A Borrowed Past: Seaton Carew Sagas, #1

Chapter 1

October 1875: Seaton Carew, North East England

It was only a blank piece of paper, but it held so many possibilities. William Harper turned towards the brass telescope that stood at his bedroom window and peered through it, trying to imprint the scene on his mind before returning to his seat at the dressing table to start the sketch. He picked up a stick of charcoal and began an outline with the lightest of touches: a flurry of clouds, a straight horizon and a ship in full sail. Relaxing his hand, he let it sweep across the paper in soft strokes, creating waves around the ship. If only he could do this all day, every day, instead of his lessons.

Now for the shading, building up layers, blending the charcoal with his finger to change the mood, the clouds an ominous grey, the bleached sails billowing in the wind. He bit his lip as he worked, using small strokes to capture the movement of the sea as it grew to a swell and crashed into bubbling foam against the prow. Standing back, he assessed it. That wasn’t quite the effect he was aiming for.

A brush would remove some of that heaviness. He reached for the wooden box, running his fingers along the exquisite carvings of oak leaves and acorns on the lid. The sense of awe hadn’t left him since the day he’d found it, a treasure trove of art materials lying in wait for him, as if it knew about his secret desire. Mama still wouldn’t explain why it was in the attic, but she had allowed him to use the contents. They both understood the terrible risk they were taking. If Papa found out…

The rustle of Mama’s skirts announced her arrival.

‘How are you getting on, my darling?’

‘Fine, Mama.’ She was wearing her cloak and bonnet. ‘Is it time to leave already?’

‘I’m afraid so. Make sure everything’s packed away; you mustn’t leave any trace.’

‘I know.’ He flicked away the spark of resentment at the implication that he was still a small child who couldn’t be trusted to remember this vital instruction. He gathered together every piece of charcoal and returned them to the box, then wiped his hands on a damp cloth.

Mama studied the sketch. ‘You’re improving, I can tell. It’s such a pity you can’t show anyone your work. But I’m looking forward to seeing your flower stands in church. Mrs Wilson said your colour choices were just right.’

William smiled to himself as he put the sketch and the box on the top shelf of the wardrobe and covered them both with an old blanket. Compliments were hard to come by, but Mama would surely be proud of him when she saw the harvest display. It had been a rare opportunity to do something artistic in plain sight. Far better than his weekly visit to Papa’s office, stuck inside all day, his neck aching from bending over the desk. He could almost see the lines of figures in the shipment registers in his sleep, dreading the day when he had to start his proper job there.

It would soon come, now he was fourteen. Mama’s attempts to make Papa delay it had only caused more arguments. With a shudder, William recalled the last one, when Papa’s face had reddened with anger at the very suggestion that his decisions could be challenged. There was no way out; his destiny was to take the helm of the business one day. The thought was unbearable.

‘Where are you both?’ Papa’s booming voice echoed from the hall up to the landing.

Mama jumped. ‘Oh goodness, we should be downstairs by now. Be quick.’

William put his jacket on, fumbling with the buttons.

‘Hurry up; you should have been ready long before now. Don’t make him angry. Come here.’ She fussed with his collar, making sure it was lying flat.

William studied her face. How hard would it be to draw her? Not like this, worried and rushing, but in her calm, loving moments. Her lemony scent filled the space between them, as she brushed a speck of dust from his jacket then stood back to inspect him.

‘We’d better go,’ she told him. She checked the fastenings on her cloak and adjusted her bonnet, then gestured towards the door for him to leave first.

William looked at his shoes. Were they shiny enough? Oh, the shame of it, if his appearance was found lacking. There was no time now to do anything but run the top of his feet up and down the back of his legs and hope the fabric of his trousers didn’t pick up the dust.

‘What are you doing?’ Mama steered him out of the room with a hand at his back. ‘Quickly now!’

He led the way down the stairs, hoping he would pass muster.

Papa was pacing along the hall, never a good sign. ‘Come on, William, or we’ll be late. How many times do I have to tell you that punctuality is important?’

At least once a day, thought William. Along with the lectures on eating cabbage, standing up straight and not talking to the lower classes.

Outside, the usual tedious walk to church had turned into a colourful procession of villagers making their way along the promenade. William’s spirits lifted at the sight of all the ladies wearing their finest dresses and extravagant hats, and the gentlemen strutting in smart frock coats, some left open to display waistcoats in brocade or silk. The light caught the sheen of their silken top hats, like the glossy hard shells of the beetles that scurried out when he lifted a rock in the garden. What a wonderful array of colours and fabrics. Even the tradesmen of the village had made an effort, in their best woollen jackets and caps.

The shopkeepers’ windows along the route boasted impressive harvest displays. A wheat sheaf made of dough had pride of place at the baker’s shop, and at the grocer’s, baskets spilled over with a rainbow of fruit and vegetables, framed by plaits of corn.

As they reached the bottom of Church Street, Grace Robinson arrived at the opposite corner, followed by her parents. Her three brothers were running around them, laughing and jostling each other. William sprang forward. ‘Grace!’ he called out.

She smiled and waved back, but William felt Papa’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Remember your place,’ he said.

William sighed and fell back into step with his parents.

The vicar greeted them at the door of the church. ‘Welcome, Mr and Mrs Harper, and William too. My dear wife told me how helpful you were with the displays, young man. God bless you. You must be very proud of him, Mr Harper.’

Thank goodness Lord Forbes from Chambers House was heading towards Papa. That would distract him.

Inside, William smiled at the transformation, proud that he’d had a hand in it. The colours brought the scene to life, with rosy apples, bright oranges and countless vegetables occupying every spare space. Huge vases of white lilies stood on the altar, behind which a banner in blue and gold proclaimed ‘I am the living bread from Heaven’.

His choice of moss and foliage for the stands provided a perfect muted background for the bright spiky dahlias and colourful chrysanthemums. He glanced at Mama, hoping for a nod of approval, but she was lost in her own thoughts. It was better not to interrupt when she was in that sort of mood.

The church filled up, the gentle murmuring building to a crescendo as friends and neighbours greeted each other.

‘Where have all these people come from? It’s a good thing we pay pew rents,’ said Papa, as they filed into the row that bore their family name card in a brass holder.

William copied Mama in positioning a kneeler on the floor and lowering himself onto it with hands together in prayer, glad to hide his embarrassment at Papa’s snobbery.

The organ wheezed and coughed out the opening bars of ‘Now Thank We All Our God’, the signal for everyone to stand up. William scanned the congregation. The whole village must be here. So many families; how different it must be to have brothers and sisters to play with.

With so many things to look at, the service was soon over, even with one of Reverend Wilson’s interminable sermons. While Papa spoke to one of the Local Board members about the state of the paths around the village green, William stayed in the pew, enjoying the sight of the sun’s rays streaming through the windows, casting jewelled colours from the stained glass into the church.

He jumped as Papa’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Don’t sit there daydreaming, William. It’s time to go to the schoolroom for refreshments. I have business to discuss.’

They’d hardly walked through the door when Papa spotted the Mayor and led Mama over to have a word. William seized his chance to see Grace. She was wearing her best dress of dark green velvet, signs of wear around the cuffs and collar revealing its origin from the second-hand stall at the church sale.

She handed him a plate of cakes. ‘Here you are. We’re under strict instructions to fill ourselves up.’

He grinned. ‘You might be. We’re having Sunday lunch when we get back.’ But when he saw the cakes, he couldn’t resist.

In between mouthfuls, Grace told him what the boys at school had been getting up to, instead of going to lessons. Some had been caddying at the golf club and others had helped with the harvest on the farms. ‘It’s a shame you can’t come to school,’ she said. ‘I miss your awful caterwauling at hymn practice.’

‘I wish I was still there too,’ William admitted. ‘Miss Lawson’s not bad for a governess, but there’s nowhere to hide when she starts asking questions. And now I’m going to Papa’s office on Fridays to learn the business. I can’t bear the thought of doing it every day. I’ll die of boredom.’

Grace grabbed a sandwich and put it on her plate. ‘At least you’re guaranteed a decent job. I’ll be going into service.’

‘That’s so unfair. You deserve better than that. Can’t you try to get an office job, or look after the money at one of the big lodging houses?’ It was unbearable to imagine her stuck in a basement kitchen, peeling vegetables all morning, or even worse, cleaning.

‘You know that’s not how it works for girls like me. Don’t you worry. I’ll be glad to bring a bit of money home to help Mam and Dad, at least until I get married.’ She pulled a face. ‘But it’s different for you. You’ll have years of work ahead. You should do what makes you happy. Something creative.’

‘And how do you reckon I’m going to manage that?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have no idea. Run away?’

‘Ha ha, very funny. Come on, Grace, be serious.’

‘Well, I don’t see any other way of making your parents take notice.’

William shook his head. ‘How can you even think that’s a good idea? I’d have no money, and nowhere to live.’

‘You never know what you can do until you try. I bet you’d find a way of surviving. Starving artists do it all the time, don’t they? Anyway, I’d come with you.’

He turned away on the pretext of putting his plate on a table, to hide the flutter of pleasure at the idea of making his way in the world by doing what he most loved, with Grace at his side. It was an impossible dream, best forgotten.

All too soon, Mama and Papa came to find him. He wiped the crumbs from his mouth and tried to brush the rest off his jacket.

‘Come along, William,’ said Mama. ‘We’re going home now. I hope you haven’t over-indulged. Cook will be upset if you can’t eat your lunch.’

Grace followed him, telling a tale of a new teacher who was having a hard time controlling the class.

‘William, come here,’ commanded Papa. William changed direction and Grace followed.

Papa scowled at Grace. ‘I didn’t ask you to come with him. Get off home.’

‘I heard that.’ Mr Robinson looked furious as he strode over to Papa. ‘You have no right to talk to my daughter like that.’

William shrank back, dreading what would come next.

‘I will talk to whoever I want, however I want,’ said Papa.

Mr Robinson came much closer to Papa than was acceptable and looked straight into his face. ‘Not to my family, you won’t.’

‘Dad, don’t,’ pleaded Grace. ‘Let’s get home.’ She took her mother’s hand, and they walked towards the gate.

William ran after her. ‘Grace, I’m sorry.’

She turned round. ‘It’s fine, William. You’d better go back to your Papa. Don’t worry; it’s not your fault.’

He looked back towards Papa and Mr Robinson, dismayed to see they were still arguing. Mrs Robinson put her arm around Grace, and they all stood together, watching and waiting. Even at a distance, they could hear every word. Most of the villagers shuffled past in embarrassment. Only a huddle of elderly widows hung back, sensing trouble worthy of an audience. William’s cheeks burned. His family would be the subject of gossip around the whole village. Papa didn’t seem to care.

‘William is destined to join the family business. I’ll thank you to keep your daughter away from him.’

Tom Robinson stood his ground. ‘I’ll do no such thing. Our Grace is the only real friend he has. The poor lad doesn’t have much of a life, kept at home.’

Mama shrank back, trying to fade into the background. William rushed to her side.

Papa’s cheeks were flushed with temper. Didn’t he realise everyone was staring? But he wouldn’t give in.

‘You need to mind your own business. I don’t have to listen to this nonsense from someone like you.’

William edged closer to Mama.

‘And you need to mind your manners.’ Mr Robinson’s face was inches away from Papa’s.

‘Stop it! Stop it now!’ came a voice, tearful and angry. William was taken aback to realise it was his own. ‘I’m sick of all the arguments, sick of being told what I can and can’t do.’ He turned and ran out of the gates, ignoring Grace’s outstretched hand as he stumbled past her. At the end of the street, he sprinted in the opposite direction to home, towards the row of labourers’ cottages where Grace lived.

He crossed the track and climbed over a stile, then paused to catch his breath. With a backwards glance to make sure no one was following him, he took the path to the beach. It was deserted, save for the seagulls whirling around overhead, shrieking as they mocked his misery.

Why didn’t he fit in? Why was he always in trouble, never able to please Papa? A lump lodged in his throat and he fought against the sob that threatened to emerge.

It was all his fault, for wanting to be close to Grace, the only person who truly understood him. Why couldn’t Papa accept his friendship with her? He’d seen Mr Robinson being gentle and loving with Grace and her brothers. He was a hero, too, a lifeboat crewman who saved lives. Papa was none of those things. It wasn’t fair.

Pushing back the annoying tuft of hair that flopped over his forehead refusing to be tamed, William lifted his face to the wind, letting it cool his skin. If he stayed out, they might think he wasn’t coming back, and Mama might make Papa understand how wrong it was to argue with Mr Robinson like that. Everyone expected him to act like a man now, so why couldn’t he choose his own friends?

What if Grace’s dad told her to stay away from him, to avoid another argument? He couldn’t face not seeing her. She was his only door into a normal world. It seemed that whatever he did, he upset someone.

He spotted an overturned rowing boat on the sands and climbed on top of it, sitting deep in thought as the sea ebbed and flowed at the edge of the sand and the waves crashed against the pier in the distance.

It was only when a ship on the horizon caught his eye that he realised he’d been staring at a fixed point without seeing anything. How long had he been sitting there? He wasn’t sure. But it was long enough to make his point.

As he made his way along the beach towards home, he cringed at the sight of Mama standing on the path, a forlorn figure scanning the shore. His determination dissolved in an instant. He’d made things worse by running off. Papa would have the belt ready for when he got back. His skin grew hot at the thought of it. Best get it over with. The longer he left it, the more lashes there’d be.

He hurried over the sands, stumbling and scattering stones with his boots, full of guilt for upsetting Mama.

‘William, oh my darling, thank goodness. Are you all right?’ She pushed back his hair with a gentle touch. ‘Come, let’s get home,’ she said.

They set off, William barely able to take in her chattering about how worried she’d been. All he could think of was the atmosphere that would greet them on their return.

Once inside, he stood still while Mama removed her cloak, tracing the geometric patterns of the floor tiles with his foot. The ticking of the clock echoed in the stillness. Papa must have gone upstairs to his study.

Mama took off her bonnet and smoothed her hair. ‘I realise that was difficult for you, but running off didn’t help matters.’

William studied her; she looked even paler than usual. Had he made things worse? ‘Did Mr Robinson hit Papa?’ he asked.

‘No, of course he didn’t,’ said Mama. ‘But it wasn’t pleasant, with everyone listening. It’s best if you keep out of Papa’s way for a while. I’ll get Cook to put your lunch plate on a tray, and you can eat it in your bedroom.’

Just as William was about to ask her for more details, Papa’s voice rang out from the landing. ‘William, come here at once!’

He exchanged an anxious glance with Mama. ‘You’d better do as he says,’ she told him. He wasn’t fooled by the matter-of-fact voice she put on; her eyes were wide with fear. William climbed the stairs towards trouble, and Mama gathered her skirts and followed him.

Papa was waiting for them on the landing. ‘In your bedroom. Now!’ he roared, his face contorted with fury, his fists clenched. William scuttled past him, dreading what he might find.

There on the bed lay the three paintings he’d completed, and the oaken box. Oh no. How had Papa found them? William dug his fingernails into his palms, ready for the explosion.

‘I assume these are yours? You deceitful, wretched boy, after everything I’ve said about your future career. No gratitude for what we’ve done for you, no ambition. Well, I’m going to put an end to this.’

Papa reached for the schooner painting he’d finished last month. Oh, how proud William had been the day he’d sneaked Grace into the house, when she’d told him she loved that one the best. Dread landed like a stone in his stomach as Papa lifted both arms and rammed the canvas over the metal bedpost. The ripping sound tore into William’s heart.

Papa hesitated for an instant.

Please. Please stop there. Don’t destroy them all. But it was no good; William could only watch, helpless, as Papa threw the other two paintings on the floor, the seascape and the lifeboat, and stomped all over them, crumpling the canvas.

Mama was just standing there. Why didn’t she say something, try to stop him? Papa was breathing so hard that when he lifted his head, William could see the hairs in his nostrils quivering.

He fought back the tears. ‘Stop it!’

Papa’s face reddened as his hand reached out and grasped the box.

‘No!’ William leapt forward, but it was too late. The carved casket with its tiny acorns slammed against the wall and fell apart. The lid shattered into pieces, and paintbrushes flew in all directions.

He knelt and gathered up a fragment of wood, running his fingers over the carving as he looked into Papa’s furious face. He had to go, get out, out of that room with its ruined paintings, away from the house. Mama reached for him but he pushed past her, a mist of tears blurring his sight as he stumbled down the stairs and ran out of the front door.

There was only one place to go.

Chapter 2

William ran as fast as he could towards the row of cottages near the lifeboat station, struggling against the wind, his breath catching in his throat. He hammered on the door of Grace’s cottage as if his life was in danger.

Mrs Robinson opened the door. ‘William? What on earth are you doing here? Come on in.’ She called for Grace as she ushered him in to the living room. ‘Sit there,’ she said, steering him to a tattered sofa. ‘I’ll get you a drink of water. You look dreadful.’

He sat down and tried to calm himself. Grace’s three brothers broke away from their game of marbles, then returned to it as if deciding he wasn’t very interesting, squabbling as the tiny glass balls clinked and rolled across the floorboards. There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, then Grace rushed in.

‘What are you doing here? What’s happened?’ She sat next to him.

Struggling to keep his voice steady, he described how Papa had destroyed his paintings. The boys broke away from their game to listen, their eyes widening. Mrs Robinson shooed them upstairs and gathered the marbles into a cloth bag.

It was the first time he’d seen Grace stunned into silence; she hadn’t interrupted him once. At last she spoke. ‘How could he do that to your paintings? You spent hours on them, and they were so realistic. I can’t believe it.’

William sighed. ‘They were only my first attempt. But Papa will never allow me to paint again. That’s what hurts the most.’

Mrs Robinson sat next to him. ‘I’m sure things will calm down. From what Grace says, you have a real talent and they should be proud of you.’

If only it was that straightforward. ‘That isn’t the way Papa sees it.’

‘Maybe not now, but in time he might think differently.’

Grace shook her head. ‘William’s Papa is a bully. Look how horrible he was to Dad after church.’

‘And your dad stood up to him, I’m proud to say. But William can’t fight back. It’ll take time to win round his Papa.’ She turned back to him. ‘What does your Mama think?’

William sighed. ‘She wants me to do whatever makes me happy, but she won’t go against Papa’s wishes.’ He stopped. It wasn’t right to criticise his parents in front of another family.

‘He’s a snob as well,’ remarked Grace.

‘Now then, that’s enough,’ her mother warned her. ‘We have no right to judge others. We never know the full story.’

William shivered. The fire had dwindled away, leaving only a few dying embers in the grate. To think of all the fireplaces at home, every one of them burning to keep Mama warm, and Ada always on hand to top them up with the best coal. It was past lunchtime now. Despite the cake he’d eaten, his stomach gave a growl. Grace’s mother had better not have noticed it. He couldn’t accept food from them.

The door creaked open and Tom Robinson came in, followed by two men clad in blankets, soaking wet and shivering.

Mrs Robinson rushed to her husband’s side. ‘Oh, thank God you saved them. Come in, shut the door. Hurry.’ She steered the men towards the rug by the fireside. ‘Tom, get two towels from the cupboard.’

She turned to the rescued sailors in a natural movement that told William this was a common event. ‘Let’s get you a set of dry clothes. Grace, open the chest.’

Grace turned to a grimy leather chest in the corner, opened the lid and began to sort through the contents.

William blushed as he realised Mrs Robinson had noticed him looking. ‘All the neighbours give us their old clothes, and I clean and mend them, ready for rescued sailors like these two,’ she explained.

He took the bundle Grace offered him and put them on the floor for the sailors to make their choices. They huddled together on the rug in front of the fire, shivering until Mr Robinson came in with the towels and sent them into the kitchen to dry and dress themselves.

‘Get another log for the fire, Grace,’ said Mr Robinson. William saw the worried look she gave her mother.

‘Their need is greater than ours,’ Mrs Robinson reminded her.

How little they had, yet they were willing to share it with strangers. He took the log from Grace and put it on the fire.

‘So, William, what do you want to do?’ asked Mrs Robinson. ‘These things are often best sorted straight away.’

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t go home yet. Papa will still be furious.’ He couldn’t tell her he’d much rather stay and find out about the rescue.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘But your Mama will be frantic with worry. I’m surprised they haven’t come knocking at our door.’

‘Huh, I don’t think so,’ said Grace. ‘They wouldn’t want to be seen coming here.’

Mrs Robinson glared at her, forcing her into silence.

‘I understand you’re still upset, William. But I can see it from a mother’s perspective. Your Mama loves you very much. Imagine how she’ll be feeling at this moment.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ admitted William.

‘I can walk back home with you, if you like? Grace can look after her brothers while Tom sees to the sailors.’

He thought for a moment. ‘But if Papa sees