Sea Mistress (52 page)

He was stunned into silence for a moment, a mixture of emotions fleeting across his face. At last, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘How can that be, Ellie?'

She took a deep breath. ‘Jubilee had an affair when he was young. The girl left Swansea in disgrace and he never saw her again. What he didn't know was that the girl was pregnant by him.'

‘I can't take this in,' Boyo rubbed his eyes, ‘Jubilee my grandfather and he never knew it, is that what you are saying?'

Ellie nodded. ‘Jubilee's daughter grew up not knowing who her father was. Eventually, she had a child, that child is you.'

‘So my mother was never married?' Boyo asked. ‘I am a bastard.' His voice was filled with bitterness. He rubbed at his eyes as though trying to clear his head. ‘I suppose she gave me the name Hopkins out of some sort of pride, perhaps she hoped I would trace my roots one day.' He looked directly at Ellie. ‘Did my mother give me a first name?'

Ellie swallowed hard. ‘I don't know very much, Boyo, except that when Jubilee wanted a boy from the workhouse, he took a liking to you. His solicitor Mr Telforth checked all the details and discovered the ties between you.'

‘And he didn't tell Jubilee?' Boyo shook back a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. ‘Why, Ellie, why didn't he tell Jubilee that I was his kin, it would have meant so much to him and to me?'

‘He was afraid Jubilee would be put under pressure from your mother's family, I suppose,' Ellie said quietly. ‘Mr Telforth did what he thought was best for his client and at the same time ensured you had a decent future.'

‘He played God with my life,' Boyo's voice had an edge of sadness to it and Ellie reached out and touched his hand.

‘We know who you are now,' she encouraged, ‘and we'll sort out the matter of the inheritance, don't you worry about that, I wouldn't cheat you out of anything that is rightfully yours.'

His fingers curled into hers and he smiled, his gloom lightening. ‘Don't you think I know that, Ellie?' He didn't move for a long moment. He shook back his hair and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Well,' he said at last, ‘at least I know that on my grandfather's side I come from decent stock, Jubilee was a good man, I loved him in my own way. My mother, now that's a different story.'

‘Don't be so ready to judge,' Ellie cautioned, ‘none of us are perfect, are we? You just have to take our household into account to see that we have all made mistakes.'

Boyo nodded. ‘You're right, Ellie.' He released her hand and sank back into his chair. Suddenly he seemed to relax. ‘I can offer April something of a background to my life, I'm grateful for that, very grateful. Thank you Ellie.'

‘You are more than welcome.' Ellie looked beyond Boyo's shoulder to the window where the light was beginning to turn from blue-black to grey. ‘It will soon be daybreak.' She rose to her feet. ‘I'd better go and check on Martha. Will you go fetch the doctor, Boyo?'

As Ellie made her way up the stairs, she heard the click of the latch as the door closed behind Boyo, knowing that for him, life was just beginning, nothing would ever be the same again.

It took almost a week for Martha's fever to break, a week during which she coughed and moaned in pain and discomfort and, when she was lucid, wept tears of fear and frustration. But at last, she was sitting up against her pillows, pale but obviously well on the mend.

‘It's all thanks to you.' Martha's voice was still thin with fatigue but with much of the old spirit returned to it. ‘You've been better than any kith or kin could be.'

Ellie smoothed out the bedcovers and plumped the cushions. ‘Well, I suppose I'd better make the most of the compliments while they are offered, we'll all be getting the rough side of your tongue soon enough.'

As she left the room, there was a feeling of jubilation in her heart, Martha was well again and soon, quite soon, Dan would be home on holiday.

Paul paced the boards of the small cabin with short angry strides. He had been kept prisoner for long enough on Monkton's ship and anger was replacing his initial sense of fear and uncertainty. Monkton's ship had been in deep water for weeks with Paul locked in the small cabin like an animal. Now, the ship was back on familiar ground, in Cork harbour.

Paul began to thump on the door, shouting out loud, kicking at the lock. He must be heard, Monkton must release him now they were back in the Irish port. He fell back as he heard the lock turn on the cabin door and pressed himself against the bunk. Monkton came into the room flanked by two burly crewsmen.

‘You are making a lot of noise, I can't have that, Marchant, I can't have that at all. I've been lenient so far, taking you with me on my journeys. Now you have become troublesome, I am undecided what I should do with you. This is my last call on Ireland so it's time I made up my mind, one way or the other.'

‘Look, if you are worried that I'll say anything . . .' Paul stopped speaking abruptly as Monkton held up his hand. ‘It's you who should be worried. You see, you know too much about me. I'm considering a burial at sea for you. That would be one way of silencing you for good.'

Paul felt a chill run through him. ‘I can hardly tell anyone about your activities without implicating myself, can I? And what about Hewson, you released him?'

‘Hewson knows nothing of importance, in any case, he's a nobody,' Monkton said reasonably. ‘You, on the other hand, have some influential friends.' He paused consideringly. ‘I could take you on another little trip and dump you off somewhere quiet.' He turned away. ‘I have until tonight to think about it, in the meantime, I would advise you to be sensible.'

When he was alone, Paul stared at the closed door knowing he must make a move before it was too late. If he could pick the lock on the door, he could get out of the cabin and up onto the deck, at least that way he would stand a chance. There was no point sitting around any longer waiting to see if Monkton meant to kill him or not. He knelt down on the boards and saw that one of the nails had worked loose. He tried to prize it out with his fingers but it held fast. On the table was a tin mug along with the remains of his breakfast. Paul felt sweat run down his face in spite of the coldness in the cabin. He jammed the rim of the mug under the nail and levered it upwards. It came free, rolling along the boards with a sound like a drum beat to Paul's straining ears.

It took him longer than he had anticipated to pick the lock but at last it opened beneath his touch and he breathed a sigh of relief, there was no bolt on the outside. Monkton, it seemed, had relied on Paul's fear of reprisal to keep him a prisoner.

Paul shivered a little in the cold air, there was a thick frost along the side of the ship as he moved silently onto the deck. His mouth was dry as he crept towards the gangway, almost afraid to breathe. There was a great deal of activity taking place, large wooden crates were being lowered into the hold. Voices were raised as dockers called instructions to each other and Paul breathed easier, realizing he couldn't have chosen a better time to escape.

He straightened, moving across the deck with studied casualness, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder. He walked past one of the sweating sailors who was attempting to hold a crate steady against the roll of the tide and the force of the north-easterly wind that had sprung up.

Paul focused his attention on the gangway, it was less than ten feet away, ten feet to freedom. Scarcely had the thought come into his mind when he heard a voice shout out behind him.

‘Stop him! Stop that man!' He would recognize that voice anywhere, it was Monkton's. He felt a moment of blind panic and then he began to run. The boards were wet with icy water, Paul's breath was rasping in his throat, the gangway seemed to come no nearer. There were more shouts and the thud of feet pounding behind him. He felt a hand grasp his shirt and he struggled to free himself.

The deck heaved, Paul caught a glimpse of cold water far below him. The hands released him and he teetered for a moment before falling with heart-stopping slowness over the side. He knew from experience what would happen, he had seen it many times before. He had time for one short scream before the roll of the ship brought the bulk of the side towards him crushing him against the hard stone of the jetty.

‘So you see,' Boyo was seated in the kitchen at Honey's Farm, his face red, his hands twisting his cap into a knot, ‘it turns out that I'm Jubilee Hopkins' grandson.'

April's face shone with happiness as she beamed around at Jamie and Fon. ‘There,' her tone was triumphant, ‘I told you everything would be all right.' She looked at Boyo with clear eyes. ‘Not that I cared one jot who his parents were.'

Boyo felt warm, how he loved April, she was his ally when he needed one, she cared for him through good or ill, she was everything a wife should be. And now he had something solid to offer her.

Jamie took out his pipe and Fon stared up at him disapprovingly. ‘You are not going to smoke that foul thing in here, are you?'

He smiled good humouredly but carried on puffing his pipe regardless of her protest, he knew it was lightly made. ‘So, then, Boyo, what are your future prospects, any idea where you stand?'

Boyo met his gaze. ‘Not yet. What I do know is that I can depend on Ellie to be fair and just.'

Jamie nodded. ‘I would agree with that, son.' He smiled at Boyo and there was a mutual liking between them that was growing stronger the more they came to know each other.

April rose from her chair and moved to the door and Boyo, with a glance towards Jamie, saw the older man's almost imperceptible nod and followed her.

Boyo was glad to be out in the cold winter air, he saw the fields hard with frost, the hedgerows dusted with silver. The air cut keenly through his wool coat but at least he was alone with April. He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her and she looked up at him, her eyes alight. He stared down into her face, in spite of her happiness, she looked pale and her eyes were shadowed and his heart dipped within him. ‘You feel all right, don't you, April?' he asked. ‘You seem to be under the weather.'

‘It's nothing, just a headache, I'll be all right, really I will. Don't look so worried.'

‘When we're married, I'll make sure you don't have to lift a finger when you feel like this,' he said firmly. ‘I'll cosset you and care for you and you won't know you've even been off colour.'

She smiled, ‘You always make me feel good, Boyo.' She squeezed his hand. ‘I'm glad you've found out about your past though more for your sake than for mine.'

April's voice quivered a little and Boyo imagined for a moment it was with emotion but when he looked down at her, April was clutching her chest, her face deadly white. She slumped against him and he held her in his arms, his heart beating rapidly. She was sick, really sick, anyone with any sense could tell this was no ordinary chill. He lifted her in his arms and she fell against his shoulder, small moans escaping from her lips. Her eyes were closed emphasizing the blueness of the shadows beneath them. He carried her back to the farmhouse and into the warmth of the kitchen and Fon took one look at his face and moved forward at once.

She put the back of her hand to April's brow and bit her lip. ‘Can you carry her up to bed for me, Boyo?' she asked quietly. ‘I'll send Jamie to fetch the doctor.'

Boyo climbed the stairs taking care not to jar April more than he could help. Fon hurried up the stairs behind him and pushed open one of the bedroom doors. Boyo carried April inside setting her gently on the bed.

‘Go on downstairs and see to the fire for me, there's a good boy,' Fon said quickly, ‘I'll get April into her nightgown and make her comfortable.'

‘Is it the influenza?' Boyo asked thickly. Fon met his eyes, her gaze steady. ‘I'm very much afraid it is.'

The doctor when he came, confirmed their fears. He could do little but advise Fon to keep the girl dry and warm. He left after only a few minutes and Boyo bit his lip, frightened by the way the doctor shook his head as he went out the door.

Fon did her best, Boyo watched as she made a mustard plaster and carried it upstairs. He knew it was an attempt to relieve the rattling in April's thin chest.

‘You'd best go back to the tannery,' Fon said at last. ‘They'll be worried about you, won't they?'

He nodded. ‘I suppose so. Can I come back in the morning?' Fon took his arm. ‘Of course, if they can spare you from work, that is.'

He walked home not feeling the cold bite of the winter night nor seeing the brightness of the stars in the crisp, clear sky. All he could see was April's white face, her blue-shadowed eyes and a great fear was within him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Arian put down her pen, her wrist was aching and she wished most heartily that she had taken the trouble to learn how to operate one of the typewriting machines in the office below. She felt overworked and anxious about her newspaper, cursing the epidemic that had swept the town. Most of her staff had fallen prey to the influenza, there was only one junior reporter still active as well as herself and of course the indestructible Mac was, as usual, a tower of strength.

Arian leaned back wearily and rubbed her eyes, she had reported the deaths of some of the most prominent citizens in Swansea. It was a harrowing time and one Arian prayed she would never have to repeat. And through it all, at the back of her mind, she asked herself what she was doing estranged from Calvin Temple at a time like this.

The outer doorbell pinged and Arian heard the sound of footsteps crossing the room. Her own door swung open and Mac came in, his face reddened by the wind and cold. ‘It's like a ghost town out there.' He slumped into a seat and threw his hat in the general direction of the stand in the corner. It landed on the floor and he ignored it. ‘It's as if the great plague had come to Swansea, doors and windows are closed and the only people about seem to be funeral directors in black coats.'