Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight,’ he said reproachfully. As I struggled for a reply he simply shook his head, ducking once more under the black cloth. ‘No, it’s just that you look haunted – all eyes and cheekbones – like tragedy personified.’ He paused to gaze through the big, fish-eye lens of the camera, then announced with muffled triumph, ‘But in fact it’s rather wonderful, we should have some excellent pictures...’

  Not quite sure what to make of that, I knew better than to speak while he was busy. In flattering evening light, and framed by an open cottage doorway, I had hoped for something rather more appealing than tragedy; as perhaps had Jack, to begin with. After much thought and several changes of position, he exposed a couple more plates and then called a halt. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘at daybreak on the west side, we’ll try again. The light will be more searching, and with any luck we’ll catch the boats going out. I’ve a fancy,’ he added with a dry smile, ‘to portray you as the beautiful girl recently bereaved of her fisherman lover.’

  With a hoot of derision I turned to face him. ‘Fisherman lover? For heaven’s sake, don’t tell anybody who knows me, will you? They might take it seriously!’

  I thought he would laugh, but instead he pursed his lips and remarked that I was starting to sound like Bella. Then, as we made our way back to the studio, he said: ‘You know, when you first sat for me, last year, you said staying with the Firths was only temporary – and again, when you started working for me, you said it was just for a while, until you found a proper job. Why haven’t you done anything? Why are you still here?’

  He was not being cruel, but I chose to pretend he was and reacted huffily, which provoked him to anger. ‘Damaris, shut up and listen to me. You weren’t born to this life you’ve adopted, nor have you married into it. You don’t need me to tell you how hard it is – bad enough for men, never mind the women, and they work even harder. But you don’t have to do it. You could get out and leave it behind if you really wanted to. So why don’t you, before it’s too late?’

  He caught me on the raw and I had to swallow hard before I could answer. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

  ‘Why not? Just pack up your things and leave. You’ve no obligation to the Firths. Surely, after all you’ve done for them this winter, they must be obliged to you!’

  I tried to protest that they’d given me a roof over my head, but Jack was unimpressed. I’d paid for it, he said, just as I’d paid for everything else, friendship as well as food. ‘I haven’t said anything before,’ he went on, ‘because it’s not my business, but I am concerned about you. If it’s money you need, I could perhaps lend you some – but only on condition you leave that house and get out of Whitby.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, feeling hurt, ‘that’s most kind.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’d miss you, of course I would. We’ve been friends, I think, apart from anything else. But the Firths aren’t good for you, Damaris – they’re taking all your heart and energy and good sense. You work so hard for them – you’d put in less hours as a scullery-maid at the Royal! And for what?’ In an eloquent gesture his arms embraced the empty air, and then, with quiet emphasis, he said: ‘They’re not your responsibility, you know – they survived before you came, and I swear to you they’ll survive after you’ve gone!’

  It sounded callous, but there was truth in what he was saying and it struck home. ‘You don’t like Bella, that’s your trouble,’ I said harshly, needing something to hit him with, but it was no instrument at all.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t,’ he admitted with a shrug. Then, with somewhat shocking frankness, he said, ‘I don’t like the way she uses her body in men’s company – like an open invitation. It wouldn’t be so bad if she meant it, but -’

  ‘She does not!’

  Jack turned his head to look at me. ‘Damaris, my job involves studying people, watching them, interpreting their actions, the way they stand. I try to put these things into my work. I know what Bella’s doing.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you? And you’re a man,’ I said contemptuously, ‘so I suppose you’ve chanced your arm and had it bitten off. And that’s why you don’t like Bella.’

  He had the temerity to laugh at that. ‘Who, me?’ he said, ‘make a play for Bella Firth? Not true. It’s just that I don’t care for whores, and she’s one in the making.’

  ‘Well, if she is,’ I cried furiously, before dashing away, ‘then it’s a man who’s made her so!’

  I was so upset by that exchange I deliberately ignored our appointment at daybreak, which made me reluctant to face the telling-off I knew he would give me when next we met. Two days passed in which I worked on the quayside, flirted with passing visitors, and even had my photograph taken with a few of them by an opportunist rival of Jack’s. It was a silly gesture of defiance that I should have known he would hear about, and it made the situation worse.

  On the third day I caught sight of him twice but he ignored me, and by that evening I’d started to worry about my job at the studio. He always said he let me help him because I was neat and capable and he trusted me with the equipment, but I was not the only capable one in Whitby; and as for acting as his model occasionally, well, there were plenty of other girls around. So, when work was finished for the day, I went back home with Bella to wash and change before going to see Jack Louvain. That I would have to apologise was obvious; what worried me, however, was that he might question me about Bella, want to know what I meant by that parting shot.

  But he was too angry to recall such a minor detail in the face of behaviour he classified as appallingly rude, totally bad-mannered, and infuriatingly ungrateful. He had given me work, he said, because he thought I had something more than the average pretty girl’s vanity. He’d imagined I had character and intelligence, enough to grasp the right opportunities and make something of myself. He’d looked forward to seeing what I might do with the hand fate dealt me. Of late, though, I’d proved something of a disappointment, and in the last few days he’d come to agree with Thaddeus Sterne, that I was indeed blind and foolish and unutterably vain.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he exclaimed, just when I thought he’d finished, ‘you seem determined to make an enemy of every friend you’ve ever had!’ He paced the studio floor, eyes dark with fury, while I burned with shame in the doorway. ‘You didn’t turn up on Wednesday morning, and didn’t even bother to send word. Why? The light was perfect, but because I waited for you, I lost the chance of working elsewhere. I can’t afford that kind of whim, Damaris. Then, when I heard you’d posed for Henderson, I just couldn’t believe it – you must have known how he’d crow about that!’

  I did know, and felt ashamed. Rivalry between the different photographers was intense. There were at least half a dozen of them plying their trade in Whitby in the summer, each one eager to produce the best pictures with the best models. If commissioned portrait studies were bread and butter to the professionals, collectors’ sets of local characters were the jam, and picturesque studies of the town and harbour were like a blob of cream on top. More than mere survival was at stake. Reputations were involved, and for the lucky few there might even be medals, awards and a touch of fame. There was much at stake, and I had played the fool with someone who trusted me. Jack Louvain had every right to be angry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured, feeling tearful and upset. I hated to seem stupid and ill-mannered, hated him to think that I was driven by something as small and petty as vanity. But perhaps he understood something of my dilemma, or my eyes pleaded more eloquently than I knew.

  His glare softened under my gaze, and with an exasperated sigh he sank down on to the chair used by his sitters. ‘All right,’ he said tersely, ‘we’ll forget it this time. But don’t let me down like this again. In future, tell me if you have to break an appointment. It may not be convenient, but at least I’ll have been warned.’

  I gave him my promise, thankfully and with considerable relief. A
fter that, on the surface at least, our relationship returned to its old level. As the weeks passed and the number of visitors increased I found myself working at the studio most days. There was plenty to do, and I was pleased to note that Jack was trusting me with more and more of the mundane jobs; he even gave me a key to go in whether he was there or not. He became busy with sittings and commissions during the day, and most evenings and early mornings he was out with his camera, trying to capture the kind of photographs people wanted to buy as souvenirs.

  He rarely mentioned Bella and neither did I. It was as though she had become a taboo subject. I tried to forget the things he had said because I did not want to believe them, but found myself taking more note of the work I did for the Firths, the hours spent on the market during the day, or hawking crab and lobster around the grand kitchens of the west cliff. If I compared the hourly rate Jack Louvain paid me with the number of hours I worked for the Firths, then Magnus should have been paying me a handsome wage, not just my meals and a couple of shillings’ pin money. It seemed I was working for nothing while paying the Firths for my room. It was iniquitous, but I’d locked myself into this position and was not sure how to get out of it.

  Had it been winter, when the entire community struggled for survival, I could not have said anything, but the weather was good now, fish were plentiful and lobsters fetching an excellent price. Magnus Firth was so busy we hardly saw him, which meant he had to be doing well. I steeled myself to speak to Bella, and my opportunity came a few days later. She was wearing a blouse I’d not seen before, the children had been given new clothes for Whitsuntide, and even Cousin Martha was talking about summer dresses. It seemed I was the only one having to do without. That hurt, not just because it was the custom to have something new, but because my appearance was important to me.

  I used my sense of injustice to raise the matter of work and wages. Bella was surprised at the complaint. ‘But you live with us as family – we don’t get paid either.’

  ‘But neither you nor the boys pay rent – I do. If I’m to stay here,’ I said heavily, knowing it was useless to talk about leaving, ‘I have to get something else besides working at the studio. I’ve slipped into the habit of helping out, and it’s no good. If your father would pay me a proper wage it might be all right, but he won’t, will he?’

  ‘He can’t afford it,’ she said defensively.

  With his fishing and smuggling activities I thought he probably could, but I was not prepared to argue the point. Determined to waste no more time, I decided to begin my search for other employment next day, and with that in mind, set water to heat so that I could bathe that evening and wash my hair. Generally Bella and I performed our ablutions together, rinsing each other’s hair, brushing and drying it before the warm embers of the kitchen fire. On this occasion, however, because my request was out of step, and because it heralded change and possibly an ill wind, I was made to feel unreasonable.

  But I persisted, seeing to the necessary jobs myself while Bella carried on with preparations for the evening meal. I thought she was going to be difficult, but afterwards, when her mother had gone out and the men were away to the pub, she decided to take advantage of the fire and hot water too.

  I busied myself arranging the screen of towels and clothes-horses, while she went upstairs to settle one of the children. When she came down, I’d been soaking in the tub for several minutes, my mind preoccupied with plans for the next day. I’d hoped Bella would be useful as a sounding board but she seemed more interested in scrubbing my back.

  Within moments, my senses were alert to the fact that her friendly assistance had become more persuasive, that Bella was caressing rather than helping me wash. But I wanted no more of that. I dunked myself deliberately, coming up in a splash of water that made her sit back in protest. I lathered my hair, and then grabbed the soap to scrub myself quickly all over.

  She was offended by the rejection and left me to rinse my own hair, but a little later, when she had bathed and dried herself, Bella stood with what seemed deliberate provocation before the fire’s dying embers. Her stance reminded me of what Jack had said, and I realised she knew instinctively how to show herself to advantage. With her lovely face and figure, she appeared to be what every man desired, yet the irony was that she disliked men. I found it doubly ironic that she should wish to bestow all her warmth and sensuality on me, who would have been happier without it.

  I didn’t want her softness, I wanted to feel a man’s arms around me, be aware of a man’s strength and protection, no matter how illusory. Almost sick with longing, I thought of Jonathan, remembering the cold that day and the feel of his skin, the way his mouth had blossomed into warmth against mine. Then I was angry with myself, wondering why I had to fall for the impossible ones like Jonathan Markway and Mr Stoker, one at sea and the other in London – and probably married, into the bargain. Why couldn’t I take a fancy to someone like Jack Louvain, I asked myself, who was not only available, but also kind. But I knew enough to realise that desire ought to work two ways, and Jack carried no torch for me.

  My ponderings were shattered by a sudden rattling at the door. Bella hastily covered herself, while I slipped a shawl over my nightgown and tied it at the waist. Magnus Firth came in, reeking of stale beer and tobacco fumes, and said he was going to bed, but I saw the way he looked at Bella and how she hardened and withdrew. In that moment I hated him so much I wished him in his grave.

  Twelve

  Next morning, after putting in a couple of hours at the studio, I went back to my room to change. I pinned up my hair, shone my good pair of boots, and put on my best summer dress, a yellow and white striped cotton that was well suited to the weather. It was a beautiful morning, full of glittering light and the cries of seabirds, a morning to lift the soul and banish any lingering megrims from the night before.

  Something good was in the offing, I felt sure of it. My decision to act had come at the right time, just as the summer visitors were starting to arrive in appreciable numbers. Kitchens would be busy, chambermaids would be needed, and I would no doubt have to choose between half a dozen jobs. I saw it as the first step. As soon as I was established somewhere, I would look for other lodgings. Full of optimism, I started with the kitchens of the Royal Hotel, just above us on the crown of the west cliff; but despite my best efforts someone remembered me as one of the girls who came hawking fish, and I was turned away with a contemptuous smirk.

  A blow so early in the day dented my confidence severely. From there on, I was rather more circumspect, but even though the hotels were smaller and attitudes and answers varied, the story was often the same: they’d already taken on their extra staff, and I was too late. I trailed up Whitby’s hills and down again, silently cursing the fates, my fish-selling expertise, and the red hair which made me so memorable. A little straw bonnet was no disguise at all.

  Weary and dispirited, by mid-afternoon I was making my way back to the Cragg, aware that I had not yet covered half the ground but knowing the rest would have to wait for another day. Trudging up Cliff Lane, I noticed a tall figure some distance ahead, strolling along in the generally aimless manner of a summer visitor. The set of the shoulders alerted me, brought up my head and narrowed my eyes in an eager search for detail. I knew that red beard, the well-built frame and broad-brimmed hat...

  ‘Mr Stoker!’ I cried breathlessly, waving as he turned. I had the immense satisfaction of seeing a similar delight as he recognised me. He swept off his hat and came striding down the hill with arms outstretched in greeting.

  ‘Damaris Sterne! How wonderful to see you!’ His smile embraced me, and, for a moment as he grasped my hands, I thought he would catch me up and spin me round as he’d done once before. He didn’t, but I was giddy with delight anyway, and could scarce speak for laughing.

  ‘Well, I said I’d come back, didn’t I? Are you busy?’ he demanded, pressing my arm, ‘or will you have tea with me? Do say you will, I’ve been looking for you ever since I ar
rived!’

  ‘And how long’s that, sir?’

  He consulted his pocket-watch. ‘Oh, at least two hours!’

  Laughing again, I suddenly thought of my grandmother and how unladylike she would say I was; but Mr Stoker didn’t seem to mind my unrestrained amusement. In fact I suspected him of encouraging it, since he barely stopped talking all the way to the tea-shop. He seemed to be enjoying a thoroughly boyish sense of freedom, wanting to know how I was and what I’d been doing since last we met. Even as I struggled to frame an acceptable reply he was telling me what a long winter it had been in London, exhausting in spite of the successful season they’d been enjoying at the Lyceum.

  ‘But it’s so good to be here,’ he said warmly, ‘I feel better already! I needed a holiday – or at least everyone’s been telling me so,’ he added with a grin. ‘To be honest, I think I was driving them all mad – they wanted rid of me for a while!’

  I wondered who ‘they’ were exactly, but he gave me no chance to ask. As I faced him across the tea table I thought his light, jesting manner probably disguised a lot of truth, and although the beard covered much of his mouth and jaw it seemed to me he was thinner. There were shadows I’d not noticed before, and a nervous tic below his right eye of which he seemed unaware. I wanted to smooth it away with my fingertips, but it was hardly the thing to do in public. Anyway, my hands were never my best feature; even in my best crocheted gloves I was conscious of wanting to hide them.

  ‘I’m supposed to be on a walking holiday,’ he confided, ‘using Scarborough as a base. I’ve sent lyrical cards to all – but they can’t get in touch with me here, and that’s the beauty of it!’