There, that wasn’t agreeing to marry him exactly, was it?
‘Clever girl. We need one another, you and I. And we both know it.’
‘May I go now?’ Emma said. ‘Please.’
‘When we’ve said goodnight in a civil manner. Goodnight, Emma.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Smythe.’
‘Oh, you can do better than that. “Goodnight, Rupert” is what I want to hear. A small price to pay for my kindnesses to you these past two years, I think. You’ll find it springing from your lips quite naturally as the months go by, I’m sure of it.’
Drag by more like, Emma thought. She knew she had to put an end to this agony, and soon. He wasn’t going to give up – not in getting her to call him by his Christian name, or in getting her to accept his proposal.
‘Goodnight … Rupert,’ she said.
And then she ran from the room – gagging all the way until she had her bedroom door closed firmly behind her, and the key in the lock.
Seth woke as a flash of lightning lit up his room. He was used to sudden August storms after days of sultry heat, but this seemed louder and closer than usual. Then a clap of thunder boomed almost immediately afterwards. Rain that sounded as though it was nails hitting the roof rather than drops of water, was coming down in torrents now. The storm was right overhead.
He had a trawler out on its way back from fishing grounds around the Channel Islands. It was due in at first light. What time was it now? Switching on his bedside lamp Seth reached for his pocket watch. Twenty minutes past three. Still too early for his crew to be back but he prayed the trawler would be near enough to come into harbour safely.
Seth got out of bed and went to the window. Lights glimmered in one of the rooms in Nase Head House on the other side of the harbour. Emma’s room? He hoped not; hoped she wasn’t disturbed by the storm.
More lightning fizzed and sparked, and ever closer thunder. This storm was sounding fiercer than any he’d experienced before. Seth thought he saw the flicker of lamps down in the harbour. Perhaps his trawler was back after all? If it was then his men would need help unloading in this weather. He pulled his nightshirt off over his head. Dressed quickly. He ran down the stairs, found his boots, grabbed his oilskin, and opened the back door. Another flash of lightning lit up the garden.
He ran out into the darkness. No time to find a lamp and light it.
‘Jago?’ someone said, startling him, as he reached the gate.
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘Adam Narracott. And my brother, Peter. We wuz just coming to fetch you. God, but there’s one unholy mess down there. Your boats …’
‘Then we’re wasting time.’ Seth raced towards the harbour, the older men following some distance behind now.
There seemed to be men running everywhere when he reached the quayside. Some had lamps, but most were without as he was. A loud crack of lightning lit up the scene – boats on their sides, boats upside down, masts broken, boxes floating before being smashed against hulls. Seth could see that what Adam Narracott had said was true and that one of those hulls was one of his crabbers.
‘Better start praying, Mr Jago,’ Adam Narracott said. He was breathing heavily – wheezing – from the exertion of running and from his battle with the elements. The wind seemed to be getting stronger by the minute.
‘If He’s listening,’ Seth shouted back at him.
‘My boy’s out there on your trawler, Mr Jago, my Robbie.’
‘I know,’ Seth said. ‘I’m praying for him. We must all pray.’
And then there came a shout: ‘Man overboard! Look.’
The cry seemed to galvanise all the men to go towards the voice; a voice Seth didn’t recognise.
‘Where?’ Seth yelled.
‘The Kittiwake. Maunder’s boat. Stupid bugger took the tender to go out to it for some damned stupid reason but five minutes past.’
‘Charles Maunder?’ Seth said.
‘Of course. ’Tis his boat.’
Seth grabbed a lantern from someone and swung it out towards where the Kittiwake was moored. But it had broken its moorings and was now at a precarious angle. One strong blow and it would be right over.
‘Help!’ Charles Maunder’s voice was surprisingly loud and strong in the circumstances. ‘I can’t …’
Another deafening crackle of lightning illuminated Charles Maunder centre stage as he cried for help. But his words were snatched from him as he disappeared beneath the water.
‘No use me going,’ Peter Narracott said. ‘I can’t swim.’
There were a few cries of ‘Nor me.’ It was common knowledge that not many fishermen could swim.
Seth made a vow that if his fleet ever recovered from this storm then he’d make sure all his crew were taught to swim before they went to sea.
Flinging aside his oilskin, Seth stripped himself of his jacket, kicked off his boots, pulled off his trousers. The tide was high, so he lowered himself over the wall and slipped into the water, the coldness of it taking his breath from his body for a few seconds. He gulped in air the way a fish does when it’s thrown on the deck. Eventually the air reached his lungs.
Seth struggled to swim against the tide and the water being whipped into a frenzy by the storm. The harbour was flanked by steep hills on three sides but the wind was blowing from the east and they were about as much use as shelter as a bucket with a hole in it is for holding water. He battled on towards where he’d seen Charles Maunder go down, fully expecting him to bob up again, but he didn’t. Dodging floating crates and loose buoys, Seth reached the spot he thought he’d last seen the drowning man.
He groped about for anything solid beneath him. Nothing. Frantically treading water with one leg now, he felt about with the other for Charles Maunder. Still nothing. Taking a deep breath, Seth dived down, reaching with arms and legs, hoping to come up against something solid.
But there was only seaweed and bits of rope which he pushed off as best he could so they didn’t trap him underwater.
Seth came back up for air. More people seemed to have arrived at the harbour now. Someone shouted for the sergeant to be woken and dragged from his bed in the police station, the lazy bastard – his voice carrying across the water. How the sergeant hadn’t heard the commotion going on, Seth couldn’t understand – the police station was but a stone’s throw away.
Then he felt something touch his leg, something soft. Then hands grabbed him pulling him further down. Charles Maunder. And obviously alive. Seth kicked for his life, grabbed for any part of Charles Maunder that he could and struggled to the surface. While the effort was making him hot inside, his skin seemed to be getting colder by the second. He could barely feel his face now – his lips felt numb as icy rain lashed them, and he bit them to bring them back to life.
But thank goodness the storm seemed to be moving away. The flashes of lightning were less intense, with longer breaks in between – the thunder a rumble that sounded further away.
Seth yelled for someone to throw a line.
‘I’ve got you,’ he told Charles Maunder, as Mr Maunder’s head broke the surface of the water and the two men were face-to-face. Charles Maunder spluttered and coughed – thank God he was alive. ‘Keep calm. Or we’ll both drown.’
With his free hand, Seth caught the end of the rope, but it slipped from his grasp. It was tossed again and this time he managed to grab it and wrap it around a wrist – they’d be hauled ashore soon. But with the weight of two sodden men, and neither of them small men either, it seemed hours rather than minutes until they were.
Dr Shaw was waiting on the quayside. Seth assured him he was fine, if very wet and cold and would get himself home. Charles Maunder was in need of hospital care and Seth watched him being taken away in the doctor’s car. Someone else said they’d call at the Maunder home and inf
orm his wife what had happened. Seth was on the verge of saying ‘And his daughter, Caroline,’ but managed to stop himself – aware of what might people have read into his concern if he hadn’t.
Men with lanterns were scanning the harbour, struggling with long and unwieldy hooked poles to haul in various items – buoys ripped from their moorings, wooden boxes, bits of broken mast.
‘We’d best leave it ’til the morning,’ someone said.
‘The wind’s got up again,’ someone else joined the debate. ‘Storm’s not played out yet, I don’t think.’
‘Maunder’s been saved anyhow,’ another voice chimed in. ‘’Bout time one of the Jago bastards did something good.’ The speaker disappeared into the darkness.
Seth sighed. How much more was expected of him, for goodness’ sake? He’d just risked his own life for Charles Maunder – a man he barely knew – and he’d been working every hour God sent to keep the boats in the water and men employed, and yet there were some people who still couldn’t realise he was nothing like his pa and brothers. Would they ever?
The landlord of The Blue Anchor thrust a bottle into Seth’s hands. ‘Get that down you, man.’
Seth put the neck of the bottle to his lips, tipped his head backwards and swallowed long and hard. Brandy. One of his own pa’s smuggled bottles of brandy? He couldn’t have cared less at that moment. It tasted like what it was – a life-saver – as he felt warmth return to his body.
Emma woke and rubbed sleep from her eyes. She’d had a bad night, woken by the storm. Wrapping her dressing-gown tightly around her she’d crept down to Isabelle’s room to check on her four times. Usually, Isabelle slept through the night, but Emma knew Mr Smythe wouldn’t be pleased if he had his sleep broken by a wailing baby. And she was glad she had, because as Emma had crept into the room for the fourth time Isabelle had woken, her eyes wide with alarm as a crack of lightning lit the sky. Emma brought the child to sleep beside her in her own bed.
Isabelle was sleeping peacefully now.
‘You little vixen,’ Emma said, dropping a kiss on the child’s rosebud mouth. ‘Here’s me feeling like a washed-out dishrag and you look the picture of contentment.’
But it was time to return her to her own room now. Not that she was worried Mr Smythe would go in there and find his daughter missing. How dreadful that would be if he did, though. He might think the child kidnapped.
Not bothering to wash, Emma pulled off her night things, dressing hurriedly. Memories of the disturbed night were coming back to her and she sent up a silent prayer that no fisherman had drowned as her pa had – that no wife had been left a widow, no child an orphan.
She picked up Isabelle, stepped out into the corridor and made her way to the nursery.
She met Maisie Bellamy, the chambermaid Ruby had grumbled about, coming the other way with her arms laden with bed-linen. Emma hadn’t done as Ruby had asked which was to tell Mr Smythe how useless Maisie was, because to Emma, Maisie was always friendly and kind.
‘Blimey, Emma, what a night that was and all. I ’spect it woke the little miss there, didn’t it?’
‘It did,’ Emma agreed. ‘There was lots of commotion down on the harbour when I looked out of the window.’
‘Commotion’s not the half of it,’ Maisie said. ‘Rumour has it someone’s drowned. Seth Jago …’
Emma didn’t hear any more. It was as though everything happened in slow motion as her legs ceased to support her and she seemed to forget how to breathe. She saw Maisie drop the bed-linen and snatch Isabelle from her. And then blackness. Going down, down, down …
Now morning had arrived, there were more people on the quayside than there had been during the night. Many were salvaging what they could from boats that had been scuppered. Seth walked to the mooring for his trawler. Not back yet, although that didn’t surprise him. No news had to be good news and he’d just have to strengthen his prayers that the skipper had dropped anchor in a more sheltered bay somewhere.
‘There’s going to be a lot of work for Olly Underwood,’ someone said as Seth passed, not looking to see who the speaker was.
‘That’s right an’ all,’ someone else replied. ‘It’s a damned ill wind that does nobody any good.’
Seth had only had the one crabber tipped on its side. No doubt he would have lost tackle but as far as he could see from where he stood it hadn’t been holed. At low tide he’d get his waders from the boat store and go and see.
He busied himself pulling in what flotsam and jetsam he could with a bar hook and waited for his boat to return.
‘How are you feeling now, Emma?’
Emma opened her eyes. Ruby was sitting beside her bed with Isabelle on her lap. A very tired Isabelle, who yawned and rubbed her eyes.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you were there. I must have dozed off. I had a bad night.’
‘Didn’t we all. Anyway, I’ve been ’ere twenty minutes, I ’ave. Or thereabouts. You fainted clean away, Maisie Bellamy said. You were out for the count for a good five minutes, by all accounts. Then you came to before …’
‘Seth,’ Emma said. She pushed herself down into the soft pillow and mattress, wanting to escape hearing from Ruby that Seth was dead.
‘What about ’im?’
Emma reached for her friend’s hand. ‘Please, please, Ruby, tell me Seth hasn’t drowned.’
‘Seth hasn’t drowned,’ Ruby said, grinning.
‘But Maisie said …’
‘You didn’t let her finish ’er sentence before making a right spectacle of yourself. What ’er was going to say was that Seth swam out in the height of the storm to rescue Mr Maunder. Rumours were flying that Mr Maunder had drowned, which was what Maisie was going to tell yer, but they weren’t true.’
‘Rumours almost never are,’ Emma said.
‘That’s as maybe. You heard ’er say “Seth” and put two and two together and made a dozen of it, didn’t yer?’
‘Oh, oh my, I …’ Emma put her hands to her head.
‘See that nose on your face?’ Ruby said, tapping the end of Emma’s nose with a finger.
‘You know I can’t.’
‘’Course you can’t – not without looking in a mirror. Same as you can’t see you’re full of love for Seth Jago. What are you going to do about it, eh?’
‘Do about it?’ She’d told Seth not to speak to her again, hadn’t she? But what must Seth have gone through if he’d battled raging waters to rescue Mr Maunder? And of course she knew she was in love with Seth – not that she was going to admit it to Ruby. ‘Is Seth all right?’
‘Very all right. More handsome than ever, if that’s possible. Saw ’im meself, when I nipped down to the chemist’s for some vapour rub, didn’t I?’
Emma knew she ought to ask why – or for whom – Ruby had gone to the chemist’s for vapour rub, but Seth and how he was, was more important.
‘Seth’s really all right?’ Emma struggled to a sitting position. ‘More handsome? Oh, I …’
‘Very all right. There. That bit of information’s put colour back in your cheek, that’s for sure,’ Ruby laughed. ‘So, one good turn deserves another. D’you think you could lie there looking wan and weak a bit longer, ’cos Mr Smythe’s asked me to keep an eye on the children until you’re up and about and I’d much rather do that than change beds and clear up after people.’
Emma lay back against the pillows, put the back of a hand to her forehead and sighed theatrically. Inside she was bubbling with joy that Seth hadn’t drowned.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Emma giggled. ‘I think I’m going to take at least a day to recover.’
‘Good. And while you’re at it give some serious thought to Seth Jago and ’ow you can win his heart before some other woman gets her claws in ’im. Give it some thought at least.’
‘Oh, I will,�
�� Emma said. ‘I will.’
But Seth was alive and for the moment that was all that mattered.
Chapter Twenty
To Seth’s great relief there was no loss of life from his own boat, or from any of the others that had been out in the storm – just very tired and wet crews. He set to unloading the catch with his men – something he’d never done for his father, and everyone knew it, which had gone a long way to absolving him of any part in the smuggling.
‘Good catch, Mr Jago,’ Robbie Narracott said. ‘Kept fresh and all with the deluge.’
‘There’ll be an extra half-crown apiece in your pay packet,’ Seth said. He put his hand in his trouser pocket, pulled out a handful of florins. ‘But here’s something to be going on with for a round of drinks for the crew in The Blue Anchor.’
‘Thanks, Mr Jago,’ Robbie said, grinning broadly. He pocketed the money. ‘Best get this lot up to the sheds for sorting first, though. It’ll be another day before it’s done, else, if they get their ale first.’
There was lots of good-natured grumbling from the crew that they couldn’t start drinking right away but they got on with unloading the boats fast enough as they always did, Seth thought, given they must have been frightened for their lives out there in Lyme Bay with the storm raging around them.
The job done, Seth made his way to the Maunder home, praying his rescue attempt hadn’t been in vain and that Charles Maunder had made it through the night.
‘Heaven only knows why my husband went down to the harbour, Mr Jago, it was a reckless thing to do in the height of the storm. I shall have something to say to him about that when I visit him at the hospital this afternoon.’
‘He might have been making sure his yacht was secure …’
‘It was still a reckless thing to do,’ Mrs Maunder interrupted. ‘But I’m so grateful you were there, Mr Jago.You saved his life.’ She ushered him into the drawing-room.
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