‘Who’s going to be sitting here?’ Emma asked. ‘There are three chairs and only two of us.’
‘Mr Smythe said he’d join us later. If he has a spare moment.’
‘Why?’
‘Questions, questions, Emma. Why so many questions? Now – the menu.’ Matthew handed her an ornately decorated card.
‘Oh, this is so wonderful!’ She put the menu down on the table and clapped her hands together. Twice.
‘Sssh. Keep your voice down a bit.’ Matthew smiled at her. ‘What with the gash on your head – disguised as it is, slightly, with the contents of the flour bin mixed with rouge – you’re getting enough attention as it is.’
Emma giggled. What fun she’d had making up the mixture to hide her bruises and the beginnings of a scab.
She glanced around the dining-room, but no one seemed to be looking her way at the moment. Two waiters, in black trousers and stiffly starched white shirts, were busily polishing glasses before putting them in their places on the only table still vacant. A table for six. It had a Reserved card on it.
Everyone was dressed in their finery. Some of the women had ornaments in their hair – feathers and jewels and pieces of organza. Emma had to pinch herself to believe she was really here and not dreaming. And she was so grateful to Matthew for suggesting she buy something special to wear.
‘That and my beauty,’ Emma laughed back. ‘Or so you’re always telling me.’
When Emma had walked down the stairs towards Matthew dressed in her new clothes and with her hair piled on top of her head secured with pins bought at Gladwyn’s on a whim when she’d bought the blouse and skirt, he’d breathed in deeply, as though in shock. But when he’d recovered he’d still only been able to say one word – beautiful. And that over and over and over.
‘Compliments could go to your head, my lady. Much as that drink is.’
‘I’ve only had a few sips. But it is nice, sort of bubbly.’
‘Champagne usually does have bubbles, Emma.’
‘Well, I know that. I’ve just never had it before, that’s all.’
‘Then have some more and then maybe you’ll have recovered your memory a bit and you’ll be able to tell me what’s so wonderful about the menu.’
‘It’s in French.’ Emma turned the menu over. ‘Oh, and in English on the other side.’
Matthew laughed. ‘That’s taken the wind out of your sails. You don’t think there’s many local residents who can speak French, do you? Although visitors from London probably can. All those people sitting over there in their fancy finery, for instance.’
‘I know,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve already seen them. But they probably don’t speak French as well as I do.’
‘Don’t brag,’ Matthew laughed.
‘I’m not. I’m just saying.’
Being able to understand the French side of the menu had given Emma’s spirits a lift – made her forget all about Carter and what he’d tried to do to her for a moment. She picked up the menu and read it again, in her head. In the doing of it she could almost hear her papa correcting her pronunciation. How close she felt to him, still, in that moment.
‘Penny for them,’ Matthew said. He tapped his forehead.
‘Worth a lot more than that,’ Emma told him, a lump in her throat. ‘I expect Mr Smythe has his own reasons for having the menu in the two languages.’
‘I expect he does,’ Matthew said.
Emma clasped her hands together. A table by the window was being served. Small plates with … with slices of her crab tart on them. How exciting that felt.
‘They’re eating my tart,’ Emma whispered, clutching at Matthew’s sleeve.
Gently he prised her hand away. ‘And why wouldn’t they be? Ah, here’s the waiter. Time to choose something from that menu. In whichever language you choose to do it.’
The waiter hovered beside Emma, a pad and a pencil in his hand. She ordered in French.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ the waiter said. ‘I didn’t understand a word of that.’
‘Well, you should. If the menu is in French then you ought to expect people to ask for things in French.’
‘Emma, for goodness’ sake,’ Matthew said.
‘Sorry. It’s the champagne, I think it is going to my head.’
Emma turned to the waiter and ordered – in English – the crab tart. Matthew said he’d have the same. For the main course Emma chose the roast lamb – how long it had been since she’d tasted lamb. Matthew elected to have jugged hare. They’d already agreed to order tarte tatin for dessert.
‘I wonder who’s going to be eating there.’
Emma pointed to the vacant table. There was a branch of candles in the centre, not lit yet. And there were two low bowls of flowers – the palest of pale pink carnations – at either end of the table. Crisp linen cloths stood like mini mountains at each place-setting.
Emma considered just how much her meal was going to cost. The prices weren’t on the menu she’d been given. Perhaps in a place like this it was assumed one could afford anything and everything that was on the menu?
‘I wonder,’ Matthew said, just as the waiter arrived with their first course.
Emma and Matthew ate without talking, Emma listening hard to try and hear what diners at tables nearby were saying. Something about the train being late, one woman was saying, but the room she was stopping in making up for it because it was so well-appointed.
Emma wondered what it would be like to stay in a place like this. Own something like this. Maybe Mr Smythe would take her on in some capacity if she couldn’t rent the shed down on the quay and sell her tarts further afield. When Matthew left she’d have to find some work. Which she knew in her heart he would be doing soon – she could tell. He’d begun packing things in boxes – things he said he didn’t need much now autumn was coming; his thin cotton shirts and singlets. Autumn? It wouldn’t be August until three days’ time. And everyone knew August could be hot and sultry. Yes, he was preparing to leave, and Emma knew it.
‘Tuppence for them this time?’ Matthew said.
‘Oh, they’re going to be worth far more than that some day. I’d love to own a hotel like this, never mind work in one.’
Matthew raised his eyebrows.
‘You’re surprised? Don’t you think I can do it?’ Emma asked.
‘I know you can, and I sincerely hope you do. We all have to have a dream.’
‘And that’s mine,’ Emma said. There was a loud bang then as a champagne bottle was opened and Emma looked towards the noise. ‘Oh!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth.
Her lovely dream was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
Reuben Jago had entered the dining-room as though he owned it. A young woman, young enough to be his daughter, if not his granddaughter, was hanging onto his arm, gazing up adoringly at him.
And round her neck was Emma’s mama’s amethyst necklace.
‘Matthew …’
But Matthew stopped her, putting a hand on her arm, and raising a finger to his lips.
‘I’ve seen. I’ll deal with it later. Here’s our main course.’
‘I’m not hungry any more.’
‘I thought you had more spirit than that. More backbone. You can’t let the likes of him,’ and at that Matthew jerked his head towards Reuben Jago who hadn’t noticed them yet, ‘manipulate your feelings or your life.’
‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your necklace.’
‘Food, Emma,’ Matthew said.
Emma thanked the waiter as he placed her plate in front of her. She cut off a tiny corner of lamb and popped it in her mouth. Eating was the only way to stop her talking, stop her saying what she wanted to say. Stop her going right over to Reuben Jago to ask what he thought he was doing letting that trollop wear her mama�
�s necklace.
‘Don’t look up and don’t react, Emma,’ Matthew said. He placed a hand on her arm. ‘Carter Jago and his brother Miles have just joined their father. Complete with floosies of their own.’
Emma struggled to comply with Matthew’s order, but couldn’t resist peeping out from lowered lashes. Carter was walking towards her, but not looking at her. She could see the pink vertical marks on his cheeks where she’d caught him with her nails. Obviously she hadn’t scratched him nearly hard enough. She wondered what lie he might have told the woman he was with as to how he came by the scratches.
‘Seth’s not with them,’ Emma whispered. And thank heaven for that, she thought.
‘I didn’t expect him to be for one moment,’ Matthew whispered back.
It was on the tip of Emma’s tongue to ask if Matthew had been expecting Reuben Jago and Carter and Miles, but she was learning wisdom, wasn’t she? Slowly, but surely, she was learning it.
‘I feel like I want to go and scratch Carter Jago’s eyes out for what he did to me,’ Emma whispered, a hand over her mouth to silence her words further.
‘Sssh, don’t court trouble.’
‘Me?’ Emma cried, and the second the word was out of her mouth she knew it had come out too loud because practically the whole dining-room looked her way. And Carter Jago in particular.
He excused himself from his companion, leaving his brother to show her to her seat and came striding over to their table. He had a false smile on his face as he did so.
Completely ignoring Emma, Carter dropped onto the spare chair at their table and glared at Matthew.
The hubbub of conversation of the other diners resumed, and Emma was thankful for that.
‘Who said the likes of you can eat in a place like this, Caunter?’
Emma gasped, but Matthew shot her a look that told her she was to keep quiet – already she’d said too much though, hadn’t she?
‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to eat anywhere, Mr Jago,’ Matthew said. He reached for Emma’s hand, touched it briefly. ‘With whomsoever I choose.’ Carter cleared his throat ready to speak, but Matthew held up a hand to silence him. ‘And if ever you lay a hand on Miss Le Goff again you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘You’re welcome to the little bitch.’
Emma gasped again as Carter made to stand, but Matthew put a hand to his shoulder to restrain him. ‘You’ll take that back,’ he said, his voice low, controlled, but Emma could tell there was anger in his eyes.
‘Or what? I told Seth he was wasting his money having headstones made for her. Pity he’s not here to see how she’s dolled herself up for someone else.’
‘I’m dressed for me, thank you very much,’ Emma said. Although she was angry with Carter she was heartened that it had been Seth who’d had the headstones made for her parents and Johnnie.
‘Hush, Emma,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll deal with this. As for you, Carter, I think you owe Miss Le Goff an apology.’
‘I owe her nothing!’ Carter said.
‘Keep your voice down, man. We’re in a public place. If you won’t apologise now, then I’ll expect one later. Outside.’
‘You’ll have to catch me first,’ Carter said. ‘And you can count your days as numbered working for the Jagos. I’ll be having a word with my father.’
‘Then don’t let me keep you from him. Or your, er, companion.’
Carter Jago made a snorting sound, stood up, and walked back to his table.
‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, Emma,’ Matthew said. ‘I have a phone call to make. I won’t be long. The Jagos won’t make trouble for you, don’t worry. Look at them swigging the wine back – they’ve forgotten we exist already.’
‘I hope so,’ Emma said.
But a phone call? Why now in the middle of a meal? Emma wondered. And to whom?
But Emma was learning wisdom.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you like.’
The dining-room emptied table by table, until there were only Emma and Matthew seated at their corner table, and the Jagos sitting around the table in the bay window left – and everyone on the Jago table red-faced from too much wine and champagne.
Mr Smythe had joined Emma and Matthew for dessert, saying very complimentary things about Emma’s tarte tatin and asking if it was possible to make it with other fruits. Emma said she should think so although she’d never tried.
‘Then try,’ Mr Smythe had said.
Matthew had joked that he would tie Emma’s ankle to the leg of the table in the kitchen to make sure she did. He had a fancy to taste it made with blackberries, he said.
But now both men were talking, heads together, so quietly Emma couldn’t catch all of what they were saying. But she did hear Mr Smythe say that his wife’s time was almost due and that she would be joining him from London as soon as she was able. He regretted having to leave her behind but business matters had come to a head forcing the issue of his move to Devon.
As the two men continued talking, Emma sat as still as she could, dreamily thinking about her future, making grandiose plans in her head. Who was to know if she might not achieve them? Sitting and thinking was easier than looking across the room to Reuben Jago’s dining companion and seeing her wearing the amethyst necklace that should be around Emma’s neck. She wondered when she might get back to Shingle Cottage.
And then Reuben Jago left his table, knocking his chair onto the floor as he got up.
‘Wait there, boys,’ he shouted to his sons. ‘Don’t move until I tell you.’
Carter and Miles Jago laughed, and returned to nuzzling the necks of their companions.
‘I want a word with you,’ Reuben Jago said, coming to loom over Matthew.
‘I dare say you do. But not in present company,’ Matthew replied. He turned to Mr Smythe. ‘Is there a room available?’
Mr Smythe nodded.
‘What’s this about?’ Reuben Jago snapped, although Emma couldn’t help noticing he had a wary look in his eye. ‘We talk here or we don’t talk at all. Understand?’
‘And I’ll thank you to remember you’re on my property,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘And we have a minor here.’ He touched Emma lightly on the shoulder.
‘Slut, more like. More trouble than she’s worth, that one. I should never have agreed she could stop on at Shingle Cottage, Caunter.’
‘You’ll take that slur back, Mr Jago,’ Matthew said. His voice was low and deep, but Emma could see he wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘Even though I’ll concede it’s the alcohol talking here as well as yourself.’
‘It is not and I will not. Have you seen what she did to Carter?’
‘Do you see what your son did to me?’ Emma spat on her fingers and rubbed at the flour and rouge mixture covering her cut and the bruises. Matthew gripped her wrist.
‘Keep out of this, Emma.’
‘No! It’s me he’s talking about.’
‘Yes, and like mother, like daughter,’ Reuben Jago snarled. ‘Tight-arsed madam your mother was, too. She’d probably still be alive today if only she’d been a bit more accommodating.’
Was she hearing right? Was Mr Jago saying it was he who’d pushed her mama and Johnnie off the cliff because she’d refused his advances? Was he?
‘I know she’d never have jumped – that someone must have pushed her. Was it you? Mrs Phipps told me you came calling, but I know my mama wouldn’t have done the things with you Mrs Phipps said she did.’
‘I’m admitting to nothing. What I said was pure speculation,’ Reuben Jago said. ‘You can’t pin anything on me, now or any time.’
‘Enough!’ Matthew grabbed Reuben Jago by the arm. ‘And that’s where you’re wrong.’ With his free hand, Matthew drew some papers from the inside of his jacket. ‘His Majesty’s
Customs.’
Reuben Jago struggled to free himself, but Matthew was younger and stronger, and not pickled with drink.
‘Boys!’ Reuben yelled.
But neither Carter nor Miles moved – it was as though they were transfixed with shock. Or fear.
Four men Emma had never seen in her life came rushing in then – she guessed they were colleagues of Matthew’s.
‘He’s all yours,’ Matthew said, releasing his hold on Reuben Jago, pushing him towards the newcomers. Within seconds Reuben Jago had been apprehended.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had to witness this, Emma. But Mr Smythe has a room you can go to,’ Matthew said. ‘I’d like you to go there and stay there. Understand? If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go anywhere near Shingle Cottage. Or Hilltop House. There could be reprisals once any of the crew who are implicated in all this find out, and they might want to take revenge, I …’
‘But my clothes. My book. My family papers. I’ve had things of mine burned once. I couldn’t bear for it to happen again. I …’
‘It won’t.’
‘And Seth. I’m worried about him. He …’
‘Seth isn’t going to be accused of anything I know he’s completely innocent of, Emma. Trust me on that.’
‘Come, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘Matthew has things to do.’
‘Yes. I have to go now. And I won’t be around for a while, Emma. Things to do, as Mr Smythe says,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll be in touch when I can. But …’
One of the men – who’d been joined now by Sergeant Emms – yelled Matthew’s name and he sped across the room to confer wth them.
Emma was escorted upstairs by Mr Smythe, a hand under her elbow. How bony and hard that hand was. But she knew it would be rude to extricate herself from his grasp. Besides, where else would she go?
Mr Smythe took her to a tower room at the top of the house. A very small room with little floor space although there were windows on three sides looking out to sea. A telescope on a stand pointed towards a window. There were lots of papers on the table with writing on – Matthew’s hand. A narrow bed, made up, against the only wall that didn’t have a window in it. A cheval glass stood in a corner.
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