by Jane Jackson
His expression grew sullen. ‘Don’t preach, Caseley. I’ll deal with this my own way.’
She crouched beside him. ‘But you’re not dealing with it. You’re just running away.’
He leaned back. ‘You don’t understand at all. My whole life’s at stake and all you can do is babble on about the demon drink, like some … Methodist.’ He spat the word.
Caseley stood up, clasping her hands tightly. ‘What about my life, Ralph? I’ve listened and I’ve tried to understand. I know you are suffering. But I can’t do anything to change it. Only you can do that, either by talking to Father and settling it once and for all, or by leaving.’
‘Leave? Where would I go? What would I live on?’ He grew petulant. ‘Why should I leave? This is my home. I’m entitled to be here.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And as the only son no doubt when Father dies the house will be left to you, along with shares in the yard, which you don’t want. You will be a wealthy man, Ralph. You’ll be able to drink yourself to death in style.’
Shaken, he stared at her. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve never spoken to me like this before. You don’t understand at all.’ He flung the words at her like stones. ‘You have no idea what I’m going through.’
‘Perhaps you’re right, Ralph. But I have tried. God knows I’ve tried. Drink your tea.’ She turned away.
He caught her hand. ‘Don’t go, Caseley. Don’t leave me. I need someone to talk to.’
His hand was cold and clammy. She held it between her own. ‘Then talk to Father,’ she urged. ‘Or to Dr Vigurs. He’ll be in later.’
‘Vigurs?’ Ralph snatched his hand away, his mouth curling bitterly. ‘He’ll only lecture me about filial duty and Father’s health and the inheritance I ought to be grateful for.’ He glared at her. ‘Anyway, where are you going that’s so important?’
‘To do your job.’
She went to her room to collect the books and papers she would need for the day’s business, placing them in the leather music case she used to carry them to and from the yard office. She would not think about Ralph. If she did, exasperation and rage would make it impossible for her to concentrate and she needed all her wits about her.
Swirling a hip-length cape of chocolate brown worsted around her shoulders against the morning chill, she went in to say goodbye to her father.
‘Dr Vigurs will be calling later.’ She moved the bed-table containing his breakfast tray.
‘I don’t care what he says. I’m getting out of this bed tomorrow. A man could die of boredom lying here.’
Sitting in the armchair while she changed his sheets had exhausted him and he’d been glad to return to bed and rest until his breakfast arrived. But mentioning it would only upset him.
‘Shall I bring the newspaper up for you? Or a book?’
‘Books? What do I want with books?’ he snarled. ‘I want the sun on my face and the smell of the sea in my nostrils. I want to be back in my yard and see what’s going on. Books!’ he grunted in disgust.
She knew better than to argue. She poured out his drops and handed him the glass, watching as he stared at the liquid, clearly debating whether or not to swallow it.
‘Dr Vigurs will be impressed by your determination, Father,’ she said with studied calm. ‘Especially if you are tranquil and your blood is not overheated.’
Teuder grunted then gulped the mixture down. ‘What time is he coming?’
‘Before lunch, I believe. A nap now will conserve your strength and help you order your thoughts.’ Caseley was aware of his gaze as she straightened the bedcover.
‘What are you doing about that engine for Guanajuato?’
‘I have drafted a letter to Fox’s foundry requesting them to send details of engines they think would be suitable, plus shipping costs, to Señor Mantero.’
‘Why Fox’s? Why not –?’
‘Because,’ she cut in, plumping his pillows, ‘Fox’s foundry and engineering works have been operating at Perran Wharf for over twenty years. They’ve sent pumping engines to tin mines, copper mines, and gold mines all over the world.’
She paused to control the rising tension in her voice. ‘I simply don’t have time to make enquiries of all the other possible companies. Anyway, none of them have the freight and transport facilities that Fox’s do.’
Making a huge effort she smiled at her father. ‘I drafted a reply to Señor Mantero telling him of the company’s reputation for reliability and high quality workmanship, and assuring him he will receive Mr Fox’s personal attention in the matter.’
Teuder’s tired eyes held a glint of admiration as he looked up at his daughter. ‘A neat move, girl. Let Fox’s do all the work, eh?’
Caseley tugged the bell-pull. ‘Aunt Margaret’s visit yesterday put me behind.’
‘Margaret? What did she want? Poisonous old biddy.’ Teuder scowled. ‘Was she snooping?’
‘No,’ Caseley hated lying. But relating her aunt’s comments would only upset him and she didn’t have time for that. ‘She wanted to share some good news. Frances Lashbrooke –’
‘Good news? It will be a rare day when any good news that woman wants to pass on doesn’t have a sting in the tail.’
How well her father knew his sister-in-law. After a quick knock on the door the maid walked in.
‘You can take Father’s tray, Liza-Jane. He’s going to rest now. Will you bring him some beef tea at eleven? The doctor should be here soon after.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Liza-Jane picked up the tray. Caseley kissed her father’s forehead then followed her to the door.
‘Try to sleep, Father. I’ll come up and see you as soon as I get home.’
He raised one hand a few inches off the coverlet. ‘Has Dora left the yard yet?’
‘Will moved her round to the quay. He’s taking her out on the morning tide. The account for her repairs was settled yesterday.’
‘Where’s she bound?’
‘Par, to load china clay for Liverpool. She’ll bring back salt.’
Teuder’s eyelids were dropping. ‘I must see him when he gets back. Tell him …’
‘I’ll try and catch him before he leaves. Sleep well.’
Teuder roused himself. ‘Who’s sleeping? I’m just resting my eyes until that damn doctor arrives. Don’t forget to tell Will.’ His eyes closed.
Shutting the door quietly, Caseley went downstairs to the kitchen. She could hear the splash of water and the creak of the wooden mangle as Mary Clemmow wrung out the sheets.
A moment later Mary’s head appeared round the door. Greying hair had worked loose from the bun on her nape and floated in wisps about her flushed face as she wiped her red hands and forearms on a threadbare towel.
‘Beg pardon, miss, but we need more blue bag. I got enough for today’s sheets, but ’twill all be gone by Monday.’
Caseley nodded. ‘I’ll make sure it’s added to the list, Mrs Clemmow.’
Mary bobbed her head and disappeared. Moments later the mangle resumed its creaking.
The scent of cloves and cinnamon made Caseley’s mouth water as Rosina lifted a golden-crusted pie from the oven and set it on the scrubbed table beside two others.
‘That’s one apple, one apple and blackberry, and one plum. They saffron cakes is ready to go in. Fancy anything else do you, my ’andsome? I’ll do a slab of ’eavy cake.’
‘Thank you, Rosina. As it’s the end of the month, be sure to pay both the butcher’s and grocer’s accounts. Add blue bag to the list. I’ve left money with the accounts in the drawer of the side-table in the dining room.’ Caseley handed her a small key. Experience had taught her never to leave cash where Ralph might see it.
‘Put the receipts and change back in there, shall I?’
Caseley nodded. Liza-Jane came in from the passage carrying dusters and polish. ‘The wind have broke that low branch on the apple tree. Dragging on the ground, he is.’
‘Ask Ben to saw it off, Liza-Jane. And make sure h
e brings in plenty of coal.
At last Caseley got away. The wind whipped her skirt against her ankles and pushed her along the pavement edging the dirt road. Dust eddies whirled. Leaves and scraps of paper were snatched up, spun then dropped as the gust blew itself out. Puffs of cloud raced across the hazy sky as gulls screamed and wheeled.
Glancing into the grain warehouse as she passed, Caseley saw men loading sacks of oats and barley onto horse-drawn carts. She could hear the shush of the mill wheel turning in the tidal pool as water poured through the sluice.
‘Caseley!’
Glancing round she saw a familiar figure close the garden gate of an elegant terraced house. Ever fashionable, Tamsyn was wearing short maroon coat over a pink flounced skirt gathered into a bustle topped by a large maroon bow. Her fair hair had been drawn back into a cluster of ringlets. Perched on the front of her head was a small hat with an upturned brim fastened with two pink roses. Matching ribbons tied in a bow hung down at the back. She always looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of one of the ladies’ fashion magazines.
Caseley felt a pang of envy, but it was small and easily ignored. She had neither the time nor the inclination to spend hours on her toilette. Besides, who would notice?
‘Hello, Tamsyn. You’re looking well. In fact you look radiant.’
‘So I should,’ Tamsyn laughed. ‘That is exactly how I feel.’ She gripped Caseley’s forearm. ‘William and I are to be married before Christmas.’
Caseley laid her hand over her friend’s. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’ She meant every word. Resenting other people’s happiness was mean, small-minded, and reminded her of Aunt Margaret.
‘You must come to the wedding, Caseley. Papa is holding the reception at the Falmouth Hotel. There is to be an orchestra and dancing –’ Her pretty face sobered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’
‘I cannot wait to be married. You would not believe how much there is to think about and plan!’ Full of bliss, she hurried away towards the town.
Glad for her old schoolfriend, Caseley crossed the road to her father’s boatyard, passing beneath the one-word sign over the tall double gates.
Her grandfather had claimed the Bonython name was enough. ‘Word of mouth brings us all the business we want. Them that come here know what we do. No point wasting money to have it writ up there.’
In seventy years of building and repairing quay punts and fishing smacks, ketches, and schooners, the sign had never been altered. Nor had Bonython’s ever lacked work.
As she passed the blacksmith’s shed, the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil stopped and a cloud of steam billowed out as red-hot metal was plunged into the cooling trough.
‘Good morning, Mr Reece, have you seen Will Spargo?’
‘Morning, miss.’ The brawny smith emerged from his shed. In his huge fist long-handled tongs gripped a bent iron bar dripping water. His scarred and blackened leather apron reached almost to his heavy boots. ‘I b’lieve he’s down by the slip.’
‘Thank you.’ Caseley hurried across the yard past a stack of seasoning timber. She breathed in the acrid smell of hot tar coming from the riggers’ shed and the sweet scent of fresh sawdust.
Reaching the slip she saw Dora, with Will at the helm, already twenty yards off, her sails set as she headed towards the Carrick Roads and the sea beyond.
Caseley sighed. She would jot down a reminder as soon as she reached the office. About to turn away, she saw a two-masted schooner approaching. It was coming in fast – too fast – under a single staysail.
A dark-haired figure stood at the wheel. As she watched he raised one arm then brought it down. A crewman waiting in the bow loosed the staysail sheets. The canvas flapped, spilling the wind, then slid swift and smooth to the deck. The schooner slowed and Caseley saw that the jibboom was broken off level with the bowsprit cap, the guys and bobstay neatly coiled and fastened to the bowsprit.
As the vessel glided alongside, a second seaman and a boy leapt onto the wharf and, whipping ropes around the bollards fore and aft, brought her gently to a stop. The boy let out a delighted whoop and the seaman cuffed him playfully as he jumped back on board.
The man at the wheel smiled, his teeth flashing white in his bearded face. He moved towards the companionway hatch then paused, suddenly still.
The speed of the schooner’s approach had held her rooted to the spot, apprehension spiked with curiosity as she noticed the broken spar.
During her recent visits to the yard she had become acquainted with most of Bonython’s fleet, except the Lily. Loading cod in the tiny harbours around St John’s on the Labrador coast, Lily had been away for months and was due back in two weeks’ time, mid-September.
If the schooner was one of theirs, then who was the man at the helm? The accuracy with which he had judged both the wind and the speed of the hundred-foot vessel proclaimed him a first-class seaman.
But the arrogant tilt of his head and his cool stare stirred unexpected and unwelcome agitation. The yard and everyone in it faded away, leaving just the two of them.
Startled and self-conscious, Caseley turned quickly away, retracing her steps across the yard and out onto the road.
Barely glancing at the overgrown ruins of the Manor, she hurried past the row of four-storey properties with deep windows and pillared porches that housed several of the town’s eminent people, including Dr Vigurs.
She would call at his consulting rooms on her way home. She needed to know the truth and her father told her only what suited him.
The breeze whipped the waters of the inner harbour into a sea of white horses. Waves slapped and broke against the sea wall on the other side of the road. Small boats moored to rings in the wall and bollards along the top bobbed like corks on the choppy water.
Gulls flapped and screamed overhead, diving for scraps thrown overboard by fishermen sluicing decks and holds. The clink of caulking irons driving oakum between hull planks rose and fell on the gusting wind. Horses’ hooves clopped, cart and carriage wheels rumbled, children squealed and squabbled, hammers clanged in foundries and women packing pilchards in the curing sheds gossiped and shrieked with laughter.
Turning in through the gateway of Bank House she climbed the granite steps. The glossy black door with its polished brass knocker swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. She walked along the tiled hall and up the wide, curving staircase to Bonython’s offices on the first floor.
Entering her father’s, she removed her cape, her gaze skimming over the glass-fronted bookcases, shelves packed with ledgers, and the small walnut bureau in the corner, its open top covered with neat stacks of papers.
It had been her mother’s and usually stood in a corner of the drawing room. She had made Ben bring it down. To see her seated at her father’s desk would have offended Uncle Thomas. Working at the small bureau signalled to anyone entering the office that she was simply helping out until her father’s return.
Her gaze lingered on the framed letters of consulship approval and appointment. The first signed by Queen Victoria and her Home Secretary, the second by the President of Mexico, Benito Juarez, and his ambassador in London.
She hung her cape on the coat stand and was tucking escaped curls back into their confining net, when the door opened and Uncle Richard waddled in.
Short and plump, wearing black coat and trousers, her father’s youngest half-brother resembled an earnest mole. His stiff collar and cravat made his neck appear very short and it merged into shoulders rounded by years of poring over ledgers.
In his early forties, his fair hair was fast receding despite luxuriant side-whiskers. Concentration had furrowed deep grooves in his forehead. Yet he had only to smile for people to realise he was not the dry old stick they imagined. He was smiling now.
‘How is the old curmudgeon this morning?’
Laying her music case on her father’s desk, Caseley gave a wry smile. ‘Determined to be back i
n the office tomorrow. Dr Vigurs is seeing him later this morning.’
‘Irresistible force meets immovable object.’ Richard grinned.
‘I’m relieved I won’t be there. How is Aunt Helen’s cold?’
‘Improving, though she has not yet recovered her voice. She did manage to rebuke Oliver this morning for some misdemeanour, but a whispered scolding lacks the desired effect.’ As he spoke of his wife Richard’s habitually fraught expression softened into warm affection.
Brisk footsteps approached along the passage, the door opened wider, and in strode the man Caseley had seen at the helm of the damaged schooner. Instead of the navy reefer jacket, he was wearing a frock coat of fine dove-grey cloth over dark trousers, and in one hand he carried a tall hat with a narrow brim.
Their eyes met, and the impact was like a clenched fist. She looked down at her case trying to hide her shock.
Chapter Four
‘Good morning, Captain Barata. Welcome back.’ Richard stepped forward, offering his hand. ‘A successful voyage, I trust?’
As the two men shook hands, Caseley released a quiet shaky breath, unable to understand her reaction.
‘Profitable, certainly. We finished unloading cargo at the Docks yesterday. I picked up a mooring in the harbour overnight and brought Cygnet into the yard this morning. She needs a new jibboom and two new jib sails.’ His voice was deep and though his English was perfect, a faint trace of accent would have told Caseley of his ancestry even if his name had not.
‘I see.’ Richard did not sound surprised. ‘Do you wish your contribution to the cost of repairs deducted from your share of the profit?’ Richard picked up a thick ledger from the desk and riffled through the pages. ‘I believe this is the usual arrangement?’
Caseley glanced at the newcomer. Masters did not pay for repairs unless they were also part-owners. She had shares in Cygnet, a twenty-first birthday present from her father. Even so impersonal a connection with this man made her uneasy.
‘As you will.’ A brief gesture disposed of the matter.
Richard looked up from the entry he was making in the ledger. ‘Bad weather in the Atlantic?’
