by M J Lee
Chapter Twelve
July 08, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
Emily could breathe more easily now that Henry and his wife had finally left for London that morning, after much hustle and bustle. Probably a business deal, more financing of the new railways or the building of larger factories. How her brother had changed from his youth! These days, his one obsession was money; its acquisition and protection.
No doubt he would visit the apothecaries there and find some new potions, tinctures or tablets for her to swallow.
No matter, she would use this time to write. She had so much to say and so little time left in which to say it.
1819 – Barbados
It was over three years later, in the spring of 1819, that I said goodbye to Mother. The war in Europe had ended and the despot Napoleon was safely exiled to the island of St Helena, and Father thought it was about time for myself and my brother to receive the benefits of an English education.
‘You have spent far too long on the estate, Emily, growing wild as a result and lacking in the refinement expected of a young lady of your station...’
‘But Father...’ I tried to interrupt him, but once he had fixed his mind on a topic, little could dissuade him.
‘Your brother will study the business so that one day he might make a fruitful contribution to the development of our mercantile endeavours. You, on the other hand, will learn the refinement necessary for a lady. How to embroider, make small talk, manage a household and, most importantly, be a willing and submissive wife who is able to support her chosen husband in his career.’
‘But Father...’ I interjected again, to no avail.
‘But me no buts, Emily, my mind is made up. You will return with me when I take ship on Saturday to Liverpool.’
‘It is for the best, Emily.’
It was the first time my mother had spoken. I saw she had tears in her eyes as she said the words, but without her support, there was nothing I could do but obey as women have always obeyed; reluctantly and unwillingly.
The ship stood in Bridgetown harbour, having discarded its cargo of goods from Europe; wine, fine silks, cotton goods, dresses and china. All those essentials from England and the continent that Mother found so necessary to support her life. The old import of slaves from the Gold Coast had stopped twelve years ago, so Father was forced to adapt his trade and change his ships. Gone were the irons and manacles for the slaves, now the cargo was far less perishable. The holds were quickly filled to the brim with rum, molasses, sugar and mahogany bound for England.
‘This lot will fetch a pretty penny, you mark my words, Emily,’ he said to me. Then he turned to bellow at the dock labourers, ‘Hurry along there. We must not miss the tide. I have had reports from the harbour master of prices dropping in England. The sooner we are at home, the better.’
He turned back and whispered, ‘Prices are rising, but we won’t tell them that, hey. It’s the early fisherman who catches the bait.’
Father went forward to chivvy the captain and the crew to even greater heights. I stood with Mother on the dock. Henry had long since vanished into the bowels of the ship to discover what treasure lay beneath the wooden decks.
‘Have you your woollen coat, Emily? It will be cold in England.’
‘It will be June when we arrive, Mother. Even England cannot be that cold in June.’
‘It is better to be safe rather than sorry. The wind in England sits on the chest, creating bad humours that invade the lungs.’
‘You make it sound like the English weather is our enemy.’
‘It has taken off many young women in its time, Emily. Do not fight against it, you cannot hope to win. Instead, protect yourself constantly.’
There was silence between us for a moment before I asked, ‘Why don’t you come too?’
‘Me?’ she snorted. ‘Your father does not want me to come. He wants me to look after our interests here.’
‘But I will miss you.’
‘Emily, you are a young woman of thirteen. Soon you will find a husband and go to live with his family. You have no need of a mother to nurse you every day now. It is time for you to grow up and face the future with joy.’
‘I don’t want to grow up.’
‘Ah, there speaks the young girl.’ She stopped for a moment and took my hands. ‘Don’t you see? The only proof that I have raised you properly is if you become a young lady in society.’
‘Hurry up, Emily, we are to cast off now,’ Father shouted from the quarterdeck.
Mother took my hands in hers. ‘Make me proud of you, Emily. Make me proud.’
‘I will, Mama, I will.’
‘Emily, we are waiting.’
The foremast sails had been unfurled. Four dock workers were standing next to the gangplank leading to the ship. Others were holding on to the ropes wrapped around the bollards on the docks. A group of sailors stood at the bow of the ship. The captain, an old salt called Mr Ratchet, stood beside the rail.
All of them were looking at me.
I kissed my mother, lifted my skirts and ran up the gangplank. As soon as I had stepped aboard the ship, my last link to Barbados was removed and the deck resounded with the patter of sailors’ feet as they furled sails, coiled ropes and performed the thousands of duties that enabled a ship to set off for sea.
I ran to the port side of the ship. Mother was still there on the dock, her hand raised and her primrose bonnet guarding her face from the sun.
I felt the ship glide away from the dock and the wind feather the ringlets of hair surrounding my face. I looked up to see the sails gently ruffle in the breeze as they caught the wind coming from the south east.
A mob of sailors ran up the rigging and across the guy line beneath the mainsail. As one, they undid the sail and it unfurled, flapping as it caught the breeze. The ship was moving quickly now, slicing through the blue waters of the harbour, seagulls squawking in its wake.
Bridgetown, my home, my love, was slipping slowly away behind us.
I looked back to the dock. Mother was still there, her arm still raised, becoming smaller and smaller as the ship moved out to sea. Around her the dock was empty, the ship and its needs long forgotten. Suddenly, she walked forward, still waving, and shouted something to me.
I stepped to the gang rail and called to her, ‘What? What was that, Mother?’
She waved and shouted again.
I saw her lips move, but the words were seized by the breeze and taken off towards the far side of the busy town.
I shouted again, ‘What, Mother? What did you say?’
But her lips never moved. She just stood still, waving her arm in the air.
I never saw my mother again. She was taken off in the outbreak of yellow fever that decimated Bridgetown in 1822.
Of course, we wrote to each other often when I was in Liverpool. Probably not as often as I would have liked – my mother was a poor letter writer – but I never felt the touch of her hands on my face again, nor the warmth of her body as she held me close.
I will always remember her, though, standing there on the dock, her arm raised high as if to touch the blue sky.
But now, as I think about it, I’m not sure whether she was waving goodbye or if she was waving for me to come back.
I suppose I will never know.
Chapter thirteen
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne dialled the number for his mobile phone. It rang and rang and rang. She was just about to give up when a sleepy voice answered, ‘Yeah.’
‘Hi, Paul, it’s Jayne.’
‘Hi, Jayne.’ The voice was instantly more awake and she could hear a touch of wariness.
‘You sound tired.’
‘A late night, too much to drink.’
She decided to press on. If she didn’t sort this out now, it would just fester.
‘I received the solicitor’s letter asking for a divorce, Paul. I would have thou
ght you’d have the courtesy to call me first.’
She instantly regretted saying the last sentence. She had wanted this conversation to be positive, not one full of recriminations.
‘I wanted to make it official, Jayne. We’ve been separated for more than a year now. And I’ve met somebody else.’
So, there it was, out in the open. Not surprising really. When was the last time they had talked? A month ago, maybe?
‘I see,’ she replied. ‘So you want to get married again?’
‘We’re thinking about it. She wants kids and neither of us are getting any younger.’
Jayne thought how to respond. The truth was that she never wanted to have children with Paul. She felt neither of them were grown-up enough to handle the responsibility of raising a child. They both gave too much to their jobs. She finally said, ‘Well, I won’t stand in your way, Paul. I think the only issue between us is the house.’
‘I’ve instructed my solicitors to be fair, Jayne. We both paid for the mortgage, with me probably paying more, but I’m happy to divide the money fifty-fifty when we sell it. Property prices have risen considerably in Didsbury from when we bought twelve years ago.’
‘But I don’t want to sell, Paul.’
‘Ah…’ was his only response.
Jayne continued. ‘I’m happy here, it’s my home as well as my office. I like the area and it would be difficult to find a house as good as this again. You’re okay living in Brussels, your company gives you a housing allowance.’
‘Then I think we have a problem, Jayne. I want to buy a home here with my fiancée, and the proceeds of the sale of the place in Didsbury would help me.’
She knew it was silly, but his use of the word ‘fiancée’ hurt and angered her. Did their time living together in this house mean nothing to him?
‘I don’t want to sell, Paul,’ she said again.
‘Let the solicitors work something out, we don’t have to discuss it now.’
She heard a voice in the background.
A woman’s voice.
‘You’re right,’ she snapped, ‘it’s obviously the wrong time to call, you’re busy. I’ll instruct my solicitor to contact yours. But understand me, I don’t want to sell this house.’
Before he could respond, she switched off her mobile.
‘Well, Jayne Sinclair, you didn’t handle that very well,’ she said out loud. She sipped her coffee and decided to use the time before she left for Wickham Hall to research divorce solicitors on the net. Or perhaps she should ring Wendy – didn’t she get divorced last year from that beast of a husband? She would know who to use.
Reluctantly, Jayne picked up her mobile again. She had enough on her plate without fighting with Paul about the house too.
Why couldn’t love, and life, be easier?
Chapter fourteen
July 09, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
With Henry away, Emily wrote during the day, leaving strict instructions with the servants that she was not to be disturbed.
‘But what about food, and your medicine, ma’am? Your brother left strict instructions that I was to make sure you ate and took the laudanum,’ the housekeeper, Mrs Trevor, whined.
‘They don’t matter. I’m not hungry and I don’t need the tinctures that Dr Lansdowne has prescribed.’
‘But I’ll lose my post if I don’t follow his instructions. He was very clear to me.’
Emily’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Fine, leave them outside my room. I will eat as and when I am hungry.’
‘And take the doctor’s medicine?’
‘I will take the laudanum as well.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mrs Trevor turned and walked away, leaving a trail of cheap perfume behind her.
Emily closed her door and shuffled to the dresser to retrieve her notebook. She began writing, remembering the details of her life as the words leaked on to the page once more.
1819 – Liverpool
Mother had been right. Even though it was supposed to be summer, the weather in Liverpool was cold and blustery on the day we arrived, swirling through the drab warehouses and whipping my skin with its vicious lashes.
The voyage had been calm and quiet. The Atlantic was a smooth pussycat, not the tiger I had read about in my books. Even Captain Ratchet had been surprised by the ease of the journey.
‘She be quiet this month, too quiet. Building up her strength for a storm, you mark my words.’
The captain had the natural pessimism of all sailors. The glass was always half empty in his eyes, the slaves weak and valueless, the cargo a waste of time and money, the weather ever ready to change for the worse.
I spent most of the time sitting in the small cabin I shared with my brother, reading the books Mother had thoughtfully bought for me in preparation for my journey. Emma by Miss Austen was a wonderful read even if I did not care too much for the title character. I much enjoyed Mr Scott’s Waverley, starting it again as soon as I had finished it. However, I do think Mother would have been more thoughtful with Miss Burney’s latest book, Tales of Fancy: The Shipwreck. Not the sort of book that should be given to somebody just beginning a long voyage. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the story and resolved to read the author’s half-sister Fanny Burney’s diaries when I had the opportunity.
I didn’t see Henry that much, except at meals and in the evening when he slept. He spent most of his time with Father and the captain, going over statements of account and understanding the complexities of the new trading arrangements. After the abolition of the slave trade in 1807, Father was no longer allowed to take part in the triangular trade: gold and trinkets to the Gold Coast; slaves to the Caribbean; sugar, rum and tropical woods to England. He had successfully branched out, trading finished goods with Philadelphia, Baltimore and Charleston in exchange for the cotton and tobacco for which England had an insatiable demand, and going even further afield to Russia and India.
How do I know all this?
My brother often left his books open in the cabin for me to see. Father would have been appalled if he ever found out I had been reading about trade, but I found the subject fascinating and a welcome diversion from the continual pursuit of eligible husbands that seemed to dominate every page of Miss Austen’s novels.
One day my brother returned early, catching me reading The Wealth of Nations by Mr Smith. He stared at me a moment before reaching forward and closing the book. ‘What are you reading that for?’ he said.
‘It’s interesting,’ I answered weakly.
‘Interesting? The only interest it has for me is to send me to sleep within five minutes of opening it.’
‘Father expects you to read it.’
‘He doesn’t expect you to read it. I would prefer to spend time with Mr Scott or Captain Marryat, not with that old Scottish bore.’ He threw the book on his cot.
I decided to change the subject. ‘What will you do when we get to England?’
‘Father has decided I am to join him in the company. It is to be renamed Roylance and Son.’
‘Isn’t that good?’
‘It is if you like account books and ledgers and profit and loss and insurance and banking and—’
‘What would you rather do?’ I interrupted him before he could list an encyclopaedia.
He sat on his cot, sending it swinging back and forth. His face became animated as he spoke. ‘I want to become a soldier. I haven’t told you about what happened when we rode out from the estate the day of the rebellion.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to tell me.’
‘It’s not that, it’s just I never understood it until recently. Listening to Father and the captain has helped me.’
‘What happened?’
He leant forward. ‘Well, we met up with the rest of the militia that had been called out from around the island. There was about two hundred and fifty of us all told, mostly overseers but a few estate owners like Father and myself. We were joined by Colonel Codd with his four
hundred troops and the two hundred soldiers of Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong’s West Indian brigade.’
‘Black soldiers?’
‘They fought very well, destroying the first charge of Bussa’s men.’
‘Go on...’
‘Well, we arrived at Bailey’s Estate and found them waiting for us. They charged with rakes and scythes and knives, straight into our guns. The men were rock solid, calmly pouring volley after volley into the mass of the rebels. The smoke and din and screams were terrifying. The rebels soon broke under our fire and retreated to a nearby farm. There we surrounded them and poured fire into their ranks until they surrendered. Some escaped, of course, but we caught most of them later when we scourged Saint Philip County.’
I thought at this point of telling him about my encounter with King Wiltshire, but I decided to remain silent.
He continued, laughing. ‘We chased those rebels all over the island. Like a hunting party, it was, the dogs in front, howling and yapping, the men behind drinking and shouting.’
Remembering the bodies of King Wiltshire, Jacob and his family hanging from the gibbets in Bridgetown, I asked him what he did when he caught the rebels.
‘Why, we killed them, didn’t we?’ he said, as if surprised by my question. ‘We strung them up over the nearest tree and let them swing in the wind.’
‘Did none get a trial?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A few did, but why waste the time of the courts? They were going to hang anyway.’
I opened my mouth to protest but he carried on speaking.
‘That’s why I want to become a soldier. Colonel Codd congratulated me on my alacrity and keenness on chasing and capturing the rebels.’
‘Did you kill anybody?’
He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘I’m not sure. I shot one rebel in the leg, but my horse reared and I lost track of him. Maybe somebody else caught him.’
I stayed silent.
‘I hope Father lets me become a soldier.’
The bell sounded on deck.
