Salting the Wound (17 page)

He laughed, then his lips touched against hers and she closed her eyes, savouring their warm tenderness. When the caress was over he whispered, ‘The day after tomorrow then. Same place.’ She opened her eyes and through her tears, watched him stride away.

Despite her resolve Marianne did watch from her window when he left harbour. The torn sails had been replaced so they were startling patches of white amongst the grey ones.

‘Fair sailing, my darling Nick,’ she whispered, and waved, imagining he was watching her from the deck through his telescope.

Daisy Jane
had arrived the previous day. She was a larger ship than the
Samarand
. As a result she carried more crew and was licensed to carry passengers as well as cargo. Marianne was heartened by the thought that Nick would have had time to speak to his uncle about his future plans, and once he returned he would be home for good. Then they could begin married life with everything above board. She wondered if he’d mentioned her to his uncle. And she began to count the days until he returned.

Erasmus Thornton was not happy with Nick. They had argued, and for once Erasmus had come out the loser.

He said to his sister, ‘This time I couldn’t change his mind. He’s hell-bent on having his own way.’

Daisy looked up from the shirt she was patching. ‘I don’t know why you’re sounding so peevish. Nick has always made his feelings about the issue clear.’

‘He’s a born seaman, and I can trust him with the
Samarand
, though he cost me two sails this time.’

She snorted. ‘I’m surprised you can trust him to the ship.
Samarand
has always been more trouble than she was worth.’

‘She’s a cantankerous bitch that needs nursing. Nick knows how to do that. I picked her up cheap, and she’s brought in a healthy profit over the years. Nick’s going to train the first mate to take her over this run.’

‘He told me that the man scraped bottom bringing her in.’

‘Touch and go often happens. The harbour is shallow, the tide was on the ebb and he was carrying more cargo than he should have been. Nick should have berthed her himself.’

The Thornton shipping company had been a legacy from their father, and had consisted of two aging packets, long since disposed of. Daisy had been left the house, which she’d been given charge of at the age of fifteen, taking the place of their mother, who’d died from typhoid. The men in the family had always come and gone, and she looked after them when they were in port and kept an eye on the accounts and their shore agent when they were not.

‘You know, Erasmus, you never gave Nick a chance to be anything else but a seaman.’

‘I didn’t know any other trade. But a shopkeeper . . . My God!’

She laughed. ‘Ah, but it’s to be a grand shop, Erasmus. Nick doesn’t do anything by halves. You can’t say he didn’t give you enough warning. You’ll get used to it, and perhaps he’s met a woman he wants to settle down with.’

Erasmus snorted. ‘After he got his fingers burned with the Honeyman girl? He won’t repeat that in a hurry.’

Brother and sister were alike. Erasmus was of medium height, wiry and muscled. His face was weathered from a lifetime at sea. Daisy’s face was smoother, but the Thornton features sat less easily on her and she was straightforward in her manner. Her body was thin and angular and her hair as straight and grey as a yard of pump water. She was clever for a woman, too, something her brother and Nick appreciated, but other men did not. She kept her house, went to church under protest and occupied herself with charitable causes when her men folk were away at sea.

Daisy would have liked to have wed and had a family of her own when she was younger. Erasmus had shown no interest in settling down though. He’d told her that Nick was their nephew, the son of their half-brother Dickon, when he’d brought him home, a thin, undernourished brat who’d grabbed his food from the table like a starving rat. He’d taken it to a corner, where he’d turned his back on them and stuffed it into his mouth.

Considering that Erasmus had come ashore with Nick, and the boy only spoke a few words, none of which were English, she suspected that he’d belonged to the Greek woman Dickon had been involved with.

When she’d asked, he’d said, ‘Aye, that’s right. His name is Nicholas. He was being badly treated by the Greek woman’s new husband and her stepsons. She begged me to take him in and bring him up.’

‘You fool Erasmus, he’s not your responsibility,’ she’d told him.

‘Aye, he is. He’s a Thornton.’

Even in her spinsterhood Daisy was well aware of her brother’s foibles. People gossiped. And although the Honeyman affair had been hushed up, she’d heard that a daughter had been the possible result of his liaison with her. The child had died at birth with the mother, and Erasmus had been devastated. Daisy had heard a rumour long after, that the girl had lived, but had been fostered through the orphanage run by a Honeyman relative. She hadn’t told her brother that, otherwise he’d have made it his business to find out.

Erasmus was fond of Nick. So was she. But he’d been a headstrong boy, and wild at times. She’d had to discipline him more often than she’d liked when he was growing up. Thus he’d learned to respect her. She was relieved that the eldest Honeyman girl had turned him down. She’d never taken to Charlotte. Still, Daisy was hopeful that Nick would marry. If he came ashore, that would be a step in the right direction.

But then, there were the latest rumours. Not that she paid any mind to them, but she kept her brother informed. She sighed, and biting through the thread, placed the shirt to one side and gazed up at him. ‘Gossip has it that Nick sailed to Boston with the younger Honeyman girl on board.’

He gazed sharply at her, said uneasily, ‘I’d told him not to take women on board
Samarand
. She’s jealous, and doesn’t like it. A woman was killed aboard her when she was new. The owner and his wife were looking her over when a marlin spike slipped from the sail rigger’s hand and skewered her through the head. And when you came on board you nearly slipped down a ladder.’

‘Because I wasn’t looking where I was going. Oh, you and your superstitions, Erasmus.’ Daisy began to laugh.

‘Is there any truth in the rumour? Did you ask Nick?’

‘I did. He roared with laughter then said that of course it was the truth. He’d taken Marianne Honeyman to Boston and he’d married her there.’

Erasmus grinned at that. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to do just that. It would serve that eldest girl right for leading him on all those years then slapping him down.’

‘Best you don’t put such a thought in his head. But I heard Mrs Hardy tell somebody that her younger sister had been ill and confined to her bed for several weeks. I saw the girl in church the next day. She looked fine and handsome to me.’

‘That one’s like her mother,’ Erasmus said softly and although Daisy gave him a sharp look, she said nothing.

It had taken several weeks for Charles Barrie to recover. His simple cold had developed into a severe infection on his chest, and he’d been ravaged by bouts of coughing that had exhausted him. But he’d noticed a longer period between coughing fits over the last couple of days.

His doctor smiled as he removed his stethoscope from his patient’s chest and straightened up. ‘If you keep this up you can get out of bed for a short while each day. I’ll leave a blood tonic and instructions with your man.’

‘Thank you.’ Charles shrugged. ‘May I have visitors?’

‘As long as you promise not to tire yourself. You need plenty of rest while you recuperate.’

‘Which will take, how long?’

‘As long as it takes,’ the doctor said smoothly. ‘Take my word for it, Charles, you’ve been seriously ill, and if you take things too fast you could quite easily suffer a relapse. If that happened I wouldn’t like to wager on the outcome. Count on being incapacitated for several more weeks. If you have any intention of going back to the bench this side of Christmas I suggest you put it aside.’

Charles sighed after he’d gone. He swung his legs out of bed and tested them. They felt as weak as new twigs, and could hardly take his weight, so he was forced to reach down to the bed and clutch the bedding for the support it offered. He managed to shuffle precariously along the bed to the more solid safety of the wooden bed end.

‘Ballam?’ he bawled, and immediately began to cough.

After a few moments his man came in. Ballam’s eyes mirrored his alarm when he saw him clinging precariously to the bed end, his shoulders shaking. His servant’s lips pursed after he got him back into bed.

When the coughing stopped Ballam said disapprovingly, ‘Sir, you should have waited for me to assist you. The doctor has given me strict instructions. Five minutes a day with my support until you grow stronger.’

‘Oh, don’t you give me a lecture as well, Ballam.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I want you to go to Edgar Wyvern’s chambers and tell him I’d appreciate seeing him.’

Before his current malady Charles had rarely suffered illness. Odd how his illness had visited just when he’d been about to seize his grandson, as if God had set out to prevent him from carrying out his plan. Lying in bed, beset by fever, joints aching and attacked by uncontrollable shivering, sometimes Charles had hardly cared if he’d lived or died. But in his more lucid moments he’d had time to think about his grandson and that had determined that he live.

According to the young agent he’d hired, the lad had a good home and he looked upon Seth Hardy as his father. If that proved to be true, then John would not thank him for being abruptly removed. Charles had reached the conclusion that Edgar had been right all along, and he’d been too hasty. He would not punish the soldier’s wife.

Still, Charles had every intention of retrieving his grandson and allowing him to take his rightful place in his family, as his heir.

He would give the soldier a chance to clear himself too . . . get Edgar to put the situation before him and listen to his explanation.

When Edgar arrived, Charles said, ‘I won’t be well enough to travel for some time. I would like you to go to Dorset as soon as possible, inform the soldier of my existence, put the matter at hand before him, and bring John back if you can. And Edgar, buy the boy a gift from me. A telescope would be suitable.’

Edgar presented himself to Harbour House the day after he arrived in Poole. He asked the cab driver to wait.

The wind had a chill to it, the late November sky was grey, but the day was dry. There was no sign of the boy, but Edgar heard the lusty cry of a baby from the upper reaches of the house.

He handed his card to the maid, who allowed him inside and showed him into the drawing room to wait after he’d stated his business. There was a fire burning, and he stood appreciatively before it, warming his hands as he gazed at his surroundings.

Apart from the beaded face screens in rosewood frames there was an inlaid writing desk and comfortable, but slightly shabby chairs. A games table doubled as a sewing table. The floors were covered in blue and beige patterned rugs. Against the wall stood an upright piano with a red velvet stool. There was a clutter of pictures and ornaments, and family treasures housed in a boule and ormolu cabinet, with a large gilt mirror over the top. Inside and out Harbour House had no pretensions to be other than it was, a comfortable family home. He crossed to the window. The view across the harbour was magnificent.

A draught alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. He turned to face the young woman standing there. The mistress of the house, he supposed. She was lovely to look at, but there were lines of tension about her mouth. She glanced down at the card in her hand. ‘Mr Wyvern? I’m Mrs Hardy. I’m sorry to keep you waiting . . . the children, you know. They’re young and can’t be kept waiting.’

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Her face lit up with love. ‘I have two, a boy and a girl. They’re twins, and only two months of age. Then there’s John, of course. He’s our stepson.’

He smiled at the touch of mother’s pride in her voice. ‘They must demand a great deal of your time.’

‘Oh yes they do. The maid tells me you have some business with us. May I ask what it is?’

‘It’s with your husband, Colonel Seth Hardy. Is he here?’

The faint smile she gave wiped away the tension, as if it had been drawn there at an earlier time and her husband’s name erased it. ‘Seth is up at the clay pits. He should be home in about half an hour. Can I offer you some refreshment while you wait?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Hardy. I’d appreciate that. I’ll go and inform the cab driver that I’ll be longer than expected.’

‘The maid will do that. He can wait in the kitchen where it’s warm, and have some refreshment too. It’s a cold day.’

‘He’ll appreciate that.’ Ten minutes later Edgar was sipping tea. There were home-made scones with jam to go with it, just like his wife used to make when he had one. Edgar thought wryly that if the woman knew why he was here she’d probably withdraw her hospitality and order him out.

The sound of laughter came to his ears.

‘I won, Marianne.’

‘No . . . I did. I was at least an inch in front of you.’

‘But you cut the corner.’

‘And you leapt over the wall. So we both won, really.’ Her voice was raised, but it was still as breathless as a purr from the physical effort she’d put in. ‘We’re back, Charlotte.’

Mrs Hardy smiled. ‘That’s my sister, Marianne. She’s been out on the heath with John. They’re constant companions when he’s home from school, and she teaches him about the heath birds and the nature of our environment. I’m in here, Marianne.’

The door opened and a boy’s head poked through the crack. ‘You’ll never guess, Mama . . . we saw a dead adder.’

‘Oh, my goodness! Are you sure it was dead?’

‘This is the wrong time of year for adders to be abroad, it’s too cold,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘It was on one of the rails and Marianne said a clay cart must have run over it because its head was parted from its body. It had been there a long time because it’s all dried up. I was forbidden to touch its head, though it was dead, because the venom was still there in the fangs, Marianne said. We dug a hole and buried the head and said a prayer over it.’ He laughed. ‘Though Marianne said we need only say a quarter of a prayer, because it was only a quarter of the snake, and she made me guess the words in a quarter of the prayer, and we worked the sum out on the way home so see who got it right first. And guess what?’