To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Seeing as we can’t get to Westminster Abbey, seems it’s come to us. I can’t wait for the morning papers to see all the photographs,’ Ruby had said.

  ‘Just don’t get your grubby hands on ’em ’til the guests have finished reading ’em,’ Harry Webber had told her.

  But now it was all over. The dishes had been washed and dried and put away, the trestle tables returned to the cellar. Only the bunting remained and Mr Smythe had said it could remain for the weekend, keep everyone in the high spirits they’d enjoyed all day.

  Emma had hoped that Seth might come to the Coronation party. But he hadn’t – not unless he’d come when she was upstairs giving the children their tea, or putting them to bed.

  She’d glimpsed him a time or two in recent weeks when she’d been on errands for Mr Smythe – clothes and shoes for the twins mostly, because they were growing faster than nettles did in spring. Seth had changed. He seemed taller and broader, and he wore his hair longer – she liked how he looked now, more than ever. Each time she’d seen Seth in the town he’d been on his own, never with Caroline Prentiss – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still seeing her. And as Seth hadn’t been in touch with her, then she feared he might be.

  ‘What was it Dr Shaw told you, Miss?’ she said now to her reflection in the cheval glass as she stepped out of her skirt. ‘Sometimes life’s not about wishes and dreams but about making the most of the situations we find ourselves in.’

  ‘You’re changing, girl,’ she said. She’d taken off her blouse and stockings and was down to just her drawers and chemise; her very thin chemise, made of the finest lawn. That was one invoice Emma hadn’t given Mr Smythe to show how she’d spent his money.

  For a start she was taller, and more rounded. She had breasts now – they were pushing out the front of her chemise in little mounds the size of the sugary doughnuts they sold in Callard’s Bakery.

  What would it feel like to have Seth cup her breasts in his hands? Goodness, what thoughts she was having, these days. It was all part of growing up, she knew. But still …

  The only downside of the Coronation party had been that she’d heard a few people mention Carter Jago’s name – how his trial for the murder of Sophie Ellison had started, although it could take weeks to hear all the evidence and reach a verdict.

  Emma shuddered, remembering how she’d been touched by a suspected murderer.

  She took a swig of milk from the glass she’d brought up to bed with her. She hoped it might help her go to sleep more quickly. But her head was full of the chattering voices of all the people at the party and the sound of the music that the three-piece band had played almost non-stop all day.

  And Seth – her last thought of all before sleep overcame her was of Seth.

  As always.

  ‘Did you go, Seth?’ Olly asked, when Seth called on him with a present of a basket of fish for him and his mother.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Smythe’s shindig for the King and Queen?’

  ‘No. Did you?’

  ‘I took my ma. She’s not been the same since Pa died. She’s forever telling me I don’t run the business as well as Pa did, even though we both know he died four years ago and I doubled the profits the first year.’ Olly laughed. ‘I thought it might let me off the hook a bit if I took her up there to sit about under Smythe’s chandeliers and eat his fancy cakes. I thought it might cheer her up.’

  ‘And did it?’ Seth asked.

  He bit on his bottom lip so as not to ask Olly what he really wanted to ask, which was, had he seen Emma – seen Emma on the arm of Rupert Smythe perhaps.

  ‘For the time she was there, yes. But it was soon back to the old refrain – “Your pa this, your pa that”.’

  Seth couldn’t think of a thing to say. How he would have loved to have his ma tell him he wasn’t running the fishing fleet as well as his pa had. Which he knew he wasn’t, at the moment. His father’s smuggling racket must have been bigger than he’d ever imagined because it was the devil’s own job to turn in the same sort of profit by his own, legal, means. The only blessing in his ma’s death, as far as Seth could see, was that she wasn’t alive to see Carter on trial for murder.

  ‘D’you know, Seth Jago, it’s often what a man doesn’t say rather than what he does that matters?’

  ‘Sorry. Thinking. About Carter.’

  ‘Ah, him. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to do.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Do – like tighten the rope,’ Olly said.

  ‘You’d have to beat me to it,’ Seth said, if awkwardly.

  He’d be left forever with the legacy of his brother’s misdeeds, wouldn’t he? – however much his brother would deserve to hang for his sins if found guilty.

  ‘I know. We can joke about it but it must be hard for you. However, it wasn’t Carter I meant. You went very pale when I mentioned Nase Head House. Nice little piece by the name of Emma Le Goff works there …’

  ‘Shut it, Olly,’ Seth said.

  ‘Touchy, touchy,’ Olly said. ‘And for the record, I wasn’t being disparaging of Miss Le Goff at all. She is a nice little piece. Feisty. Beautiful. She’s blooming, I’d say, up there. I saw you talking to her on reception the night of the dinner I gave. For rather longer than it takes to deposit a coat in the cloakroom.’ Olly tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘So did lots of others, I expect. It’s a public place. But if you must know, she gave me the brush off.’

  ‘Ah, sorry about that. I can’t imagine sitting you next to Caroline Prentiss helped. Talking of whom …’

  ‘I’d rather we didn’t. I ended things with her months ago.’

  ‘Then if you’ll take the advice of an older man –’ Olly laughed because he was all of three months older than Seth – ‘I think it’s high time you went and rescued Emma Le Goff from Smythe’s clutches.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Olly sucked his breath in through his teeth.

  ‘This isn’t going to be an easy one. Let’s just say she was far better dressed than any of the other staff, even though they weren’t in uniform for the shindig. Quality. Better quality than a girl her age working in a hotel would be able to afford. Ma said as much to me. Smythe stopped and spoke to Emma a few times – and Ma didn’t miss that either. Rather more than the giving of orders one might expect a boss to give to his staff …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more …’

  ‘You’ll hear me out,’ Olly said. ‘I don’t for one minute think she’s sharing Smythe’s bed. That’s not what I’m saying. Emma wasn’t flirting with him. In fact, she took a step back from him, putting a bit of distance between them, I think, every time he stopped to speak to her. But it’s been known before – a widower with children being generous with his money, making a girl feel special, and before she knows what’s happening, and why, she gets used to all the fine clothes and the jewels and then it’s a short step up the aisle to become Mrs Whoever Number Two. Especially a girl like Emma Le Goff, who hasn’t got any parents, any family at all, to warn her of the trap she’s being set.’

  I warned her, Seth thought, but didn’t say. And she hadn’t much liked hearing his misgivings, had she?

  ‘Are you listening to me at all?’ Olly said.

  ‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ Seth said. ‘Thank you for your insights.’

  He struggled to banish the picture from his mind of Emma coming out of the door of Rossiter’s, laughing, with Rupert Smythe, her arms full of parcels.

  ‘My pleasure. As your older and wiser best friend, Seth Jago,’ Olly said – and it touched Seth to see the genuine care and concern in his friend’s eyes – ‘I felt it my duty. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘I don’t think Smythe’s going to take kindly to me butting in on his life. Th
ey looked happy enough Christmas shopping together.’

  ‘Christmas shopping? That was months ago. And besides, would you know what to buy your children if you had any?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. A man like Smythe, used to servants and staff, wouldn’t have the first idea about buying presents, I shouldn’t think. That’s a woman’s preserve, and you know it. Which is more than likely why he asked for Emma’s help. And you, Seth Jago, have got a bigger chip on your shoulder than what comes off an eighteen-foot length of teak.’

  ‘If you say so. God only knows it’s been hard enough to hold up my head in this town, what with …’

  ‘Calm down.’ Olly put a hand on Seth’s shoulder. ‘There’s new respect for you around here of late, for the way you’ve kept local men in work, kept the fleet going. For heaven’s sake, Seth, you know as well as I do that if you hadn’t, then the tied cottages would have gone and there would have been families homeless. So, stop giving yourself a hard time. But my guess is, you’re more than sweet on Emma Le Goff, and if it’s her you want, then you’d better be doing something about it. And soon.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Seth asked as Olly took his hand from his shoulder.

  But soon? Might he already have left it too late?

  Emma thought, afterwards, that she would always remember the date – 16th July 1911. Not only because it would have been her mother’s birthday and she would have been forty-one-years old that day had she been alive, but because of what happened.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘A thank you for all your hard work in the hotel and your care of my children.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need surprises. Or thanks,’ Emma said. ‘You pay me well enough.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear you’re satisfied with your remuneration,’ Mr Smythe said, one side of his mouth turning up in the beginnings of a smile – as though he found Emma amusing. ‘But all the same, I want the children dressed in their best clothes by 10 o’clock. You, too. We’re going out.’

  Emma glanced at the clock in Isabelle’s nursery. It was already a quarter-past nine. ‘Out?’ she said.

  Mr Smythe smiled again – a wry sort of smile this time, Emma thought.

  ‘You do understand the word, Emma? It means the opposite of being in, as in this hotel.’

  ‘Of course,’ Emma said. She wasn’t sure she liked surprises – most of the ones she’d had so far she’d have been better off not having.

  ‘Warm coats for the children, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘It can be cold up on Dartmoor, even at this time of year.’ And then he was gone, to prepare himself for the journey, no doubt.

  But he’d given Emma a clue as to where they were going. She was excited and terrified in equal measure – she’d be going on a journey with Mr Smythe, sitting beside him in the car possibly.

  Emma went to the window. Dartmoor could be seen in the distance. She loved to look out towards it in the early morning when the hills and tors seemed to be draped with grey silk, and then again, before sunset when they were a bluish shade – blue running into purple, but not quite as dark as indigo. And then as the sun set they became black and hard against the crimson sky. Emma had longed to go there – she’d heard there were wild ponies and sheep everywhere and lots of bright yellow gorse and lilac-coloured heather. And cows roaming loose.

  And now she was. She couldn’t wait to tell Ruby.

  Emma – with Isabelle in tow – found Ruby in the kitchen. She blurted out her good news.

  ‘The boys will be down in a minute. I’ve left them excitedly getting ready.’

  ‘I wish I could come,’ Ruby said. She rolled the pastry far harder than it needed to be rolled, banging the rolling pin down as she turned the dough.

  ‘I wish you could, too. But you’re murdering the life out of that piece of dough.’

  ‘Am I so?’ Ruby said. ‘I’m not supposed to be here. But wouldn’t you know, the kitchen boy’s gone sick again and Cook wants a hand with these tarts. And talking of murder – have you ’eard the verdict on Carter Jago’s due any day?’

  ‘No,’ Emma said. ‘I haven’t heard.’

  ‘It’s in the paper. Yesterday’s Western Morning News. ’Arry read it to me,’ Ruby snapped.

  Emma made a mental note to ask Ruby if she wanted her to help her with her reading. Now wasn’t the time to ask, though – Ruby was already put out about having to be in the kitchen and now about not going on a trip, no doubt.

  ‘I wouldn’t have told you about the trip if I’d known it was going to make you so grumpy.’

  ‘Who says I’m grumpy?’ Ruby demanded. ‘Oh, gawd, ’ere’s the little varmints come looking for yer.’

  Archie and Sidney came bounding into the kitchen.

  ‘We’re going to Dartmoor. We’re going to Dartmoor,’ Archie squealed.

  ‘And we’re going to have a pony. A pony.’ Sidney joined in the excitement.

  ‘Quieten down, boys,’ Emma said. ‘And couldn’t either of you find a comb?’

  The boys looked at one another and giggled.

  With Isabelle perched precariously on one hip, Emma licked her fingers and made a passable attempt at tidying Archie’s unruly hair, then set to work on Sidney’s.

  What they looked like every day at prep school she had no idea. Although Lupton House was only a mile away, the twins boarded in the week.

  Ruby wiped her floury hands down the sides of her apron.

  ‘You have a good time, Belle, my lovely,’ she said, plonking a noisy, wet kiss on the baby’s forehead.

  ‘Isabelle. Mr Smythe doesn’t like her being called Belle.’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly ever around to hear me call her anything the times I’m with her, is he? I wonder if he’s her pa sometimes.’

  ‘Don’t think such things, Ruby,’ Emma said. She turned to the twins.

  ‘Boys, wait outside in the foyer for me, will you, please?’

  They scarpered off happily.

  ‘Don’t talk about their father in front of the children, Ruby, please,’ Emma said. ‘This little one’s talking more and more each day, understanding more, and very soon will be able to tell Mr Smythe what you say in two languages.’

  ‘Well, it seems to me that the less time ’e spends with the children the better it is for Mr Smythe. When you were down on reception when Mr Bell were sick, I asked Mr Smythe if ’e wanted to hold little Isabelle because I thought she ought to know the feel of being in her pa’s arms seeing as her ma isn’t around to touch her – although I didn’t tell ’im that – but ’e said his suit had just been pressed. What sort of an excuse is that to ignore your own daughter, Emma?’

  ‘None at all,’ Emma said. ‘But Mr Smythe has a hotel to run. He’s busy. He …’

  ‘I knew you’d stand up for ’im. It’s all right for you going off in cars and being Mr Smythe’s favourite. I’ve got to help that useless lump of lard of a new chambermaid, Maisie Bellamy, to turn mattresses while you’re out once I’ve finished this pastry. God only knows where Cook’s got to, and He won’t tell. Perhaps, Miss Hoity-Toity, you could tell Mr Smythe what a liability Maisie is …’

  ‘Hoity-Toity?’ Emma interrupted. ‘I’m not Hoity-Toity am I, Ruby?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Ruby said. ‘Someone had to tell yer and that someone was me. But best you get going, eh? Bring me a sprig of heather. It’s lucky, is heather, or so they say. And mind the piskies.’

  Ruby kissed Emma’s cheek.

  ‘I will,’ Emma said, returning the kiss.

  They were still friends – thank goodness for that.

  Emma sat in the seat beside Mr Smythe, Isabelle on her lap, and barely spoke a word all the way to Dartmoor. The lanes seemed to get narrower and narrower. A cow ambled onto the road in front of the car
, and Emma jumped in her seat, startling Isabelle. It made the child cry.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Emma, it’s only a cow. And a small one at that. We’re quite safe in here. Don’t frighten the children.’ Mr Smythe didn’t exactly snap at Emma, but the tone of his voice was admonishing all the same.

  ‘We’re not scared, Papa,’ Archie said.

  ‘Oh, look – ponies,’ Sidney shouted. ‘I want the black-and-white one.’

  ‘Pipe down, boys,’ Mr Smythe said.

  The road seemed to be winding higher and higher and all Emma could see in front of her was grass and sky. And then they rounded a bend, and Mr Smythe turned sharply to the left.

  ‘What’s that, Papa?’ Sidney shouted.

  ‘Mine workings. Tin, I expect. Now pipe down.’

  Sidney did as he was told, fascinated by the pumps going up and down. But Emma hated them – they seemed like horrible scars on an otherwise beautiful landscape to her.

  ‘Enjoying the views, Emma?’ Mr Smythe asked, taking his eyes from the road in front of him to look at her.

  She glanced at him briefly. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, then looked away again.

  She’d never been alone with Mr Smythe for this length of time before. She wondered if she ought to open up some topic of conversation, but what could she talk about? The hotel was the only thing they had in common and she was glad to be out of it for a little while.

  But the truth was Emma didn’t know what was expected of her. Was she still an employee or was she now a friend?

  ‘Will you marry again, Mr Smythe?’ she asked on a sudden impulse, and the way Mr Smythe snapped his head round to stare at her wide-eyed, she wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Whatever made you ask that?’ he asked.

  He looked, Emma thought, amused rather than cross.

  ‘My mouth races ahead of my mind sometimes. I ought not to have said it. I apologise.’

  ‘No need, my dear, no need. Your outspokenness reminds me of my dear Claudine. But to answer your question – yes, I am thinking of marrying again. No one could fully replace my darling Claudine, but the children do need a mother. And I need a wife. To stop the predatory widows who come to the hotel and make a play for me when they learn I’m a widower, if nothing else.’