Children Of The Tide

by Valerie Wood

  The clock was striking eleven when he heard her come up the stairs and enter the bedroom next door. He was beginning to feel some remorse at leaving her alone downstairs and at not persuading her to share his bed, but he was passionately hoping that she would, by now, be feeling some yearning and want him as much as he wanted her. This celibate state did not suit him and he was filled with desire for her – desire which he did not want to persuade upon her. Yet if she kept him waiting much longer, he may well have to.

  He was just drifting off to sleep when the door opened. Harriet was standing there, looking as she had done when they were in the hotel in Scarborough. Her hair was floating about her shoulders and she wore a loose bedgown. She held aloft a lighted candle whose flame illuminated her face. ‘Gilbert?’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

  He gave a sleepy grunt and smiled in the darkness and muttered inaudibly, ‘What? Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s only me, Gilbert.’

  He didn’t answer but turned over with a deep sigh and flung an arm outside the bedclothes. He felt her touch his arm, gingerly at first and then growing bolder, she stroked it gently. He watched her through half-closed eyelids as she put the candleholder on the bedside table then, bending, she blew out the flame and turning back the covers crept into the bed beside him.

  He had never worn nightclothes before he had married, and though he now had several sets of new nightshirts, tonight after undressing, he had as usual, slipped naked into bed. Harriet lay perfectly still beside him and as he turned towards her he put his arm over her and moved closer, still feigning sleep. He heard a small gasp as she felt his nakedness next to her, and then her hand moved against his chest; her fingers explored across his shoulders and down to his waist and hips, stopping short at his buttocks.

  He could stand it no longer. He drew her towards him. His hands searched her body, his mouth her lips. ‘Harriet,’ he murmured, ‘I love you. I want to show you how much.’

  ‘I love you too, Gilbert,’ she whispered back, ‘and I want you too. I’m not afraid now. I’m sorry that I was so foolish. Love me now, Gilbert. Please.’

  Gilbert breakfasted alone in the dining-room and helped himself from the dresser. He dined heartily on porridge and herrings rolled in oatmeal, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and a big pot of coffee, and then went up to say good-bye to Harriet, who was sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray on her lap. She looked flushed and pretty in her lacy bedshawl.

  ‘I’ll try to get home at midday,’ he said as he kissed her. ‘But if not, I shall see you this evening. I hope you have a pleasant day.’

  She put her arms out to pull him back towards her. ‘I shall call on Mama,’ she smiled. ‘I want her to see how happy I am.’

  He was late. He hurried across the town. His gig and pair were stabled at the company as there were no stables attached to this house. It wasn’t far to walk to the office, but he never could get up in the morning, and always seemed to be rushing at the last minute. He smiled to himself, and if Harriet was going to be as delightful and willing, as warm and indulgent as she had been last night, then he could quite see that he might be late most mornings.

  He was in such a state of pleasurable gratification, so transported by their rapturous night, that he almost bumped into Harriet’s father, who was coming towards him as he took the usual short cut between the buildings to Lowgate.

  Billington looked slightly embarrassed, then gave a bluff cry. ‘Well! Well! Look who’s here,’ and shook Gilbert by the hand. ‘And how is my daughter?’ he boomed. ‘Did she miss her papa?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Gilbert answered boldly. ‘She’s very well indeed. I believe she is calling to see her mother later today to tell her of our excellent holiday in Scarborough.’

  ‘Oh! Well. Good, good.’ He bumbled on for a moment and then with a glance at the house behind them, he bent his head towards Gilbert and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve only got a moment, I er, I have an appointment, and then I must get back to the bank, but, now that you are family, I wanted to tell you that I can put one or two things your way, in the financial sense, I mean.’

  ‘Really, sir? In a private capacity, do you mean?’

  Billington pursed his lips. ‘Well, if you had a thousand guineas to spare, you could double it within a month, but,’ he waved his hands negatively, ‘I know how it is when you’re just married, and I wouldn’t like to think you were using Harriet’s dowry for a gamble, even though, come rain or shine, it is an absolute certainty. But if your company could bring themselves to dabble, it would go a long way towards buying a new ship.’

  ‘What kind of business are we talking, sir?’ Gilbert asked curiously, thinking vaguely that if Billington would hurry up and hand over Harriet’s dowry, there would be all kinds of things they could do with it. ‘Shares or …?’

  Billington tapped the side of his nose. ‘Can’t say. Not now. Everybody would want to be in if word got out, and that would spoil the profit for the rest of us, those who have already taken a stake.’

  Gilbert questioned to know more, but Billington stood firm, and when Gilbert suggested a smaller stake, say a hundred, Billington chortled. ‘Not a chance, dear boy. This is going to be a good one.’ He pulled out his fob watch and then looked up the stairs at the house nearby. The door was ajar and he waved his hand to someone inside. ‘Must go. You know how it is.’ He looked Gilbert in the eye. ‘Well, perhaps you don’t. Not yet. But you will, take my word for it.’ He turned to go. ‘Think about the other business. I’m telling you as family, so don’t let it go any further. But you can’t afford to miss this, Gilbert. It’s a certainty.’

  Gilbert watched him skip jauntily up the steps of the house and heard the sound of female laughter. He, too, glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen and Billington was visiting a brothel. He felt vaguely sorry for the man in view of what Harriet had said about her mother’s view of the marriage bed.

  How sad to think he had no comfort in his own bed but had to resort to a place like this. Gilbert took a deep breath. How lucky he was to have such a sweet and loving bride. He felt warm and contented when he thought of Harriet. He would do his best for her: work hard, give her every comfort. He would think seriously about what Billington had said. If only he had the money.

  He had almost reached the corner when he heard his name called. ‘Rayner!’

  He turned and saw Billington beckoning to him from half-way down the steps. He walked back, and Billington came down to speak to him.

  ‘All right.’ He inclined his head towards Gilbert’s ear. ‘Under the circumstances – only don’t tell a soul, make it five hundred and I’ll put the other half in. I don’t want you to miss out. But I must have it today, no later than three o’clock or it will be too late.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very good of you, sir. Thank you very much indeed.’

  Gilbert was so swept away by his father-in-law’s generosity that he gave no thought of where he would find five hundred guineas before the middle of the afternoon, until he had walked away again. Then he deliberated, and already being in a bold, dauntless mood, he became assertive. Well, he insisted, where is the sense of being the acting managing director of a company, with power of attorney, if I can’t draw a measly five hundred from the account, which will in the long run benefit the company. It isn’t as if I am doing it for myself.

  He turned his steps away from the High Street and his office, and headed for Salter’s bank to see Mr Collins.

  The meeting did not go well. Collins wanted to know what the money was required for, and when Gilbert refused to say, and although the banker couldn’t refuse the transaction, he became very tight-lipped about it.

  Gilbert became angry, though he tried not to show it. ‘Mr Collins! While my father is incapacitated I make the decisions, and I have to say that in view of your attitude towards me, I shall now seriously recommend to my fellow directors that we move our business elsewhere.’

  Collins blustered and mumbled that
there had never been any dissatisfaction before, and that he, Mr Rayner, in view of his inexperience, would be well advised to take the bank’s advice in view of the difficulties that the shipping industry was experiencing. Gilbert made no reply, but picked up his top hat and wished him good day.

  I shall call a meeting, he thought victoriously, as he swept through the door held open for him by the commissionaire. I shall show that old fool that he can’t impose on me the way he has done with my father. It’s our money that he’s handling after all, not his. I shall write immediately to Uncle William and Uncle Arthur, and speak to my father tomorrow. He will be persuaded that it is for the best. We need a fresh start. A new push forward. Billington is the man to watch out for us. He will have our best interests at heart. He’s family, after all.

  25

  ‘Gilbert and Harriet will be home today, I think.’ Mildred sat by the window in Isaac’s room with her sewing in her lap. ‘I’m so pleased that the weather kept fair for them; Scarborough is lovely at this time of the year.’

  ‘Any time of the year,’ Isaac wheezed. ‘I always enjoyed Scarborough. We used to go when I was a boy, you know. We had relatives living there, an aunt and cousins; we’ve lost touch now. The uncle was a fisherman, he used to bring such delicious fish for our supper, and lobsters. Oh yes, we had such happy times. There was horse-racing on the sands, and pierrots and morris men and such, but now I understand the sands are full of bathing machines, and even ladies are bathing in the sea. I’m not sure what to make of that.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go when you are feeling better? The air is so beneficial at Scarborough.’

  ‘It’s a nice thought, my dear.’ He lay back on the pillow. ‘But I’m afraid I’d never get up the hills, you need a good deal of breath for Scarborough.’

  He watched Mildred as she sat, framed by the afternoon light from the window. She had been so much warmer, more loving, since his illness. More like the sweet wife she had once been, before her encounter with the man who became her lover and who had left her feeling lonely and bereft, despite giving her a child.

  Thinking of James as a child, he thought about the infant for whom Sammi was still caring. Mildred, he was convinced, had dismissed the infant from her mind, refusing to even think about him. The wheel had come full circle, he reflected; a child has been abandoned once again, just as James’s own father abandoned him.

  But James has had me. I am his father. He is my son. The son whom he had always thought of only as his, the boy who had been more of a son to him than Gilbert, who had always been Mildred’s favourite; more favoured even than Anne, who, he sighed, was spoiled and indulged and not the considerate daughter he would have liked her to be.

  ‘Have you missed him?’ he asked. ‘Gilbert, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mildred turned her gaze to the view of the garden. ‘I have. It will be strange to think he won’t be living here any more. The house will be very quiet, especially when Anne gets married.’

  ‘If!’ Isaac commented breathily. ‘Young Tebbitt hasn’t popped the question yet. Not to me, at any rate.’

  ‘He will.’ Mildred drew out a fresh thread from her wicker sewing basket. ‘He’s only waiting for you to recover, I’m sure of it.’

  He might have a long wait then, Isaac pondered. I feel very weak. I can’t stand for long and the thought of going downstairs fills me with dread. ‘I hope James comes soon. I keep expecting him every day. I wonder if Gilbert expressed the urgency to him?’

  ‘Don’t fret yourself, Isaac’ Mildred put down her sewing and came and sat on the edge of his bed, being careful not to jolt him. ‘You know how vague James is, he probably hasn’t opened his post.’

  ‘Yes,’ Isaac answered absent-mindedly. ‘I don’t know who he takes after.’

  Mildred gave a start and Isaac immediately realized his error. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he began. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  Her face was pale and drawn. ‘I know you didn’t, Isaac, and there is no reason for you to apologize to me.’ She bowed her head and he thought how vulnerable her slender neck looked. ‘When I think of how you have carried this secret for so long and never once reproached me. Any other man would have turned me out long ago.’

  ‘That is because I always lived in hope that you would come back to me in spirit; that one day you would love me again,’ he said softly.

  ‘I never stopped loving you, Isaac, never once. It was just – just that I can never rid myself of his memory. There is always an empty space within me. I thought – I thought that when James was born he would fill it; but he didn’t, he only served to remind me more.’ A tear trickled down her face. She had done so much crying lately and yet still could not expurgate her guilt, not of her passion for the man, nor of her indifference towards the child he had given her.

  ‘You won’t ever tell James, will you, Mildred?’ Isaac’s voice was weak and quavery.

  She looked up, startled, and shook her head.

  ‘You won’t ever tell him that I am not his father? It would break my heart if he knew. He was always my son, you see.’ There were tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice. ‘More than Gilbert ever was, and especially when I saw that you didn’t care for him as much as you might have done.’

  ‘No, Isaac’ She wiped away her own tears and put her hand over his. ‘I won’t ever tell him. On my life, if you can ever trust me again, I won’t.’

  At supper time she carried up a tray to Isaac’s room; he was eating little, but he had said he would try a drop of soup. She had placed a pretty cloth on the tray and set a fresh rosebud from the garden next to the soup bowl.

  He held the flower to his nose. ‘Beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘The perfume is delightful. Sit with me, will you, Milly, after you have had your supper?’

  She said she would, and after she had eaten and Mary had cleared away, she washed and changed into her bedgown. It was nine o’clock and Isaac would soon be wanting the light turning down and preparing himself for his medication and sleep.

  ‘You always did look lovely with your hair loose,’ he said when she drew wide the curtains as he requested, and the light from the summer moon poured into the room.

  She turned and smiled, and in the half-light he saw again, or imagined he did, the young bride of twenty-five years ago.

  He held out his hand. ‘Come here, Milly. Hold my hand.’

  Mildred moved towards him and took his hand, then bent to kiss his cheek. ‘May I come into your bed, Isaac?’ she said softly. ‘It has been a long time. Can you bear it? Can you forgive me?’

  He put his arms out towards her. ‘I never thought …’ he began brokenly. ‘I never thought to hear those words from your lips ever again, my darling.’

  She lifted aside the covers and eased herself in beside him and turned towards him, gently holding him in her arms. ‘Help me to forget, Isaac,’ she whispered. ‘Help me to forget. For as God is my witness, I want to.’

  As morning broke, Mildred awoke and felt a chill. She got up to close the open window and looked out at the garden. A river mist was breathing over the shrubs and lawns and flower borders, lacing them with a diaphanous veil. The moon had disappeared and the sky was flooding with flashes of yellow light and slender streaks of purple. She paused for a moment, exulting in the beauty. She heard the first call of a blackbird and then another, and then the sound of a wren, the throaty coo of a wood pigeon, and it seemed as if the air was filled with their music.

  ‘Are you awake, Isaac?’ she said softly, anxious not to disturb him, but wanting him to share her joy in the morning. ‘It’s the start of a new day. A new beginning.’

  She stood at the side of the bed looking down at him. How peaceful he looked. How happy he had been that she had at last come to him. Content just to be cradled in her arms. She, too, felt a peace of mind which had deserted her for so long. The long shadow of the past which had lain so heavily for so many years, had shifted, easing some of its heavy weight from her.

  A
warmth enveloped her, the act of loving made her feel again more like the woman she had once been, and not the sour, disillusioned and incomplete person she had become. She had robed herself in a hypocritical, sanctimonious cloak of pretence, even to her style of dress, with her high-necked plain gowns and severe hair styles. It was as if she had been hiding her real identity, not wanting anyone else but the man she had lost to see her as her own self.

  ‘I will try to make amends, Isaac,’ she whispered. ‘Before it is finally too late for us.’

  He didn’t stir, his eyes were firmly closed in a deep sleep. She gave a gentle smile at him in his serene contentment and put out her hand to hold his which lay folded on the bedspread. His hands were cold. So cold. As she gazed down at him, despair washed over her, displacing her brief happiness. Isaac would never feel warm again. Would never feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Would never see another dawn, not on this earth. And neither would she hold him in her arms again. It was too late for both of them.

  She sank to her knees, and pressing her lips to his cold hands, she started to weep.

  26

  Sammi was packing her bag to go home, when Billy arrived once more, this time with the news of Uncle Isaac’s death.

  She sat by Uncle Thomas’s side as Tom broke the news to him.

  ‘He should have waited on a bit,’ his father said morosely and shifted himself awkwardly. His right leg was splintered and stretched out on his bed, but his left ankle hung limp and useless. ‘We could have travelled together. We’d have been company for each other.’

  Tom protested and Sammi declared that he shouldn’t think that way, that he was much improved.

  ‘Aye, in my mind, lassie, not my body, and I’ve no fancy for hanging around with broken shanks. I’m no use to anybody in this state.’ A gleam came to his eyes as he tried to lighten their mood. ‘Why, I’d such notions of finding myself a rich young widow woman and leaving our Tom to carry on at ’mill. Now I’d know they’d onny be after me for my money.’