Salting the Wound (30 page)

They picked up more passengers at Wellington and the ship was sent on its way by a strong wind.

The voyage was generally uneventful. When they passed the spot where
Samarand
had sunk he said a silent goodbye to his crew, and thanked God he wasn’t among them. Several large icebergs were sighted in the Southern Ocean early on, which afforded the crew some alarm, and the passengers some excitement. They were soon left behind. The wind thrust into the sails from behind, giving them power. The prow dipped into the waves and cut through it. Nick built up his shoulder muscles on the wheel, constantly testing the steering chains against the powerful shifting tensions of the water, and sometimes needing two pairs of hands to bring the ship back on course. She was easier to steer than
Samarand
had been though, and smoother in the water, due no doubt to the second skin of protective copper on her hull.

‘
Selena Fair
lives up to her name,’ Nick said to Cunningham one day.

‘She’d been known to reach sixteen knots when the wind’s in the right direction,’ he said proudly.

Samarand
had managed twelve knots at her best.

‘I named her after my wife. She died a year ago on the day we sailed from Melbourne. Cholera took her off. She was a good wife and mother. Better than I deserved, I daresay.’

Which explained his drinking on that day. ‘I’m sorry. Children?’

‘Four, all boys and all grown, plus a brace of grandchildren I hardly know. You?’

Nick took the miniature from his pocket and handed it to him, saying slightly self-consciously, because he hadn’t spent enough time with her and wasn’t really used to the thought of being a married man, ‘My wife, Marianne. She was only a child when this was painted.’

‘She’s a pretty girl.’

‘She’s a beautiful woman now,’ and Nick smiled at the thought of her. It suddenly faded, ‘She’ll think I’m dead, by now.’

‘The sea is no profession for a married man. It’s hard on the man and his family, who might need him to turn to in times of trouble. A wife needs her husband’s attention, lest she stray.’

Had that happened to Cunningham? he wondered. He also wondered if Aria had strayed, and was deluged by an uneasy churn of negative emotions. No . . . she’d wait for a decent time to elapse before her body convinced herself that she needed a husband and children. ‘It was to be my last passage on
Samarand
, Captain. I didn’t expect my career to end so badly. Twelve good men lost their lives.’

‘
Samarand
was an unlucky ship, and she wouldn’t have gone to the bottom empty-handed. I’m surprised Erasmus bought her. Still, he got her cheap, after her former owner and crew had suffered a series of accidents.’

‘I never believed her to be an unlucky ship.’

‘You had a woman on board in Boston, didn’t you? I heard she tripped and fell into the hold.’

‘She did, and luckily the hold was full of wool bales. Even so, we didn’t find her for two days.’ Nick took the locket back and pinned it safely inside his pocket. ‘Marianne recovered from the accident and became my wife. I consider that to be lucky.’

‘You were lucky that
Samarand
spared her and took the crew instead. That ship made a bargain with the devil at her launch. I was there, and the sky was filled with lightning and thunder and it hit the mast and danced about the rigging, hissing and causing steam to rise from her. It was a sight to behold. She didn’t like sharing her master with another woman.’

Nick wanted to laugh, because Cunningham was as superstitious as his uncle was. Even so, a shiver crept down his spine. He didn’t want to tempt fate by laughing at it. Although he was nearly home, for the time being the sea was still his mistress. She’d spared him once, and he couldn’t bear the thought that he might have inadvertently placed Aria in any danger by sailing off with her on board – however fanciful.

‘Could be that you’re right,’ Nick said, ‘but
Samarand
has gone now, and has taken the devil with her. My wife and I intend to open an emporium.’

‘An emporium?’ Cunningham gave him a sharp look. ‘What sort of emporium would that be then?’

‘Fancy goods, and fabric. I want to incorporate local goods such as pottery, handmade lace, furnishings and works of art such as paintings and sculpture. Also a section for children’s nursery furniture and toys. It depends on what’s available to me as premises.’

‘I could be of help if you wanted to cut out the middle man. I could supply you with the import of an occasional cargo. Fancy goods, Japanese pottery, inlaid furniture, exotic fabrics and ivories. I visit oriental ports on a regular basis and there’s nothing to say you must purchase from a wholesaler.’

When he’d discussed this with uncle, Erasmus had indicated that he had contracts for regular wool and tobacco runs, and didn’t have room for anything else. He wondered if his uncle would buy another ship with the insurance money, and doubted it. He would be retired himself before too long.

‘It’s all above board, Mister Thornton. Like your uncle I’m an independent company. But where your uncle operates under the safety of contracts, I take my cargo where I can find it. It’s above board. My business is accounted for down to the last farthing by my eldest son. I sail because I love it, but my retirement nest is well feathered, and if I keep my ship well maintained, it can only add to its value when she’s sold.’

Cunningham was a hard-headed businessman, something which seemed to be at odds with his love for, and his belief in, the lore of the sea, but he impressed Nick with his honesty when he said, ‘If I were a young man I’d be studying architecture, like my youngest son. He wants to build houses.’

‘People will always need homes.’

‘None of them intend to follow in their father’s footsteps. I’m away from home so much that when I look at the young men I’ve fathered I feel uneasy with them. They seem like polite, but familiar strangers to me, and I must appear like a stranger to them. The same with my wife. What we experienced together when love was young was gradually lost. I didn’t see it disappearing until it was gone. Then there was nothing I could do about it. The sea is a hard mistress, Mr Thornton. You are wise to retire from it while you are young.’

When they battled the turbulent currents and wind gusts around The Horn, the sea and sky had combined to show him exactly what they were made of, and the ship had felt flimsy and vulnerable beneath him, as it never had before – not even on the
Samarand
. For all her reputation, he’d felt the loss of his ship, and keenly, as if he’d let them both down by not getting them home intact.

They lost the wind for a week in the doldrums, and found time to talk. The sails hung limp. There was general cleaning to keep the men occupied. The passengers began to complain about the lack of variety in their food. Miss Garfield had lost her sparkle, and looked downright sulky and bored. She was pretty, but tedious and not very intelligent. The appearance of three more females on board at Wellington had set her nose firmly out of joint. Her companion had kept a good eye on her and the male passengers had lost interest in her as a result.

A couple of sailors did their best to entertain them, with one playing a pipe and the other dancing the hornpipe. But the men wandered off to play cards in the salon, and now and again arguments broke out.

Then the glassy surface of the sea rippled, and Cunningham smiled when a sail fluttered, then fattened with air. A moment or two later the deck planking rose to press against the soles of Nick’s feet and the water lifted the ship, as if she was cradled in the arms of her lover.

‘Eventually, the sea becomes part of your blood,’ Cunningham remarked almost to himself, and he shouted out an order and the crew swarmed over the rigging like monkeys.

Over the next few weeks the two men reached an agreement. They parted in Southampton, after ninety-six days at sea, with a handshake.

The simpering Miss Garfield was handed over to a florid, heavyset gentleman of about forty, who gazed through bulbous eyes at her and placed his hand under her seat to assist her into a carriage. Miss Carter followed.

‘I almost feel sorry for her if that’s her intended,’ Nick said.

Cunningham smiled. ‘They look as though they deserve each other to me. I’m sorry you’re not sailing with me again, Mr Thornton. Give my regards to Erasmus if you see him before I do. I’ll be in Poole in a few months with your cargo. Good luck with finding suitable premises for your emporium.’

Amongst the disorderly tangle of small craft he found a fishing boat willing to earn a little extra by dropping him off at Poole Harbour.

His heart soared. Mostly, it was because he would soon be home. Added to that fact was the knowledge that he’d survived an ordeal that had strengthened him in many ways, and that Cunningham’s words of wisdom had unintentionally reassured him that he was doing the right thing.

‘You’re becoming as fat as a piglet,’ Marianne said, and tickled her son’s rounded belly.

Dickon’s belch produced a bubble that burst into a milky trickle. She couldn’t stop gazing at him as she gently wiped it away. ‘You’re a disgusting creature, really, but I adore you. Isn’t he handsome, Daisy? Look at his eyes, just like Nick’s. And all those dark curls. He sleeps all night now. He’s so beautiful, and is so good-natured, aren’t you, my adorable love.’

‘That’s not what you called him earlier when he was having a temper tantrum.’

‘He was hungry, and he’s got no patience.’

When Dickon gave her a gummy smile and made a soft cooing noise Daisy smiled and said softly, ‘It’s a pity Nicholas isn’t here to see him.’

Marianne hadn’t given up on Nick yet, but sometimes she doubted so strongly that she’d see him again that she despaired. Giving up hope might be easier then having hope, she thought. Other times she cried herself to sleep, weeping into her pillow so Daisy wouldn’t hear. But Daisy wept too, for often she appeared with sad eyes, and dark circles under them.

Dickon was the bright spark in an otherwise sad year. Her sister had not yet relented. Charlotte had avoided her when they’d nearly met in town. Marianne had stopped attending the early morning church service, and Charlotte had stopped attending the evening one. She’d seen Seth a couple of times in the two months since Dickon’s birth, but there was no message from Charlotte. No unbending. There was a search on for John, Seth had told her, but so far there was no sign of him. Seth feared the worse.

But the gossip over the rift between the sisters had reached a new pitch, with speculation over the reason for it. Marianne knew she’d been painted as the black sheep, and now Erasmus had sailed there was nobody but Daisy to defend her.

While she changed Dickon’s linens, she murmured, ‘I’m sorry I’ve brought so much trouble down on your head, Daisy.’

Daisy patted her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, girl. I know the truth, and I know you can hold your head up without shame. Besides, it helps to sort out who your friends are.’

‘I notice that the good reverend hasn’t deserted you.’

‘More’s the pity. He’s renewed his efforts, if anything. I think the old fool is about to propose marriage again.’

Marianne smiled. ‘Will you accept?’

‘It would serve him right if I did.’

Dickon’s eyelids had begun to droop. Placing him in his cradle she gently rocked him off to sleep, then the two women went downstairs.

Marianne gathered together her basket, purse and shopping list, then pulled a blue velvet jacket over the gown that Nick had bought her in Boston – one which she could easily get into again. She’d lost more weight than she’d gained with Dickon, though the bodice fit snugly across her breasts, she thought, as she set off down the hill.

The tide was out; she could smell the exposed mud in the shallows of the harbour. The crabs would be settled into their holes, their pincers ready to emerge and punish anyone who dared to tread on them. And the cockles would be creaking in the mud, the occasional bubble revealing their hiding places to those with the time and energy to dig them out.

It was a glorious September afternoon, the foliage painted in metallic colours of brass, copper, gold and bronze that blended into the landscape and tinted the sky. Marianne had a sudden urge to go on to the heath, to seek out the gypsies and listen to the gypsy tales.

Even if she didn’t have to shop, she’d have to get back for Dickon’s next feed. But she didn’t want to see her former home, and know she was no longer welcome there. It was a place where only the child that she’d once been had lived, and then she’d been subjected to Charlotte’s dictates. Now she was responsible for herself, and for Dickon. A different family was being kinder to her than her own sister.

Harbour House had always been Charlotte’s. Her sister was tied to it with an invisible umbilical cord. Marianne suddenly realized that the house was her sister’s security.

When she walked into the general store the talk stopped. Some of the women turned their backs.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Thornton,’ the shopkeeper said, as friendly as he always was. ‘How is your son?’

Daisy had told her to keep her head up, so she did. ‘He’s wonderful. He looks just like his father.’

‘Pshaw!’ someone said.

Politely, she asked the woman, ‘Do you have a cold, Mrs Avery? Or is it your stomach being disagreeable? You should take some peppermint cordial for it, perhaps.’ Marianne handed the store owner her shopping list, and smiled. ‘Would you deliver it as usual, please?’

She’d reached the door when someone whispered loudly, ‘I believe Captain Thornton the younger has perished at sea. Where is her mourning dress?’

She turned, stung by the insensitive nastiness of it. ‘I have no proof that my husband is dead.’

‘Captain Thornton has been gone for nearly a year now. What more proof do you need?’

Her fingers curled into fists and she inhaled to steady herself. ‘Certainly not as little as you need. I do not welcome your unasked for counsel, which is based on nothing more than malicious gossip. I bid you good day, ladies.’

Outside the shop she nearly walked into Charlotte, and they were too close this time for Charlotte to cross the road and pretend she hadn’t seen her.