Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  There must have been opposition, although, if his nature was anything like my own, opposition was probably the thing to harden him. I’d always believed in crossing barriers and breaking conventions, which was why I felt such sympathy with my young and wayward parents. Why I longed to emulate them. At least that was how it seemed to me then. Now, all these years later, I wonder whether it was simply a matter of loneliness and deprivation, of trying to get close to my mother and father by imitating their experiences, their codes of behaviour, their ways of life.

  Being young, however, I did not see the pitfalls. The eagerness which led me to embrace life with the Firths swung like a pendulum to land me in the arms of a married man twenty years my senior. There’s no doubt that I was dazzled, in love, passionately enthralled; but it strikes me now that I was also looking for a father’s love, that I wanted the luxury of being spoiled and cared for, the sense of comfort and protection only an older man could provide. I trusted Bram more because of who and what he was. But that only made the betrayal worse.

  Looking back, it still seems strange to me that my brush with death should have been so similar to my mother’s. Common enough, some might say, in women of child-bearing years, with nothing so strange about it, except in the recovery. Nevertheless, it was an experience which affected me profoundly, leaving me feeling intensely vulnerable and as though I should waste no more time on hopeless causes.

  I knew I was lucky to have survived that fever. In my mother’s case, with a stillbirth following so closely upon the shock of my father’s death at sea, it’s possible she lost the will to fight; but there again, perhaps she simply lacked a nurse with Bella’s skill and determination. And that was extraordinary in itself. Even though Bella seemed to have spent half her life supervising her mother’s confinements, or nursing the younger children through measles and whooping cough, I never thought of her as a nurse. What she’d done for them was done from necessity; so much was resented, I could hardly credit being the recipient of such voluntary dedication. We had been friends, yes, and in many ways very close indeed, but I believe now that there was more to her actions than that – certainly far more than I was capable of understanding at the time.

  Afterwards, when I was recovered enough to know how ill I’d been, how close to death I’d stood, but still feeling weak and very much afraid, she kept thanking me for getting better, for pulling through, simply for living. Reasons which seem so obvious now – that I was the life saved, the debt paid for the one taken – were then misunderstood. I thought she meant that my survival was important to her future.

  God forgive me, but I thought she was intent on binding us together, and that scared me. Things had changed dramatically since Magnus’s death – Isa had returned and was taking over, the boys were planning to leave home, and Bella was no longer needed to stand guard between her father and the rest. She was released from her post, freer than she had ever been in her life before. The trouble was, she had no thought beyond the morrow and did not know what to do with herself. And I thought she was relying on me to provide her with a new role.

  I’d had my moments of thinking it might have been easier to die, but with survival came euphoria and a desire for freedom. Alive and aware of it, I was intensely grateful for what Bella had done for me, it was just that I could not envisage the future with her by my side. I wanted to, I tried to, but in truth I wanted freedom more. So I was burdened by guilt as much as gratitude, and wondered how on earth I could ever discharge my debt.

  ~~~

  A decision was required more quickly than I could have imagined. Mr Richardson wrote from the bank to say that one of his father’s far-flung relatives, a widow who was also one of his clients, had contacted him regarding a new companion. Her present young lady would shortly be leaving to be married, and Mrs Addison wanted another Baytown girl, because to her they were like a breath of home. She was getting on in years and wanted someone about the place who was young and fit and cheerful, and preferably with a modicum of good sense. Mr Richardson stated that in his opinion I fitted the requirements very well, and that if I would call to see him, we could discuss the situation further.

  It was two weeks after the fever and I was still convalescent, still had Bella looking after me. Although she went home regularly and often stayed the night there, she spent most of her time with me, and on the whole looked and sounded better than in all the time I’d known her. I couldn’t pay her, I had very little cash left and most of that went on food, but I gave her items of clothing she coveted: a pretty shawl Bram had bought me; some mother-of-pearl buttons and a bonnet that suited her. When she asked how I could afford to stay on at the cottage, I explained that Bram had paid the rent and left me a few pounds when he went back to London. I hadn’t told her about Mr Richardson or the bank, so the letter when it arrived presented something of a problem.

  I would have liked to share the excitement, since it was exactly the kind of job I’d always wanted. For me it was a way out, a way forward, a reason for leaving Whitby behind with all its attendant problems. While I sat there in the garden, pondering the situation with the letter in my hand, Bella hovered nearby, anxious to know what it was about. In the end I told her a version of the truth, that Mr Richardson was a relative, and that I’d approached him with regard to references.

  ‘Do you want to go away?’

  ‘Well, I can’t stay here, can I? The rent runs out soon, so I’ll have to find work of some sort – and somewhere to live. I know it’s not ideal, but for the moment the easiest solution is to find a living-in job.’

  At that she looked crestfallen, like a child whose only toy has been taken away. I must confess I was irritated, since she knew we were living there on borrowed time. Perhaps it was the illness, but anger and peevishness came to me easily then, and I said crossly: ‘You could do the same, you know. You always said you wished you could work in the kitchens of a big house, and now’s your chance. Why don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ she said defensively, but from the look in her eyes I knew she wouldn’t. I also knew I’d hurt her.

  Next day we went into Whitby together on the carrier’s cart from Newholm, which was something of a novelty for both of us. While I went to my interview at the bank, Bella did the shopping in town, and we arranged to meet an hour later by the station for a lift back. I fully expected Bella to return with me, but she managed to deflate my excitement and self-satisfaction by handing me the shopping and announcing flatly that she was going back to the Cragg. It was obvious, she said, that I could manage on my own now, whereas she’d just been home and her mother was begging her to return.

  ‘It’s no use,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to go back. They can’t manage without me, and Isa’s driving everybody mad.’

  I was stunned, but didn’t doubt her for a minute. When I stopped to think, the only surprise was that she’d managed to stay away so long. Cousin Martha had been leaning on Bella for years, using her, confiding in her, having all her faults and foibles catered to by a daughter whose tongue might be harsh and crude at times, but whose feelings were tender and could be manipulated. The other one, Isa, for all her mincing manners, was hard as flint underneath. She would cater to no one, least of all her mother. For that very reason Isa was the best person to be in charge there. I felt Bella should let well alone.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I said vehemently. ‘You’ll regret it, you know you will.’ Just a few yards from the station was a domestic employment agency that I’d been intending to use, and in my eagerness I took Bella’s arm and urged her towards it. ‘Go now,’ I said, ‘and see what they’ve got. Bright girls can do well. In a few years you could even get to be cook...’

  But she dug in her heels and refused. ‘Nay, Mam needs me,’ she said stubbornly. I wanted to shake her, but she would not be shifted. I was upset too, because once more our friendship was faltering, and on similar grounds to the last time. I wanted to be adventurous and take a chance, while she kept finding excuses not to cros
s the threshold.

  Going back to Newholm alone was hard. I missed Bella’s company, especially knowing I must soon say goodbye. Not just to her, but to the cottage I’d shared with Bram. To my surprise, it pained me to think of leaving. Nevertheless, with the future in mind, I worked hard at regaining my strength, earning more, and walking a little further each day.

  As soon as I was able to walk back and forth into town, I called to see Bella. The way we’d parted made me apprehensive, but she was all right and things seemed much as they’d always been, except that the house and its atmosphere were noticeably lighter.

  When I ventured to remark on it, however, it seemed the cause was not the spiritual one I’d imagined, but the simple fact that the windows had been cleaned for the first time in years. That made me chuckle, and when Bella asked what I’d thought was the reason we both started laughing crazily, almost to the point of hysteria when I said I thought it was to do with her father. The fact that he was not there, that his reign of terror was over because he was dead, was hardly a matter for amusement, but we laughed anyway.

  Perhaps our laughter released something, his ghost maybe; but it enabled us to part as friends.

  Thirty-five

  To Mr Richardson I was Miss Sterne, and always would be, but I felt my new employer might prefer to address me more informally; anyway, it seemed a good time to implement something that had been on my mind for a while. In leaving Whitby for Kingston-upon-Hull, I made the decision to change my name. Damaris was not only out of fashion in the modern world, it carried too many sad associations. The new me was embracing a fresh start, looking to the future, and I wanted a name to express that, a name that was short and up to date.

  Marie seemed just right, not only a close derivative of my baptismal name, but one I happened to like. And so did Mrs Addison. She commented on it when we met, and used my new name ever after. I had no difficulty responding to it, just as I had no difficulty with Mrs Addison.

  She turned out to be the kindest, jolliest old lady I ever had the pleasure of knowing, and my time with her was one of the best periods of my life, lacking any sort of unhappy complication. I found the other servants as pleasant in their own way as the mistress of the house, which was large, well equipped, and in the heart of town. The late master, Captain Addison, had begun his life as a mariner, become the owner of several ships engaged in the Baltic trade, and ended as a major shareholder in a new, expanding shipping company. His death, some ten years previously, had left the family with a healthy business and considerable assets.

  There were four sons, referred to by Mrs Addison as her ‘boys’, who were in fact men old enough to be my father. She adored them and their families, presiding over gatherings at birthdays and Christmas like some benevolent, matriarchal despot, and, because they adored her in return, they indulged that idea, which made for smooth running all round.

  She treated me more like a daughter than a paid companion, and certainly encouraged the broadening of my education. There was an extensive library which I was allowed to use in my time off, and a collection of maps and charts which fascinated me. Mrs Addison said it was a treat to know the place could still be useful, and often joined me there. That winter, before the library fire, we had some wonderfully illuminating conversations in which she told me of her travels as a young woman, and how she and her husband had worked together to get started in the shipping business. Life had been hard, but they’d been diligent – and lucky in a business which involved some powerful elements of chance. That led us to talk about my parents, and how things might have been for them had my father lived a normal span.

  Mrs Addison understood my conflicting feelings about ships and the sea, and even led me to believe that if I could have travelled as she had, then I would have been less fearful.

  ‘The sea is a destructive power,’ she said, ‘no doubt of that. And no one with sense ever loses their fear of it. But at least if you’ve faced it, if you’ve been on deck in the midst of a storm when disaster looms on every side, and seen how the little ship shakes off the last wave and climbs to the top of the next, how the Master uses every ounce of wit and experience to keep her going forward with her head into the weather - well, then, my dear,’ she added with a kind but confident smile, ‘then you’ll start to understand some of the skill involved, and, as a consequence, that most ships survive, most of the time. The devil doesn’t have it all his own way!’

  It was easy to grow fond of Mrs Addison, and by comparison with everything else I’d done, looking after her was a pampered existence. In that atmosphere Bram’s memory faded a little, and the emotional wounds began to heal. As Marie Sterne, I had few real demands, little to worry about, and every meal provided. The weight I’d lost through being ill was quickly regained, and after that my slender frame gradually filled out. Within the year I hardly knew myself, while Mrs Addison kept telling me how pretty I’d become, and insisted on dressing me accordingly.

  I was fortunate in other ways too. The instructions I’d left with Mr Richardson were tempered by his own good sense, and the result proved satisfactory for both of us. We invested mainly in the exporting of coal and pig-iron, and in the importing of timber from Russia and Scandinavia; also cork from Spain and grain from the Black Sea ports. It was solid and unexciting stuff but provided reliable returns, which were sometimes enlivened by additional part-cargoes of luxury goods: coffee, tobacco and silks from Constantinople, antique statuary from Piraeus and Taranto, furs and gemstones from St Petersburg.

  But if my new life put Bram in the background, it brought Jonathan more often to mind. All that talk of ships and the sea, all that studying of maritime trade, kept his image very much before me. As I pondered my investments I would wonder where he was, what he was doing. Still working for the same Whitby owners, I imagined, but after a season of poor earnings from the ‘good seaboat’, Mr Richardson persuaded me to stop chasing her, there were better prospects in view.

  Sadly, not long after that the brigantine was sold. The Lillian had always reminded me of Jonathan, of the times I saw him in his room at the top of the house on Southgate, head bent over books or a chart, or raised to view the array of ships on the Bell Shoal. I tried not to think of him looking for me as he’d promised he would, talking to people around the harbour, asking questions. I knew Bella wouldn’t tell him anything, she’d promised not to tell anyone my whereabouts, not Jack Louvain and especially not Jonathan, but there were plenty more who’d be willing to gossip about ‘the London gentleman’ – and Jack could have furnished his name.

  For a long time it shamed me to think of Jonathan hearing those things. Not so much the truth of what I’d done in living with Bram at the cottage, although that was bad enough, but how it must seem to other eyes, how it would be interpreted and embellished in the telling. And when he heard, Jonathan would feel foolish, as though he’d been taken in by a wanton hussy who was clearly no better than his mother had maintained, and probably much worse. I hated to think of that.

  During that first winter, when I was almost sure of him being at home in Whitby, it was a weight on my conscience. There were even times, late at night, when I worried about Mr Richardson finding out, and, in a state of shock, telling Mrs Addison that she was harbouring a woman of ill-repute, who was fit only for the nearest house of correction. But whatever was happening in Whitby, there were no repercussions in Hull. Life went on as before and eventually the worst of my anxieties faded.

  Once in a while it occurred to me that Jonathan’s ship might put into Hull and I might bump into him, but it seemed a remote possibility and I didn’t worry too much about that. Just as well, since there were ships aplenty in the town docks, masts topping even the tallest buildings and bowsprits jutting proudly, all within a few minutes’ walk of the house. My errands and shopping trips on Mrs Addison’s behalf were generally a few minutes longer because of the time I spent identifying cargoes and interpreting conversations shouted across the quays.

  It was
a busy, cosmopolitan port with two faces, an ancient, medieval town on the River Hull, with narrow lanes and decrepit, timber-framed houses, and an affluent modern city of broad streets and imposing buildings which looked to the vast and swift-flowing Humber. It was a clearing house for goods from the industrial heartlands to the rest of the world, and a receiver of raw materials from abroad. I was there for three years and took to the place from the beginning; I felt invigorated by its atmosphere, by that sense of movement and purpose and confidence, and I was equally fascinated by the everyday detail of the Addisons’ family business.

  The two younger sons were based in London, while the older pair were more directly involved with running the ships from Hull, calling two or three times a week for luncheon with their mother. I kept quiet and listened, and in addition read everything I could about home, middle and foreign-going trade, agreements with colonies and foreign powers, transport of goods, bills of lading, freight rates and charter parties. In my own way I became quite knowledgeable, and in the meantime my own small investments were increasing steadily.

  My interests were regarded as something of a joke in the beginning. Not by Mrs Addison, I’m glad to say – she’d been brought up in Baytown, she knew the reputation its women had for shrewdness, and set about educating me accordingly. I think she wanted to prove to her sons that the legendary tales she told could still be true, even in an age where men of wealth and position expected their womenfolk to be idle and frivolous – and I was equally determined to vindicate her faith in me.