The Widow’s Secret, page 4
The drive from Whitehaven to Goswell, a village just a few miles away, was lovely, rolling hills giving way to sparkling glimpses of the sea. As Rachel crested the top of the hill leading down into the village, she was struck by its pastoral beauty – a row of pastel-coloured terraced cottages, a plume of smoke curling lazily into the sky; a train pulling out of the station that bisected the village, and a squat Norman church fronting a sheep paddock.
She drove slowly down Goswell’s main street, then took the beach road towards the sea until she found the B&B, a Victorian terraced house with flower boxes under every window and an uninterrupted view of the sea, with its long, sandy sweep of tidal beach.
“The rain’s held off for you,” the woman at the front desk remarked cheerily as Rachel checked in. “I’m afraid I don’t do suppers, but there’s a lovely pub in the middle of the village. Breakfast is anytime you like between seven and nine.”
“Sounds perfect, thank you,” Rachel murmured as she took her key and started to lug her bag up the narrow stairs. Her room was small and cosy, with a brass bedstead, a Victorian washbowl on top of the chest of drawers, and a lovely view of the beach.
Rachel dumped her bag on the floor and sat on the bed, soaking in the sight of the slate-grey sea stretching to an unknown horizon. In the distance, she could just make out the hilly, violet haze of the Isle of Man.
She felt a sudden, surprising sweep of loneliness – something she hardly ever felt, because she liked being alone. She was a solitary creature, always had been, at least since the age of twelve, when she was forced into it by the death of her father, and her mother’s alienation.
Yet for a few seconds, staring out at that endless, empty sea, Rachel felt sorrow roll through her like an echo, and she realized it was, at least in part, because of that heart-shaped handle of the speculum oris. Such a horrible device, and it gave rise to vague and deeply disturbing imaginings of what life aboard a slave ship could have been like, the grief and sorrow of so many that those rotted timbers might once have held – if it really was a slave ship.
Why had it sunk off the coast, so close to Whitehaven’s harbour? And who had been on it?
Suppressing a strange little shiver, Rachel opened her bag and unpacked her things. The excitement of working on a new find was tempered by the knowledge of what kind of ship it could have been, and she couldn’t quite shake the unease she felt about it all. Now that she was settled in the room, she decided to do a quick internet search on the slave trade in Whitehaven. She was soon clicking link after link, frowning as she scanned the information she’d had no idea about, jotting down the relevant details.
Her phone buzzed, and she saw it was Anthony ringing again. This time she decided to take it.
“Hello, I’m here.” She tried to sound cheerful.
“Thank goodness. I was getting worried.”
“There was no need.”
“I can’t help it, Rach. You’re my wife. That’s the way I am.” He sounded light, friendly, but his words still rankled with the things he wasn’t saying but she knew he was implying. Still, Rachel let it all pass over her. She wasn’t going to be snippy with him now. She wasn’t. “So what’s the wreck like?” Anthony asked.
“I haven’t seen it yet, besides some drone footage, but…” She hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to voice her suspicions about the nature of the ship to her husband.
Anthony didn’t really get what she did. He listened, of course; he could be a wonderful listener. But he didn’t understand the logistics, or the legalities, or even her interest in maritime archaeology, the importance of a site or a find. He was a chef; he lived in the present, the tangible, the experienced, and her fascination with the past perplexed him. Really, they came at life from completely opposite ends. But shouldn’t that mean they met in the middle?
“Rach?” he prompted, and she let out a weary breath.
“I viewed some of the wreckage and I think… I think the ship might have been a slave ship.”
“A slave ship? In Cumbria?”
“Yes, Whitehaven had a small slave trade in the mid-1700s. Nothing to rival Liverpool or Bristol, but still.” She checked the notes she’d scrawled on the back of an envelope. “Between 1750 and 1769, there were over sixty ships involved in the trade that sailed from Whitehaven to Africa and then the West Indies, before coming back again.”
“Huh. I had no idea.”
She hadn’t either, really; living in Bristol, of course, she knew all about its horrible history with the slave trade, and how much of the city had been built on its wretched back. But Whitehaven, a forgettable market town in the wild reaches of Cumbria? “Apparently, in the eighteenth century, it was a port rivalling that of Liverpool or even London, although it’s a bit hard to see that now.”
“So what makes you think it’s a slave ship?”
“I found a device.” Again she had the urge to shiver, as though something were raking along her skin. “It’s horrible. Used to force open the mouths of slaves when they were trying to starve themselves.”
“How awful.” Anthony paused, and she could picture him shaking his head, that slow back and forth. “I can’t even imagine it.”
“Nor can I. But if it is a slave ship, it could be an important discovery. Very few wrecks of slave ships have ever been found. The São José off the coast of Africa, the Clotilda in the States – there’s a whole group of archaeologists dedicated to what is called the Slave Wrecks Project.”
“Then shouldn’t they be involved?”
A little stung, Rachel replied a bit sharply, “I was the one the mining company rang. I’m the one here.”
“I know, but if there are already experts available…”
Rachel knew he had a point, just as she knew he wasn’t really interested in how much she loved her work. What he really wanted was her back home, going to dinner with their friends. She suppressed a sigh. “Did you reschedule the dinner?”
A pause, and then Anthony said in a rather diffident voice, “Actually, no. We decided to go ahead and meet up just the three of us, since it’s so hard to find a date that works for everyone.” Another pause, this one seeming laden. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Oh. Right.” Rachel sifted through her jumbled feelings and decided she didn’t mind. Why should she? Elspeth and Ken were more Anthony’s friends than hers; they’d met when he’d catered a private dinner party for them. Apparently he’d stayed afterwards, drinking whisky and chatting into the small hours of the morning. Rachel had been a later addition, the invariable add-on. “Well, I hope you have fun.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Another silence, this one definitely becoming tense. Rachel felt as if she should apologize, but for what? All she’d done was go to work, just as Anthony did, night after night, and she didn’t complain. Yet she knew it was different; that she was different. And she knew Anthony knew it as well.
“I should go,” she finally said. “I haven’t eaten yet, and I think tomorrow will be a busy day.”
“All right. Let me know how it goes.”
“I will.” She hung up without saying goodbye, not out of pique, but because that was simply the way she ended calls, and as she stared out at the sea afterwards, she wondered how it was possible a conversation with someone you loved could make you feel even lonelier than when you’d been sitting by yourself.
It was her fault, she acknowledged not for the first time as she grabbed her coat and headed out to the pub the proprietor of the B&B had mentioned. The air was still damp and smelled of coal smoke, the main street heading steeply uphill. Rachel walked briskly, her hands swinging at her sides, her head down, as was her way.
Yes, it was her fault. She didn’t know how to be a wife. She certainly hadn’t learned the art from her mother, and she’d lived most of her adult life alone, moving from place to place, first for her various degrees, and then on different digs and work sites.
She’d never figured out how to share her life, her thoughts, her fears and dreams. Even the prospect of doing so made her wince and cringe. She didn’t know how to invite people in, something so many others found easy. She had a few friends, but she kept them at a bit of a distance, out of habit or instinct, and she’d always been okay with that. She hadn’t wanted more.
As for her most intimate relationship, she found it hard work. She didn’t want to, tried for it not to be, but it was all the same. All too often she prickled, she resisted, she snapped; she knew all that, and yet she couldn’t keep herself from doing it.
In a dark, dusty corner of her heart, she feared that Anthony would tire of her one day – tire of her diffidence and distance and the coolness that entered her voice without her even realizing it. He would tire of it all and he would leave her. She wouldn’t blame him, either, and part of her wondered if it would come as a relief, even as another part quelled in terror at the thought. She didn’t want to be left. Not again.
The pub was full of noise and laughter as Rachel opened the door, ducking her head under the low stone lintel. A fire burned cheerily in a large stone fireplace, and groups of people had moved tables and chairs together to create huddles of bodies and conversation, the clink of glasses punctuated by a sudden loud laugh.
Rachel made her way to a table for two in the corner at the back, trying not to feel even worse than she had alone in her room. At the table near her several women were laughing and talking expansively, gesturing with their hands as one woman stood up and began to top up all their glasses.
“Oh Jane, really, I shouldn’t.”
“Nonsense, we’re celebrating. It’s half-term!” The woman who was pouring let out a slightly manic laugh. “All our lovely children home for an entire week. What could be better?”
This was met with a chorus of groans as well as laughter, and the clink of refreshed glasses raised in a toast. Rachel watched them covertly, fascinated despite herself.
They were like an alien breed, these women, with their children and their husbands, their busy lives, full of family and friends and evenings out. They were all dressed up for a night out together, with make-up and jewellery, high-heeled boots and perfume. Rachel’s face was scrubbed clean; she was wearing old jeans and a ratty fleece, and her husband was going to dinner without her.
As for children, that was a subject she didn’t let herself think about very often. At thirty-seven, it was getting too late anyway – a fact that Anthony had reminded her of more than once. She’d been putting him off for one reason or another – because they hadn’t been married for long, because work was so busy – but eventually she wouldn’t be able to. He’d want to know why, and she didn’t know if she had an answer, or at least one he’d accept.
“Are you really going camping, Ellen?” another woman at the table asked, and Rachel watched out of the corner of her eye as a woman with sandy, frizzy hair and a friendly, open face gave a comical groan. “Yes, Andrew convinced me. I don’t know how. Even Annabel has agreed, and you know what she’s like.”
“Chloe must be thrilled, though. She loves camping. She and Merrie rigged up an old tent in the garden last summer. Do you remember?” the woman who had refilled their wine glasses, Jane, said fondly. “It poured with rain, but they insisted on staying out the whole night, daft things.”
“I’m sure it will be fun.” This from the quietest member of the group, a dark-haired woman with sad-looking eyes and a thoughtful smile.
“I hope so, Marin. I hope so.” Ellen pretended to shudder before throwing back a large swallow of wine.
Jane noticed Rachel and looked puzzled, but then offered her a cautiously friendly smile. Rachel couldn’t make herself return it as she looked quickly away, picking up the laminated menu and studying it far too intently. Her cheeks burned as she realized she’d been caught blatantly eavesdropping, and whatever for? She didn’t know these women. She certainly didn’t care about them.
“What can I get you, love?” a waitress asked as she came up to Rachel’s table with a friendly smile.
“Umm… the veggie lasagne, please.” Rachel glanced back at the menu. “And a glass of white wine.”
“Pinot Grigio do you?”
“Yes, fine, thanks.” She handed the woman the menu with a distracted smile, and to her dismay she caught Jane’s eye again.
Jane waved her glass merrily at her. “I can heartily recommend the Pinot Grigio.”
The other two women with her – Ellen and Marin, Rachel remembered they were called – twisted round in their seats to give her looks of unabashed curiosity.
Rachel managed a tight smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
An uncomfortable silence lingered as they all looked at each other, and with nothing else to do, Rachel reached for her phone. No signal, but she pretended there was, thumbing some random icons and trying to look intent.
After what felt like several minutes but surely could only have been a few seconds, the women turned back around and resumed their conversation.
“Where is it you’re camping, Ellen?”
“Near Ravenglass.”
“So pretty.”
“What about you, Marin? What are you and Joss up to? Is Rebecca back from uni yet?”
“Not yet, but we’re driving up to Edinburgh mid-week to fetch her. She’s got so much stuff.”
Rachel let the conversation drift over her, this impossible, unobtainable world she had never felt a part of – people busy and involved, cheerful and excited.
She thought of her own desperately quiet childhood, silent dinners, empty evenings, her father’s absence between her and her mother like an awful, impossible chasm. When she’d left for uni, she hadn’t looked back. At least she’d tried not to, and yet when it came to her mother, Rachel always found herself trying. Hoping.
When the waitress came back with her wine, she thanked her and downed half of it in two quick gulps, craving the blunting of all her edges. Her phone had signal now, and she pulled up her internet browser, determined to spend the time researching slave ships rather than listen to a conversation she was not a part of, and that made her feel as if she was missing something, and always would be.
She touched the search bar and started typing: “Slave ships of Whitehaven, shipwrecks” and then waited for the results to load.
CHAPTER FOUR
Abigail
Whitehaven, 1763
“His name is Mr Fenton, and he is a tobacco trader. He was a sea captain at the start, but now he merely invests. He owns one ship, and he has recently moved to Whitehaven from Liverpool. His family is from Furness.”
Abigail put down her neglected needlework to stare at her mother in confusion. “Who are you talking about, Mama?”
“Why, the gentleman, of course!” Caroline came into the sitting room, her face alight with purposeful excitement. “The gentleman from the musical evening who could not keep his eyes off you, I might add!”
Abigail blushed and looked away. She knew, of course, whom her mother was talking about, although the description, as it often was with her mama, was exaggerated. Mr Fenton had most certainly been able to keep his eyes off her, and had done so for most of the evening.
And yet, the memory of his smile, that teasing glint in his eyes, had kept her awake for the last three nights, sweetly revisiting it. It was little to build a dream on, but one used what one had, and all Abigail possessed was a smile – and now a name.
“Mr Fenton, you say? From Furness?”
“Indeed. His father was an innkeeper.”
“What sort of inn?” Abigail asked. She was not sure how she felt about that; she pictured a brawny man with a red face and sleeves rolled up, rolling barrels of beer.
“Oh la, what does it matter?” Caroline dismissed. “The important thing surely is that he has made his own fortune.”
“Has he a fortune?”
“One ship, and,” Caroline paused, imparting this bit of information with deliberate relish, “he intends to commission the building of a second upon his marriage.”
“His marriage!” Abigail couldn’t keep the disappointment from seeping into her voice as it curdled her insides. “He is to be wed?”
“Faith, child, not yet!” Caroline’s smile was wide as she plumped herself in a chair by the fire, quite overcome by her verbal exertions. “He intends to be, that is all. He has recently come to Whitehaven to set himself up. He is already three and thirty. I am sure he is quite ready to find a wife.”
“He has a house here?”
“He is renting rooms on Lowther Street.”
“Rooms…” Not that she minded, of course, but Abigail could see already that Mr Fenton was not quite the brilliant catch her mother made him out to be. The son of an innkeeper, with one ship and a set of rented rooms – Georgiana Tamworth would almost certainly turn her nose up at such an offer. “Where did you learn all this?” she asked her mother.
“From Mrs Tamworth. Mr Fenton has already been introduced to them through a mutual acquaintance, and she will make our own introductions presently.”
“She will?” Sourly Abigail wondered how much that had cost her father. The Tamworths’ generosity knew no bounds, it seemed, at least as far as her father’s purse was concerned.
“Yes, and he shall come to supper.” Caroline could not resist bringing her hands together in a little clap. “Abigail, my dear, this could be the beginning of all our hopes.”
Which made Abigail both wince and wish, an uncomfortable combination. “We do not even know him, Mama –”
“He is a young gentleman of means! You have taken his fancy! And he is new to Whitehaven.”
This made Abigail blush, along with everything else. Yes, Mr Fenton was newly come to Whitehaven, but if he hadn’t heard the whispers about her yet, he surely would. “Even so –”
