To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘I’m only glad I was able to,’ Seth said.

  Mrs Maunder indicated for him to sit.

  ‘No, no,’ Seth said. ‘I can’t stop more than a few moments.’

  ‘My daughter should be arriving shortly,’ Mrs Maunder said. ‘This has come as a huge shock to her.’

  Seth wondered how soon shortly was – five minutes, one hour? He had no desire to see Caroline again. And he’d bet every penny he had that she wouldn’t want to see him.

  ‘From Plymouth,’ Mrs Maunder said.

  She looked, Seth thought, rather embarrassed, but whether it was because he seemed to have dried up and was having difficulty keeping a conversation flowing or because Caroline had been in Plymouth for whatever reason last night, he had no way of telling.

  ‘Caroline moved to Plymouth six months ago,’ Mrs Maunder said. ‘Against her father’s wishes, of course. They had a fierce argument, and she hasn’t been back since. I’m sure she’ll come now this has happened.’

  So that was why he hadn’t seen or heard anything of Caroline for some while.

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ Seth said, and he sincerely hoped she would – Mr Maunder was a good man, well liked in the town.

  ‘Silly girl has gone to be a live-in companion to some titled lady for reasons best known to herself.’ Mrs Maunder dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘And here’s me being so indiscreet. It’s the shock of what happened to Charles, of course. I trust you won’t repeat this conversation, Mr Jago.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Seth said, although he was fairly certain Caroline hadn’t told her parents the half of why she had gone to Plymouth.

  But that was none of his business.

  ‘If there’s nothing I can do for you, Mrs Maunder, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No, nothing. Thank you. You must have had a long night. I’ll let you get on your way. But rest assured, I’ll tell Caroline what a hero you are. So unlike your brother, Miles … oh.’

  Mrs Maunder put her hands to her mouth. To stop another indiscretion escaping? Why, Seth wondered, had she brought Miles’ name into the conversation? Not that he was going to ask. If he never heard his brother’s name mentioned again, it would be too soon.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Maunder,’ Seth said. ‘I can see myself out.’

  ‘Ah, there you are, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said, when Emma – now recovered from her faint – knocked on his open study door to tell him she was ready to resume her duties. She and Ruby had made the recovery stretch to four days, certain they’d be caught out in their subterfuge, but they hadn’t been. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’

  ‘It was a faint,’ Emma said. ‘I was tired. I’d been up most of the night. When Dr Shaw came he said I was run-down.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so he told me. I trust you’re taking the tonic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma lied.

  She was never going to take that stuff – it tasted like she imagined boot polish would taste if she was ever stupid enough to eat any. She flushed a tablespoon of it a day down the lavatory, just in case Mr Smythe should check on her.

  ‘It’s not your recovery I want to talk to you about. I think it’s time you have a new frock to dance in. Something that sparkles as you will when you dance.’

  ‘Dance?’

  ‘You do know how?’

  Not really, she thought. She’d only ever had that one, short, turn around the seat in the foyer with Matthew Caunter, and that had been almost two years ago.

  ‘I didn’t mean the knowing of it. I meant the dancing.’

  The hotel had been hosting Friday night dinner dances for some months now but Emma had never been a part of it. Or wanted to be. Well, with no one to dance with, why would she?

  ‘I don’t need a new frock. To dance in or otherwise. My lilac one does me well enough for best, and besides, my amethyst necklace goes so prettily with it.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘But I think a frock to dance in and some suitable jewellery, and shoes, in the circumstances – since we’re to be engaged shortly, once you are eighteen …’

  ‘I apologise for interrupting, but I haven’t said yes to your proposal,’ Emma said.

  ‘Not yet. I rather hope, once you become more a part of my life, that you will see my proposal as a good idea. I like to think I’ve been benevolent in affording you a safe haven, and that you are not unappreciative of that.’

  ‘I do appreciate it, yes. Thank you. But I’m not sure other people – your business associates I mean – will think the same if you are seen dancing with … with your daughter’s nursemaid unless I have your engagement ring on my finger …’

  Oh God, what was she saying? That she wanted to wear his engagement ring? She wished she could swallow the words back but she couldn’t – they were out now, hovering between them in the air. She saw Mr Smythe’s lips quiver – the beginnings of a smile.

  ‘French tutor, Emma,’ he said. ‘As well as nursemaid, of course. But I can assure you they will consider it totally appropriate for you to join me in that capacity.’

  ‘I’d still rather not …’

  ‘You are an ungrateful little wretch,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘It’s not a lot to ask, is it – that you dance with me?’

  ‘Telling,’ Emma said. ‘You’re telling me. Ordering me.’

  ‘Would it hurt so very much?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He’d probably buy her a dress that was cut low and would show an awful lot of skin, wouldn’t he?

  ‘You’ll come around to the idea, Emma, I’m sure you will. Where would you go if you went from here?’

  And that, Mr Smythe, is emotional blackmail she thought, but even she wasn’t brave enough to say so. But his question was valid – where indeed would she go? She had savings, but nowhere near enough to last beyond a few months if she couldn’t secure another position straight away. Certainly she didn’t have enough to start a business, which was all she dreamed about – well, that and Seth.

  ‘I’ll try the dancing, Mr Smythe,’ Emma said. There was over a month to go before her eighteenth birthday – she’d save every penny, feather her nest as best she could before making her escape. But in truth, the thought of fending for herself completely was turning her blood to ice in her veins. She wasn’t quite ready to strike out on her own and pursue her dream of having her own business just yet. ‘Although I might not take to it …’

  Against her better judgement, Emma was dressed, ready for her first Friday night dance. But she’d acquiesced – however unwise she’d been in doing so – to Mr Smythe’s request so she’d just have to get on with it.

  Ruby came rushing into the room, holding Isabelle by the hand. ‘Madamoiselle here wanted to see you in all your finery,’ she said. ‘And blimey, what finery, Em.’

  Emma smoothed her hands down over the fabric of her dress. A soft milky shade of satin embroidered with what looked like a million crystals. Mr Smythe had had Eve Grainger lay it on her bed as a surprise. No doubt the rest of the staff were downstairs now giggling about her and making up all sorts of stories about what she got up to with Mr Smythe if he’d spent that much on a dress for her.

  She glanced at herself in the cheval glass, feeling naked and vulnerable without her mama’s amethyst at her neck, and in its place a string of pearls with a huge pear-shaped pearl dropper. And earrings to match. On her feet were cream leather court shoes with a strap – the only part of the whole ensemble she liked and would have chosen for herself.

  ‘Apart from the shoes,’ Emma said. ‘I look like a dowager.’

  ‘A come again?’ Ruby said.

  ‘An aged, rich widow with too much money to spend on fripperies and too much time on her hands.’

  Caroline Prentiss came to mind with the word ‘widow’ – not that Mrs Prentiss
was that old. In her mid-thirties at the oldest.

  ‘Well, you haven’t got none of that, maid,’ Ruby said. ‘Have you? Me neither.’ She scooped Isabelle into her arms, plonked her on one hip. ‘She looks a right treat an’ all, doesn’t she, Belle?’

  ‘Pretty dress. Belle want pretty dress. Dance with me, Emma.’

  Emma pursed her lips. Ruby would persist in shortening Isabelle’s name and now even the child was calling herself Belle. But she decided now was not the time for an argument with Ruby because in all fairness Ruby loved the child.

  So, Emma took Isabelle from Ruby’s arms and affected a polka with her around the room until the child’s cheeks turned pink with laughing and delight. Another glance in the mirror and Emma saw that her own cheeks were flushed, too.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the beautiful one,’ Ruby said, but there wasn’t a hint of jealousy in her voice. ‘My money is on Mr Smythe falling in love with you tonight, Em.’

  Emma almost dropped Isabelle with the shock of Ruby’s words. Carefully she set the child down on the rag rug.

  Such a short time ago she’d dreamed of working and living in Nase Head House. And of dancing on the tiled floor. If she’d known she’d be in the position she was now she’d never have entertained the idea.

  ‘Never,’ Emma said, making for the door. ‘His heart got buried with his wife.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘You look even more beautiful tonight, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said, standing as she approached, before gesturing that she take the seat next to his. ‘I see I’ve chosen well.’

  Emma sat, grateful that she wouldn’t have to be in his arms just yet. Whether he meant his choice of clothes and accessories for her, or in deciding he was going to make her his wife, she didn’t know and certainly wasn’t going to ask.

  She should never have started this charade, should she? The days were ticking away to her eighteenth birthday and while her savings were adding up, they were still nowhere near the amount she would need to keep her from the workhouse.

  Emma looked about her – anywhere but at Mr Smythe. The room was filling up with guests stopping at the hotel but also a few business people and richer residents from the town.

  The cellist and the violinist were both leafing through sheet music and the pianist was playing a slow and rather dreamy piece of music. Chopin probably. Chopin was Mr Smythe’s favourite composer. Emma had a feeling Chopin had been Claudine Smythe’s favourite, too.

  ‘I think it’s time I asked the good Dr Shaw to come and take a look at you again, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. There was a joking lilt to his voice Emma hadn’t heard there before. It made her uneasy.

  ‘Dr Shaw? Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘No? Not going a little deaf?’

  ‘Deaf? Of course not.’

  ‘Then if you heard my compliment to you – and honestly given I have to say – it’s only polite to respond. To say thank you at the very least.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to buy me these things,’ Emma said. ‘And they wouldn’t have been what I would have chosen. I think I look like a dowager.’

  Rupert Smythe guffawed with laughter and heads turned to look towards him. Emma felt herself flush, felt the heat of it at the sides of her neck. If only she had her amethyst there to hold on to, to ground her, to remind herself she was Emma Le Goff and not someone Mr Smythe was doing his best to mould into a replica of his late wife.

  ‘A dowager indeed. You look wonderful, Emma, and you know it.’

  ‘It’s how you want me to look,’ Emma said.

  ‘Now, stop this. I do believe you’re an ungrateful wretch.’

  Mr Smythe tapped Emma gently on the back of the hand in faux admonishment. She swiftly moved her hand into her lap, and again Mr Smythe guffawed with laughter. Emma wondered if he’d been at the eau de vie or something.

  ‘I know I have things to be grateful for,’ Emma said, choosing her words with care. To say she loved his choice of clothes for her would only mean he would buy her more. Own a little bit more of her. And she didn’t want that. ‘And I’m not a wretch.’

  ‘No, of course you’re not. You’re by far the most beautiful woman in the room, and certainly the most expensively dressed. And I don’t think I’m the ugliest escort either, am I?’ Again that joking lilt in his voice.

  Emma glanced at him, saw he was smiling, and yet there was still the sadness around the eyes he always had. He was – she was sure of it – thinking of his wife, as he always would.

  ‘You know you’re not,’ Emma said. ‘I saw that lady over there glancing at you admiringly a moment ago. The one in the silver frock with the diamanté around the neckline. Why don’t you ask her to dance? I’m sure she wouldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Joanna Gillet?’ Mr Smythe said, after a quick scan of the room to see which lady Emma was referring to. ‘I don’t have the slightest desire to dance with Joanna Gillet. I only want to dance with you, Emma.’

  He reached for her hand. She wanted to whisk it away, hide it behind her back, but to do so might cause a fuss. She willed herself to relax under his touch. And then to her horror he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He’d definitely been at the eau de vie, hadn’t he? There was always a bottle of it on a side table in his drawing-room.

  So it was with some relief to Emma when the three-piece band began to play. She stood up, able to wriggle her hand free from his as she did so.

  ‘Usually, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said, standing beside her, ‘the lady waits to be asked to dance.’

  ‘Usually,’ Emma said. ‘But what you’re forgetting is that I’m not a lady. I’m Emma Le Goff from a poor fishing family whose mother was considered a suicide and not fit to be buried in consecrated ground, even though she is. I doubt anyone in this room, bar a few of the locals, knows that, but if they did do you think they’d consider me a suitable companion for you? Most of them wouldn’t consider me worthy of cleaning their shoes if they knew.’

  What more could she do or say to put him off?

  ‘And do you think any of that bothers me at all? Either the facts about your background, or about the people here knowing? I admire your drive to make the most of the cards dealt you in life. I admire the way you learn quickly and that you’re an asset to the hotel in so many ways. And yes, I admire your beauty. You’ve flourished since you’ve been here, blossomed.’

  ‘It’s called growing up, Mr Smythe,’ Emma said. ‘I would have done that anyway, I expect. Now, shall we dance?’

  Mr Smythe threw back his head and laughed loudly. Goodness, what had got into him tonight? But the musicians had upped the tempo and the noise of dancers’ feet on the polished floor and their chattering voices meant that no one noticed.

  The rest of the evening passed slowly, so slowly. Emma was asked to dance by one of the hotel guests and from time to time, Mr Smythe excused himself to dance with guests or the wives of business associates, but always returning to Emma after each dance. Her heart had lifted a little when she’d seen Mr Smythe dance with Joanna Gillet. Although she’d wanted to laugh out loud when she saw the way he held Joanna – as though she was a muddy dog that needed to be kept at arms’ length.

  She declined a glass of sherry, even though Mr Smythe had pressed it into her hands. And when the champagne was brought round she declined that, too. She needed to keep a clear head.

  ‘Last dance, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said now.

  ‘I’d like to sit this one out,’ Emma said. With luck she could make her escape early. ‘Ask Miss Gillet.’

  Mr Smythe, fuelled now by more than a few glasses of sherry and at least two flutes of champagne, only laughed.

  And then a man Emma hadn’t seen before came rushing through the open double doors of the small ballroom. He stopped and looked about him. How strange to turn up at a dance the mom
ent it was about to finish. Or perhaps he was a late-arrival hotel guest – but at this hour? But for whatever reason she was glad of his arrival. All eyes in the room seem to be on him, too.

  ‘Oh, there’s Howard Bettesworth. I wonder what he wants.’

  Rupert Smythe – in a rather wobbly fashion – stood up and beckoned to the newcomer.

  Emma recognised the name of the biggest law firm in the area.

  Mr Bettesworth rushed on in. Couples cleared a pathway for him, stopped their chattering. Most of the locals present would know who he was and those that didn’t would wonder at his reception.

  A hush fell over the room as the three-piece band stopped playing.

  ‘Smythe,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I know the hour is late but I thought you would want to know. Rum news. Carter Jago swung this afternoon. It’s not a pretty sight witnessing a man hang. I don’t suppose I could get a drink, could I?’

  Emma’s hand flew to her mouth. That Carter deserved to be hanged she was certain and the realisation that he had tried to kiss her, to assault her, made her feel faint. She sat back in her chair.

  ‘A drink? Of course.’ Mr Smythe signalled to a waiter.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Mr Bettesworth said. ‘Seth Jago has instructed me in the sale of his fishing fleet.’

  ‘And well he should,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘We don’t want the brother of a murderer in the town.’

  There were mutterings of ‘Hear, hear’ from the dancers.

  ‘Seth’s selling the boats?’ Emma said. She hadn’t meant to actually voice the words but they’d slipped out of their own volition.

  ‘Hush, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘This is business.’

  ‘I won’t hush. Why’s Seth selling up, Mr Bettesworth?’

  The solicitor looked at Mr Smythe and raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘who’s this and should I be answering her questions?’ Mr Smythe gave a brief nod of his head.

  ‘Because he has plans to go to Canada it seems. Vancouver. And that’s all I’m telling you. But it will be round the town soon enough.’