The Master's Wife Read online

  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.

  Chapter Two

  Caseley 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.

  ‘I need no reminder.’

  She tipped her head in acknowledgment as a pulse throbbed in her throat. ‘Then surely you see I can be useful.’ As the silence stretched her restraint crumbled. ‘You must let me – I cannot stand – everywhere I turn I see them. I hear their voices.’

  He grasped her hand, held it to his chest. It was the first spontaneous move he had made in nearly a year. She fought the urge to lean on him and weep.

  ‘We can move. I’ll sell the house –’

  ‘No! No. I love this house. But I need to leave it for a while.’ She needed far more than that. She wanted the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had chosen her, with her damaged foot and untameable chestnut hair, above all the others he might have had. But after eight years, two children and tragedy, they were no longer the same people. There was no going back, so the only way was forward. Even at the risk of more pain she could not continue living as she was.

  ‘I love this place. But being here all day – and you have said so little.’

  ‘You thought I didn’t care?’ His expression was appalled.

  ‘No, I never made that mistake. I know you feel deeply. But you hold your emotions under iron control. Your stoicism – I felt abandoned, Jago.’

  As he looked away she saw the muscles bunch in his jaw. He was the only man she had ever loved. She had pledged him her heart and soul. But no longer would she accept being pushed to the fringes of his life.

  Outside the door the housekeeper coughed loudly.

  Jago released her hand. Caseley remembered a time when he would not have done so, a time when he never missed an opportunity to touch. Even outside the privacy of their bedroom they had found comfort and promise in the brush of fingers, linked arms, his gloved hand covering hers, confidences whispered and private smiles that made words unnecessary. It seemed so very long ago.

  ‘Come in, Rosina.’ Caseley crossed to sit on a sofa and waited while Rosina placed a tray of tea on a low table in front of her. ‘Ask Ben to fetch my trunk down from the attic, will you?’

  The housekeeper’s eyebrows shot up. Then she frowned and opened her mouth. Caseley didn’t give her the chance.

  ‘Now, please? I’ll be with you shortly. There’s a lot to do.’

  Closing it again, Rosina bobbed a stiff curtsey, and with lips pursed in anxious disapproval, she sailed out.

  Jago shook his dark head. ‘I cannot like it.’

  Caseley’s hand trembled as she poured a little milk into each of the bone china cups. Setting the jug down, she reached for the teapot. Then she spoke. ‘I do not ask you to. But for this at least you need me.’ The silence that followed hummed with tension and too much left unsaid. He broke it.

  ‘Forgive me if I do not join you. I must return to the yard.’ He paused at the door. ‘Caseley, are you sure –’

  She didn’t let him finish. ‘Both trunks will be packed and ready to be carried to the ship first thing in the morning. Will you hire a cab?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll be quicker for Hammer and Jimbo to collect them by boat from the slipway across the road. Have your dinner. Don’t wait for me.’ He left.

  The front door closed. She poured tea then set the pot down carefully.

  Was she sure? No, she wasn’t. But if she didn’t get away she would go mad.

  Jago strode through the town. He should have refused, but how could he argue with her need to escape the constant reminder of her loss? Though slender as a reed, she had always been strong. Now her pale fragility, emphasised by her black mourning gowns, increased his guilt.

  She could not blame him more than he blamed himself. Had he been at home – it would have made no difference. Dr Vigurs had assured him that Mrs Barata, Rosina and Liza-Jane had done everything possible. Indeed, he had been forced to speak very sharply to Mrs Barata to get her to rest at all.

  What tore at Jago was that for those final terrible days, and afterwards, he had not been here to comfort and support her. At sea, he had not even known his sons were ill. By the time he arrived back in Falmouth, they were buried. When his family had needed him most he had failed them. How did he live with that? A man was supposed to protect those he loved.

  His sons, two fine boys, were gone. His beloved wife, the light of his life, was suffering and he couldn’t put it right. His helplessness made him ashamed and deepened his guilt. He had not protected. But he could provide.

  In the past ten months he had sailed to the Azores for fruit and twice to Halifax in Canada for timber. The Atlantic in winter was wild and lashed by storms. At least Egypt promised warmth.

  ‘You can’t!’ Rosina wrung her hands. ‘You aren’t thinking straight. Look at you. Lost pounds, you have. A strong breeze would blow you over.’

  ‘I’m going, Rosina, and that’s final. What I want you to do is help me sort out which clothes to take.’

  ‘Listen, you got more sense than to take any notice of gossip –’

  ‘What are they saying?’ Caseley pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone to ease the sharp pain beneath. ‘Poor Caseley Barata lost her sons and cannot keep her husband happy?’

  Grabbing her shoulders, Rosina shook her. ‘You stop that right now! None of this is your fault. You’re still grieving. You need looking after. Last thing you should be doing is gadding off to some heathen country on the other side of the world.’

  Caseley pulled open a drawer and took out several neatly folded shifts of fine linen. ‘It will be hot there, so –’

  ‘Beg y’ pardon, ma’am,’ Liza-Jane said, poking her head around the door. ‘Your brother have just come. I’ve put ’n in the morning room.’

  Laying the shifts on the bed cover, Caseley smoothed the front of her black silk dress. She never enjoyed her brother’s visits. Thankfully, they were rare. What misfortune had befallen him this time?

  ‘You wanted me out of my mourning clothes, Rosina. You have your wish.’

  ‘Listen, bird –’

  ‘I cannot wear black there. ’ Caseley turned at the door. ‘Questions would be asked. I would have to explain. I could not bear –’

  Hurrying across,
Rosina hugged her. ‘All right, my sweetheart. I don’t like it, not at all I don’t. But if you’re set on going –’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Right, you’ll want your lightest dresses. I got a length of holly green ribbon. Won’t take me long to add a bit of trim to your white spotted muslin. There’ll be enough to trim your second-best straw bonnet. The lilac is all right as it is and so’s your floral cotton. For the boat you can wear that navy jacket and skirt. I’ll pack the gold and green dress in case you got to go anywhere formal. You’ll want bed linen, towels, and I’ll put all your underwear in a spare pillowcase.’ She sighed. ‘You best get on down and see what your brother want. He’ll be whingeing about something. Or on the scrounge. ’Tis the only time he ever come near the place.’

  Entering the morning room, Caseley saw her brother sprawled in a chair. His clothes were unkempt, his hair greasy and overlong. His eyes were bloodshot, his pallor unhealthy, but at least he was sober.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ralph. How are you?’

  ‘As if you care.’ He gazed round the room with a dissatisfied frown.

  Smothering a sigh, Caseley perched on the edge of a chair and folded her hands. ‘Of course I care, you’re my brother and I –’

  ‘Then let me come and live here. You can’t say now that you don’t have room.’

  Air hissed between Caseley’s teeth at his casual cruelty. He didn’t even notice.

  ‘It’s not fair. I’m no good at looking after myself. George Trembath is refusing to pay for his portrait. All right, it was a few weeks late. But a painting takes as long as it takes. Do you know what he called it? A travesty. Perhaps that’s what I’ll call him: Travesty Trembath. The man has no taste. He wouldn’t recognise talent if it jumped up and bit him on the a –’

  ‘Ralph, was there a reason for this visit? Only I’m rather busy.’

  ‘Doing what?’ he sneered. ‘You really ought to stop wearing black. You look positively Gothic.’

  Caseley stood up. ‘I’m going to Egypt.’

  Ralph sat up. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No. I’m sailing with Jago. He has business there.’