steps from his car. And she hadn’t really seen Isabelle at all, because she’d been swaddled in layers and layers of fine wool with a bonnet pulled down almost over her eyes and held tightly in the nanny’s arms when she’d arrived. And she’d been asleep. A month old, and small for a baby of that age because she’d been premature, and no mama – it made Emma gulp back tears to think of it.
Emma stood – her legs stiff from sitting on them for so long. She began to read out loud the titles of all the books. Something fizzed up inside her, like dandelion-and-burdock cordial, at the joys she had to come reading all those books. Until now, the only book she had to read was her Jane Austen, mended for her by Matthew.
Emma had her back to the door when she heard it being flung open.
‘Well, I’m off.’
Emma turned to see the nanny, hat on, bag clasped in her hand.
‘But you can’t go,’ Emma said.
‘Who says?’
‘Well …’ Emma began. She’d thought the nanny would be staying to have the main care of Isabelle and that she was going to be responsible for French tuition with the twins when they were home from school. Would she be expected to care for Isabelle full time if the nanny left?
‘Well yourself, Miss.’
The nanny was still staring at her as though challenging her. Emma took a deep breath. ‘Does Mr Smythe know you’re leaving?’
‘He’s not here. I’ve left a note. Nothing, but nothing, is going to keep me in this backwater. Besides, I’ve already secured another position.’
‘But won’t Sidney and Archie miss you? Couldn’t you lessen the time you spend with them each day until …’
‘Look, Miss. I don’t know who you are, and I care less, but I don’t have to explain myself to you, do I?’
‘But the baby? Where is she?’
‘Where babies usually are – sleeping in her crib.’
‘You can’t just leave her!’
‘I can and I am. Gave her a good feed, didn’t I? She’ll be all right for an hour or two.’
‘But Archie and Sidney? Where are they?’
‘Outside, giving the gardener the run-around. I’ve told him to keep an eye on them ’til their father gets back. Now I’m off.’
And with that she turned on her heel and left, slamming shut the door behind her.
‘And just as well, I’d say,’ Emma said. ‘Those poor children need more care and concern for their welfare than that.’
But was she the person to provide it?
Emma looked in on the sleeping Isabelle. She hoped and prayed she would be all right for an hour or two because Emma had a tarte tatin to make.
When Mr Smythe got back from wherever it was he’d gone then no doubt she’d find out just what her duties would be from now on.
Mr Smythe came into the kitchen where Emma had just finished mixing the pastry for the tarte tatin. She laid the dough on a marble slab to keep it cool.
‘Leave that, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘I’m sure Cook knows how to make those now. He must have watched you do it dozens of times.’
‘Cook’s not here,’ Emma said. She began to peel an apple, cutting slices into a bowl of water so they didn’t brown. ‘He sent Ruby to the dairy for cheese but then he noticed the plaice was off. So he’s gone down to the harbour to the fishmonger. He …’
‘Off?’ Mr Smythe said.
‘Stank a bit,’ Emma said. ‘Cook said he couldn’t serve that to your guests.’
Mr Smythe shook his head, as though trying to rid it of a spider’s web he’d just walked into. He looked puzzled.
‘If he says so. Now leave that and come with me.’
‘It won’t take a minute to finish it off.’ Emma listened hard for Isabelle crying but there was no baby’s wail of a cry. She had a hunch Mr Smythe had already found the note the nanny had left but knew better than to ask if he had. ‘Besides, Cook said I was to keep an eye on the … oh, here’s Ruby with the cheese now. Perhaps she can do that?’
Ruby came rushing into the kitchen with a lump of cheese the size of a house brick wrapped in greaseproof paper. She skidded to a halt when she saw Mr Smythe. Ruby was a little afraid of her boss – she’d told Emma so.
‘I said leave it, Emma,’ Mr Smythe yelled at her. ‘I’ve just discovered the nanny has left and I don’t need you disobeying orders. Do you understand?’
Emma glanced towards Ruby, who was cowering now, a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and round and terrified.
‘It’s all right, Ruby,’ Emma said. ‘Mr Smythe isn’t shouting at you. And he’s only shouting at me because of the tragic circumstances he’s found himself in.’
Ruby nodded, her curls wobbling.
‘Emma …’ Mr Smythe began.
‘I’m coming. I’m truly sorry for your plight, but I’ll thank you not to shout at me like that.’
Emma knew she was risking being thrown out on the street for her cheek in standing up to Mr Smythe, but if she didn’t stand up for herself, who was there to do it for her?
It was Mr Smythe’s turn now to have eyes that were wide and round – if not exactly terrified – at Emma’s outburst.
Emma waited for him to tell her she could pack her bags and follow the nanny to the station, but he didn’t. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
‘You, my dear,’ he said, ‘remind me of my dear, late, wife. Perhaps it’s because you are – and she was – French.’
‘Half French,’ Emma corrected him.
‘Which it is, is of no consequence. But there’s no escaping the forwardness. Now I suggest you show Ruby how to finish off that tart and then come upstairs to my drawing-room.’
And then he was gone.
‘Did he really say that?’ Ruby said, jumping up and down on the spot.
‘Say what?’
‘That I’m to make your fancy apple tart?’
‘Amongst other things he did, yes. So, get your hands washed and that apron on and I’ll show you how.’
Dr Shaw was called to Nase Head House to examine the baby. Emma stood beside the table the doctor had laid the naked child on and watched. Isabelle was so tiny – still smaller than many newborns the doctor said. She had a lot of hair, though – loose dark brown wisps that curled around her ears – although she had no discernable eyelashes yet. Her eyes were blue – although the doctor said the colour might change as she got older.
Isabelle screwed her face up, went red, and bawled.
‘Sssh, sssh,’ the doctor said. He turned to Emma. ‘Now, if you would like to have a go at dressing this young miss …’
‘Now?’ Emma said. There seemed to be a mountain of things piled on a chair. She knew they’d come off Isabelle because she’d seen the doctor undress her. However, it had been such a long time since she’d dressed a baby she’d completely forgotten how to put them all back on again and in which order.
‘We’ll do it together, shall we?’ the doctor said. He had to raise his voice so he could be heard over the wail of a screaming baby.
‘Yes, please,’ Emma said. ‘I’m a bit out of practice at this and I think Isabelle knows it, Doctor. I helped Mama with Johnnie a few times but really she was so pleased to have another baby she wanted to keep him to herself, mostly. Do everything for him.’
‘I expect she did,’ Dr Shaw said kindly. ‘And it’s bringing back memories, being asked to do that task now?’
Emma pressed her lips together for a moment before answering. ‘Yes. But it’s not just that. I like cooking. Mr Smythe likes my crab tart and he adores my tarte tatin, which he asks me to make most days. Only a few weeks ago I was full of plans to start a business selling my tarts to hotels and restaurants in the area. And I dream of having a little cottage to live in someday, all paid for by my endeavours. But now …’
The doctor laid a hand on Emma’s arm.
‘I understand. A lot has happened to you in a very short space of time – and not much of it pleasant. But sometimes, life isn’t about planning, or wishes and dreams – it’s about making the best of the situations we find ourselves in. Do you understand?’
‘I think so, Doctor.’
‘Good, now let’s get this young lady dressed before she catches a chill and I have to revise my diagnosis of her excellent health.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her lungs, Doctor,’ Emma said.
The baby, at that moment, sounded like a siren going off.
Emma slid a tiny vest – like an envelope – over the baby’s head, but still she cried. Then the doctor watched as Emma put a nappy on a very tiny bottom and secured the pins so they didn’t pierce infant flesh. In no time the doctor and Emma had Isabelle dressed between them, and the doctor placed the baby in Emma’s arms.
‘My wife will call to talk to you further about the care of small babies. And little boys. Sidney and Archie, you’ll be pleased to know, are also in fine health. If lively.’ The doctor chuckled as he re-packed his Gladstone bag. And then he was gone.
Emma stood, the baby still crying in her arms, not knowing what to do next. ‘Sois sage, ma petite,’ Emma said. Be good little one. It seemed more natural to talk to her in French than it did in English. And it seemed to do the trick. The baby gulped and swallowed and her eyes – slightly boss-eyed, Emma thought – struggled to focus on Emma’s.
Emma began to sing.
‘A la claire fontaine, m’en allant promener. J’ai trouvée l’eau si claire, que je m’y suis baigné …’
She had this job for now. Good food and a warm room to sleep in. She would try and live by the doctor’s wise words, to make the best of the situation.
When Mr Smythe returned from London and his wife’s funeral she would have a talk with him about her duties. But, in the meantime, goodness knows what Seth was going to say when she told him it was going to be harder for them to meet than ever. She’d write to him tonight to tell him how her circumstances had changed.
As summer wore on, Emma lost count of the weeks before she was able to get a free hour to see Seth.
‘Of course I understand, Emma,’ he said.
His face was serious and Emma had a feeling that while he understood he didn’t much like it.
‘It won’t be forever,’ Emma said. ‘My Smythe has put an advertisement in The Times for a nanny. I told him I can’t be speaking French with the twins and seeing to Isabelle at the same time. I think the poor mite knows her mama’s dead because she cries all the time. Only Ruby can soothe her when I’m not there, but she has to split her duties now between chambermaiding and the kitchen, and …’
‘I said I understand,’ Seth said. ‘You don’t have to explain it to me chapter and verse.’
Seth glared at Emma then turned his head to look out to sea.
‘And you don’t have to be quite so sharp with me, Seth,’ Emma said quietly.
The sudden change in Seth’s mood from when he’d hugged her and kissed her on the cheek when they’d met in their usual spot at Crystal Cove to the hard-faced young man he was now, frightened Emma.
‘Well, I’m a bit sick of hearing how wonderful your life is turning out living up at Nase Head House with …’
‘I didn’t say it was wonderful. I’m making the best of the situation I’ve found myself in. That’s not the same thing.’
Seth shrugged. ‘Mr Smythe – no doubt – will be wanting not just a nanny or a nursemaid but a wife.’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it, Seth Jago? You don’t like it that I’m living at Nase Head House. But you don’t have to be jealous of Mr Smythe if that’s your issue. He speaks to me occasionally about the children, but that’s all.’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Emma. I didn’t say I was jealous.’
‘But you implied it,’ Emma said.
‘He’s too old for you, Emma.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that – if it comes to it. And anyway, he can’t be much older than thirty or thereabouts.’
‘You know nothing about him, Emma. He’s turned up here with his money and his fine ideas …’
‘And he could have as evil a family as you …’ Emma clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Seth. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
Emma was filled with the most awful guilt – it hung heavy about her like a head cold – because Seth had never been anything but kind to her. How could she have even thought what she had, never mind have said it?
She kissed the tips of her fingers and laid them against Seth’s cheek. She felt him stiffen beside her.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, too. But evil was the right word to choose. Although, that said, Pa had one saving grace. He swore on the Bible that I’d been kept ignorant of the smuggling racket. Mr Caunter spoke up for me, too. But the upshot is, Pa’s got three years and my brothers, two. They were sentenced yesterday.’
&n
bsp; ‘Oh. Was it in this morning’s paper? I haven’t had time to read it yet. I don’t know what to say. I can’t say I’m sorry, can I? They’ve got what they deserve, everyone knows it.’
‘You could say sorry,’ Seth said. ‘If it was me you’re sorry for.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said. ‘For you. Truly I am.’
She shivered – and not because she was cold. While it was sunny, there was a brisk wind coming in off the sea and it was colder than it usually was in early September, but she’d wrapped up warm against it. No, her chill was nothing to do with the weather – there was an emotional distance between them now, and Emma wasn’t liking it one little bit.
When Seth didn’t respond, Emma said, ‘You do believe me, don’t you? That I am truly sorry for all you’re having to cope with at the moment.’
‘I believe you, Emma. And I’m sorry if I’m not my usual self.’ Seth put his head in his hands.
Not knowing what to say, Emma acted on reflex and put her arm around his shoulders.
They sat then for some time, Emma’s arm still about Seth’s shoulder. From time to time Seth looked up, turned to Emma and smiled sadly. Other times they both looked out to sea, each thinking their own thoughts.
‘This should be our time, Emma,’ Seth said, breaking the silence between them. ‘We’re young and we should be able to fall in love and be happy. Not have all this … this unwanted stuff to be carrying about with us.’
‘You, because of your pa and brothers, and me because there are still people around here who think Mama shouldn’t be buried at St. Mary’s.’
And, no doubt, there were still those who thought it improper she’d been living alone with Matthew at Shingle Cottage, she thought, but didn’t add. Saying that would only add to Seth’s distress, wouldn’t it?
‘The easy option would be to go away,’ Seth said. ‘Where no one would know us.’
‘I’ve never been away anywhere,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve never had a holiday.’
‘I’ve only had one. Pa took us all to London. It was hot and dirty and noisy. I won’t mind if I never have to go again.’
To Turn Full Circle Page 19
