Sea Mistress

by Iris Gower

  Mrs Murphy was a woman who had an eye for profit at all times. She liked the extra purse of money that Paul left her before he took to sea again. Liked the fine gifts he bought for her daughter and probably hoped that the affair would last, bringing her daughter the riches she could never expect to attain unaided.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Richard’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘By your smug expression I’d say you were counting your many blessings.’

  ‘You’d be right.’ Paul put down his ale. ‘And those blessings are about to increase a hundred fold. It’s about time Monkton was here, isn’t it?’

  Richard took out his pocket watch. ‘He’ll be here,’ he spoke laconically, ‘he’ll be as eager to sell the goods on at a greatly inflated price, as he always is.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Paul agreed. ‘Well, we might as well have another drink while we’re waiting, call the landlord, will you Richard?’

  He didn’t see the tightening of Charlesworth’s mouth or hear the irritation in the man’s voice when he complied with his order. And if he had, he wouldn’t have cared one jot.

  ‘Well Boyo, you’re a fine set up young man, aren’t you?’ Rosie stared at the fifteen year old boy who was standing at the pump. He was stripped to the waist, his hair dripping. Beneath the rivulets of water, his cheeks were a fiery red and Rosie moved closer, enjoying the effect she was having on him. She leaned forward and pinched the pinkness of his nipple.

  ‘Lovely lad. Had a woman yet?’

  ‘Don’t talk that way, it’s not nice.’ Boyo pulled on his rough flannel shirt and backed away from her. So, he was shy, all the better.

  ‘A virgin are you, love?’ She smiled putting her hands on her hips aware of his eyes moving instinctively to her straining bodice. ‘Never mind, you’ll find out what it’s all about one day. If you’re lucky you’ll have some fun before you’re made a fool of by some pretty wench who you’ll get full with your child. Once you’re married you’ll live a life of boredom, is that what you want, Boyo?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he shuffled his feet awkwardly, embarrassed but intrigued in spite of himself.

  With slow, deliberate movements, Rosie undid her bodice pretending to fan herself. ‘Duw, it’s hot today, isn’t it, Boyo?’ Beneath the calico bodice she was naked, her full breasts swinging free, the brown tinted nipples springing forth in the cool breeze.

  Boyo stood as though entranced, his eyes riveted to the alabaster skin. He moved his hands to cover himself and Rosemary saw, with amused triumph, that the boy was aroused.

  She closed her blouse deliberately. ‘There, see, Boyo, that’s a taste of what you got coming one day, let’s hope that day comes before you burst is it? Here, fill my bucket for me, lad.’

  He did as he was told, his hands trembling. Without effort, Rosie hoisted the bucket onto her hip and with a laugh, turned and waved to Harry who, being an old married man, had been watching her with amusement.

  ‘You’ll do that boy a mischief,’ he called, ‘why don’t you take him out one fine night and show him what it’s all about, put him out of his misery?’

  ‘I might just do that,’ she murmured quietly, ‘I just might do that.’

  In the house, she put the bucket of water down on the floor. She stood for a moment looking around the kitchen, it was already spotless, a tribute to her industry. Whatever else she was, Rosie was a good worker and there was none who could say different.

  The door opened and the old woman came into the kitchen, looking round her disdainfully. Rosie had disliked Martha on sight and as far as she could see, the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Can I get you anything, missus?’ Her tone was respectful and yet carried an undertone that made Martha look at her sharply.

  ‘I want some light refreshments brought into the parlour at once.’

  ‘Oh, for you or for Mrs Hopkins?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Why, does it make any difference who it’s for?’ Martha was trying to keep her temper.

  ‘I know what Mrs Hopkins likes but then she scarcely ever eats anything between her regular meals.’

  ‘Do you have to be so exasperating?’ Martha shook her head, ‘I know we are never going to be great friends but at least let us not be hostile to each other.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, missus.’ Rosie was determined not to be drawn.

  ‘Just get on with it for goodness sake and please don’t waste any more time arguing the toss.’

  As Martha left the room in a huff Rosie smiled, she had succeeded in ruffling the old bat’s feathers, she could always do that if she really tried and if she was in the mood to be amused.

  Still, she liked working for Ellie, there was a sense of pride in being good at her job. Rosie had turned Glyn Hir House from a dingy, neglected building into a bright, clean home in the space of only a few weeks. The furniture shone with polishing, the floors were swept clean and if Mrs Hopkins would take her advice and invest in bright coverings and curtains the place would look almost respectable.

  In the sitting room three women were seated and Rosie felt she could have cut the atmosphere with her sharp kitchen knife. Ellie sat near the window with Martha on the other side of the fireplace and the third woman, still in her coat and hat, had her back to Rosie.

  ‘Some cordial Mrs Hopkins, shall I pour for you?’ Rosie had the jug in her hand just as the visitor turned to face her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The voice was sharp, the tone inferring all sorts of things that Rosie didn’t much like.

  ‘Mrs Marchant, there’s a surprise.’ Rosie spoke quietly, ‘I’m working here now, see, I was only taken on by Marchant and James as a temporary office cleaner, the job finished when the old cleaner came back.’

  ‘How remarkable that you should come here, whose idea was that, might I ask?’

  Rosie was puzzled by the woman’s attitude, what did Mrs Marchant care about where she worked?

  ‘That’s all right, Rosie,’ Ellie smiled placatingly, ‘you may go.’

  Outside the door, Rosie paused to listen, her curiosity was aroused more by the strange attitude shown by Mrs Marchant than by anything else. She wouldn’t normally eavesdrop but it seemed she was being blamed for something.

  ‘I know my husband is continuing to buy Glyn Hir leather, much against my wishes, and yet you deny any involvement with him. I’ve thought it over very carefully and I believe you and he are hiding something from me.’ Mrs Marchant’s voice was harsh. ‘And now I find that girl working here when she used to be in my husband’s employ, I find that rather too much of a coincidence. Something is going on here, are you getting more than money out of the arrangement with my husband, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t really know why you have come here Mrs Marchant, but I can see you are upset so I will overlook your foolish accusations.’

  Ellie was dignified, Rosie granted her that, had she been the one unjustly accused of having a roll in the hay with a married man she would have slapped the woman.

  ‘How very gracious of you. I saw you with my husband at the docks or have you forgotten that? I saw you and him together, I know how he looked at you, do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘I take you for an unhappy woman who harbours unfounded suspicions,’ Ellie replied. ‘You have my word of honour that there is nothing between your husband and myself.’

  ‘I don’t give a fig for your word of honour.’ By the sound of it, Mrs Marchant had risen and moved to the door. Rosie stepped back sharply.

  ‘I know about your past association with Calvin Temple, about the disgraceful way you got rid of the twins you were carrying. Do you blame me if I don’t have any faith in your word of honour?’ Mrs Marchant was shouting out loud in her anger and Rosie’s eyes widened, this was the first she had heard of Mrs Hopkins’ past.

  Mrs Hopkins spoke again but her voice was so low that Rosemary failed to hear what she said. The door sprung open and Mrs Marchant sailed from the room, her head high, her cheeks flushed. S
he took no notice of Rosie, indeed, she scarcely seemed to see her. She left the house slamming the door behind her and Rosie made her way back to the kitchen musing on the strange ways of the upper classes.

  ‘Monkton is late,’ Paul was looking irritably at his watch. ‘I don’t like a fellow who can’t keep to time.’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ Richard spoke easily. ‘I told you, he has too much to lose if he doesn’t turn up.’

  Paul frowned and lifted his hand impatiently and the landlord came to his side at once.

  ‘More ale, sir?’ He spoke unctuously, rubbing his hands on his stained apron.

  ‘That’s right, Murphy.’ Paul’s eyes went past the man to where a thin figure was hovering in the doorway. At last Monkton had arrived and Paul felt himself relax. ‘Fetch another mug,’ he said more affably and the landlord disappeared to do his bidding with alacrity, trade was not brisk in the small ale house at this time of the day.

  ‘Have you got the goods?’ Monkton asked without preamble.

  ‘Of course, have I ever failed you?’

  ‘Not up until now.’ Monkton was a dry stick, he was not a man to warm to but Paul concealed his feelings well as he spoke in a low voice.

  ‘I think you’ll be more than pleased when I tell you that I have on offer some of the finest Bengal opium going at a very good price.’

  ‘How have you concealed the cargo?’ Monkton’s voice was scarcely audible, he hardly sat on his chair perching on the very edge, his elbows on the table, seemingly unaware that the sleeves of his fine jacket were soaking up the pools of ale that had been spilt.

  ‘The opium is concealed in leather horse-collars, packed tightly in the rye grass. It’s surprising how many pounds of the stuff can be exported and imported that way without arousing suspicion. Makes a change from the boxes of candles I used last time. Ingenious, what?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Monkton was not easily impressed. ‘I don’t want the customs men chasing me. Can you get me the stuff in greater quantities for the next load?’

  ‘Possibly, and don’t worry about being caught, the cargo is as safe as houses. I bought the leather goods from a small tannery, no-one is going to suspect anything.’ Paul wished the man would show a little enthusiasm. Perhaps he should announce that his prices had risen, give Monkton something to think about.

  He was too late, Monkton had taken a brown package from his inside pocket and handed it across the table. ‘I’ll expect the cargo to be loaded on my waggons by first light.’

  ‘Smug bastard,’ Paul uttered the expletive from between his teeth as he watched the man disappear through the door.

  ‘That’s business,’ Richard shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where does he sell the stuff do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, it could be moved anywhere from here. But that’s his worry, the ungrateful wretch.’

  ‘Well old chap, you should know better than to expect gratitude. Talking of gratitude, I should be abjectly grateful for a little taste of the goods before you hand them over.’

  ‘That stuff is worse than spirits for clouding the brain.’ Paul was beginning to be irritated by Richard’s attitude.

  ‘But much safer, old boy, doesn’t leave any ill effects, not like drinking too much brandy.’

  ‘In moderation, everything is all right but if you will indulge in excesses you can’t blame anyone but yourself if you feel under the weather.’

  Richard slumped back in his chair, his mouth closed into a thin line, he was quite obviously sulking.

  ‘You’re worse than my sons for having your own way, man,’ Paul said.

  ‘I do a hell of a lot for you,’ Richard replied, ‘unpaid lackey, that’s what I am, is it too much to ask for a small recompense now and again?’

  ‘All right, pick up one of the packets when you supervise the unloading.’

  ‘Sterling work.’ Richard brightened at once, his good humour restored.

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Paul said, ‘that stuff can be addictive, you know.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Richard dismissed the idea, ‘that’s a fairy story, told to keep the prices high. You know as well as I do that opium and some of its extracts are used in medicine every day.’

  ‘Well, it’s your life,’ Paul gave up. He knew that taking opium brought about a sort of euphoric feeling, something like a happy dream, Richard had described it once but Paul had never indulged. Opium, as far as he was concerned was merely a cargo. It was smuggling sure enough but harmless, it was simply evasion of the duty imposed by the government, it was not like moving arms and liquor to the ignorant natives of underdeveloped countries.

  Richard rose to his feet. ‘I’m going up to take a rest. We’ll be sailing with the first tide, I take it?’

  ‘If the cargo is shifted tonight, which is your responsibility, yes we will. In the meantime, I think perhaps you’re right, bed calls to me, too.’

  ‘But not quite in the same way?’ Richard’s voice held a note of derision which Paul didn’t much like.

  ‘I can’t help it if I’ve got red blood flowing in my veins,’ he snapped. It was a veiled reference to one of Richard’s other odd habits but the man ignored it.

  As Paul passed the bar, he nodded to the landlord. ‘Tell Carmella to bring me some tea, there’s a good chap.’

  He made his way up the rickety stairs and paused for a moment on the small landing thinking about Richard Charlesworth. The man was becoming more than an irritating thorn in the flesh, he was becoming dangerous. In his own room, Paul threw off his jacket and sank onto the bed. He was always given the best room in the house which wasn’t saying a great deal, the mattress was lumpy and the bedclothes shabby but at least the place was clean and smelled of much scrubbing.

  He felt quietly satisfied as he withdrew the envelope Monkton had given him from his pocket, it was thick with notes and he ran his thumb through them counting rapidly. It added up to a nice little sum which he would put in his own secret bank account. Bridie who believed she owned him body and soul knew nothing about it and perversely, for a moment, Paul almost wished she did, then perhaps she would see him in a different light, treat him with more respect. As it was, she never forgot that she had come from a wealthy background and had been given the benefit of a fine education while Paul was a self-made man.

  A small tapping on the door snapped him out of his reverie and without haste, he tucked the notes away. ‘Come in,’ he said and the door opened to admit Carmella, her young face flushed, her dark hair falling to her shoulders. She had an innocence about her that he found irresistable. He held out his hand and she took it willingly, her mouth slightly open, her eyes alight.

  She was obedient in all things, sweetly compliant as he took off her clothes. She lay then, naked against the sheets, her fair skin flushed from her breasts to the fine-structured bones of her face.

  Carmella was still shy of her nakedness but not in the prim way his wife was; Carmella enjoyed his delight in her body while Bridie concealed herself from him whenever she could. She claimed that child bearing had robbed her of her charms. In a way, it was true, her breasts had slackened, her belly was scarred, she had grown heavy about the thighs. Perhaps that was why he sought solace with other, more virginal women.

  He gently lowered himself onto the lithe body waiting for him. Carmella gasped as he entered her but she was as roused as he was and his progress was easy. He moved against her teasingly and she put her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from crying out in joy.

  His head was pounding with blood, he felt triumphantly in charge, he had made a great deal of money today and now, he was the conquering hero, claiming the spoils of victory. Carmella was writhing with fulfilment beneath him, lifting herself upwards the better to encompass him. And then the sweet passion was flowing from him, fire burned exquisitely in his loins before he fell, replete, onto his side.

  Carmella was sobbing gently, overwhelmed by her feelings. ‘I love you Paul,’ she touched his cheek, ‘you bring me
such joy, don’t ever leave me, will you?’

  He turned and kissed her shoulder. ‘I won’t leave you, my sweet darling, because I love you too.’

  To Paul’s surprise, he knew quite suddenly that he meant what he said. He who had enjoyed many women from dusky skin to alabaster white, had lain with exotic women from the east and had bought the favours of the ladies of the night who frequented British ports, he was in love with the little innocent Irish colleen who lay beside him.

  He examined his feelings, was it Carmella’s unconditional love for him that drew him to her or was it her clean, fresh beauty? He didn’t know. All he did know was that he must be with her as often as his other commitments would allow.

  ‘I will have a present for you next time I come here,’ he said softly, ‘something to show how special you are to me.’

  ‘I don’t want your presents, Paul.’ She put her hand on his cheek and kissed his mouth. ‘You know all I want is you.’

  ‘I know and that’s what makes you so wonderful,’ he sighed and rolled away from her. ‘But now, I have things to do, my love. I have a business to run and I can’t rely on Richard to work without my supervision.’

  She rose and washed her delicate body at the basin on the heavy washstand, every action was that of a dancer, balanced and fine and he wished that he could stay with her. But all too soon now, he would be heading for home and Bridie.

  He was definitely colder towards her, angry that she had followed him to Ireland and thrown accusations at him. Bridie was lying awake, staring up at the dappled reflection of early sun on the white ceiling above her. And her trip up to Glyn Hir had been fruitless. She had found the woman at home and not secreted away on the Marie Clare as she’d suspected. Yet the feeling persisted that the woman and Paul were indulging in some sort of illicit relationship. The thought was beginning to obsess her.