Salting the Wound (31 page)

Her initial need to hug Charlotte and make good their quarrel was squashed by her misery when her sister gazed at her with disdain in her eyes. ‘You should be ashamed to show yourself in public, Marianne. Go home to your bastard son.’

Marianne wanted to talk to Charlotte about so many things. John, their children, who were cousins and could grow up knowing and loving each other if this cold stranger would just allow it.

‘Insult me if you wish, but don’t stoop so low as to call an innocent infant such names. He hasn’t done you any harm.’

Charlotte flinched. ‘Get out of my way, I’m in a hurry,’ she said, as if Marianne was nothing to her.

Marianne was about to obey Charlotte’s demand as she was used to doing, but her mind stopped her feet before they lifted from the ground. Tears pricked her eyes.

‘Why are you always so bitter and angry, Charlotte? The right of precedence is not yours to demand. You get out of my way.’

At first she thought Charlotte would step forward and push her aside, then her sister saw two of the women watching them from the shop window. Making a low, exasperated noise in her throat, she stepped round her then continued on up the road.

Marianne watched her go, willing her to stop, to turn around, come back and make amends. She hated their silly quarrel and the fact that her son might never know his cousins because of it.

It was Daisy’s birthday tomorrow. Erasmus had made sure that Marianne had an allowance from Nick’s estate. She stopped to buy Daisy a gift, a kashmir shawl in a soft pink, to wear over the plain grey gowns she favoured. The colour would warm Daisy’s pale skin to a blush.

The fishing boats were in. Wandering down to the harbour she joined the thronging crowd and bought a cod straight from the boat. The fisherman scaled and gutted it for her, then threw the entrails to the squabbling gulls. She wrapped it in a stockinette cloth and placed it in her shopping basket.

There was another boat coming in behind it. A tall man was poised with rope in hand, ready to jump ashore and secure it to a bollard. He reminded her strongly of Nick, and she turned away as a lump grew in her throat. She’d better get back to Dickon. Although Daisy loved looking after him, she couldn’t feed him, and he roared like a bull when he was hungry. Marianne didn’t want to take advantage of her kind nature.

She stepped out smartly, threading her way through the crowd, and trying not to think of the confrontation she’d had with Charlotte.

Nick had spotted Aria from the boat. A smile lit up his face as he stepped ashore. He secured the boat and took off after her.

She was heading out of town at a fast pace, and not in the direction he’d expected. The heath was in the other direction. She had a parcel under one arm, a basket in the other. The feather on her bonnet bobbed. After a while the crowds began to thin out.

He could have called to her, but he was enjoying watching her too much. After a while she turned into Constitution Hill, where his Aunt Daisy lived. She slowed down when faced with the upwards climb, began to pace herself. It was late afternoon, what was she doing here? Not visiting Lucian Beresford, he hoped.

A boy of about twelve was going in the same direction.

‘How would you like to earn thruppence, lad?’ Nick asked him.

The boy’s eyes began to shine and he nodded.

Nick took the locket from his pocket. ‘See that lady up ahead. Catch her up and tell her she dropped it.’ He plopped that and the thruppenny bit into his palm. ‘Look lively now, lad, else you’ll lose her.’

The boy was off like a shot.

Nick watched from the shadows of a spreading tree as the lad gave the locket to her, then delivered his message and went on his way.

Marianne gazed down at the locket for a while, then opened it. He watched a smile inch across her face until it shone like a beacon. She gazed down the hill at him, her mouth forming his name. ‘Nick.’ Dropping her basket and parcel she came running down to where he stood. Once there she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight. Tears tumbled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you were alive . . . I just knew it . . .’ Her hands touched his face, mussed his hair. She planted a kiss on his cheeks, his mouth. His forehead. ‘Oh, Nick. I’ve missed you so much.’

He couldn’t stop smiling. ‘I’d intended to go straight to Harbour House to find you, then I saw you in the crowd. What are you doing in this part of town?’

Her smile faltered. ‘I live here, with your Aunt Daisy. You don’t mind, do you? I know we were going to keep our marriage a secret, but it wasn’t possible.’

He slid an arm around her waist. ‘Of course I don’t mind. But I still don’t see—’

‘Charlotte threw me out.’

His heart sank. How could Charlotte have done such a thing to her own sister?

They’d reached her parcel and her basket. He stooped to retrieve them. ‘Has it been bad for you?’

‘There was gossip. Still is, in fact. Everything will be all right now you’re home. Where have you been for all this time? They said you were dead. Even Erasmus thought you were gone, but he pretended he didn’t. He’s been so kind, and so has Aunt Daisy. I’ve missed you, so.’

‘
Samarand
went down, but I’ll tell you all about it later.’ Drawing her into the shadow of a hedge he took advantage of her soft and willing mouth. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. There was something different about Aria. She’d gained a little weight perhaps, but in the right place. Otherwise, she was still as slender as a sparrow.

When his glance fell to her breasts, laughter filled her eyes.

The gate gave a familiar squeak when he pushed it open. Aria had her own key, and opened the door. The familiar smell of his childhood home took him unawares, as did the thought that if fate hadn’t decreed differently, he wouldn’t be standing here now.

From upstairs there came a couple of soft yelps, and soothing noises from Daisy.

Marianne placed a finger over her mouth when his aunt shouted from upstairs, ‘Is that you, Marianne?’

‘Of course it is. Who else were you expecting? Come down and bring Dickon with you. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

Her familiarity with his aunt surprised Nick. He remembered the yelps and whispered, ‘Dickon? You’ve got a dog? How did you persuade my aunt?’

She gazed up at him, laughing. He’d forgotten how blue and entrancing her eyes were. ‘It’s a surprise for you, as well as for Daisy, Nick Thornton.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ Daisy said, descending the stairs. She was carrying something loosely wrapped in a shawl. She stopped dead when she saw Nick, her hand flew to her mouth and she whispered, ‘Nicholas . . . you’re alive . . . thank God! Oh dear, if I didn’t believe in Him before, I do now. Welcome home, my dearest boy.’

But Nick’s eyes were intent on the bundle Marianne took from Daisy, an infant with dark curls. Nick’s heart turned over when she placed the child in his arms and said softly, ‘This is your adorable son. Dickon, meet your papa.’

Eyes as dark as his own gazed into his, then a tiny arm emerged from the wrapping. A fist unfurled, a perfect hand in miniature appeared, and an uncertain smile came and went.

She placed a little kiss right next to his ear, one so light that it made Nick shiver. ‘Well, my love, what do you think of him?’

‘He’s perfect.’

The boy’s eyes moved to his mother. This time his smile was bigger and longer lasting. Dribble ran down his chin and his legs gave a joyous little kick.

Love for this scrap of humanity filled him. He gazed at the woman who’d produced this tiny miracle for him as a welcome home gift, and tears filled his eyes. All the time he’d been absent and he’d never given a thought to the fact that their lovemaking might have born such tender fruit.

‘I think he’s perfect. Thank you, my love.’ He gazed at his aunt who was also crying. ‘And thank you for looking after them, Aunt Daisy.’

Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, Daisy vigorously blew her nose. ‘I’d better go and make us a cup of tea then. I imagine you could do with one after all this time.’

As soon as he’d gone he slid his free arm around Aria’s waist. When he pulled her close she snuggled her head into his shoulder and the three of them were joined as one.

After a while her tears dampened him and he whispered, ‘Don’t be sad, Aria. Everything will be all right. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.’

When she snuffled out, ‘I’m crying because I’m happy, you idiot,’ he laughed, because nobody could be happier than he was at that moment.

J
ohn didn’t know how long he’d been in the workhouse. Several weeks had passed since he’d escaped from the man who’d asked for his ticket.

He’d run as far away from the station as he could, and had found himself in a street with shops. He’d bought himself a pie.

‘Do you know the way to Poole?’ he’d asked the woman who’d served him.

‘And what pool would that be?’

‘It’s on the other side of the heath.’

‘No, luvvy. I’ve never heard of it, or the heath.’

A man followed him out of the shop and drew him into the lane. ‘Where are your folks, lad?’

‘They live in Poole. That’s where I’m going.’

‘You want to go to Poole, do you, lad? It happens I’m going that way. It will cost you.’

John didn’t like the look of the man. ‘I haven’t got much money.’

‘Turn your pockets out lad and let’s have a look.’

‘I need it for food.’

He cried out when the man twisted his arms up behind his back. ‘You’ve got more’n I’ve got, and if you don’t shut up I’ll break your soddin’ arm.’ The man’s hands searched roughly through his pockets. ‘Call that nothing,’ he said of the florins, and pushed John face down in some rotting vegetables. By the time John stood the man was gone. So was his money, and a dog was gulping down the remains of his pie.

He’d lingered in the shopping street for several days begging for food and sleeping in the alley. One night a man took him by the collar, hauled him to his feet and threw him into the back of a wagon.

‘I’ve had my eye on you, lad. You can’t stay there any more, someone will do away with you. I was hoping you’d move on. We’ve got enough paupers as it is.’

The union workhouse was a few miles out of town. It was a relief to have a bed to sleep in, even though it was shared by two other boys. At first John was pleased to have regular food, though he soon lost his appetite for gruel, thin pea soup with fat floating in it, and bread. Nobody took much notice of him amongst the crowd of people living there, but he attended lessons in the schoolroom, which he liked. After three weeks he caught a fever, and came out in spots.

Both of the boys who shared his bed caught it too, and the smaller one died.

‘Measles,’ the medical officer said, and John was placed into a room that had other cases in.

Three weeks later he was back on his ward. The place stank of urine. His head and body itched, his hair was coming out and he thought he might have caught lice.

One day he looked out of a window in desperation, and saw a couple of gypsy caravans heading for the hills. He wondered if they were going to the heath.

If he didn’t get out of here soon he’d die, he thought desperately. He’d run away once, and he could do so again.

‘We want some boys to weed around the graveyard,’ a warder said the next day. ‘You, you, and you.’

‘I can pull up weeds,’ John offered.

‘A little minnow like you.’ The warder laughed. ‘All right then, come on.’

There was about twenty of them in the weeding gang. It was grand to be out of the workhouse, where the most he could hope for was to separate the tar from the oakum until he died. People died quite often in the workhouse, like the boy in the bed who’d felt cold and waxy in the morning. John’s fingers were already covered in blisters and calluses from picking oakum. The weeding proved to be hard work, too, but the air was fresh, and there were slabs of bread and cheese and a barrel with ale in to drink. Using the gravestones as cover, John gradually worked his way over to a line of trees.

He waited there, knowing he need only to squat as an excuse for being there if anyone looked for him. Dusk began to fall. The boys lined up, and John held his breath, hoping the warder didn’t count them. He didn’t, and he began to walk back to the workhouse, the warder at the front helping to pull the cart, and the boys in a straggling line after him.

Then they were gone from sight. Keeping to the line of trees John began to run uphill, in the same direction the caravans had gone. They were a day ahead of him. He’d have to walk all night to catch them up. The sun dipped in the sky and long shadows spread across the land. John crossed to the limestone track that wound into the distance. When the moon came out he would still be able to see his way. He’d die rather than go back.

But despite his resolve, he quickly tired. He made his bed behind a dry stone wall out of the wind, curled into a ball in his coarse workhouse clothing, and fell asleep.

The next morning the sound of horses woke him. About to sit up, he froze against the wall when he heard a voice. ‘He wouldn’t have come this far, surely. He’s too small.’

‘It’s surprising how far nippers can run when they want to. I hope he’s stayed on the track, otherwise he’ll be lost by now.’

‘Aye, well. You can’t blame the boy for running away. He’s probably gone back into town. There’s no sign of him up ahead. Let’s go back. We’ll have a look round the docks.’

‘We’ll go as far as that copse up ahead. I can see smoke.’

‘Probably the diddicoys. They passed through earlier.’

John stayed where he was, pressed against a cold wall, the long grass ticking against the back of his legs. He pulled a long tender shoot and sucked the moisture from the root end to refresh his mouth, as his Aunt Marianne had once shown him. He couldn’t risk being seen. The men came back an hour later, and passed within a foot of his hiding place.

When they’d gone from sight, John rose from his bed of long grass and began to run. In the distance he could see a thin thread of smoke curling up the copse. He headed for it, frantic, in case the gypsies moved off again.