Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  Here was life and hope, and now she had these darling toddlers. Her drowned sister wouldn’t begrudge her this new life. Angelo still clung to strange theories about his wife and child. He never talked about Maria and Alessia, whose little picture hung on the recess wall of their bedroom, nailed high over the shelf containing a little altar he’d made, decor-ated with cuttings, candles, letters and the baby’s lace shoe. He was still convinced it was his daughter’s. When it had drawn near to the anniversary, even seven years on, he had gone quiet and worshipped at this shrine, even lighted a candle as if they were ever-present ghosts watching over them by the bedstead. If she’d argued with him he would walk away not look-ing at her tears.

  ‘You have to let them rest in peace, Angelo,’ she said. ‘We’re your family now. Little Jackie, Frankie, they’re your heirs. I can’t bear to see you stare at them and not at us . Don’t you love us?’ Her temper flared up when he turned his back on her.

  ‘Let a man say his prayers in peace, woman!’

  ‘It’s not healthy,’ she confessed one day to Father Bernardo. ‘He worships them as if they are still alive. What can I do? I can’t compete with the ghost of a beautiful wife and mother, who’ll never grow old or sick or fat, who doesn’t get angry when the kids make a mess.’

  ‘Where there’s mess there’s life, Kathleen. Never forget that’s a sign that you’re living, changing and growing in a way they’ll never do. In his heart Angelo knows they aren’t real any longer but he’s still blaming himself for their deaths. “If onlys” are a devil to throw off.’

  ‘But that little shoe, it torments him. He thinks I don’t know he searches out all the lace shops with Italian imports and trimmings, just in case anyone knows if the shoe is from his region. He’s convinced it’s from his district. It makes me feel as if we’re not enough for him.’

  ‘Give him time, Kathleen. Time will ease his pain.’ ‘But it’s seven years now, Father. I don’t want these things staring at me every day when

  I dust. There’s so much dust if I open the window and the children trail so much into our rooms from the streets. Then there’s all the postcards and cuttings, anything to do with the Titanic gets pinned up – newspaper cuttings, pictures. Why can’t he just let it rest? They’re gone and we’re here.’

  ‘Oh, if only it were that simple, my dear. Everyone has to live with their past. You have your babies. He has time to dwell on things he can never change.’

  ‘What can I do? I have to say something now there’s this wee one on the way,’ she sighed, patting her belly. ‘If it’s a girl he says she must be named for his Alessia.’

  ‘Alice is a good saint’s name,’ the priest smiled. ‘Pardon me, Father, but it’s just another reminder. This bairn must have her own name,

  not one for his dead child.’

  ‘Are you really jealous of these poor souls?’

  ‘Yes, Father, and I can’t help it,’ she said, bowing her head in shame. ‘Then pray and the answer will come to you, child. Go in peace now and no more fuss-

  ing.’

  As the summer grew hotter and her baby bigger Kathleen ignored the little shrine, never dusting round it. Sometimes she felt as if eyes were staring into her back until she got so hot and bothered one morning she threw her brush at the corner of the room and Maria’s picture slipped off the wall, the glass shattering.

  ‘Now look what you’ve gone and done!’ she screamed in panic. The frame must be re-paired or Angelo would fret. Pulling out the sepia photograph, she shoved it into her private drawer and the tiny shoe into tissue paper in the fancy nightdress case made from Irish linen that she never used.

  Yous can all wait, she thought. As for all this mess, you’ve done it now so shift the wash stand, clear the shelf and give the corner a fright.

  Kathleen set to with gusto, clearing the clutter, scraping off the wax from the wood, pol-ishing the surround and scrubbing the wooden floor. She took the yellowed cuttings off the wall with care. They had left white marks. She dragged over the crib and tucked it into the recess close to the fireplace. It fitted snugly. Nothing like shifting furniture to make a tiny room look fresh and new. She covered over the gaps in the faded wallpaper with her own sacred pictures. Now the corner was ready for the new baby.

  As if waiting for this cue, that night she went into labour with a mercifully short delivery at dawn. The baby was all she could hope for, with a mass of flaming curls.

  Angelo was kept out of the room but his eyes lit up when he saw the little girl swaddled in her crib.

  ‘A girl, Angelo, one of Mary’s angels. Father Bernardo says I’m to have the naming of her. A new girl for a new country, so she’s to have an American name: Patricia Mary. What do you think?’ To her surprise he didn’t protest nor did he notice the changes to the room until much later.

  ‘Don’t worry, all your things are safe,’ she smiled, pointing to the drawer. ‘You can look at them any time. The picture just fell off of its own accord,’ she added, knowing she’d have to confess on Sunday for this lie. Angelo said nothing, he wasn’t even listening, too engrossed in the beauty of his new daughter. ‘Bellissima Patrizia,’ he cooed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Kathleen raised her eyes to the little Madonna on the shelf. ‘Now we can really start our new life.’

  Angelo smiled over the crib. He knew the score. Kathleen’s face told a picture of blushing half-truths. He could read her like a book. But for once she was right. He was blessed three times over for his loss now. Not that would stop him thinking about his first wife for the rest of his life, but the little shrine must be hidden in his heart, not on show for Kathleen to worry over. Baby Patricia was a gift of love. Two sons to educate and a dowry to save for, now that would take some hard work and saving up. They must come first.

  When Father Bernardo sought him out after Mass one morning he’d given him a gentle warning. ‘You’ll go mad, son, if you don’t let go of your grief. It’s an insult to the living, and the dead are at peace now and know no more. Be thankful for what you’ve been given . . .’

  But no one could quench that little flame of hope he still felt in his heart. He’d told no one, but when he thought he was dying it was Maria who had come to him, and she’d been alone. Her arms had been empty. Somewhere someone knew something more. That was the thing that tormented him most, and no priest in this world could make him snuff out his

  Lichfield, July 1919

  May hurried across Cathedral Close. It was the Friday of the National Peace celebrations and she’d meant to pick up a few bits for Canon Forester from the market: fresh bread, veget-ables and cheese. She liked to make him a pot of soup to last the weekend. She’d forgotten the square was closed off with scaffolding, ready for the big parades. The bell ringers of the cathedral and St Mary’s were practising for the next day’s peals. There was going to be such a party for the children in their schools this afternoon. Ella was as high as a kite.

  As she turned into the little cobbled courtyard, a tall man in a smart suit was standing looking around at the red-brick Tudor houses with their exposed beams. May was used to seeing tourists looking at these ancient buildings. He stared down at her and her basket. ‘Which one’s the canon’s home?’ he asked, his grey eyes flashing. May heard his American twang and automatically stiffened.

  ‘Which one would you be looking for, sir?’ She tried to smile though her heart was ham-mering in her chest.

  ‘I wish’d they’d stop that din,’ the man yelled, pointing to the spires. ‘Can’t hear yourself think . . . Forester, Canon Forester.’

  ‘Step along with me, I’ll be delivering these to him shortly,’ she replied, wanting to delay the knock on the door. Her heart was still thudding. She’d recognized this man from the wedding portrait Celeste’s father treasured, one she’d polished a hundred times. Here was Grover Parkes in person, come to find his wife. She prayed the canon would be in the cathed-ral or visiting the sick.

  She had a key but that was for her to kn
ow. The stranger had not a clue who she was. Dare she take him to the wrong door, to the one where the cleric was on holiday? That might turn him away for long enough to make sure no one was at home when he called again.

  ‘Who else lives in these quaint little boxes? I guess there’s not enough room to swing a cat,’ he joked, looking around the cobbled courtyard, but May wasn’t fooled by his apparent friendliness.

  ‘Retired clergy mostly, or their wives.’

  ‘You live here?’ He gave a hard stare at her shabby jacket. ‘No, sir, I oblige for some of them . I work in the college. I think the canon will be

  out now, sir,’ she added, praying he was. ‘It’s the Peace weekend . . . The whole country is going to celebrate. You’ve seen the flags?’

  ‘You can’t move in London for the darned things. What is it with all this fuss? The war’s been over for nearly a year . I’m here on business in Silvertown in London. I couldn’t get anywhere for ladders and decorations. The whole country’s at a standstill . and as for the trains . . .’

  ‘We’ve waited a long time . . . out of respect for our dead soldiers,’ she argued. How dare he criticize this celebration? ‘I’m sure the canon will be out.’

  ‘I’ve not come hundreds of miles not to go and check . . . Show me the door.’ ‘I’d better come too. He’s a little confused and hard of hearing these days.’ Parkes beat on the door with impatience and, to her horror, it opened and the canon

  smiled out. ‘Oh, May, dear . . . two visitors at once, that’s nice.’ He looked up at the man and stared. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘You sure as hell do, I’m your son-in-law . . . Where is she?’ ‘I’m sorry, where’s who?’

  ‘Where’s my wife and my boy?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m sorry, young man . . . come inside, please. May, put the kettle on; there’s some con-fusion here. Grover, the last time I saw you was at your wedding. Now when was that . ?’

  ‘Quit the flannel. I want to see my wife and my son. Where are they?’ ‘Aren’t they with you?’ The old man was scratching his head. ‘I don’t understand. May,

  have you any idea what this is all about?’

  She stood there trying not to blush, shaking before fleeing into the kitchen recess. This man was here on a mission; she must not let slip a word.

  ‘I don’t understand. I write to her. She’s in Akron. You post the letters, don’t you?’ He was staring at May, now cowering in the doorway with the tray.

  ‘I haven’t received any letters . . . not since—’ Grover broke off. ‘What’s going on here? Who’s being paid to shut their mouth.’ He stared at May. ‘Is this who I think it is?’

  ‘Mrs Smith is my housekeeper, a loyal friend to our family. Please address her with cour-tesy, young man. Now sit down and tell me what this is all about. Are you here on busi-ness?’

  Grover turned to May, ignoring the question. ‘Did my wife pay you to deceive me?’ ‘That’s enough,’ the canon interrupted, for once his hearing sharp. ‘Please explain your-

  self. This is my home. There’s obviously some terrible misunderstanding here.’ ‘Then let me enlighten you, Reverend, dear father-in-law. Your daughter, my wife, has

  stolen my only son and brought him to this wretched place, and she’s not going to get away with it.’

  ‘Get away with what?’

  ‘Kidnapping what’s mine.’

  ‘There must be some mistake. Celestine’s not here. Besides, surely a mother can’t kidnap her own son? Even if that were the case, a child is not a possession to be owned. Roderick belongs to no one but himself.’ He was staring up at his portrait on the mantelpiece, winded by the news.

  ‘Oh, quit your sermons,’ Grover snapped. ‘Where is she?’ ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve been under the impression that she was with you. Her

  letters have said nothing to make me think otherwise.’ ‘I don’t believe you! You know something, or she does . . . Look at her, quaking in her

  shoes . . . Well? I’m all ears.’ Grover turned to May, towering over her. May started to explain but the words wouldn’t come. The canon did his best to defend

  her.

  ‘If this is your attitude, kindly leave this house until you’ve calmed down . . . I can’t have you upsetting my housekeeper.’

  ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’ Grover stood tall in his smart suit, every inch the pros-perous businessman, wagging his finger at them both. ‘You tell my wife, wherever the hell she is, if she thinks she can run away from me she has another think coming. I’ll find her. She has something that belongs to me. As for this woman, I know now who you are. You and your kind put the idea in her head, you and those man-hating banner wavers. Votes for Women! You’ve turned her mind!’ He glared at May, willing her to break down. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  He was just like old Cartwright, the bullying overseer in the Bolton cotton mill, who’d tried to browbeat his girls with taunts and threats of dismissal. The one who demanded fa-vours when no one was looking. They’d all clubbed together and complained, and it was he who had got the sack. May knew his sort and was having none of him.

  ‘No, sir, and if I did, it’s not my place to break a confidence.’ ‘So she told you then . . .’

  ‘No, I know nothing.’

  ‘Ah, but you’ve told me everything. Cunning vixen. She never left the States, did she? Thank you.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything . . .’ May protested.

  ‘It’s what you don’t say that’s given the game away.’ He was staring at the mantelpiece. ‘And here’s the proof, a neat little photo for Grandpa . My, how’s he’s grown. I’ve not seen him for five years. How do you think that makes me feel?’ For the first time May recognized pain on his face, and longing. He examined the photo closely and then put it back with a smile. ‘I bid you both good day. Thank you for putting my mind at rest. Your daughter can go to hell but don’t let her think I’d let her take my son. My lawyers will see to that.’

  With that he turned, bowed his head under the doorway and slammed the door shut. Canon Forester lay back on his sofa, white-faced and breathless. ‘What an unpleasant

  young man! I don’t recall Celeste’s husband being anything other than charm itself. What on earth was all that about? Do you know?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. I promised I would help Celeste when she wrote but she never explained fully.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Does my son know too?’ May bent her head, not wanting to look him in the eye. ‘It wasn’t my place.’ ‘Oh, but it is now, my dear. You’re her friend and I’m her father. You must warn her

  wherever she is to come home, and soon. I take it you’ve been posting my letters to her? You don’t think he’ll find her, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t until he picked up Roderick’s portrait, the one I wanted you to put in a frame. Have you seen the stamp on the back? I’ve dusted round it often enough . It’s from a photographer’s studio, Cohen’s in Washington. He saw it too. We have to warn her.’

  ‘Send her a telegram. Go to the post office and send it immediately. What on earth has gone wrong? I don’t think Grover will take a no for an answer, not by the look of him. He wasn’t like this when they married . Poor Celeste, she must have had good reason to leave but I wish I’d known . If only her mother were here . they were so close. You must tell me everything you know.’

  May rushed to the post office, unsettled by the encounter. The thought that Mr Parkes was in Lichfield was a worry, but it was bound to have happened sooner or later. Would he follow her home and try to make her reveal more?

  Grover Parkes was handsome and successful but there was a sneer to his lips and an icy coolness in those grey eyes. What had happened to make Celeste run away? She would write her own letter to follow the telegram. Celeste was in danger. That was for certain. He would try to rob her of her son and that must never happen. May knew only too well how precious one’s child was. Few words were needed to convey the urgency of her ap
peal.

  ‘PARKES IS HERE. LETTER TO FOLLOW KNOWS ABOUT DC. COME HOME NOW MS.’

  Washington

  Ten days later Celeste was busy choosing vegetables in Eastern Market, having rushed from her office back home in time for Roddy. Since that telegram had arrived from Lichfield, warning her about Grover’s visit, she’d been frantically making plans. No one must know of their imminent departure. Today she must prepare for the girls’ refinement class, baking English scones – or muffins, as they called them – with the last of the wineberry jam. If she hurried there’d be time to lay out the parlour ready for the usual line-up of polite introduc-tions: how to sit down and when to stand, how to put guests at their ease and keep conversa-tions from flagging.

  It was all so ridiculous in this modern age. Her pupils were spirited girls who must aspire to more than just marriage and the social round. How easily she’d been sucked onto that ca-rousel and how hard it was to jump off. Sure, she missed some of the trappings of comfort and money but such luxury came at a price. To be free was all that mattered.

  After May’s letter telling her of the encounter in the Close, the first thing she’d done was bob her hair and darken it with strong tea. Red hair was so noticeable. She was glad to have shed all those ringlets. All the women she worked with had bobbed their hair. It made her feel shorn of her girlhood at first, but neat cloche hats and berets covered her giveaway col-our. The fashion for hobbled skirts was giving way to shorter ones but she hadn’t the money to follow the latest fads. A black two-piece suit served her well enough, and it was suffi-ciently dowdy to help her blend into the bustling crowds and shoppers.

  Suddenly some instinct made her turn round as she sensed someone at her side, close enough to be staring at her before turning to their purchase with a half-smile of recognition. It was a middle-aged man in a homburg and mackintosh who stank of cheap cigar smoke. Celeste felt a stab of fear. Had she seen him before, somewhere on the tramcar? Was he following her? Her heart was floundering in panic. If he was, that could only mean . She dropped her bag of carrots and made for the exit, not looking back, knowing the side streets around Eastern Market, and making a detour towards the Naval Hospital, where she had to cross Pennsylvania Avenue. She hoped she’d given him the slip. The sidewalks were