River of Destiny. Barbara Erskine

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      Emily Crosby was sitting in the library, writing a letter. Or at least she was seated at a table in front of the window, a pen in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on the distant farm buildings beyond the park and the pasture, where the land sloped down towards the river. The group of old barns clustered in a slight hollow of the gentle hillside where oak and birch woodlands, interspersed here and there with great forest pines, lined the river bank. She could see the blue smoke rising from the chimney of the forge and she smiled. She couldn’t get the image of Daniel Smith out of her head.

       She had been transfixed by the beauty of his body, clad only in his leather-patched trousers as he washed at the pump yesterday, the rippling muscles, the tanned skin which betrayed the fact that he was often outside without his shirt and jerkin. She smiled to herself at the memory of his embarrassment at the sight of her as he pulled his shirt from where he had thrown it across the shafts of one of the farm wagons and dragged it on over his head. She could feel her body reacting at the memory and unconsciously her hand strayed to her bodice, stroking the swell of her breasts through the fine muslin of her gown.

      ‘Emily?’ The door opened and Henry Crosby walked in. He paused for a moment, a slight man, in his early forties, his face pale, his hair already thinning at his temples, and looked at the table, frowning. ‘Who are you writing to?’

      She grimaced. ‘Mama. Except I haven’t started yet. It is such a lovely morning and I was staring out across the fields. Look at the colour of the trees, Henry. They are like fire in the sunshine.’

      She turned back towards the desk, as he walked across the room towards her. She could smell the pomade he wore on his hair, and the less pleasant mustiness of his shirt. He paused behind her and she could sense him looking down over her shoulder. She had written, ‘Dear Mama, How are you?’ That was all. It seemed to satisfy him, however. ‘How are you feeling, Emily?’ he enquired after a few moments’ silence. ‘Beaton said you were unwell yesterday.’

      Her fingers tightened on her pen. She did not look at him. Was it impossible to keep anything to oneself in this damnable house? Molly had seen her vomiting, carried away the chamber pot, and of course she had to have told Mrs Field, the housekeeper, who had wasted no time in telling Beaton, the butler, who had probably relayed it round the village. By now the news had probably reached Ipswich via the carrier and by tomorrow it would be in London. ‘I am well enough today, thank you, Henry. I think I must have eaten something disagreeable. Mrs Davy’s oyster pie has made me sick before.’

      ‘So, you’re not –’ He paused, unable to proceed or hide the disappointment in his tone.

      ‘No, I’m not, Henry. I’m sorry.’

      He reached out and almost timidly touched her shoulder. ‘So am I,’ he said.

      She tensed. There was something in his tone which was unsettling. She turned and looked up at him. ‘It will happen, Henry.’

      He nodded. ‘Do you think,’ again he paused, ‘do you think you ride too much, my dear?’

      ‘Ride too much?’ She pushed her chair back abruptly and stood up. Standing as they were, side by side, she was a good two inches taller than he. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean, maybe it is bad for you to go thundering around the countryside every day the way you do. And yet again yesterday you went out unescorted in spite of my express instructions –’

      ‘Instructions!’ she echoed, her voice rising. ‘You do not instruct me what I may and may not do, Henry.’

      ‘But I am your husband, Emily. It is my duty to look after you and make sure you are not too headstrong. Your father said you needed a firm hand.’ He looked unhappy as he stared past her, unable to meet her eye.

      ‘My father may have used a firm hand,’ she retorted. ‘You may not. If I wish to ride alone, I shall.’ She threw down her pen and swept past him towards the door. ‘In fact I shall go and ride this morning.’

      ‘But my dear –’ he protested.

      She did not choose to hear him. Pulling open the library door she swept out into the hall.

      ‘– we have company for luncheon,’ he went on softly, his voice lost in the empty room. He moved closer to the window and stood staring out. The tide was high. In spite of the sunlight up here illuminating the fields and woods, a hazy mist was forming over the water and he could see what looked uncommonly like a Viking longship forging slowly through it, heading up-river towards Woodbridge. He frowned for a moment, puzzled and strangely uneasy as he studied the single short mast, the broad curved sail, the banks of oars, then he smiled, nodding, pleased at the distraction. It must be some new vessel belonging to one of his neighbours. He stared at it until the fog closed in and swallowed the image as though it had never been.