The Sea Between (16 page)

‘God, look at them all!’ Richard shook his head, looking genuinely shocked.

Charlotte cast her eye up and down the valley. She wasn’t shocked: it was what she’d expected to see. She was worried, though. Without help, many of the lambs wouldn’t survive, and how many more were in a similar plight in the other valleys?

Dismounting, Richard led his horse over to some scrubby manuka bushes and tethered it. Perhaps sensing a long, cold wait, the stallion tossed its head and stamped its hooves in the snow, then with a loud snort turned its back to the wind. Charlotte slid down from the saddle into the snow and led her mare over, gathering up her skirt and petticoats with her free hand so that she wouldn’t trip over them.

‘What’s the best way of tackling this?’ Richard asked.

‘Edwin usually starts with the lambs that are trapped. If there’s some natural shelter around, he spades away some snow on the lee side of it then puts any lambs he rescues there. They’re usually too exhausted to move and the mothers are quick to join them, especially when they see a few blades of grass.’

‘And when we run out of natural shelter, what then?’

‘By that time you’ll probably have run out of energy and I expect we’ll have run out of daylight, too.’

Untying his shovel from the saddle, Richard gazed around, as if assessing the best place to start, then walked on for about twenty yards and started clearing snow from the lee side of some tall flax bushes.

An hour later Charlotte was leaning on her shovel, having a rest. She didn’t know which hurt most: her arms, her back, or her hands. Propping the spade up against her legs, she stripped off her right glove and turned her hand from side to side to inspect it. She had two blisters—one on the palm of her hand and one in the vee between her thumb and first finger—both of which had burst. There were three very red sore patches on the pads at the base of her fingers, too. She eased her glove back on, wondering if Richard had blisters on his hands. He was further up the valley, about fifty yards from her. He had taken his hat and scarf and coat off and they were lying on the snow nearby, his coat and scarf rolled up in a neat bundle, pinning down his hat to stop it from blowing away. Legs splayed wide, head bent low, he
was flinging spadeful after spadeful of snow through the air. If he did have blisters, they didn’t seem to be slowing him down. Sucking in a deep breath, she picked up the spade and began shovelling again.

An hour later she was still struggling on, but she didn’t think she could carry on for much longer. Her back was so sore she could barely straighten it, and her blistered hand was so painful she winced every time she thrust the spade into the snow.

She was having one of her frequent rests when Richard tramped over to her and began shovelling. ‘You get the lambs. I’ll do this,’ he said. She didn’t argue. Planting the head of her spade in the snow, she trudged off.

It was slow work collecting lambs. The mere act of walking was difficult, forced to kick her skirts out of the way with each step as she struggled through knee-deep snow. To save time and unnecessary walking, she carried the lambs back in twos, one under each arm. It was hard on the arms, but there was no easy way of doing a task like this. As she trudged up to Richard with yet another pair he glanced across at her. He was breathing heavily, his cheeks were flushed and his forehead shone with sweat. ‘The weather’s worsening,’ he said. ‘I think we should head back.’

She nodded, too out of breath to answer, and jerked her elbows up to hitch forward the two lambs she was carrying. They tended to slowly slither backwards as she walked, and, if she didn’t keep jerking her elbows up to hitch them forward again, they eventually slipped from her arms and landed in a heap in the snow. Protesting at the sudden lurch, the lamb under her left arm raised its head, cocked its ears back and bleated loudly. Instantly, from somewhere to the left, invisible in the falling snow, came the mother’s answering bleat.

‘Yes, all right,’ she said, finally managing to find enough breath to reply. She’d been thinking the same thing herself. The light would start to fail soon.

Tossing his spade on to the ground, Richard took the lambs from her and set them down in the shelter of some trees, to join a dozen or so other lambs. He had put his hat and coat back on when it had started to snow heavily about half an hour before, and he was white from head to toe. The brim of his hat had a thick coating of snow on it.

‘Come on, come over to your lambs!’ he shouted to a small mob of ewes, hovering uncertainly a few yards away. ‘They don’t trust me,’ he said, shaking his head as the ewes stayed firmly put.

‘Well, if I were a ewe, I don’t think I’d trust you either,’ Charlotte remarked.

Richard’s head whipped around so fast that it created a small avalanche from the brim of his hat. ‘You don’t miss an opportunity, do you!’ he said angrily. ‘I didn’t wrong you in any way, Charlotte! I didn’t abuse your trust in any shape or form and you have no right to accuse me of doing so!’

‘I didn’t accuse you of anything,’ she said, giving him a surprised look. ‘We were discussing sheep.’ Her comment had, in fact, been purely and simply a general comment about sheep, but Richard had obviously read a lot more into it.

‘You were implying it!’

‘No.’ She lifted her chin and kept her eyes fixed on his.

‘Oh, don’t deny it, Charlotte! You’ve been doing it ever since I arrived at the farm—making insinuating little comments, nothing overt, but your meaning has been bloody obvious all the same! I’m surprised Eliza hasn’t noticed. Everyone else has.’

‘Well, perhaps you should ask yourself why everyone else has noticed but not Eliza,’ she suggested.

Richard tightened his lips. ‘I know she’s not as clever as you, Charlotte, but she’s a fine woman and I’m proud to call her my wife.’

‘I wasn’t implying that your wife lacks intelligence, Richard,’ she
returned evenly. ‘I was referring to the fact that you clearly haven’t told her about our past relationship. We were talking about trust, were we not?’

‘Have you told Fairfield?’ he countered. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t!’

‘No, I haven’t. But I’m not married to him, nor engaged to
be
married to him,’ she said. ‘You
are
married to Eliza. If you’ve any sense, you’ll tell her. How long do you think it will be before someone inadvertently makes a comment that sets her thinking? I know one thing: if I were in Eliza’s shoes I’d sooner hear something like that from my husband than learn it some other way.’

‘Charlotte, kindly allow me to handle
my
marriage the way
I
see fit!’ Stooping, Richard plucked his spade out of the snow and strode off towards the horses.

Picking up her own spade, Charlotte trudged after him.

W
ell? What’s the news?’ John rubbed his knuckles across his brow as Bill Evans followed Letitia into the parlour. Two hours ago Bill had been dispatched to the Blake farm to find out why Richard hadn’t returned.

Bill shook his head, his lean features even more dour than usual. ‘I’m afraid he’s not there, Mr Blake. He’s out on the hills somewhere.’

Letitia exchanged a worried glance with her husband, then went over to the sofa to sit beside her daughter-in-law. Tears were welling into Eliza’s eyes, brimming over her dark lashes and threatening to spill down her cheeks.

‘Has Edwin been to search for him?’ Grimacing, John rubbed his forehead again. He’d stopped being sick, but he had a fearful headache. It was pounding fit to burst his skull.

Snow dripped from Bill’s moustache on to his oilskin cape, melting in the warmth of the parlour. ‘No. He didn’t get back with the second mob until well after dark. He’s planning on searching for them in the morning at first light. Your daughter is out there, too, I’m afraid. She’s with Captain Steele.’

John’s eyes widened in shock while Eliza jerked her head up and said in a croaky voice, ‘Charlotte is with Richard?’

Bill nodded. ‘They left the house together in the early afternoon and that’s the last anyone’s seen of them.’

Eliza stared at him.

Letitia fixed her eyes worriedly on the fire. The flames were hissing and spitting as snow floated down the chimney in a white mist and landed in the blaze. Closing her eyes, she offered up a brief prayer. ‘Heavenly Father, shield them from harm, guide them to a place of safety.’

John cast a worried glance at the mantel clock. It was six minutes to eleven. ‘How deep is the snow now?’ He glanced back at Bill.

‘Quite deep. We’ll have to search on foot.’

‘You went on foot to the farm, did you?’

Bill nodded matter-of-factly. ‘I did, sir.’

‘Whereabouts are they? Which route did they take?’ John winced as a sharp pain shot across his brow. It was to be hoped he would feel better than this in the morning. Even if he was at death’s door, he would still be going to search for Charlotte and Richard at first light. Surely the storm would have abated by morning.

‘Edwin said he and Tom brought the mob out through the big valley to the north, and they saw no sign of your daughter and Captain Steele there, so they must be in one of the valleys to the south.’ Bill lifted his hand to push back a sodden lock of hair that was dangling over his forehead, dripping on to his nose. ‘Edwin thinks they must have lost their bearings in the blizzard and wandered into a side valley, mistaking it for the route back.’

John nodded. It was easy enough to do. He’d done it once or twice himself when the hills were buried in fog.

‘They’ll be sheltering somewhere,’ Letitia said positively.

John turned to smile grimly at his wife of twenty-four hours. They had promised to love each other in sickness and in health, in trouble and in joy—a promise that was being put to the test very early in the piece.

‘Where? Where can they shelter?’ Eliza looked from face to face
as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘There are plenty of trees for them to shelter beneath,’ John replied. Plenty was something of an exaggeration, but there were some.

‘Mr Blake, your son said I was to tell you that they brought close on two thousand sheep down from the higher ground,’ Bill informed him quietly.

John gave a grunt of acknowledgment. The sheep were a minor matter compared with the safety of his only daughter and his wife’s only son. Still, it was thoughtful of Edwin to send news about the stock, no doubt wanting to put his father’s mind at rest on that score at least. Edwin would be worried about Charlotte, too. The whole family would. There would be little sleep for any of them tonight.

‘Shall I join the search in the morning, sir?’ Bill volunteered.

‘We both shall,’ John returned definitely. ‘Get to your bed now, Bill. I’ll see you at first light.’ He nodded his head in dismissal and lifted his hand in a gesture of thanks.

‘You’ll be up to it, will you, sir?’ Bill asked tentatively.

‘I’ll be up to it,’ John said.

Letitia rose to her feet to see Bill out, leaving Eliza weeping quietly into her handkerchief and John staring into space, grim and silent. The scene was little different when she returned two or three minutes later.

As she walked past John, she reached out to touch his shoulder gently. ‘Go to bed,’ she said softly.

He nodded but didn’t stir from his chair.

Sitting down beside Eliza, Letitia regarded her for a moment in silence. Eliza was hunched forward, her shoulders rocking in time with her sobs. ‘Go to bed, Eliza,’ she whispered. ‘Try to get some sleep.’

Eliza nodded, blew her nose, and without a word left the room.

As silence settled on the parlour, John looked across the room at
his wife. She was staring into the fire. Letitia had been putting on a brave face, but she was as anxious as he was. Ignoring his pounding head, he went over to the writing bureau, pulled open the left-hand drawer and lifted out a small leather-bound Bible, then went to join Letitia on the sofa. ‘Shall we read a psalm or two before we go to bed?’ he suggested quietly.

She nodded and smiled, but her face was still lined with worry.

He smiled back, then flicked through the pages until he came to Psalm 23, which he’d always found a great comfort in times of trouble, and began to read. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…’

Half an hour later they were still sitting in front of the fire, watching the last glowing embers die, Letitia resting her head on John’s shoulder, the Bible lying closed in his lap. The wick in the oil lamp had burnt low and the flame was quivering and leaping, casting fitful shadows on the walls.

‘I used to read the psalms a lot, when Richard first went to sea.’ Letitia’s head moved gently against John’s shoulder as she spoke. ‘I never told him that I worried about him, but I did worry.’

John twisted his head to the side, trying to see her face. ‘Are you worried about him now, Letitia?’

She nodded. ‘I’m worried about both of them. It’s bitterly cold out there, John. I’m fearful they’ll freeze to death during the night.’

John squeezed her hand reassuringly, not that he had a great deal of reassurance to offer. He was worried himself. ‘Richard has a spade with him and I expect Charlotte took one, too. I’m sure they’ll have the sense to dig out some snow and make a barricade against the weather so they can huddle down out of the wind for the night.’ Assuming they were together, that was. His biggest fear was that they might have become separated from each other and that Charlotte
would have to weather the night on her own. Richard, he wasn’t too worried about—a seasoned sea captain, he was used to storms, used to cold nights, and he was a man—but how Charlotte would manage on her own…Pray God she isn’t on her own, he thought. Pray God she is with Richard and they have found somewhere to shelter.

Lifting the Bible from his lap, he set it down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Come on, Letitia. Let’s go to bed,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll be rising again in four or five hours.’ Pushing himself to his feet, he walked over to the table and turned down the wick of the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

It was still dark when John rose. He dressed quickly, shivering in the icy air of the bedroom, listening to the window rattling noisily in its frame. His headache had eased, but the weather hadn’t by the sound of it. He looked over his shoulder as Letitia stirred in her sleep; like him, she’d been awake for most of the night. He bent down to tie his boot laces, then went over to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The snow had banked up on the sill so that only the top half of the pane was clear. He let the curtain fall back again. It was still too dark to see anything; it would be another hour yet before it was fully light. Running his fingers through his hair in a token effort to smooth it, he walked over to the door, quietly pulled it open, and made his way to the kitchen.

He was bent over, strapping on his leather leggings, when the sound of crunching snow reached his ears—it was Bill, making his way to the back door. John did up the last buckle on his leggings, put on his woollen jacket and oilskin cape, reached for his hat and gloves, and prayed that his body would be up to whatever rigours lay ahead.

At a brisk walk he could normally get from farm to farm in twenty minutes. It would take a lot longer than twenty minutes this morning, though. In some places the drifted snow was so deep that he sank down into it as far as his knees. Every step was an effort, added to which it was bitterly cold and still snowing heavily. By the time they reached the farmhouse, John was gasping for breath. Even Bill, twenty years his junior, was wheezing like a pair of old bellows. Edwin had been astir early by the look of things. The snow was well trampled in the yard, and a wide path had been dug out from the back door to clear the way to the barn and the privy.

‘I doubt your son will have gone to search yet, Mr Blake,’ Bill said hoarsely as he joined John at the back door.

John nodded, his features pinched with cold. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’ He stamped his boots and shook the snow from his cape, then lifted the latch and pushed his shoulder against the door. It stuck, as it always did in wet weather. He was just about to give it another shove when it jerked open to reveal Edwin, a thick woollen scarf wrapped around his neck.

‘Father, come inside,’ he said, pulling the door wide. ‘I didn’t know whether to expect you or not. Are you recovered?’

John nodded and pulled off his hat. ‘I’m not too bad.’

‘Bill, come in out of the cold,’ Edwin said, beckoning him in.

‘I hear George has been ill, too,’ John said.

‘He has,’ Edwin replied as he latched the door again. ‘He’s on the mend now, though. He’s in bed still, but he came down earlier to say that he wants to help to search. I said I’d tell him when we’re ready to leave. I’ve been waiting for the weather to ease. I’ve been up since five—Tom has too—hoping the snow would abate enough for us to mount a search.’

John nodded. He could tell from his son’s face that he hadn’t found it an easy decision to delay searching, but it was the right one. The grim
reality was they had no choice but to wait until the weather improved. They had as much chance of finding Charlotte and Richard in these conditions as searching for them blindfolded. There were other things to be considered, too: Edwin had a wife and family, and much as his instincts might tell him to defy the weather and search regardless, he had to be sensible. Difficult as it was, they all had to be sensible.

‘Take off your wet coats and sit down. I’ll make us a cup of tea once the kettle has boiled,’ Sarah said over her shoulder. She was on her knees in front of the fire, trying to breathe some life into it with the bellows. The wood was wet, and there was more smoke than flame coming from the hearth.

‘Where’s Tom?’ John asked as he turned to hang his hat on the hook on the back door.

‘He’s slipped back home to see how Jessie is. She’s ill, too,’ Edwin replied.

‘Jessie, too?’ John said in surprise.

‘We think the candied fruits you ate on your wedding day were bad,’ Sarah said. ‘Jessie tasted a few, and you and George ate some, but the rest of us didn’t.’

‘Letitia said she thought it was something I’d eaten,’ John said, shrugging off his wet cape. Like the rest of the family, he was making an effort to make normal conversation. He turned to hang his coat up to drip, glancing through the window as he did so to see if the snow was thinning out. It wasn’t. He walked over to the kitchen table. ‘You’ve been looking at the map of the property, I see,’ he said, stretching across for it.

Edwin went over to stand beside his father. ‘I’ve been trying to think where they might be sheltering.’ Looking back over his shoulder, he beckoned Bill.

‘What are these?’ John asked, pointing to some marks Edwin had made on the map.

‘Trees and outcrops of flax. I was trying to mark the places where the sheep congregate for shelter when the weather’s bad. And these lines here, they’re outcrops of rocks that might afford some shelter. I can’t vouch for its accuracy—I’ve drawn it from memory.’

John nodded. He’d been conducting a similar exercise himself, in his head, for the best part of the night. Much as he didn’t want to countenance the possibility that Charlotte and Richard might succumb to the cold and lose consciousness, it
was
a possibility, and the longer they were out in the weather the stronger that possibility became. It was imperative, therefore, to establish the best places to look for them, once a search became possible. His hope was that they would find the two of them making their way out.

‘There may still be faint traces of their footsteps,’ Bill said as he joined them at the table.

‘There may,’ John agreed, but he doubted it. If the snow had been settling gently where it fell, their tracks would have been easy to see, but it had been blowing a blizzard for most of the night, and still was, and he didn’t hold out much hope of finding any tracks. He traced the course of the main valley to the south, the one they’d most likely taken, with his finger. The difficulty was that it had dozens of smaller valleys leading into it, any one of which Charlotte and Richard could mistakenly have wandered into.

Edwin folded his arms, frowning as he stared at the map. ‘They didn’t take the dogs with them, so Charlotte couldn’t have had it in mind to muster another mob. Sarah says they both had spades with them, so my guess is that Charlotte suggested to Richard that they should try to rescue as many lambs as they could and put them somewhere sheltered in the hopes the ewes would join them and survive the night. Charlotte rode out with me when we had the last heavy fall of snow, so she knows what to do.’

John reached up to scratch his chin, suddenly realizing as his
fingernails rasped against a forest of stubble that he hadn’t shaved for two days. ‘The question is: how far would they have got?’