Emma: There's No Turning Back

by Linda Mitchelmore

A tear slid down Emma’s cheek. She hadn’t conceived yet. Would she ever?

  ‘Oh, I’ve upset you tellin’ you about Ma,’ Edward said.

  ‘I’m upset for her,’ Emma said, ‘but not because you told me.’ A truth and a lie wrapped up together. What sort of person was she turning into with secrets she’d hidden from Seth and thinking of her own needs before Beattie’s?

  The bûche de Noël could wait. And so could asking Seth about a nursemaid.

  ‘I’ll come back home with you, Edward, and then your ma can see I’m not upset. How will that be?’

  ‘Grand,’ Edward grinned at her like a three-year-old, not someone almost twenty years of age. ‘Just grand.’

  Seth slammed shut his car door. He was early. No sign of Olly waiting for him outside the Burton Hotel as they’d arranged. It was difficult in the boatyard, with customers and suppliers coming in and out all the time, for Seth and Olly to talk about private matters – Fleur and her safety in Seth’s case, and Olly’s worry over his rapidly declining ma. If they went to the Blue Anchor it would be full of fishermen, some of whom had worked for Seth and might want to come and talk. He didn’t want that. So the Burton Hotel it was.

  It began to rain so Seth deduced that Olly would see his car parked outside and come on in. God, how he owed that man! He was going to miss Olly’s company when he and Emma went to Canada, which he was sure he’d be able to persuade her to do. Had to persuade her to do – life was too much of a struggle here for her now. The recent letter from his aunt had worried him – his uncle wasn’t up to running his fishing fleet anymore. In the letter, his aunt had hinted that her husband would give Seth a half-share in the business immediately, if he were to go over to Canada, the rest to come to him on their deaths. Not that he wished them in their graves before their time.

  He’d have to tell Emma about the letter soon. And he wasn’t looking forward to it. Every time he’d mentioned Canada so far, she’d been adamant she wasn’t going. He had to get her to change her mind. Couldn’t she see that it was always going to be a struggle for her to build up a business in the town? Too many people knew too much about them both. And it wasn’t just that. The setbacks she’d had – the torching of her bakery, her beating and the kidnap of Fleur – hadn’t helped. And there was still Miles in the equation. He had to get Emma to see how much less stressful life in Canada would be for them. And he had to get her to marry him in the eyes of the law, so they could have a bona fide photograph on the mantelpiece of their new home, in a new country.

  But Seth had a feeling it would be easier to pull teeth from a hen that it would be to persuade Emma to go to Canada. He glanced in the mirror behind the bar and saw a reflection he wasn’t thrilled to see. Rupert Smythe had just come in with Charles Maunder. While Maunder was a decent enough fellow – even if he was Caroline’s father – Smythe was another matter. Maunder had, after all, given him a good price for the fishing fleet and the cottages.

  Where the hell was Olly? If he’d been on time, and if he – Seth – hadn’t ordered in two pints, then they need not have stayed in present company. What were Maunder and Smythe doing here anyway? Smythe owned a hotel of his own. If he wanted a drink he could simply pour himself something or get a waiter to do it for God’s sake.

  Seth dropped his gaze. Smythe, he doubted, would even acknowledge his presence, since he’d banned him from Nase Head House. And then he remembered that Smythe had offered Emma the use of his kitchen for her business after her bakery had been torched. Hmm … what ulterior motive had he had in offering that? Seth had put his foot down and flatly refused and Emma had given in readily enough.

  Seth heard Charles Maunder laugh – rather raucously, he thought. He couldn’t imagine Smythe telling a dirty joke, but you could never tell with that man. He’d allowed Caunter to use a room to spy from, hadn’t he?

  The last thing he wanted was for Charles Maunder to see him and come on over, then mention his daughter, Caroline. To Seth, no news was good news and the good news he wanted was that Caroline had perished. However, so far, all Seth’s enquiries had drawn a blank. Caroline and Miles had disappeared without trace, either to the bottom of the sea under assumed names, or in America with their bought aliases. Did Maunder even know, Seth wondered now, that Caroline had left for America with Miles?

  Dare he ask Maunder if he had heard from his daughter? Dare he? He must surely have heard the rumours that Ruby had told Emma about. And would a man who had lost a daughter in that tragedy be laughing quite so raucously so soon after, if Caroline had drowned? Seth knew, beyond question, that he’d probably never laugh again if Fleur were to drown.

  ‘God, man,’ Olly said, clamping a hand onto Seth’s shoulder, ‘but you look like you’ve dropped a five-pound note and found a farthing. I’m amazed you didn’t crack that mirror!’

  Seth started and spun round to face Olly. ‘Have you seen who’s over there?’ he said. But the second Olly made to look, Seth grabbed his wrist. ‘No. No, don’t turn around. I’ll tell you. Smythe and Maunder.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Olly said. ‘Lowering themselves, aren’t they? Coming in here. Thanks for this.’ He picked up the mug of ale he rightly guessed Seth had bought for him and took a long swig.

  ‘It’s a respectable enough hotel,’ Seth said, ‘or why are we in here?’

  ‘To talk about things we can’t discuss at the boatyard where there are colts’ ears listening.’

  Olly always referred to his apprentices as ‘colts’ – young and untrained horses.

  ‘We’ll need to be quick about it, then,’ Seth said. ‘The light’s dropping. Emma doesn’t like being alone in the dark since—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Olly stopped him. ‘You don’t have to say since when. I know. The thing is, Seth, the doctor wants Ma put away. She’s getting worse by the minute. Lavatory problems if you get my meaning. You must have noticed I rely on you more and more when I have to slip back to the house to check on her.’

  Seth nodded. Fleur’s lavatory needs were enough to be dealing with, never mind a grown woman’s. And yes, he had been left in charge for longer and longer periods lately. What Olly would do about that when he found out what it was Seth was planning – and what he was here to tell him about – he couldn’t begin to guess at.

  ‘Put away? Where?’

  Olly shrugged. ‘I don’t know that I can allow it to happen,’ he said. ‘If Ma was a dog I’d have her put down. God, but that’s a dreadful thing to say. He screwed his eyes up tight and Seth knew he was fighting tears.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Seth said. ‘I understand your meaning. Life’s cruel for some.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Olly said. ‘Which brings me to my motive for keeping you from the lovely Emma. How do you feel about buying my boat-building business off me? I’d be happy to come in as a designer if someone should want a new boat, but you know enough about the repairing side and the actual building side now to take it on. You’ve got a natural way with working with wood, you’re good with the apprentices, you’ve got business acumen, you—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ Seth said, if nervously because this was the last thing he’d expected Olly to say. And it was something he wasn’t going to be able to take on. ‘You could sell ice to the Eskimos.’

  Gosh, how easily that word had dropped into his lexicon. The only Eskimo he’d seen had been in photographs in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. But now he could be seeing them for real before too long.

  ‘So will you?’ Olly said.

  ‘Can I sleep on it?’ Seth hedged. It would take more than one night’s sleep before he could come to a decision, either way. He took a long swig of the beer and it didn’t touch the sides going down.

  Seth picked up letters from the mat. The afternoon post no doubt. He wondered why Emma hadn’t done it, but then remembered she’d been experimenting with a chocolate Christmas dessert she’d been feeding him for days now while she worked on the recipe – every single one had tasted good, and more or
less the same to him, but Emma wanted to perfect it, so she said.

  He quickly flicked through the envelopes to check they all said Jago – more than a few letters had been delivered for the previous owner of Mulberry House which he’d had to forward on. Ah, good. Seven envelopes and Jago written on every single one. He tossed the letters into the silver dish on the dresser in the hall. He’d deal with them later. The sooner he told Emma what Olly had proposed and his reasons why he was going to refuse, the better.

  ‘Sweetheart! I’m home!’ he called.

  But there was no answering call. No little yips of garbled sounds from Fleur which he took to mean, ‘Hello, Papa, I’m glad you’re home.’

  Seth shrugged off his coat and hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. He called again. There was no answering call this time, either, and the echo of his voice stayed in his ears far too long for comfort.

  A ripple of unease ran through him. He’d been in this situation before. An empty house. A cold house. A house without Emma in it when he’d expected her to be.

  He’d search every room before he raised the alarm.

  Something had happened.

  Again.

  ‘As much as it costs, Doctor, I’ll pay,’ Emma said. ‘Or Seth will.’

  She had no idea how much an operation at the county hospital in Exeter would cost, but Beattie would more than likely need one, so Dr Shaw had just told her, and Emma was going to make sure she got it.

  She was seeing the doctor to the door of Shingle Cottage. Beattie had been taken to the cottage hospital in Paignton and had been given an X-ray on her lungs. Emma had paid for a taxi so that Beattie could be taken there quickly. Now she was home again, and the doctor had called to check on her, at Emma’s request.

  Emma had helped the doctor get Beattie into bed, Beattie grumbling all the while that she was perfectly able to get into bed by herself, but the amount of coughing she had done had proved she patently wasn’t.

  ‘It might not come to that,’ Dr Shaw said now. He laid a hand on Emma’s forearm.

  Something stilled inside Emma. Her blood flow? Her heart? ‘She’s not going to die is she?’

  ‘We all are. Sometime,’ the doctor said. ‘Sadly some of us have to go before our three score years and ten.’

  ‘But not Beattie,’ Emma said. ‘Please, not Beattie.’

  ‘If I can do anything to prolong her life, then you know I will. A specialist is going to read Mrs Drew’s X-rays tomorrow and telephone me with his opinion on them. And that’s as much as I can tell you, Emma.’

  ‘But Beattie said the doctor at the hospital told her they could take a piece off her lung if needs be and she’ll still be able to breathe. That is possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ssh.’ The doctor put up a hand to silence her. ‘It isn’t ethical to be talking about this, and it isn’t respectful to Mrs Drew who, I happen to know, has ears that have no need of an ear trumpet.’

  Emma was unable to stifle a laugh. She could well imagine Beattie making an ear trumpet of her hands so as to hear their voices better, and probably leaning out of the bed so she could. Then the smile evaporated as though a switch had been flicked, the way she flicked a switch to turn the light off and a room was in darkness again.

  Damn ethical. Emma might have died had Seth not taken her to Beattie the night she’d discovered his pa had sold her belongings and made her homeless. She’d do everything and anything she could to help Beattie and damn and blast and go to hell all thoughts of ethical.

  ‘But we can’t!’ Emma yelled. ‘We can’t! Beattie’s ill. She needs me. She might need an operation. I told Dr Shaw I’d pay. Or you would if it was a lot of money; more than I’ve got in my bank account.’

  ‘You had no right to say I’d pay anything,’ Seth said, as evenly as he could. Of course he’d see Mrs Drew financially cared for her, but the woman had four daughters and two sons to do any physical caring she needed. He told Emma so, his eyes never leaving hers as he spoke. He thought he saw something like defiance in those eyes and it scared him.

  ‘You’re saying all this because you’re angry I wasn’t home when you expected me to be. I’m hardly in the door and you’re bombarding me with things I don’t really want to hear right now. I didn’t have time to let you know where I was and why.’

  ‘I’m not angry. I was frightened – yes, I’ll admit that – when I came back and found you not here. Again. I’m sick to the eye teeth of living in fear of those who might want to harm us, as we’ve been harmed before – you can’t deny me that?’

  ‘No,’ Emma said. Still she was holding his gaze, wide-eyed. ‘I came back as quickly as I could. I ran all the way.’ Her hands were still on the handle of the perambulator and Seth could see her knuckles were red with the effort of pushing it up the hill. Her cheeks glowed, too.

  ‘I thought something had happened to you both and maybe it wasn’t Margaret Phipps after all who had beaten you.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you it was her?’

  ‘A man is allowed his imaginings, Emma.’

  Emma blinked. Dropped her gaze. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just the situation with Beattie, and me not being here when you got home, making us say things we ought not to. But I’m still saying we can’t go to Canada. Not yet.’

  ‘If ever, I think you mean,’ Seth said.

  He wished now he’d let his head rule his heart as it usually did and that he hadn’t blurted out about the letter from his aunt.

  ‘Can I pretend I didn’t hear that?’ Emma said.

  ‘But you did.’

  The sooner they went to Canada the better it would be. Better for Olly who could start looking for someone to whom to sell his business now, rather than in a few months’ time. Better for Emma, who was struggling with her business, unable to accept that circumstances and a seasonal business were against her achieving the success she aspired to.

  Fleur began to grizzle.

  ‘Is she hungry?’ Seth asked.

  ‘I expect so.’ Emma unstrapped Fleur from her harness and began to lift her from the perambulator. ‘So am I, and I expect you are, too.’

  ‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea for you to feed her.’

  The sound of Emma breathing in hard and holding that breath as though she was never going to let it out again alarmed Seth. He could read her thoughts almost; ‘She’s your child, not mine, you feed her’ was what he was reading. That and ‘Have you no compassion that I’ve spent almost the entire day concerned for Mrs Drew?’

  ‘I’m sure you can scramble her an egg, Seth,’ Emma said, each word clearly enunciated. She thrust Fleur out towards him. ‘If you do that then I’ll put you a pasty to warm and boil a few potatoes to go with it. But I won’t be eating because suddenly I’m not hungry any more. I’ve got a bûche de Noël to finish decorating and I’m going to finish it. It won’t take me long.’

  Her heart hammering in her chest, Emma put the letter from Matthew – unopened, un-read, but she knew the writing well enough to know it was from him – in a tin bowl. Then she struck a match, held the flame towards the paper.

  The fires in the ovens weren’t lit and she couldn’t light them at this time of the night or Seth might question why she had, so a match it would have to be.

  She watched the paper twist and curl, singe at the edges, before it caught well alight. It was gone in seconds. But it was a long time before her heart rhythm returned to its usual pace.

  She was going to have to tell Seth, because the last thing she wanted was for him to find a letter and challenge her with it. Besides, the lies she was having to weave, and the subterfuge, were eating away at her soul the way maggots work their way through a piece of rotten meat until there’s nothing left.

  Six letters? Seth had been sure there had been seven when he’d flicked through to see they were all addressed to Jago. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps coming home to an empty house had muddled his memory.

  The house wasn’t em
pty now, though. He’d done as Emma had suggested and scrambled Fleur an egg and now she was upstairs asleep. He’d eaten the pasty and potatoes Emma had prepared for him, but they’d tasted like ash in his mouth without Emma sitting on the other side of the table. She’d gone back to the bakery to have another attempt at the fancy French dessert she was so intent on perfecting. She was still there now.

  The rift between them was getting wider, wasn’t it? And he didn’t have the first idea how to close it up again.

  ‘Flowers?’ Emma said, and Seth’s heart lifted a little because she smiled. ‘For me?’

  They’d cost far more than he’d expected a bunch of flowers to cost, but the assistant in Ireland’s had explained that they were out of season and hothouse grown, hence the expense. Not that he begrudged a penny he spent on Emma really.

  ‘Who else?’ Seth said. ‘I’m sorry. For yesterday. For speaking so harshly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t know what got into me, making my words colder than the inside of St Mary’s on a January Sunday.’

  Seth laughed. Emma had such a funny way of describing things.

  ‘But stocks? They must have been hugely expensive. Birthday flowers perhaps, but it’s not my birthday,’ Emma said.

  ‘No. But it is our anniversary.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say?’

  ‘Yes, but anniversary of what?’

  ‘The day we got our photograph taken in our wedding finery.’

  Emma blushed then.

  ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? And there’s me thinking women were the more romantic!’

  ‘I’ll put them in water,’ Emma said, taking them from him. ‘Thank you.’

  Seth watched Emma walk through to the kitchen. She looked and sounded distracted. As though their anniversary – sham as it was – meant nothing to her. He followed her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Seth asked.

  ‘Wrong?’ Emma said, not looking at him.

  Seth watched as she seemed to take ages putting the flowers – stem by stem, arranging and re-arranging them – in a crystal vase that had been his ma’s.