The Sea Between (18 page)

‘John, will you have a game with me?’ he challenged.

John raised his brows. ‘It’s a while since I’ve played draughts.’

‘All the better,’ Richard returned with a grin.

John laughed and, pushing himself stiffly out of the armchair, went to join Richard at the table.

As Richard set out the draughts on the board, he glanced across at Eliza and smiled. She smiled back, in a better mood now the house had warmed up, then continued with her embroidery.

‘Any preference for colour, John?’

John waved his hand dismissively. ‘No. I’ll take the ones nearest to me—the black ones.’

Half an hour into the game, it was becoming increasingly apparent to Richard that, despite John’s claim that he hadn’t played for some time, John was no novice. John currently had three crowns to his one.

‘Who do you usually play against?’ Richard asked, as John considered his next move. ‘Edwin?’

John shook his head. ‘No. Edwin has no patience with board games. I used to play against Charlotte, until she went to live with George. She plays a very shrewd game of draughts.’

Richard looked down at the board again. He’d been thinking about Charlotte all day, wondering what she was doing, how she
was passing the time. He’d dreamed about her last night, too—one of those stupid, confused, fragmented dreams which made perfect sense in sleep but none at all now. He had dreamed they were in their snowy cave, and Charlotte had been laughing and talking to him, the way she had when he’d courted her. She’d been wearing the silver brooch he’d given her. Then out of the blue Fairfield had appeared, with his head all bandaged up, and Charlotte had gone outside to talk to him. He had waited in the cave and, when she didn’t return, he’d gone out to look for her, but it was a pebbly beach that he had stepped out onto, not a snow-covered valley, and not far from the shore the
Nina
was lying at anchor. Dreams were strange things. It hadn’t seemed at all odd for the hillside to suddenly turn into a pebbly beach. It had stretched for miles in either direction, as far as the eye could see, with no sign of Charlotte or Fairfield anywhere. He’d been angry, he recalled, because she’d disappeared, gone off with Fairfield somewhere; then he’d caught sight of her in the sea, making for the
Nina.
Anger forgotten, he’d plunged into the waves and swum after her. Suddenly he had lost sight of her. He’d stopped, trying to see where she was, treading water to keep himself afloat, but just as he spotted her something had caught hold of his ankle. He’d glanced down and seen to his annoyance that it was Fairfield: he was beneath the water, white bandages floating like long straps of seaweed from his head. Richard had kicked out violently to free himself, tangled his feet in the bandages, or bed-sheets as it had turned out, and woken himself up. Dreams were frustrating things—they never seemed to have a satisfactory ending. He’d had a conversation about dreams with Charlotte once. She had a theory on why they never—

‘Richard.’

He looked up as John’s voice jerked him abruptly back to earth. Smiling, John dipped his head towards the board. ‘Your move.’

By the time dinner was ready, Richard was losing to the tune
of four games to one and was glad of an excuse to stop. He had no concentration at all and felt quite embarrassed by his performance. After dinner, he played cards with Eliza for an hour while John read and Letitia did her lacework, then at nine o’clock they all retired to bed. Cold, Eliza snuggled up to him. He put his arms around her, kissed the back of her head, closed his eyes and prayed he wouldn’t dream of Charlotte again.

The next morning a thick, hard crust of ice was coating the snow, glistening like glass beneath a wintry sun. A light easterly was blowing, and it was looking as if they might have seen the last of the snow. Able to do something at last, John, Richard and Bill went to see how the cattle were faring. There were quite a few dead or nearly dead animals, but most had survived. They were cold, however, and hungry.

‘What we need is rain to melt this snow,’ John said, looking hopefully at the sky in which a few billowy thunderclouds were massing.

It came in the evening, heavy rain, and continued through the night. In the early hours, Richard was woken by a loud grating sound followed by a dull thud as snow slid from the roof and landed on the ground beneath. By morning the roof was clear and the snow lying on the ground had shrunk to a depth of about a foot. A foot of grey slush.

Anxious to know the fate of the ewes and lambs, John set off for the Blake farm straight after breakfast. It was mid-afternoon when he returned, and the news he brought was not good.

‘I’d say we’ve lost a quarter of the flock probably. We won’t know the exact figure until we can do a full muster,’ John reported in sombre tones. He turned to look back up the hill in the direction of
the Blake farm and shook his head. ‘The stock losses are the least of my worries, though. Charlotte’s ill. She’s burning up with a fever.’

Richard’s chest tightened. ‘Is it serious?’

‘I hope not,’ John replied.

Richard spent the next three days experiencing a taste of what Eliza had gone through when she’d feared that she might lose him to the storm. Now he held similar fears for Charlotte. Every day, straight after breakfast, he rode up to the farm with John to find out how she was. Being her father, John went into her bedroom to speak to her and to see how she was for himself; Richard had to make do with second-hand reports. In the event, the raging fever gradually subsided and developed into nothing worse than a bad cold.

It wasn’t until the morning Richard was due to leave that he finally managed to see her. It was sheer chance that he managed to speak to her on her own for a few minutes—she’d been to the privy and was returning to the house just as he arrived in the yard.

‘Richard!’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought you’d left.’

Dismounting, he walked over to her. ‘We’ll be leaving as soon as I get back to the farm. I rode over to say goodbye to everyone. How are you feeling?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ she replied, pulling the woollen shawl more closely around her. She lowered her eyes for a second then looked up again and to his surprise said, ‘Will you come into the barn for a minute, please, Richard?’

He glanced at the house then, removing his hat, followed her into the barn, leaving the horse in the yard.

Once inside, Charlotte turned to face him and said quietly, ‘I want to apologize for my behaviour over the past week. I was angry with you, but that’s no excuse. My behaviour was childish and petty.
I ought to have apologized to you while we were trapped in the snow but…’ Her shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug. ‘I suppose pride got in the way. Anyway, I want to apologize now. I’m sorry, Richard. I promise that I won’t try to rile you any more.’

Richard stared at her. An apology was the last thing he’d expected her to offer, and he felt at a loss to know how to respond. At length, he did the only thing he could think of. He held out his hand. ‘Shall we try to be friends, Charlotte?’ he suggested quietly.

She nodded, gave an awkward smile, and placed her hand in his.

He curled his fingers around hers, then slowly uncurled them again and let her go.

As they walked out of the barn together into the wintry air, his thoughts returned to the two bitterly cold nights they’d spent together on the snowbound hills. ‘How did you manage to keep warm?’ John had asked him. His reply had been deliberately evasive. ‘We managed’ was all he’d said. He couldn’t tell John that he had held Charlotte in his arms all night, that he had unbuttoned his coat and wrapped the two of them inside it for warmth, that he’d rested his cheek on her head while she slept, and kissed her hair.

Friends. Step-brother and step-sister. He and Charlotte were everything under the sun, save the one thing he had wanted them to be.

January 1868

T
he newspaper crackled noisily as George turned the page. He was going through some of the December newspapers, cutting out articles of interest, and was currently rereading the report in
The Lyttelton Times
describing the opening of the Lyttelton to Heathcote rail tunnel.

Bored with her book, Charlotte set it down and, with nothing better to do, reached into the cardboard box at George’s feet, which was labelled
Newspaper accounts of memorable occasions.
The account of the tunnel opening would shortly be destined for here. Lifting out the report of the August snow storm, she settled back on the couch with it. The account was surprisingly scant, considering the number of stock that had died. The losses that the Blake and Steele households had sustained, although not crippling, had been substantial.

‘That’s a very fine account of the rail tunnel opening,’ George commented, nodding approvingly.

Leaning over, Charlotte dropped the article about the snow storm back in the box. ‘Have you finished reading it, George? I wouldn’t mind reading it again.’ She smiled her thanks as he passed it to her. The first public train had steamed through the tunnel on 9 December. It had been quite an occasion.

‘I’m really looking forward to travelling through the tunnel on the
train,’ Ann said enthusiastically as she drew a red silk thread through the back of her embroidery frame. ‘Have you decided what day we’re going to take the train, George? Mrs Henderson has kindly offered to look after Charles for the day when we go.’

George unhelpfully shook his head. ‘Eliza seems keen for Richard and her to accompany us so I can’t set a firm date until Richard arrives ashore. His ship is due any day. It’s listed in the expected arrivals in today’s newspaper, I see.’

Charlotte turned her attention back to the newspaper clipping. She had mixed feelings about seeing Richard again. Last August at the farm they had made their peace with each other and agreed to be friends, so in that respect things would be better between them. She had also come to realize, after one or two things Richard had said back then, that she had hurt him very badly when she’d said she wouldn’t marry him unless he fell in with her suggestions. Looking back on it now, she could see very clearly how he’d interpreted that to mean that she didn’t love him very much. But at the time she’d been so busy licking her own wounds, so busy thinking that he didn’t love her very much, that she’d never stopped to consider Richard’s point of view, never considered that he might be feeling equally hurt. That was the trouble when you were hurting: you looked at the world in a very blinkered way. So on the one side of the coin there was peace between them and they’d agreed to be friends; but on the other side of the coin she’d spent two full nights wrapped in Richard’s arms for warmth, while they’d been trapped in the snow, and those two nights had stirred up feelings inside her that went well beyond the feelings shared between friends.

Forget Richard Steele,
Isobel had written in her parting piece of advice. But how could you forget someone who kept reappearing every few months and whose wife you saw just about every day? Not easily.

She shook the newspaper, unconsciously mimicking George’s irritating habit. What she needed was to fall in love, marry, settle down and have a family. Perhaps if she tried harder she would fall in love with William and feel the strong emotions for him that she’d once felt for Richard. William was intelligent, charming, and quite a good-looking man. Eliza thought he was very handsome—she’d said as much to Ann. Breathing out a low sigh, Charlotte forced her attention back to the newspaper again.

Richard’s ship arrived two days late. Unfavourable winds, he explained. Charlotte couldn’t help thinking that the unfavourable winds were the ones that kept blowing him ashore. She glanced across at him. The six of them—Richard and Eliza, George and Ann, and William and herself—had all come to Christchurch on the train for the day. They were now in the town centre and William was inspecting the abandoned foundations of the cathedral, largely buried beneath the long grass. It was over three years since Bishop Harper had ceremonially laid the foundation stone, and the foundations had been completed within a year, at which point the funds had run out and the cathedral had languished in its embarrassingly stunted state ever since.

‘I hope it won’t be abandoned entirely.’ William shook his head ruefully as he swept the long grass aside with his boot to reveal the low stone wall. ‘It would be a great waste, after spending thousands of pounds on the foundations.’

‘I really don’t know why they went ahead with the foundations, when they knew they didn’t have any money for anything else,’ Charlotte commented.

William smiled wryly as he turned towards her. ‘You surely aren’t censuring the Church for building on a foundation of faith?’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘I don’t doubt their faith, William; just their wisdom.’

William gave an amused chuckle. ‘I don’t believe you’re aware of the changes that have occurred over the past few years, Charlotte. When the decision to proceed with the foundations was made, the province was in a fairly buoyant state. It would have been difficult to foresee that things would take a sudden downturn. I expect the diocese thought it would have no trouble at all in raising the necessary funds, but unfortunately people aren’t so ready to part with their money when times are a little uncertain.’

‘William. Charlotte.’

They turned in unison as George called to them, beckoning them over. He and Ann were talking to Richard and Eliza.

‘We’re going to find a tea-rooms and have a cup of tea. Ann’s tired and needs to sit down for a while,’ George said, as William and Charlotte joined them.

Good, Charlotte thought. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She glanced down at the waistcoat pocket in which William kept his fob watch. ‘What time is it, William?’ she enquired casually.

Obligingly, William consulted his watch. ‘Nearly half-past two.’

‘As late as that?’ she said, frowning. ‘Would you mind very much if we don’t join everyone else for tea? I was hoping to go to Goodridge’s before we leave.’ And go without Richard and Eliza tagging along.

‘Goodridge’s?’ Eliza asked inquisitively.

‘A jeweller,’ William supplied helpfully. ‘He specializes in silverware.’

‘Silverware?’ Eliza’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Richard—do let’s go with them.’ Her fingers tightened entreatingly on his arm. ‘I do so love silver.’

Richard glanced down the street, looking as if he’d have preferred to go to the tea-rooms. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte prayed the tea would win.

‘Please, Richard,’ Eliza wheedled.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. The tea had just lost.

‘All right, Eliza,’ Richard ceded. ‘But don’t expect me to purchase half his stock.’

‘Where shall we meet you and Ann, George?’ William raised his brows enquiringly. ‘Here?’

George nodded. ‘In an hour, say.’

Leaving George and Ann to head off towards the tea-rooms, the four of them set off for the silversmith’s, Samuel Goodridge Esquire, located on Armagh Street.

‘Oh look—Sir George Grey has been here!’ Eliza exclaimed delightedly as she caught sight of the card prominently displayed in Goodridge’s window, proudly advising that his Excellency the Governor had patronized the premises on his last visit to the city. ‘Oh, what a pretty necklace, Richard. See: that one there with the figured oval pendant!’ she said in the same breath, pointing to it with her finger.

‘It ought to be pretty at that price,’ Richard commented over her shoulder.

Eliza pulled a face, then looked across at Charlotte. ‘Does anything take your fancy, Charlotte?’

Charlotte smiled pleasantly and shook her head. ‘I’m not here to buy, only to collect something I’ve had repaired.’ The something was the silver brooch that Richard had bought her. She’d left it with the jeweller three weeks ago to have the broken clasp repaired. She’d have sooner not collected it when Richard was there.

Reaching for the handle, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, with William following behind her. He closed the door behind them, leaving Eliza and Richard outside, still scrutinizing the goods in the window. The silversmith’s premises were quite dark inside, but even in the poor light the silver jewellery inside the glass-fronted display cabinet beneath the counter gleamed bewitchingly. The
impressive array of brooches, necklaces, rings, and silver fob watches had been carefully arranged to show them to their best advantage, set out on tiered shelves covered in rich ruby velvet. Jewellery aside, Mr Goodridge, the proprietor, also had a very fine selection of silver tea sets, serving dishes, cutlery and candlesticks, which he kept in an enormous floor-to-ceiling cupboard with glass doors that occupied the whole of one wall. He was sitting behind the counter, vigorously buffing a teapot with a soft cloth.

Looking up from his polishing, Mr Goodridge nodded at them. ‘You’ve come to collect your brooch, Miss Blake.’

Charlotte blinked at him in surprise, amazed that he’d remembered not only her face but her name. ‘What an exceptionally good memory you have,’ she complimented him.

Setting down the silver teapot and his polishing cloth on the counter, he pushed back the stool that he was perched on and stood up. ‘Not as a rule, but my wife was a Blake before we married, and you’ve a look of her. Well, a look of how she looked twenty years ago when I married her,’ he amended with a smile.

‘She must have been a very handsome woman,’ William remarked. He glanced down at Charlotte, trying to catch her eye, but she purposely didn’t look at him. She wasn’t averse to compliments, but she preferred them to be offered in private, not in public. Public compliments, like the one William had just paid her, smacked of cheap flattery, added to which she found them quite embarrassing.

Mr Goodridge, with a widening smile, nodded. ‘My wife still is a very handsome woman.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ Charlotte agreed pleasantly. ‘Is my brooch ready, Mr Goodridge?’

‘It is, indeed,’ he said and, taking the hint, promptly disappeared into the back room.

‘I’m sorry. I embarrassed you,’ William apologized quietly.

She looked up to meet his eyes. ‘Yes, you did,’ she said.

‘Let me buy you something—to make amends.’ He reached for her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed her fingers. ‘A ring, perhaps?’

She smiled, not wanting to make an issue of it, and slipped her hand free, but before she could decline his offer the shop door swung open to admit Richard and Eliza. Judging by the delighted smile on Eliza’s face, she’d persuaded her husband to buy her something.

‘Here it is,’ Mr Goodridge announced, emerging from the back room with a small box in his hand. ‘Ah, good afternoon,’ he said, nodding at his new customers. ‘I won’t be long. Perhaps you’d like to inspect the goods inside the shop while you’re waiting.’

Catching sight of the gleaming display of silver tableware, Eliza made a bee-line for it, while Richard went to join Charlotte and William at the counter.

‘It could prove an expensive afternoon for you, Captain Steele,’ William commiserated. Then added with a quick smile at Charlotte, ‘For me, also.’

‘You’re together, are you?’ Mr Goodridge enquired, as he pulled the lid off the little box.

‘Yes, we are,’ Richard replied, taking it upon himself to answer. Resting his arm on the counter, he glanced down casually as Mr Goodridge reached into the box with his thumb and forefinger and lifted out the brooch. He took one look at it, then shot Charlotte a furious look.

She moved her head fractionally from side to side, trying to reassure him that he needn’t worry, but she could tell from his face that he hadn’t understood.

‘I think you’ll agree, it’s a very fine repair. You’d never know the clasp had been broken,’ Mr Goodridge said, holding out the brooch to her.

Taking it from him, she laid it in her palm, clasp side up, to reveal the underside. She couldn’t resist a small smile as Richard leaned forward to make sure his eyesight wasn’t failing him. He’d been expecting to see the incriminating inscription—
To Charlotte, with love, R
—but it wasn’t there. There was just smooth, unembellished silver. Along with the repair to the clasp, she’d asked for the inscription to be removed. An inscription of that nature was bound to prompt questions if by chance it was seen, and it wouldn’t require a great leap of the imagination to link the silver barque and the initial
R
with Richard. Practical considerations aside, the removal of the inscription had also been a symbolic act, to wipe the slate clean as it were, an acknowledgment that whatever there had once been between Richard and herself was now over.

‘Oh, yes, that’s very good,’ she said, nodding approvingly. The silversmith had done his work well—no one would ever know that an inscription had once been there.

‘It’s a very fine brooch,’ Mr Goodridge complimented. ‘Crafted in London, by James Oakley, an extremely reputable silversmith. See—that’s his mark there,’ he said, pointing to it. ‘Yes, a very fine brooch indeed,’ Goodridge repeated as he removed it from her hand. Instead of replacing it in its box, though, he reached for his eyeglass and wedged it in front of his right eye, screwing up his face in order to hold it there. ‘Oakley is an exceptionally skilful artisan. He’s particularly noted for his minute detail. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Miss Blake, but the ship has a name inscribed on the hull. Did you realize that?’

She swallowed and, before Goodridge had a chance to add more, inserted quickly, ‘Yes, I did. Er…could you parcel it up now, please. I’m afraid we don’t have a great deal of time, Mr Goodridge.’

‘Before you parcel it up, may I see?’ William asked, holding out his hand.

‘Certainly you may.’ Removing his eyeglass, Goodridge handed it to William then passed him the brooch.

Charlotte glanced helplessly at Richard then looked quickly away again as Eliza walked over to join him. She hardly dared think what the outcome of this would be.