To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  Nothing to do with loving someone new then – whoever she was – Emma thought. But since she’d opened up this particular topic of conversation she felt she had to continue with it.

  ‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ she said.

  And she honestly meant that. Rupert Smythe had been a good guardian to her, which was what he had become when Matthew had asked if she could stop at the hotel.

  ‘And the children,’ Emma added, her voice a whisper, wondering just how much of this conversation the boys would understand. ‘I hope they will like your new wife.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ Mr Smythe said. He smiled warmly at Emma and it disconcerted her because when he smiled he became a different man altogether – more handsome, less hard about the eyes and the mouth. Attractive, even.

  Emma’s conversational thread seemed to snap then. If Mr Smythe wanted to tell her who his new wife was to be then she would wait until he did so. She wasn’t going to ask – it might sound as if she was jealous and she certainly wasn’t that.

  Isabelle had gone to sleep, and Emma’s arm ached holding the child. She was feeling nervous now, alone with Mr Smythe – well, apart from the children. She wondered what his future wife would think of him taking an employee out in his car. Perhaps he was about to tell her that her services were no longer going to be required.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ Mr Smythe said. He braked and brought the car to a halt in front of a farm gate hung between two very substantial stone pillars.

  Emma could see a two-storey house with a thatched roof at the end of a very long drive. From where she sat it looked like a dolls’ house. Smoke rose from the chimney. Who lived here, she wondered – Mr Smythe’s future wife? Was she going to be introduced to her as Isabelle’s nursemaid? The boys’ French tutor?

  ‘I’ll open the gate,’ he said, opening the car door, unfolding his long legs onto the grassy track.

  ‘We’re here. We’re here,’ Archie said, bouncing up and down on the back seat.

  ‘We’re going to have a pony. A pony!’ Sidney joined in, bouncing more than his twin, if that were possible.

  ‘Sssh, boys,’ Emma said. ‘Your papa won’t want you damaging the leather on the seats.’ But she smiled as she said it, glad to see them being proper little boys again. Just a few seconds without their father and Archie and Sidney were able to be their usual exuberant selves. And they obviously knew more than she did about what was going on because Sidney had said they were going to have a pony more than once.

  But here? In this isolated spot? Emma had noticed a handful of cottages a mile or so back, and a few miles further back again there had been a village with a baker and a butcher and a hardware store. She didn’t know that she’d ever want to live somewhere like this. It would be too quiet. And besides, she wouldn’t be able to see the sea.

  ‘So, what do you think, Emma?’ Mr Smythe said.

  A woman who Mr Smythe introduced as Phyllis Hannaford had served a luncheon of cold meats and potatoes with a trifle for pudding. After the meal, the boys – eager to be out on the moor amongst the wild ponies – had persuaded their father to go with them. And for Emma to go along. They had all enjoyed it far more than Emma had because her shoes had been inadequate for the rough terrain and she’d twisted her ankle – although not badly – a time or two. They had all returned to the house tired, and hungry again.

  At 4 o’clock Mrs Hannaford who, it seemed, was the housekeeper of Bagstone House, had served a tea of scones with cream and jam. But now she’d been despatched to the garden with the children, who were wrapped up warm with scarves and hats. It was colder up here on the moor than it was by the sea.

  ‘Think of what?’ Emma said.

  ‘This house.’

  ‘It’s very pretty. Well today it is, with the sun shining and I can see it would be warm enough in winter with the range in the kitchen and the big grate in this drawing-room. But I wouldn’t want to live here. Whose is it anyway?’

  ‘Mine. I’ve arranged for some alterations to be done, re-papering of rooms and so on. But I wanted you to see it. To see if you like it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emma said. She hadn’t expected that answer.

  ‘I thought the boys might like to be here at weekends. The weekends are always busy at the hotel and they get under my feet rather.’

  Ruby had been right – Mr Smythe didn’t want to have much contact, if any, with his children.

  ‘I do try to keep Sidney and Archie entertained,’ Emma said. ‘But short of gagging them I can’t keep them silent.’

  ‘No, no – of course not,’ Mr Smythe said.

  Emma thought he looked and sounded distracted. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so she looked around the room. It was a shrine to brown – the table, the dresser, the couch, the cushions, the carpet; all various shades of the same, depressing colour. She hoped for the boys’ sake there would be an injection of something bright into the room. Just being in it made her heart feel as though it was shrivelling, the way a conker shrivels with time.

  ‘It had always been our plan,’ Mr Smythe said slowly, clearly – as though he was explaining something to someone who had learning difficulties, ‘Claudine’s and mine, to have a country house for her to live in with the children and for me to join them at weekends once I had someone trained up to run Nase Head House in my absence. The boys have never forgotten I promised them a pony.’

  Was the surprise going to be that he wanted her to be that person – the one running the hotel while he was here with the children?

  ‘Sometimes,’ Emma said, knowing what thin ice she would be skating on by saying it, ‘the plans we make have to change. Your new wife might not like the things Claudine … I mean Mrs Smythe … liked.’

  Her plans had had to change after her parents died. Seth’s had certainly changed after his pa and brothers had been put in prison. He’d had plans to go to Canada to work for his uncle but had had to stay in Devon to keep the fishing fleet going, and to keep Hilltop House from going to wrack and ruin if no one was living in it. So why shouldn’t Mr Smythe’s plans have to change, too?

  ‘So I’m beginning to discover. But tell me, Emma what were your plans?’

  ‘My mama wanted me to be a teacher. After she died I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be a teacher anyway if Mama wouldn’t be there to see me get my certificate. But it’s not only that. I don’t understand why, once a woman marries, she has to leave teaching. What would be the point of all that training if I were to want to marry? And …’

  ‘Quite,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘But I have to tell you, you make a very good teacher, Emma, trained or not. The principal at Lupton House tells me the boys are well in advance for their age in terms of French grammar and punctuation and vocabulary. And even little Isabelle forgets which language she’s using sometimes. Do you know she said to me only yesterday, “J’ai soif, papa.” Well, that’s what it sounded like.’

  ‘Did you get her a drink?’ Emma asked.

  ‘A drink?’ Mr Smythe’s eyebrows met in the middle in puzzlement.

  ‘Yes. A drink. Isabelle was telling you she was thirsty.’

  ‘Ah. There was never any need for me to learn French because my darling Claudine spoke English so deliciously perfectly.’

  Whoever Mr Smythe was thinking of marrying, Emma was already feeling sorry for her – the man would never love her as he had so obviously very much loved his Claudine.

  A sudden chill seemed to sweep through the room, despite the sun streaming in the windows, although Emma had a feeling it was only affecting her. A shiver ran up her spine and the hairs on the backs of her arms stood on end. The air was pregnant with something Emma couldn’t define, but she had a feeling that whatever it was it would probably be life-changing for her.

  So it was with some surprise that she heard Mr Smythe say, ‘She
rry, Emma?’

  He stood up and went to a cupboard in the corner, took out a bottle and two glasses and brought them back to the side-table.

  ‘I’ve never drunk it on its own before,’ Emma said. ‘But it’s very good in a crème anglaise.’

  ‘It is indeed. It goes wonderfully with your wonderful tarte tatin. I wouldn’t want to be without that.’

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me I have to look for another position now you’ll be getting married again?’

  ‘Goodness no, Emma. Haven’t you worked it out for yourself yet? I had you down as a very bright young lady indeed.’

  ‘You want me to run Nase Head House at the weekends once you’re married? I could do it, I know I could if I was given some training. I’m sure I’d learn quickly. Oh, that would be just wonderful. I …’

  ‘Stop.’ Mr Smythe reached for Emma’s free hand and clutched it between his own. ‘Your mind is running away on flights of fancy and you’re wrong about all of them. What I’m proposing, Emma, is that you become my wife. When you turn eighteen in a few weeks’ time, then we can announce the engagement officially. You will be of a good age to marry and I will have been seen to wait a respectable length of time before marrying again. The wait will give you time to get used to the idea. What do you say?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘No!’ Emma bit back ‘over my dead body’, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘There must be someone more suitable than I would be …’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘But for the life of me I can’t see your objection. You have no family, and I’m offering you the chance to be part of mine.’

  She was sitting on an over-stuffed, velvet-covered chair in Mr Smythe’s private sitting-room, shaking with fury that he had expected she would say yes with alacrity to his proposal.

  He had asked her daily for weeks now and every day she gave him the same answer. It would be a marriage of convenience if she accepted – but only convenient to Mr Smythe.

  He let out a long sigh.

  ‘What did you think the clothes allowance I gave you was for?’

  ‘For clothes,’ Emma said through gritted teeth. ‘For when I’m out with the children, or with you on their behalf. I wouldn’t have accepted it if I’d thought you only gave it to me so I could … could be considered a replacement for your wife.’

  ‘You could never replace her.’ Mr Smythe glanced towards the photograph of his wife on the mantelpiece, but only for a moment.

  ‘When I marry, Mr Smythe,’ Emma said, ‘I want it to be for love, not so I can be an unpaid nanny. And be dressed up and paraded in front of your business associates. And if telling you this means I have to find another position, then I will.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother you if that’s what you’re meaning. You would have a separate room.’

  ‘Separate room?’

  The words were out of Emma’s mouth before she could stop them. In saying them it made her sound as though she wouldn’t want that if she married Mr Smythe – that she would want to share not only his room but his bed.

  Emma had memories of her parents snuggled up together in the feather bed, and of movement in the night. Murmurings. A cry from her mama sometimes, but not of fright. The sounds of love-making. And in the morning her mama would have a smile on her face that even the range refusing to light, so that they had to have a cold breakfast, couldn’t budge. And a softness – her mama would have a loving softness about her.

  Emma knew she wanted that loving softness from marriage and not the cold business deal Mr Smythe was offering her.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to add to my family. Do you understand me?’ Mr Smythe looked towards the fire in the grate as he spoke.

  ‘I might want children myself one day, Mr Smythe. And when I do, I’d want them to be part of a loving union.’

  She felt herself blush because Seth came into her mind as she said it – not that he was often out of her thoughts. She’d glimpsed him so rarely of late and when she had he’d been head down, scurrying somewhere, or talking on the quayside to one of his crewmen, and she hurried past lest he see her because she didn’t know what sort of reception she’d get from him.

  She still hoped, deep in her soul, they would get together again some day. Her heart still lurched with desire every time she saw him.

  ‘Could you meet me half way?’ Mr Smythe said. ‘I think it would be a way for you to get used to the idea.’

  Emma balled her hands together in her lap wondering what might be coming next. Although he hadn’t said ‘Get out’ had he?

  ‘What do you propose?’ she asked. ‘Apart from marriage.’

  Mr Smythe gave a wry smile. ‘Number one, that you call me Rupert in private.’

  ‘Rupert?’ Emma thought she would explode saying the word, but realised she just had. It sounded alien and slightly ridiculous to be calling Mr Smythe by his Christian name.

  ‘It’s my name, Emma. Hardly anyone calls me by my Christian name. Claudine did, of course. And Matthew Caunter because he and I attended the same school for a while many years ago, but he’s in America.’

  So that’s how Matthew was able to use Nase Head House to spy on the Jagos’ smuggling activities. And possibly why Mr Smythe had agreed to Matthew’s request to give her refuge.

  ‘I know.’

  Emma swallowed hard. She felt the loss of Matthew’s friendship and the potential friendship she might have had with his wife had they not emigrated. Perhaps taking a giant leap of faith to go and live in another country wouldn’t be so bad? Although maybe not just yet. Who would put flowers on her parents’ and Johnnie’s graves if she wasn’t there to do it? And besides, she’d saved nowhere near enough money for that sort of adventure.

  ‘And number two is that you take the children to Bagstone House at the weekends. When the alterations to the attic space to make it into a playroom for the children and the redecoration is finished, of course. I thought the children might like Christmas there this year, with the possibility of snow on the higher ground.’

  Emma felt her heart plummet. She crossed her fingers behind her back the renovations wouldn’t be finished by Christmas.

  ‘At the price I’m paying Mr Maunder to do them I shall have something to say if the place hasn’t been completed to my brief by then.’

  And that’s when Emma’s heart plummeted further – Mr Maunder was Caroline Prentiss’ father. Every day there was a reminder of Seth in her life – in this instance that he’d been very cosy with Caroline Prentiss at dinner. Emma wished now that she hadn’t been so vehement in telling Seth not to ask to see her again.

  ‘You could at least look a little more enthusiastic about this opportunity I’m offering you, Emma. I imagine you ate less well at Christmas in a fisherman’s cottage?’

  Emma didn’t much like the rather sarcastic tone of his voice. ‘My papa provided very well for us all, thank you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. But Bagstone House – I’m sure you’ll like it there once you’ve given it a try. I’m sure it will look lovely with a sprinkling of snow.’

  And be marooned there for goodness knows how long? Emma thought. She tried to think of something to say but words eluded her. Mr Smythe seemed to take her silence for acquiescence – to Emma’s horror.

  ‘I’ll see that Evans is taught to drive. He would take you to pick up Archie and Sidney from school in my motor and drive you on up.’

  Evans? The gardener? He couldn’t even drive a wheelbarrow in a straight line! And he was ancient. And what was more, Mr Smythe had taken on William Coote to help Mr Evans with the grass-cutting because he’d said it was too much for him.

  ‘Mrs Hannaford will be there, of course,’ Mr Smythe went on. ‘To cook. I won’t expect you to cook.’

  ‘I might want to,’ Emma said.
‘I like cooking. I’d like to run a business some day with my cooking. I think I …’ What did she think? In saying she might want to cook at Bagstone House had she just agreed to spend the weekends with the children in isolation on the moors? Was she mad?

  ‘I think you’re not averse to my request then, Emma – to spend weekends with the children at Bagstone House? And myself on occasion there, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Emma balled her hands together tighter in her lap.

  ‘Well, it seems to me you have two alternatives – you can either agree to that suggestion and to call me Rupert in private, or you can cut your tutorial duties to my children. I’m sure a tutor could be found for them quite easily to continue their study of the French language. Ruby can take over the care of Isabelle. I might have a position as scullery maid you can take on but it will mean you vacating the tower room you seem to have made your own, and sharing with another girl.’

  That was blackmail.

  Emma gulped. But leave the tower room? She had made it – small as it was – her own. She’d hung pictures she’d picked up for pennies from the church jumble sale on the walls. And she’d covered cushions in fabric unpicked from a summer dress she’d grown out of. The room was her sanctuary now – the only place she really felt safe. She wasn’t ready to up sticks and move anywhere just yet, despite what she had said to him in the heat of the moment earlier.

  Emma hung her head. She felt like a puppet on a string being manipulated like this. And she hated herself for allowing that manipulation.

  ‘I’ve become very fond of the children,’ Emma said, raising her head to make eye contact with Mr Smythe. She stretched her lips into a smile, but she knew that smile came nowhere near her eyes because her heart felt heavier than all the lead on all the church roofs in the county, and there were hundreds of them. ‘I don’t think it would be in their interests for me to not be part of their lives and their understanding of their mother’s language. At the moment.’