Free Moon Rising by Ann Victoria Roberts

nevertheless, I imagine one of the main attractions to the male collector would have been the several inches of ankle so carelessly displayed. Local men thought nothing of it when we turned up our skirts for working on the beach, but Whitby’s summer visitors were often shocked, and we girls were not above some deliberate teasing.
    I’d never been concerned about it, much to Old Uncle Thaddeus’s horror. But suddenly truth dawned. It was not that I was dressing up like a fisherlass, nor even doing the work – though he regarded it as a huge step down from domestic service – but the fact that I was posing for photographs for strange men to gaze at. The idea obviously appalled him. And it was Mr Stoker who made me think of it. If I’d been innocent before, all at once I pictured him gazing upon my naked feet and ankles, and found myself growing hot from head to toe.
    Jack startled me, his words so appropriate I feared he could read my mind. ‘Quite a compliment, really,’ he said, ‘because when you think about it, he must spend most of his time in London, in company with beautiful women – all those actresses and so forth. Not to mention society ladies,’ he added with a sidelong smile. ‘But still, thinking about it, in London I suppose good photographers must be ten a penny, too.’
    â€˜Oh no,’ I said earnestly, confident in my powers of discernment, ‘not
good
photographers. Even in London, I’m sure they’re not common.’
    With a grin Jack patted my shoulder. ‘Well, maybe we’ve proved something of a novelty, eh, Damsy?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I agreed, feeling unexpectedly flat. I wanted to bask in the compliments, enjoy the idea of being admired and in Mr Stoker’s possession; but I could only think that he was in London, and that he would soon forget Whitby’s fisherfolk and photographers. Together with his pictures of wrecks and storms, after a few days of curiosity we would be mislaid, pushed to the back of a drawer and forgotten.

Seven
    After the ferocity of those October gales, November was a cold but quiet month; then, as the winds and storms of winter began to settle into their usual habits, and ice started forming on ropes and halyards, the sailing ships began to come home. Regular Whitby vessels took up their winter moorings in the upper harbour, and itinerant visitors made arrangements for caulkings and bottom-scrapings at various shipyards along the River Esk.
    Almost against my will I started to look out for the
Lillian,
the ship which had borne Jonathan Markway southwards in the spring, and would no doubt soon be bringing him home again. Before I could grow too sentimental, I told myself that his mother would be looking out for him too; and when he asked what had happened to Damsy Sterne, she would have great pleasure in telling him her version of the truth. I could see her, inflated with self-righteous indignation as she told him what a red-handed thief I was. It wouldn’t matter that he could put her right at once, because the damage had been planned and implemented more than half a year ago, while he knew nothing about it. She’d had her victory, and it was too late now to change anything.
    Time had lessened nothing. In dismissing me without a reference, she had effectively ruined my chances of respectable employment. Injustice still burned and my pride hurt still. I needed to speak to Jonathan, but wasn’t sure I’d be given the opportunity. So, I looked out for him each day, while trying to pretend concern for the ship.
    It was a busy time in Whitby, quite different from the summer. In summer, there was always a kind of tea-party gaiety about the harbour, as though we were children showing off for the benefit of rich relations. But with winter came a different kind of visitor, and the town was suddenly full of men. Fathers, brothers, husbands, bringing with them a hearty, no-nonsense virility, a