The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  He brightened. ‘Can I stay here while you’re away? Rosina and Liza-Jane could look after me –’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Ralph, you can’t. I’m sorry –’

  ‘No, you aren’t. You don’t give a damn about me. You’re just like the rest of them. It’s not my fault if –’

  ‘It never is,’ Caseley said quietly.

  He lurched to his feet. ‘If that’s your attitude I may as well go.’ But he didn’t move towards the door. Caseley knew he was waiting for her to back down or offer a compromise. He expected it, believed he was entitled. But she had nothing left to give.

  ‘I think that would be best.’

  He pushed past her, leaving a stale sour reek in the air. A moment later the front door slammed.

  Caseley pitied her brother. He was a talented painter. But he was lazy, nursed grudges, and when things went wrong he blamed everyone but himself. His visits, thankfully rare, always unsettled her, provoking worry that she ought to do more for him, even though her help in the past had made no difference whatsoever. He took everything offered, wanted more, but refused to help himself. He hadn’t changed. It appeared unlikely he ever would.

  Though she wished he hadn’t come, seeing him gave her strength to fight the doubts crowding in to undermine her. The house was full of devastating memories, yet the prospect of leaving its security and the reassuring presence of Rosina, Liza-Jane and Ben terrified her. But if she wanted things to change, she had to change them. No one else could do it for her.

  Chapter Three

  Cygnet’s mate, Nathan Ferris, welcomed Caseley aboard; his callused hand enfolding hers was reassuring as he helped her onto the deck. Beneath the long cloak of navy serge that had kept her warm and doubled as an extra blanket during past voyages, she wore a hip-length fitted jacket over a white camisole and a petticoat with flounces at the back to support the plain navy skirt that fell straight to her instep in front. It was two years old but the gathered fullness at the back gave a nod to fashion.

  Because of her damaged foot she always wore ankle boots that were flat or had a low chunky heel. Easier for walking, they were also far safer on the brass stairs or a sloping deck. Her simple straw bonnet had a broad brim and two navy ribbons that tied under her chin. She had studied her reflection in the long glass before leaving.

  Etiquette demanded full mourning for a year. She was still two months shy of that. Guilt pricked like sharp thorns. She fought it. This voyage was not about her, and black would provoke questions, elicit sympathy. She didn’t want that, for her sake and Jago’s. He had a job to do.

  For the first time in years he needed her help. Could this be the first step on their journey back to each other? A vivid memory of Louise Downing’s triumphant smile made her recoil. She closed her eyes, breathed. She had lived through the worst a woman could suffer. She would survive this.

  ‘Good to see ’e again, missus.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathan. I hope your family is well?’

  ‘Going on fine they are.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘All right, missus?’ Hammer and Jimbo each touched a knuckle to their foreheads in a salute as they hurried to unlash the two huge fore-and-aft sails and haul them up the masts.

  Seeing Martin, now a stocky muscular twenty-year-old, stowing sacks and crates of provisions in the galley shack, Caseley remembered the skinny twelve-year-old he had been on her voyage with Jago to Spain. Glancing up, he gave her the same salute. Caseley made herself smile. ‘Are you still the cook, Martin?’

  ‘He isn’t fit for nothing else,’ Jimbo panted, heaving on a rope.

  ‘We keep ’n in the shack so he don’t get under our feet,’ Hammer agreed.

  ‘If it was left to you pair we’d starve,’ Martin shouted back. ‘Burn water, you would.’

  ‘Truth is,’ Nathan told her, ‘Mart do a good job. He got a gift for it.’

  ‘I hope you’ll find these useful, Martin.’ Caseley handed the young man a cloth bag. ‘Two fruit cakes, two fresh loaves, a crock of butter and two jars of homemade raspberry jam.’ Rosina had been busy baking until late last evening while Liza-Jane ironed then carefully rolled Caseley’s dresses so they wouldn’t crease.

  Martin flushed, grinning with pleasure. ‘Proper job, missus. Much obliged. Go down a treat, they will. We never go short of porridge and treacle, meat and veg. But cake,’ he held up the bag. ‘Good as Christmas this is.’

  As Caseley descended the brass stairs she saw the door to Jago’s day cabin wedged open. His trunk was pushed against the ship’s side below the sliding door of sea berth.

  He was sitting writing the log and rose as she entered, sliding out of the narrow space between the triangular table and the padded leather bench.

  ‘Thanks, Nathan. I’ll be up directly.’

  As the mate returned topside, Jago’s gaze lingered on her cloak. Was he remembering Spain? ‘If you’ve changed your mind it’s not too late –’

  ‘We’ve already had this conversation,’ she broke in quietly. ‘My trunk?’

  Gesturing towards an alcove screened from the cabin by the folds of a thick dark curtain, he moved to the open doorway. ‘You know your way around. I want to get underway.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They were husband and wife and as wary as strangers. He disappeared and she heard his boots clang on the chased brass treads of the companionway. Alone now, she pressed a gloved hand to her dry throat as her heart thudded. Not too late ... With all her heart she hoped so.

  Everything was as she remembered: the table designed to fit the narrowing stern and edged with a wooden lip to prevent things sliding off, the shelf above filled with books and sea junk secured by a beautifully turned fiddle rail, the shallow brass lamp suspended beneath the open skylight.

  Her gaze moved from the clock and barometer to the squat stove standing on its protective metal plate in front of the forward bulkhead and bracketed by a full coal-bucket and basket of logs.

  Through the open skylight came the sounds of a ship making ready for sea: the rattle of blocks, snapping canvas and the crew’s banter. Six years had passed since her last trip and it was exactly as she remembered.

  She crossed to the sleeping alcove. Pushing back the curtain she saw the nightstand. Beneath a hinged lid was an enamel basin. A cupboard underneath held a chamber pot. Light fell across the berth and her breath caught in her throat.

  Immediately after proposing to her, Jago had instructed Hammer to widen the narrow berth so it would comfortably accommodate them both. She had made a mattress to fit and bought new blankets.

  In that small private space they had discovered each other, shared their pasts and talked of their plans for the future. Their elder son had been conceived there. She had slept in Jago’s arms, safe, loved, until her advancing pregnancy had made it uncomfortable and unwise.

  The berth had been reduced to its original size. Rejection stung like a slap. She lifted the blankets and saw the mattress had been made smaller to fit. Their time together, her presence here, her part in his seafaring life, he had erased it all. She had believed herself numb to further pain. She wasn’t.

  But, having insisted on coming, she could not complain. Nor could she stay down here. If she did not show herself topside he would come to find out why. Pulling herself together, she left the door wedged open and returned to the deck.

  Jago was at the helm steering a course through anchored ships of every size and rig. The crew ignored her, busy hoisting additional sails and coiling ropes over wooden pegs. Martin was in the galley shack lighting the stove.

  Caseley leaned on the weather rail with warm sun and cold breeze on her face, and felt relieved. She didn’t have to talk and no one wanted anything from her.

  She glanced back as the distance between Cygnet and the Cornish coast widened. Whatever this voyage held could not be worse than the past she was leaving behind.

  At sea the main meal of meat, vegetables and a pudding
was always eaten at midday. Martin put a plate in front of her containing two thick slices of boiled ham, three boiled potatoes and a spoonful of sliced carrots. In the centre of the table stood a small pot of mustard and a jar of apple and onion chutney.

  ‘That enough for you, missus? I wasn’t sure –’

  ‘It’s just right, Martin.’ She smiled up at him.

  The others were served, Martin slid in beside her and the meal began. She wasn’t hungry but, with Jago watching, she knew she had to eat. She used her knife to take some chutney then cut into a potato. After swallowing the first mouthful it was easier to take the next. The men ate quickly, focused on their food.

  Caseley finished and put her knife and fork together. ‘That was delicious, Martin.’

  ‘Look at ’n, blushing like a sunset,’ Jimbo teased.

  ‘Don’t say no more, missus,’ Hammer warned. ‘He’ll never get his swelled head in the galley shack.’

  Aware of Jago’s gaze, she slid out from behind the table. ‘Will you excuse me?’

  ‘Don’t you want no afters?’ Martin started to get up. ‘’Tis treacle pudding.’

  ‘I couldn’t manage another mouthful,’ Caseley smiled at him. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to say we could use ’em for cannon balls,’ Jimbo said. ‘But truth is, Mart do make ’andsome suet pudding, and jam roly-poly. Make someone a lovely wife he will.’

  ‘Giss on!’ Martin’s blush deepened.

  ‘I’ll look forward to trying some. Please don’t get up,’ she said quickly, as all three started to rise. Leaving them she went up on deck.

  Nathan was at the wheel and, apart from a brief nod, he tactfully ignored her as she walked round the side of the wheel shelter and opened the door to the latrine.

  Beneath a wooden seat fixed on two stout battens screwed to the plank wall was a bucket. Another bucket contained ashes and a small scoop. Small squares of newspaper pierced in one corner hung from a string suspended from a nail in the wall.

  Each evening the latrine bucket was emptied and rinsed with seawater containing diluted pitch. Each morning when the stoves were cleaned out the ash bucket was refilled. It was basic but efficient and Caseley was glad of it.

  After tea, while Jago took the helm and she had the cabin to herself, Martin brought down a ewer of hot water. The routine followed a pattern established when she sailed with Jago during their first year of marriage. But it wasn’t the same. Then she had prepared for bed in shy yet eager anticipation. Now – now she burned with anger and ached with loneliness.

  After a strip wash she put on her nightgown, then brushed her hair and plaited it into a loose braid. Curled up in the berth listening to the creak of the timbers and the hiss of water against the hull she lay awake.

  She heard the door open and quietly close, heard him moving about, then the creak of the padded bench. If she moved the curtain she would see him at the table writing the log and marking the chart. Only a few feet apart, they might as well have been on opposite sides of an ocean.

  By the second afternoon the Cornish coast was no longer visible. With a strong steady breeze filling every sail, Cygnet headed southwest towards Spain and Portugal.

  At tea time Caseley managed a slice of bread and butter but it felt like a wad of cotton in her mouth. Forcing it down with a few sips of tea, she begged them to excuse her.

  Jago followed her down. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied as chills raced over her skin and her head pounded. ‘Just tired. It’s a long time since – the constant motion of the ship –’

  ‘You’re not seasick.’

  Had she not felt so awful, the mingled accusation and disbelief in his tone would have made her smile. But her amusement was fleeting. He would be debating whether to return to Falmouth.

  ‘No, I’m not. Nor have I ever been, as you should know.’ They reached his day cabin and she fumbled with the door handle. If she didn’t lie down soon she would fall down. ‘It’s nothing. I will be better tomorrow.’

  He hesitated in the doorway. She remembered a time when he would have closed the door on the rest of the ship, undressed her himself, then held her, lain with her, comforted her and she would have drawn strength from him.

  But that was before. Before the bottom fell out of her world. Before he turned for comfort not to her, but to Louise Downing.

  Feeling ill and utterly wretched Caseley dragged off her clothes, leaving them where they dropped. Wearing only her shift, she pulled the pins from her hair and, as it tumbled over her shoulders, slid beneath the blankets. She closed her eyes and felt herself falling...

  Awareness returned. She was warm, comfortable and deeply relaxed. But where –? Then the motion and the nearby sound of rushing water brought it all back. She was aboard Cygnet. She drew in a deep breath and stretched. Her hand thumped against the bulkhead.

  She heard booted feet. The curtain was pulled back and Jago stood in the doorway.

  ‘So, you’re back.’

  She sat up. ‘Back? I don’t understand.’

  He sat on the edge of the berth, elbows on his knees. ‘Five days, Caseley. You barely stirred for five days.’

  As she tried to take in what he was saying and what it meant, she saw strain and exhaustion etched on his face. ‘Oh, Jago –’

  ‘We should reach Gibraltar tomorrow –’

  ‘What? How –?’

  ‘Gales.’ The terse reply told her everything she needed to know.

  ‘Was there much damage?’

  ‘A broken yard and a ripped topsail. We got off lightly.’

  ‘You have a first-rate crew.’

  ‘I’m putting you ashore. I’ll arrange with the governor for your passage on the first ship returning to Falmouth. In the meantime –’

  ‘I’m not leaving Cygnet, Jago. Not until we reach Alexandria.’

  ‘I should never have agreed to this.’

  ‘But you did.’ She paused, then added softly, ‘I’m sorry if I caused you worry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ He shoved an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘It’s – you have no idea –’

  ‘I was tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Five days, Caseley. That’s not tiredness.’

  ‘But I’m perfectly well now. Truly. What’s the time?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If Martin’s not busy with dinner, could he heat some water? I would dearly love a wash.’

  He gazed at her a moment longer, his lips pressed together as if to physically prevent words escaping, and strode out. As he clanged up the stairs, Caseley swung her legs out of the berth. As she stood up, the cabin floor seemed to rock. She sat down again, taking slow deep breaths, until her head stopped swimming. She would feel stronger after a meal.

  The skylight above the table was open and she heard him shout for hot water, heard Martin’s yelled reply, ‘Aye, Skip.’

  Jago took the wheel from Nathan. He was furious with Caseley for frightening him. He had a job to do and didn’t have time for this. He kept seeing her lying there unresponsive and relived his mouth-drying terror at the thought of losing her.

  Realisation had shocked him like an icy wave as he realised it must have been the same for her as she nursed the boys, watching them get worse and helpless to prevent it.

  He shouldn’t have let her come. But her determination to do so had allowed him to hope there might be a way back for them. He should have realised she wasn’t well, that exhaustion and grief had taken far more out of her than either of them realised. But she hadn’t complained, not to him. If she had, would he have heard? Self-loathing burned inside him.

  Refreshed after a top-to-toe wash, Caseley put on a clean shift, stockings and her shoes. She brushed her hair and twisted it into a coil on the nape of her neck. After fastening the hooks of her corset she stepped into a petticoat with flounces at the back, then her skirt. Both corset and skirt sat more loosely on her waist. Buttoning a clean camisole she put on her jacket
.

  The small mirror Jago had fastened to the bulkhead reflected a pale, oval face, green eyes with purple shadows like bruises beneath them and high, sharp cheekbones. The rounded softness she had acquired during motherhood had vanished. She was no longer a mother. So what – who –was she now?

  She turned away, clutching the back of the padded bench for support. She couldn’t do this. Yes, she could. She must, if she was to change her life. Being on Cygnet was not simply a voyage to a foreign country it was a journey to find a new self.

  Jago needed her assistance. There was no going back to what had been. Could working together again help them find a new way forward? She straightened her spine, drew a deep breath, and left the cabin.

  The crew’s welcome brought a lump to her throat. After each one had asked how she was feeling, Jago snarled at them to look to their tasks.

  Startled, Caseley met his gaze. The bright sunlight revealed dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes and a furrow of tension between his brows. About to speak, he shook his head and turned away. ‘Hammer, clear a space on the cargo hatch so my wife has somewhere to sit.’

  Chapter Four

  Cygnet sailed across the Bay of Algeciras. Ahead Caseley saw the tall limestone promontory of Gibraltar jutting out into the Strait from the end of an area of low, flat land.

  It was just after two when they entered the harbour and moored alongside one of the quays. Leaving Hammer on watch, Nathan went down to have his dinner and a customs officer came aboard.

  After introducing Caseley, who remained topside to give them privacy, Jago took the officer down to the day cabin.

  That morning she had left off her navy cloak in favour of a skirt and matching long-sleeved fitted jacket of cream cotton printed with tiny green flowers. When she had finished dressing she looked down at herself. It was wrong, too soon...

  Her fingers had gone to the buttons. Then she had lowered her hands. The navy cloak needed washing and was too warm now they were in the Mediterranean. Wearing cotton was a simple necessity, not a lack of respect. After nearly a year in unrelieved black she needed time to get used to wearing ordinary clothes again – and time to overcome guilt at her relief. The straw bonnet Rosina had re-trimmed with holly green ribbon shielded her eyes from the bright sunshine.