To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Hard times?’ Seth said.

  ‘Do I need to explain it to you chapter and verse, son? You know as well as I do that there are good years and bad years for fishing. Times when prices are good and times when we wouldn’t be able to give fish away. Debts can pile up in a minute in hard times. D’you get my meaning now?’

  ‘I’m beginning to. And signing your properties over to me so they couldn’t be sold to offset any debts would be legal?’

  ‘It will be perfectly legal, son.’

  ‘Carter and Miles aren’t going to like it, though.’

  ‘They’re not going to know. Neither you nor I are going to tell them, understand?’

  Seth nodded.

  ‘Good. I’ve made an appointment at a solicitor’s office in Exeter for tomorrow afternoon. For us both.’

  Seth had never thought of himself as calculating or of being capable of using anyone. But his ma had brought a great deal of money to the marriage – her father’s money. If Carter and Miles were to get their hands on it they’d only fritter it away on women and high living. No, the properties were safer with him.

  ‘And the books, son,’ his father said. ‘You write them up, so I think it’s high time you signed them, too. What do you think?’

  Sign them? Seth was already concerned sums weren’t quite adding up. His pa was depositing more money than the profits of the fishing fleet showed. He was up to something and Seth had no intention of being part of it. He’d have questions of his own about the exchange of property deeds when he met the solicitor. Besides, if he signed obviously false accounts it might affect his entitlement to the properties – something his pa seemed not to have realised – and he was not going to give them up.

  ‘No need to mention to the solicitor about signing the books. That’s a different matter.’

  Seth shivered. It was as though his pa was reading his mind. And he was up to something – Seth was certain of it now. So, there was no way on this earth he was going to put his signature to anything other than the exchange of property deeds.

  ‘I can see you’re thinking about it,’ Reuben laughed. ‘I nearly nodded off there for a moment. Circumstances change, son. They change people.’

  ‘Don’t they just,’ Seth said.

  As always, Seth’s thoughts turned to Emma. For a moment in the cemetery he’d felt deeply towards her, had felt those feelings reciprocated. But if she was going to be Caunter’s housekeeper Emma’s feelings might change. Caunter was a good-looking man, after all. Kind, too, to have given her refuge when she needed it.

  Damn and blast it, Seth thought, that I’m a Jago. But he wasn’t going to give up on winning Emma’s heart – it might just take a little longer than he’d been hoping for, that was all.

  ‘What did you say to Mr Jago?’ Emma asked. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

  She and Matthew were back at Shingle Cottage now. They’d walked via Hilltop House and Emma had been told to stay outside while Matthew went in to speak to Mr Jago – not that she was ever going to go in there again. All the way home she’d been asking what had been said but Matthew wouldn’t tell her.

  At the police station Emma had been questioned first – alone. She’d nearly died of embarrassment when she’d been asked if Matthew had taken her to his bed, and she’d said – no, shouted – that she was underage for that sort of thing and anyway she wasn’t that sort of girl. And then Matthew had gone in and she’d had to wait almost an hour before he came back out again.

  ‘Patience, Emma, is a virtue you’d be wise to learn. I wasn’t going to tell you anything out in the street where I might be overheard. Tea?’

  Matthew banged a kettle of water down on the range.

  Did she have time for a cup of tea? She’d have to find somewhere else to stay before nightfall and already the sun was going down. ‘I don’t have time,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll collect my bag and then …’

  ‘No need,’ Matthew said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Honestly, Matthew was talking in riddles.

  ‘You can stay here. And you’ll have an official title – housekeeper. Nothing wrong in a man having a housekeeper if there’s no wife around to keep house for him. Mr Jago will spread it about that that’s all you are. It’s the best I can do to stop the gossip on your behalf.’

  ‘I don’t know that Mr Jago ever does anyone a favour. Certainly he didn’t do me any. He’ll be getting more out of this than you or I will,’ Emma said. ‘He’d never make an offer like that if there was nothing in it for him. He …’

  Matthew held up a hand to stop her.

  ‘Neither of us can read Mr Jago’s mind or know what his intentions are, can we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But I’ll tell you what’s in mine. I think Jago has treated you despicably. You’ve been orphaned such a short time and I think he might have shown more compassion. And I told him so. So, my housekeeper – how does that suit? Remembering, of course, you have nowhere to lay your head tonight. I’m not forcing you to stay, of course. You’re free to go.’ Matthew waved an arm towards the door.

  Emma wanted to say there was no way on this earth she was going to be anybody’s housekeeper. But something stopped her and it wasn’t only that the kettle had boiled and Matthew had taken biscuits from a tin and put some on a plate. Where would she go if she didn’t stay here?

  ‘I can see you’re mulling the idea over, Emma. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘But it’s making me feel like some tool a neighbour borrows like a saw to lop off tree branches or something. And in return gets offered the loan of boots for his children to go to school …’

  ‘I don’t want you to feel that way. It’s not how I see it.’

  Emma heaved her shoulders up to her ears and let them drop heavily. She sighed.

  ‘And now I want to make deal with you, Emma.’

  Emma folded her arms across her chest. If he was going to ask for the favours of her body then she’d be out of that door faster than a rat up a drainpipe. She was underage for goodness’ sake. It would be against the law.

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘If you stay, I promise not to enter your bedroom, as long as you promise not to enter mine. Is it a deal?’

  ‘That part goes without saying,’ Emma said. ‘But what will I be expected to do? I’ve got the money you told the sergeant you put in my bag, and I could use that for rent and food.’

  ‘No need. I’ll pay the rent, and give you money to shop for food. You keep house. And you cook.’

  ‘Cook? For you?’

  Matthew put a hand to his forehead and pretend-scanned the room. ‘No one else seems to be here. So yes, you get to cook for me. You can cook?’

  ‘Yes. My mama was a good cook. And although he didn’t like anyone knowing he could – or that he did – so was my papa. He showed me how to make tarte aux pommes …’

  Emma’s mind wandered off to the times she’d spent helping her papa cut the apples so thinly she could have read the newspaper through them. And then the bit she loved best when the tart came out of the oven and she glazed the top with melted apricot jam. She licked her lips. She could almost taste it.

  ‘And what would that be when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s French. A sort of apple tart, but with pastry only on the bottom. Served with cream.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘But I hope I won’t be cooking for you for long …’

  ‘Don’t be in any rush, Emma. I admire you for the way you came to my defence against Jago and the rozzers. My way of saying thanks – to put a roof over your head for the time being.’

  ‘But people will talk about me, and …’

  ‘Let them. Small minds. You and I will know the truth of what goes on inside these walls
. Hold your head high and ignore the lot of them.’

  ‘I’m getting good at that. Holding my head high – well as high as I can – because there’s lots here still think my mother was a suicide, even though the Coroner …’ Emma pressed her lips together. Couldn’t go on. She would love to be able to clear her mama’s name once and for all, but didn’t know how. And she wasn’t going to ask anyone to help, least of all Matthew Caunter.

  ‘The truth will out, Emma,’ he said. ‘It almost always does.’

  Matthew began emptying the contents of the bag he’d taken to sea. He hung wet clothes over a line strung across the kitchen ceiling. Emma watched him, wondering if she should suggest he wash them in soapflakes first. If they were to share the cottage then she didn’t think she’d be able to live with the stinking smell of mouldy clothes.

  ‘I wonder who did kill Sophie Ellison?’ Emma said. She shivered – the sight of poor Sophie and the mess she was in when the doctor turned her over was still very fresh in her mind.

  ‘I wonder,’ Matthew said. ‘But don’t you worry. You’re safe with me. And that necklace that’s caused all this brouhaha … I’ll get that back for you as well one day. You can be certain of that.’

  Chapter Eight

  Seth ran his hand over the counterpane that Emma had slept under not that long ago. The pillow, he noticed, still bore the indent of her head.

  Any minute now Mrs Drew would be up to change the bed-linen. A new maid was arriving after lunch – a new plaything for his brothers probably. Well, there was no way whoever it was, was going to be using his ma’s silver-backed brushes. He hadn’t minded Emma using them – had wanted her to. He picked up the brushes and held them to him – they smelled of roses; Emma must have washed her hair in rose-scented soap.

  ‘You’re sweet on her, aren’t you, Seth?’ Mrs Drew startled him, even though her usually loud voice was gentle.

  Seth twitched his shoulders.

  ‘You can’t deny it, lad. But …’

  ‘But she’s living back at Shingle Cottage with Caunter.’

  ‘She’s working for him. And trust me it won’t be easy work looking after a man. But all that don’t mean she’s sweet on him, though, do it?’

  Seth gave another, small shrug. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Mrs Drew laid a hand on Seth’s shoulder. ‘She’s a free spirit, that one. Neither you nor Matthew Caunter will be able to clip her wings until she’s ready. She’s only young – not sixteen yet. Born at Michaelmas and don’t I know it ’cos it were me holding her ma’s hand while she screamed the place down. A lot’s happened to that poor maid in a short space of time. ’Er needs time to adjust. Let her fly a little first, Seth. And you do the same, lad. Away from this house if you’ve got any sense. And that’s all I’m saying on the matter.’

  Mrs Drew dragged the counterpane from the bed, began to strip sheets.

  ‘I’ll let you get on.’

  ‘You do that. And take those brushes with you. If I were a betting woman – which I’m not – I’d say you’ll get to give them to your lady love one day.’

  ‘A florin on it,’ Seth said, smiling. ‘But you’re not a betting woman …’

  ‘Oh, I could be prepared to bend my own rule.’

  Seth and Mrs Drew shook on the deal … a florin wasn’t a lot to lose but he was prepared to lose it if Emma could be his one day.

  Although she would never have admitted it, Emma was enjoying cooking for herself and Matthew. So much so that weeks had passed since she’d even thought about looking for another job. She could hardly believe it was almost the end of May. Well, Emma thought, as she ladled soup into two bowls, she could in reality because the nights were much lighter now and she could cook well into the evening without having to light an oil lamp to do it by. She placed a bowl of soup in front of Matthew.

  ‘Thank you,’ Matthew said, as he always did when she served him food. But no other conversation seemed to be forthcoming. It was as though he had something on his mind and Emma was learning not to pry.

  She sat down opposite him, stirred her soup six times to the left, six times to the right to cool it – an old habit of her mama’s that just wouldn’t die.

  Emma looked up at Matthew but his head was bent over his bowl, hungrily eating now. She returned to her thoughts.

  Her savings towards some good clothes and shoes in which she would return to Nase Head House and ask for a position were growing, because if Matthew particularly liked something Emma had cooked, then he’d slip her a shilling, or even a florin. She’d been to the bank and had been issued with a replacement bank book seeing as the original was one of the things Mr Jago had consigned to the bonfire for some reason best known to himself – not that Emma was going to ask. The bank manager had, though, when he’d written to Mr Jago to see if he had it or if he could confirm it had been destroyed. It was hugely satisfying to Emma, now, to see the balance creeping up, if slowly, in her new bank book.

  On the days Matthew was away at sea Emma dreamed of the clothes and the shoes she would buy – jewellery even. And she saw to the house – cleaning it, moving furniture around to get a better look – while she dreamed. And flowers – as spring flowers were replaced with early summer ones, Emma walked the lanes and picked dog roses judiciously from the hedgerows; just enough to lift her spirits, but not too many as to leave little for other people to look at and enjoy.

  And Matthew had been true to his word – she was safe with him. He had fixed a bolt to her bedroom door, although she rarely used it. Just the fixing of it for her was enough to tell her he had no intention of violating her body against her will.

  But Matthew was seeing someone, getting to know her body because he often went out, returning late and smelling of perfume. ‘A man has needs, Emma,’ was all he said when she commented on the sweet smell of violets about him. And Emma had learned not to comment again. And not to mind being alone while he was out enjoying female company. She read her book by lamplight, making the words last, reading the same paragraph over and over – drowning, almost, in Jane Austen’s prose. And sometimes, on a warm evening, Matthew sat on the back doorstep whittling a piece of wood – turning it into a squirrel or a mouse or some other small animal while she read. At times like that Emma felt almost happy again.

  ‘You know, Emma, this soup is delicious,’ Matthew said, breaking into her thoughts like a cavalry charge. ‘Never tasted the like anywhere.’

  ‘My papa taught me how to make it. The stock you make it with is important. He said that. You have to boil the prawn shells and the fish bones to make the stock. His mother taught him how, and no doubt her mother before her and back through the generations in Roscoff.’

  ‘Roscoff?’

  ‘It’s in Brittany. It’s a fishing town, too – like this place only not as big. And no fleet owners like the Jagos – just one boat per family, so my papa said.’

  ‘So how come your papa, as you call him …’

  ‘He was my papa! That’s how the French say daddy.’

  ‘Keep your shirt on, Miss. But I’m intrigued to know how he ended up here.’

  ‘A storm blew him in, so Mama always said. And she kept him.’

  ‘Ah,’ Matthew said, slurping down another spoonful of soup. ‘It’s an ill wind that does nobody any good.’

  ‘That’s what Mama used to say. She was helping in the Seamen’s Mission – you know the place where seamen can go if their boats sink or get damaged and they’re far from their own harbour, as Papa was.’

  ‘I know,’ Matthew said. ‘Every seaman needs to know where the nearest one is. Mr Jago pointed it out to me.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  Emma shrugged. She was sick of the sound of the Jago name. Even Seth. She’d thought he was beginning to like her – not bothered by the fact she was an orphan and able to ignore the rumou
rs that her mama had committed suicide. But every time she saw him now, he pretended he hadn’t seen her coming and turned and walked off in the opposite direction. Perhaps she’d misread his feelings in the cemetery when they’d met accidentally? Although she hoped, very much, that she hadn’t.

  She hoped with all her heart that Seth didn’t think she wouldn’t want anything to do with him because his pa had her mama’s necklace. If only she could see him she could ask if that was the reason and assure him it didn’t alter her feelings about him one little bit.

  Emma swallowed back her sadness at not seeing Seth as much as she would like to. But still there was an ache somewhere around her breast bone that wouldn’t go away – like a nagging toothache, but something no dentist could put right.

  ‘Mr Jago’s not a nice man, Matthew. Nor are his sons, Carter and Miles.’

  ‘So I’m fast finding out. What do you think about Seth?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘He’s not like the other Jagos,’ Emma said. ‘We were friends, me and Seth.’

  ‘Were?’

  Emma shrugged. If she didn’t think of the times she and Seth had walked together, talked together, laughed together, then maybe she wouldn’t miss them too much.

  ‘I expect it’s because I’m living here. With you, and …’ Perhaps his father hadn’t bothered to tell Seth what her position with Matthew was exactly?

  ‘I didn’t have Seth Jago down as small-minded,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Neither did I.’

  Emma sipped her fish soup. She wished she’d had some dill to go in it but it was too early in the growing season. She broke off a piece of bread from the basket on the table – a habit she’d taken on from her papa which her mama had happily applied to her own way of doing things. As she tore the bread into bite-sized pieces her thoughts strayed to Seth – as they often did – even though she tried her hardest to banish those thoughts.