The Sea Between

by Thomas, Carol

  It was, Charlotte decided as she closed the final page one wet Tuesday afternoon in late March, a thought-provoking book.

  ‘You’ve finished it at last,’ Ann remarked. She smiled as Charlotte looked up. Their afternoon walk had had to be abandoned, owing to the bad weather, so they were sitting in the parlour together. Ann lowered her eyes and dexterously pricked her needle through the cream fabric again. ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘It was very interesting. I think Mrs Wollstonecraft makes some rather sweeping statements—tars all women with the same brush, and men too for that matter—but there’s a lot of truth in what she says. In the main, women are treated unfairly,’ Charlotte replied. She opened the book and riffled the pages then with a sigh dropped it on her lap. ‘As for what one can do about it…’

  Ann drew her needle through the fabric, pulling a long crimson silk thread in its wake. ‘You’ll have nothing to do now you’ve finished reading it.’

  ‘I’ll find something to occupy myself,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘I was wondering if you might like to come to the sewing group with me tomorrow afternoon,’ Ann invited quietly. ‘I know that you don’t enjoy sewing, but quite a few women who go to the sewing group don’t sew, so you wouldn’t feel out of place.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘If they don’t sew, why ever did they join a sewing group?’

  ‘Well, we discuss things while we’re sewing,’ Ann said, her head still bent over her needlework. ‘I think you might find it quite interesting. We discussed Mrs Wollstonecraft’s book a few months ago.’

  Charlotte stared in surprise at Ann’s bent head. Mrs Wollstonecraft’s book was the very last thing she would have expected Ann to discuss. Ann, quiet Ann, discussing inflammatory literature while she embroidered silk flowers on table napkins? ‘And, er…what did the ladies in the sewing group make of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s writings?’ she probed curiously.

  ‘We all think there’s a great deal of truth in what she says,’ Ann replied casually.

  Silence settled. Ann continued to prick her needle nimbly in and out of the cream cloth while Charlotte continued to stare at her. Ann, sympathizing with the women’s movement? Surely not! But as surely as she sat there, it was quite clear that Ann did sympathize.

  Intrigued, she leaned forward in her chair and whispered, ‘Does George know what you discuss at the sewing group?’ She’d lay a pound to a penny that he didn’t!

  Ann looked up and smiled mischievously—something Charlotte had never ever seen her do before. ‘No, of course he doesn’t. If he found out, he’d stop me from going.’

  ‘Does Isobel know?’

  ‘Oh dear me, no! She’s the last person I’d tell.’

  Charlotte arched her brows in surprise. ‘But she’d be delighted if she knew that you sympathized with her views.’

  Ann nodded. ‘I know she’d be delighted, but she mustn’t ever find out. I told you because I trust you and I know you would never tell George. But I wouldn’t trust Isobel not to tell him. She might tell him for spite, you see. Not to spite me, but to spite George. If they disagreed over something, it’s the sort of thing Isobel would blurt out.’

  It was just the sort of thing that Isobel would blurt out, Charlotte agreed silently. She was feeling more amazed with Ann by the minute, seeing a side to her sister-in-law that she’d never dreamed existed. Beneath that quiet, meek veneer, Ann housed a sharp, clever brain. She certainly had a shrewd grasp of how Isobel ticked. What was more, Charlotte had a feeling that for the last few weeks Ann had been quietly assessing her, deciding how much she could trust her, deciding whether she was a suitable candidate for the sewing group.

  ‘How many women go to the sewing group?’ she asked curiously.

  Ann’s slender shoulder rose in a small shrug. ‘It varies from week to week. Sometimes as many as a dozen. Sometimes as few as two.’

  ‘Are they all married?

  ‘All save one.’

  ‘I see,’ Charlotte said. ‘And presumably none of these ladies’ husbands are aware of what else goes on, besides embroidery?’

  Ann smiled, the smile an answer in itself.

  Charlotte tossed her head back and laughed until her eyes watered. It was the first time she’d really laughed since she’d left the farm. She’d forgotten how good it felt.

  ‘So, will you come tomorrow afternoon, do you think?’ Ann enquired with a grin.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’ Charlotte said. To be honest, she didn’t see herself becoming embroiled in the women’s movement, but she was keen to make friends with some of the women of the town and the sewing group sounded as if it might be a good place to start.

  As the weeks slipped by, Lyttelton slowly but surely began to take on the feel of home rather than an imposed exile, and this transition was largely thanks to Ann. Charlotte genuinely enjoyed her company. She’d also struck up a friendship with two or three women from the sewing group, and she found that her thoughts were returning less and less to the farm. In July, though, a letter arrived that threw both the farm and Richard into the forefront of her mind once again. The letter was from Sarah, addressed to Charlotte, and it bore bad news.

  8th July, 1866

  My dear Charlotte,

  I fear I am the bearer of bad news. Ben Steele has died. The funeral was held this morning. We are all reeling from the shock of it, and none more than Letitia, poor woman.

  It happened three days ago, an accident, here in the yard. Ben had purchased a young stallion from Jack Mallalieu and stopped by to show it off. We all went outside to admire it of course, the whole family, but I did think to myself that it looked a nervous animal, the way it kept tossing its head and darting its eyes about. The accident happened when Ben mounted it to leave. He had no sooner swung his leg over the saddle than it reared up into the air, and the next thing Ben was lying on the ground. His head took the full brunt of the fall, and I could see at once that he was in a bad way. He wasn’t moving and his face had turned a terrible colour. Edwin and John carried him into the house, then Edwin galloped off to fetch Letitia. Sadly, Ben passed away just two or three minutes before Letitia arrived. We are all in a state of shock, as you can well imagine. It makes one realize how precious each day is.

  Letitia is coping well, considering. It was very hard for her at the funeral this morning, standing beside the coffin alone, with no family to support her. She has written to tell Richard the bad news. It will be a great shock for him, too. Perhaps he will give up the sea and take over the running of the farm now. Ben has left the farm to him in his will and has made good provision for Letitia. She is to have the option of remaining here for as long as the farm remains in Steele hands, and at such time as the farm is sold she will receive an annuity from the proceeds. In the meantime, Edwin and John are assisting her in every way they can with the day-to-day running of the farm.

  I have little good news to report, I fear. Isobel is ill. She has lost weight and her skin has taken on a yellowish tinge. The doctor thinks she has a liver condition and has prescribed some medicine, but it seems to be having little if any effect. I will be surprised if she is still with us this time next year. Still, she seems not to be in pain, which is a blessing.

  The family all send their warmest regards to you. Give our best regards to George and Ann also. I trust this letter finds you all in good health.

  Yours affectionately,

  Sarah

  Numb with shock, Charlotte passed the letter to Ann. ‘Bad news,’ she said in a choked voice.

  Ann looked at her in alarm. ‘Is one of the children ill?’

  Charlotte shook her head, sending tears spilling from her eyes. ‘No. It’s Ben Steele. He’s dead.’

  Ann let out a shocked gasp. ‘Oh, dear God, no! Oh, poor Letitia!’

  Leaving Ann to read the letter, Charlotte walked over to the window, gulping back sobs. Poor Letitia, indeed. She and Ben had had a good marriage. Letitia would be grief-stricken. As for Richard, who knows
what he might do now. Perhaps, as Sarah had suggested, he might feel it was time to give up the sea and take over the running of the farm. It would be good for Letitia if he did, but, oh God, please let him not do that, she thought selfishly. It would be a cruel twist of fate if, a year after she had turned down Richard’s offer of marriage, he gave up the sea for the farm. It would mean he would take his new wife there, settle there, raise his children there…Unable to bear the thought of it, she burst into tears.

  Hurrying across to Charlotte, Ann wound her arm consolingly around her shoulder. ‘There now, Charlotte. There now,’ she soothed. ‘Letitia will be all right. Your father and Edwin will take care of her.’

  ‘Yes, I know they will,’ Charlotte said, wiping her eyes. And possibly Richard would feel he ought to look after her, too.

  More bad news arrived in November. John wrote to tell them that Isobel had died. The news came as a shock. While Charlotte had known that Isobel was ill and not getting any better, she hadn’t expected her to die so soon—none of the family had. In sharp contrast to the rest of her stormy life, Isobel had died peacefully in her sleep. Charlotte wept like a baby when she read the letter.

  Difficult and trying as her aunt had been on occasions, Charlotte had loved her. Isobel had arrived when the family were still reeling from the untimely death of a much-loved wife and mother. In typical Isobel style, she had assumed control of the household affairs, bustled about issuing orders to all and sundry, including John, turned their routines inside-out and somehow, in an inexplicable way, had made them let go of their grief. By the sheer force of her personality, Isobel had bullied them all into living again. Even her rows with John, disagreeable as they were, had put a fire in his belly again. For Charlotte, just a fifteen-year-old slip of a girl when her mother had passed away, Isobel had provided the one thing she most needed: the presence of another female in the house. A strong, resourceful woman, Isobel had never tried to mother her; rather, she had taught Charlotte how to be independent and speak up for herself. Isobel had been difficult, yes—infuriatingly so at times—but Charlotte had learned a great deal from her and she would miss her.

  Letitia was well, John wrote, and slowly coming to terms with the loss of Ben. There was no mention in the letter of Richard.

  In the first week of December a letter arrived from Chambers & Duckworth, Registered Lawyers, addressed to Charlotte, advising her that she was a beneficiary of the late Isobel Wyatt’s estate, and humbly requesting her to make an appointment at her earliest convenience with Mr Lionel Barraclough at their Cashel Street office in Christchurch. Isobel, it seemed, had left her some money. A great deal of money. Eight hundred pounds.

  The envelope from Chambers & Duckworth also contained a second envelope. Isobel had apparently deposited it with them when she had had them draw up her will six months ago—perhaps realizing even then that she was very ill—with instructions that the letter was to be delivered to Charlotte at such time as they executed her will. Charlotte slit it open, unfolded the enclosed letter, and began reading. It was written in her aunt’s bold, sprawling hand.

  11th June, 1866

  Dear Charlotte

  When you receive this letter I shall be dead. Death comes to us all eventually, that being the way of all flesh, so I want none of your tears spoiling the ink.

  You will have the letter from Chambers & Duckworth in your hand. As you will see from the reading, I have bequeathed you some money, to be precise £800. I have it on good advice that the amount is more than sufficient for you to purchase a property, which is what I request you should do. It will afford you some independence. I would not like to think that you were obliged to board with George all your life, should you choose not to marry. The choice and location of the property I leave entirely up to you.

  Should you choose to marry at some stage, I wish you to sell the property, prior to marrying, and give the proceeds to a worthy charitable fund. As the law stands, on marriage the property would become your husband’s. You know my feelings upon that subject well enough, so I need not elaborate further. I have another reason for requesting it, too—it will safeguard against the danger of a man marrying you for your property, and not your person.

  I have left £100 each to Edwin and George, and the residue of my estate will pass to John.

  I will finish with two parting pieces of advice which you would do well to heed. Forget Richard Steele, and don’t settle for second best.

  Your affectionate aunt,

  Isobel

  Charlotte’s tears did spoil the ink. She wept for a long while. But eventually she dried her eyes, blew her nose, and reached for the newspaper, still lying on the table where George had left it the night before. There was a haberdashery for sale in Oxford Street. A business with an income. Isobel would have approved of that.

  As for her aunt’s two parting pieces of advice, Charlotte didn’t think she would ever be able to completely forget what Richard had once meant to her. And not settling for second best—well, she certainly intended to do her best on that score.

  It had been a sad year, but 1867 began with the promise of happier times. Ann was pregnant, George became a partner in a small privately owned insurance company, and Charlotte became the proprietress of a small haberdashery on Oxford Street.

  Chapter 9

  March 1867

  William Fairfield was thirty-six, a lithely built man, not much taller than Charlotte. He had lean features, fine brown hair and a neatly clipped moustache. Charlotte thought he had a look of Sir George Grey. William was George’s business partner, the senior partner of the two.

  He was an interesting man, well-read, with a gift for explaining complicated things in a simple way—like the engineering of the Lyttelton railway tunnel, which he was currently explaining to Charlotte. Not normally the least bit interested in engineering, she was interested in the tunnel. It had recently been announced that the two ends—one dug from Lyttelton, the other from Heathcote—were expected to break through to each other within the next few weeks. A bold announcement, considering each end of the tunnel would be well over a thousand yards long when the two finally met. It would be the culmination of five years’ work.

  ‘How can they be sure the two ends of the tunnel will actually meet?’ Charlotte asked, frowning as she considered the problem.

  ‘They’ll meet,’ William replied confidently. ‘They carry out very precise measurements from each end.’ He lifted his hand to point to the summit of the hill directly above the tunnel entrance. ‘You see the tower up there—there’s a batten mounted on it with a black stripe down the centre of it. It can be seen from each end of the tunnel; it’s situated more or less at the mid-point. They use the stripe as a centre line to make sure the alignment of the tunnel is correct. The method is fairly simple, but the instrumentation is quite sophisticated. They use what’s known as a transit instrument.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the engineers using it,’ Charlotte inserted.

  William glanced across at her and smiled. ‘You’ll have seen how they position it outside the tunnel, then, so it lines up exactly with the centre of the tunnel entrance. What they do next is light a candle and place it inside the tunnel, so that it’s exactly on the centre line of the workings. They then sight the marker on the hill, sight the candle flame, and if the two fall exactly in line they know they’re tunnelling in a straight line. If the flame is to one side of the central line on the instrument, it means the tunnel is skewing. They then have to calculate by how much so they can correct it. That’s a very simplified explanation, but it will give you the general idea of how they do it.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, squinting as she studied the marker tower on top of the hill. George had tried to explain its purpose to her, but she hadn’t understood a word he’d said. She lowered her eyes to the tunnel entrance again as a dull booming sounded from deep inside the hill, a familiar sound in Lyttelton. Taking a welcome break from their labours while the blasting was in progress, the hard
-labour gang from the gaol was sitting in a group to one side of the tunnel. As usual, two armed guards were keeping a close watch on them. Some of the prisoners were serving sentences for serious offences.

  ‘I wonder what the prisoners will do once the tunnel is finished,’ she said, thinking aloud. The hard-labour gang had provided the manpower for removing all the blasted rock and rubble from the tunnel and carting it to the foreshore, to extend the area of useable land around the wharves.

  ‘Personally, I’m hoping the council will see fit to have them lay some more pavement and stormwater channelling,’ William replied as he turned to look back along Norwich Quay where his business premises were situated. It had rained heavily during the night and the road was in a dreadful state, with wheel ruts full of muddy water and the ground squelchy underfoot. ‘God knows the town could use some decent pavements,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘George and I had to lay boards across the step to the premises this morning so clients could come in without sinking up to their ankles in mire.’