Page 101 of Better Love Next Time
Julian had left ten days ago. She had slept fitfully since his departure, with visions of him coming to a bad end from broken carriage wheels and highwaymen. She estimated he had been in London for six days before he wrote her. A half a sentence for each day.
She looked up from the letter, acutely aware of the men working around her as if her husband’s cut were obvious and very public. Climbing the stairs in double time, she entered the office where Althea sewed a child’s coat at the small table.
Rounding the desk, she swiped at the letter she had been composing before the telltale gallop of the postboy’s horse had interrupted her account.
Upon opening the yard this morning, a carpenter, Jasper, had reported the loft lock severed and an adze and auger missing. Kitty and Sam had conferred, and Sam, who prided the yard’s orderliness, dashed her hopes that the tools had been misplaced.
“Sabotage, ma’am. A disruption of work.”
“But one missing adze and auger cannot disrupt us for long. If they wished to disrupt us, why not steal more? Or”—the idea shook her—“they could have burnt the hulls in the slipways.”
“It’s a warning.”
After she directed Sam to account for all tools and supplies, in ten minutes time, two crates of trennels were reported missing. In the same amount of time, Jasper conveyed with blood in his eye that two knees near the stern in the south slipway cutter had been sawed in two.
Knees, wooden brackets nailed to the hull to support decking, were more precious than gold. And that they were harvested from the stump and roots of mature oak trees, gold it would take to replace them.
Sam shifted. For such a broad, capable man, who could fell her with one hand, Sam was always uneasy in her presence. And overly deferential. “Ma’am, I know we got to watch our pennies, but we need a night watchman.”
“I agree. Do you have an idea who did this?”
“Could be anyone. But I reckon they’ve got muscle.”
She had been naive to think enterprises could flourish in a spirit of friendly competition. She surveyed the distance between the outbuildings and the slipways. “Hire two watchmen. And secure pistols. Instruct them to shoot only on threat of violence and to detain any trespassers for the magistrate.”
The sea wind cut through her wool gown. Winter would soon be upon them, hampering their progress. The days continued to shorten. Nature, if benevolent, would provide two more months of production. The yard might not resume full operations until March.
“What is your opinion on asking the men if they wish to extend their working hours?” she asked.
Sam looked askance, aware of her proclivity for minding every penny. “They’ll expect more coin.”
“I should imagine.” They discussed the specifics and when her stomach fluttered at the estimated outlay, when she wanted to say no or suggest a lower premium, she accepted Sam’s recommendation on faith. A ship that did not sail was worthless. “For those who wish to work later, advise them they may begin tonight.”
This Kitty had written to Julian before receiving his three paltry sentences. She tore up her letter and hoped her husband was enjoying himself. She suspected he was, seeking pleasure she could never provide him.
That afternoon Kitty and Althea learned to construct torches made of pitch and tow, materials readily available in their stores. Althea and Kitty also insisted on digging the holes for the posts and, by nightfall, the torches were lit and she and Althea had blisters on their hands and were only slightly covered in black sticky pitch.
All the men had agreed to work for the premium, and as she stood in the glow of torchlight, Kitty felt her purpose filllong-empty places in her soul. Wind whipped the flames and their cloaks. Althea prayed for God’s vengeance, and Kitty hoped whoever thought they could frighten her off saw that their warning had merely hardened her resolve.
She had survived worse, and those bullies lurking in the shadows had no idea who she was. No, she was not supposed to be here, alive, at all.
“You have done well, Madame,” Althea said.
“Wehave. You are a woman of many talents, Thea.”
A woman, Kitty thought, who was not who she portrayed. Althea had been the one to find the dueling pistols in the office closet. She had loaded them. And in nine days had stitched two child’s gowns and a fustian suit. Vicar Carleton had paid particular attention to her at Sunday dinner, and when he had asked Althea to take a turn about the vicarage garden, Kitty had seen a flash of impatience in Althea’s grey eyes before she had agreed.
They scrubbed off the pitch with turpentine and tread tired steps to the Worthings’ cottage where his wife, Alice, served them chicken stew and bread. The women laughed at Kitty’s retelling of Julian’s shock at the chicken in their apartments. Alice offered to teach Kitty how to cook one.
Kitty suspected Alice did not much approve of Kitty’s day-to-day involvement in the yard.
“Do you wish for more children, Madame?” Alice asked her.
Setting down her spoon, Kitty’s appetite waned. She nodded and then was too stunned to refuse a tin of herbs Alice pressed into her hands to encourage fruitfulness.
For the first time, she thought the eighteenth of April, Julian’s birthday, could not come soon enough. She loved Julian. She hated herself for it.
The next afternoon, Kitty paid a call to the local magistrate, Mr. Sloane, who owned three hundred acres abutting the River Itchen.
