The Sea Between

by Thomas, Carol

  ‘I’d be very pleased to accompany you, Captain Steele,’ she replied and gave him a charming smile of her own. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her father, sporting a smile as wide as a frog’s.

  ‘I’ve brought a picnic lunch.’ Richard dipped his head towards his bulging saddlebag. ‘I hope you have a good appetite, because my mother has packed enough food to feed a regiment.’

  Charlotte glanced at the saddlebag, then at the sky. The sun was shining and it was reasonably warm for September, but the wind was coming from the south and there were one or two smudgy dark clouds hanging about, which might or might not indicate rain in the offing. It was the sort of day when it was difficult to say what the weather would do. September was renowned for its fickle changes.

  Reading her thoughts, Richard said, ‘My father seems to think the weather will hold good.’

  ‘If it doesn’t, there are places where we can shelter,’ she said. If it came to a pinch, she’d much rather be wet outdoors with Richard than dry indoors with Isobel.

  ‘My daughter knows these hills like the back of her hand,’ John stated proudly. ‘Take Richard up to Shelf Rock, Charlotte—there’s a magnificent view from there.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she said. It was quite a long ride, but what did that matter?

  Ten minutes later they were riding across the hills together. A light easterly wind was blowing, making the flush of spring grass ripple like waves. All around, in the valleys and on the hills, ewes were feasting on the tender new shoots, their fleeces heavy and thick with winter growth. They were due to be shorn. Intermingled with them were the new season’s lambs. At this time of year, the hills rang ceaselessly with their bleats and the answering calls of their mothers.

  ‘How long has your family lived here, Miss Blake?’ Richard enquired. He glanced across at her and smiled.

  ‘Eight years,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you like living here? It’s very isolated.’

  ‘It is, but I’ve grown used to it,’ she returned. ‘I’ve no great desire to live in a town.’

  ‘Nor I,’ he agreed.

  ‘But you have no desire to live on a farm either.’

  ‘No. My father wanted me to be a farmer, but I had no interest in it.’

  ‘You’re lucky you were allowed to make your own choices,’ she commented, thinking of her brother Edwin. As the oldest son, it had gone without saying that he’d work on the farm. George, the second son, had been allowed to make his own choice of profession.

  Richard shrugged. ‘My father was in a difficult position. When I started insisting that I wanted to go to sea, I was fourteen and my grandfather was still alive. His health was poor, so he was living with us. He’d been the captain of a barque for most of his working life and was delighted that I wanted to follow in his footsteps. It made it very awkward for my father to raise objections, when my grandfather was so strongly in favour of it, particularly as my grandfather had let my father pursue the profession of his choice, breeding cattle. I’ve my grandfather to thank for quite a few things. When he died, seven years ago, he bequeathed me some money and said it was to be used towards the purchase of a vessel. It enabled me to buy the Nina.’

  ‘You’re very fortunate,’ Charlotte remarked. ‘Not everyone’s dreams come to fruition as effortlessly as yours have.’

  ‘I’ve worked hard for what I have.’

  Ignoring the mild rebuke in his voice, she said, ‘I’m sure you have, but there are people who work far harder than you do, whose dreams will never be realized as yours have. Your crew, for instance—I’m sure some of them dream about owning their own ship. But how many will?’

  ‘Very few,’ he conceded, then added, with a smile: ‘You’ve inherited some of your aunt’s bluntness, I see.’

  She laughed. ‘If my aunt were here, she’d challenge you to define the difference between bluntness and honesty.’

  ‘Why? Does your aunt think they’re the same?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said.

  ‘Then how would she distinguish between the two?’

  ‘Aunt Isobel says that if people don’t like what they hear, they call it bluntness; and if they do like what they hear, they call it honesty.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Well, there’s certainly some truth in that. How would your aunt distinguish between bluntness and rudeness?’

  Knowing what he was alluding to, she tossed him an apologetic smile. ‘She doesn’t, I’m afraid.’

  Obviously agreeing with her, Richard nodded. ‘Well, despite her abrasive way of speaking, she has some interesting points of view. D’you think many women feel as she does and want the laws changed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Charlotte replied honestly. ‘I doubt many women feel as strongly as Isobel, but if my aunt is to be believed a growing number of women are petitioning for changes.’

  Richard looked at her quizzically. ‘What’s your own opinion? Do you think women should be allowed to vote alongside men?’

  She gave a noncommittal shrug as she veered to the left to avoid a boggy patch of ground. ‘It wouldn’t concern me if I never cast a vote; I’m quite content to leave voting to men. But I agree with Aunt Isobel about the laws relating to divorce and property: they’re very unfair and need to be changed.’ She looked at him, expecting him to disagree, but to her surprise he nodded.

  ‘Yes, they do appear to be unfair. I’d never considered them until your aunt made such an impassioned speech about them—they’re the sort of thing you only consider when you have a need to. But after your aunt had pointed out all the injustices, I could see that she had a point.’

  ‘If you tell Isobel that, she’ll have you writing letters to Sir George Grey supporting the case for change,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘She petitions Sir George Grey?’

  ‘Regularly. Him and a score of others.’

  Richard looked at her in amazement. ‘Does she receive any replies?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mostly just acknowledgments from clerks. But occasionally she receives a letter from someone influential.’

  ‘Does Grey reply to her letters?’

  She laughed. ‘I think the Governor has better things to do than to reply to my aunt’s epistles.’

  They rode on up the valley, still discussing her aunt, until they reached the big stock pond, where they stopped to let the horses drink. Obviously wanting to stretch his legs, Richard walked around the perimeter of the pond, casting his eye over the steep hills that rose up on all sides in deep folds. They were dappled with the shifting shadows of the clouds being chased across the sky by the southerly breeze. Charlotte stayed with the horses, watching him. Even walking around a pond in the middle of nowhere, Richard had an air of command about him. It was as visible as the clothes he wore. He was wearing just a regular jacket today, not his brass-buttoned captain’s jacket, but even in his ordinary jacket one could see at a glance that Richard was a man who was used to exercising authority.

  ‘Nothing but hills, everywhere you look,’ he said, smiling, as he rejoined her.

  ‘A change from nothing but sea,’ Charlotte returned. ‘Don’t you get tired of looking at the waves, day in day out?’

  ‘Tired of the sea?’ He looked at her in surprise, as astonished as if she’d suggested that he might tire of eating or breathing. ‘I’d soon tire of these hills, but I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the sea. The sea is alive. It has power, has moods, presents challenges.’

  She cast her eye across the hills, watching the grass moving gracefully in the wind, the tall flax leaves twisting and flapping, catching the sun as they swayed about, the tussock grass with its shredded pale gold tips. The hills too were alive, changing with the seasons, having moods and presenting challenges. They weren’t always benign like they were today. But obviously Richard couldn’t see that. She turned away, reached for the reins, and mounted her mare again.

  As they continued along the throat of the valley, Richard began to tell her bits and piec
es about his life, describing his childhood and the farm in Sussex where he’d grown up, his school years, and finally his early years at sea.

  ‘I wanted to join the crew of a whaling vessel, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. I was hoping that my grandfather might take my side, but he was against it too. He said whaling ships were filthy tubs and that it was a dangerous profession, so I joined the crew of the Mary Jane, a cargo ship, under Captain Firth. He taught me all I know about sailing. They were good years aboard the Mary Jane.’

  ‘And now you’re captain of your own vessel,’ Charlotte remarked with a smile.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what I always aspired to—to own my own vessel.’

  They rode on in silence for a while, winding their way up the valley, picking their way around the squelchy patches of ground, which were plentiful after two days of heavy rain. Eventually, Richard picked up the conversation again, on a different topic altogether.

  ‘Did you really kill that boar with a spade?’

  She nodded. She wasn’t in the least surprised that he was asking her about it. Isobel had well and truly let the cat out of the bag about how the boar had died, but John had made quick work of closing the bag again. He’d simply changed the subject, leaving the Steeles in something of a vacuum regarding the finer details.

  ‘Where was your brother? Why didn’t he kill it? Had he passed out?’

  She shook her head. ‘Edwin was higher up the hill. He was in an outcrop of flax bushes. The boar had slashed his leg, and he was trying to make his way down to me.’

  Richard’s eyes widened visibly. ‘You mean you were alone when the boar attacked you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at her, looking quite stunned, then said hesitantly, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but when you and your brother rode into the yard I couldn’t help noticing that you appeared to have argued. Your brother looked furious with you and you looked furious with him.’

  ‘He thought I’d been reckless.’ She turned to meet his eyes, interested to see his reaction to the rest of her account. ‘The boar didn’t attack me, you see. It attacked Edwin’s dog, Duke. Duke had gone for the boar, trying to save my life, but the boar savaged him. He was badly injured and I knew that the boar would attack him again and finish him off unless I did something. So I picked up the spade and…well, the rest you know.’

  Richard stared at her again, at a complete loss for words.

  Eventually, it was she who broke the silence. ‘Tell me, do you think I was reckless?’ It was hard to tell from his face what he thought.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I think you were very reckless. And also very plucky.’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘I wish my father shared your opinion. He thinks I was just reckless. He’s banned me from riding alone for a month, as a punishment.’

  ‘Is that why you jumped at the chance to come riding with me today?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I came because…well, because you invited me.’ And because Aunt Isobel had been driving her absolutely mad.

  ‘How far to Shelf Rock?’ Richard asked with a smile.

  Fifteen minutes later they were standing on top of it.

  Jutting out of the hillside, Shelf Rock was quite spectacular in its own right. It was a huge pancake-shaped rock, measuring about thirty feet across, russet brown in colour, almost red in some lights. But it was the view, not the rock, that made it worth the long ride. On a clear day like this, you could see a long way.

  Shading her eyes from the sun, Charlotte gazed down the valley, beyond which were more valleys, their sides a mass of deep undulations, magnificently cast in light and shade. The Malvern Hills were lovely at this time of year. ‘Well, was it worth the ride?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful view?’

  ‘Very beautiful,’ Richard agreed.

  Pleased that it met with his approval, she turned towards him and smiled.

  ‘Very beautiful,’ he said again, but it wasn’t the view that he was looking at—it was her.

  Leaning forward, Richard kissed her on the lips then straightened again and waited, his eyes fixed on hers. He was waiting to see what she would do, waiting to see if she would move away, signalling that he had too much wind in his sails, or stay and run with the tide. She didn’t move away, but smiled and stayed right where she was. Well, Charlotte mused as Richard drew her into his arms, this is certainly better than spending the day holed up with Isobel and two young nephews. As for what Isobel would say if she could see the two of them kissing like this when they barely knew each other…Circumstances were a mite unusual, though. Richard didn’t live locally; he was a ship’s captain home on a brief shore leave, which was why he was wasting no time in letting her see that he liked her and why she was reciprocating in kind.

  Putting Isobel out of her mind, she placed her hands lightly on Richard’s shoulders and closed her eyes as he pressed his lips firmly against hers and pulled her closer. No casual kiss, this. No tentative, uncertain novice kiss either. Well, Richard was almost thirty. She was hardly likely to be the first woman he had held in his arms. By the same token, he wasn’t the first man who had ever kissed her. Relaxing in his arms, she slid her right hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, then slipped her fingers through his hair like a comb. His hair was as thick and soft as a fox-fur wrap. She ran her fingers through it, slowly, back and forth, enjoying the feel of it, enjoying the feel of Richard’s body next to hers, the feel of his hands on her back, his fingers splayed wide, pressing her close, the feel of his lips moving against hers…

  It was late in the afternoon when they got back to the farm. The sun was sinking behind the hills in a deep amber glow and the air was becoming noticeably crisper. As she led her horse into the stable, Richard walked in beside her, watching her in silence as she deftly unstrapped the saddle before shutting the mare in her stall for the night.

  ‘Will you ride with me again tomorrow?’ he asked as she walked over to him.

  ‘Yes, if the weather holds fine,’ she replied, then laughed as his left arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him.

  ‘Richard, I think you’ve had more than enough kisses today,’ she teased, craning her neck back in an attempt to put her lips out of reach. They’d kissed for quite a long time, both before and after the picnic lunch that Letitia had packed, and her lips were feeling quite tender.

  Cupping the back of her head with his free hand, Richard tilted her head forward again. As their lips touched, he said softly, ‘Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime…’

  Winding her arms around his neck, she closed her eyes, trying to remember the name of the poem that the lines came from. It came to her eventually—it was Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’, and the words Richard had quoted were absolutely right: they didn’t have a world of time. They had little more than a week, and then Richard would be leaving for Lyttelton again. They would have to make the most of the short time they did have, and enjoy each other’s company while they could.

  Their current enjoyment, however, was destined to be short-lived, as it was brought to a sudden halt by the sound of the back door opening, followed by footsteps crossing the yard.

  ‘That’ll be my father,’ Charlotte whispered, glancing hastily over her shoulder. She stepped back, putting several yards between the two of them, and prayed that the failing light had failed enough to hide her reddening cheeks.

  ‘Ah, you’re back!’ John said, as he walked into the stable. ‘Well, the weather held fine for you. What did you think of the view from Shelf Rock, Captain Steele? Was it worth the ride?’

  ‘Oh, well worth it!’ Richard said enthusiastically. Arms folded across his chest, he rocked smugly on his heels.

  Chapter 5

  Will Richard be calling by to say goodbye to you?’ Sarah asked as she reached for another pin. She was sitting at the kitchen table, patching a tear in Arthur’s trousers.

  Veiled
in steam, Charlotte looked up from the stone sink where she was scrubbing the breakfast pans. ‘He said he probably would,’ she returned over her shoulder. Richard was due to leave for Lyttelton later that morning, to rejoin his ship.

  An amused laugh sounded, unmistakably Isobel. ‘I’ll lay a pound to a penny that Captain Steele will call before he leaves. There’s hardly a day gone by that he’s not seen Charlotte.’

  ‘Has he asked you to write to him?’ Sarah quizzed.

  ‘No,’ Charlotte replied, but she was expecting him to.

  ‘If he does, say no,’ Isobel advised definitely as she put away the last of the breakfast dishes in the crockery cupboard.

  Sarah interrupted her pinning to toss her an impatient look. ‘I can’t think why Charlotte would want to say no, Isobel. Richard would be an ideal match for her.’

  ‘Ideal match?’ Isobel made a scoffing sound in the back of her throat. ‘Marry a man who’d always be away at sea? That doesn’t strike me as being particularly ideal. What’s the point in her marrying a man she’d never see from one month to the next? She might as well stay a spinster and not have the bother of children.’