Emma: There's No Turning Back Page 6

  ‘It ’as a furrin stamp, Em,’ Ruby said.

  Ah, it was from André. Or his wife. Suddenly Emma didn’t feel quite so alone – she had family; her father’s family. And one of them was writing to her.

  Ruby took an age straightening out the crumpled paper – Emma thought she might die of impatience while she did it; first the reverse with no writing on it, but when Ruby turned it over to straighten the front, Emma thought she was going to stop breathing forever. She knew that writing. Matthew Caunter’s. Why was he writing to her? Emma’s heart rate increased alarmingly. She felt hot, and then cold again in the same second. A flashback to the time Matthew had waltzed her around the carousel seat at Nase Head House came into her head and refused to leave. She could hear his voice. Feel his kiss on the top of her head. How exciting – and rather dangerous – that had been, with him a married man, although Emma hadn’t known that at the time.

  She could also see, in her mind’s eye, the sadness in Seth’s eyes when, on another occasion, he’d seen her reach up to kiss Matthew on the cheek to thank him for taking her out for the day on her birthday. Thank goodness she’d been able to make amends since and prove to Seth that it was him she loved.

  She wished with all her heart now that Ruby had left the letter where Mr Bell had thrown it.

  ‘I ’spect, Em, ’tis from one of your pa’s relations over in France, don’t you? What with it being a furrin stamp and all? Tisn’t our King’s ’ead on there anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said, the letter now in her hand. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Ruby couldn’t read and wouldn’t know that the postmark said New York. She couldn’t say more because she knew her words would come out in shaky gasps and Ruby would guess something was wrong.

  ‘If I sees any more envelopes with that fancy swirly writin’ on it then I’ll know they’m for you and if I sees ’em in the wastepaper basket, then I’ll fish ‘em out an’ I’ll bring ’em to you.’

  No, no, please don’t, Emma wanted to say, but couldn’t. She wondered just how many letters to her from Matthew Mr Bell might have thrown away.

  ‘I ’spect you’ll want to read that in private,’ Ruby said, leaning across the table to tap the envelope still in Emma’s hand. ‘But back to what us was talkin’ about ’afore that letter got you goin’ all colours with shock … I still don’t think I can come and work for you. You see, Em, I can’t risk givin’ up the secure life I ’ave now to ’elp you in a business that might not work.’

  So Ruby had noticed that the letter had alarmed her. Emma swallowed, cleared her throat.

  ‘Oh, it will, Ruby,’ Emma said, her voice stronger than she’d dared hope it would be. ‘My business will work. I’ll make it so. Whatever it takes.’

  On Christmas Eve morning, over a breakfast of softly poached eggs and ham that she had cooked with cloves, bay leaves and honey, Emma told Seth about her meeting with Ruby.

  ‘I can’t say I’m not disappointed that she won’t risk giving up a secure job at Nase Head House with a roof over her head for what she said would be a gamble, coming to work for me.’

  Seth put down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth on his napkin.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, reaching for Emma across the table.

  She leaned towards him and he put his hands either side of her face and kissed her, licked a smidgeon of clove-scented honey from her lips.

  ‘If anyone can make a gamble work, you can, sweetheart,’ Seth said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Emma said.

  Emma’s ‘hmms’ were beginning to speak volumes. Did she have another plan? Probably, although he doubted anything she could come up with would surpass their faux wedding photograph.

  ‘The new people in Hilltop,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t suppose you could go and ask them when they’re taking ownership of Deller’s Café?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘No, silly,’ Emma said. ‘Not today. I’ve got too much to do. Mr Clarke at the Esplanade Hotel is sending someone to fetch four dozen mince pies after lunch. But sometime. Soon. Before the New Year perhaps.’

  ‘Emma, I’m running a fishing fleet. I can’t just go out touting for business for you because you …’

  ‘I’m running a business, too,’ Emma cut in.

  Of course she was. And woe betide him if he suggested it was a hobby. ‘I know,’ Seth said with a sigh. The last thing he wanted was an argument. Not that he and Emma had ever argued; certainly not the way his ma and pa had. ‘And doing it very well.’

  ‘You do understand how important it is to me, don’t you, Seth? To make a success of something? For myself?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘And if I make a success of this, who knows what else I might do?’

  ‘Like what?’ Seth asked. He wondered how many things Emma had running around in her head sometimes.

  ‘Oh, I could teach French. Or run a hotel because I’ve had some experience of that up at Nase Head House. Make clothes, perhaps. My mama taught me how. I haven’t decided what yet, but for now I’m doing what I know how to do the best. You do realise, though, that if a baby comes along I’ll need help to look after him or her whatever sort of business I am running?’

  Seth gulped. Why had babies suddenly put in an appearance in the conversation? Honestly, women’s minds and the way they could skitter from one subject to another puzzled him at times. ‘You’re expecting a baby?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘No. Not yet. But you do understand that I’d want to keep running my business when I do have one?’

  Did he? He knew the aristocracy and the really rich – and people like Smythe who were widowers – employed nannies, but it wasn’t something Seth had ever considered he might do. He could still remember his mother’s arms around him, and the scent she used, and the warmth of her if he closed his eyes tight and thought back. There was a lump in his throat now that was proving difficult to swallow. Would Rose ever know that? Would she?

  ‘Seth?’ Emma sounded impatient for an answer

  ‘I thought we were talking about Deller’s Café and now—’

  ‘We are. I was just thinking ahead and wanted to be sure that we want the same things.’

  Time yet to talk about nannies, Seth decided. ‘We do,’ he said. ‘The people who’ve bought Hilltop are called Stevens. You could call on them.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Too many bad memories? Carter’s dead now, Emma, he’s not going to …’ Seth faltered. He put another spoonful of sugar in his tea, stirred it slowly.

  ‘Try and rape me again,’ Emma finished for him.

  A silence fell between them then, heavier than lead. Emma would know that his silence was because he truly didn’t know what to say. He had always tried to make up for his brother’s treatment of her by being over-courteous to her. He never laid a finger on Emma’s body without asking first if she was comfortable with the touch, although he could tell that she wanted it just as much as he did. But now a few badly-chosen words were threatening to spoil their first Christmas together.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I shouldn’t have tried to force you into doing something you’re not comfortable with yet,’ he said. ‘After Christmas we’ll both go. Or we could invite them here for drinks. What do you think?’

  Emma sat looking at him for a moment. He tried to read her mind, but she was giving him no clues – not a smile, not a frown, just a thoughtful expression.

  ‘I think I ask too much of you, Seth,’ she said at last. ‘And I’m sorry for it. You’re so good to me in so many ways. I will go to Hilltop. And I’ll invite the Stevens for drinks. The invite is always issued by the wife, isn’t it?’

  ‘So I believe, not that my parents entertained in the home very often. My pa made things difficult with his excessive drinking.’ Damn, damn, damn and blast his father for encroaching on his thoughts.

  ‘Oh, Seth,’ Emma said. ‘Shall we go back upstairs and come down and begin the day again? This is our first Christmas Eve together and we�
�re both thinking things we shouldn’t be and saying things perhaps we ought not to. And we’re—’

  ‘We’re both going to enjoy it,’ Seth said. ‘Wait there! And close your eyes.’

  ‘As long as you’re not going to drop a dead frog in my hand.’ Emma giggled.

  ‘As if I would!’

  Seth ran to the back door, unlocked it – something he’d only started doing since Miles’s unwanted visit – and came back in with a Christmas tree in a bucket of earth. ‘Open your eyes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ Emma said, her eyes wide with delight. ‘A Christmas tree. How lovely. I didn’t think about getting a tree, there just being the two of us.’

  ‘Now,’ Seth laughed, touched at Emma’s delight in a little thing like an undecorated Christmas tree, ‘what was it you were saying just now about going back upstairs and starting our day all over again?’

  Emma was so happy. So deliciously happy – what she liked to think of as a strawberries and clotted cream on a summer’s day sort of happy. After their strange and awkward conversation over breakfast, Seth had scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs and made love to her not once, but twice – and the wonderful warmth she’d felt as she’d melded into him, and he into her, was still with her. For the time that they were in bed and loving, Emma had been able to forget the letter – as yet unopened – from Matthew. She wasn’t going to let a letter from someone she’d known for such a short time spoil her first Christmas with Seth, albeit a someone she had liked very much. But Emma knew that whatever the letter might contain, the reading of it – seeing Matthew’s strong and artistic writing – would bring back all sorts of memories. Matthew had been an enigma to her from the start, but there had been an easy rapport between them. He’d introduced her to champagne and eating in hotels, and become a father figure of sorts to her, but there was also an element of something else bubbling under the surface that she hadn’t understood at the time. Was she understanding it now?

  And you have work to do, my girl Emma said sternly to herself.

  After their early-morning lovemaking, Seth said he didn’t think he’d be good for anything for the rest of the day, but he was going to the butcher to fetch a goose for each and every single crewman – his present to them and their families – anyway. He wouldn’t be back for a while.

  Singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ Emma opened the door to her work place. How wonderful the heady smell of maturing mincemeat was. And the almond paste she’d made ready to ice her Christmas cake.

  And then she became aware of a woman sitting on a chair in the corner. A woman holding a baby. Caroline Prentiss. Emma knew who she was. And she knew Seth had wined her and dined her a time or two. But what was she doing here? Emma’s heart began to hammer in her chest.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve turned up at last,’ Caroline said.

  ‘I live here,’ Emma said firmly. She refused to be intimidated on her own property by the ice-cool Caroline Prentiss. Her hair was coiled on the top of her head, not a strand out of place. And no hat either – although Emma could see a shawl draped over her lap. And she was wearing rouge and lipstick, as though she was going somewhere special. She looked like a trollop. But the baby?

  Emma was torn between being polite, because Ruby had told her Caroline was moving in better social circles these days and she might want Emma’s cooking services, and anger because Caroline had come in to her bakery uninvited.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Emma asked at last.

  The baby in Caroline’s arms wriggled, cried out as though in the middle of a bad dream, then quietened again.

  ‘What can you do?’ Caroline stood up and walked towards Emma. ‘You’re a Jago now, so I’ve heard. And this here is a Jago. You can have her!’

  And then to Emma’s utter astonishment, Caroline swiped the bowl of mincemeat off the table and plonked the baby in the place where it had been.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Ask Seth,’ Caroline snapped, before running out of the door.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Rose?’ Seth said.

  Was he hallucinating? Only two hours ago, on the way to the butcher, he’d put money in an envelope and posted it to Caroline for Rose’s upkeep, and now here was Rose in Emma’s arms.

  ‘Quite a surprise, isn’t it?’ Emma said. ‘Finding her here. Not the least for me. Although obviously you’ve seen her before, if you know her name.’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘I’ve only got your word for that.’

  There was iciness in Emma’s voice, something he’d never heard there before. Her feistiness he was used to, but it was always tempered with warmth and after a few kisses whatever had been irking her was forgotten. Seth had a sick feeling – as though he’d eaten curdled cream – that it was going to take more than a few kisses to appease Emma this time.

  The cartridge paper and watercolours he’d bought from Axworthy’s after he’d delivered all the geese to his crewmen, and with which he’d intended to use to paint a portrait of Emma the way she’d looked the first time he’d realised he was in love with her, suddenly seemed like a waste of money. Would she want a portrait of that memory now?

  Damn! Damn! Damn! Why hadn’t he done the decent thing and told her about Rose before?

  The baby struggled to get herself free from the shawl, little red fists flailing in the air.

  ‘Sssh,’ Emma said, then began to rock the baby, singing to her in French. ‘A la claire fontaine …’

  Seth had often heard her singing it, especially after they’d been to lay flowers on her family graves. Then he’d had no idea that it might be a lullaby, which now he guessed it was, since Emma was singing it so sweetly, so naturally, to Rose. The way Emma’s French father must have sung it to her.

  ‘I apologise for not telling you before. I should have done.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ Emma said. Patting the baby’s back with one hand, she reached for an envelope on the table with the other. ‘This is for you, apparently. It’s got your name on, anyway. I found it inside Rose’s shawl.’

  It was Caroline’s writing. No question of it. He had a pile of letters in the same handwriting locked in his safe-deposit box, in case he needed them for evidence one day. He wouldn’t put it past Caroline to resort to blackmail. He reached for a letter opener and ripped open the seal.

  Rose’s birth certificate with his name on it as the father. For a fleeting moment, Seth wondered if Caroline had got some other man to go with her to register the birth, pretending to be him. But whether she had or not, he didn’t dispute the fact the he was more than likely to be Rose’s father. He’d done his maths, worked back nine months from Rose’s date of birth and he’d definitely been bedding Caroline then – or she him, he realised now. A brief note told Seth that Caroline was leaving for America soon with someone who didn’t know about Rose.

  Seth held out the note for Emma to read. And then the birth certificate.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Emma said. ‘She looks like you.’

  ‘She does,’ Seth said. ‘She’s more a Jago than she is my mother’s side of the family.’

  His mother would have been so happy to have had a granddaughter, whether the child had looked like her or not. Seth wondered if it would be possible to have his ma’s name, Hannah, added to the birth certificate. Probably not. He reached out to touch Rose’s cheek with a finger, but touched the back of Emma’s hand first by accident. She flinched. Recoiled from him. It was nothing less than he deserved, he knew that.

  ‘It was before you and I got together,’ Seth told her gently.

  ‘I’ve worked that out for myself, thank you very much,’ Emma snapped.

  She stood up and thrust Rose at Seth.

  ‘Don’t go. Please, Emma, don’t go.’

  ‘Before she left, Caroline Prentiss swiped a morning’s worth of mincemeat to the floor. It’s beyond saving. So I’ll have to remake it. I’m not letting Caroline Prentiss and … and … I’m going.’ Emma’s eye
s were brimming with tears and Seth wanted to hug both her and the baby to him. Instead he took Rose, careful not to touch Emma as he did so.

  ‘Don’t wait up, Seth. I’ll be sleeping in one of the other bedrooms tonight.’

  The mincemeat made – even though it wouldn’t have time to mature as she liked – and the mince pies cooked, and collected, to fulfil her orders, Emma walked and walked and walked as fast as she could. Firstly because she hadn’t wrapped up well enough and there was sleet in the air, and secondly because she didn’t want to go into the main house. Face Seth. See the baby he’d fathered with someone else. Someone who wasn’t her. This turn of events hadn’t been in her plan.

  Her footsteps took her to the harbour because the sound of the sea sloshing up against the harbour wall was one of her earliest memories. Grounding. But it wasn’t to be this time. So she climbed the hill to the cemetery and stood at the grave of her mama and Johnnie, getting her breath back, before running across to her papa’s. None of them could help her in her current dilemma, but it was a small comfort to be where they had last been on this earth.

  She would have to go back home soon. But not yet. She ran along the cliff path and then on down the hill to Shingle Cottage – always her port in a storm.

  Beattie Drew answered her knock at once.

  ‘Emma, lovie, whatever’s the matter? What’re you doin’ ’ere? It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I know,’ Emma said with a catch in her voice.

  Mrs Drew called to Edward to go upstairs to his room, and to close the door after him and not to come out until he was told to. She waited until she heard the bedroom door bang shut. Then she reached for Emma’s hand and pulled her into the house, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Is it Seth, lovie? ’As ’e ’ad some sort of accident in that motor of ’is?’

  Emma couldn’t speak, couldn’t trust herself not to say something about Seth she might regret, because she had to remember Mrs Drew idolised Seth. So she allowed herself to be led into the kitchen, forced down onto a chair. She accepted a cup of tea that had been too long in the pot and was stewed and yet the offering of it, the taking her in without question made it taste sweeter than honey.