The Seaweed Gatherers

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Sagas; Family Life

Synopsis

It is 1802, and when her beloved father dies, Lucy Mitchell's curiosity is fired by his last words, "the de Northbys owe you". Who are the de Northbys and why do they "owe" the Mitchells? Her mother says he was too sick and confused to make sense but Lucy undertakes some investigations of her own.

Release date: December 30, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

A shiver ran through Lucy, then her body tensed against the thud of the clay as it hit the rough wood of her father’s coffin.
At that moment, 1802 was a year she would want to forget.


At nineteen, Alice, a year older than her sister, sensed Lucy’s reaction and gripped her hand not only to try to give her
reassurance but in an attempt to find some comfort for herself.


Their mother’s step faltered. Rebecca closed her eyes tightly as if that would shut out the unwelcome sound. She felt her
son’s grip on her arm strengthen to bolster her resolve not to give way in these grievous circumstances. At twenty, Robert
had given unstinting support to her and to his two sisters through the gloom of the last four days.


The thuds came with regular monotony, signals of the finality of life. The gravediggers had hardly waited for the family to
move from the graveside and now their efforts beat a mournful tattoo in Lucy’s mind as she walked to the lychgate on the long
path past unmarked graves and ornate stone carvings, grey, prominent, mocking, searing Lucy’s mind with reminders of her father’s inglorious end in the
tiny bedroom of the terraced house in a respectable but poorer part of Newcastle-upon-Tyne.


She shivered in spite of the late afternoon warmth which encouraged the oak trees, lining the perimeters of the graveyard,
to show more of their buds and herald new life among the dead. The thump of the clay recalled the way the two gravediggers
had stood leaning on their long-handled spades leering lecherously at her and Alice throughout the simple ceremony. She was
not sorry when they reached the lychgate and left the churchyard, for it seemed to mark an escape from the immediate past
and signify a step into the future. Life had to go on and though memories would still remain they would not contain the feelings
she had experienced in the last few minutes. Those would be dismissed and she would remember the good things about her father.


She would miss his easy-going manner, his ready understanding smile, his quiet attitude which could bring calm to troubled
moments, his readiness to let his wife take the lead and make decisions, only adding a guiding word when necessary. She knew
that beneath his serenity he reproached himself that he should have done better for his family. His meagre wage as a clerk
to an attorney enabled him to rent a terraced house from his employer, in a district where respectability kept its head a
shade above poverty, providing the essentials of life but no extra comforts. Those only came occasionally after the three
children had all gained employment; Robert as a junior clerk in the same office as his father, Alice helping in a dame school,
and Lucy as governess to the attorney’s three children. Thankful for their positions, the children were grateful that their parents had encouraged them to be interested in most things, had directed them advisedly
in their special interests, and had realised that education could bring advantages. Now, with the main breadwinner gone, they
would be thrust back on their fierce independence to counteract life’s downward drag.


Lucy recalled times when her glance would catch her father daydreaming as if he was thinking of what might have been, and
on those occasions glimpsing her mother’s frown as if she knew what he was thinking and disapproved. Were those daydreams
linked to the last words she had heard him utter? His whisper haunted her as they reached the main street where everyday life
surged around them.


Vendors shouted their wares, shopkeepers encouraged people to step inside, acquaintances exchanged raucous greetings, bonnetted
heads nodded in idle gossip, barefooted urchins weaved among folk going about the business of their daily lives. Lucy was
familiar with it all, but today it was different. She wanted to shout and stop it, to tell them life would never be the same,
that she had just seen her father buried and that she would never again accompany him as part of this familiar scene.


Her mother, eyes fixed firmly ahead, never speaking, quickened her step. They left the main thoroughfare for a quieter side
street, allowing the constant buzz of life to recede as they walked its full length of terraced houses all monotonously the
same. They turned right into a repetition of the street they had just left. Door, sash window, door, sash window as far as
the eye could see, and above the windows, replicas, and above the doors brickwork darkened by the grime and smoke from the
forest of chimneys. Houses, with doors wiped clean, knobs brightly polished, windows gleaming from their daily wash – no one was going to be outdone
by their neighbours in keeping the outward signs of respectability. Number twenty, home, was no different, her mother made
sure of that.


Lucy saw tiny groups of people gathered near number twenty, awkward, eyes cast tentatively at Rebecca and her family, solomn
faces, nods, sympathetic glances, murmured condolences scarcely audible.


Rebecca acknowledged them with inclinations of her head, a flicker of recognition here, a wan smile offered there. She stopped
at her front door, fished a key from her pocket and unlocked it. She stepped inside followed by Alice and Lucy. Robert stayed
to greet the sympathisers who had hung back for a few moments to allow Rebecca and her daughters to prepare themselves.


Discarding their coats and bonnets, mother and daughters smoothed their dresses and, glancing in a mirror hanging on the wall
of the passage which led to the kitchen at the back, patted their hair into place.


‘Alice, the kettle, Lucy, the curtains.’ Rebecca’s orders came briskly. The girls noticed the tautness in her voice and knew
she was fighting hard to keep her true feelings under control.


Alice bustled through to the kitchen where she hung a kettle over the fire. Lucy hurried into the front room where she drew
back the curtains which had been kept closed since her father had died. The family would observe the rules of mourning for
some time but convention dictated that the curtains could be opened again now the funeral was over.


She did not linger at the window but hastened upstairs to do the same in the bedroom overlooking the street. Reaching the
door she hesitated. This was the room in which she had last seen her father alive and she had not been in since. She turned
away and went to the back bedroom instead. As she returned to the small landing she drew a deep breath and, with a fierce
determination, threw open the door of the front bedroom and strode unhesitatingly to the window. She flung back the curtains,
flooding the room with light. In that gesture she felt she had brought normality back as near as she could. She glanced down
into the street and saw people approaching the house, neighbours to offer condolences, mourners to pay their respects to the
departed through the living, while drinking a cup of tea and tucking into the sandwiches and cakes she and Alice had prepared
before the funeral.


She went downstairs where for the next two hours she, along with Alice and Robert, accepted sympathy, made trivial conversation,
handed round refreshments, refilled teacups, while all the time keeping a concerned eye on their mother. They need not have
worried, Rebecca had strength for them all. This was no time to break down; she had steeled herself not to give way, at least
not here, not in front of everyone. Maybe tonight in the loneliness of her bedroom she would weep.


The final guest had left, the dirty crockery had been placed beside the sink in the kitchen and the three young people were
preparing to wash up when Rebecca spoke. ‘Leave it, we’ll do it in a few minutes. Let’s all sit quiet and enjoy a hot cup
of tea, I’m sure none of you really had one when everyone was here.’


A few minutes later the tension they had all felt in the course of receiving commiserations evaporated. Lucy glanced at her
mother, wondering if this was the moment when she would break down, but she saw a stoic resolve settling on the placid features.


Rebecca sipped her tea, thankful to have the love and support of her children. ‘You have all behaved impeccably and I am grateful.
Life will be different, it’s bound to be, but if we help each other we will adjust. We’ll miss your father but he would want
us to look to the future. He would want you to do well. Without his wage, I think now might be the time for me to take a job.’


‘Mother, there’s no need,’ protested Robert. ‘You’ve plenty to do. We’ll manage.’

Rebecca gave a wan smile. She nodded. ‘Yes we could, but if we want to remain here, in the life we know, it would help if
I was to earn something. I’ve given it serious thought since your father died, and I think it will be for the best.’


‘But what will you do?’ asked Alice with some concern.

‘I think Mrs Dobson is looking for someone to help in her bakery.’

‘But, Mother,’ Alice’s eyes widened in shocked protest, ‘you can’t go skivvying there.’

Rebecca laughed. ‘No, I certainly can’t. Mrs Dobson knows my reputation as a pie-maker. She approached me.’

Alice relaxed, relieved that her mother would have some authority.

Rebecca read approval on her daughter’s face. She wanted the same from the other two, and saw agreement in Robert’s serious
dark brown eyes. But Lucy’s thoughts were far away. Rebecca’s lips tightened with exasperation. It was at moments like this that she saw Isaac in his daughter. ‘Lucy, what do you think?’ she asked firmly, breaking into
Lucy’s reverie.


She started. ‘Oh . . . er, yes, if that’s what you want to do.’ Lucy had only half heard her mother’s proposal.

‘Very well, then that’s settled,’ said Rebecca.

‘Mother,’ Lucy went on, a wistful note to her voice. ‘What did father mean when he said, “The de Northbys owe you”?’

So that was it! Rebecca’s mind stiffened, raising a barrier against what she knew. ‘Nothing! I told you before they were only
the words of a dying man confused by what was happening.’


‘But, Mother, Father was so . . .’

‘Stop!’ Rebecca cut in sharply. ‘I want to hear no more about it.’ She frowned disapprovingly at Lucy as she stood up. ‘Now,
I’m going to see Mrs Dobson. See everything is tidy by the time I get back.’ She walked briskly from the room and no one spoke
until they heard the front door close.


‘Really, Lucy, you shouldn’t upset Mother at a time like this,’ Robert remonstrated with his sister.

‘But, Robert, you heard Father, just as I did,’ Lucy protested.

‘Yes, I know.’ His words came with a slight hesitation.

‘Mother said there was nothing to it,’ pointed out Alice.

‘Then why did Father say them?’ put in Lucy sharply, irritated that her sister didn’t have her capacity for curiosity.

‘Robert, you don’t think he meant anything by them, do you?’ Alice looked questioningly at her brother for support. Her expression
changed when she saw the doubt on his face. She looked intently at him. ‘You know something?’ she whispered with conviction.


Lucy had read his expression too. ‘You do,’ she pressed emphatically. ‘Tell us, tell us.’

Robert hesitated, but the eagerness for information on his sisters’ faces could not be denied. ‘Well, it’s something I overheard
a couple of years ago. It may have no connection with what Father said but . . .’ He paused.


‘Go on,’ urged Lucy, leaning forward with anticipation.

‘I overheard Mother and Father. I wasn’t eavesdropping,’ he added quickly to vindicate himself. ‘I’d come in by the back door
and they were in here. The doors were open and I couldn’t help hearing what they said. What they meant I don’t know, but Father
said, “I think the children should know the story.” Mother was emphatic with her reply. “Never,” she said. Father started
to protest but she cut him short. “What is the point?” she went on. “It’s all in the past, long ago. It’s best forgotten.
Nothing can be proved. You’d stir up trouble and get nowhere.”’


Lucy’s eyes were widening at this mysterious information. Ever the one with the alert inquisitive mind, Robert’s revelations
gripped her. ‘Go on,’ she urged.


‘There’s no more except that when Father said that he thought we had a right to know, Mother’s reply was so shattering it
made the whole thing stick in my mind: “If ever you breathe a word of this to them, or to anyone else, I will leave you.”’


Both girls gasped. ‘She couldn’t mean it,’ said Alice disbelievingly. ‘They were so devoted.’

‘She meant it indeed,’ replied Robert. ‘You know Mother, she never says what she doesn’t mean.’

Lucy’s mind was racing. ‘There must be a connection. What Father said when he was dying must have been what Mother banned
him from saying when he was alive. He took the opportunity knowing he was leaving her and that if he spoke then she couldn’t
leave him.’ The words tumbled excitedly from her lips.


‘But what connection can there be?’ said Alice. ‘We’ve never heard of any de Northbys. Who are they? And why should they owe
us?’


‘I don’t know,’ returned Lucy, ‘but I mean to discover the truth!’

‘But how can you?’ asked Alice with a touch of scorn as if to cast doubt on the task.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed into a faraway look. ‘I will find a way,’ she said slowly.

The portico and lawns of Howland Manor rang with the laughter of the youngsters of the local landed gentry gathered here at
the instigation of Mark Cossart for an afternoon of croquet, tennis, archery and tea.


Mark’s mother and father had driven into Whitby to visit friends, leaving the young people to enjoy themselves.

Zilpha de Northby was holding court as she always did on these occasions. The young men liked it, gathering round, hanging
on to her every word, flirting, paying homage to the vivacious eighteen-year-old whose flashing blue eyes teased them and
whose small sensuous mouth pouted kisses at them. The young women tolerated her, knowing she was a better friend than an enemy.
Some had seen those sparkling eyes flash daggers when anyone had dared to suspect her flirtations with their beaux were anything more. This was Zilpha’s way of enjoying life, of being the centre of attraction. The girls knew it and let it be
so. The only thing they envied her was her monopoly of the handsome Mark Cossart, but they gained amusement to see him at
times ignore her, leaving her stamping her feet in anger or pouting in a sulk.


They would all be willing to swoon at Mark’s feet but Mark was always the gentleman, with eyes only for the girl of his choice
at any one moment. Zilpha wanted to be that girl all the time. Mark would be a catch and she determined to catch him.


Six feet two, erect, his athletic figure emphasised by his perfectly fitting clothes, he sat on the steps of the portico surrounded
by pretty young girls listening intently to his stories or imagining him dressed in his Hussar officer’s uniform and they
on his arm sweeping into the huge ballroom where everyone stopped to watch them waltz.


His handsome features were framed by his dark hair with a slight natural wave at his temples. But more than anything he created
an aura. Any girl would say it was because of his French connections, which added a touch of mystery and romance to him.


He spoke the language fluently, something his French father had insisted he keep up and cultivate when they fled to England.

Emile Cossart had fallen in love with Elphrida Swinburn when he had visited the alum works at Ravenscar to negotiate a contract
with Richard de Northby to supply alum for his textile and leather works in France. Richard had given a small party welcoming
the Frenchman and there he had met Elphrida whose parents’ estates bordered those of the de Northbys. Love had blossomed into marriage a year later. Elphrida settled easily into life near Paris and their
happiness was complete when Mark was born in 1780. Eight years later, disturbed by troubled times and seeing revolution must
come, Emile sold everything he owned and brought his wife and son to England to her parents’ home. Comfortably off, Emile
helped his father-in-law to run the estate until he and Elphrida had bought Howland Manor. He had renewed his friendship with
Richard and Adeline de Northby and Mark and Zilpha had become firm friends.


Now, there were times when Zilpha wondered if their friendship of fourteen years was a drawback. Had they become too familiar?
Did Mark look upon her as no more than a friend whereas she wanted romance to blossom? She knew that as a couple they were
regarded as the pick of the district and everyone expected them to marry but she doubted if Mark regarded that as a certainty.
But those thoughts were far from her mind as she delighted in being the centre of attraction on the steps of Howland Manor.


The early spring day was warm and the sun had encouraged the girls to put on their brightest dresses. Zilpha had chosen a
pink gingham with thin dark red stripes cut to the slender look while maintaining some fullness at the back. The V-shaped
neck fell wide off the shoulders to a point at the high waist. The short puffed sleeves came tight at the elbows. Her pale
blue shawl lay on the step beside her, ready for the first hint of sharpness in the air. She wore a shallow bonnet with a
wide brim tipped to the back of her head and tied by a ribbon under her chin. Not for her to hide her good looks under its rim – that was angled to set them off, to focus attention where she wanted it.


Infectious laughter trilled off her lips. She was determined to outdo the merriment coming from Mark’s group.

‘Are you really going to sea, George Fenny?’ she enquired in amusement at the prospect, for George was country born and bred,
a fine horseman, who had always seemed at home on the land.


‘Of course I am, Zilpha. What is there for me at Pike Cross, when there are three older brothers? I’ll make a name for myself
as an explorer.’ He stuck his chest out at the proud thought.


Zilpha chuckled. ‘So you’ll be sick all over the world.’

‘No I won’t.’

‘Yes you will.’

‘Then I’ll think of you every time I am.’

Zilpha pulled a face and glanced round the other four men. ‘I hope you all think of me in better circumstances.’

They all roared their assurance.

‘You, Charles, when do you think of me?’ She stroked her finger under his chin.

‘I . . . I . . .’ He blushed.

‘Oh, come, Charles, is it as embarrassing as all that?’ She tempted him with her eyes. ‘Do I come up to expectations?’

‘Does she, Charles?’

‘Tell us,’ his companions urged.

‘Leave poor Charles alone,’ said Zilpha sympathetically and received an adoring look from him. She turned to a brawny, muscular
young man sprawled across the step behind her. ‘You, Chris Young, when do you think of me?’


‘All the time, my love,’ he returned.

‘Even when you’re with Eve?’ she asked, knowing things were getting serious between them.


‘That’s something to warn Eve about,’ put in the dark-haired youngster to Zilpha’s right. Laughter ran through the group as
they teased Chris about what they would do.


Chris looked uncomfortable and was pleased when Zilpha turned her attention to a fair-haired boy. ‘What about you, Anthony?’
She let her voice caress him.


He swallowed hard. He always found Zilpha irresistible and wished he had the charm of Mark Cossart. ‘Me? I don’t give you
a thought.’


The others gave a howl of disbelief.

Zilpha cast a surreptitious glance in Mark’s direction, hoping that the noise had attracted his attention, but she saw no
reaction. He seemed to be concentrating on the girls around him. She glanced at Anthony coyly.


‘Not even one tiny thought for an innocent girl?’

‘Innocent? Upon my word!’ cried George.

‘For that insinuation there’ll be no dance for you at my ball.’ Zilpha showed mock hurt.

‘Aw, Zilpha, don’t punish me like that,’ moaned George. ‘I was only teasing. I know you’re as pure as fresh snow.’

Zilpha pouted thoughtfully. ‘I just might forgive you if you’ll bring me a nice fresh drink.’

Eager to make amends George sprang to his feet and rushed into the house where he knew lemonade had been left out for their
use.


‘Save a dance for me.’

‘Promise me the schottische.’

Requests came thick and fast.

Laughter quirked Zilpha’s lips. ‘You’ll all have to wait until the night of the ball.’ She looked across the portico. ‘Come, let me return you to your loves, they’ll be getting jealous
of me monopolising you.’ She extended both arms in a gesture of needing help. Chris and Charles were on their feet in a flash,
and each taking a hand pulled her gently to her feet.


George, holding a glass, rushed from the house. ‘Your lemonade, Zilpha,’ he pressed eagerly, wanting to keep her favours.

‘I don’t want it now, George.’ She waved him away with a flutter of her hand. ‘Drink it yourself.’ She ignored the disappointment
which clouded his face and swept past him towards Mark and his attentive listeners.


Casting a cursory eye across the group she said in a tone which would brook no challenge, ‘Now, Mark and I will challenge
you all to a game of croquet.’


Mark glanced up casually and at the same time gave the girl sitting next to him an unseen nudge as he said, ‘Sorry, Zilpha,
I’ve just arranged to partner Kathy.’ He smiled to himself when he saw Zilpha’s face cloud fleetingly with annoyance and her
eyes flash daggers at him. He enjoyed irritating her with his teasing as he had done since they were children.


‘Ah, well, if you want to be beaten . . .’ She tried to pass off the rebuff lightly, but Mark knew that inwardly she was seething.
She flounced round. ‘Charles, you can be my partner.’


The rest of the day passed off pleasantly and Zilpha was delighted in her partner’s play which enabled them to beat Mark and
Kathy in the final match with everyone else taking sides, shouting encouragement and advice. After tea on the portico in the pleasant sunshine the party gradually broke up, excitedly anticipating Zilpha’s birthday ball in two
weeks’ time.


She lingered until everyone had left and then sat down in a chair beside Mark. She gazed across the fields sloping gently
away from the house. In one of them six sleek, well-groomed horses champed the grass or galloped in exuberant play. To the
right an oak wood opened its new green to the sun. To the left a lake, bordered on its far side by massive rhododendron bushes,
mirrored the blue of the sky flecked with white clouds.


Zilpha sighed contentedly. ‘I’ve always loved it here.’

‘But it’s nothing compared to Northby Hall.’

‘Far better. It’s not so big and therefore cosier.’

‘The views you have,’ exclaimed Mark.

‘But being on the top of a hill we catch all the winds, whereas here you are tucked in and protected from them, and there’s
no better view than that.’ She indicated the slopes which sheltered the fields in front of them and how they framed the distant
view of the sea. She glanced round. ‘Your father showed his taste when he built that new wing and added this portico to the
front.’


‘Well, he employed the best designers.’

The house his parents had bought was well built but they had updated its solid construction to suit their tastes. The simple
front of eight bays, each with its appropriate sash windows, lent itself to the erection of a portico in the classical style.
The slight slope in the land allowed the construction of four steps leading on to the portico so making the entrance more
impressive. The large attractive pediment at roof level remained untouched and had been matched by a smaller one over the single front door.


‘It’s always been a home to me,’ commented Zilpha, wistfully recalling the many happy hours she had spent here with Mark.
‘I don’t know how you can bear to leave it.’


‘I know, I sometimes wonder why I joined the army, but with the war following the upheavals in France, I felt I had to do
something to show our loyalty.’


‘And I admire you for your stance,’ she offered quietly. ‘But now the war’s over . . .’

‘It’s an uneasy peace and will be until the situation with France is settled permanently.’

‘You think Napoleon wants more?’

‘Yes, he means to have all Europe.’

‘Britain as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘But invasion’s unthinkable.’

‘I know.’

Zilpha waved her hands as if she could flick the possibility away. ‘Oh let’s not speak more about it. The peace has given
you leave for a month, we must make the most of it. Ride tomorrow?’


‘Yes, why not? I’ll call for you at ten.’

Alice closed the door of the dame school behind her and started in the direction of home.

‘Alice.’

She recognised the voice behind her and swung round, her eyes lighting up with pleasure. ‘Paul! When did you arrive?’

‘Docked this morning.’ He gave her a light kiss on the cheek and taking her arm fell into step beside her.

‘How long shall you be here?’ she asked.


‘Sail again Saturday, late afternoon.’

‘So soon?’ She frowned with disappointment.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The way of a sailor.’

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘But if I know Paul Smurthwaite it’s a life he likes and because of that he’ll do well. He won’t always
sail on a collier.’


‘No indeed,’ he said firmly. ‘It suits me now. Shipping coal to the alum works at Ravenscar gets me home and here in Newcastle
I see you. But one day I’ll be master of one of those great merchantmen sailing out of Whitby.’


Alice sensed the ambition in his voice. She had heard it before and, though she dreaded the day when he would be away for
longer periods, she knew his desire was to achieve a comfortable life for them.


She had met Paul in Newcastle a year ago when she was shopping. Two urchins in full flight from an irate shopkeeper had bumped
into her, knocking her to the ground and sending her packages flying into the air. Paul had been the first to her, helping
her to her feet with marked concern for her welfare. She had winced with the pain in her wrist so he had gathered her purchases
and had escorted her home where a grateful Mrs Mitchell had insisted that he stay to tea.


The family had learned that he worked on a collier shipping coal from the Durham coalfields through Newcastle to Whitby and
the alum works at Ravenscar a few miles further along the Yorkshire coast. His father was employed at the alum works and because
his son was eager to go to sea had got him on to one of the colliers.


Rebecca took to the young man, who was polite and considerate, so that when he called again the next time he was in port to enquire after Alice, hoping that she was none the
worse for her fall, she invited him to visit whenever he was in Newcastle.


Alice discovered he had an amusing side, could make a joke and take one without being offended as well as having the ability
to laugh at himself. She felt safe whenever she was with this well-built young man who always seemed alert to everything around
him. His hazel eyes were ever moving, observing, learning. Alice revelled in his attention and before long she had to admit
to herself that she was in love.


Now she felt pleasure in being beside him as they walked home.

‘Paul, I’ve some sad news. Father died and was buried on Monday.’ A catch came to her voice as she broke the news.

He was stopped by the shock and looked at Alice with concern. ‘Oh, my God. I knew he was not well the last time I saw him
but I didn’t expect this.’ He took her hand. ‘And you, are you all right?’


She nodded as she bit her lips to hold back the tears at the recollection of the bad time she had been through.

‘Your mother, and Lucy and Robert?’ he asked.

‘We are beginning to settle down. We have to get o