The Master's Wife (2 page)

Broad frowned. ‘Yes, but I don’t –’

‘Which will require two strong men to carry it.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Mr Broad, if I am to catch the morning tide I have a great deal to do. Over the past ten years my crew and I have faced death on more occasions than I care to remember. They have my total trust. Either accept my word on that or find someone else.’

‘No! Please, I didn’t mean no offence.’

Jago fought anger that prowled inside him, seeking an opportunity to escape. ‘Then I take none.’ Standing, he offered his hand. ‘Good day, Mr Broad.’

‘Good day to ’e, Captain. I’m very much obliged.’

Jago strode through the open double gates beneath the large curved sign that read ‘Bonython’s’. Though he and Caseley held equal shares, neither had wanted to change the name that for three generations had been synonymous with expert boat building and repair.

He had hoped one day his own sons ... He slammed a door on that thought, mind and gut churning with guilt, anger and misery.

Bypassing her younger brother, Ralph, Jago’s father-in-law, Teuder Bonython, had left the yard to Caseley. Selling his foreign interests to invest in it, he was expanding the business, proving his worth and his earning power.

He wished he might have spent more time with the boys. But both home and family were a woman’s domain. His role was to provide for them.

Society judged him a successful man. Yet with his sons’ deaths he had lost his stake in the future. If Caseley had reached out to him ... but she hadn’t. So he could not turn to her. Could not betray his need for comfort. Not when he was the rock everyone depended on.

As long as he honoured his obligations he could do what he wished. Sleeping with Louise offered brief escape from demands, grief, guilt. But it wasn’t enough, could never be enough.

The tide was out and the lower half of the stone slipway was green and slimy. Seaweed hung in brown bunches from the granite blocks of the quay.
Cygnet
was moored fore-and-aft to iron bollards. But wooden props had been jammed under her keel to hold her level.

He saw Hammer and Jimbo brushing boiling pitch over a patch of fresh caulking in the schooner’s hull. The throat-catching odour lay heavy over the familiar stink of mud as he called down to them. ‘We sail on the morning tide.’

‘Right,’ Hammer said.

‘Where we going?’ Jimbo asked.

‘Egypt. I need a strongbox picked up from Broad’s at 7.30 tomorrow morning.’

The man glanced at each other. ‘Barrow and a tarp to cover’n with?’ Jimbo said.

Jago nodded and turned away. They never questioned, never asked him to explain. Their trust saved time and effort and now he took it for granted.

Across the busy yard he heard the clang of hammer on anvil. A cloud of steam billowed from the blacksmith’s shed along with the acrid reek of burning coke and red-hot metal. The dry coconut smell of fresh rope wafted from the riggers’ store. Fresh sawdust lay in golden drifts between the sawpit and a stack of seasoning timber.

Reaching the yard office he ducked his head to avoid the low lintel made from a huge square balk of timber and stepped inside.

Toby Penfold, the yard foreman, rose from a wooden chair behind a battered desk that was strewn with scraps of paper, a couple of rolled plans, several oak blocks, a spliced end of rope, a sailmaker’s fid and palm and a rumpled cloth holding the end crust of a pasty. One shelf above a cupboard was crammed with ledgers and in the grate a small fire had burned down to glowing embers.

Short and square, Toby had a weathered face deeply creased around eyes that were sharp and missed little. The ancient seaman’s peaked cap he usually wore lay on the desk. His pale scalp was fringed with fine grey fuzz.

Beneath an open waistcoat he wore a woollen shirt with the cuffs rolled halfway up scarred and sinewy forearms. A broad leather belt buckled under his belly held up filthy serge trousers.

‘Is it true what I heard?’ Toby swiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘What did you hear?’

‘That you beat the crap out of Mickey Croggan.’

Jago glanced at the split skin and purple bruising on his knuckles. ‘Yes, so?’

‘Word is he’d be dead now if you hadn’t been pulled off. What was that lightskirt to you anyway?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then what was you thinking of?’

‘She turned him down so he hit her. He’s twice her size, he’s a vicious drunk and he needed a lesson.’

‘You need to watch your temper. You killing someone will bring your missus even more grief. She don’t deserve that.’

Anger roared through Jago. But before he could speak another man entered.

‘Afternoon, Cap’n.’

Turning, Jago saw Will Spargo, Bonython’s senior captain on coastal trade. He shook the outstretched hand.

‘Will.’

‘I was sorry to hear about your boys. Me and Mary lost our middle son to the scarlet fever when he was just a little tacker.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘’Twas a good few year ago. No point going on about it, is there? It’s not like we was the only ones.’

‘Even so, you have my sympathy.’

‘Much obliged to ’e, Cap’n.’

Jago wanted to ask how long it took Will’s Mary to get over her loss. But he was afraid of the answer.

‘I’ll leave you to get on. See you tomorrow afternoon, Toby.’

‘She’ll be ready.’

Touching his cap in salute, Will Spargo left.

Jago turned back to the foreman. ‘I need
Cygnet
ready for tomorrow morning.’

After a moment’s silence, Toby nodded. ‘Where to?’

‘Egypt.’

‘That’s some trip. Take ’e –’

‘At least three weeks.’

Toby sucked air through his teeth. ‘Right. Hammer and Jimbo’ll be finished within the hour. I’ll send Mart down to Curgenven’s. He know what to get to revictual her. Afore you go I’d take it very kindly if you was to give the riggers a bit extra in their wages. Same for your crew. Nathan done some ’andsome job with they spars. Worked like the devil they have, every man jack of ’em.’

Jago nodded. ‘See to it.’

‘A word of thanks wouldn’t go amiss neither.’

Jago stiffened. ‘Be careful, Toby.’

‘No, ’tis time you was told. You got the best crew in Falmouth. They deserve better than you’re giving ’em.’

‘For God’s sake, they’re grown men! I’m not their father.’ He could have bitten off his tongue.

‘You’re their captain. ’Tis next best thing,’ Toby yelled back, not giving an inch. ‘They’d follow you to hell and back. But you’re driving them too hard.’

‘No harder than I’m driving myself.’

‘D’you think I don’t know that? But you’re going to kill yourself and them along with you.’ Toby stabbed a forefinger at him. ‘Broken spars, snapped ropes, ripped canvas, half the port rail gone and the hull leaking like a sieve. That’s not weather damage, not every voyage.
Cygnet
can’t take that kind of punishment and neither can you.’

Jago glared at the foreman who glared right back. Then, like curtains parting, he saw past Toby’s anger to the concern that inspired it. Shame swept through him, dissolving his fury. He rubbed his face.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘’T isn’t me you should be saying it to. You don’t need to say it at all. Just ease up. Now, if there’s nothing else, I better get on.’

Jago left, briefly gripping Toby’s shoulder as he passed.

––––––––

C
aseley wished she hadn’t gone into town, although having Rosina with her meant she could simply nod and smile in response to greetings
and keep walking
. She didn’t have to stop to respond to people’s enquiries.

Most meant well. But their lives hadn’t been devastated, and their polite expressions of sympathy made her want to hit them. These sudden urges to violence were unnerving and she felt like a stranger to herself.

She was so angry: with Jago for not being here when she desperately needed him; with herself for failing at the most basic task of being a mother, to protect her children; and with God for taking her two innocent and much loved sons.
Why
?

Before Jago left on his most recent voyage she had sensed a change in him and hated her suspicions. But she hadn’t
known
, not for certain. Not until today. Had she given in to Rosina’s urging, she wouldn’t know now. Would it have been better to remain in ignorance?
While the town gossiped?
Now she knew she couldn’t pretend she didn’t. So what was she to do?

Rosina took Caseley’s cape. ‘Just say you’re right about Mrs Downing –’

‘We both know I am.’

‘It don’t mean nothing. Mister’s a man, and men ... She’s no more to him than scratching an itch, and that’s the truth.’

The front door slammed.

‘I’ll fetch a tray of tea. Listen, bird, p’rhaps it isn’t my place to say –’

Caseley smiled wearily. ‘When has that ever stopped you?’

‘You aren’t the only one hurting. He took it very bad that he wasn’t here for you.’ She hurried out.

Caseley moved to the window and looked down onto the busy river. She heard him speak to Rosina, his deep voice so beloved and familiar. She wrapped her arms across her body, pressing them against the constant gnawing ache in her stomach and fought for composure.

She would never forget the look on his face when he burst into the room a week after she had watched two small coffins lowered into the ground, one on top of the other. She had insisted the boys remain together.

But in the torrent of questions that poured from Jago’s lips she had not heard comfort or sympathy or understanding, only accusation. Unable to bear any more pain she had withdrawn deep into herself.

The door opened. She turned and saw him, tall, strong, his dark curly hair untidy. With him came the vivid memory of Louise Downing’s triumphant smirk.

Crossing the room he brushed her cheek lightly with his lips then stood at her shoulder looking out of the window. Longing for more while wanting to hammer him with her fists, she realised his close-bearded face was leaner than she remembered. Creases surrounded his eyes and scored a groove between his dark brows. What changes did he see in her?

‘How was your day?’

She braced herself to give him the news. ‘My cousin Charlotte is expecting her first child.’

His frown deepened. ‘How did you learn of this? If Margaret Bonython came here and upset you –’

‘No, she sent a letter. I do not begrudge her pleasure, and I wish Charlotte well. But Aunt Margaret could not resist comparing Charlotte, wed only six months, to poor Emily Lashbrook who has been married seven years and whose failure to produce is causing both families great anxiety. Her gloating was unpleasant. Though I always found Emily spoiled and selfish, I feel for her. The pressure must be very hard to bear, especially for someone to whom everything came easily.’

He nodded, but she could see his attention was elsewhere. Hopelessness welled up like a tide.

‘I have to go to Egypt.’

Startled, Caseley looked up at him. ‘Egypt? When?’

‘As soon as possible.’ His gaze held hers.

‘But –’ She stopped. They both knew he had been home only a week. ‘Why?’

‘See for yourself.’ Handing her an opened envelope he crossed to the fireplace and tugged the bell-pull. ‘This was waiting for me at the office. I went straight to Broad’s then back to the yard.’

Caseley read the letter twice. She cleared her throat, determined to hold her voice steady. ‘How long will you be away?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. Even with favourable winds, the voyage to Alexandria will take at least three weeks. Then I have to reach the people I’m supposed to see. I think it unlikely I’ll be back before August.’

There was a brief tap on the door. Though Caseley expected the housemaid, she was not surprised to see Rosina behind her. Jago turned.

‘Rosina, tell Ben to repack my trunk. I have to leave early tomorrow morning.’

‘Dear life, you only just got home,’ she muttered and stomped out.

Caseley gazed at the letter but saw Louise Downing’s mocking triumph as clearly as if the woman were standing in front of her. She heard faint echoes of her children’s laughter. Her eyes stung and burned but remained dry. She had wept until she had no tears left.

When Jago left she would spend three more months alone, reliving a past she could not change but could not escape. The rumours would grow and spread. Every time she ventured out she would be studied. Sympathy for her bereavement would be weighted with sympathy over her husband’s betrayal. She could not face that.

‘I want to go with you.’ She hadn’t known she was going to say it. The shock on his face mirrored her own. But now she had spoken she realised those words held her only chance, their only hope.

He hesitated as something flashed in his eyes. Then he shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Caseley, you read the newspapers. Egypt is in ferment. Mr Gladstone is preparing for intervention. The English Channel fleet is already on its way to Malta. It will be dangerous.’

She stared at him for a moment. Then shocked them both by laughing. But it was a harsh sound and filled with pain. ‘Dangerous? Tell me, Jago, what exactly do I have to fear? The worst has already happened. What can hurt me now?’

His gaze met hers. Anguish tightened his features and she glimpsed utter desolation.

‘Please, Jago.’
Why? Why did you not turn to me? Why did you go to Louise Downing?
Could he not see this was pointless? Her desire to go was stronger than any argument he could raise against it.

‘I will not risk your safety.’

‘You are willing to risk your own.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘And I have no purpose here.’

‘Caseley –’

Emotion would not sway him – he had cut himself off from it, and her. But logic might. ‘You are bound for Egypt, but you do not speak Arabic.’

‘Nor do you.’

‘That’s true. But in Alexandria French is the common language. I speak French. You do not. I am also familiar with consular work.’ It was through her assumption of her father’s consular duties during his final illness that she had met Jago Barata.