Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
A Safe Harbour (33 page)
She sighed and stretched her limbs. How soft the mattress was, how snugly the down gave way and fitted itself round her body. But how could that be? Aunt Meg’s feather bed was old and lumpy, her sheets, although clean, were rough and patched. These bed sheets were soft and smelled of lavender. Had she died and gone to heaven?
Feeling the stirrings of unease, Kate curled her body into a ball and pulled the bedclothes high over her shoulders. She had to think about this. Then a familiar sound made her open her eyes. It was the sound of a coal falling from the grate. Did they have fires in heaven? Kate suppressed a hysterical giggle when she remembered it was the other place where fires were supposed to burn.
She pushed the bedclothes down again and sat up cautiously. Wherever she was it was early morning, and the pale light that had woken her was sneaking through a crack in the curtains; not her curtains. The curtains in the cottage were made of blue and white gingham whereas these had a pattern of impossibly bright flowers. Furthermore they were long, falling to the floor where the hazy morning light threw the shadows of raindrops on to the bold colours of a richly patterned rug. And even though she was disorientated she could see they were at the wrong side of the bed.
Kate peered round the room. Her eyes were drawn to the fire. This was no workaday fire complete with oven range, but a pretty little fireplace with glazed tiles and a brass fender. The small lump of coal that had fallen and startled her was smouldering harmlessly on the hearth.
Her eyes travelled back from the fireplace across the oriental rug to the bed and the fine eiderdown, the silky folds of which she was clasping in her hands. And then she noticed the full broderie anglaise frilled cuffs of the nightdress she was wearing. A fine linen nightdress that, like the bed sheets, gave off a pleasant odour of lavender. Lavender and rosemary, Kate thought, remembering her aunt’s favourite hair dressing.
How did this happen? Kate probed her sluggish mind, trying to remember how it was that she was dressed in a fine nightgown and sleeping in a warm bed in such a well-furnished room. A glimmer of what had taken place had just begun to stir in her memory when she was almost startled out of what remained of her wits by the opening of the door.
‘Awake at last,’ a young woman in a maid’s uniform said. Kate recognised the girl from her schooldays. The maid sniffed audibly and Kate took in her disapproving expression.
‘Joan . . . Joan Donkin, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The sour-faced young woman shut the door and came into the room, going straight to the fire. She knelt to rake it, then swept up the ashes and, using the tongs, built it up with coal from the scuttle. Kate stared at her disapproving back. Joan had never been her friend.
The maid dusted her hands on a rag she took from her apron pocket and stood up. She turned to face Kate. ‘Mrs Adamson said you could stay until the doctor’s seen you. Mr Adamson has already telephoned him. But I could tell the mistress wasn’t pleased. She looked even more out of sorts than when he brought you home last night.’
Memories began to flow in like the tide. ‘Yes . . . he said he would take me home but I thought . . .’
‘What did you think?’ Despite her obvious hostility Joan’s small eyes betrayed her curiosity.
‘I thought he meant to the cottage . . .’ Kate raised one hand to her forehead and found it hot.
Joan Donkin walked towards her. ‘You’re feverish,’ she said. She picked up a jug from the bedside table and filled the glass, splashing the water carelessly. ‘Here, drink this.’
Kate began to gulp the water down. ‘Stop that,’ Joan admonished. ‘You’ll make yourself sick and I don’t see why I should clear up after you.’
‘Sorry.’ Kate stopped drinking. ‘Joan,’ she said, ‘you and I were never friends, were we?’ Joan’s answer was another sniff. ‘And I can see that you resent having to look after me,’ Kate continued.
‘You see right.’
‘But please will you tell me what happened last night?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Part of it. But I feel so hot – and tired – and, oh, I don’t know . . .’ To Kate’s consternation she felt hot tears prick at the back of her eyes.
Fortunately Joan didn’t notice. ‘Tell me what you do remember,’ she said.
Kate placed the glass of water on the bedside table and stared ahead. She frowned. ‘I was in the cave . . . I sat down . . . I must have fallen asleep. And Mr Adamson found me there.’
‘That’s right.’ Joan sounded disappointed as if she had wanted to hear a different story. ‘He said it was thanks to Prince.’
‘Prince?’
‘His dog. I heard Mr Adamson telling his ma some rigmarole about a lost umbrella and Prince going after it and leading the way to you instead. Mind you, from the way his ma was questioning him, I could tell she was finding it hard to swallow.’
‘But why shouldn’t his mother believe him?’
‘Oh, I think he convinced her. After all, why on earth should a gentleman like Mr Adamson have a rendezvous with a fish lass?’
‘A rendezvous?’
‘Aye.’ Joan laughed scornfully. ‘His poor ma thought the two of you were up to something in the cave and you’d got so carried away that you didn’t notice the tide coming in.’
‘But that’s dreadful! Did she say that?’
Joan looked abashed. ‘Well, not exactly. But I could tell the way her mind was working.’
Kate would have liked to say that that was because that was the way Joan Donkin’s nasty mind worked but she controlled her rising anger. She must not antagonize the girl now, not when she needed an ally – even a reluctant one.
‘And where was I when all this was going on?’ Kate asked. ‘Oh . . .’
‘What is it?’ Joan asked. ‘Have you remembered?’
‘Yes, it’s coming back. I was in a bath . . . and someone had tried to undress me.’ She looked Joan in the eyes. ‘None too gently!’
The maid shrugged. ‘Well, I’d gone to bed when Mrs Adamson came to get me. The poor lady had already retired and Mr Adamson woke her up when he brought you home dripping like a piece of wet codfish.’
‘Codfish! Thank you!’ Kate found the strength to glare but Joan was unabashed.
‘Anyway, I filled the bath and got the soap and towels – and one of Mrs Adamson’s own nightgowns – and then when I began to take your clothes off you had a proper paddy. I got a right mouthful for my pains.’
Kate felt uneasy. She remembered shouting and she remembered why. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I could manage to undress myself,’ she said.
Joan sniffed. ‘Well, the upshot was that I had to sit out on the cold landing until I heard you stumbling about. When I came in you’d dried yourself and put the nightgown on.’
‘I’m sorry. You were trying to help—’
‘Only because I’d been told to.’
‘That makes no difference. I was rude and ungrateful. But I wasn’t myself, was I?’
‘No, that’s true,’ Joan said grudgingly and Kate was relieved to see that her old enemy seemed to accept the explanation. For Kate had remembered only too well why she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her naked. The bairn didn’t show yet, but her breasts were bigger and another woman might have been able to tell . . .
‘But now,’ Kate looked around the room, ‘where are my clothes?’
‘I took them downstairs to be laundered. And I found you a dry bit of ribbon for the ring.’
‘The ring . . .’ Kate’s hand flew to the neckline of the nightgown.
‘Don’t worry, it’s there hanging round your neck. Is that the ring Jos bought?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
Joan turned her back on her and began to sort out a small cupboard in the corner which Kate took to be a washstand. She was the last person that Kate would have wished for to help her when she was feeling weak and disorientated. The sooner she could leave this house the better.
‘I suppose I’d better bring your breakfast.’ Joan turned to face her. ‘Mr Adamson says you’re to have your breakfast in bed and stay there until the doctor’s seen you.’
‘Oh, no. If you get my clothes I’d rather go home now.’
‘Impossible. I’ve told you your clothes are being laundered and, besides, if you don’t do as I say you’ll only get me into trouble with the master.’
‘All right. I can see I’ll have to stay.’ Something occurred to her and Kate frowned. ‘Joan . . . I wonder . . .’
‘What is it?’ Joan had reached the door and she turned impatiently.
‘How did I get up here? To bed, I mean. Did you carry me?’
‘Not likely. A great tall lass like you! No, Mr Adamson was waiting in his study. I went to tell him you were ready and he came and carried you up. You were real feverish by then. I don’t think you knew what was happening.’
‘I didn’t,’ Kate said, but Joan was already halfway out of the room. Kate could have sworn she heard the words ‘Lady Muck!’ before the door slammed behind her.
But now she had something else to worry about. The flush that spread over Kate’s face had little to do with her fever. The mention of Richard Adamson’s carrying her up to bed had opened the floodgates to another memory, of how he had carried her out of the cave and how, once they were safely on the beach above the tideline, he had put her down gently and they had both breathed deeply, gasping for air.
Then, looking at each other, they had moved together, wordlessly, and he had taken her in his arms. He had held her close to his body in the moonlight, the constant roar of the sea ringing in her ears, but not so loud as the beating of her heart. She had clung to him as if for dear life. ‘Kate,’ he had murmured before his lips had closed over hers.
Kate lay back amongst the pillows, her senses racing. How natural it had seemed, there on the moonlit beach, to be embraced by the man whose image had been invading her unquiet thoughts for some time now.
But last night had been no daydream. And this time she would not be able to push all thoughts of him away. For how could she ever deny the thrill she had experienced when she gave herself up to his kiss?
Jane looked up from the table as Martha Smith’s granddaughter burst into the neat living room behind the cobbler’s shop, Jane’s father close behind her.
‘Is Kate here?’
‘I’m sorry, lass,’ Jane’s father said through a mouthful of tacks. ‘She just dodged under the flap in the counter and ran through. Shall I chase her out again?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jane said. Even though she should be used to her father’s ways by now she could never shake off the fear that one day he might swallow some of the tacks. ‘I’ll see what she wants.’
‘I want to know if Kate is here,’ Betsy demanded almost before Mr Harrison had gone back to his work. ‘I’ve already telt you,’ she added and her glare was baleful.
‘Yes,’ Jane said, ‘and if you weren’t so rude I might answer you.’
‘Don’t be hard on the child,’ Jane’s mother said as she bustled through from the back scullery with a plateful of scrambled egg on toast. ‘She doesn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that she’s not quite right in the head.’
Betsy turned to look at her and scowled. Then she looked at Jane again. ‘My grandma said Kate was here.’
‘Well she isn’t. Why on earth would your grandma say that?’
Betsy’s scowl turned into a worried frown. ‘She said it was a good guess. But if she isn’t here, where is she?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You’re her friend, aren’t you?’
Jane and her mother looked at each other helplessly. Then Florence Harrison placed the plate of scrambled eggs on the table and said, ‘Eat this before it gets cold. There’s nothing worse than cold scrambled eggs.’
‘But what about this?’ Jane waved a helpless hand towards their unwelcome visitor.
‘Let’s sort it out over a cup of tea,’ her mother said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Betsy? And a piece of toast, perhaps?’
‘I’d rather have bread and dripping.’
Jane raised her eyebrows as, without waiting to be asked, the strange child took her seat at the table. Her mother shook her head but she managed a smile. ‘Bread and dripping it is, then,’ she said. ‘But mind you let Jane get on with her breakfast. She has a train to catch.’
Mrs Harrison poured Jane’s tea before she went back into the kitchen. Jane began to eat the eggs, which were as soft and buttery and delicious as only her mother could make them. Neither she nor Betsy spoke and Jane became aware of the rain pattering on the window panes and the cheerful crackle of the coals in the fire behind her. She tried not to notice that the child was staring at her, and was relieved when her mother returned with the bowl of dripping.
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