by Jane Jackson
He lifted his hands to break her hold. ‘I have to go, Louise. I’m due at the yard. Cygnet sails tomorrow.’
‘Be gone long, will you?’ she murmured between kisses. Feeling his body’s response to her provocative movements she drew her head back to give a roguish smile.
‘Can’t go yet, can you, my lover,’ she drew the tip of her tongue along her upper lip.
His hands tightened. Images of Caseley tumbled through his mind like windblown leaves. He shuddered and ran his hands down Louise’s back, pressing her hard against him. This he understood. This posed no threat.
Chapter Ten
Caseley finished the letter she was writing, addressed the envelope, then passed both across the desk for her father’s approval and signature. Her thoughts strayed to the house on Greenbank.
Recalling her conversation with Ralph at breakfast she realised that in only a few days her life had taken on new purpose. But it was very different from the crushing obligation to keep the yard running smoothly. She found she was constantly thinking about colours, textiles, and furniture that would enhance the best features of each room.
The ladies’ magazines Aunt Margaret had bought in a bid to ‘sharpen up your fashion sense, my dear,’ had been retrieved from the cupboard and pored over for their soft furnishing advertisements. She had ignored glances heavy with significance that Rosina exchanged with Liza-Jane, more concerned with working out colour balances.
‘Pull yourself together, girl.’ Her father shattered her reverie. ‘If that’s the last of the letters you may as well go.’
Caseley started. ‘I’m sorry. Was there something else you wanted me to do?’
‘No,’ he grudged. ‘It’s all done for now. I suppose you’ll be going up to Greenbank?’ His pale gaze was shrewd and Caseley felt warmth creep into her cheeks as she stood up and placed her chair neatly against the wall.
‘Not immediately.’ Was he implying that she spent too much or too little time at Jago Barata’s house? She wasn’t about to ask.
Lifting down her short cape from the hook on the back of the door she swung it around her shoulders. ‘I have some shopping to do first. Would you like me to walk you home?’
‘I would not. I’m going to the yard. Sam is coming with me. I shall be better for some fresh air. It gets stuffy in here. All this damn paper. You be on your way.’ He paused. ‘Coming on all right, is it?’
‘I think so.’ She fastened the cape, put on her hat, and picked up her music case. Instead of business letters and ledgers it now contained colour charts, lists of building and plumbing materials, and invoices. ‘It’s difficult to tell at the moment. I’ll know better when it’s finished.’ Then it will be too late.
It was one o’clock before she reached the other end of town. She had visited all the furniture repositories, comparing styles, quality, and price, making copious notes. So much was needed: a dining table and chairs, a sideboard, a sofa and armchairs, at least two small tables, a clothes press for each bedroom, a blanket chest, a dressing table, stools or chairs for the kitchen.
Then there were all the soft furnishings: curtains, rugs, cushions, bed linen, towels, tablecloths, and napkins. She had not even started on crockery, cutlery, glassware, and kitchen utensils.
She was tired and hungry, and the burden of choosing what was right for the house and its enigmatic owner had begun to weigh heavily. For an instant she was tempted to ignore the display in the large window of Joseph Roskruge’s Drapery Emporium and simply order curtains for every room in the crimson plush he loathed. It would serve him right.
But pride triumphed over her brief dream of vengeance. Pausing to take a deep breath, she entered the shop, hearing the bell tinkle over her head as she pushed open the door.
Half an hour later she left carrying a package containing samples of curtain material in jade velvet, maroon and ivory regency stripe, and an oyster-coloured fabric with a silken sheen and a subtle pattern of leaves.
Restored by a cup of hot chocolate and a toasted teacake at Alice Teague’s refreshment house on Market Strand, she climbed the steep length of High Street. Reaching the brow of the hill she could see the river. The water looked cold and grey reflecting the heavy sky, and the wind had a keen edge.
After announcing her arrival to Mr Endean, for whom she had had a second key cut, she went back downstairs. Removing her cape she hung it over the newel post and went into the drawing room. She unwrapped the fabric samples and stood against the back wall, trying to visualise the room fully furnished.
Each day she became more concerned that the décor complemented the rooms, enhancing their proportions and emphasising the light.
The chesterfield she had seen in Prout’s, with its buttoned upholstery of dark green velvet, would look equally well with the regency stripe or the oyster curtains, and perhaps two rosewood balloon-back chairs. A small rectangular sofa table could stand where she was now, and another in the corner holding a jardinière. But for the right-hand wall behind the door, which would be more suitable, the mahogany bureau or a bookcase?
She caught herself. What did it matter which she chose? Once finished she would see none of it again.
The knowledge was painful, but she had to keep it at the forefront of her mind. Doing the job to the best of her ability was one thing. But she must not become emotionally involved. She must not care. Jago Barata had made his reason for selecting her abundantly clear. ‘I need not lose a moment’s sleep wondering how to get rid of you once the job is complete.’ She was simply the means by which his property would be made habitable without any involvement from him other than paying the bills.
Caseley left the empty room and walked down the passage to the kitchen. It was better that he had stayed away. The urge to ask his opinion, his preference, would have been too strong to resist.
She looked down at the three pieces of material she still held and shook her head in bewilderment. How could he show so little interest in what was, after all, his home? Did he really not care? Was that why, without a qualm, he could delegate such a personal matter to a virtual stranger?
But surely no mere stranger could have divined her loneliness? He had even spoken of his own. The fact that he had done so had shaken her more than the revelation itself.
He had trusted her. And for a few precious moments she had opened like a flower to the warmth of his understanding. He recognised that she felt the loss of her mother more keenly now than in her childhood.
He had spoken of her family with brutal frankness, demanding answers as if by right. For two people who had known each other barely a week their arguments had had a startling intimacy.
Her father, her brother, and her two uncles were the only men she knew well, though she had seen more of Toby and Will Spargo in recent months. But nothing had prepared her for the impact and complexity of Jago Barata. She doubted anything could.
The crash of the doorknocker echoed through the house. Caseley returned to the hall and saw the plumber’s lad on his way downstairs. ‘It’s all right, Ross. I’ll answer it.’
He continued on down. ‘I got to go uplong and tell Mr Tregaskis he can bring the bath and all down now. Mr Endean’s ready for ’em.’ He waited at the bottom of the staircase.
The outer door was opened back to the wall and through the coloured glass Caseley could see a woman silhouetted on the step. A neighbour perhaps? Bringing an offer of help or a cup of tea as a cover for curiosity? She opened the door and Ross slipped out, ducking his head politely before disappearing down the path.
The visitor was plainly startled. Caseley’s gaze skimmed the high-piled hennaed curls crowned with a chic feathered hat tilted forward over one eye, a vivid orange jacket decorated with gold frogging and cut a little too tight, and an orange and black taffeta skirt with a cascade of flounces reaching to the dusty granite step.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Downing. Can I help you?’
Louise quickly retrieved her control. But the smile that stretched her
painted mouth did not reach eyes as hard as sapphires and bright with suspicion. ‘You’re Caseley Bonython.’
Caseley gave a brief nod. In a close-knit town like Falmouth everyone knew everyone else by sight if not by name.
‘Father better, is he?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You’re some long way from home. What you doing up here? Friend of the captain, are you?’ Her tone was light, artless, but her gaze was as sharp as a blade.
‘No,’ Caseley replied after a moment’s hesitation. Friendship meant the gentle warmth of long acquaintance, empathy and loving attachment. Not friction, wariness and flaring tension. ‘Not exactly. I am doing a job for him.’
‘What job is that?’
Caseley was taken aback by both the impertinence of the question and the inquisitorial tone in which it was asked.
‘Forgive me, I don’t wish to appear rude. But my reasons for being here are not your concern.’
Louise’s eyebrows arched. ‘Me and the captain is friends. Very close friends. So whatever is going on in his house certainly does concern me. Told me all about it he did, this very morning.’ She nodded sharply, daring Caseley to doubt her. ‘Now if you’ll just move aside, I’d like to come in and look over the place. I don’t think Jago would be very pleased if I was to tell him you kept me standing out here.’
Without a word Caseley stepped back and Louise swept past her into the hall. As she closed the glass door, her fingers froze on the knob as she recalled Rosina and Liza-Jane gossiping. Foreign, Liza-Jane had said. It wasn’t just once that Louise Downing had been seen leaving the Royal Hotel after ten in the evening.
Caseley closed her eyes, hearing the echo of Jago’s voice. ‘For some reason hotel life has lost its appeal.’ The pain was so sharp, so piercing, that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
‘What’s going on up there?’ Louise jerked her head towards the stairs at the sound of a hammer falling to the floor, male voices, and footsteps moving about.
Caseley’s throat was so dry she had to cough before she could speak. ‘Captain Barata is having a bathroom installed.’
Louise poked her head round the drawing room door then walked all the way in.
Had Jago sent her to the house? But why would he do that? There was nothing to see yet. Perhaps it had been her idea to come. Clearly she had not expected to see Caseley, which was odd. Surely Jago would have explained what she was doing here? He must have realised that if Louise came to the house it was likely they would meet. Perhaps he did not care. Perhaps he considered it none of her business. It was his house and he could open his door to whomever he chose. Certainly Louise was making no effort to hide their relationship.
‘What’s this here job you’re s’posed to be doing then?’ Louise demanded over her shoulder as she wandered across to the window, inspecting the chipped paintwork and peeling wallpaper with distaste.
‘Overseeing repairs to the house and selecting suitable furnishings.’ Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Could Liza-Jane have meant someone else? The desperate hope shrivelled and died. Had Louise not just announced their ‘very close friendship’?
Why this stupid pain? Only for a few brief minutes had he treated her with anything other than amusement or impatience.
‘A room this size will take some filling up,’ Louise frowned. ‘Still, I can see a nice china cabinet over by that there wall.’ She tapped one gloved finger against her chin, cupping her elbow in her other hand. ‘And a sofa covered in dark red brocade with a valence and chairs to match. A big round table with one of they chenille cloths with a bobble fringe round the bottom would fill up the space a bit, and a fire screen, and some ornaments on the mantelpiece. I fancy one of they glass cases with dried flowers or stuffed birds in. I could have this place looking handsome. A bit of pretty paper on the walls, something with a nice bright flower pattern, would look just right in here.’ She glanced at Caseley. ‘What are you smiling at?’
‘I wasn’t smiling,’ Caseley replied truthfully. Louise’s vision was so close to the revenge she had planned she should find it amusing. But she didn’t. Nor could she have done it, not to this house.
‘I dunno what he asked you for,’ Louise sniffed. ‘Got an eye for colour, I have. Everyone say so.’ Her hard gaze defied argument. ‘Why did he ask you?’ Her critical gaze flickered over Caseley’s simple blouse and skirt and her expression was one of open scorn.
‘I have no idea, Mrs Downing.’ Only bitter stubborn pride held Caseley’s voice level and stopped her snatching up her cape and running from the house. ‘Captain Barata arranged it with my father.’
Ralph had warned her not to put her heart into it. She had heard his words and truly believed her commitment was only to the task. It had taken the arrival of Jago Barata’s mistress to rip the blinkers off. In her secret heart she had hoped that by creating a beautiful and tranquil home for him he might see her in a different light.
Hot with shame and embarrassment she allowed herself no respite. What a fool she was. Clinging to the few moments’ conversation they had shared upstairs, she had hoped, so wanted to believe, that it had forged the first tenuous strand of friendship. How could she have been so naïve, presumptuous, stupid? She was useful, nothing more.
Had he been referring to Louise when he said that once a determined woman gained access to a man’s house it was difficult to dislodge her? That would explain why he had insisted on her instead. After all, she posed no threat.
It was doubtful he had ever regarded her with anything other than irritation or pity. She cringed inside, recalling how gently he had wiped away her tears. He’d have done as much for a child.
She had revealed so much, betraying her grief and uncertainty. He had crushed her defences like eggshells, making her aware of her vulnerability, attracting and terrifying her at the same time.
Despite her denials she had dared to dream foolish dreams and, like Icarus, had been scorched by flying too close to the sun. But no one would ever know. She’d had years of practice at hiding her feelings. She straightened, holding herself tall and proud.
‘Show me the rest, then,’ Louise commanded.
‘Certainly, Mrs Downing.’
When they returned to the hall after looking into every room on the ground floor, Louise suddenly remembered another engagement and left in an excited rustle of skirts and clicking heels.
Caseley closed the glass door. She would write to Jago and tell him she would not be doing any more work on the house. His close friend Mrs Downing had, during her visit, shown such interest and offered so many suggestions, he might prefer to enlist her services in preference to someone who had not wanted the job in the first place.
He could hardly argue with that. Given his total lack of interest, Louise Downing’s choice of red brocade sofa and flower-patterned wallpaper would suit him as well as the more restrained decor she had envisaged.
Returning to the drawing room and settling herself on the bare wooden seat in the bay window, she took pen, ink, and paper from her case. She would write the letter now and leave it at the hotel on her way home.
She wrote quickly and when she had finished laid the paper aside to dry while she re-corked the ink bottle and put away her pen. After reading it through once more, satisfied that it was businesslike and revealed no emotion whatever, she folded it carefully and slid it into her case. She would buy an envelope at the stationer’s next to the old Town Hall.
Louise Downing appeared not to care who knew of her relationship with Jago Barata. But he had never given any hint that he had a mistress. Perhaps he considered it none of her business. Indeed it wasn’t. But she would not leave an unsealed letter in a public place for any prying eyes to read.
Did Mr Downing know? Surely he could not, for what man would accept such behaviour from his wife? Yet according to Liza-Jane, Jago was not the first lover Louise had taken. So how could George Downing have remained in ignorance?
Caseley felt confused a
nd revolted. Did the sacrament of marriage mean nothing to any of them? She remembered Jago’s cruel smile as he taunted her about the bed upstairs. Louise Downing’s manner had been one of defiant pride and possessiveness.
That he might be the ‘fancy-man’ Liza-Jane had spoken of had never occurred to her. It lessened him in her eyes even as it crystallised the yearning she had felt for him. She understood Spanish, tide tables, and balance sheets, but not men, especially a man like Jago Barata.
It no longer mattered. When she left the house in a few minutes she would have severed her connection with him. Now her father was back in the office and had Sam to accompany him to and from the yard, she could take time off and stay away from places where her path and Jago’s might cross.
She needed time to regain her balance, put all the upheaval behind her. She had been intimidated, bullied, and blackmailed. Yet the touch of his hand on her flushed and tear-wet cheek, his rare gentleness and insight, the sheer power of his personality, had awakened deep and powerful emotions.
She felt a frisson of fear remembering his voice, flat and cold, delivering his ultimatum. Why had he sent Louise Downing to the house? Why put her in charge of the refurbishment and not his ‘close friend’, who clearly believed she should have been asked?
Whatever his reasons, his threat to tell her father of her deception had made refusal impossible. But two could play that game. She would make public his relationship with Mrs Downing. …
No, she wouldn’t.
In any case, the threat had no power because according to Liza-Jane it was common knowledge already.
She put on her cape, tossed the material samples onto the window seat, and picked up her case. She could not leave without saying goodbye to Mr Endean. He was visibly disappointed when she cut short his description of blue and white porcelain tiles she might like for the bathroom walls. Excusing herself, she ran downstairs, eyes stinging, biting hard on her lower lip to stop it quivering.
