Chapter Twenty-One

‘You look even more beautiful tonight, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said, standing as she approached, before gesturing that she take the seat next to his. ‘I see I’ve chosen well.’

Emma sat, grateful that she wouldn’t have to be in his arms just yet. Whether he meant his choice of clothes and accessories for her, or in deciding he was going to make her his wife, she didn’t know and certainly wasn’t going to ask.

She should never have started this charade, should she? The days were ticking away to her eighteenth birthday and while her savings were adding up, they were still nowhere near the amount she would need to keep her from the workhouse.

Emma looked about her – anywhere but at Mr Smythe. The room was filling up with guests stopping at the hotel but also a few business people and richer residents from the town.

The cellist and the violinist were both leafing through sheet music and the pianist was playing a slow and rather dreamy piece of music. Chopin probably. Chopin was Mr Smythe’s favourite composer. Emma had a feeling Chopin had been Claudine Smythe’s favourite, too.

‘I think it’s time I asked the good Dr Shaw to come and take a look at you again, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. There was a joking lilt to his voice Emma hadn’t heard there before. It made her uneasy.

‘Dr Shaw? Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘No? Not going a little deaf?’

‘Deaf? Of course not.’

‘Then if you heard my compliment to you – and honestly given I have to say – it’s only polite to respond. To say thank you at the very least.’

‘I didn’t ask you to buy me these things,’ Emma said. ‘And they wouldn’t have been what I would have chosen. I think I look like a dowager.’

Rupert Smythe guffawed with laughter and heads turned to look towards him. Emma felt herself flush, felt the heat of it at the sides of her neck. If only she had her amethyst there to hold on to, to ground her, to remind herself she was Emma Le Goff and not someone Mr Smythe was doing his best to mould into a replica of his late wife.

‘A dowager indeed. You look wonderful, Emma, and you know it.’

‘It’s how you want me to look,’ Emma said.

‘Now, stop this. I do believe you’re an ungrateful wretch.’

Mr Smythe tapped Emma gently on the back of the hand in faux admonishment. She swiftly moved her hand into her lap, and again Mr Smythe guffawed with laughter. Emma wondered if he’d been at the eau de vie or something.

‘I know I have things to be grateful for,’ Emma said, choosing her words with care. To say she loved his choice of clothes for her would only mean he would buy her more. Own a little bit more of her. And she didn’t want that. ‘And I’m not a wretch.’

‘No, of course you’re not. You’re by far the most beautiful woman in the room, and certainly the most expensively dressed. And I don’t think I’m the ugliest escort either, am I?’ Again that joking lilt in his voice.

Emma glanced at him, saw he was smiling, and yet there was still the sadness around the eyes he always had. He was – she was sure of it – thinking of his wife, as he always would.

‘You know you’re not,’ Emma said. ‘I saw that lady over there glancing at you admiringly a moment ago. The one in the silver frock with the diamanté around the neckline. Why don’t you ask her to dance? I’m sure she wouldn’t refuse.’

‘Joanna Gillet?’ Mr Smythe said, after a quick scan of the room to see which lady Emma was referring to. ‘I don’t have the slightest desire to dance with Joanna Gillet. I only want to dance with you, Emma.’

He reached for her hand. She wanted to whisk it away, hide it behind her back, but to do so might cause a fuss. She willed herself to relax under his touch. And then to her horror he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He’d definitely been at the eau de vie, hadn’t he? There was always a bottle of it on a side table in his drawing-room.

So it was with some relief to Emma when the three-piece band began to play. She stood up, able to wriggle her hand free from his as she did so.

‘Usually, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said, standing beside her, ‘the lady waits to be asked to dance.’

‘Usually,’ Emma said. ‘But what you’re forgetting is that I’m not a lady. I’m Emma Le Goff from a poor fishing family whose mother was considered a suicide and not fit to be buried in consecrated ground, even though she is. I doubt anyone in this room, bar a few of the locals, knows that, but if they did do you think they’d consider me a suitable companion for you? Most of them wouldn’t consider me worthy of cleaning their shoes if they knew.’

What more could she do or say to put him off?

‘And do you think any of that bothers me at all? Either the facts about your background, or about the people here knowing? I admire your drive to make the most of the cards dealt you in life. I admire the way you learn quickly and that you’re an asset to the hotel in so many ways. And yes, I admire your beauty. You’ve flourished since you’ve been here, blossomed.’

‘It’s called growing up, Mr Smythe,’ Emma said. ‘I would have done that anyway, I expect. Now, shall we dance?’

Mr Smythe threw back his head and laughed loudly. Goodness, what had got into him tonight? But the musicians had upped the tempo and the noise of dancers’ feet on the polished floor and their chattering voices meant that no one noticed.

The rest of the evening passed slowly, so slowly. Emma was asked to dance by one of the hotel guests and from time to time, Mr Smythe excused himself to dance with guests or the wives of business associates, but always returning to Emma after each dance. Her heart had lifted a little when she’d seen Mr Smythe dance with Joanna Gillet. Although she’d wanted to laugh out loud when she saw the way he held Joanna – as though she was a muddy dog that needed to be kept at arms’ length.

She declined a glass of sherry, even though Mr Smythe had pressed it into her hands. And when the champagne was brought round she declined that, too. She needed to keep a clear head.

‘Last dance, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said now.

‘I’d like to sit this one out,’ Emma said. With luck she could make her escape early. ‘Ask Miss Gillet.’

Mr Smythe, fuelled now by more than a few glasses of sherry and at least two flutes of champagne, only laughed.

And then a man Emma hadn’t seen before came rushing through the open double doors of the small ballroom. He stopped and looked about him. How strange to turn up at a dance the moment it was about to finish. Or perhaps he was a late-arrival hotel guest – but at this hour? But for whatever reason she was glad of his arrival. All eyes in the room seem to be on him, too.

‘Oh, there’s Howard Bettesworth. I wonder what he wants.’

Rupert Smythe – in a rather wobbly fashion – stood up and beckoned to the newcomer.

Emma recognised the name of the biggest law firm in the area.

Mr Bettesworth rushed on in. Couples cleared a pathway for him, stopped their chattering. Most of the locals present would know who he was and those that didn’t would wonder at his reception.

A hush fell over the room as the three-piece band stopped playing.

‘Smythe,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I know the hour is late but I thought you would want to know. Rum news. Carter Jago swung this afternoon. It’s not a pretty sight witnessing a man hang. I don’t suppose I could get a drink, could I?’

Emma’s hand flew to her mouth. That Carter deserved to be hanged she was certain and the realisation that he had tried to kiss her, to assault her, made her feel faint. She sat back in her chair.

‘A drink? Of course.’ Mr Smythe signalled to a waiter.

‘And that’s not all,’ Mr Bettesworth said. ‘Seth Jago has instructed me in the sale of his fishing fleet.’

‘And well he should,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘We don’t want the brother of a murderer in the town.’

There were mutterings of ‘Hear, hear’ from the dancers.

‘Seth’s selling the boats?’ Emma said. She hadn’t meant to actually voice the words but they’d slipped out of their own volition.

‘Hush, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘This is business.’

‘I won’t hush. Why’s Seth selling up, Mr Bettesworth?’

The solicitor looked at Mr Smythe and raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘who’s this and should I be answering her questions?’ Mr Smythe gave a brief nod of his head.

‘Because he has plans to go to Canada it seems. Vancouver. And that’s all I’m telling you. But it will be round the town soon enough.’

Canada? Seth was going to Canada? Without telling her? Who was going to put flowers on his ma’s grave? And who might he be going to Canada with?

Everyone seemed to be talking at once then. The name Jago echoed from people’s lips all around the room.

‘No better than he should be, that Seth Jago.’

‘Tarred with the same brush as his father and brothers, no doubt.’

‘Just lucky they couldn’t pin anything on him.’

‘Not his father’s son at all, perhaps, if you get my meaning.’

The words washed over Emma like acid. Her skin prickled, her throat went dry. She felt cold, then hot, then cold again.

How would Seth be feeling now his brother had hanged? Poor Seth.

‘Well at least that’s solved one problem for me,’ Mr Smythe said.

Mr Bettesworth laughed. ‘What’s that then?’

‘Keeping him from my door. I’ve had him thrown out once tonight. He came …’

‘You threw him out? Why?’

Emma’s voice rang loud and clear around the room as she jumped to her feet. All eyes were on her now – and her alone.

‘I’ll tell you again, Emma – keep out of this.’ Mr Smythe turned towards Mr Bettesworth. ‘I should never have let him in here the night of Mr Underwood’s dinner, but he was a guest of a client. And besides, there were other influential people as Mr Underwood’s guests that night.’

‘It’s all about what use people are to you isn’t it, Mr Smythe?’ Emma said.

The two men wheeled round to look at her, surprise on their faces – at her audacity in speaking her mind, probably.

‘I told you to keep out of this.’

Mr Smythe tried to push her back down onto her chair but she side-stepped him.

‘No. No, I won’t keep out of it. Seth’s done nothing wrong. He stood up for me against his brothers, and his father. He got me food when I had none. And he bought a headstone for my parents’ and my brother’s graves. He’s a good man. Haven’t any of you stopped to think how he’ll be feeling that his brother’s been hanged for murder?’ Emma knew her voice had reached screeching level but she couldn’t stop. ‘He …’

Mr Smythe lurched towards her and she could smell all the alcohol on his breath. He gripped her wrist.

‘As it was you he came here asking for before I threw him out, you’d better go to him, hadn’t you, young lady? Although maybe lady isn’t the word I should be using?’ The hardness was back in his eyes, his lips stretched over his teeth like taught wires. ‘I can see I was wasting my time with you.’

He dropped Emma’s wrist as though it was on fire.

‘You have five minutes to collect a few belongings. Then go.’

Emma went. She should have gone months ago.

Beattie Drew stood with the door to Hilltop House open only a crack. She looked unsure as to whether to let Emma in or not.

Emma was certainly surprised to see her there so late at night.

‘Well, look at you in all your finery, Emma Le Goff. Too proud and stuck-up to come and see your old friends, weren’t you? What brings you here now? And at this hour?’

‘I wasn’t too proud and I’m not stuck-up. I had a lot to learn and I learned most of it in five minutes just now. I’ve just made myself homeless. My own doing this time, Mrs Drew.’

‘Oh, lovie, you are a one.’

The old Mrs Drew Emma had known, and who had been so kind to her, was back.

‘Can I see Seth? Please.’

‘He’s out.’ Mrs Drew waved a hand down towards the inky blackness of the harbour, made an arc in the air to encompass the bay.

‘I was told Seth called asking for me, but Mr Smythe threw him out.’

‘Did he now? I can’t imagine Seth took kindly to that.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I was prevented from seeing him. Where is Seth now? Do you know?’

‘He said he was going to see Mr Underwood. He’s had rum news today of his brother. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mr Underwood hasn’t taken him for a pint or two. To drown his sorrows.’

‘Can I wait for him?’ Emma said.

‘He should have been back ages ago,’ Mrs Drew said, as though Emma hadn’t asked anything. ‘It’s why I’m not in my night things. He’ll be wanting a hot drink when he gets back.’

‘You’re living here now?’

‘Since my old man died, yes. Got my Edward here with me an’ all. The others have got positions on farms. Accommodation, see.’

‘I didn’t know you’d been widowed, Mrs Drew. I’m sorry.’

‘’Twere a while ago, now. Had an accident at the quarry. Load of stone was unbalanced and that was that – it toppled and did for my ol’ man. But there it is – I’m here now. And glad to be.’

Emma shivered in her thin dress. The five minutes Mr Smythe had given her to collect a few things had barely been enough to grab all her money from under the mattress, rip off the pearls and earrings Mr Smythe had bought her and put her mama’s amethyst around her neck instead – only remembering to take her shawl from the back of the chair at the last moment. She hadn’t worn it since arriving at Nase Head House, but hadn’t been able to part with it, either. She’d kept it on the back of the chair for old times’ sake, and was glad of it now, as worn and threadbare as it was in places. She pulled it more tightly around her shoulders.

‘You’d better come in and wait, lovie. You’ll catch your death in that slip of a frock, so you will. You’ve heard about Carter, I reckon?’

Emma nodded.

‘Now, in with you and let’s get you warmed up.’

Emma stepped inside gratefully as Mrs Drew opened the door wider. She waited while Mrs Drew closed the door and locked it. It was a big house by anyone’s standards but it seemed small when set against Nase Head House in her mind. Nothing seemed to have changed since the last time she’d stood in this hall – the same pictures were on the wall. The same smell of stew in the air.

‘How did you find out about Carter?’ Mrs Drew asked, walking towards the kitchen.

Emma followed closely behind.

‘Mr Bettesworth called at the hotel this evening. The dance was just ending …’

‘The solicitor fellow? I expect you know him what with you mixing with the nobs and all?’

‘I only knew his name. I’ve seen it in the papers a time or two.’ She chose to ignore the ‘mixing with the nobs’ bit.

‘Where could Seth be, Mrs Drew?’ Perhaps she could go and find him if she knew?

‘I’ve already told you, lovie. In an inn somewhere having a pint or two with Mr Underwood I expect. There’s no one he trusts more. And no doubt the pair of ’em have gone to the back room of whatever inn it is they’m to after closing time.’

‘And you’ve been expecting him back before now?’

‘I have. Oh, but it’s good to see you, Emma. I’ve often looked over to Nase Head House and wondered how you were doing. Remember how we stood, you and me, in the bedroom looking at it and you said you were going to work there some day? Bet you never thought you would?’

And I wish now I never had, Emma thought, but didn’t say.

‘And it looks like you got to dance under them chandeliers with that fancy frock you’ve got on.’ Emma let Mrs Drew prattle on. ‘Not seen you in the town much.’

‘Working in a hotel isn’t so much a job, I’ve been fast finding out, as a way of life. I only had one half day a week and I used to spend that caring for Isabelle mostly.’

‘I’m surprised a man like Mr Smythe didn’t want to make an honest woman of you.’ Mrs Drew laughed.

‘It was nothing like that,’ Emma said.

‘But he had hopes?’

‘Yes. But however many times I told him I wasn’t interested in being the second Mrs Smythe, the more he kept on about it. Buying me things. Dancing with me …’ Emma let her voice trail away, swallowed back tears.

‘There are men like that what do think it’s their God-given right to have any women they choose. I’m glad you didn’t fall for it though, lovie. He’d have sucked your soul dry, wouldn’t he?’

Emma swallowed. That was exactly it. She’d stopped feeling like herself. She’d allowed herself to become someone she thought she wanted to be, but now knew she didn’t want to.

She tried to stop the tears coming, but failed miserably. One by one they trickled down her cheeks until it felt there was a river running down the sides of her neck, slithering over her shoulder blades, and down the cleavage of her stupid, stupid dowager dress.

She swiped at the tears.

‘Cocoa time, lovie,’ Mrs Drew said. ‘Not a lot a nice mug of hot cocoa can’t cure, is there? Sugar?’

‘Yes, please. Seth’s going to be surprised to find me here, though. Do you think he’ll mind?’

Emma was starting to have misgivings now. If he did mind, then she’d tell him how sorry she was about Carter and the effects it would have on him, and then she’d book herself into The Globe for the night. She had enough money, and thank heavens for that.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so for one minute,’ Mrs Drew said. She put an arm around Emma’s shoulders, gave them a squeeze, then set a saucepan of milk to boil. ‘And you said yourself he’d called asking for you tonight. He must have wanted you for summat.’ Mrs Drew giggled. ‘And what’s more, I’d like half a crown for every time Seth’s asked if I’ve seen or heard anything of you.’

‘Has he?’

‘Didn’t I just say? You always did have a habit of questioning things. But he’ll be as pleased as punch that you’re here.’

‘Even though he’s got the boats up for sale and is going to Canada?’

‘Has he?’ Mrs Drew said. There was genuine surprise in her voice. ‘First I’ve heard of it. We’ll ask him about it when he gets in. But between you and me I’m worried where he’s got to, so I hope we don’t have long to wait.’

So do I, Emma thought, so do I.

‘’Ere, Seth Jago. What’s all this about the boats being up for sale?’

Seth looked up from his beer. Albie Holland – one of his crewmen. He took another sip of his beer and considered Albie’s question. So, telling Bettesworth had done the trick – the rumour was spreading faster than fire through dried bracken. Would Emma have heard? Would it be enough for her to realise how much she’d miss him if he left? Or wouldn’t she care?

‘So is it true?’ Albie demanded. ‘’Cos if it is I hope you’m making the provision the new owner keeps on us crew.’

‘My boats might, and they might not, be for sale,’ Seth said. His head was beginning to feel like it was floating independently of his body. Being denied access to Nase Head House to speak to Emma had come as a shock – a short, sharp shock. And the strong ale wasn’t helping. ‘But I won’t see you out of work if I can help it.’

‘Well, just as long as you keep your word,’ Albie said.

‘I will.’

‘Good. Anyway, what’re you doing in ’ere? The Blue Anchor’s your usual drinking hole.’

‘I fancied a change. And it looks like I’m drinking, Albie, doesn’t it? Sh…ame as you. Sh...sh…sheeing as …’

‘Seeing as you’m obviously not used to downing quite so much.’ Albie laughed and his mates joined in. ‘Heard your brother was found guilty back along. He’ll be swinging any day. I ’spect you’re drowning your sorrows.’

Seth screwed his eyes shut tight, but the thought of Carter being led to the gallows wouldn’t go away. He’d told Olly the news, but the rest of them would have to wait ’til the morning when, no doubt, the word would have got round. He swayed on his bar stool but Olly came to his rescue, put a steadying hand on Seth’s shoulder.

‘That’s right, Albie. And if a man – for whatever reason – can’t have a skinful of ale, and do it in peace, then it’s a bad job. Now bugger off. And here’s a half crown to do it with. Some place other than here, if you get my meaning.’

Olly Underwood took the coin from his pocket and pressed it into Albie’s palm. The man went back to his drinking companions, said something and they all finished their pints and left the inn.

‘Thanks, Olly,’ Seth muttered. He must remember to pay him back the money, but would he? The way his head was he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say his own name if asked.

‘Drink up, Seth,’ Olly said. ‘It’ll help you forget for a little while. But what’s all this about Canada? I’m supposed to be your best friend and this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘I set a sprat to catch a mackerel, Olly. Seeing as Smythe barred me from his premises.’

‘Ah, one Miss Le Goff?’ Olly said, his voice low, almost a mime.

Seth nodded.

‘Well, much as I’d love to sit here and listen to you extolling the good Emma’s charms, I must be off. My ma’s been sick and I said I wouldn’t be too late back. You’ll be all right?’

‘Yeah, ’course I will. With some good ale inside me.’ Seth took a long swig of his pint.

‘Good man,’ Olly said. He patted Seth on the back and left.

‘For a little while,’ Seth mumbled into his tankard as he watched Olly go out through the door. ‘For a little while. If I’m lucky.’

‘Behave, you lot. I’m just going down the cellar for another barrel,’ the landlord yelled.

The second he was out of sight all hell let loose. About half-a-dozen men surrounded Seth. Strangers to him, all of them. One rammed a hand into a pocket of Seth’s trousers, removed the loose change he had in there.

‘Heard you’re a rich man,’ one of the men said. ‘You can share your riches out a bit.’

The speaker yanked back Seth’s head and poured beer down his throat – it made him splutter and cough and he swallowed far more than he wanted to. He felt hands scrabbling in his other pocket, extracting coins.

‘Now your mate’s gone you’re on your own.’

‘Get off …’

The strength seemed to have seeped out of Seth. The ale was doing its job, making him whoozy. He knew he was no match for half-a-dozen men.

‘Use that money you’ve just stolen from me to buy more drinks, lads.’ Seth said. He took a £5 note from his inside pocket. ‘And take this. Make that two pints. Keep the change.’

‘Now you’re talking sense,’ someone said, and his tormentors left him in peace.

Seth set his unfinished tankard on the table, closed his eyes. A little doze and then he’d make his way home. It wasn’t far. Although he had a sick feeling in his gut he hadn’t seen the last of these men.