Another Life

by Sara MacDonald

  ‘Yes,’ Mark said, ‘I know exactly what you mean, my darling, and I am afraid this cannot end happily ever after for all of us.’

  ‘No.’

  They stared at the image of their faces in the dark.

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep.’

  ‘Let’s go down and make coffee and walk out into a sleeping London and watch the sun rise and talk of happy things.’

  Outside the window it was growing fractionally lighter. Gabby looked down at her fingers entwined with his. It hurt, this love. It was frightening, the power of it.

  It was not just her life or Mark’s life, but the heartbreaking, ripple effect of treachery on other lives happily going on as they had always done.

  Mark brought her fingers to his mouth. ‘We won’t look too far ahead, Gabriella, or we will drown. Get dressed and I will walk you through a medieval London and tell you what shipping was like on the river in far-off days. It will be good practice for my lecture next month.’

  Gabby bounced out of bed. ‘My God, kick me out of bed in the middle of the night for a history lesson, why don’t you?’

  She was wiggling into her jeans, her small breasts bouncing, and Mark, watching her, said, ‘On the other hand we could just go back to bed and …’

  ‘Absolutely not! History lesson it is, I’m out of bed now. And stop looking at me like that!’ She turned her back.

  ‘What a shame.’ Mark started to hum softly as he dressed. Outside, a new day was just beginning.

  Chapter 30

  Isabella could hear the rain before she opened her eyes; gentle, steady rain that brought a delicious smell of wet earth through the open window. She got carefully out of bed so that she did not wake her sleeping husband. He was snoring gently, curled in a large lump under the covers.

  She was surprised when she went downstairs half an hour later to see that Richard was dressed, shaved and had had the horses brought round to the front door. His excitement was catching and they ate a quick breakfast together, both anxious to be on their way to Falmouth.

  By the time they emerged from the house the rain had almost stopped and the sun was trying to break through the clouds. As they rode under the dripping trees Isabella turned to look at the garden, vividly lush and green after three weeks’ drought. She sighed with pleasure for the long ride ahead and the beautiful morning opening up before them.

  They rode in comfortable silence, but Richard seemed preoccupied and at intervals took out his pocket watch to check the time.

  ‘Are we late for something?’ Isabella asked, eventually.

  ‘I think not.’ He smiled at her secretively. ‘I want to reach the other side of Flushing and be up on the headland within the half-hour.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Wait and see, my dear. Wait and see.’

  Isabella pouted, pretended to be put out, for it gave Richard such pleasure to surprise her.

  ‘Well, I think it is too bad to keep me in the dark.’

  Her husband laughed. ‘It is only for a little while longer, my dear.’

  As they left the shelter of the trees and gained the top of the cliffs within sight of the harbour, Isabella was surprised at the roughness of the choppy green sea below her.

  She looked out to sea and gasped at the sudden sight of two small brigantines and three schooners out in the Carrick Roads, headed for the harbour in full sail. Listing into the wind, huge white sails taut, they were flying across the sea like a flock of magnificent swans, their hulls seeming hardly to touch the water.

  ‘Look!’ she cried. ‘Look, Richard. Where have they all come from? Why are they here? The bay is full of them. They are so beautiful!’

  Richard was laughing. ‘Indeed they are!’ He turned to her. ‘Come, we will have a gallop down the valley. I want to be at the harbour well before they arrive.’

  ‘But Richard, they are moving much faster than we are.’

  ‘Aye, they are, but they must reduce sail any minute now or they will sail straight past the harbour mouth. They will have to tack and mind they do not run into each other. That takes time. Come, let us ride.’

  As Isabella turned her horse away from the sea and rode after her husband down the valley, she saw that there were streams of people on the coast road; in wagons, on foot or on horseback, all making their way steadily towards the harbour. So many vessels at once was an unusual sight even for Falmouth, for the larger ships usually made for Appledore or Bideford and the trade goods were then transported by train further east.

  Once they reached the Falmouth road she and Richard were slowed by the volume of people hurrying excitedly along the promenade towards the harbour.

  ‘Follow me closely,’ Richard called to Isabella. ‘I know a way round.’

  ‘What is happening, Richard? Why are so many ships and people coming here today?’

  Before Richard could answer, Isabella saw her father waving. His wife, Charlotte, was clutching his arm as if her life depended upon it.

  ‘Papa is here, too!’ she cried, surprised.

  ‘Indeed he is. For you see, Isabella, every schooner in the bay belongs to our syndicate. These people here, so dressed up today, are all shareholders in those trading ships. Do you know how far some of those brave little schooners and brigantines have sailed? All the way from Newfoundland. Is that not something? I have organized this, so that your father and the other shareholders may see their investment and realize fully the true potential of sea trade, for it has always been the way forward.’

  For a moment, Isabella felt disappointment. What was a syndicate to do with her? Was this her surprise?

  All eyes were turned seaward to watch the first two schooners negotiate the harbour. Their sails were carefully furled and the first ship to come alongside had only a small foresail up. There was much yelling and encouragement from the bystanders, much prodding with oars and rushing about with buoys by the crew so that the schooner did not scrape her sides as she came alongside.

  ‘Come!’ Richard took Isabella’s hand purposefully and people parted for them as they walked along to the end of the quay. Her father was smiling as he turned with Charlotte and followed them.

  When they reached the schooner, Isabella looked down at the men busy on the deck and quayside making her fast. She was a pretty little ship, made of light, polished wood with a long sprit. She seemed neither too heavy nor too light and swayed steadily on the swell. Richard guided Isabella forward and with a flourish pointed down. There, in bold gold lettering, lay the name of the ship: Lady Isabella.

  Isabella stared at it and then up at her husband’s smiling red face. She was so moved, the tears sprang to her eyes. It was such a gesture of love.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh … what a lovely surprise …’

  She reached up quickly to kiss Richard’s cheek. ‘Thank you. Thank you. She is such a beautiful little ship.’

  Richard looked down upon his wife. ‘Indeed, how could she be otherwise? She carries the name of my wife. She must go to St Piran to be fitted and finished off, but I think now is a good time to christen her, my love, in front of all these good people.’

  A bottle of champagne was brought and tied with ribbon to the bowsprit. Richard instructed Isabella to throw the bottle at the side of the ship and name her.

  ‘You must cry loudly, “I name this schooner Lady Isabella”!’

  But Isabella felt suddenly overcome and her voice was soft as she aimed the champagne bottle at the side of the ship.

  There was a cheer from the crowd and the men raised their hats and someone called, ‘Three cheers for Sir Richard and Lady Magor! Three cheers for our trading vessels!’

  Richard was still smiling down at Isabella, then he said quietly, ‘This schooner is not just named after you, my dear. Your name is on the title deeds with mine. You own her, too. All the other boats are part of our syndicate, but not the Lady Isabella, she is yours and mine. And when I die she will be all yours, as will all the other ships I own.’
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br />   Isabella saw the startled look on her father’s face. She was overwhelmed, for she understood the generosity behind Richard’s words. She took his arm, hugged it to her with her eyes closed in gratitude. When she opened them she looked at her father. Her husband had made a declaration not only of his love but of her importance in his life. In that small ship he had given her an equal share. She was not a commodity to be handed on. She was Lady Isabella.

  Her eyes were piercing as she stared at her father, for she was thinking too of Helena. Isabella remembered clearly her mother having to justify all expenditure to her father, despite bringing considerable money into his estate on her marriage.

  He could not hold her gaze and looked away. Charlotte, Isabella knew, would fare no better financially than Helena.

  Isabella turned, suddenly becoming aware of what was happening around her. The schooners, two berthed on the quay, three anchored offshore for some were flat bottomed, were disgorging their wares. Crates were being rowed ashore or carried from the quay and laid out along the shore for the crowds. The beach was as full of noise and barter as a weekday market.

  That was what the crowds were hurrying into Falmouth for. Isabella would have loved to have gone among them to look at all the differing materials and foodstuffs being sold below her, but she knew there were too many people there today. The crowd, eager for a bargain, would end up in fights and drunken arguments.

  At that moment, though, everyone seemed to have a sense of wonder and excitement in the strange and foreign goods emerging out of the small dinghies.

  She looked up and saw a tall figure making his way along the quay. There was something vaguely familiar about him as she watched him approach. His walk was unhurried, almost leisurely. He walked the way a tall confident man walked, with a total sense of his own being.

  Richard was suddenly beside her.

  ‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘for the second part of my secret. Though I must admit this is perhaps more for my pleasure than yours, my dear wife.’

  He turned to the man who had reached them and held out his hand. The man’s face was tanned and his hair was bleached almost white by the sun.

  ‘I am glad to meet you again, Mr Welland. This is my wife, Lady Magor …’

  Tom looked down on Isabella and there was shock in his face. For a moment he could not speak. Isabella stared back; she also was speechless. The moment hung, threatened to grow into something more, and Isabella hastily put out her hand and said, ‘Tom Welland. It is a long time since we last met.’

  Tom took her hand and held it. ‘It is, my Lady. I am sorry, I had not expected it to be you.’

  Isabella turned to her husband. ‘Tom and his father used to work for Papa. He made my carved chest of drawers, the one I have in my room.’

  ‘Indeed! Did he now? It is a pretty piece. I had not realized you knew my wife’s family. Isabella, you will approve, then, for I have commissioned Mr Welland to carve the figurehead for the Lady Isabella. I want him to carve your face upon it. He has sailed back with her from Prince Edward Island and he comes highly recommended by my brother.’

  Tom was watching her intently, and under his gaze Isabella dropped her own.

  She said, ‘Did you and your father emigrate, then?’

  ‘No, my Lady.’ Tom appeared amused. ‘My father is still at the boatyard at St Piran. I had an offer to work with the boat-builders in Prince Edward Island and I took it. We called in at Newfoundland for salt fish before we set sail for England.’

  ‘Mr Welland has gained a reputation with his figureheads, Isabella. Now you have seen my wife again, do you feel confident you can carve a good likeness? It must be quite as beautiful as my wife.’

  ‘That will not be difficult, Sir,’ Tom said quietly.

  Isabella’s stomach gave a sickening leap. She suddenly wanted to be home. Under the thick riding coat, she burned. Tom was no longer the boy of her imagination and memory, but a grown man and in no way servile.

  He was so intrinsically part of the day her mother died that Isabella could not look at him and not remember Helena lying so still against the rocks.

  ‘So, let us make a date for you to sketch my wife. Is this how you start?’

  Tom smiled. ‘I have already chosen the timber from our cargo, and the wood is to be delivered to your shipwright, as you asked. I would like to come over next week if Lady Magor has the time. I begin with a sketch, but for the best result I carve from the real face, which I am afraid needs some of your time, my Lady.’

  Isabella met his eyes, and believed they were so pale she could see herself reflected in them. They held amusement, as if he was still seeing the fourteen-year-old girl of his memory seated upon a nervy pony, not a grown-up Lady Isabella, eighteen-and-a-half, now the wife of Sir Richard Magor, ex-naval captain, aged fifty-two.

  ‘My wife has time,’ Richard said proprietorially. ‘Let us make it Tuesday afternoon, say three o’clock or thereabouts. Is that as good a day as any, my dear?’

  ‘I believe that day is clear, as far as I can recall,’ Isabella said stiffly, mortified that Richard had highlighted the aimlessness of her days.

  Tom Welland gave a small bow. ‘Then I will see you on Tuesday afternoon, my Lady.’ He hesitated. ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance again.’

  ‘And I you, Mr Welland. Please remember me to your father.’ Her voice sounded odd and high but Richard did not appear to notice.

  They watched him walk away through the crowd of people. Richard said, ‘According to my brother, Tom Welland is a master at carving. He has come home to honour his commissions. He is becoming rather famous and we are lucky to get him. News travels fast in the world of shipping. I believe he is sought-after in the Mediterranean ports where they appreciate art of this kind even more than we do.

  ‘Now, my dear, let us find your father and take some refreshment before we ride home. You look tired and must rest before our big dinner-party tomorrow evening.’

  Isabella’s mind was reeling. She would have liked to have galloped home then, on her own, but she could not. She could still feel the firm grip of Tom Welland’s hand. She could still feel his eyes upon her, resting upon her, holding her own. She could still feel that swoop of familiarity as he touched her, as if they had been bound together in memory of that day so long ago when her childhood ended.

  It was not just that Helena lost her life that dreadful day. It was also that she, Isabella, experienced her first and only overpowering rush of desire. So strong she had been careless of her mother. So strong that today, years later, her legs felt as if they might give way and tumble her onto the wooden-planked quay which held a small schooner that her husband had named after her in love.

  At dinner that night, Richard said, concentrating on breaking his bread roll with undue interest, ‘I had not realized that you were well acquainted with Tom Welland or that he once worked for your father.’

  Isabella knew the tone of her husband’s voice and replied carefully, ‘I am not well acquainted with him. He carved my chest of drawers. A gift from Mama, that is all.’

  Silence. Richard pushed his meat around his plate for a while, drank his wine. Isabella waited.

  ‘It is just,’ her husband said, still not looking at her, ‘I somehow gained the impression you knew each other rather better than as acquaintances.’

  Isabella felt suddenly weary and sad. This constant questioning of her was suffocating. She put down her knife and fork, gave up trying to swallow food she did not want. She said quietly,

  ‘Perhaps my papa never told you that the morning Mama took me to the boatyard where Tom Welland and his father worked, was the morning she was killed. We had been to look at the chest of drawers Tom and his father had made for us. Mama’s horse threw her as we made our way back home along the beach. A few days later Tom’s father delivered my chest. He was so kind to me, for I was distraught. Papa blamed me for the accident …’ She looked her husband in the eye. ‘If you saw any understanding between Tom Wel
land and me, Richard, it was because he too was remembering that last time he saw me, the terrible day Mama died. Everyone loved my mama.’

  Richard closed his eyes. ‘My love, I am so sorry, I had not realized …’

  Isabella scraped her chair back. ‘Please excuse me, Richard, I am very tired.’

  As she passed him she stopped. ‘Thank you so much for naming your ship after me, it was a lovely surprise.’

  She bent and kissed his forehead and was gone. Richard sat there, feeling ashamed. He had no heart for the cheese and waved it away. He must stop this confounded jealousy. He had a young wife, of course men were going to register it and be surprised, as the carver obviously had been. Time he got used to it instead of behaving like an adolescent.

  He got up from the table and took his wine into the study. He remembered suddenly what an old friend had said on hearing of his marriage to Isabella.

  ‘Many men will envy you your young wife, Richard, but I do not. When is a man to relax if not in his fifties? With a young wife you will notice every younger man in the neighbourhood. You will notice your increasing girth and your decreasing stamina and whether your wife be guilty or not of a roving eye, you will eventually accuse her of all manner of things, conjured by your feverish imagination and growing jealousy.’

  Damn it, he thought, as he went to his table and viewed the huge map of the trade routes. I wish I had command of my feelings for my wife as I do over my ships and my business.

  He lit a cigar and sat by the fire. He would not disturb Isabella tonight. She looked pale and tired after the excitements of the day. He would ask Lisette to take her breakfast in bed. He would go out early and pick one of his roses for her tray. She would understand that his tongue was only unguarded because he loved her so dearly.

  Chapter 31

  An icy wind blew across the parade ground, although the sun shone down on the anxious cadets standing motionless in rows. The excitement in the air was palpable. Josh felt sick. He had been chosen to carry the sword of honour. His hands in his white gloves felt slippery with nerves. Please God, don’t let me foul up. He thought of his parents and Nell somewhere out there in the crowd and his anxiousness grew.