Salting the Wound (28 page)

‘There, you see, that’s what happened. We’ll wait for a little bit longer, until we hear from him.’

‘I have a ship to sail, Marianne.’

‘Just another week, Erasmus,’ she pleaded.

He nodded, saying reluctantly. ‘I’ll see if I can find out anything more.’

Daisy trotted out with her panacea for all misfortune. ‘I’ll go and make some tea.’

Erasmus didn’t want to be penned up with two grieving women, Marianne knew. He wanted to be out on the sea where he belonged, too busy to think of anything but battling the sea, with the wind filling the
Daisy Jane
’s sails and the water hissing along the hull.

Even when he was at home his eyes constantly went to the harbour. There he’d make his peace with Nick. She wondered . . .‘Would you have given up the sea for my mother, Erasmus?’

‘Aye, I’d have given up my life for her.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘After the baby was born we were going to sail away together.’

There was a nasty jolt inside her at such unexpected news. ‘She would have left her children?’

‘No, not my Caroline.’

‘But my father . . .’

‘Found out about our plans, and he wouldn’t let her take you and your sister. She felt she had no choice but to stay. When she died I thought I’d die too.’

‘That’s how I feel about Nick. How can you stop yourself from feeling this sad and despairing?’

‘You fill your life with something else. Soon you’ll have a child to fill the hole in your life.’

She took his hand in hers. ‘Erasmus, about the infant.’

‘It will give you a reason to go on living, girl, and it will want for nothing. Nick has money his father left him. That will become yours.’

‘I meant your infant . . . the little girl my mother birthed that night.’

He didn’t bother denying it, and his eyes clouded over. ‘Aye, what about her? I can’t bring her back.’

‘What if you could?’

His eyes came to hers, dark and searching. ‘What are you saying, girl?’

The words jerked out of her. ‘What if your daughter had lived?’

The silence seemed to stretch into infinity. Eventually he gave a faint grimace. ‘There is no proof. You’ve been listening to rumours.’

‘There’s no infant named on my mother’s headstone. I was going to ask the undertaker if a stillborn child had been buried with her, but he’d sold his business and gone. I remember hearing a baby cry that night. It woke me from my sleep.’

He drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her head, and she felt comforted. ‘You remind me so much of Caroline, you know, Marianne. If I thought my daughter was still alive I’d turn the world upside down to find her, and to hell with gossip. But I’m sure she isn’t. Even if that baby had lived, we were unsure if I was the father or not, though we used to pretend . . .’

‘The reverend said that stillborn children are often not named.’

‘There you are then.’

‘If I die having this baby, and if Charlotte won’t give him a home, you and Aunt Daisy will look after him, won’t you? He’ll need a father.’

‘You’re not going to die, my dear. The midwife said you’re perfectly healthy, and should give birth easily.’

‘But if I do die, promise me you’ll look after him.’

He let her go and moved up the sofa a little, taking her hands in his. ‘I promise. But when I return from the next run, and if . . . if Nick has perished, I’ll give up the sea and marry you, if that will make you feel more settled. Then you’ll have a husband and the baby will have a father. I wouldn’t make any demands.’

Marianne gazed at him in surprise. ‘Thank you Erasmus, that’s kind of you, but I love Nick and could never marry anyone else. Not even you.’

Daisy snorted as she brought the tea tray in. ‘You’ll never give up the sea, and who would want to marry an old rascal like you, anyway, Erasmus Thornton?’

He shrugged, and the moment was gone, replaced by an unmistakable expression of relief in his eyes. ‘It was just an idea.’

Daisy placed a cup of tea in front of her. ‘Drink that, then go upstairs and rest, my dear. You’ve had a nasty shock and your face looks pinched and pale.’

‘I’m not hungry and I feel sick.’ Her heart hammered in her chest, her back ached, her head thumped and she was dizzy. She hiccuped, and a sob tore from her. ‘I can’t bear the thought that Nick might be dead,’ and she collapsed into uncontrollable weeping.

Marianne felt as helpless as a baby as they assisted her upstairs, and soon Daisy had her tucked into bed, with a bowl and flannel on the side table, just in case, and she was plumping the pillows under her head, making soothing noises.

Across the room the baby’s crib was ready for occupancy under a dust sheet. It was a gift from Erasmus, a white painted cradle hanging from a frame. It could be swung gently back and forth. Daisy had made a little patchwork quilt, and there was a basket of baby clothes they’d gathered together . . . though Marianne couldn’t help thinking that she would have preferred to share that pleasurable activity with her sister.

Marianne knew she was being selfish. Daisy and Erasmus loved Nick too, and they’d loved him for longer. Their grief must be greater than hers. ‘I’m so sorry to be a nuisance,’ Marianne said. ‘You love him too . . .’

‘Aye . . . we love him, even though he was so strong-minded a rascal at times that I had to put a strap across his backside.’

She giggled at the thought of the diminutive Daisy giving Nick a flogging, but it turned into another hiccup, then tears again.

Daisy’s fingers were wonderfully soothing as she smoothed the hair back from Marianne’s face. ‘We’ve got to look after you first, and the baby you’re carrying. Erasmus has gone to fetch the doctor. You know . . . you’re probably right about Nick making it to shore, so don’t go marrying Erasmus. You turning up at church with a husband on each arm would really set the tongues flapping.’

Marianne felt hope again and she propped herself up on one elbow. ‘That was kind of Erasmus, wasn’t it?’

‘Ah yes . . . Erasmus is a kind man once you get to know him.’

‘And you’re a kind woman, Daisy. I was scared of you when I first knocked on your door. I thought you’d turn me away.’

‘Oh, I knew something had happened the last time I saw Nick. He was different, quieter and more responsible, and he seemed to have grown up. When I asked him if everything was all right, he gave me a hug and told me it was more than all right. He said I’d know about it in good time. When he told us he was coming ashore, at first I thought that was it . . . but I knew there was something else he wasn’t telling us. When you knocked at the door that day, I realized what it was before you told us.’

‘We’d planned to keep it quiet so we wouldn’t have to put up with people speculating about it without him being here to back me up. And we’d decided to have a proper wedding when he came back, just for everyone else.’ Her hands went to her rounded stomach and she smiled wryly. ‘I’m afraid this rather changed our plans.’

It was Lucian who came, not his father, who’d met with an accident.

‘I’m so sorry. Is he badly hurt?’

‘A wrenched ankle. He should be fit in a week or so.’

Lucian was awkward, and didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I understand that your . . . that Nicholas has been lost at sea.’

‘Nick is my husband, Lucian. Whatever you might think of him, he is a man who has honourable intentions, and acts on them.’

‘Quite.’ His eyes came up to hers. ‘I’m sorry, Marianne.’

‘About what? Thinking the worst of me? I don’t believe that he’s drowned, of course.’

He gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t be Marianne Honeyman if you did.’

Her voice sharpened. ‘Haven’t I made it clear that I’m Marianne Thornton?’

‘My pardon, Mrs Thornton.’ His calmness infuriated her, and she came to the conclusion that he was a cold fish. He took up her hand, felt the pulse in her wrist, and frowned. ‘It’s much too fast.’

‘I could have told you that.’ She told him the rest of her symptoms.

‘When’s the infant due?’

‘In about four weeks. At the beginning of spring I ran into my gypsy friend, the one who delivered Charlotte’s twins. She told me I’m carrying a baby boy.’

‘And you believe her?’

‘Of course I do. Jessica is wise beyond understanding. They were going to Dartmoor, and she said I would have my son early summer.’

Lucian looked mildly astonished. ‘She would have been burned at the stake had she lived in an earlier age. You should have nothing to do with gypsies.’

‘Why not? They’re people, the same as us. It must be wonderful to travel all over the countryside.’

‘You always see the best in people, Marianne. Gypsies are sly. They take advantage of the gullible.’

‘Goodness, Dr Beresford, I know plenty of people who take advantage of the gullible, and they’re not all gypsies. Some are seemingly respectable shopkeepers who’ll rob an old woman of her last farthing, by pretending he’s already given it to her as change, and suggesting she’s dropped it. There are employers who sack their workers, then send them on their way without paying their wages. Then there are men who pretend they’re in love so they can marry a woman for her fortune . . .’

His mouth pursed and colour touched his cheeks. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we concentrated on your problem, rather than exchange pleasantries.’

Was that what they’d been doing – exchanging pleasantries?

She received the same advice as she would have given herself if she’d been doing the doctoring – only the benefit of his wisdom was offered to Daisy, who was padding around like a nervous tabby cat in the background.

Lucian raised his voice, as if he suspected her of deafness. ‘Mrs Thornton has suffered a shock. She should stay in bed for a day or two and rest. No visitors, no excitement, and light meals only. She’ll need to gather her strength together for her lying-in if the outcome is to be a healthy baby. A glass of warm milk will make her feel more rested.’

‘I’ll go and make her some.’ Daisy trotted off obediently about her given task.

Lucian wore his responsibility with too much awareness of his own importance, Marianne thought. It was hard to believe they’d been children together, that their fathers had visited each other, and they’d had adventures on the heath. That he’d been a boy who’d cried at the sight of his own blood if he’d so much as scraped the skin from his knees, or who poked his tongue out at the housekeeper behind her back, so Marianne would get a fit of the giggles, then get into trouble because she couldn’t stop.

Marianne felt like crying now. She wanted to shake Lucian out of his adult skin and find the boy inside him – the boy she’d loved. ‘Lucian, remember when you used to be afraid when you saw blood?’ she whispered.

He dropped his guard and gazed at her, the expression in his eyes pensive and sad, as if he’d caught a glimpse of the childhood he’d left behind. ‘I remember, Marianne. I had to grow up.’

‘Do you think I’ll ever grow up?’

‘You have, beautifully.’ To her surprise he stooped to gently kiss her cheek. ‘I wish things could have been different between us.’

‘They couldn’t have been. I love Nick.’

‘Your husband is dead, my dear. You must reconcile yourself to the fact.’

‘He’s not dead. In my heart and my mind he’s still alive, and anyway, he’ll live on in his son.’

‘You would never have loved me that strongly, Marianne.’

‘And you’d never have coped with my passion for living. You would have kept me trapped inside, stitching pretty flowers and leaves on canvas with coloured thread. They’d be beautiful, but without smell or life, and would never have been tossed by the wind, but would have been kept hidden from the sun lest they’d faded. And I’d want to run barefooted on the heath and have the wind blowing through my hair – and swim in the sea like a fish with the water cold against my naked skin, just like we used to.’

When he sucked in a scandalized breath, she whispered, ‘Nick understands those feelings in me, and so did you once. Now they shock you.’

‘Passion for living is best kept under control when you’re an adult, I feel, since quite often it’s mistaken for vulgarity, which embarrasses others. But we can still be friends, can’t we?’

After telling her she was vulgar and an embarrassment? She hid the smile building up inside her. The few short weeks she’d had of living with Nick was better than a lifetime of Lucian. How joyless he was now. ‘Yes, we can still be that, Lucian.’

And with that lie being established by both of them, they found there was nothing left to say to each other.

Marianne had slept better than she’d expected to, though she’d cried herself to sleep.

It was almost dawn when the pains woke her. The night light Daisy had brought in just before she went to bed was guttering in a pool of warm wax, making the shadows leap and dance.

At first she was disorientated, for she’d thought she was back at Harbour House. She’d dreamed that she was small and that her mother was seated on the side of her bed, holding her hand and looking down on her with much love in her eyes. Indeed, she imagined she could still feel the warmth of her hand, and felt comforted by it.

Swinging her legs out of bed she crossed to the window. A glance showed a scape of pewter sky, water and town buildings, as if night had drained her surroundings of all colour. Soon the sun would repaint the canvas again, exactly as it had been the day before, except for a flake of paint missing here, a blossom flying there, a cloud in a different place, and a wrinkle added to an old man’s face.

Downstairs, the clock chimed five. Her infant had woken her up to tell her he’d started his journey. ‘You’re in too much of a hurry,’ she chided him softly.

Nick was dead, she’d been told. He’d never know his son. He was drowned. His lungs and stomach were filled with water, his last breath had been expelled into the deep, blue/black depth of the ocean. It had travelled fast up through the water to explode his life into the air. She wondered, how long had he hung on to that last, painful breath? Had he thought of Charlotte when he died, taken her image with him into the darkness to comfort him. She didn’t mind him having the comfort of his lost love in his dying moment.