Moon Rising (16 page)

‘If I'd known...' he declared, then shook his head in bemusement. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

For answer I reached up and pressed my cheek to his. ‘I wanted you to love me,' I whispered, and the truth of it astonished me. I had no regrets, no sense of betrayal, only a sense of having made a decision, and taken something for myself. Nevertheless, there was a lump in my throat as I added: ‘I wanted you to be the first.'

Something between a sigh and a groan escaped him as he hugged me tight. ‘Oh, Damaris, my dear – I don't deserve gifts like that...'

~~~

Desire had been enhanced by more than one forbidden thrill as we explored the ruins together, but at the height of passion I'd forgotten where we were. Afterwards, seized by sudden dread, I feared God and the Lady Hilda would strike us down for desecrating holy ground. And Bram was equally anxious to leave, even though he assured me that such ruins were no longer part of the Church, and hadn't been for several hundred years.

When I returned to the Cragg it was well after midnight and the house was quiet. I crept up the stairs in stockinged feet, dreading the appearance of Bella, who would have sensed the change in me and demanded to know everything at once. What's more, she would have cast contempt on it, and I couldn't have borne that. I felt grown-up at last, and immensely superior, as though I'd been let into an enormous secret, vouchsafed to only a few.

I thought I wouldn't sleep, but I did, like a babe, and woke feeling cheerful and gloriously alive. I did my work at the studio, picked up Jack's note, and returned to the Cragg to wash and change and eat a breakfast of fried bread and bacon. Only a sliver of bacon, mind, and that done to a crisp, but I cared not a jot. For once, food was not important.

Minutes later I was hurrying to meet my lover. He was waiting for me in the gardens on the west cliff, clear grey eyes sparkling as they lit upon me, hands crushing my fingers for a long moment as we met. I felt breathless with joy.

‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Oh,
yes
. . .'

‘Me too.' His smile broadened into a conspiratorial grin, and he turned to indicate a neatly wrapped parcel on the seat behind him. ‘I happened to mention that I was going out walking for the day, so the lady at the hotel insisted on making up some sandwiches for me. Enough to sink the fleet! I thought we could share them, and maybe buy a bottle of ginger beer somewhere along the way?'

Touched by his enthusiasm, I nodded eagerly. ‘Of course – where do you want to start?' I showed him Jack's note, which named half a dozen cottages, most of them a little way out of town.

‘The sea,' he said longingly. ‘If just one of them has a view of the sea, then that's the one I want.'

‘In that case,' I said, ‘we'll start at Dunsley and work back.'

It was about three miles, a pleasant walk along the beach towards Sandsend, then under the new railway and inland via a steep cart-track to a group of farms and cottages. They overlooked the densely-wooded Mulgrave estate which stretched deep inland along a narrow valley. When we found the first cottage, it turned out to be one of a row of three and had no view to speak of, so we shook our heads and moved on. With Mulgrave Castle behind us we kept roughly parallel to the cliffs until we came to Newholm, which was a little more substantial and had the advantage of being a mile closer to Whitby.

Although less high than Dunsley, there were some excellent views, and I found myself hoping that Bram would find what he wanted here. But we had such difficulty finding the cottage, being directed down every road but the right one, we nearly gave up, thinking Jack Louvain must have made some mistake. Then we found it, some distance from the village, a low, solitary little place built into the hillside, with limewashed walls and a pantiled roof, and, at the bottom of the garden, a leaning, windblown hedge.

My eyes took in the sheltered hollow with its view of the sea beyond. It certainly looked pleasing; I hoped the interior was as good. ‘Well,' I said, ‘this might do.'

‘It might indeed,' he agreed softly. ‘I wonder who has the key?'

We made enquiries at the farm we'd passed earlier, but as the farmer's wife came down to open up for us, I kept my interest discreet. There were only two rooms, stone-flagged, with a scullery attached and a privy outside. The place had been decently furnished with a high brass bed, chest of drawers and wash-stand in the far room, while in the other stood a scrubbed kitchen table with benches and a high-backed oak settle. Folding screens pushed back to disclose a narrow, old-fashioned box-bed set into an alcove by the chimney, and a side table, which looked as though it might do duty as a desk, stood under the window. There was even pair of wheel-back chairs beside the range, and a row of utensils hanging from the high mantelpiece. Everything was neat and clean, if smelling noticeably of damp.

The place had been empty all winter, the woman said; there was less work to be had on the land these days, people were leaving, setting up in town, working in manufactories and shipyards, and there was nothing to be done with these old properties but let them out to visitors. She sniffed disapprovingly – clearly not the owner – while Bram raised an eyebrow and suddenly became very much the London gentleman instead of the easygoing character he'd been only minutes ago.

He turned to me. ‘Hm, well, I'm not so sure after all, my dear. Did you say your uncle has a property to let at Robin Hood's Bay?'

‘He has several,' I said drily, fixing my eyes on the distant horizon; ‘all with fine sea views.'

‘Oh, this is a good cottage here, sir,' the woman interjected, ‘very sheltered from the worst weather, as you'd know if you were here in the wintertime. I can have milk delivered for you every day – and fresh bread. Meals too, sir, if you're on your own.'

He pulled at his beard and seemed to be considering, while I wanted to laugh for I knew his mind was made up. Eventually, he said: ‘That depends – I'm a writer, so I'd prefer not to be disturbed.'

‘Whatever you say, sir – it's entirely up to you. The service is there if you want it.'

‘Good. Well, I rather think I'll take the place. I must confess it's the view that's decided me.' He turned from the window and smiled. ‘So how do we settle the arrangements?'

She directed him to the agency in town, and while Bram gave her his card and said he would take the cottage for a month, the woman – who introduced herself as Mrs Newbold – agreed to air the rooms, light a fire in the range, and have everything ready for him to move in by noon the next day.

There was something ordained about it, I thought as we went outside. As though contracts had been signed and possession taken already; and as though something personal and more profound was about to be settled between the two of us.

When Mrs Newbold had gone we didn't hurry away but sat on a bench by the wall in order to congratulate ourselves. It seemed right to celebrate with our picnic lunch, so we opened the bottles of ginger beer and laughingly toasted each other as though with champagne. I shivered pleasurably as bubbles ran down my chin and Bram wiped them away, his touch intensifying memories of the night before. I loved his hands. To me they were beautiful, clean and well-shaped, with long fingers and rounded nails. The only noticeable blemish was a dark-stained callus on his middle finger where he held his pen, and I was fascinated even by that. I remember watching him unwrap the parcel, and wishing he were unwrapping me.

He caught my eye and grinned as he handed me a sandwich of ham and mustard in crusty white bread; it was delicious, but I was so aware of him it was difficult to eat. I tried to study the distant horizon, but then he studied me until we both began to laugh.

The food was barely half eaten when he took my hand and led me through the hollow of the garden to a spot beyond the hedge. Well hidden from any prying eyes, we fell back into long, dry grass that was more like a hayfield, scented with meadow flowers and the salty tang of the sea. It was then that he touched me, stroking my face and throat like a blind man, and running his hands – those beautiful hands – over my arms and shoulders as though needing to assure himself that I was real. It was as if the night before had been no more than a taste, a sample of what pleasures we might enjoy, should we be given time and opportunity to proceed.

Beneath the disguise of his beard and moustache, he had a full, rather sensual mouth and strong white teeth that fascinated me. I bent to kiss him and the light teasing was abandoned for a grip which brought me down on top of him, for a playful exchange of lovebites and kisses which soon demanded satisfaction. We were hampered by layers of clothing, yet nothing was removed; consumed by inner fires, we managed to perform the most intimate of acts out there on that grassy slope, too satisfied afterwards to feel any kind of shame.

That neglected spot was too removed to be seen from either beach or railway, and the chance of human eyes peering down on us in shocked surprise was negligible; at least, that's what we told each other afterwards. And afterwards, when he was calm and relaxed and almost asleep, he sighed deeply and told me with a smile in his voice it was the best picnic he'd ever had.

Nothing was said that day about my moving into the cottage, yet I had an instinct about it, strong enough to prompt me to sort out my belongings when I returned to the Cragg. The books, I think, were what brought Jonathan to the forefront of my mind. Ever since my argument with Bella I'd been pushing him away, refusing to entertain the possibility that I was betraying anything. After all, what was there to betray? Attraction, liking, minutes of tongue-tied conversation on largely neutral subjects – shipping, trade, weather, books, the finer points of seamanship and navigation – and a kiss, of course, which I knew full well was rather more than casual.

But I didn't want it to be important. I didn't want Jonathan to be important, I'd never wanted that. I didn't want him, no matter how good-looking he was. He was nineteen, or perhaps twenty, with years to serve before he could call himself Master, before he could afford to marry and settle down. Always provided he wanted to marry me. Always provided he survived and his mother didn't make his life a misery for even thinking of marrying someone like me. Well, I'd settled the matter now, once and for all. He wouldn't want to marry another man's mistress, which saved me from torturing myself on the subject.

All the same, beneath my sense of satisfaction, I had a bad conscience.

Early next morning I washed a few things, put them out in the yard to dry, then went upstairs to pack all but immediate necessities. Bella came up to my room in the midst of it and knew at once what I was doing.

‘I see you've made up your mind, then.' At my cursory nod, she said, ‘So, did you get a job, or are you moving in with him?'

I took a deep breath. ‘Neither, yet. But I will be leaving in the next day or two – I don't think I can stay here any longer, Bella, do you?'

‘I suppose not,' she said with a sigh of deep resignation. ‘All I can say is, I hope it's worth it. I hope he treats you like you deserve, and not like -' She broke off, compressing full lips into a thin line of disapproval. ‘Well, you know what I think of men.'

When I looked up, she'd gone. So few words, yet they had the ring of finality. All at once I was seized by great pangs of guilt, and for a moment wanted to hurry downstairs, put my arms around Bella and say sorry, it doesn't have to be like this, we can still be friends no matter what. But as I turned towards the door it came to me that whatever had been between us before was over. And even if I was sorry, I knew I couldn't wait to get away. So I didn't go after her, didn't say the comforting words I should perhaps have said; and, from that moment on, made sure I kept out of her way.

~~~

Two days later, when Bram had moved in, unpacked, and filled the little cottage with his presence, he asked me to stay with him.

I felt a great surge of happiness and relief, but tried, even as I agreed, to damp down my own excitement. Recent experience told me I had to make things clear from the start. Even so, I found myself blushing and stumbling over the words.

‘You know how much I like you,' I began earnestly, ‘and I need a holiday too, so yes, thank you, I will stay. Not that I am in love – nothing like that – and I do not expect anything from you, except...' Pausing to breathe, I said, ‘Except I must have your respect.'

He was trying hard not to smile. ‘My dear, you have that already...'

‘And my work at the studio has to come first. I cannot afford to give it up, because...'

My words were lost in his embrace. ‘No need to explain,' he murmured against my hair. ‘I promise to respect that, just as I respect you, dear girl...'

I freed myself. ‘But I will cook for you – and take care of you – in return for my keep.'

Just for a moment, his eyes were bright with emotion. With a little bow, he thanked me, and all at once I was on the verge of tears myself.

~~~

I had to back to the Cragg for my box, and with Lizzie's help moved my things as far as the studio.

Jack Louvain's disapproval was obvious. Very briefly, studying my new gloves, I explained that I'd accepted a temporary job as housekeeper to Mr Stoker while he was on holiday, but needed to leave my box at the studio for a little while until it could be picked up. There was a long and uncomfortable silence before Jack said in a very controlled voice that he hoped I knew what I was doing, and hadn't leapt out of the frying pan into the fire. When I dared to look up he was frowning at his list of appointments.

‘But I couldn't stay with the Firths any longer...'

‘I know that,' he said curtly. ‘I just don't want you to let me down at a time when I need you most. And you'd better get that box moved as soon as you can – it's in the way.'