Different Tides Read online

  Zachariah smiled as he turned to her. ‘She’ll jump to conclusions, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay she will. Would you like me to pour the coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  She handed him a muffin, thick with a crunchy sugar crusting and with butter melting from its steaming innards, and placed his coffee on the table next to him. When he reached out for it she noticed some blood had seeped through the bandage. ‘How are your hands after the sleigh ride?’

  ‘A little sore … and don’t tell me I should have listened to you, because I already know it.’

  She made her eyes as round and as innocent as she could, but couldn’t resist a response. ‘As if I’d claim such a satisfying victory at the expense of my employer.’

  Zachariah laughed. ‘Stop smirking and eat your muffin. I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have no intention of discussing it with a mouthful of crumbs, so eat.’

  Perhaps he was going to dismiss her. No, he wouldn’t have offered her refreshment. He would have sat behind his desk and been distantly correct. Miss Morris. I’ve decided to terminate your services …

  She bit into her muffin and it burst into her mouth with a buttery soft explosion. Not when there’s food like this around, Zachariah Fleet, she thought, and closed her eyes. ‘Mmmm!’

  She washed it down with the coffee then dabbed her mouth with a white starched table napkin and gazed at him. ‘That was delicious. What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know how to say it, so have been tossing it around in my mind.’

  ‘Goodness … is it something so bad then, Zachariah?’

  ‘It depends how you feel about it.’

  ‘I won’t know that until you tell me.’

  He took a sip of his coffee. ‘I brought you here under false pretences, Clemmie. You see, my dear, there was a legacy involved. John tracked the likely recipient down, and that was you. But we needed to check if you were the right person.’

  ‘Probably not, because I don’t know anyone who would leave me anything.’

  ‘The legacy came through your father’s family.’

  ‘Howard Morris? But he’d already paid for my education.’

  ‘The legacy originated from his mother.’

  ‘If I’d had a living grandmother my mother would have taken me to her, surely.’

  ‘Perhaps she did, and you’ve forgotten. Remember, you were only a child when you and she parted company.’

  ‘I’d have remembered a grandmother. It’s possible she disapproved of my mother and disowned her. But I think my mother would have told me.’

  ‘John has to deal with facts, not supposition born of sentiment.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that. Why is this legacy such a problem?’

  ‘Recently, another young woman stepped forward with a claim to it. Her father was also Howard Morris, who died at the battle of Waterloo.’

  ‘Oh … I see.’ She frowned as her mind sifted through the possibilities. ‘Yes … I really think I do see. I have a half-sister. What’s her name?’

  ‘Alexandra. She didn’t know she was a foundling until a few weeks ago when John and I went to see her. She was raised by foster parents.’

  ‘Poor Alexandra.’

  ‘You needn’t feel sorry for her. She loved her foster parents and they loved her. In fact, she would have had a better, and more secure upbringing than you had.’

  ‘What does my half-sister look like? Are we alike?’

  ‘Alexandra is exceedingly fair, and has many social graces. She’s taller than you, with blue eyes. The resemblance between you isn’t marked, but I haven’t really tried to make any comparisons.’

  But he’d noticed that Alexandra was exceedingly fair with blue eyes, and had been brimming with social graces. Had he looked past the surface? ‘Is she unmarried?’

  ‘Yes, she’s unmarried, but I’m sure she’ll make an advantageous marriage, since she’s been brought up with that aim in life. I’m inviting her to Martingale House along with Julia and John Beck in the New Year, so you can meet her and get to know her. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I mind? This is your home and I’m just a servant in it. You can invite anyone you like to stay here.’

  ‘You’re put out. You know you’re more than just a servant to me. I rely on you, and I’ve grown to trust you with all that is dear to me. You know more about me than anyone, except John and Julia Beck.’

  She was acting like a sulky brat, she knew. She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile to her face. How could she feel so threatened by a complete stranger – someone she’d never met? ‘It seems odd to suddenly discover I might have a half-sister. May I ask you something, which you might find a bit indelicate?’

  He took her hands in his. ‘I think I know what you’re going to ask and we don’t know which of you is his legitimate daughter yet. You see, it appears that Howard Morris was married to two different women at once, and you and Alexandra were born around the same time.’

  ‘I see … at least, I think I do.’

  ‘I imagine John Beck will soon sort it out. He’s acquainted with someone in London who has access to the records. He’s going to try and find out more, and will want to speak to you again when he’s here. There are some aspects of this puzzle that don’t quite add up. When he’s sure, one of you will be entitled to the legacy. ‘Would you like to know the amount involved?’

  ‘I don’t want to have high expectations of something that might come to nothing. Do you think Alexandra will like me?’

  His expression was one of dubiety. ‘As to that, we can only wait and see. Is it important to you that she does?’

  ‘If I’m to acquire a sister, it would be pleasant if we got on well.’

  And that, thought Zachariah, might not be possible. Alexandra knew what she wanted, and despite her assumed airs and graces she would always put herself first.

  He’d come to realize that Clementine was a tender flower. She wanted to please everyone, and was willing to allow herself to be taken advantage of in the quest to achieve that. She was argumentative, yes, but that fierceness hid her soft nature. It formed a barrier against hurt. She wanted to love and be loved, and that was easily transferred to the children, who’d reached out to her in their own need.

  Goodness, what a house full of misfits they were – all waifs and strays, who, one way or another, had been abandoned by those who had given them life. He had it in him to make them all whole. He impaled a stray curl of gold-tinted hair on his finger and moved it from the back of her ear to the front so it lay against her cheek. Her skin was a pale, flawless covering over her fine bones. ‘It belongs there.’

  ‘It tickles my face when the wind blows.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell the wind to stop blowing. I like you a lot, Clemmie, and so do the children. Will that do for now?’

  She nodded.

  He’d not set out to make her cry, but a pair of identical tears rolled from the depth of her soft brown eyes and tracked down her cheeks. She wasn’t being fair to him.

  ‘Stop crying,’ he said, his voice harsh as he fought the instinct to pull her into his arms. He didn’t want to feel like this about her, so soft and guilty, and leaving himself open to hurt and disappointment.

  She backed away from him. Dashing the tears away with a corner of her shawl she turned and walked away, stiff-backed.

  She was almost at the door when he said, ‘Come back. I haven’t finished our discussion.’

  She stopped. ‘Then finish it. You have ten seconds.’

  He waited, taking a couple of deep slow breaths to hold his anger in check, then said, when the tenth tick of the clock told him his time had expired, ‘I apologize … I hate it when you cry, I never know what I’ve done or said to cause it.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything to cause it.’

  ‘Then why the devil are you crying?’

  She turned, her face alm
ost tragic. ‘You said you liked me.’

  ‘Well, what’s so wrong with that when I do like you?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with it. It made me feel happy and sad at the same time and I cried.’

  ‘You cry over nothing?’

  She came back to where he stood and gave him a watery smile. ‘You cry too, you just don’t shed tears. Sometimes you gaze into the distance and your eyes are far away and incredibly sad, as though you’re gazing into your past and trying to find yourself. Saying you liked me was something precious because nobody has said that to me before. It meant a lot to me, like being given a gift. ‘Thank you, Zachariah, may I cry now?’

  ‘No, you may not … I’d rather see you smile.’

  ‘You remembered a happy time from your early childhood when Edward went down the banister, didn’t you?’

  ‘There’s very little of the boy I used to be in this house.’ He spotted a grain of sugar on her delicious mouth. Lifting it with the tip of his finger he drew it into his own mouth. ‘Sugar. I always thought you were sweet.’

  She tried not to snort.

  ‘And don’t you start snivelling over that remark else I’ll throw you out into the snow. You’d better go,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Mr Bolton before dinner.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll find a new you in this house if you look hard enough.’

  ‘I’m not looking for one.’

  ‘You haven’t considered, though, that one might be looking for you.’

  After she’d gone Zachariah chuckled. She was talking nonsense. What an intense little creature she was at times. If she’d had that reaction when he said he liked her, how would she react if he told her he loved her?

  Where the hell had that word come from? He must watch his tongue when he was around her from now on, because she would probably believe such a lie. His life was complicated enough at the moment without adding matters of love to the list.

  Love or need? Clementine lived in his home. She cared for his wards, ran his household and relied on him. He couldn’t ruin her. Yet the more he saw of her the more he wanted to.

  Were he to wed it might as well be her, and that might yet prove to be the case. What he’d said to her was true. He did like her, and she’d cried. But that wouldn’t be enough for her. She would want all of him, his body, his heart and his soul. She’d give him the same in return, for she understood him.

  So the question remained. Was it love or was it need?

  After a couple of days the snow cleared, much to the children’s disgust.

  Zachariah went to the market and came back with a sturdy, but gentle-natured brown pony.

  Quivering with excitement Edward was lifted into the saddle. His feet were firmly in the stirrups and his hands gripped a leather strap across the pony’s back. Zachariah attached the animal and its burden to a leading rein.

  Clementine and Iris watched from the window seat on the landing window and Zachariah led the pony up and down the carriageway, allowing Edward to get used to the motion.

  ‘Will Uncle Zachariah teach me to ride?’

  ‘One day, when you’re older, I expect. Ladies have special saddles, I believe. They don’t ride like men do, but sideways.’

  ‘That’s silly. How will they know what’s in front of them?’

  She grinned, imagining Zachariah trying to find a reason to explain that to a four-year-old girl. ‘You might have to ask your uncle that.’

  Twelve

  Alexandra, who’d learned to twist her foster parents around her little finger, didn’t take to instruction easily – despite her strict upbringing. Agreeing with them had usually resulted in her getting her own way.

  Zachariah Fleet had left a certain amount of money to clothe her, and she intended to spend every farthing of it on garments of her own choice, despite Julia Beck’s unwanted advice.

  The fabrics Alexandra was presented with were sumptuous. The gowns she chose for herself were heavy with embroidery, their necklines low on the shoulder and showing a little of her breasts. Roland would like them; he’d be able to sit and stare all he liked.

  But she had underestimated the determination of her hostess. Julia Beck was horrified by her choice and discarded them one by one. ‘Come, come, Miss Tate, that type of neckline is unsuitable for day wear, especially in these cold months. You will need something practical and warm for every day.’

  ‘I will purchase this little fur shoulder cape with the matching muff. And just look at that pretty embroidered bag. There are evening pumps to match. How sweet.’

  Bustling with annoyance, Julia reminded her she was holding the purse strings. ‘They are too expensive. I cannot allow you to take advantage of Mr Fleet’s generous nature to that extent. We will buy gowns suitable for day-to-day wear, and a modest gown for entertaining.’

  ‘Of course we will. But they are all so pretty and the neckline of this ball gown will enhance my shoulders.’

  ‘There will be precious few balls at Martingale. Mr Fleet prefers a quiet life when he’s in the country.’

  ‘Don’t be vexed with me, Mrs Beck. I’m only teasing you.’

  To save arguments Alexandra allowed Julia Beck to choose the travelling gown. It was olive green, a hideous colour that made Alexandra’s complexion look muddy. What was more, it was made of thick material. It was as if the woman had picked that gown deliberately and for that very reason.

  These Quaker people were so dull in their choice of clothing, Alexandra thought, though she kept her counsel. The gowns she’d chosen for herself were no more shocking than any other normal woman wore. She didn’t see why she shouldn’t have something pretty. She intended to have her way in the matter of the ball gown and one of two other things, and had noticed that Mrs Beck kept all the invoices together in a small compartment in the bureau.

  The day before they were due to leave for the country Alexandra feigned a headache when Julia and her husband went to bid farewell to their children.

  ‘Oh, I do hope you’re going to be all right for the journey.’

  ‘I’ll be perfectly all right in the morning, I promise.’

  As soon as her hosts had gone, Alexandra packed the green travelling outfit and a burgundy taffeta gown she didn’t particularly like, and she took them back to the dressmaker’s premises, where the fawning proprietor was only too eager to change them for more expensive garments. She added the pumps and handbag, then the muff and cape.

  ‘Place it on Mr Fleet’s account, please.’

  ‘I will need Mrs Beck’s signature.’

  ‘Oh … of course you do. Did I forget to tell you? Mrs Beck is suffering from a headache, and her instructions were to bring the invoice back with me. We’re leaving for the country tomorrow, where we will join Mr Fleet.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a secret, but I’m sure I can trust you with it. I wanted something special, you see.’ She shrugged. ‘It is for a celebratory occasion, but I promised not to tell anyone. You do understand, don’t you? If you won’t let me sign for it then I’ll have to cancel the sale. I admired it the first time I saw it, and considered it to be a wonderful gown to be wed in. You’re such a clever and artistic designer, Mrs Spencer, and I will recommend you to all my friends.’

  A smile crossed the woman’s face. ‘I always think that my customers deserve the best I can do. Mrs Beck has always been a good client of mine and her recommendation has brought a new clientele to my door, so I’ll trust her on this.’

  Alexandra managed to get the clothing indoors before Julia and John Beck came home. She went to the bureau first and placed the invoice in the middle of the bundle.

  When she packed the gown in her trunk she stroked her hand gently over the lace-edged tiers of blue silk. No doubt there would be a stink when the deception was discovered, but she would handle that when it happened.

  She was not looking forward to the journey, though it would be a little more comfortable by private carriage if the weather held out and there were only a few ruts to co
ntend with.

  There was a faintly awkward atmosphere inside the carriage, though the Becks were exceedingly polite. Julia chattered about nothing, until Alexandra felt like screaming. Couldn’t the woman see she was shivering with the cold?

  When she alighted from the coach at one of the inns and mud splashed on her skirt from a passing vehicle, Julia remarked rather caustically, as though she’d discovered her deceit, ‘Oh, such a pity. You should have worn the travelling gown for the journey. It’s more serviceable … and the mud would have brushed off. Also it would have been warmer. I’ll see if I can find a thick shawl in my luggage for you to wear.’

  Julia Beck might chatter, but both she and her husband had been evasive when it had come to answering questions about Mr Fleet. Nevertheless, Alexandra tried to strike up a conversation about him.

  ‘Have you known Mr Fleet long?’

  The two of them looked at each other and smiled before John said, ‘We’ve known him for many years, and we’re business partners. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Mr Fleet must have been a child when you first knew him then.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he must have been.’

  She said outright, ‘You seem very close; are you related to him?’

  They would not be drawn. ‘Zachariah is as dear to us as our own sons,’ John said smoothly, and changed the subject. ‘Have you been to the country before, Miss Tate?’

  She gazed out at the stubbly brown fields that were enclosed within hedges of woven sticks. They had very little foliage. Then there were the stark outlines of leafless trees stabbing crooked fingers against a drab grey sky. Sinister black birds circled the copse like witches on broomsticks, and her heart dropped. She hadn’t expected the country to be so sparse and unappealing.

  It reminded her of her life so far: drab.

  Eventually their destination came into view, a sizeable house topping a gentle rise, and wrapped in a copse of trees. The house seemed to be isolated in the middle of nowhere, if one was to ignore a small village they’d passed through. She’d learned that Zachariah Fleet owned property in London, too, so he was a man with considerable wealth.