Stars Across the Ocean

by Kimberley Freeman

  Harriet’s ploy worked. With my sister and me either side of her, we were in Mr Shawe’s circle at dinner, while the Lambert girls were relegated to the end of the table. I was away in my own world a little at first. The candlelight and the laughter and chatter and the ladies’ glistening jewels were a bright blur around me, but I slowly became aware of Mr Shawe’s determination to draw me into conversation. At first, he asked me how I liked the weather, given we were both from the north and hadn’t these kind of warm days. I answered him and so did my sister, but I did it perfunctorily, while she leaned in and told him a story about the warmest day she had ever experienced at Hatby. Then when the food came – roasted pigeon and wild mushrooms – he asked me if I had ever been shooting. I shook my head, but my sister, again, pushed herself forward and told a little story. So it went. My sister only slightly to the south of flirting; me answering questions in monosyllables.

  Just as the dessert arrived, the older gentleman sitting next to Mr Shawe – I think he was Mr Clovely – turned away from the conversation he had been having and fixed me in his gaze. My apple snow pudding arrived at precisely the moment he said to me, ‘Aha! I have remembered!’

  I looked at him curiously. Conversation had softened as the puddings were served, and so I found a dozen pairs of eyes on me suddenly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ I said.

  ‘I have been wondering all evening where I have seen you before. Out on the hill today, with a big brown dog.’

  My sister kicked me under the table. Harriet gave me a glare.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. I did go walking today. I was poorly in the morning but recovered and was keen to get out and walk. It’s been a terrible few days of rain.’

  ‘Whose dog was it though, lass? Big ugly thing, it was.’

  My pulse was thick in my throat. ‘He was a stray, sir. He followed me for a while on the hill. I don’t know where he went after that.’

  ‘You were uncommonly kind to him, given he was a stray,’ he said, with an admiring smile. ‘I saw you giving him a thorough rub. He must have smelled like the very devil.’

  ‘There’s no need to curse, my love,’ said the woman across from him, presumably his wife.

  The attention turned away from me and I relaxed a little. Mr Shawe was beaming at me. ‘You like dogs? I have two, you know.’

  ‘Really? What are their names?’

  ‘Bonnie and Heather. Bitches. I find the female dogs always do what they’re told. Have you ever been hunting with dogs?’

  Here I shook my head again and my sister offered her own anecdote and in that little space when Mr Shawe’s attention was off me, Harriet leaned on my shoulder and said, ‘You didn’t say you were going walking.’

  ‘Madame Azhkenazy was there. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Mind yourself,’ Harriet said. ‘Hurtling about the countryside like a pagan, attracting stray dogs.’

  ‘You know I can’t bear to be cooped up, Aunt.’

  ‘Stay in the village. It won’t do for a girl to be tramping about by herself.’

  I ate a spoonful of my pudding. It was so sweet it made my teeth ache. I had had enough of food, enough of company. My imagination roamed to Emile’s house, where it would not be so busy nor so bright. I longed to be there and knew at that moment that I would trade Mr Shawe and all his riches, for a quiet life with Emile.

  •

  Harriet warned me again at breakfast that I should not leave the village on my walk. My sister said she would come with me, but changed her mind after we dressed because it had become hot and she does not like the sun at all. I was relieved, of course, because this meant I could walk with Marin. How absurd to look forward so much to seeing a dog.

  ‘Marin!’ I called from the gate, and out he pounded and yes, there was something hanging from his collar, but I saw in a second it was my own note. I removed it and unfolded it, and my disappointment dissolved as I saw Emile’s reply on the back.

  Dear Moineau, my master must have been so pleased to receive your note! He read it over and over, and even admired the dear lines of your lovely hand with his eyes. I think he would very much like another one. Be gentle with me today because I have a sore paw. Your faithful friend, Marin.

  How I glowed! I read it again and was so lost in my elation that I forgot that poor Marin was expecting a walk.

  ‘Have you a sore paw then, my lovely fellow?’ I said as I let him out of the gate. He didn’t seem too troubled, but I kept the walk short nonetheless. I slipped home after without Harriet seeing me, scribbled down a few lines and returned it to a curious Marin, tying it onto his collar.

  So we continued for over a week. It seemed Marin was comfortable telling us things we dared not tell each other. He started quite innocently. Moineau thinks you the kindest man she has met. Master was pleased to see your face in church on Sunday, even though you were busy with your aunt. But over time they became more intimate and more dangerous. Moineau told me the last thought she has at night is the kiss you laid upon her wrist. Master has noticed his house feels very lonely in the evenings, and his bed very cold.

  One fine day, when I decided I would ignore Harriet’s advice and take Marin for a long walk across the fields, I was surprised to see Mr Shawe coming in the other direction. We had not spoken since the dinner at the New Inn, but I knew my sister had called on him several times along with one of the Lambert girls, with whom she had become firm friends. I kept my head down and hoped he would not notice me, but that was fruitless of course. He jogged over, calling out, ‘Miss Breckby!’ and I was obliged to stop and wait, and tell Marin to sit and not growl at him.

  ‘Well met, Miss Breckby!’ he said, a high colour in his cheeks. ‘Is this the stray Mr Clovely saw you with? Why, he has become very attached to you, I see.’

  I didn’t answer. Instead I said, ‘Is it not a lovely day for a walk?’

  ‘I do admire a woman who isn’t afraid of the outdoors,’ he said. ‘Shall we walk together a while?’

  ‘I was heading up the hill,’ I said, hoping it would discourage him, but of course it didn’t. Marin trotted along beside me and we made our way through the fields and then trudged up the slope to the crest of the hill.

  Here, exhausted, Mr Shawe sat down. I sat with him and Marin beside me, and we looked out over the village. I could see the church and I knew Emile was in there, among his timber and his tools.

  ‘I rather think that dog belongs to somebody,’ Mr Shawe said. ‘He is well groomed. Perhaps he escapes when he hears you coming.’

  ‘Perhaps. He’s a good boy.’ I patted Marin’s head, and he licked my hand lovingly.

  ‘I wonder does he fetch. Here.’ Mr Shawe found a stick and cast it along the path. Marin raced off and brought it back, dropping it at Mr Shawe’s feet. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, good fellow,’ Mr Shawe said to the dog. ‘It’s all covered in your slobber now.’

  I took pity and picked up the stick and threw it again. Marin ran back and forth while Mr Shawe and I conversed about nature and animals, Millthorne compared with Hatby, and at every turn Mr Shawe tried to draw me out, tried to connect me more deeply with him; and I was quiet and did not elaborate and remained perfectly polite but aloof.

  ‘Would you like to remain in Hatby?’ he asked me at one stage.

  ‘I would like to travel,’ I said carefully. ‘I think there are many fine places to see.’

  ‘You ought to travel to the east, as I do,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you may get to do so one day.’ He added pointedly, ‘When you are married.’

  ‘I do not think often of marriage,’ I said lightly.

  ‘I thought it was what every woman wanted,’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m not sure what I want.’

  ‘You can have anything you want, if you marry well.’

  The air between us had grown uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s surely time for me to return to my aunt.’

  ‘I shall walk you home.’

  All I could thi
nk was I needed to return Marin to Emile’s garden. ‘If you do not mind, Mister Shawe, I have a great deal to think about and would appreciate my independence.’

  He looked at me, his eyes narrowed slightly, and I could almost feel him trying to get inside my head, to measure me up. ‘You do have a great deal to think about, I imagine,’ he said. ‘I shall leave you be.’

  He rose and strode off. I watched him until he disappeared down the slope, and only then did I breathe easily again. Why on earth had he fixated on me? My sister was practically throwing herself at him. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he liked me because my resistance made me seem more decorous. I would have to explain this to my sister, before she made a fool of herself.

  A breeze lifted my hair off my neck, cooling me. Marin had laid his head on his front paws and was sleeping soundly, the way only dogs can. I thought about what Mr Shawe had said: You can have anything you want, if you marry well. In fact, the thing I wanted most of all would be forbidden me if I married Mr Shawe.

  I allowed myself to imagine that I could marry Emile, that my parents wouldn’t disown me, my aunt wouldn’t faint in shock, the vicar wouldn’t refuse to marry us in his church, and so on. Why shouldn’t I marry him? He was not rich, but neither was he a pauper. Yes, I was used to a very different kind of life, but what did I really care for the trappings of wealth? In all of my life as a wealthy woman, I had known no greater happiness than Emile’s company. I could learn to cook and to clean. Perhaps my father would buy us a house and give us a small staff.

  I laughed out loud. Now I was well into the realms of make-believe.

  I rose, told Marin to follow, and started back down the hill.

  •

  It was clear to me that something was troubling Aunt Harriet. Her happy spirit, which had not diminished with Uncle Oswald’s death, seemed to have dimmed. Madame Azhkenazy came by every second day, and held a séance once a week in Harriet’s drawing room. But even these moments of hope, where she might be able to contact Oswald again, did not sustain her the way they once had.

  I tried to give her comfort, but she was determined to pretend there was nothing wrong, and she often had Madame there, which made it impossible for me to talk to her.

  One evening, after dinner when her séance group were arriving, hanging up coats and ordering Toby and Jones about, I returned to my room and opened my door to see my sister standing there.

  Her back was to me, her blonde head bent over something she had found. My heart pounded.

  ‘Sister?’

  She turned, her face flushed with guilt. I could see in her hand the notes between me and Emile. I reached out and snatched them from her, my ears ringing with fear and anger so that I could barely hear her excuses.

  ‘I came to borrow a hairbrush. I can’t find mine anywhere. They were just there in the drawer. I don’t understand: who are Master and Moineau, and why do you have their correspondence?’

  I thought about lying to her then, making up some wild story about letters I’d found, or a novel I was writing, or anything but the truth. But I could not rely on myself to do so, and my sister is very astute at detecting lies. So, I simply stood there, the letters in my hand, and said nothing, until the realisation flickered across her face and she took a step towards me and asked, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A carpenter,’ I said. ‘The carpenter who is working in the church. His name is Emile. I think I love him.’

  ‘Does he love you?’ Then she shook her head. ‘Of course he does, I’ve read his notes to you. You don’t want to marry Mister Shawe, then?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s the last thing I want to do.’

  ‘And here I have been certain you’ve been charming him away from me. You’re all he ever talks about. But if you don’t want him …’

  I sat heavily on my bed. Basil looked up from his customary spot and miaowed at me. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone chosen by Father,’ I said. ‘He chooses terrible husbands.’

  ‘It would be Mother’s choice, too.’

  ‘Even worse.’

  ‘You would marry for love? And be poor?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then why are you here now, with me? Why are you bothering leaving him little notes? Why do you not just go to him?’

  ‘Because Harriet has forbidden it.’

  She sat with me, took my hand in hers. ‘Harriet is in a locked room downstairs trying to contact the dead. She’ll never know.’ Then in a whisper. ‘I’ll never tell her.’

  I realised, in some deeper and wiser part of me, that my sister’s encouragement was self-serving. All she really cared about was securing Mr Shawe’s affections, along with his seven factories and three houses. Perhaps she even wanted me to be discovered, wind up disgraced; because then Mr Shawe would think me a liability as a potential wife. But all I heard was my sister telling me to creep out now, in the evening gloom, and see Emile. I felt like a bird in a cage, who sees that the door lies open.

  ‘You really wouldn’t tell?’

  ‘Never. As God is my witness. It’s summer and we’re a long way from home, dear sister. I would have you pursue happiness, even if it is only for a little while.’

  My heart pounding, I pulled on a light coat and my sister tidied my hair. Jones saw me near the front door, but pointedly looked away as I sneaked out. Then I was on the street, head down and hoping not to be recognised. Only a glimmer of light was left in the sky, enough to see my way and be seen. All the birds had gone to bed. Yellow light glowed from behind windows; the shops were silent and dark. Emile’s lane was shadowy, but I knew the way well from my many visits to Marin. In fact, the dog was there at the gate to greet me.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ I said softly, and realised my throat was dry. What on earth was I doing? I had not been raised to sneak about to men’s houses in the dark. But neither had I ever been in love. No wonder poets wrote about it so rapturously.

  Marin whined softly as I shut the gate behind me and it became apparent we weren’t going walking, but he soon joined me as I crossed the grass to the front door of Emile’s house. I knocked once, then stood and waited, heart thundering.

  He opened the door. All the time that had passed, where I had only caught glimpses of him in church or had to make do with his little notes to me, had made us hungry to see each other. He grasped my hand and pulled me inside, slamming the door closed.

  ‘Moineau? Is everything well? Why have you come to see me?’

  If I am truthful, I barely heard what he said. He was shirtless, you see. I had only seen a shirtless man once or twice before, and they were doughy fellows working on the rail lines. The presence of him, in this state of undress, erased all thoughts from my mind for a number of seconds too long to be graceful. His arms and shoulders were well formed and muscular, his chest was broad with curling black hair growing over hard muscles. The hair grew in a line down across his flat belly, and disappeared into the top of his trousers. I registered all this in a few seconds and then he was pulling on a shirt and buttoning it up, and I was suddenly able to speak again.

  ‘I’m sorry, I …’

  ‘I wouldn’t have answered the door that way if I’d known it was you. There have been some local boys around who come and knock to irritate Marin. I expected to give them a hiding.’ I realised from the flush of his cheeks that he was embarrassed. ‘But why have you come?’

  ‘My sister said I should.’

  ‘Is she the woman who has been at church with you the last few Sundays? I wondered if you were related. You look very similar.’

  ‘I believe my sister is probably prettier than me.’

  ‘Not possible,’ he said, then remembered himself. ‘Come in. Sit down. I’m making my supper. Would you like anything?’

  I followed him into the living room and sat on the settee, while he moved behind the kitchen bench and stirred a pot on the range. I watched his back for a little while, and felt keenly the disappointment that I hadn’t seen him shirtless from this view.
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  By now, I should confess, I was quite wild with passion. As these feelings were new, and I hadn’t experience to temper them, they overwhelmed me completely. It seemed my whole body and mind was solely fixed on the idea of touching him and having him touch me. I tucked my hands under my legs and took deep breaths. Marin rested his head on my lap and looked at me with sad eyes.

  ‘Away with you, Marin,’ Emile said as he turned and saw the dog. He scooped a bowlful of stew out of the pot and came to sit opposite me.

  ‘That smells good,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a tatouiller. My mother taught me to make it. Would you care to try some?’

  I was about to refuse, but then he held out a spoon to me and I leaned in and he tipped it gently into my mouth. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s delicious.’

  ‘It’s stewed vegetables and a few secret herbs,’ he said smiling. ‘I can only afford meat two or three times a week, but this manages to satisfy me after a long day working.’ He ate a spoonful then said, ‘I expect you eat meat every night of the week.’

  I hadn’t thought about what I ate before now. Food appeared in front of me and was cleared away. As money was not scarce among my family and acquaintances, he was right: meat was always on the menu. He didn’t wait for an answer but instead asked me again about my sister and how I had entertained myself these past few weeks since we had spoken in person. We had grown shy with each other somehow. Now I was here, a clear declaration that I longed to be with him, it seemed we could talk about little more than trivial things. Finally – after a pause in conversation where I thought, It is dark, I should go – he said, ‘So, you have told your sister about me?’

  ‘Yes. Well. She found our notes.’

  ‘Ah, our notes.’ He smiled, his eyes travelling to the bureau under the window. I followed his gaze and saw a folded note sitting there.