Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Present Day
Southampton, England
The summer was passing quickly, the weather gloriously sunny and warm and pleasing to the tourists who continued to arrive in Southampton who sought the health-giving properties of sea bathing and the spring water discovered near Portland Terrace.
Thanks to a visit fifteen years past by Frederick, Prince of Wales, who bathed his royal person on the western shore, they were building townhomes in a more modest style of Bath.
On the West Quay, an enterprising fellow had built a bathing machine where the sea would enter through locks, and those able to afford the expense could bathe in shaded, splendorous surrounds replete with refreshments and attendants.
Adjacent to the bathing machine were the Long Rooms, a series of rooms boasting amongst others, a ballroom, card rooms, a spacious dining hall, and a music room.
A hundred yards south of St. Clair Shipwrights and hidden by a wall of oak and sycamore was the northern end of a newly paved promenade, the Beach, curving south from Crosshouse Quay to the Town Quay.
With Althea Dixley her companion, Kitty walked in the morning light, the tourists murmuring conversations and polite bursts of cheer flitting through the trees.
“It promises to be a beautiful day,” Althea said under her large grey bonnet.
Agreeing, Kitty lifted her face to the sun and sought solace from her worries.
Yes, it was warm, sunny, and perfect for shipbuilding.
Maybe if there were not genteel tourists bathing in special machines and walking without a care, she might not be as concerned.
If they had more employees, she might not resent those laughing tourists.
The brawl and twenty-one stitches had not stopped Julian from working on the cutter with Sam and the boys.
In the evening, he still visited the numerous taverns along the quays.
Every attempt at recruitment was met with reticence.
Julian was well-liked. But men and their wives required the security of commissions.
Contracts, in other words, from the Royal Navy or merchant traders.
Julian did this for her. He could have sold the property. She suspected with the promenade so close to their yard, an enterprising man would have snatched it up for a pretty penny and built more attractions for the wealthy.
With the economy favoring smugglers due to the Stamp Act and the colonists refusing to trade with England, Julian had parleyed with the associates of smugglers. They had promised to relay his offer, but that was all.
“This is good,” Julian had said with the confident smile she had seen every day. “We have enough lumber for three cutters.”
The wood, in the drying house from before, had already been shaped and seasoned.
And seasoning, she had learned, took at least a year.
Every step was scheduled in months and years, frustrating scales of time she thought rivaled castles.
At times, she could kick Julian for walking away, and then she would look down at the emerald wedding ring on her finger.
If Julian hadn’t deserted his dream, he would have been in Southampton, not Huntingdonshire.
He could not have saved her from Lord Staverton. Or from jumping from the garret window.
Since the night of the brawl—it had made the papers though no one could say who started it or why—Julian began sitting next to her on the settee in the gallery when he returned from the taverns at night.
He didn’t appear to notice this change while she wrapped her arms around her middle to stop from brushing the hair from the tired yet determined line of his jaw.
She also chastised herself for wondering on the comely serving wenches who had surely sat on his lap.
As she and Althea entered the yard, Kitty shaded her brow.
Julian, Sam, and the boys were fitting the second deadwood along the length of the keel just ahead of the sternpost. Julian had scored notches where the timbers, forming the sides, would fit.
Without sufficient labor, inserting the timbers would take weeks.
“And soon it will be winter,” Kitty said aloud as Sam’s youngest son brought over a mallet and a bucket of nails to Julian. Progress would slow or cease depending on the weather.
“He that gathereth in summer is a wise son,” Althea said.
Kitty gazed upward, feeling time speeding past her like the breeze blowing on the new St. Clair Shipwrights sign. She looked at Althea. “We should assist them.”
Althea’s serene grey eyes brightened to silver.
Like she had been waiting for a signal, her companion hurried through the loft’s wide doors and returned with two mallets.
Together they marched to the slipway where Sam held the deadwood at the bow, and Julian, at the stern, showed Sam’s oldest son how to tap a nail.
Catching sight of Althea’s brown skirts as she picked up the second bucket of nails, Julian turned in his crouch to Kitty. His gaze fixed on the mallet in her hand. “What are you doing?”
“If a boy can hammer a nail—”
“They are not nails. They are trennels.”
“Then we can.”
Althea added, “‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor.’”
Julian’s expression darkened. “Leave us, Miss Dixley.”
Her companion raised her chin. “‘And the Lord God said, it is not good that the man should be alone. I will make him a help meet for him.’” Without further ado, Althea’s long strides carried her to the bow with Sam.
Julian stretched to his full height and, dropping the mallet, prowled up the ramp toward Kitty. “I cannot,” he said so no one could hear, “have my wife actually build a ship. I would be the laughingstock of Southampton. Maybe England. Do you understand me?”
“Do not let your pride interfere.”
“Pride,” he said, even quieter. “You think I care for my pride still?”
“What if I dress as a boy?”
“Even worse.”
“Why?
“Why? Damnation—”
“You should mind your language.”
He leaned in. “The hell I will. And if you expect my men to mind their tongues, you’ll have to lock yourself in the office and put wool in your ears. That is, if we ever have men.”
“I’ve nothing better to do.” Clearly, the wrong thing to say by his scowl. “Julian, I want to help.” She motioned to Althea handing trennels to Sam. “See there, I can carry a bucket.”
Julian twisted on his heel. Sam was showing Althea how to hammer a trennel and after several wide swings, she finally hit it.
Her husband turned back to her. “I’m to have a Bible-quoting prig working for me? Who hits her mark once every ten times?"
“I’m certain she’ll improve.”
Grabbing her by the arm, he marched her without ceremony to the loft, pushing through the narrow door and slamming it shut.
They faced each other in the gloom, in a space designed comfortably for one.
At his chest, his breath came hard, of which she had a perfect view, it being an inch from her nose.
And she should be nervous, but the sweat made his shirt cling to his muscles and he smelled like a man.
“Do not be a bloody fool! Do you know how desperate this looks? Do you think a man would wish to work for another who must resort to his wife’s assistance?”
“Many wives assist their husbands. Shopkeepers, weavers, mercers.”
“I am not any of those!”
Kitty winced.
His hands splayed at his side. He nodded in quick succession, and his hands settled softly at the tops of her arms. “It is not that you couldn’t do it.
You have shown great ability in meeting a challenge.
You might, with practice, be better than I with a mallet.
But who will commission a ship with a yard who requires his wife to work in the slipway? ”
“That is a question I’m not to answer, isn’t it?”
“Correct. Appearances, Katherine, are everything. When I began this venture five years ago, I had a tenth of the funds we have now. But do you know what I had? Respect. Confidence. I feared failure like any prudent man. But I had the appearance that gave others confidence in me.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He swung open the door and jabbed toward the slipway. “Now get your companion out of our yard.”
Later that morning, after changing their dresses and freshening their faces and hair, Kitty and Althea walked High Street’s market.
It being Saturday, it was the most attended day of the week.
Their steps were leisurely, and their aim most calculating because Julian had lit a spark in Kitty with his angry words.
Together, Althea and Kitty had formed a plan.
Their first stop was the goldsmith’s, where men often banked their extra coin. Kitty greeted Mr. Tandy who sat at his bench tapping at the tiniest of specimens. In light of his occupation, the goldsmith had a perpetual squint, making him appear suspicious of all those he encountered.
Althea praised his shop and his workmanship while Kitty perused the smith’s offerings. With time wasting, she decided upon matching silver salt cellars and a mustard pot.
As Mr. Tandy wrote up the bill of sale, she offered her card. “Please have them delivered here. It is a temporary residence, mind, while my husband and I search for a suitable place to permanently reside.”
Mr. Tandy studied the card engraved with her name and direction. He flipped it over where she had had the printer strike St. Clair Shipwrights.
“I heard he is making a go of it again,” Tandy said.
“He is. And he is offering four pence more a day than the other yards.”
The goldsmith looked away and wrapped the package. “I’ve sold a few items to Mr. St. Clair myself. A fair man. And what with paying more when prices are high with parliament riling the colonials. Yes, seems fair.”
The next stop was a street vendor selling tin utensils and bakeware. Here she purchased eight teaspoons and a muffin tin. She offered her card and repeated her lines.
For three hours, she and Althea combed the street stalls and shops.
Kitty purchased something from each, offering her card, introducing Miss Dixley, and requesting the goods delivered.
When Kitty mentioned they had returned to Southampton, they all were aware.
Many fixed her with a knowing glance and then looked away.
At their final stop, a draper’s shop, they waited to purchase five yards of dimity while two women shared gossip with the proprietress who was noticeably with child.
“We must make more hay,” Althea murmured beside her.
Kitty smiled when the proprietress lifted a finger to signal another minute. “We have already made acres worth.”
“True. But we must take advantage of what the Lord provides.”
Finally, the women moved to the other side of the shop to continue browsing. And listening.
The proprietress, Mrs. Draper, like her profession, scribbled Kitty’s bill of sale in a broad hand and paused longer than most over her card. “Are you here long, ma’am?”
“Yes, we returned last month to reopen the shipyard. Permanently.” Kitty decided to get it out in one go. “It has been admittedly difficult to hire able men. Though my husband pays four pence more a day than the rest of the yards.”
Mrs. Draper folded the dimity and cut a swath of muslin to wrap it in while Althea directed her gaze to behind the counter and announced, “Such a tragedy.”
Kitty slewed right, unsure she had heard Althea correctly. Her companion clutched her prayer book, sunlight reflecting off her lenses. And whatever her friend—for today had sealed the more intimate relation—intended, Kitty decided she would follow.
“Yes,” Kitty said, “it was.”
Mrs. Draper snapped up from her wrapping. “A tragedy, ma’am?”
“Men, they are so very proud,” Althea said. “It is most difficult for them to admit their grief. Including Mr. St. Clair. Though the Lord doth counsel, blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Mrs. Draper gazed at Kitty’s widow’s weeds.
Kitty wondered who she could kill off to satisfy Althea’s lie. Julian’s sister, wretched, spiteful Lady Caroline Tufton? If she still lived, that is. But if she were dead, more the better. Oh no, she couldn’t wish someone dead.
But yes, Lady Caroline Tufton would do. “Yes, my husband’s—”
“Child,” Dixley finished.
Kitty sucked in her breath.
“Your child, ma’am?” Mrs. Draper covered her hand, warm where Kitty’s was cold.
Althea knew nothing of the truth. No, Kitty had confided on Madame’s little lost André, that was all. But still it was hard to speak. Her surrounds were dim.
“Yes,” she managed to say and then added words she had never spoken. “He was our son.”
Mrs. Draper looked to an infant slumbering in a basket that Kitty had failed to notice. There was another little girl folding fabric just past the shop’s back door humming softly in a white muslin gown with a pink bow in her hair.
“God love Mr. St. Clair for leaving his yard to be with you,” Mrs. Draper tutted. “Might I fetch you a glass of water, ma’am?”
“No, no. Thank you.”
Mrs. Draper fetched Kitty water anyway. “I lost my Simon six years and one month ago. A fine day, like this, and I thought I would die but I just kept living. It’ll never go away, love, the pain in your heart, but it will ease. What was your boy’s name?”
She shuddered. “Andrew.”
“Ah, a fine name. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a quiet voice, taking to heart the woman’s words, seeking solace from a stranger. “I am sorry for yours.”
Only Father Dunlevy had provided condolences for her little boy.
She had never publicly mourned her son. Julian’s son.
And then it struck her, even as that craven thing inside her began to scream.
The thing could not hold the truth inside forever.
It was too excruciating, too lonely, and wrong.
People needed to know Andrew had lived. That he had been loved.
One day she must admit her shame.
Kitty finished the water, her heart pounding at her breast. She would fight back, just as she fought now to have her dreams, a purpose to her suffering.
Before they had exited the shop, the two gossips were once again at the counter with Mrs. Draper.
Kitty’s feet planted firmly on the cobbled street, she inhaled the ripe scent of the market. “Thank you, Althea. I suspect half of Southampton will see Julian’s desertion in a different light by the morning. Shall we proceed to the vicarage?”