The Sea Between

by Thomas, Carol

  ‘In a pawn shop in Christchurch. The pawnbroker recognized it from the description we’d circulated. He told the vendor that he was willing to buy it, but said he couldn’t pay him until the next day. He then contacted the Christchurch constabulary.’

  ‘That was very public-spirited of him,’ she said.

  Constable Marsh gave a dry laugh. ‘No, miss; it was very sensible of him. If he’d been found with it in his window, offering it for sale, we could have charged him with receiving stolen goods.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘And what about the thief? Did you apprehend him?’

  He nodded. ‘He’ll be appearing in court in two days’ time. He’ll be charged with unlawful entry, burglary and assault.’

  She looked down at the brooch again, then held it out to him. ‘I suppose you’ll want this back, to use as evidence.’

  Marsh shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. The man has admitted his guilt, so it won’t be required in court. I shall need your signature on this, though.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a document. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. ‘It’s to verify that the brooch is the one that was stolen and to confirm that it’s in your possession again. You’ll need to sign in two places—here and here,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Yes, all right. I won’t be a moment,’ she said.

  Leaving him in the hall, she went into the parlour. ‘It’s a constable. The man who assaulted William has been apprehended,’ she said, glancing across at her father as she walked over to the writing bureau.

  ‘Yes, I overheard your conversation with him,’ John said.

  Leaning over the desk, she signed her name in the required places, then waved the document about to dry the ink.

  ‘Will you have to appear in court to give evidence?’ John asked.

  ‘I hope not. I’ll ask him,’ she said. Folding up the document, she carried it back to the waiting constable.

  To her relief, she wasn’t required in court. The guilty plea made that unnecessary, Marsh informed her.

  ‘Is he a local man?’ she asked curiously as she opened the door for him to leave.

  Marsh shook his head. ‘No. He’s from England. A seaman. He’d apparently lost his position aboard his ship—for brawling—and was looking for another vessel. He didn’t have any luck, though; ran out of money, and turned to theft.’

  ‘It was his first offence then?’

  Marsh’s mouth curled into a cynical smile. ‘It’s the first time he’s been caught.’

  ‘He’ll go to gaol, I suppose?’

  He nodded. ‘A first offence of theft…’ He shrugged and screwed up his mouth. ‘That usually incurs a sentence of three months, but assault is much more serious. He’ll find himself facing two years of hard labour, I should think.’

  Charlotte shook her head, frowning. ‘All for the sake of a few pounds.’

  Marsh nodded and pulled on his gloves. ‘Most thefts are for only a few pounds. It makes you wonder why they do it.’

  Why indeed, she thought, as she watched him stride off down the street. A few pounds was all Rose had stolen. God alone knew why.

  ‘A glass of port, father?’ George reached into the cupboard in the sideboard and brought out two of his best glasses.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ John said, settling back into the armchair beside the fire.

  ‘Ann?’ George glanced over his shoulder, hands poised to reach into the cupboard again.

  ‘Just a very small one,’ she replied.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  She smiled and nodded, then sat down beside Ann on the couch. ‘Oh dear, I’ve eaten far too much,’ she said, rubbing the palm of her hand over her stomach.

  ‘How did you find the pork? I thought it was a bit tough.’ Frowning in concentration, George eased the stopper out of the bottle of port.

  ‘At least it tasted of pork and not cloves,’ John commented drily. ‘It doesn’t matter what kind of meat Mrs Hall cooks, she seems to feel obliged to skewer it with sprigs of this, that and the other.’

  Charlotte laughed. Herbs were a constant bone of contention between her father and Jessie Hall. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little, Father,’ she said, rallying to the absent cook’s defence. ‘She doesn’t always use herbs. It’s usually just the Sunday roast she likes to experiment with.’

  ‘The Sunday roast, Charlotte, usually lasts for three or four days,’ John returned. ‘Ah, thank you, George,’ he said, as a glass of port appeared over his left shoulder.

  ‘Father, would you like to propose a toast to your newest grandson?’ George invited as he passed glasses to Ann and Charlotte.

  ‘Indeed I would,’ John said. He waited until George had got himself comfortably settled in his armchair, then stood up. ‘Would you raise your glasses,’ he said quietly. He looked over to the wicker crib in the alcove where Charles lay, fast asleep, and lifted his glass towards it. ‘And join me in wishing Charles health, prosperity, long life and lasting friendships.’

  ‘Health, prosperity, long life and lasting friendships’ came the echo from around the room. It was an old family tradition to propose a toast whenever a child was born. The words were always the same, spoken very softly, almost as a prayer. Charlotte didn’t know why, but they always brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘And now I should like to propose a toast,’ George said, raising his glass. ‘To my wife, Ann.’

  ‘To Ann,’ John said, raising his glass to her.

  ‘To Ann,’ Charlotte echoed warmly.

  She had barely swallowed down the mouthful of port when John lifted his glass again to propose yet another toast. Charlotte glanced at George and smiled. This toast would be to him, the proud father.

  ‘One final toast,’ John said, as he looked from face to face. ‘To Letitia Steele.’ He paused, and with a smile added, ‘Who has graciously consented to be my wife.’

  Chapter 13

  John and Letitia were married in John’s parlour on 29 July. It was a quiet, simple ceremony, with just family present. They had timed the wedding so that Richard and Eliza could be there. Only Ann was missing. July wasn’t a good month to be travelling with a young baby, and Ann was really not up to a long journey yet. The wedding had been followed by an excellent roast beef dinner, which to John’s delight had not on this occasion been tarnished by the addition of culinary herbs, after which they’d all retired to the parlour and gathered around a roaring fire. Outside, it was snowing.

  Conscious that the light cart didn’t handle particularly well in snowy conditions (a few years ago it had slithered off the track and overturned, along with John and Isobel and three large sacks of flour), when nine o’clock struck John drained the last of the whisky from his glass then went to fetch his and Letitia’s warm woollen coats. Understandably, he didn’t want to risk tipping Letitia into the snow on their very first journey together as man and wife.

  Braving the weather, the family went outside to wave them off, waited until the cart had disappeared from view, then hurried back indoors into the warmth, glad to escape from the icy southerly wind that was blowing.

  ‘We should leave, too, Richard,’ Eliza said, as she shook the snowflakes from her skirt. ‘I’ll get my coat, shall I?’

  ‘We’ll leave when I’ve finished my whisky,’ Richard returned. ‘There’s no hurry. The big cart that we’ll be driving back to the farm will handle the snow well enough. And I’m sure my mother and John would appreciate a few minutes on their own.’

  ‘You’ll regret it if we get snowed in,’ Eliza warned.

  So will I, Charlotte thought as she shut the back door and followed them down the hall to the parlour. If they did get snowed in, they would no doubt be offered her father’s old bedroom, which was next to hers. Tonight John would be sharing Letitia’s bedroom, and from now on would be living at the Steele farm. It was a sensible move. It meant that Edwin and Sarah could have the house to themselves and she had no doubt at all that her father wou
ld much prefer the peace and quietness of Letitia’s home to the noise that Edwin’s young family generated at all hours of the day and night. Their last child, Mary Ellen, was a very poor sleeper and ensured that everyone else in the house was, too.

  As they all settled down around the fire again, Edwin reached for the whisky decanter.

  ‘Tell me, did the news that your mother was to marry my father come as a surprise to you?’ he asked as he refilled Richard’s glass.

  ‘Not altogether,’ Richard said. ‘I did wonder when I was last here if they were thinking of marrying. But I must confess I was surprised when I learned they were intending to marry in July.’

  ‘Surprise weddings must be a Steele family trait,’ Charlotte remarked. She smiled pleasantly as Richard gave her an annoyed look. She had been doing it ever since he and Eliza had arrived—deliberately annoying him. It was petty and childish, but satisfying.

  ‘I must say Letitia looked very handsome in that dark blue silk gown,’ Sarah chipped in, diplomatically steering the conversation to less controversial ground.

  Eliza nodded in agreement. ‘She did. I wore blue silk when I married Richard.’

  ‘And what did Richard wear?’ Charlotte enquired.

  ‘Oh, he looked very handsome,’ Eliza replied. ‘He wore his captain’s uniform.’

  ‘How appropriate,’ Charlotte said, and was promptly rewarded by another black look from Richard.

  Edwin narrowed his eyes warningly as he handed Charlotte a glass of sherry.

  ‘I hope the vicar managed to get back to the manse safely,’ Sarah said. There had been a bit of doubt as to whether the minister would actually arrive to conduct the wedding. It had been snowing since breakfast, not heavily, but enough to make the track to the farm treacherous if you weren’t familiar with it.

  ‘The road wouldn’t be a great deal worse than when he rode here,’ Edwin said as he settled down beside his wife on the sofa. ‘And he has a good horse. I wouldn’t mind that horse myself, if he ever feels inclined to sell it. It’s as surefooted a mount as I’ve seen. I’d like to know where he got it from.’

  ‘It’s just as well it is surefooted,’ Sarah returned. ‘It would need all the purchase it could manage today.’

  ‘When are you planning on heading back to Lyttelton, Richard?’ George asked.

  Richard glanced across at him. ‘Saturday morning. And you?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘If we can get down the track,’ Charlotte inserted. ‘If this snow keeps up, we won’t.’

  ‘Do you often get snowed in here?’ Eliza asked with a worried frown.

  Edwin shook his head. ‘The first year we were here we had a heavy fall, but the track was clear within three days. The snow doesn’t usually lie for long.’

  ‘That was the year the pond froze over,’ George said, nodding his head as he remembered. ‘And we went skating on it.’

  Edwin tossed his head back and chuckled. ‘We did. I’d hardly call it skating, though. We slid about, as I recall, and fell over. And you got cross, Charlotte,’ he said, turning to her, ‘because your boots wouldn’t slide as well as ours.’

  ‘And I stamped my foot and broke the ice.’ She laughed. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘It’s a big stock pond up in the hills,’ Edwin explained, turning to Richard and Eliza.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ Richard said.

  Charlotte lifted her glass of sherry and took a small sip. She had shown Richard the big pond on their first ride out together.

  ‘We sometimes used to get snow in Southampton,’ Eliza remarked.

  ‘Is that where you grew up?’ Sarah asked.

  Eliza nodded and proceeded to give them a potted history of her childhood.

  Charlotte took another sip of her sherry and made an effort to look interested, but, as she expected, the story made for dull listening. She had yet to hear Eliza make a humorous comment. Her conversation was what one might call pleasant but bland. Whatever had attracted Richard to Eliza, it wasn’t her wit. Money, perhaps—she was from a good family, by the sound of it.

  They sat around the fire talking until a quarter past ten, then Richard drained his glass and announced he was taking Eliza home. Leaving Edwin and Sarah to see them out, and George to finish his cigar, Charlotte went to bed.

  She woke the following morning to find it was snowing heavily. It was also bitterly cold. The inside of the bedroom window was frosted with feathery ice crystals—not a morning for lingering over toiletries. Shivering in the frigid air of the bedroom, she filled the wash-bowl and gave her hands and face a quick wash, then hurriedly got dressed. Edwin’s family were already up by the sound of it. She could hear her nephews’ voices drifting up the stairs.

  As Charlotte walked into the dining room, Sarah looked up to smile at her, then bent over to do up the ties of Mary Ellen’s white apron. Her two sons were lying on the rug in front of the fire, playing with their toy fort.

  ‘Is Edwin still in bed?’ Charlotte asked as she pulled out a chair.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No, he was up before dawn. He’s gone out with Tom. They’re worried about the snow—there’s no sign of it easing. Edwin’s concerned for the lambs. This weather couldn’t have come at a worse time.’

  Charlotte looked over to the window, watching the white flakes fluttering past. ‘What is he planning on doing?’

  ‘He was talking about mustering a mob and fetching them down to the lower slopes, closer to the house, before the snow gets too deep to move them. There’s more shelter for the lambs down here.’

  Frowning, Charlotte lifted the lid from the tureen in the middle of the table and spooned some hot porridge into her bowl. ‘How long has he been gone?’

  ‘Two hours or more.’

  ‘Is George with him?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘He’s not feeling well. He came down earlier to go to the privy. He said he’d been vomiting all night. I don’t think he’ll be in a fit state to muster sheep.’

  ‘I’ll go and help them as soon as I’ve had my breakfast,’ Charlotte said.

  Sarah gave her a dubious look, then nodded. ‘Make sure you wrap yourself up warm. It’s bitterly cold outside.’

  ‘I suppose Father will be mustering Letitia’s cattle,’ Charlotte said, reaching for the teapot. Richard too, probably.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I expect so.’

  Half an hour later, wrapped up against the cold in a thick, anklelength winter coat, with a warm woollen shawl covering her head, she set off. One good thing about snow—possibly the only good thing about snow—it made for easy tracking. She could see at a glance the route that Edwin and Tom had taken. Like herself, they were on horseback. The snow for the most part lay about six inches deep, still safe to ride a horse on, with care.

  As she rode over a low saddle between two sets of hills, she stopped briefly to survey the landscape. The snow was tumbling through the air in large flakes, fluttering down like feathers from a burst mattress. All around, as far as the eye could see, the hills were pure white; the only parts not covered in snow were the sheer faces of some rocky outcrops and the big stock pond, which stood out in a dark circle in the distance. Slowly making their way along the throat of the valley below was a straggling line of ewes and lambs.

  She met up with Edwin and his new dogs, Brandy and Rum, about half a mile further on, driving a large mob of sheep and lambs ahead of him. Skirting around to the side so as not to risk alarming and scattering the mob, she made her way to him.

  ‘Have you come to help?’ he asked, then in the same breath called to Brandy, ‘Hup, hup!’

  ‘He’s a good dog,’ Charlotte said as she watched the young sheepdog bound through the snow to turn back half a dozen sheep that were drifting away from the main mob.

  Edwin nodded. ‘Very good. Most of the time I don’t even need to call to him. Rum isn’t as good, but he’s learning.’

  ‘And I am here to help,’ she said answering his question. ‘What can I do?’r />
  ‘You can take these back,’ he said, waving his hand at the sheep and lambs snaking up the hillside. ‘Can you manage them, do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said confidently. She had helped muster sheep on numerous occasions. Once in a mob like this, it was reasonably straightforward—all one needed were patience, persistence, and good dogs. The mob just had to be kept moving forward, and the dogs would do most of the work. ‘Where’s Tom?’ she asked.

  ‘Still mustering,’ Edwin said. ‘He’s got his dog with him.’

  She looked instinctively up the valley, but there was nothing to see except tumbling flakes of snow.

  ‘Have you seen Father?’ Edwin asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I expect he’s moving Letitia’s cattle closer to the house.’

  ‘Has George gone to lend him a hand?’

  ‘No, he’s ill. He was up for most of the night vomiting.’

  Edwin gave an unsympathetic grunt. ‘He’s picked a bad time to be sick. I could have used his help today.’ His gaze shifted across to the line of sheep slowly trudging up the hill. ‘If it’s still snowing heavily when you get this mob back, go home, Charlotte. Don’t come back.’

  ‘I’ll see how the weather is,’ she said. ‘What’s the snow like on the higher ground?’

  ‘About the same as here,’ he said.

  ‘Have we lost many lambs?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not too many so far.’

  She nodded. Stock losses were part and parcel of farming, and weather like this always culled out the weak. Thankfully most of the ewes—about two-thirds of them—had not lambed yet.

  Sniffing, Edwin rubbed the end of his cold-reddened nose with his gloved hand. ‘I’ve got a feeling this storm might last for a few days. The sky has that look about it.’

  ‘Yes, I think you could be right,’ she agreed as she manoeuvred her mare around to face the other way. ‘I’d better go. Take care, Edwin.’

  ‘You, too,’ he said. She nodded and set off, slowly following the mob of sheep up the snowy hillside.