Chapter 1

Whitby, North Yorkshire, February 1856

     Emma shivered. The cold spell had been cruel. Very cruel. Yet the picture, framed by the window, had a stark beauty about it.
     The fishing port nestled in the valley was shrouded in white. Snow covered the docks and wharfs; the sand flat, Belle Island; and the hills and open moors beyond. Only the treacherous face of the crumbling East Cliff had escaped the winter mantle.
     From the attic Emma gazed down on the rooftops; to the chimney stacks poking up from the snow like bare stumps awaiting spring, to the icicles hanging from the clay tiles like a line of glass organ pipes, and to the street below. Vestal white. Untouched.
     To the north, the sea was strangely still. There were no white caps on the water. No waves breaking along The Scaur. The grey sky and sea melded in a haze of mauve. There was no horizon.
     Near the old lighthouse, half hidden by the pier wall, Emma could see the masts of a ship. It was moving slowly towards the fishing harbour. But it carried no sail.
     A bird fluttered moth-like against the window and distracted her. It landed on the sill settling its claws into the mat of tangled snowflakes. She watched as it hopped to the end of the ledge and started pecking at the crack in the corner of the glass. She listened to it, tap-tapping on the window as if wanting to be invited in. Then she remembered the other sounds she listened to in that room: the cough, the wheeze, the crackled breath. Now those sounds were gone and the room was silent save for the bird’s beak tapping on the pane.
     It regarded her, or appeared to, cocking its head from side to side. She wondered if it could see her. She thought not. Her dress was dark. Her shawl, spun from the fleece of a black Corriedale, even darker. And there was no lamp.
     How long was it since the sun had warmed the town?
     The bird fluffed out its rust-red chest feathers and stretched one of its wings.
     She heard stockinged feet padding up the stairs and waited for the distinctive creak of the three steps outside the attic door. The latch clicked as it was lifted. The bird cocked its head and, when the door rasped on its hinges, it flew away.
     She knew it was Joshua.
     He moved close beside her and waited for a few moments before speaking.
     "Are you alright, Mama?"
     She nodded.
     "What are you looking at?"
     "A ship," she said quietly.
     Joshua pressed his forehead against the glass and scanned the harbour. He could see the masts of the tall ships moored at the wharfs. He counted several others anchored in the deeper water, their sails hanging lankly in the still air. To the right, three flat-bottomed Whitby cats sat almost upright on the snowy sand waiting for the tide to refloat them. He knew there would be other ships hidden by the houses but he could see no movement on the harbour.
     "Where, Mama?"
     "By the West Pier. See, the three masts moving very slowly."
     Joshua looked to the left. "I see it. A barque, I think. Or a ketch, maybe. Hard to tell from this distance." He slipped his hand into his mother’s. "You are cold, Mama," he said. "You must come downstairs. The kitchen is warm."
     "Seems strange to see a ship moving without sails," Emma murmured.
     Joshua looked at his mother. "The men are warping her in."
     "Yes," she whispered.
     "Please, Mama, come down. Father is getting angry." He rubbed her hand. "Your fingers are frozen."
     "Look," she said. "Do you see it? On the roof near the chimney stack. A robin."
     Joshua glanced across as the bird fluttered from one sooty stack to another.
     "I see him."
     They watched for a moment.
     "Mama," he said softly, "there is nothing more you can do here."
     "I know." Emma turned to her son and smiled. Something of her own pain was reflected in his hazel eyes. "I will come in a moment. It will be dark soon. I must light a candle."
     "Let me do it."
     She watched as he lit the stump of tallow. Watched his movements. His easy gait. The movement of his wrist and hand. His profile. How well he stood, she thought. How tall he had grown. Almost thirteen years old, and grown almost to a man.
     He handed the holder to her.
     The voice which bellowed up the stairwell startled them. "Get down here, woman!"
     "Mama, you must go down."
     "One last moment," she said. Lifting her skirt she held the candle towards the cradle nestled in the recess beside the fireplace. The flickering light wavered across the wooden headboard. The gossamer wings of the hand-painted fairies glimmered in the yellow light.
     In the cot the child lay swaddled in fresh linen. A bonnet trimmed with white lace framed the infant’s ashen cheeks. Two bright new pennies rested on the tiny eyelids.
     Leaning down, Emma loosened the bow under the baby’s chin, then retied it neatly. She touched the lips. They were cold. Alabaster cold.
     "Bessie! My lovely Bess!"
     "Come down at once!" the voice demanded. "Don’t make me come up there to get you!"
     Emma stiffened.
     "I hate him!" Joshua cried.
     "You must not speak like that."
     His eyes were level with hers. "But I hate him for what he does to you. It isn’t right. He isn’t fair."
     "Enough, Josh! Now is not the time."
     "But he doesn’t care for you!"
     Emma turned towards the empty hearth and folded her arms across her chest. "This house is cold, isn’t it?"
     "Please. Mama, go down. Please do what he says."
     Emma sighed. "You go. I promise I will follow."
     The boy turned.
     The top stairs groaned as Joshua stepped down slowly. Emma listened. Heard him stop for a while on the first floor landing. Then heard his feet thumping down the last flight of stairs and the stairwell door close behind him.
     Hot wax trickled over her fingers. The wick was almost spent. Carefully she placed the holder on the mantelshelf. The flame spluttered.
     At the door, Emma stopped and looked back. Across the room the mouth of the fireplace gaped open, black and cold. Pockmarked grey cinders littered the grate and particles of white ash dotted the rug like flakes of newly fallen snow.
     Emma knew it was time to leave. To leave the cradle shrouded in the shadow; to leave the child she had failed to raise; to leave behind another splintered fragment of her life. So short. So precious.
     She lifted her skirt and stepped down into the gloom. Within the stairwell the musty smell of lingering mould exuded from the faded roses peeling from the walls. Soon it would be mingled with the scent of death.
     Sweet. Sour. Unforgettable.

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