Emma: There's No Turning Back Page 10

‘Take the money,’ Seth snapped at her.

  ‘I don’t want buying off,’ Emma snapped back – what was happening to them that they were so sharp with one another? Was it her own frustration in not becoming pregnant that was making her dissatisfied with Seth? And the unexpected arrival of Fleur in their lives, too? ‘You don’t understand. I can’t rely on you for money. I don’t want to. I know what it’s like to be left with nothing and I never, ever, want to be in that position again. You’ve never known what it’s like to be without.’

  ‘Without money, no – you’re right there. But I’ve known what it’s like to be without love.’

  Was Seth meaning what she thought he was? That he was buying her love.

  She chose not to ask.

  Seth put his hand over the money and slid it further across the table towards her.

  ‘I’ll take the money for Fleur if that will make you feel better,’ she said.

  Unbidden, the picture, which she knew would remain imprinted on her mind forever, popped into her head; the way Caroline Prentiss had dumped Fleur on the table in the bakery. And the coldness in her eyes as she’d done it. As though Fleur was of no consequence; easily got rid of the way anyone might discard a receipt for shoes or tea and cakes in a café when it was no longer needed.

  ‘Fleur’s growing by the minute and she’ll need bigger clothes soon,’ she went on, when Seth didn’t speak. He was just staring at her, almost as though he was looking through her. ‘She’s not so floppy when I prop her up against a cushion. I don’t think it’s going to be long before she’s sitting up unaided.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, with what Emma thought was a genuinely puzzled look on his face. ‘Sitting up?’

  ‘Not yet. But soon. You’ve been so busy with the boats you’ve hardly been here to see her.’

  Emma knew that sounded like a criticism, but she didn’t know how else she could have said it. It was true. Seth left the house before Emma had given Fleur her morning bath and the child was often asleep in her cot when Seth got home at night.

  ‘Like most fathers who have to earn a living, I would imagine,’ Seth said, and the coldness in his voice made Emma shiver. ‘There’s nothing unusual in that, Emma.’

  And that’s me chastised, isn’t it? Emma thought. She took a deep breath. Yes, Seth was right. There had been days and days when her own papa had been at sea and she hadn’t seen him at all, or him her. If she was honest with herself, her memories of her papa only began from when she was five or six-years-old. She had few memories of him before that. And even then she could remember the nights her mama had tucked her into bed with a goodnight kiss when her father hadn’t been there to give her one, too.

  And it would be the same for Fleur. She still had a lot to learn about parenting, didn’t she?

  ‘No, nothing unusual in it at all. I went a week or more sometimes without seeing my papa,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t mean to criticise you. I’m scratchier than an old army blanket today, aren’t I? Anyway, Mrs Drew is going to get some material from Brixham market on Saturday so I can make Fleur some warm night things. And a coat. She’s itching to be able to take Fleur out in a perambulator, when we’ve bought one, but says it’s far too cold still to take her out without a warm coat.’

  Emma was beginning to see the wisdom her mama had shown in teaching her to sew, even though Emma had hated every stitch at the time.

  ‘You’ll be glad you learned some day,’ was what her mama had said every time Emma had grumbled about learning tacking stitch, and herringbone, and blanket stitch, and how to make buttonholes, and all the other things that went into making a garment. ‘And you do it very well. You’ve got a neat hand. You’ll be a better seamstress one day than I’ll ever be.’

  Well, her mama had been right, Emma was glad to have something else she could do now she couldn’t bake until the bakery was refurbished. And, maybe she might even get to enjoy dressmaking as much as her mama had.

  Seth blinked rapidly a few times as though coming back from some far-distant shore in his mind.

  ‘Take the money for Fleur, then,’ he said. ‘And order a perambulator from Pugh’s or wherever it is they sell them.’

  Order a perambulator! Just like that! They cost at least fifteen guineas and that was for the cheapest one. She’d seen an advert in the Herald and Express. Seth didn’t have a clue what it was like to struggle for every penny, did he?

  And I don’t know why I’m being such a crosspatch either, Emma thought. No, that wasn’t true – she did know. It didn’t look like she was going to fall pregnant this month either.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you?’ Emma tried again. ‘Why I want to keep my life with you and my business separate?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Seth said.

  ‘I’m not going to let the fire stop me running a business, even though it’s going to be twice as hard now I’m back to square one almost with finding clients.’

  ‘Hell will freeze over before anything stops you doing what you want to do, Emma Jago.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘It is,’ Seth said. ‘But I’m older than you are and I’ve had more experience of things. We have to get used to disappointment. Take Captain Scott …’ Seth reached for the newspaper and turned the pages over rapidly looking for something.

  ‘What about him?’

  Emma knew Captain Scott was making a second attempt to reach the South Pole, and she wondered why he’d been brought into the conversation. No doubt, when Seth had found whatever it was he was looking for, she’d find out.

  ‘See this,’ he said, jabbing a finger on the page. ‘He reached his goal only to find some Norwegian had got there before him. Imagine how that must have felt.’

  ‘Nineteen hundred and twelve isn’t getting off to a good start for Captain Scott either, then, is it?’ Emma said.

  She took the newspaper from him and read. ‘January 17th. After a journey hampered by unusually bad weather, the five Britons arrived at the bottom of the world to find a tent and other traces of the expedition led by Roald Amundsen.’

  Seth was right, of course he was. Emma felt quite close to Captain Scott and his disappointment in that moment. But she had a feeling it wouldn’t stop the man achieving, just like a fire in her bakery wasn’t going to stop her.

  She closed the newspaper.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m such a crosspatch at the moment,’ she told Seth. He was about to leave for the harbour to oversee his boats catching the afternoon tide and she didn’t want them to part with any bad feeling between them. The thought he might leave without giving her a kiss, as he always did, was chilling her. ‘Forgive me?’ she said.

  For answer Seth kissed her softly. Then the kiss began to linger, deepen. It told her everything she wanted to know.

  Seth was a good man, and she was the luckiest woman in the world to have his unquestioning love, even when she was more snappy than a dog in a heatwave. She ought to be the happiest woman in the world, but there was a fly in the ointment, as her mama would have said. Another letter addressed to her with Matthew’s writing on the envelope had been hand-delivered that morning by Tom the gardener at Nase Head House. Thank goodness Seth had been in his study, and hadn’t heard Tom’s knock.

  January limped into a mild, but wet, February and still the repairs weren’t finished to Emma’s bakery. She was now down to just the one regular order for six savoury tarts every other day for the Port Light and she was only just about coping with that on the kitchen range. Ruby had promised to call today to help, but Emma could have done the order with one hand tied behind her back, she knew she could. But it would be good to see Ruby.

  The letter from Matthew, which Tom had brought round weeks ago now, remained unread. But although unread, it hadn’t been destroyed. This time she hadn’t been able to bring herself to burn the letter. It lay where she’d put it, in the deep front pocket of her apron. Matthew might be in trouble. He might need her. Want her help. He’d helped her once. His letter
seemed to be burning a hole in her pocket the way a threepenny bit had the time when she’d found one in the street; to spend it on sweets in Minifie’s or to give it to her mama for food? In the end the sweets had won out and she’d felt not a little guilty ever since. She knew she’d feel guilty if Matthew needed help – he must badly need to get in touch to have written another letter so soon after the first.

  She’d had plenty of private and alone opportunities to read the letter before now. Why hadn’t she? she wondered. But something was making her want to read it now. Did she have time before Ruby arrived?

  Emma took a deep breath. Counted. One, two, three. Go. She reached for the paperknife and cut the seal on the envelope.

  2229 Bailey Street

  New York

  January 8th 1912

  My dear Emma,

  Yes, it’s a letter from me – Matthew. I can almost hear you questioning it as you open the envelope, because I would bet my last cent (see how American I have become in such a short time) that that’s one little trait you still retain. And it’s another letter actually – this is the seventh and my guess is you didn’t get the others (if, indeed, you even get this one) as you haven’t replied, which I think you would have done had you received them. All have said much the same thing. That I think of you often and wonder how you are. I did ask Rupert Smythe how you were when I wrote him about business matters, but he didn’t speak of you in his reply. I do so hope you haven’t married him. Have you? Please say you haven’t. Although I imagine he might have mentioned it if you have. But I hope you haven’t. If you have, I can only apologise for placing you under his roof. I know now it must have felt like a gift from God to him that you were there – and so very beautiful – especially after his wife, Claudine, died. I’m being presumptuous in saying he would never make you happy – or as happy as I could make you given different circumstances for us both. As good a man as Rupert is in many ways, he is not the right husband for you. Seth Jago? Perhaps you have married him instead?’

  ‘Well, you don’t get any less sure of yourself do you, Matthew Caunter?’ Emma said, as she turned the sheet of paper over to read the other side. She knew she should be feeling cross reading Matthew’s words, and the arrogance in them, but she was smiling all the same. She’d lived under the same roof as Matthew long enough to know he spoke his mind.

  She continued reading.

  ‘I rather hope you haven’t though. Because while Seth might be right for you now, I think by the time you have …’

  ‘Cocky,’ Emma said aloud, as she scrunched the thin paper of Matthew’s letter into a ball in the palm of her hand, ‘was a word coined for your personal use, I think.’

  She wasn’t going to bother reading any more. There was a frisson of excitement mixed with fear that even if she were – legally – married to Seth and told Matthew so, it wouldn’t stop him writing to her. Part of her wanted to un-scrunch the letter and read to the end, but she wasn’t going to let Matthew, despite there being an ocean between them at that moment, weaken her resolve. Writing back to him, even to chastise him for his cheek in saying what he had, would be dangerous. She’d have to do it in secret. But she and Seth had promised there’d be no secrets between them.

  And then the door flew open, making Emma jump.

  Seth? Her heart hammering in her chest, and with her nails digging deep into the palm of her hand over Matthew’s scrunched up letter, she turned round to face the door.

  But it was only Ruby.

  ‘Well, Emma Jago, ’ave I got some good news fer you?’ Ruby said, pushing the kitchen door shut behind her. ‘I told Mr Smythe about the fire and ’e said ’e’d already ’eard. ’E said he might be able to ’elp you. Let you use the kitchens at Nase Head House. We ain’t got a lot of guests in at the moment and the cook sits twiddlin’ ’is fingers most of the time. ’E said I could tell you now, seein’ as I was comin’ ’ere, but ’e’s goin’ to write to you.’ Ruby carried on, without giving Emma a chance to get a word in. ‘I saw Seth on the way ’ere and told ’im about Mr Smythe’s offer and ’e said you’d refuse. It’s no use you bleatin’ like a lost lamb that your business ’as ground to an ’alt if you don’ let people ’elp.’

  ‘Not to a dead halt, it hasn’t. I’ve still got the Port Light order. And oughtn’t you to knock before coming in here and lecturing me?’

  ‘Yeah, I should, but I didn’t. Sorry. I thought you’d be pleased about what I’ve just said. I think Mr Smythe is bein’ very kind to you.’

  ‘I’m suspicious of his motives. You seem to have forgotten he threw me out of the hotel because I stood up for Seth – in his absence – the night Carter Jago was hanged. He told me, if I thought so much of a man from a criminal family, then I could go to him. So I did!’

  And he hadn’t been best pleased that I had rejected his offer of marriage and showed him up in front of a roomful of guests either, Emma thought but didn’t say. Ruby didn’t know that Mr Smythe had proposed to Emma when she’d been working at Nase Head House. The last thing Emma wanted was to go back there.

  ‘Well, from what I ’eard you gave ’im a right mouthful that night.’

  ‘He deserved it,’ Emma said. ‘He knows nothing about Seth and to tar him with the same brush as his pa and his brothers was plain wrong!’

  ‘Hey! Don’ get uppity with me,’ Ruby said. ‘There’s me thinkin’ I were bringin’ good news on me afternoon off and you’m sharper than a drawer full of razor blades.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Emma said.

  ‘Forgiven,’ Ruby said.

  ‘You didn’t tell Seth anything else, did you?’

  ‘Like what? Like the letters I’ve rescued from Mr Bell’s wastepaper bin? The one Tom brought over ’cos I asked him to? I thought you might—’

  ‘Yes, that,’ Emma interrupted.

  ‘Aw, gawd, Em, what are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing. And that’s the truth.’ But all the same, it would be best if Seth didn’t know about the letters.

  ‘If you ain’t up to somethin’, then someone what’s writin’ you letters wants you to do somethin’ you shouldn’. Am I right?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Answer this then. Who are the letters from, Em?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t bleedin’ Father Christmas, I know that. Nor the Pope neither. And I’d bet my last farthin’ you ain’t goin’ to tell me who they’re from, are you?’

  Emma shook her head, and Ruby sighed theatrically.

  ‘What d’you want me to do if I find another one with the same fancy scrawl? I know for a fact the two I’ve passed on ain’t the only ones because Mr Bell said as much when ’e flung the one I slipped to Tom to bring over in the bin. There’ll be others. Whoever’s writin’ ’em ain’t givin’ up on you, is ’e?’

  ‘How do you know it’s a “he”?’

  ‘’Ow do I know I’m called Ruby Chubb? ’Cos it’s a fact, and you know it.’

  Emma’s head was spinning with a maelstrom of thoughts at that moment. If Mr Smythe should see one of Matthew’s letters and recognise the handwriting he might open it and read it. Mr Bell could tell Mr Smythe that letters were being sent to the hotel for her and he might want to know by whom, and why. Someone might tell Seth.

  ‘Keep bringing me as many letters as you find, Ruby,’ Emma said. ‘Please. And please don’t tell anyone you’re doing it, and ask Tom not to say either. To anyone.’

  ‘And especially not to Seth?’ Ruby said.

  ‘For the moment,’ Emma said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Ruby said, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘Don’ tell me no more. I don’ want to know no secrets I don’ want to keep.’

  And we’ll leave it at that for the moment, Emma thought, as an uneasy silence – one that had never been between the two friends before – hung heavy in the air, the way the smell of freshly laid dung on the fields did. Emma put just enough water in the kettle to make two cups of tea and she and Ruby stood and watch
ed it boil in silence. Then Emma took two cups from their hooks on the dresser and set them onto two saucers.

  ‘If you take up Mr Smythe’s offer, you could make one of them fancy tatty tarts you used to make up at the ’otel.’

  ‘Tarte tatin,’ Emma said, relieved that Ruby had dropped the subject of the letters. How Mr Smythe had loved his tartes tatin! She’d had to make one most days, in between tutoring his twin sons in French and looking after his infant daughter, that is.

  She’d missed the children, and Ruby, of course, but there was nothing else about Nase Head House that she missed.

  ‘Them, then,’ Ruby said. ‘Whatever it is you call ’em. Call yourself a businesswoman? If you was up there doin’ your order, then you could just slip one of your tart tatty in the oven alongside and before you know it Mr Smythe’d be singin’ your praises again to all and sundry. You need orders, don’t you? An’ Mr Smythe could provide the wherewithal for you to ’ave ’em. Now, where’s that little maid you want me to look after while you do a bit of bakin’?’

  ‘Upstairs in her cot,’ Emma said, laughing. However hard she tried she was never going to get Ruby to pronounce tarte tatin correctly. And Ruby did have a point about Mr Smythe being a conduit to her business. ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’

  ‘Good,’ Ruby said. ‘And that’s another thing I want to tell you. When I told Mr Smythe ’ow you’m adopting Seth’s cousin’s poor orphaned baby, ’e said ’e’d misjudged you.’

  ‘Orphaned?’ Emma said. ‘Fleur’s father is still alive. He’s …’

  Gosh, how easily the lie came.

  ‘So you said,’ Ruby grinned. ‘But I thought it made a better story if ’er were a complete orphan.’

  ‘You little schemer,’ Emma said, hugging her friend.

  ‘You an’ me both, eh?’ Ruby said. ‘Now are you goin’ to get that little maid or am I marchin’ straight back to Nase Head House?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ Emma said, running for the door. She turned back to look at Ruby. ‘But you’re going to have to keep your eyes on her because she’s started to crawl. And she’s trying to pull herself up on the furniture. She nearly had a side table with a glass of water on it over yesterday.’