‘You’re in hiding, then?’ I whispered, making a joke of it, wondering why it mattered so much.
‘I am,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve had enough of them all. Florence as well as Irving and the rest.’
‘Florence?’ But I hardly needed to ask.
‘My wife,’ he said bleakly. His gaze met mine and held it, revealing a darkness quite at variance with the laughter of only moments ago. Disturbed by it I had to look away.
Mistaking the reason, his hand sought mine, found my fingers under the table and gently squeezed them. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to deceive you.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said, forcing a smile to cover my disappointment. ‘I knew you had to be married – too nice not to be!’
Under the table, my fingers were almost crushed. ‘Does that mean we might still be friends?’
‘Oh, I should think so,’ I said lightly, disengaging my hand and reaching for the teapot. Excitement made me nervous, and it was a long time since I’d presided at a properly laid table with pretty china and silver teaspoons. Somehow I managed to pour without spilling a drop, and passed the cup across with a hand that was shaking only slightly. ‘How long are you planning to stay?’
‘I don’t know – a few days, a few weeks, who knows?’
‘You should stay for the summer,’ I said decisively, reaching for the scones. ‘It would do you good.’
‘Perhaps I will – I’ve been considering it. Do you know of a place I could stay? For more than a night or two, I mean. I’d need a cottage, something like that – somewhere quiet where I could do some writing. That’s essential.’
I didn’t, but thought Jack Louvain might. There was also the local paper, I said, and an office near Whitby Town station which advertised properties to let. He wanted me to accompany him to the studio but I knew Jack would be busy; and anyway, I was reluctant to intrude with matters like that. Besides, I hadn’t been home all day.
‘But you’ll meet me later, I hope? We’ll have supper together, like last time?’
So I said yes, of course I would; but with the feeling that something rather more than supper had been agreed, I arranged to meet him later in the gardens above the Cragg.
~~~
I was nervous and wished for something different to put on that evening, but had nothing as flattering as the clothes I’d been wearing. So I set the iron to heat, some water to boil and, having refreshed my dress, hung it to air by the open window in my room. Then I turned my attention to myself. When Bella came bounding up the stairs I was brushing my hair, trying, without much success, to persuade the thick curls into ringlets. She saw at once what I was after, and took the brush and comb from me.
Frowning in concentration, she worked on the ringlets then looped them all in a skein of hair, anchoring both sides with tortoiseshell combs. There we are,’ she said, smiling: ‘looks a treat now, Damsy.’
As I thanked her and turned to examine my dress, she said: ‘So where’re you going then, what’re you getting done up for?’
I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my voice, to sound more amazed by the coincidence than impressed by Mr Stoker’s interest. ‘Well, you’ll never guess who I bumped into on my way back here. My gentleman friend – the one who helped Jack Louvain on the day of the storm – you know, when he was trying to photograph the wrecks.’
‘No,’ she said quickly, compressing her lips, ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Yes, you do,’ I insisted sharply. ‘There haven’t been that many gentlemen in my life. If you recall, he treated me to supper.’
‘Oh, that gentleman – the one who kissed you good-night and had you sighing for weeks. D’you know, for a minute there, I thought you meant young Markway.’
She used his name like a knife under the ribs, and for a moment I couldn’t speak.
‘You see,’ she went on, ‘the last I heard, young Jonathan was the one you wanted – so much, you were going to have to leave here and get a job, just so he wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with you!’
With that she flung herself out of the room. Furious, I was hard on her heels. ‘I never said that! Just what d’you think you’re getting at?’
‘Nothing,’ she said bitterly from the stairs. ‘But just remember – the ones with money are the worst, especially when they’re hunting for bargains!’
Before I could answer, she was down the stairs and away. At that, I slammed the door, so hard it rattled the windows and my dress fell in a heap on the floor.
Thirteen
The joyousness of that meeting on Cliff Lane was well-nigh destroyed. I could not believe that a few hours could make such a difference, that I could have been so delighted by that moment of mutual recognition, yet going to meet him now on leaden feet. Bella’s parting shot was bad enough, but the fact that he was married gave it credence, and made a travesty of what should have been innocent enjoyment.
I made an effort to be lighthearted and thought I was succeeding until we were settled at our table in the White Horse. But with the order given, Mr Stoker went straight to the heart of the matter and asked why I was so ill at ease. ‘Is it the fact that I’m married – does it offend you so much?’
‘No,’ I declared, which was mostly true. What continued to bother me was the ugly light Bella had cast over everything – including my motives and his intentions. But because I couldn’t tell him that, I said this evening out had caused trouble at my lodgings.
Frowning for a moment, he said: ‘But not with the young man you mentioned last time we were here? The one with a gorgon for a mother.’
I shook my head, astonished that he should remember Jonathan and the troubles I’d had then. ‘No – no, he’s been gone since before Easter. That’s the problem,’ I said with affected lightness: ‘all the likeliest lads go off to sea, and leave their womenfolk at home.’
‘And you don’t want that?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ I said pertly, and he laughed and squeezed my hand.
I could tell he didn’t quite know when to take me seriously, often mistaking a wry observation for jest, and a teasing joke for gospel truth. But there again he told stories that were impossible for me to judge, relating bits of theatrical gossip over the roast and household names over the pudding that had me sitting there with jaw agape. I gasped and laughed at his quick character sketches of royalty and politicians, the plays they’d attended, things they’d done and said; laughed even more at his backstage tales of practical jokes and near-disasters, often rescued at the last minute by his own intervention.
If his stories of the rich and famous sometimes seemed incredible, they were also great fun, but as the evening progressed he became more serious. I began to understand that the demands of his work in London had increased enormously over the winter. Quite apart from daytime responsibilities, he was at the theatre every night, ironing out problems, charming important patrons, even organising supper parties, so that his precious Mr Irving might relax amongst friends after a performance. He was rarely home before two in the morning, and sometimes, depending on the company, it could be daybreak as he left to walk down the Strand. It was all part of his job, he said; but even I could see it was wearing him down.
‘You needed to escape,’ I said with sympathy.
‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed with feeling, ‘I’ve known that for months. I was hoping to get away at Easter, but it simply wasn’t possible. And then – well, I’d finally had enough the other night. Told Irving what I thought about his behaviour and my working hours. I said I was due some time off, that I was taking it as of that moment, and wasn’t sure when I’d be back. He said I should be careful – I might not have a job to come back to!
‘That was when I walked out,’ he confessed. ‘Didn’t even bother to answer. Went home, packed my things, took the train the following morning. Best thing I ever did!’
He grinned then, like a schoolboy playing truant, but when I said: ‘Good for you, Mr Stoker!’ he remonstrated, saying i
t made him feel old, so I must call him Bram, as did all his friends in the theatre. And he would call me Damaris, which was such a delightful, old-fashioned name. I agreed it was old-fashioned, said I didn’t like it; but he said the maris part of it reminded him of the sea, and suddenly, after that, I didn’t mind at all. Hearing my name on his lips made it seem special, somehow, softer and prettier than it had ever sounded before.
After the candlelit interior of the White Horse, we were surprised to discover that twilight was still lingering outdoors. It was an hour when Whitby was at its most peaceful and relaxed, and it seemed to me as we strolled up Kirkgate that my friend had done well to return. It felt like a compliment too, and that brought a smile to my lips. Seeing it, he offered a penny for my thoughts, but I was bold enough to say they were worth far more than that.
‘Well, I confess freely,’ he said with a sidelong smile, ‘that I’ve been thinking of you all winter. Stealing glimpses of you in your fishergirl’s garb...’
‘You haven’t!’ I protested. ‘Not those photographs Mr Louvain sent you?’
‘The very same!’ He reached into an inside pocket and brought out the wistful one, the one I’d always liked best. His grey eyes danced as they surveyed me now, blushing and giggling and thankful of the dusk.
But as we reached the Duke of York he wanted to take a look at Collier’s Hope, where the Russian ship had foundered. I told him the schooner had been sold and broken up long ago, her ballast of silver sand dispersed to the sea. We stood for a while looking out beyond the piers, beyond the lighthouses, and I was intensely aware of him then, not just his physical presence, but a deeper sense of intimacy between us, as though we’d known each other always. I had a sense of that quiet moment being a necessary pause between what had gone before, and what was yet to be. But then he moved and turned, and it was gone.
Climbing back up to the pier, I asked whether he’d found the accommodation he was looking for.
‘No, the office you mentioned was closing. But your friend the photographer said he knew of several places out of town – empty cottages done up for the summer, that sort of thing. He said he would tell you where they were, so you could take me to look at one or two tomorrow. That is,’ he added, ‘if you’re able to.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said blithely, disregarding my need to find a job. All at once it didn’t seem nearly so important.
This time we managed the Church Stairs with ease. As we neared the top, my companion paused to look up at the homely outline of the church with its short square tower and shallow roof. Against a gathering dusk the abbey ruins were in somnolent mood, while the monuments to Whitby’s dead were gilded by the last of the light from the west.
His glance met mine, and it was as though he read my thoughts. ‘So different from the last time we were here...’
‘We don’t always have storms,’ I murmured, hoping he was not disappointed.
He took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Oh, I think I’ve had enough of those in recent months.’
Then he turned to look back – and saw the view, that tremendous sweep of sea and sky and cliffs stretching away into the distance of Kettleness. The sun had gone down, casting the town below into smoky shadow; but up here on the east cliff all was bathed in the afterglow. We might have been angels with all of heaven as our domain.
‘And you say you want to leave this?’ he whispered.
I shook my head. ‘Only if I must...’
~~~
He wanted to know whether I had ever been away before, and I found myself telling him about my first position, miles inland, and that desire I’d had to come back to the sea. Sympathetically, he patted my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, and we moved on, taking the cliff path through the churchyard.
‘I miss the sea,’ he confessed. ‘When I was a child we lived on the coast near Dublin, in a house overlooking the bay. My room was at the top – I could see for miles. Never tired of watching the sky and the weather – and all those ships on their separate journeys. When I was ill and couldn’t go out, I used to make up stories about them...’
I’d imagined a life of ease in a grand house, so it surprised me to find that his father had been a civil servant, holding a relatively modest position at Dublin Castle. Abraham Stoker, for whom Bram was named, was now dead, but I gathered he’d been a plain man of quiet beliefs, whereas his mother Charlotte was lively and held strong opinions. Brought up in the west of Ireland, she came from a rather more colourful family in which it seemed there were as many rogues and rebels as upstanding supporters of the crown.
I liked the sound of her, and was intrigued to discover later that Charlotte was also twenty years younger than her husband, and that the same gap existed between her son and me. It was the kind of precedent that seemed to lessen the difference, or at least made it acceptable.
It was clear that Bram still revered his mother. She it was who had bullied and cajoled her five sons into doing well, who had insisted on educating them regardless of cost.
‘I suppose I’m a bit of a failure by comparison with my brothers,’ he said wryly. ‘After Trinity I had a spell at Dublin Castle myself, but it bored me to tears. I’d always fancied something more colourful – writer or actor, something like that – but the old man got me into the civil service and I had to eat, after all... Ma wasn’t keen on my flinging it all up to come to London and work for Irving, but I dare say she thought it preferable to having a son on the stage! I don’t know how she’d feel if I should abandon everything now... But still,’ he added, ‘she knows the writing’s important to me – she’s always been rather keen on that.’
His mother’s opinion was evidently important to him, and he went on to say that she was proud of the comprehensive legal guide he’d had published before leaving Dublin Castle. And so was he – it made him feel that his time there had not been wasted. She enjoyed his short stories too, especially the mysterious ones which had appeared some years ago in publications like the Shamrock. His chief regret was that he hadn’t had time, since, to write anything of note.
It seemed he was hoping to put that right while he was here in Whitby, and I found that intriguing. But for the time being I was more interested in what Florence thought. ‘And what about your wife?’
Out of the gathering darkness there came a little bark of laughter. ‘Oh, I don’t think she thinks much of adventure stories and suchlike! No, so long as Florence has her friends, her busy social round, and a good allowance, she’s happy.’
As we paused on the cliffs above the little crescent of Saltwick Bay, I tried to imagine their married life, and failed. ‘Didn’t she mind you coming away on holiday without her?’
‘I think she was more relieved than anything,’ he said dismissively. ‘She’s been telling me for ages I should take some time off.’
I thought about that for a while, and wondered why a wife would encourage her husband to holiday without her. It seemed a most unusual arrangement. I wondered whether she loved him at all, but found my thoughts expressing themselves contrariwise.
‘Do you love her?’ I whispered cautiously, part-hoping my words would be lost against the sighing of the waves below.
I felt him turn towards me, felt a tightening of the tension between us; then he looked away, out to sea, where there was still a faint, pale rim of light on the horizon. ‘Love her? But of course I do,’ he said drily, ‘she’s my wife, the mother of my son.’
He loved them both so much, he needed to escape – needed to come back to Whitby where the sea met the sky, where even on a night like this a fresh breeze whistled over the cliffs. Chilled and more than a little confused, I moved away.
Here, the path was far from safe and it was too dark to go on. It was time to turn back, to cut inland. We walked in silence for a while, me slightly ahead, showing the way along a field path edged with swags of fading blossom.
After a moment or two he came up beside me, laughing a little. ‘Damaris, don’t hurry away. Y
ou’re like a ghost, flitting ahead in the darkness, impossible for me to catch.’ So I took a deep breath and slowed even more, while he captured my hand, slipping an arm around my waist to keep me close along that narrow path. I was very conscious of his touch, its weight and confidence, so very different from Jonathan’s. As we walked I could feel the movement of his thigh against my hip, slightly awkward because of the difference in height and stride, but unexpectedly stirring. By the time we reached the stile my peevishness was forgotten.
The wooden steps were high, and to climb them I had to gather up my skirts. I was perfectly capable, but he insisted on going first and helping me across. I paused at the top, smiling – and thus enjoyed the novel sensation of being lifted down. Strong hands at my waist, a momentary helplessness, being held against him as he set me on my feet again – these things were so new, I could have been charmed by them alone. But this was a man I liked, a man I found attractive, a man who liked me. His touch left me feeling weak and breathless.
Perhaps my smile was too wide, or my eyes, like his, were shining too bright; perhaps too, he was remembering the first time and that unexpected flare of passion. As he bent his head towards me, I raised myself on tiptoe to meet his kiss, and this time we came together hungrily. His tongue invaded my mouth with warm, shocking intimacy, and at once it felt like falling, or diving too deep beneath the waves – I no longer knew who I was or where, whether I was on my head or my heels, or even, for a moment, with whom. When we parted at last, I was afraid to let go, head spinning, ears ringing, lips burning, while he leaned against the stile, drawing me with him as he sank down onto the step.
With arms around each other we paused to draw breath, rescued each other’s hats from the grass beneath our feet, and then, suddenly, mutually, began to laugh. It was part delight in those sensations but mostly astonishment, I think, that we could have abandoned ourselves so thoroughly.
Fourteen
Stars and a young crescent moon hung over the abbey, making a discernible reflection in the pool before it. At night, enhanced by its clifftop position, the place had an eerie beauty, and although I often thought it bleaker by day, most visitors found the ruins romantic. Bram was no exception. As we approached he seemed entranced by the sight of the great east end, intact with its tiers of lancet windows and Gothic turrets to either side.
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