Children of the Tide (60 page)

Sammi, shrouded in black as she sat in the pew with her family, watched Tom’s straight, relentless back in front of her and wished that she could comfort him. She thought of that night when he had gone to bring Betsy home. Uncle Thomas had insisted that her mother return to Garston Hall. ‘Tek ’trap and get her back home, William,’ he’d said. ‘That bairn, Victoria, needs her more than me. Sammi will stay, won’t you, lass? She’ll give me comfort.’

She’d said she would, and later had climbed the stairs and looked into Betsy’s room. She had turned away in grief and couldn’t sleep alone in the room which she had so often shared with her cousin and friend.

‘Why don’t you sleep in Master Tom’s room, Miss Sammi?’ Jenny had detected her reluctance. ‘Sheets are all clean,’ she added. ‘I changed them all just afore Christmas.’

‘Yes,’ Sammi had said. ‘I will. Tom won’t mind.’ And she had slept in his bed and guiltily felt his presence; felt the hollow of the mattress where he had lain and the pillow where he had put his head, and, conscience-stricken, she wept as she realized that he was in her thoughts as much as Betsy was.

In the morning she had lifted his working jacket from the hook behind the door and pressed it to her face, smelling the grain, the grease from the mill, the very essence of him, knowing for sure that she loved him.

She had gathered evergreens, the white and purple Christmas rose, golden winter jasmine and early snowdrops, their green sheaths not yet unfurled, but which showed tips of white as they opened in the warmth of the house, and had made a garden within Betsy’s room to await her.

As the relatives took their leave of Uncle Thomas after the funeral feast, Gilbert took her to one side. ‘Harriet and Mother and I are going back to Garston
Hall with your mother and father. Will you come with us?’

She was going home anyway, to leave the Fosters to their sorrow, for it seemed to her that she could do nothing more to help them. Uncle Thomas was coping in the manner of one who had contended with grief before, George seemed to be totally bewildered by events, and Tom was barely speaking to anyone, and as she took her leave, he said good-bye as if she was a stranger leaving his house.

She glanced up at Gilbert. He looked so solemn. ‘What is it? Nothing else is wrong?’ she began.

‘No. On the contrary. I think you will be pleased.’

He’s confessed! He’s told Harriet! But what about Aunt Mildred?
Thoughts tumbled through her mind, but Gilbert refused to be drawn as she hesitatingly questioned, mindful that Harriet was within hearing distance.

The family were already gathered in the drawing-room when they entered. Her father’s face was flushed and angry, though her mother looked composed and relieved. Aunt Mildred sipped nervously on a glass of sherry, Victoria had been sent upstairs and Richard and Billy sat together talking quietly.

‘I have been told, at last, that
you
are Adam’s father.’ Sammi’s father spoke directly to Gilbert without any preamble. ‘No-one thought fit to inform me previously,’ he said, with a meaningful glance at his wife and Sammi. ‘Had anyone done so, the matter might have been resolved earlier.’

Sammi’s mother folded her hands together, but said nothing as he continued, ‘I will not give my opinions on how I regard your past behaviour towards your mother, your wife and particularly to your brother, let alone your aunt and Sammi,’ he went on, ‘because it will not alter the situation as it now stands.’ He then proceeded to air his estimation of Gilbert’s conduct, his foolishness that was past comprehension,
his letting down of the family name and his late father’s standing in the community. ‘However,’ he drew breath and softened, ‘as my wife constantly reminds me, the young do make mistakes – and I might add not only the young; and as your father’s brother, I take it upon myself to support you in your commitment now, for you will need all the strength we can offer. It will not be easy for either of you.’

Commitment? What commitment? Sammi grew tense with apprehension as she waited for a subdued Gilbert to speak.

‘I accept all that you say, sir. I have no excuse to offer. None but that of not wanting Harriet to discover my lapse. I was so afraid that she would hate me for it; she in her innocence,’ he reached out and held Harriet’s hand, ‘thought I was as flawless as she undoubtedly is.’

Sammi felt her eyes prickle as Harriet drew close to Gilbert and spoke in defence of him. ‘He was afraid that I would cancel our wedding,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t have, but my parents would have made me. I wouldn’t have had a choice in the matter and, and I would rather have Gilbert as he is than be without him.’

‘You will write to James? I must insist on that,’ William said sternly. ‘This cloud must be removed from his shoulders, then if he wants to return—’

‘I was the one who sent James away,’ Mildred broke in. ‘I will write to him again and explain, but – but—’ her cheeks became pink, ‘—Gilbert’s actions cannot be excused, nor mine either, but the effect of James leaving home has contributed to proving his worth. He has found his own kind amongst the arts. He has become whole. He knows himself at last.’

They all looked at her, only partly understanding, then Gilbert spoke. ‘No. I will write, Mother. I can’t shirk my responsibilities any longer. I have caused enough havoc.’ He squeezed Harriet’s hand. ‘With Harriet by me, I can do anything.’

Sammi went to fetch Adam from the nurse and dressed him in his outdoor clothes, pressing his plump little body close to her and murmuring in his ear, ‘You are going home, Adam, to where you belong. But don’t forget me, will you? I was the first to love you and I always will. I’m your Godmother so I will always have a special claim on you.’

She carried him downstairs and handed him to Harriet. ‘Will you come with us, Sammi?’ Harriet asked. ‘I would like to meet the woman who nursed him.’

Sammi blinked away her tears and nodded.

‘I want to thank her,’ Harriet said softly.

They returned again to Tillington. Mildred, Gilbert and Harriet with Adam on her knee, in their carriage, and Sammi in front driving the trap pulled by Boreas.

‘Mrs Bishop,’ Sammi began diffidently, ‘Adam is to leave us at last to go to his home in Hull.’

Mrs Bishop looked from Sammi to Harriet and then to Gilbert. ‘Why – can I see ’likeness of his da?’ she beamed. ‘That’s a Rayner head o’ hair if I’m not mistaken, sir.’ Then she shook her head and commiserated. ‘And now there’s another poor babby come into ’world, and I’m right sorry that I can’t nurse her like I did this one. Folks’ tongues ’ll have summat else to chew over now, Miss Rayner.’ She smiled at Sammi. ‘’Reckon tha’ll be forgotten.’

Harriet stepped forward, holding Adam in her arms. ‘I wanted to thank you, Mrs Bishop,’ she said, interrupting her flow. ‘Miss Rayner has said how kind you have been to our son.’ Mrs Bishop’s brows shot up in her rosy face. ‘I wanted to thank you in person for taking care of him.’ Harriet lifted her chin. ‘Things haven’t been easy for my husband and myself, but now we are able to take him back home where he belongs.’

Gilbert gazed humbly at Harriet. How strong she had become since he had confessed. No censure of his behaviour, only regret that he hadn’t trusted her
enough to tell her before, and demanding assurance that he did indeed love her. And now, by tokenly admitting motherhood to Mrs Bishop, she was freeing Sammi from any misinterpretation which might have arisen over Adam’s parentage.

Sammi waved them good-bye and turned for home. She felt empty, part of her torn away as the carriage carrying Adam bowled away down the road towards Hull. She glanced back at the mill. The skies were darkening above it, the white canvas sails at rest. No milling today while the miller and his kinsfolk mourned.

She flicked the reins. Fortunately Boreas instinctively knew the way and didn’t need her directive, for she could no longer see the road for her tears.

Doctor Sheppard had arranged a wet nurse for Betsy’s baby, and she thrived under the supervision of the doctor; but three weeks after Betsy’s funeral, Jenny answered a knock at the door and found Luke and his mother standing there.

‘My ma wants to speak to ’Master,’ he said brusquely. ‘Mr Foster, not Master Tom.’

‘I’ll speak for myself.’ Luke’s mother was quietly determined. ‘Get back to thy work now.’

She addressed Jenny. ‘If Mr Foster is well enough, I’d like a word.’

Jenny went inside and then came back. ‘Please come in, Mrs Reedbarrow.’ She invited her in and closed the parlour door behind her.

‘How do, Dolly? Haven’t seen thee for a long while.’

Mrs Reedbarrow looked at him. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Well, I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Folks were saying tha wouldn’t see anybody, that tha was sick. But tha looks healthy enough to me – ’cept for tha legs.’

He gave a snort. ‘Aye, well, without use of my legs, I might as well be dead and buried alongside my wife and daughter, for all ’good I am to anybody. I can do nowt!’

‘It’s no use feeling sorry for thyself.’ She sat down uninvited. ‘There must be plenty tha can do – accounts and that for one thing. And tha can allus count tha money for another!’

He gave a terse grin. ‘Tha allus was a comic, Dolly. Though I don’t know how tha keeps tha humour,
married to yon fella. Tha should have had me when I asked thee.’

‘What and finish up married to a cripple who can’t work?’ Her flippancy died and her pale face creased. ‘I don’t mean that, Thomas. I’m right sorry about thy accident. I should have come afore.’

He dismissed the remark. ‘But tha’s come for a reason?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t a social call?’

She shook her head. ‘I was at Betsy’s funeral with our Luke. He’s really cut up about her. He said he would have married her if he’d known about ’babby.’

‘Aye,’ he sighed. ‘I know, he said as much, and I believe him. There’d have been no scandal nor misery if they’d wed.’

‘But, what we want to know is what’s happened to ’bairn? Luke said she was onny a little scrap and a woman in Hull has been found to nurse her; but he knows no more ’n that and doesn’t like to ask. He says Tom hardly speaks to him.’

Thomas rubbed his hand over his beard. ‘He’s taken it badly, has Tom. Blames himself for not watching over her better; so he takes it out on everybody, not just Luke. As for babby, well, I haven’t seen her. I don’t know what we shall do. A houseful of men and one young maid!’

He was silent for a moment, then spoke softly, ‘It’ll be like when their ma died and left me alone with ’bairns. I had to hire a woman to look after us all.’

‘Aye, tha’s had some misfortune in thy time, Thomas,’ she commiserated. Then she drew herself up and folded her hands in the lap of her grey skirt. ‘We’d like to have her.’

Thomas gazed at her, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Have her? Have who?’

‘Luke’s babby. Thy granddaughter, and mine,’ she added. ‘It might not have come to thine ears, but I’ve just had another bairn. Please God it’ll be ’last, but I’m willing to have her. I can’t nurse them both for long, I’m getting too old, but I can supplement them
wi’ bottle, and if I can have some help from thee wi’ finance for her, I’ll bring her up. It’s what Luke wants,’ she said firmly.

‘Would I be able to see her?’ There was a brightness in his face, a look of hope. ‘Would tha bring her here?’

‘Aye. That was ’idea. We’d both have a share in her. But I can’t do it alone, Thomas.’ She looked down at her careworn hands. ‘We all work hard, and Luke more than anybody, but no matter how I scrimp and save we’ve never any money left over.’

She glanced appealingly at him. ‘I wouldn’t ask for owt, tha knows that, not if I could help it; but I thought tha’d rather have her with ’family than with strangers.’

He closed his eyes wearily. When he opened them they were moist with tears. ‘’Reedbarrows and Fosters allus used to be close,’ he said. ‘So my da used to say. ’Two families used to be like that.’ He put his middle and forefingers together.

‘Maybe this bairn’ll unite them again,’ she smiled, her eyes gentle. ‘What name wilt tha give her?’

He put out his hand and she put hers into it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, giving a gentle squeeze. ‘Her da will have to choose.’

So the baby Elizabeth was brought home to Tillington to be petted and spoiled by her father and maternal grandfather and George, though Tom kept his distance from the tiny infant, unable and unwilling to accept that this was his dead sister’s child.

In the weeks following her arrival, the weather worsened and the snow fell, covering the land with mountainous drifts and making the deep drains of Holderness perilous pitfalls for human and animal alike. The road between Tillington and Monkston was blocked, no horse or vehicle could get through, and the Fosters and the Rayners knew nothing of the others’ activities for a month, for after the snow
ceased to fall, the wind blew, hardening the snow’s surface to a treacherous, leg-breaking ice-rink, and the children of the Holderness villages cheerfully risked their limbs as they skated on the frozen fields.

As the thaw began, the overflowing streams and ditches flooded the banks, the low-lying fields lay under water, and the farmers despaired of ever being able to sow their crops; while on the top of the cliffs, great cracks appeared as the sea hungrily licked the foot, devouring the crumbling boulder clay and washing it down towards the peninsula of Spurn.

Sammi watched the swollen sea and the shrieking, whirling gulls from her window, unable to venture out into the hostile landscape; but as the weather gradually improved she started to walk across the sodden fields and through the battered copses, or trudged on the sands beside the boisterous waves and came back home revitalized, her cheeks rosy from the constant wind which dried up the flooded fields, and started to plan.

The church bells of Holy Trinity and St John’s could be heard from the house in Charlotte Street, and Gilbert, after finishing his breakfast of bacon, kidneys and omelette, peered into the almost empty coffee jug and poured the remaining drops into his cup.

‘Would you like more, dear?’ Harriet sat across from him, eating buttered toast. ‘Shall I ring?’