by Jane Jackson
‘Three times that man has been into the office to see her. Even Richard noticed and you know how blind he is. Mrs Cox in the Post Office told me that Captain Barata has acquired a house up along Greenbank. She expected me to know all about it seeing that Caseley is my niece, and he was seen entering and leaving the house accompanied by a young woman with a limp and reddish-brown hair. That’s Caseley all right. So what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ Thomas felt panic churn like acid inside him.
Caseley glanced up as her brother entered the dining room. He was freshly shaved, his hair neatly combed. His shirt was crisp and his coat and trousers had been brushed and pressed. Though pale, his eyes red-rimmed, he looked better than he had for days.
‘Hello, Ralph,’ she smiled. ‘You’re up early. Would you like some breakfast?’
‘Just coffee.’ He shuddered. ‘I don’t know how you can face food at this time of day.’
‘I don’t know how you manage without it,’ she replied lightly, pouring his coffee as he sat down opposite.
‘What are you doing?’ He indicated her notepad, pencil, and other pieces of paper beside her crumb-strewn plate.
‘Trying to work out the best order for jobs to be done.’
‘Now Father’s back at work –’
‘Not for the business. The list is for Captain Barata’s house.
‘Ahhhh.’
She ignored the inflections in her brother’s tone and continued writing.
‘How is it coming along?’
‘Faster than I expected. Mr Endean was due at a house in Florence Terrace but a family bereavement meant the work had to be postponed. So he was able to come right away. The inside plumbing should be finished by the end of the week. When the plaster has been made good and the other repairs completed, the decorators can begin.’
‘My, my,’ Ralph raised his cup in mocking salute. ‘You have been busy.’
‘Sometimes I feel it’s running away with me,’ Caseley admitted. ‘I had no idea how much there was to do. Which is why getting it all in the right order is so important.’
‘What does the good captain think of progress so far?’
Suppressing a pang, she riffled through the papers, pretending to search for something. Though he had promised not to watch her every move, she had expected a visit, braced herself in anticipation. But he hadn’t come.
Ignoring the surprise and unease shown by the plumber and other tradesmen she consulted hadn’t been easy. She had met the same reaction in shops when she enquired about materials.
The salesmen were polite but evasive, making it clear that ‘the gentleman’s approval must by confirmed by his visit in person before an order could be accepted.’
The second time this happened, Caseley gathered her courage, stood her ground, and asked to speak to the manager. Quaking inside, she informed him that she alone was responsible for the purchases she wished to make. The order was of considerable value, and she expected to pay at the end of the month like any other respected customer. If he was unable to meet her demands, she would take her business elsewhere.
Lavish apologies for the misunderstanding and thinly disguised curiosity had accompanied offers of assistance to locate anything else she might require. She had longed to tell someone about it, to share the experience and laugh at her own bravado. But there was only one person directly concerned, one person who would understand.
‘Captain Barata has not visited yet. But I’m sure he will be impressed. Mr Endean takes great pride in his work. He’s also very quick and keeps the man and boy who work with him busy all the time.’
‘Doesn’t it worry you? I mean you hardly know the man. I’m talking about Barata, not Mr Endean.’
She shrugged to hide the doubts that were her constant companions. ‘He and Father made the arrangement.’
‘So you said. But you must admit it’s rather odd. He’s expecting you to do something that would cause most wives to hesitate. Why you?’
‘I have no idea.’ She rose and carried her cup to the sideboard. That question had kept her awake night after night. All too aware of her many defects, she could not fathom the reasoning behind Jago Barata’s demand. They struck sparks off each other every time they met.
To cope with the loss of her mother, her father’s absorption in the business and her brother’s unhappiness, she had always striven for calm, balance. But from the instant she and Jago Barata met, she had been buffeted by violent emotions.
She loathed his arrogance and cutting irony. Yet he stirred yearnings that no self-scolding or rationalisation could banish. He could be cruelly derisive yet moments later reveal an understanding that left her breathless.
He was a man of the world in the widest sense: of dual ancestry, well educated, widely travelled and independently wealthy, leading life on his own terms. What could she ever be to him apart from briefly useful?
‘Why me?’ She raised slim shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Captain Barata is very busy. He needed someone to organise and oversee work on the house. It was my misfortune that I happened to be there at the time.’
Even as she spoke, innate honesty made her conscience prick. Certainly she had felt like that to begin with, but now? She gazed up at the overcast sky. The cloud, thick and low, promised rain before the day’s end.
‘Father approved the idea and it was agreed between them.’
‘But you have no experience.’
‘I know, and so I told them.’ Returning to the table she leaned over to gather the papers together. ‘It didn’t make the slightest difference. They are very alike in their stubbornness.’
Ralph pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs, regarding his sister with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. ‘Aren’t you nervous? It must be costing him a bundle. What if you make a pig’s ear of the whole business?’
‘Thanks, Ralph.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She nodded, hugging the bundle of papers to her chest. ‘I admit I was terrified at first. But Mr Endean has taken me under his wing. He put me right on several matters. I’ve got the best mason in town in George Tallack. He’ll be starting in a couple of days. He and Mr Endean have worked together many times. I think Mr Endean may have persuaded him to take this job. I know he’s usually very busy. I still get butterflies in my stomach about the furnishings. Colours and textures are such a personal choice. But Captain Barata trusts me.’ She shrugged, trying to ignore the combined thrill and chill that tingled through her.
‘I don’t know how you fit it all in. Aren’t you exhausted?’
‘I expected to be. But now Father seems so much better – You should have seen his face when Toby and I took him round the yard yesterday afternoon. The men gave him such a welcome. He roared at them for wasting time when they should have been working, but there were tears in his eyes. Dr Vigurs was right to let him go back.’
Seeing his shuttered expression she moved quickly on. ‘Even though the house is in a far worse state now that when I first saw it, with holes in the walls and dust everywhere, it has a lovely atmosphere. It will be beautiful when it’s finished.’
‘Take care, Caseley,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t put your heart into it. It’s not yours, nor ever will be.’
‘I’m fully aware of my limitations. But I can’t – won’t – do less than my best.’
‘Listen, I didn’t mean –’
‘I know, and it’s all right.’ She didn’t want to hear his awkward apology, knowing that she lied. Deep in her heart she wondered what it would be like to be mistress of the house. She banished the thought. She did not need that in order to walk through the rooms, touch the furniture she had chosen, see the colours she had blended to create harmony and welcome.
Besides, being mistress of the house would require that she also be Jago Barata’s wife, a thought that terrified her as much as it admittedly intrigued.
She flashed him a bright smile. ‘So why are you up early looking so
smart?’
He stood up, shooting his cuffs. ‘I am off to work.’
‘What? Has Uncle Richard –?’
‘I’m not going to Bonython’s. It’s not for me, and never will be. I am waiting on Mrs Edwin Lashbrook to make preliminary sketches for a portrait. But I need to go into town first to pick up one or two things.’
‘You’re going to paint Frances? But how – when –?’
‘I wasn’t commissioned directly,’ Ralph admitted. ‘Jason Blamey was going to do it. But he cut his hand on a broken bottle – of linseed oil,’ he added as Caseley frowned. ‘Anyway, Frances wanted the portrait done at once and Jason recommended me.’
‘Ralph, I’m so pleased for you.’ Caseley limped around the table and clasped her brother’s hands. ‘I know how much you want to paint. If this portrait is a success it could mean more commissions. Who knows where that might lead? You have a wonderful talent and this is a great opportunity.’
She made herself stop. She wanted to tell him not to waste it as he had wasted so many others. Not to seek solace in alcohol if he could not immediately achieve the perfection he sought. But saying such things might create doubts in his mind.
‘I’ll show them.’ His eyes glittered. ‘The doubters, the gossips, Father. I’ll show them all.’
‘I know you will.’ Reaching up she kissed his cheek.
Grinning, he squeezed her fingers before crossing to the door. He paused, listening. ‘He’s on his way down.’
‘Have you told him?’
Ralph shook his head.
‘Why not? He would be pleased for you.’
Her brother regarded her with a bitter smile. ‘Poor Caseley. You try so hard. I know you mean well but surely you’ve learned by now that nothing I do will ever please Father? I am doubly damned. I don’t want the yard and I am not Philip.’ He walked out.
She heard him say good morning, heard their father’s gruff voice demanding to know where Ralph was going, and when did he intend to start accepting his responsibilities, behaving like a man. But the words lacked heart and hope. They were uttered out of habit and were answered by the sound of the front door slamming.
Jago Barata packed with an expertise born of practice. His white shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Two canvas bags lay on the bed. Into the smaller he placed the clothes he would need while in Spain, plus toiletries. The rest of his belongings went into the larger bag.
A flurry of telegraph messages between himself and Ramon Gaudara over the past three days had established that Guadara had received Felipe’s letter and reached Juan at the mine. The quicksilver was being sent to the port of Santander for him to collect. Now the blockade had been lifted, Bilbao was chaotic as all the shipping companies sought desperately to clear the backlog of waiting cargoes. Though the fighting had not reached the mine area, it had been impossible to move anything in or out.
Packing reminded him of how little he possessed. When he left his father’s house and travelled to Bilbao to begin his career at sea, he had arrived there with several bags and a chest.
Sailing with Basques whose reputation as seamen was renowned throughout the world, he had learned quickly. His love of the sea in all her many moods, coupled with technical skill, a sixth sense regarding the weather, and nerves of iron, soon gained him a reputation that rivalled those of his teachers.
Realising that light was the only way to travel he had sold everything but basic necessities. He moved from ship to ship, line to line, always seeking the best, oblivious to discomfort or length of voyage, caring only for the captain’s skill and what he could learn.
Having worked his way up from ordinary seaman to mate, he sat the examinations necessary before he could captain a ship in foreign waters. Two years later he had his own command, a small two-masted schooner sailing out of Bilbao, carrying oranges, lemons, salt, wine, and brandy. The ship was his home and cabin space so limited there was simply no room for personal possessions.
It was on that schooner he had first come to Falmouth. Now he owned a house here. Since his parents had moved to Mexico he had no personal ties to Spain. Here, at last, he had a home of his own and an opportunity to put down roots.
He dropped the shirt he was rolling onto the bed and flexed his shoulders, stretching his arms high and wide then running both hands through his hair. Tension lay like a yoke on the back of his neck as he looked out of the window.
Below in the busy street carts and cabs delivered goods and passengers. Two women wearing short capes and beribboned bonnets entered the grocer’s opposite, where signs advertised provisions, patent medicines, pure Ceylon tea, and coffee roasted daily on the premises.
To the left was a boot and shoe shop, the wares displayed on hooked poles resembling strange trees. Next door the Supply Stores invited inspection of Devenish’s Celebrated Dorset Ales in casks or bottles at popular prices, fine wines from the wood, and choice ginger wine.
Alongside was the second of George Downing’s butcher’s shops. Short and rotund, George stood by the window display between two pig carcasses suspended on steel hooks from an overhead rail. A blue and white striped apron covered the front of his starched white coat and a straw boater was set at a jaunty angle on his balding head. Jago’s frown deepened. Why did he want a house? A house was a tie, a responsibility, and he valued freedom. He came and went as he pleased, limited only by wind and tide.
Yet had not the impersonal anonymity of hotel rooms begun to pall? After eighteen years of criss-crossing the oceans, was it not time he had somewhere of his own to come back to?
Thinking of the house brought Caseley to mind. What infernal impulse had goaded him to insist on her help? Correct in her guess that others would have jumped at the chance, her reluctance had intrigued and irritated.
His accusation that she gave him no peace was the naked truth. Since their first meeting he had been haunted by her. Why?
She was not beautiful. Her cheekbones were too pronounced, her chin too firm, her eyes too large, and her mouth too tempting. Her hair might have the healthy shine of a polished chestnut but its springy waves and curling tendrils were untameable. She had no sophistication.
A flash of insight needled him. Enticing, amusing, worldly women had passed over the surface of his life without leaving a ripple.
Caseley Bonython touched him as none of them ever had. Straight-backed and slender, she had a presence that made her limp irrelevant. The way she held her head, the way she seemed so often poised for flight, reminded him of a gazelle.
She was defiant, quick-tempered, and impulsive. She was also intelligent, courageous, and loyal. Amusing though her anger and dislike of him had been, it had also jolted him. Not given to introspection, he found examination of his own behaviour disconcerting.
Often pursued, he was now the pursuer. He could not comprehend what drove him, for she threatened his whole way of life. Drawn to her, he deliberately kept his distance except to goad her, as if antagonising her might destroy in him the need he perceived as weakness. But his conscience wracked him and the guilt became anger directed, perversely, at her.
Picking up the rolled shirt he pushed it into his bag. He needed to get to sea again. The whisper of the night wind, the hiss of the bow cutting through the water, and the vastness of the dark sky glittering with patterns of stars would clear his head.
Though this room would be let in his absence the manager had promised to look after his spare bag until he returned. He had considered taking it up to the house and immediately dismissed the idea. Once he left possessions there he would have committed himself. He was not sure he wished to do that.
For three days he had stayed away. He had plenty to keep him busy. But too often his thoughts strayed. To Caseley. To Caseley in his house.
Anger and self-disgust burned in his gut. He should never have forced her to do it. Doubtless she would have her revenge by stuffing the place with grotesque furniture and ugly useless ornaments. The ho
use would be desecrated with clashing colours and suffocating designs. There would be frills and fringes and lace and his money would have been wasted.
Yet the thought that, despite hating him, she would create a comfortable welcoming home was far more unsettling.
The door burst open and Louise whirled in. Slamming it shut she leaned against it, her voluptuous breasts straining against the orange material of her tight-fitting jacket.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her eyes were bright with accusation and excitement. The tiny hat, a confection of straw, feathers, and ribbon, tilted forward on her high-piled hair, sat slightly askew. ‘Why did I have to hear it from Amy Cox?’
After a moment’s utter stillness Jago continued pushing the last few items into the larger bag.
‘Good morning, Louise.’ His tone was cool. Brief fury swiftly contained. ‘I thought it was understood that I would arrange our next meeting.’
‘I know, Jago. But when I heard, I didn’t know whether to believe it or not. I had to –’
‘What exactly have you heard?’ Drawing the cords tight to close the neck of each bag he knotted them, lifted both to the floor by the door, then scanned the room to make sure nothing had been forgotten.
‘That you’ve bought a house up Greenbank. Is it true?’
‘No,’ he said evenly. ‘I have not bought a house.’
‘But Amy said –’
‘Mrs Cox might at least make sure her information is accurate before she spreads it around the town.’ Weariness tempered Jago’s irony. ‘The house was a bequest in my grandmother’s will.’
Louisa’s face lit up and she launched herself at him. ‘Oh, Jago, that’s handsome. I know you never liked me coming here. You was worried about people seeing us.’
‘Seeing you, Louise,’ he corrected. ‘I am answerable to no one. But your husband is at this moment in his shop opposite the hotel entrance.’
‘If he’s got a customer, he wouldn’t notice the Queen herself,’ Louise scoffed. ‘But we won’t have to worry no more now, will us? I just wish you’d told me yourself. It hurt awful hearing it from that old gossip.’ Wrapping her arms around his neck she pressed close to him, moving sinuously. ‘You was keeping it for a surprise.’ She rained kisses onto his cheek, his bearded jaw, and finally his mouth. ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ she breathed.