Matt Linton left a small crew on board the Breeze in the New Dock and strode across the town towards the Cross Keys Inn in the Market Place. He hadn’t docked in Hull for over twelve months and mused that the dock, which had been opened less than thirteen years before, in 1778, was more congested than it had been the previous year, and that it was more difficult to pilot a ship in or out of the entrance than it was to sail across the German Sea to Holland.
Ships from all over the world, from Russia, Sweden and Gothenburg docked in Hull, as well as the barges and small boats which came up the Humber and Trent and other canals and waterways, bringing iron and brass, pottery from Stoke and lead from Derbyshire for onward distribution and shipment. Here too came the whaling fleet, the principal industry of the town from whose byproducts issued the stinking aroma floating in the air.
It’s a prosperous town, he mused. A man could do well here if he was in the way of commerce or shipping, there have been several fortunes made. But he also knew that many of the men who had made their fortunes here in this thriving town, took their wives and families out of the confines of the town boundaries, which were now stretching further and further into the outlying country and built their homes, their mansions and desirable residences, where they didn’t have to have the embarrassment of seeing the other unfortunate populace of the town. Here were the people who had no hope, no fortune, no proper roof over their heads, except perhaps one which they shared with many others, and who behaved so annoyingly in complaining and rioting about injustice.
He glanced up at the portico of Trinity House and felt a thrust of envy. Boys could now be sent to school here to learn the science of navigation as well as being given a good grounding in general education. I wish – still, it’s no good wishing, what’s done is done, but if only I had been able to attend a school like this, instead of learning the hard way by running away to sea. He had been at the mercy of disreputable seamen who worked him all hours of the day and night, and then gave him the lash for disobedience.
He strode across the Market Place. The vendors were setting out their stalls in front of The Holy Trinity church, and sweeping up the debris of the night before. Rotting vegetables, mouldy fruit and bedding-straw left from the pens of pigs, hens and ducks were swept away into the middle of the street, there to be dispersed by the hooves of horses and donkeys and the tramp of feet from the hordes of townspeople who would shortly descend on them.
‘Good to see thee again, Captain. It’s been a long time.’ The landlord of the inn drew him a tankard of ale. ‘Breakfast?’
Matt nodded. ‘Please. Eggs, ham, beef, everything you’ve got. I shan’t be eating again today. And I’ll also need to hire a horse from you for a few days, maybe a week.’
‘That’s soon done, sir. I’ve got a grand fella, just suit thee fine.’
Matt eased off his boots and stretched his toes. ‘I’m trying to find out about a seaman who I believe is from this town, and I wondered if you know of him. Name of Hope? I don’t know his first name, and in fact I did hear that he’d died, but it may well have been a rumour.’
The landlord pursed his lips. ‘I know most of ’seamen from this town, but I can’t say I know that name.’
Matt took a long draught from the tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘He has a wife I believe, er – Annie, I think she’s called.’
‘Bless thee, sir. They don’t bring their wives in here, not if I can help it, and not that they want to. No, I’m sorry but I can’t help thee there. Now if tha’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and see to breakfast.’
A hearty slap on Matt’s back made him splutter into his ale. He stood up and put out his hand when he saw Gregory Sheppard, captain of the ship Maiden, standing in front of him, a smoking pipe in his mouth which even a wide smile couldn’t dislodge.
‘Good to see you, Greg. Have some breakfast.’
‘Aye, I will. I’m famished. I’ve had nothing but dry tack for the last three days. The Maiden’s been beset with problems since we left home port and I must have a quick turn around.’ He bent his head to whisper. ‘I’ve got a good shipment promised for next week. You could do well to get back to Holland.’ He raised his head and spoke normally. ‘I didn’t see you this trip, where were you?’
Matt rubbed his eyes, he was suddenly very weary and depressed. The loss of Toby was just beginning to hit him. ‘I didn’t manage to get there. I too had problems.’
Greg Sheppard nodded and took his pipe out of his mouth. ‘And who’s this dead seaman that you’re looking for?’
Matt started. He’d just been thinking about Toby, seeing again the body wrapped in sailcloth shooting down below the waves, but not identifying it with his own brother.
‘I heard you,’ Greg persisted, ‘as I came through the door.’ He too took off his boots and stretched his feet onto the table. He gave a sly grin. ‘Or is it his widow that you’re looking for?’
Matt frowned, he hadn’t realized he’d been overheard. Greg would think it great sport to be chasing a comely widow, as he too might have done under different circumstances. They had both done considerable carousing and chasing of agreeable willing females. But Annie Hope is not a comely young widow, he told himself, she is not comely by any means, she is skinny and underfed, anyone can see that by those high cheekbones and enormous eyes, and as for being a widow. ‘Pah.’ He gave an exclamation, she’s probably lying.
‘What? Come on, tell. Who is she?’
‘She’s nobody. Mrs Hope, she calls herself. She’s just someone my brother knows – knew. Knows. Someone my brother knows.’
Greg put his pipe back in his mouth and sucked thoughtfully. ‘And how is your little brother? Getting into trouble with other men’s wives is he?’
Matt hesitated. Greg had been a good friend for a lot of years but he didn’t want to tell him of Toby. Not yet. Not until he’d broken the news to his father. Nor did he want the news to get to the revenue men, and it could if Greg or his men should get caught, which they would sooner or later, for Greg was a hard man who took far more risks than he did himself, his fast rakish schooner was badly scarred from the frequent gun battles with the revenue men.
‘He’s away – gone out of the area for a bit.’
Greg’s grin widened. ‘And left the little filly alone? So while the coast is clear,—?’
The landlord brought in a tray of food before Matt could reply. A dish of eggs and fatty bacon was set in front of them, and slices of roast beef, chicken legs and boiled onions and a crusty pigeon pie were placed on a table near at hand.
They ate hungrily, dipping thick chunks of bread into the egg yolks and mopping up the fat from their platters. The landlord brought more ale in a jug but Matt shook his head. ‘I’ll never get on the horse, let alone stay in the saddle if I have more. You draw a grand brew, landlord.’
He pushed his chair back from the table when he’d finished and reached for his boots. ‘That’ll last me the day. I’ll have to be on my way. I’m visiting my father.’
Greg whistled. ‘I thought you never saw him?’
‘Sometimes I do. Not often. But I have to deliver a message to him.’
‘And the little widow? When are you going to see her?’
Matt shrugged and leaned on the table. Greg was still trenching, his teeth around a chicken leg, grease running down his chin. ‘You’re on the wrong tack. It’s not what you think. I have no interest in the woman, apart from finding out if she is who she says she is. I only know that she told Toby that she was a widow, that her husband had died at sea. She’s not the type of woman I’d go for. You know me.’ He surveyed his friend seriously. ‘I like them sweet-faced and agreeable. This one’s from the gutter and acts like she’s a princess. She’s impudent and opinionated. She gives herself airs and has an accent you could cut with a knife. She annoys me to Hell. She’s got under my skin and I just want to prove that she’s the liar I know she is.’
Greg picked a piece of chicken from his teeth. ‘Who do you want to prove it to? Your brother? Or yourself?’
Matt turned to go, heading for the side door which led out to the yard.
‘And when you’ve proved it,’ Greg shouted after him. ‘What then?’
He didn’t answer. He thought of when he’d impulsively kissed her. What a fool he’d been. What on earth had possessed him? He felt anger burning inside him. And she’d spurned him. Pushed him away as if he was some callow youth trying out his manhood. He felt a pain in his chest as the greasy food fought its way down into his stomach. He shouldn’t have eaten so much or so quickly.
He turned at the door. ‘Why then I can see the look on her face when I tell her that she’s found out – that she’s not who she says she is. She’s probably got some poor cuckold of a husband with half a dozen children waiting for her at home.’
His face tightened as he thought of the possibility of his flippant remark being true and Greg smiled and reached over for more pie.
‘I’m sorry for you, old fellow.’ Greg belched. ‘Really sorry. This woman’s got you well and truly scuppered.’
‘Hogwash. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Matt eyed him angrily. ‘And ease up on the ale, captain. You’re half seas over already. You’ll never get your ship out of harbour.’
Greg put his head back and guffawed. ‘Farewell old shipmate. You’re off course and drifting. It happens to the best of men, but I never thought it would happen to you.’ He gazed down into his tankard and hiccupped. Then he waved it towards Matt standing frozen faced in the doorway. ‘Let’s drink to the little widow – to Mrs Hope; wherever she may be, and whoever she may be.’
It was twelve months since he had been on horseback and two years since he had seen his father. He paid the landlord for the food and the hire and rode out of the yard. He hesitated for a moment before deciding on a route; some of the roads were in a perilous state especially in bad weather, though there were more turnpikes being opened every year which made it easier for a long journey. But today only a light grey drizzle was falling and he knew that by the time he reached the Wolds the weather would have changed.
He decided to ride via the Spring Dyke, a pleasant track where the clear water alongside was now being channelled into Hull, and then onto the village of Anlaby before starting the gentle climb up into the lower reaches of the Wolds. He was loath to take the route by the river towards Hessle in case, by chance, Mrs Hope should cut short her visit to Hull and decide to go back to Toby’s cottage and so meet him on the road. Blasted woman, he thought. I’d be obliged to offer her a ride, and the thought of her being up on the saddle behind him made him very uneasy.
Besides, I might well meet up with Bernard Roxton if he’s still sniffing around the riverbank, and it would take a lot of effort for me not to throttle him with my bare hands. He still blamed the revenue man for Toby’s death and not the unknown soldier.
A two hour ride brought him up to the hamlet of Riplingham where he followed an old watercourse to reach the summit of the dale. He dismounted and let his horse graze while he stretched his legs and surveyed the view. Below him, almost lost in the distance lay the towns of Beverley and Hull and the gleam of the Humber, and in the land between, a rolling multi-shaded landscape of pale spring green and dark woods, lit now by a midday sun.
He swallowed hard. How he loved this countryside. He had been contrary, he knew, in defying his father who wanted him to stay at home and help him run the estate. But as a young man nothing could have been more unacceptable than the thought of staying with a man he considered no more than a petty tyrant, who had no regard for his servants or even his wife’s and children’s desires.
Just a vast sheep walk, he thought as he stood looking down, that’s what it was, nothing more. And I wanted to see the world. If only he had agreed to my going, just for a short time – I would have come back – I surely would have come back. This is my heritage after all, so why didn’t he listen? And then, he wouldn’t have lost Toby either. He should have known that Toby wouldn’t stay without me.
But now as he looked down he saw that changes were taking place. Land was being enclosed, hedges were planted, pasture was being ploughed and cereal crops being sown in its place and the face of the Wolds was changing. Plantations of new trees were growing and copses of young larch were showing the first tips of green needles and high above him he heard the song of skylarks.
He dropped down into the next valley and rode for another half hour, taking tracks framed by hawthorn trees, still green and without their mantle of white May flowers whose perfume used to fill him with delight. Banks of young nettles and cow parsley were pushing their way through an undergrowth of ground ivy, and as he cantered, crushing them beneath heavy hooves and leaping a fast running stream, he came into the dale where his father lived, and which once had been his home.
Well, at least Mrs Rogerson is pleased to see me. He paced the drawing-room where the housekeeper had ushered him. She seemed to be at a loss to know where to put him, there was no fire in here or the library and though the room was clean and elegant with vestiges of his mother’s hand still lingering in the choice of furniture, carpets and hangings, the house had a desolate unlived-in air, no books or flowers or cards on the mantelpiece, no music on the pianoforte, therefore presumably no visitors for his father to entertain.
‘So, you come at last, sir.’ His father made no concession of welcome. A big man, dark as Toby had been, and still handsome despite the glower on his face and the deep red veins around his nose; he simply came into the room and sat in a chair and stared at Matt. No handshake, or pat on the back to welcome home his eldest son.
Perhaps I deserve it. Matt gave a small stiff bow. It has been a long time.
‘How are you, father?’ He doesn’t look well, he thought. He’s not yet fifty, yet looks ten years older.
‘I’m as well as can be with all the work I have to do. It’s not easy at my age, running this place on my own.’
‘What happened to the steward you had last time I came? He seemed a good man.’
‘Pah. He was full of hot air and new-found nonsense. Wanting to do this, that and the other. I had to get rid of him. I’ve only got Jed Harris and he’s not much good, though better than nobody I suppose. At least he does what I tell him and doesn’t argue.’
‘Farmers are enclosing their land, father, it’s more economical. Perhaps you should consider doing the same.’
‘Pah. That’s what the other fellow said. He went over to Sledmere. He’d the cheek to tell me that they’re more enlightened over there. Imagine. Telling me! And this family has been here for generations!’
‘Perhaps it’s time for change. Cereal crops are needed, the population is expanding, commerce is—’
‘What would you know about it?’ His father bellowed at him from the depths of his chair. ‘What would you know when you spend your time between one harbour tavern and another? You know nothing. You’re not even a proper seaman. You’ve not got a bit of gold braid to your name.’
Matt clenched his teeth. This is what had happened last time. He’d come in good faith and they’d finished up having a terrific argument and he’d stormed out of the house vowing he’d never come back again. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m master of my own ship. I have a good crew who obey me. I care nothing for a piece of fancy ribbon.’
He glanced around the room. On a small table by the window was a half full decanter and a small silver tray set with brandy glasses.
‘May I pour us a brandy, sir?’
‘It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?’ his father grunted.
Matt hid a wry smile and looked at the ornate French clock on the mantelpiece. He’d never known his father keep to a strict timetable when a glass of brandy was offered. ‘I think you’re going to need it, sir, and I certainly do. I have some bad news for you.’
His father motioned impatiently towards the table and Matt took off the stopper from the decanter and sniffed the aroma of the golden liquid, then poured a generous measure into two glasses. He gave one to his father and then sat down opposite him.
He took a sip and then with a deep sigh looked across at him. He was startled to see his father gazing steadily at him, his eyes unveiled and beseeching. It was for a second only, then the blue eyes took on their usual cold hardness.
‘Well! What is it? What news? Have you sunk your ship and want some money for another?’
‘Drink your brandy, father. It’s about Toby.’
There was a measure of uncertainty as his father lifted his glass, but he took a sip and growled. ‘What about him? What’s he been up to? Getting into mischief? I always told your mother she ruined that boy.’
‘He’s dead, father.’
Matt wished that there could have been some other means of breaking the news. Three simple words seemed somehow stark and cruel to tell of the ending of a life, especially when that life was still unfledged. He watched his father’s face from over the rim of his glass as he took a deep draught to steady his own nerves and finished off his brandy.
His father’s face seemed to crumple and suddenly grow old and his hand shook as he put his unfinished drink on the table beside his chair. ‘How?’ His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. ‘How did he die?’
Matt took a deep breath and prepared to lie. ‘He decided to come with me on a voyage. He said he needed some sea air. But he caught a fever, and – you know how quickly these things catch hold, – we did what we could for him, but it was no use.’
‘And you’ve brought him back? He can lie with his mother?’
‘No, sir. You know how virulent these fevers are. I daren’t risk it. The men—,’ he stumbled over his words and he fought back tears. ‘You know the procedure, sir, I don’t have to explain?’
His father shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not.’
Matt blew his nose. ‘We gave him a decent sea burial. It seemed fitting. I have a former parson on board, he said a few words, and I as captain, did the same. He’s resting peacefully.’
There was a knock on the door and the housekeeper entered. ‘Begging your pardon sir,’ she addressed Mr Linton. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of lighting a fire in the dining-room and prepared a light supper.’ She turned enquiringly to Matt but addressed her question to her employer. ‘And I wondered if Master Matthias will be staying the night? I’ll need to air the bed.’
‘Yes. Yes. He’ll be staying. Won’t you?’ He looked up suddenly and Matt saw again the appeal in his eyes.
He nodded. ‘I can stay a couple of days, then I must get back to my ship.’ He followed Mrs Rogerson out of the room, ostensibly to wash before supper.
‘I’ll light the fire in your old room, sir,’ she said, ‘and put a brick in the bed whilst you’re at supper.’
He stopped her. ‘Mrs Rogerson. I’m the bringer of bad news, I’m afraid.’ Her face crumpled as he told her. Toby had been everyone’s favourite. His mother’s, Agnes Trott; all the other servants and they had had many in his mother’s day, they all fussed and spoiled the merry, laughing boy.
But no-one was allowed to spoil me, he thought bitterly as he climbed the stairs to his room, leaving Mrs Rogerson weeping her way back to the kitchen. I was but a child and not even my mother was allowed to hug me. It will make him weak, his father had said, and he must grow up to be hard and strong, my eldest son, not a namby-pamby weakling. One day he’ll take over from me and have to make hard decisions, he’ll have tenants and staff to deal with.
He gazed at his reflection in the oak-framed mirror that stood on the table in his old room. A tall, fair-haired, weather-tanned man gazed back at him, where once had been a boy. ‘But I paid you back, didn’t I father?’ he muttered. ‘I paid you back for depriving me of love and affection from everyone but Toby, he was the only one who cared, or dared to care. Everyone else, including my mother was too frightened to defy you.’
He laughed softly at his reflection, and with a start, saw for a second, his brother’s smile on his own lips, that slight gap between his front teeth, which everyone said meant happiness.
‘But I defied you. I scotched your plans. I upped and ran, and in running took away your selfish dreams.’