Different Tides (11 page)

Though she had such a soft, shapely mouth …

The next morning Zachariah was surprised to find Clementine in the warmth of the kitchen, her apron almost swamping her as she juggled the heavy skillet to cook their breakfast. At least he and Stephen would have something warm in their stomachs for the journey.

Her hair was in a long, slick braid that gleamed as the candlelight played on it, for it was still dark beyond the window glass.

‘What miracle is this?’ he said. ‘My cook seems to have lost several years and has shrunk overnight.’

She gave him a cool look that would have withered most men.

‘I do hope we’re going to part as friends. Don’t send me away with a frown, Clementine.’

A tiny little crease appeared at the corner of her mouth as she pursed her lips, and then she gave a peal of laughter. He wanted to pursue the train of thought that had led to it but there wasn’t time.

‘How many sausages would you like?’

How mundane the ordinary sausage was when a man’s mind was occupied with satisfying a more carnal appetite. Still, there was enough breakfast to feed an army. ‘Two, and some ham and a couple of eggs, please.’

Stephen appeared at the door. He was a calm, muscular man of about fifty, with a wife, grown-up children and grandchildren in London.

‘The horses are ready when we are, sir. They’ve got a bit of ginger in them this morning. They sense the journey I reckon, and they know they won’t have a carriage to pull. Ben’s walking them around.’

‘Pull up a chair and eat some breakfast, Stephen. What’s the weather going to be like?’

‘Hard to say with the mist hiding the sky, and darkness still upon it.’

Clementine set a plate of food in front of Stephen and filled their cups with steaming tea.

‘I’ll wrap what’s left of the breakfast between two chunks of bread in a muslin cloth, in case you and Stephen get hungry later on.’ Deftly, she made two parcels that would fit easily into their saddlebags.

Then they were ready and outside, swamped in long coats and country hats that were more suited for the road than the smarter tall ones.

Stephen touched the brim of his hat before he mounted the fretting horse. ‘Thank you for the breakfast, Miss Clemmie, it was much appreciated.’

So, the casual name he’d given her had reached the staff quarters, Zachariah thought. ‘Kiss the children for me,’ he said, and a fiery blush flooded her cheeks. He laughed, pleased to be having the last word – and even more pleased with the thought that she’d be waiting for him when he returned.

Then they were on their way. He looked back to where she stood in the mist. It clutched her with long wraith-like tendrils and closed around her like a thorny briar, as though she belonged to the house and it intended to keep her captive.

Cold against his face, the mist formed into icy unwelcoming droplets on his coat.

He’d looked back into a world of grey swirling shapes. The house, the children and Clementine had all disappeared, like characters from a fairy tale. Perhaps they’d never really existed in the first place. There came a moment of panic. Had he imagined it? Were the dead trapped in a layer of other lost souls who were trying to find their way out of limbo and into the light?

He grinned reluctantly. Who would have thought he had such childish imaginings still hidden inside? The thought that he did have them clung to his mind for a few moments. He could understand why Edward had bad dreams now. He pinched his thigh until it hurt, something he used to do as a child to remind himself he was alive, and breathing.

The horse under him squealed when a bird exploded from the undergrowth. It bucked a couple of times, its powerful rump bunched as though it was on springs. Zachariah only just managed to get it back under his control. Stephen came up beside him and spoke soothingly to the horse. The animal was used to his voice and after a short time he settled down.

‘The mist has spooked them. Best we ride side by side until it lifts, sir. They’re used to each other’s company in the shafts.’

Zachariah was pleased he had Stephen as a companion on the journey. The coachman didn’t talk unless he was called on to answer a question or had something worth saying. Nevertheless his reticence was companionable, and he didn’t complain like Evan did.

When they turned on to the road, Zachariah had the oddest feeling that Martingale House had cast him out now the heir to the title had moved back in.

The town of Poole was just beginning to stir. Luggage carts trundled by, pushed by muscular men, and were loaded up with provisions in baskets. Barrels stood in queues on the quayside waiting to board, and there were sacks of flour, crates of clucking chickens and squealing pigs, a small keg of rum.

It occurred to Zachariah that if he were to visit the children on a regular basis, he might be more comfortable travelling in one of the small sailing boats that ferried passengers round the coast.

When they reached Christchurch the weather began to lift. It was going to be a fair day. They stopped at an inn for a second breakfast and a tankard of scalding tea. Keeping Clementine’s package for a midday repast, they pushed on, making good time until they and the horses showed signs of fatigue. Slowing down they made it to the next inn just as night fell.

The ostler took the horses from them and ran a practised hand over their quivering flanks. ‘This is as good a pair of carriage horses as I’ve ever seen. Nice lines and well muscled. Have you come far today?’

‘The other side of Poole.’

‘Dorset, aye? There’s some nice countryside down there. I reckon these lads need a good rub down and a feed. Are you staying the night, sir? You’ll have to share.’

Zachariah nodded.

‘Good, tell my wife when you go in, if you would.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Joe Makin.’

‘I’m Zachariah Fleet, and this is Stephen Harbin, my head coachman and groom. The condition of my horses is down to him.’

The three of them shook hands and then Makin nodded. ‘You go inside, sirs. My good wife has a side of mutton on the spit and potatoes roasting in the tray underneath. It should be ready to serve in half an hour or so. My son will fix you up with a tankard of ale and a room, in the meantime.’ He led the horses off towards the stable block, talking to them all the way.

The children would be sleepy-eyed and ready for bed now, Zachariah thought. Clementine would be reading them a story. She might make one up, or read something from Grimm’s fairy tales, unless she thought it was too frightening.

‘I wonder if the children are all right,’ he said to Stephen, throwing his saddle bag on to one of the beds.

‘Reckon so. They were poor little scraps frightened of their own shadows when they arrived. If I may say so, Mr Fleet, you seem to be doing right nicely by them.’

‘Miss Clemmie does most of the work.’

‘Aye. Miss Clemmie has got the mother instinct strong in her. She should marry and have a couple of little ‘uns of her own.’

Alarm jolted through him at the thought of losing a perfectly good substitute mother for his wards. ‘Most of the single men in the district are too old to father a child.’

‘Age doesn’t mean they can’t perform when the need arises. I had an uncle who fathered a child when he was eighty-two.’

Zachariah stared at him. ‘How old was his wife?’

‘He didn’t have any wife to start with. He got the itch with a servant girl and fathered the child on her. She was only young, about sixteen, but a sly young cub. He married her when her stomach began to swell. She kept him at it, wore him out, and when he died six months later she got everything he owned.’

‘What about the child?’

‘Turned out there wasn’t one. Like I said, she was a sly young cub.’

‘He died happy, and there must be worse fates.’

Stephen grinned. ‘Miss Clemmie wouldn’t need to do such a thing – not with her looks. One day a handsome young man on a fine horse will come riding by and will sweep her right off her feet.’

Zachariah threw Stephen a dark look. ‘He had better not unless he wants his arse peppered with buckshot. That young woman is employed to provide motherly services for my two wards. She has signed a contract to that intent. If anyone wants to court her they’ll have me to get past first. Now, wipe that smirk off your face and let’s go down and sample the ale. My throat feels as though it’s coated with sawdust.’

Without the carriage and a female to cater for they made good time. The nearer they got to the more populated areas of London the worse the smell became and the more debris littered the streets.

‘Has the Thames always stunk this badly?’

Stephen grinned. ‘Sometimes it’s worse. We’ve been breathing in clean country air for the past few weeks so we’re bound to notice the difference.’

They turned into Russell Square about seven in the evening, where Zachariah’s home was discreetly situated behind a façade of pale brick and stone, and wrought-iron balconies. It was in the middle of a row of identical buildings – one of which belonged to John and Julia Beck.

Leaving the horses with Stephen to take to the stable block where they’d be tended to, he said, ‘Take a week off to spend with your family, Stephen.’

A few minutes later and Zachariah stood inside the hall listening to the clock tick. The house was well furnished and neat, big enough for him, but not too big. The few servants needed to maintain him and the house knew their jobs, and mostly went silently about them.

He entertained now and again, usually with his peers. He didn’t have anyone he’d consider a close friend, apart from John and Julia, and he looked on them as his mentors. He loved them both, as far as he knew how to love.

Inside him a small knot of loneliness appeared.

He dismissed it and sent a messenger to John and Julia to inform them of his return and to tell them he’d call on them tomorrow after he’d rested. While a fire was lit in his room and a hip bath was being prepared, Evan tutted over the dust in his hair and the state of his clothes as he set a tray with a brandy decanter, a jug of water and a couple of glasses on the table.

‘Stop fussing, Evan. What do you expect when I’ve just spent two days on the road? My hair can wait to be washed until the morning. In the meantime I just want a thorough wash, followed by a bowl of broth and a good sleep.’

Zachariah had enjoyed his shallow bath, especially when Clementine slid into an empty space in his brain and bathed with him. He imagined her sitting at the shallow end, naked to all glory, her calves over his thighs. He imagined more – taking her legs in his hands and sliding her gently towards him.

It occurred to him that he was thinking of her too much for his own good. Leaning forward he plucked the jug of cold water from the table and poured it where it would do the most good, nearly yelping from the cold medicinal dowsing.

Afterwards, with his robe tucked cozily around him and his stomach full, he stretched his legs out towards the fire in an attitude of complete relaxation and thought of Clementine some more. He wondered if he had the energy to get into bed. But the need to sleep was not yet forthcoming, and besides, he heard voices.

A few moments later Evan poked his head round the door, disapproval written on his face. ‘Mr Beck is here to see you. I told him you were about to retire and he said he’d only keep you a few minutes.’

Zachariah had too much respect for John Beck to turn him from his door, however inconvenient the time.

‘Thanks, Evan. Send him up.’

John looked agitated. ‘I’m glad you’re home, Zachariah, and I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, but there’s something you should know. In fact, I was just about to send a messenger to Dorset and ask you to return. An unexpected problem of quite a serious nature has arisen.’

‘And I think I know what it is.’ Zachariah dismissed the hovering Evan, saying, ‘Do that in the morning, Evan. You can wait downstairs to see Mr Beck out.’

After the door had closed behind the servant, Zachariah turned to his mentor. ‘I’ve been half-expecting you. Take a seat, John. As you have always told me, two heads are better than one on a problem.’

Folding himself into a chair, John gazed at him. ‘How did you get to hear of it?’

‘It’s merely suspicion on my part, nothing else, though I think Clementine suspects that all is not as it should be. The children are not what I expected, they are too cautious … Edward in particular. They did not recognize the portrait of their parents, and if there’s a family resemblance it’s so vague as to be almost non-existent. I’m beginning to suspect they’re not my brother’s children at all, but imposters.’

John gazed at him in astonishment. ‘They’re not your brother’s children? What nonsense is this? Of course they are; the likeness is unmistakeable. I don’t understand, Zachariah, we seem to be talking at cross-purposes with one another.’

‘Cross-purposes? If there’s another problem I can’t think what else it can be. I hope it’s nothing to do with Clementine. I don’t know what I’d do without her now.’

John drew in a sharp breath. ‘Be that as it may, Zachariah. Another young woman who calls herself Alexandra Tate has turned up, one who professes to be Howard Morris’s daughter. As such she is claiming the legacy …’

Zachariah didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this – not when life had just settled into a relatively calm flow, where everything was falling nicely into place.

He eyed his comfortable bed, the covers turned back on the soft feather-filled mattress and quilt that waited to embrace his tired and aching body. He wished John had waited until morning because there was nothing he could do tonight, except stay awake and worry about it. But then, if John didn’t tell him he’d only worry about what the problem was …

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Long ago he’d learned that every problem has a solution if patience is applied to the discovery of it, and he appreciated the counsel John offered on occasion, as his way of life dictated.

‘You’d better tell me about it.’

‘While you were away I was approached by an elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Samuel Tate. He said that he and his late wife had raised a foster daughter from birth, and he thinks she may be the heiress we are seeking.’