River of Destiny

‘You mean she’s expecting?’ Daniel frowned.

‘Maybe. And if so,’ Susan picked up a cloth to pad her hands against the heat of the pan, ‘whose is it, that’s the question.’ She glanced at him coquettishly.

Dan frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be spreading gossip like that, Susan. And nor should Molly. She’d be sent off if anyone heard she’d been talking about the folk at the Hall.’ He stood up and reached for the cider flagon from the dresser. ‘No.’ He held up his hand as his wife opened her mouth to continue. ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear any more.’

He didn’t want even to think about the squire’s new wife. There had been something deeply unsettling in the way Emily Crosby had looked at him as he had stooped to take her foot in his cupped hands and tossed her up onto the squire’s bay cob, and the way she had trailed her fingers across his shoulder and, just for a fraction of a second, across his cheek as she reached down for the rein.

He shod the mare next morning with no trouble, and sent her up to the Hall with one of the farm boys. There was no sign of her ladyship and no word from Molly. Dan straightened his back for a moment, his hands deep in the pocket of his heavy leather apron, eyeing the pair of Suffolk punches awaiting his attention in the yard as two of the men manoeuvred a heavy wagon out of one of the barns. Behind him the boy, Benjamin, was renewing his efforts with the huge pair of bellows. Dan glanced once down at the river where a heavy barge was making its way slowly on the top of the tide towards Woodbridge, then he turned again into the forge and after a moment’s consideration chose a new shoe from the pile in the corner.

Ken Lloyd was sitting in the cockpit of the Lady Grace, a can of lager in one hand and an oily cloth in the other. He had spent all morning working on the engine. He threw down the cloth, wiped his hands on the knees of his overalls and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Over his head the halyards were tapping against the mast; he could feel the pull of the tide jerking the boat gently at her mooring. He glanced down at his mobile, lying on the seat. It was switched off. If Zoë wanted anything she could come down and call from the landing stage or get in the car and go into town herself. He looked lazily across at the neighbouring boat. It had sailed in earlier while he was distracted by the engine and he had paid little attention as its skipper had turned into wind, neatly picked up the mooring, then climbed down into the dinghy and rowed towards the shore. He had vaguely noted a tall, dark-haired man, seen the sail bag tossed onto the boards of the small boat, then seen him tie up at the landing stage and stride up through the woods towards the barns. He studied the boat now. Curlew. He saw the name on her stern as she swung to the mooring. A neat, seaworthy little craft with tan sails and, as far as he could see, no engine at all.

Losing interest he scanned the far bank. Slowly the tide was beginning to cover the saltmarsh on the edge of the river. He could see a family walking down the path in the distance, two dogs running ahead of them. It would be perfect for sailing soon. If he could persuade Zoë to come with him they could take the Lady down-river, maybe stop for a bite of lunch at a pub. With a satisfied grin he leaned across and picking up the mobile he switched it on and pressed speed dial.

There was no reply.

Emily Crosby was sitting in the library, writing a letter. Or at least she was seated at a table in front of the window, a pen in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on the distant farm buildings beyond the park and the pasture, where the land sloped down towards the river. The group of old barns clustered in a slight hollow of the gentle hillside where oak and birch woodlands, interspersed here and there with great forest pines, lined the river bank. She could see the blue smoke rising from the chimney of the forge and she smiled. She couldn’t get the image of Daniel Smith out of her head.

She had been transfixed by the beauty of his body, clad only in his leather-patched trousers as he washed at the pump yesterday, the rippling muscles, the tanned skin which betrayed the fact that he was often outside without his shirt and jerkin. She smiled to herself at the memory of his embarrassment at the sight of her as he pulled his shirt from where he had thrown it across the shafts of one of the farm wagons and dragged it on over his head. She could feel her body reacting at the memory and unconsciously her hand strayed to her bodice, stroking the swell of her breasts through the fine muslin of her gown.

‘Emily?’ The door opened and Henry Crosby walked in. He paused for a moment, a slight man, in his early forties, his face pale, his hair already thinning at his temples, and looked at the table, frowning. ‘Who are you writing to?’

She grimaced. ‘Mama. Except I haven’t started yet. It is such a lovely morning and I was staring out across the fields. Look at the colour of the trees, Henry. They are like fire in the sunshine.’

She turned back towards the desk, as he walked across the room towards her. She could smell the pomade he wore on his hair, and the less pleasant mustiness of his shirt. He paused behind her and she could sense him looking down over her shoulder. She had written, ‘Dear Mama, How are you?’ That was all. It seemed to satisfy him, however. ‘How are you feeling, Emily?’ he enquired after a few moments’ silence. ‘Beaton said you were unwell yesterday.’

Her fingers tightened on her pen. She did not look at him. Was it impossible to keep anything to oneself in this damnable house? Molly had seen her vomiting, carried away the chamber pot, and of course she had to have told Mrs Field, the housekeeper, who had wasted no time in telling Beaton, the butler, who had probably relayed it round the village. By now the news had probably reached Ipswich via the carrier and by tomorrow it would be in London. ‘I am well enough today, thank you, Henry. I think I must have eaten something disagreeable. Mrs Davy’s oyster pie has made me sick before.’

‘So, you’re not –’ He paused, unable to proceed or hide the disappointment in his tone.

‘No, I’m not, Henry. I’m sorry.’

He reached out and almost timidly touched her shoulder. ‘So am I,’ he said.

She tensed. There was something in his tone which was unsettling. She turned and looked up at him. ‘It will happen, Henry.’

He nodded. ‘Do you think,’ again he paused, ‘do you think you ride too much, my dear?’

‘Ride too much?’ She pushed her chair back abruptly and stood up. Standing as they were, side by side, she was a good two inches taller than he. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, maybe it is bad for you to go thundering around the countryside every day the way you do. And yet again yesterday you went out unescorted in spite of my express instructions –’

‘Instructions!’ she echoed, her voice rising. ‘You do not instruct me what I may and may not do, Henry.’

‘But I am your husband, Emily. It is my duty to look after you and make sure you are not too headstrong. Your father said you needed a firm hand.’ He looked unhappy as he stared past her, unable to meet her eye.

‘My father may have used a firm hand,’ she retorted. ‘You may not. If I wish to ride alone, I shall.’ She threw down her pen and swept past him towards the door. ‘In fact I shall go and ride this morning.’

‘But my dear –’ he protested.

She did not choose to hear him. Pulling open the library door she swept out into the hall.

‘– we have company for luncheon,’ he went on softly, his voice lost in the empty room. He moved closer to the window and stood staring out. The tide was high. In spite of the sunlight up here illuminating the fields and woods, a hazy mist was forming over the water and he could see what looked uncommonly like a Viking longship forging slowly through it, heading up-river towards Woodbridge. He frowned for a moment, puzzled and strangely uneasy as he studied the single short mast, the broad curved sail, the banks of oars, then he smiled, nodding, pleased at the distraction. It must be some new vessel belonging to one of his neighbours. He stared at it until the fog closed in and swallowed the image as though it had never been.

‘Where the hell were you?’ Ken strode into the kitchen and confronted Zoë as she put the last of Leo’s vegetables into the bottom of the fridge.

‘I walked over to see our new neighbour. He came back this morning.’

Ken swung to stare out of the window, following her pointing finger. ‘The Old Forge?’

She nodded. ‘Nice man. He gave me those flowers from his garden.’ She pointed to the vase on the centre of the table.

‘I wanted us to go sailing.’ Ken had already lost interest.

‘We still can. It will only take me a minute to change.’ She manfully ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. It had developed into a quiet day with mellow sunlight playing on the water. It would be lovely on the boat.

‘It’s too late now.’

‘Why?’

‘If you’d come when I rang we would have had time to get down-river and back.’ Ken was a small wiry man, still handsome, with sandy hair and grey-green eyes. His face, cheeks windblown and threaded with small red veins, was a picture of discontent.

‘We still have.’ Zoë watched as he washed his oily hands at the sink. ‘Give me two minutes, then I’ll throw a baguette and some brie and salad into a basket and we can be down on the boat in less than half an hour and have a picnic.’ She was already opening the door of the fridge, taking out the cheese. She changed the subject, her voice deliberately casual, trying to diffuse his irritation. ‘Did you see the Viking ship go up-river? It was incredibly beautiful. With a huge billowing sail. They must be having some sort of regatta in Woodbridge.’

‘If they are I haven’t heard about it.’ He was drying his hands now. He was going to let her persuade him but he was going to make her work at it. ‘You can’t have seen a boat go up-river though. There isn’t enough water for anything with any draught to it. The tide has only just turned.’

She didn’t argue. Having thrown the picnic together, she ran upstairs to grab a jacket and pull on her sailing shoes.

It was lovely on the river, she had to admit it. The gentle breeze was against them and Ken didn’t bother to raise the sails as the engine purred smoothly into action and they made their way slowly down the main fairway, past the saltings, past deserted anchored yachts, past the crowds on the terrace outside the pub at Waldringfield, the tables shaded by blue and white umbrellas, then on down round the bend.

‘What was he like?’ Ken said at last. He was sitting back, his arm over the tiller, squinting at the glare on the water.

‘Who?’

‘Our neighbour.’ He glanced at her.

‘Nice enough. A bit prickly to start with.’ She described him.

‘I remember Steve telling me about him. He was messing about with some sort of metal working and he wasn’t wearing a face guard. Something exploded.’ Ken leaned forward and helped himself to another crusty sandwich. Zoë had made a pile of them in the cabin as they’d headed down-river.

‘Rosemary didn’t say.’

‘Stupid woman.’ It seemed a general comment rather than a criticism of her capacity to gossip. ‘You know what she’s doing?’ He threw a piece of crust overboard. ‘She’s involved with some group of walkers, taking on the local farmer about rights of way. Steve says it’s a nightmare. He loves walking but it’s anything for a quiet life with him; she’s the one. She wants the path to take some short cut across a field and all the locals are up in arms. Stupid woman!’ He repeated the phrase with some gusto. ‘If you’re going for a walk from nowhere to nowhere, for the sake of just going for a walk, why would you want to take a short cut, for heaven’s sake?’ He narrowed his eyes, adjusting the course slightly to pass another boat coming upstream under sail.

‘She strikes me as being a bit of an obsessive,’ Zoë said. She climbed out of the cabin and sat down opposite him.

‘Typical childless woman!’ Ken snorted. ‘Needs something to keep her occupied.’

‘Does that go for me too, then?’ Zoë didn’t look at him. ‘My need for a job to keep me occupied.’