The Invisible Tide

Prologue – Margaret, Wigtown 1685

Although I knew it was going to happen, it was a shock when the men came, their voices harsh in the street outside our house. My mother and father pushed me out the door and slammed it behind me.

When I felt the cold air, my shoulders went back, and I raised my chin.

I would not cringe for them.

The one in front, with a pock-marked face and greasy hair pulled back from his brow, hesitated for a moment, but then there was a chorus of shouts behind him.

I scanned the crowd’s faces. Half of them had been at the Covenanter service. I smiled at their hypocrisy, and it was that smile that ignited them, as surely as if I had struck a match.

Ezra McCulloch reached out and seized me, and I felt his foul breath on my face. I also felt his excitement, and with that came the realization that I was lost.

They tied my wrists together tightly, and pulled me roughly through the crowded streets, lined with gleeful cries, to the wooden pole standing clean on the shore.

The tide was coming in.

They lashed me to the stake, and then the men laughed and ran their hands over my body, just to add an insult to the injury. I raised my head and watched them walk away, their wet footprints melting into the sand. All I could do was wait for the waves.

Of course I tried to free myself, even though it was hopeless. I didn’t want them to beat me.

At first, the sea was gentle, and I barely noticed it flowing over my feet and legs, but quickly it became a wild beast. With my last glint of consciousness, I felt the biting cold surf rip through me with a roar.

The townsfolk watched my death from the shoreline, as the rising tide hid them from my eyes.

It will be you, was my last thought, before my lights went out, next time it will be you.

Chapter One Huddleston 1825

A little group stood together on the lip of a tiny grey stone church in the Welsh village of Huddleston, just outside the port of Milford Haven. The sound of sawing wood, hammers knocking, and shouts from boat builders yard drifted across the sun-drenched churchyard.

It was an echo from the future. For one young man moving from foot to foot with nerves, just inside the lychgate, it was a reminder that his life henceforth would be tied to the sea. That the vessels he would have to trust in would be well made enough to protect him and his companions from the elements. So many emotions crowded in on him: joy, excitement, fear. No wonder he could not keep still.

On the path leading up to the oak door, clad in a borrowed dress, with wild rose blooms in her hair, her hands itching in cheap white gloves, Grace McCulloch’s main feeling on the occasion of her marriage was a sense of unreality. She had been plucked from a future as a servant to her parents and dropped into a new life 500 miles away. She kept expecting to see the view from her old home, Mull Farm, every time she blinked, and the little stone church baking in the sun to disappear like smoke.

The knot of men and women were all uncomfortable in one way or another. They avoided each other’s eyes, or stood a little apart, like Grace’s grey-bearded father. With his back to his companions, he gazed out at the ranks of lichen-covered gravestones, their inscriptions blurred by time, as if they fascinated him.

Grace never thought she would come this far. Did she feel happy? Sad? What was to come was unknown, so she decided she would greet it one way or another when it arrived. She knew her father was lost to her now, and that she would leave him behind. She still had an impulse to reach him.

By the churchyard entrance, next to George Carnaghan, Grace’s prospective husband, stood John McDowall, black-haired and sharp-faced. He was the McCulloch’s nearest neighbour in the Rhins of Galloway, and for many years he had employed George, his father Sam and his five siblings on his farm. Grace knew he had sailed to Milford Haven with George the week before, that he would sign the marriage register for him, and that he had lent him the money for his fare. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace could see him talking to George quietly, probably about his plans to join the coastguard. She and George had him to thank for the fact that their marriage was taking place at all.

Grace stood still, her eyes half closed, smelling the scent of the garlanded roses in her hair. She was grateful for John McDowall’s presence at the wedding, she hoped it would restrain her father. But somewhere deep inside herself, she wondered why he had helped them.

George was joyful, it showed in his ready smile. But Grace could see he was tempering it, in case someone snatched it away. She hoped he had found somewhere for them to live, and met the Purser of His Majesty’s Revenue cutter Cheerful, where he would shortly join the crew. For now, that was more than enough.

All these things flew through her mind as she stood at the altar, her father James shifting nervously beside her. Inside the church, the air was cool, and she shivered in her thin dress, partly from nerves and partly from the chill. Away from Mull Farm, her father seemed less sure of himself, and he was even more taciturn than usual. To Grace he had said barely a word. She tried not to think of her mother’s tears as she had pressed a small Bible and an embroidered handkerchief into her hands the evening before she was due to depart. Grace comforted herself with the thought that if George could be posted to Wales, he could also be posted to Scotland, and she would see her mother again.

Tears gathered in her eyes, and she pulled her mind away, gazing up at the weathered old timbers in the church roof. It was odd not to call such a tiny church a Kirk, but as they were in Wales, Grace supposed she could not. She fidgeted with her bunch of late summer flowers, hastily gathered from the greensward on the walk from the inn. She glanced covertly at her father. On the sea voyage from Portpatrick, he had avoided her, so she made the most of her freedom and stood constantly by the rail on the boat, watching her native land disappear, and then craning her neck curiously at the Isle of Man, Ireland lying flat and green on the far horizon, and finally the advancing coast of Wales. The fresh salty air and the views of the changing sea were balm to her weary and battered soul.

The sun shone through the plain tall window at the front of the old stone church, making the gold (would it be gold? Grace did not know) cross on the altar shine. The cloth beneath it was embroidered with sheaves of wheat, not oats as it was at Grace’s home Kirk. Now she was in the formal atmosphere of the little church, Grace was so nervous she was shaking. The thought of meeting the reverend made her apprehensive, as all the ministers she had encountered in Scotland took the maxim “quick to judge” to its utmost limits.

The door to the church creaked open, admitting George and the reverend. George, handsome in a borrowed jacket, strode confidently up the aisle, and the reverend, small and wiry with light brown hair, was almost running to keep up. John McDowall was the last person into the church, and he caught Grace’s eye and smiled at her.

They waited for the ceremony to begin. To Grace’s relief, the reverend was friendly, warm and talkative, his lilting voice and wholehearted smile making her unbend in spite of herself.

John McDowall handed George a ring, tiny and gleaming, and he smiled, warmly and with gratitude. For him, the whole affair had the hallmarks of a dream he kept expecting to wake from.

“Now are we ready to begin?” said the Reverend Howells. Grace let out a breath, she had not realized she was holding it. If the reverend had picked up any discomfort, he was determined to ignore it. He dipped his head and opened his large Bible, the place marked with an ornate bookmark of ivory silk cloth, embroidered extravagantly with the leaves of ferns.

Grace found she was still too nervous to speak, so she just nodded.

George was staring straight ahead, but he nodded too. Looking at his cheek, Grace saw he was freshly shaved. Her father was always bearded, and these days his beard was streaked with grey. He was wearing his market day trousers and jacket, and a shirt his wife Elizabeth had made for him when they were first married. His work in the fields and the worry of the farm kept his body spare as he tipped rapidly into middle age, but he was stiffer, a little bent, and not the giant Grace had thought him as a child. He stared straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back.

Grace had not thought about her new life, or what being married to George would mean. A faint fluttering made her look up, and she saw a tiny bird, high up in the roof, having blundered in somehow, trying to find its way out. She watched its frantic progress as it tried repeatedly to escape, and her heart started to beat fast. It will find its way, she thought, if one window had a chink for it, surely another will be open too. She fixed her eyes on the flower display on the altar, studying the unfamiliar blooms.

Finally, the reverend signaled to George that he should take Grace’s hand, which he did, squeezing it hard.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God…”

Grace let out another long breath, and George pressed her hand again, unseen.

Later at in the two-room cottage with its dirt floor, they were finally freed from the censorious oversight of James McCulloch, the benign regard of John McDowall and the benevolent gaze of the reverend. The latter had repeatedly blessed them and held their clasped hands tightly together at the end of the ceremony. Although strong desires had brought them together, Grace and George were so inhibited by the company, and everything that had happened up to that point, that when they were declared man and wife, their shy lips barely met, hesitantly touching as lightly and modestly as a breath.

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Chapter Two

Grace walked through the market, her face turned down, carrying Janet on her hip. The baby was curious, already holding her head up, wobbling a little, but her gaze followed the passers-by. Her navy irises had recently turned brown, she was going to have George’s dark eyes, and her head was covered by the ghost of Grace’s pale hair. Grace could not stop her curiosity, but on this morning, she did not want Janet to stand out in anyone’s mind lest they recall the two of them later. As luck would have it, it was a bright and sunny day. Grace wished it had been raining and windy, to keep people away.

George’s broad-brimmed hat provided some shelter for her from prying eyes. At one point Grace’s heart speeded up when she thought she saw the figure of a hawker, tall, long-haired, a hat like her own shading a pair of piercing blue eyes…she breathed in and out slowly, it could not be Agnes, she was safely in Kirkmaiden, she would not have the means to travel to Hastings. When she risked a glance behind her, she could not see the tall black-clad woman, and she turned back, relieved, to the path ahead.

Grace knew her breasts were leaking under her shawl, and Janet was wriggling and restless. She ducked into an alley and let her feed, feeling relief as her milk came down. The more urgent matter now, preoccupying her, was the need to find a shop where she might sell her wedding ring.

She calculated that George, distracted as he was, would not notice the ring was missing from her neck. She had taken it off and tied it to a piece of string when her fingers had swelled, late in her pregnancy. Unusually George had not come to her in the night since the birth, which she thought had shocked him.

George and the boys had burnt the mattress Grace had given birth on, and filled another with straw from the edge of the farmer’s wheat field nearby. George had managed to find a pair of very rough blankets at the market in Rye. “I bargained hard,” he said. Grace missed the finer wool of her previous bed coverings, a wedding gift, but she knew there was no help for it.

She turned her mind away from George and shifted Janet to ease the ache in her arms from holding her. She was still feeding enthusiastically, and Grace moved her onto the other breast. She leaned against the wall of the alley. At least some of her former appetite for life had returned, a month ago she could not have stood the wagon ride and subsequent walk about the town.

She looked up and down the alley, to make sure she was alone. In the distance, a man was pissing against the wall, but he did not seem to have seen her. Impatient now, she removed her nipple from Janet’s mouth, and the baby gave an indignant squeak, but Grace stilled her by holding her close against her body, then she adjusted her clothes and stepped out into the sunlight again.

Smoothing her bodice, checking it wasn’t damp, she walked onto the High Street, which was thronged with people wandering past the shop windows and blocking the pavement. Grace slipped in behind a couple, well-dressed and wearing wool cloaks. A woman selling pies from a tray around her neck held one out to Janet, but she hid her face in Grace’s neck. The smell of the pie made Grace’s mouth water. Then, seeing a knot of men coming towards her, scanning the people they passed and as if they were seeking something, or someone, Grace ducked into a grimy shop with dark windows.

She gave a sigh of relief. At first glance the room seemed to be empty and the light was so dim, in contrast to the bright day outside, Grace was temporarily blinded. Then she felt a hand clutch her wrist, holding on with an iron grip.

“What do ye want, my pretty,” said a male voice. There was a gust of sweat and rancid fat. Grace tried to move away, cursing her impulse to come into the shop.

“Don’t fight me, I want to help you,” said the voice. Her eyes having adjusted, Grace could see a wrinkled face framed with greasy grey hair, and an assortment of dark, stained clothes. She fought to release her arm from the surprisingly strong grip, and Janet, feeling her mother’s fear, started to cry.

Her sharp yells shocked the man enough for him to hesitate, and Grace quickly pulled herself free.

“Ye’ve got a brat with you! Whore! Whore!” he shouted, at the top of his voice.

Janet yelled louder, as Grace fought with the shop’s door handle, and pushed it open, gratefully inhaling the fresh air of the street. As she turned back, she saw, just briefly, a figure appear behind the man, and pull him away, towards a grimy curtain at the back of the shop. Clutching Janet tightly, she slammed the door behind her, and walked quickly towards the seafront, determined to put as much distance as possible between her and the man she had just encountered. Her heart was beating like a galloping horse.

Gradually she calmed as she walked, her breathing steadied, and Janet quietened too. The baby was charmed by a donkey cart passing ahead of them, piled with clothes. The donkey was a little dusty and thin, but it swished its tail and trotted gamely past, the cart rattling and in danger of losing some its goods. Grace started to look around for another place to sell her ring. Here the air was fresher, and the shops were cleaner. Grace came to a stop in front of a jeweler’s shop with a display of rings in the window. She pushed the door open, the bell jangled and she walked in.

A young woman was standing behind the counter, dressed in a high-necked white blouse and a dark tight-waisted long skirt. Her hair was decorously restrained in a rope of plaits wrapped around her head. She smiled uncertainly at Grace, and more warmly when she caught sight of Janet.

Pulling her ring out of the neck of her dress, Grace said: “I want to sell this ring. How much would you give me for it?” As she spoke, she realised it was a long time since she had had a conversation with someone who wasn’t a member of her family. Her voice sounded dry and rusty.

The woman held out her hand for the ring, and turned it over and over, looking for something. She frowned and pulled out a magnifying glass and scrutinised the inside of the ring. Then she brought out a small weighing scale from a drawer under the counter, and placed the ring in it. Gradually she balanced it with a series of tiny weights, while Grace and Janet waited, the latter watching the glittering ring with a beady eye.

Finally, the woman leaned back, and said to Grace: “It’s pinchbeck – your ring is pinchbeck. Copper and silver, mixed.”

Grace was unsure of what to do next. She hadn’t given any thought to what the ring was made of, only how much she might sell it for. The way the woman was looking at her, this was not particularly good news.

Grace cleared her throat. “Can you tell me how much it is worth please?” she asked. Janet wriggled towards the bright ring, which the young woman was holding up, but Grace pulled her back and shushed her.

An expression flitted across the woman’s face. It was only there for a second, but Grace interpreted it as pity. Shame and rage rose up in her, but she forced herself to keep still, and hold the woman’s gaze.

“I will give you 18 shillings,”

A rosy blush came and went on the woman’s face.

“21 shillings,” said Grace, her desperation getting the better of her. She leaned across the counter, suddenly possessed by an unholy excitement.

The woman leaned away from her and her eyes darted from side to side.

“19 shillings.”

“20 shillings!” said Grace, and she was shocked when the woman agreed: “20 shillings.”

There was a short silence during which both women looked at each other, surprised.

It was broken by the shop woman fumbling under the counter and producing a cash box, which she unlocked, and she passed Grace two half sovereigns. Trying to contain her sense of triumph, Grace closed her hand over them, and nodded her thanks. Just as she turned to go, the bell jangled and a man and woman came into the shop. They were well-dressed, smiling, and respectable looking. The face of the woman behind the counter lit up, and she turned towards them, meeting their happy smiles with her own.

Tired and grimy, Grace ducked her head, gathered Janet to her, and slipped out of the shop door and into the street. Holding Janet tightly, but not as tightly as her secret, she hurried back to the High Street to catch the wagon back to Fairlight.

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Chapter Three

In the gathering dusk, George strode along the cliff to the Ecclesbourne coastguard station. Against any rational thought, he was elated that he had another daughter. Grace was tired and white, but she would come around. He loved his children with a swooping sentimental passion, he saw the beatings he gave out as necessary, and part of their moral guidance, the rest of which he left to the church, although he did not consider what they were told there, he usually slept through the services. It was the happiest part of his week. After the long wagon ride, he and Grace were usually lulled into insensibility, and the children were awed by their unusual surroundings into a rare bout of quiet behaviour.

As he walked, George thought about Grace, her pale skin, her light hair and her intelligent gaze, he was still thankful they had married, in fact he was still surprised that they had. He always wanted her, slight and elegant and beautiful as she always seemed to him. A cut above himself. He did not consider how hard it might be for her to manage the children when he spent long hours patrolling the beaches or rowing the revenue’s boat out to sea.

George was not given to thinking about the future and he did not see the clouds that were gathering, and he wouldn’t have known how to banish them if he had.