Flaherty produced a list of his outgoings, passed over for Brazier to examine, which was brief and non-committal. He left the room for a short period to return with a written note.
‘Take this to Mr Davies, the advocate in King Street. He is treasurer of the council and has a stout safe for municipal funds. He is acting as my banker on remittances sent to him from London.’
‘So you’ve taken my advice?’
‘About not carrying around a purse full of guineas? Yes I have. I cannot be sure that for all that was said about Daisy, the pair who came at me were not just set on robbery. They were, after all, disturbed.’
The frustrations of Edward Brazier could not compare with those of the woman he was intent on marrying. While hating to admit her brother had been right, Betsey occupied a great deal of her time thinking of the man in pursuit of her and what might transpire, with all the caveats she could conjure up surfacing regularly, not least that she might be deluding herself to thinking of marrying a man she really hardly knew.
Their meetings in Jamaica were constantly reprised as she sought clues for the point at which pleasure in his company had morphed into something more profound. Likewise here at home, though exchanges, which might be overheard by her aunt, did nothing to establish enlightenment. Yet on the chaperoned walks she could feel that strange sensation brought on by his proximity and his voice.
Activity would have helped to fill a portion of her day but, being a lady of leisure, she was not required to do much, even in the domestic line. At Cottington Court, that was overseen − and the role tenaciously hung on to − by her Aunt Sarah. In the West Indies, Betsey had run her own household, which included overseeing the recruitment or, in very occasional cases, the dismissal of house servants. The latter a matter for very careful consideration, given it would send a household slave to back-breaking field work on one of the plantations.
Betsey had to have her tolerance tested to the limit to even think of imposing such a fate on someone who had ceased to be just a face. If she felt uneasiness now, it had not surfaced as readily back then. How easy it had been to forget, mostly down to their obliging manner, that the servants who worked in the Langridge house were not present by choice.
Here the household servants occupied the attics or, in the case of the gardeners and stable lads, a cottage for the first and a loft for the latter. In Jamaica they had occupied a thatched sort of barracks, well away from the house – further even than the stables – a long hut split in the middle to keep apart the sexes, with one of the estate guards on duty overnight, tasked to ensure they stayed that way.
Part of her responsibilities, early in the morning, had been to meet with the head retainer to arrange the running of the day. Were she and Stephen in or out for dinner? If not, were they expecting guests? If going out, at what time would the carriage and the master’s horse have to be ready, her maid already alerted to the required clothing for the occasion?
Entertaining would involve a discussion around place settings, chairs etc., and then a session with cook to plan the meal, with messages being sent to the various providers to supply what could not be accessed within the bounds of the home farm and vegetable beds, which she took to and enjoyed inspecting regularly; to do that here at Cottington was seen as prying.
There was, of course, endless visiting, which Betsey now undertook diligently, calling on the very same people who had attended her spring fete, all except Annabel Colpoys, who had shown her a cold shoulder at St Saviour’s these last two Sunday services. Her husband, Roger, had made a point of ignoring Betsey too, and kept his children from engaging with her, which was wounding. Odd that Moyle’s sermon had been gentle for once, his subject the benign nature of the Holy Spirit.
The fear they had gossiped and mentioned her intentions was ever present. Thus every visit to an old friend of herself or the family was an occasion of acute observation, seeking for the slightest hint that her reputation had been compromised. Duty demanded she visit Stephen’s mother and there her antennae were acute for any hint of scandal. If she thought it irrational, and Edward had quietly on their walk dismissed it as nonsense, it was nevertheless one of the norms of the society in which she lived.
A widow must show respect to her dear departed and not go husband hunting, or even be seen to enjoy the company of an unmarried man, until a decent interval had passed. If she showed the slightest inclination to stray from those constraints, her Aunt Sarah was there to remind her. Henry, on the other hand, had taken to never directly referring to the subject.
‘I shall be going away the day after tomorrow, Elisabeth, to London,’ he murmured, fork poised halfway to his mouth. ‘For several days and possibly a week.’
She had to suppress a feeling of excitement, which was not easy; luckily Henry went back to concentrating on his dinner by the time she replied. ‘To visit our Uncle Dirley, no doubt?’
‘Partly that, but there are other matters to address.’
‘Am I allowed to enquire as to what they would be?’
The superior smirk was infuriating. ‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’
It was not vanity that made her accept the ‘pretty’. She never considered herself in that way: Betsey knew she had been favoured in the article of looks allied to health but, to her, gloating on it or seeking advantage was reckoned improper. But fury at the ‘little’ had her grip her cutlery very hard and nearly brought on an outburst. She had to tell herself to change the subject; condescension almost counted as natural behaviour for her brother, something she would bear in silence for the sake of her greater goal.
‘Why is it Dirley never visits us here?’
He seemed to require time to answer that question, which was odd. It should have come readily, since he knew his half-uncle very well and had been doing regular business with him ever since their father passed away. To Betsey he was close to being a stranger, even although he had handled the Langridge will, seeing to the transfer and continued smooth running of the plantations, all of which had been carried out through written correspondence.
‘He dislikes the country and prefers the town, but then there is the question of his …’ There was a pause and a feebly waved hand, as his aunt breathed heavily enough to ensure no untoward expressions were uttered, which led to an evasive conclusion: ‘You know.’
‘Do I? He seems like a mystery to me. I’ve not seen him since I was a child and can scarcely conjure up an image. To call him a distant relative is an understatement. He did not even attend my wedding.’
‘It might be a misnomer to name him as a true relative at all, Elisabeth,’ was the quiet opinion of Sarah Lovell. ‘The family repute might be tainted by his too-obvious presence.’
‘Surely the time for the shame of his birth is long past?’
The response was more forceful. ‘Is there ever such a period, dear girl, when shame is diminished?’
The hint was obvious: never mind your illegitimate Uncle Dirley, think of your own situation and guard it. Her brother started talking about the possible price of wheat, given there was the prospect of a good harvest at home and a poor one in France, at which point Betsey went back to her own private ruminations; the subject was of no interest to her whatsoever.
Joe Lascelles was the first of Brazier’s old crew to arrive, just as his one-time captain was in the act of departing for Walmer Castle. Indeed the door was open, Bonnie was outside, saddled and being held by a moonlighting Ben, who eyed Joe suspiciously as, ditty bag slung over his shoulder, he enquired for Quebec House. Africans were not unknown in Deal and neither, with the East Indian trade, were Lascars, but they were far from common.
‘Who be askin’?’
‘It is in the nature, young fellow, of my being polite, for I can now see very well that the name is writ over the door.’
The one-time son of a slave had not only the ability to read but, for his social position, a refined manner of speech, picked up in the houses of his father’s master and, given one of th
ose residences was in Yorkshire, there was a tinge of the accent in his voice.
‘Is that you, Joe?’
Brazier voiced this enquiry as he approached the door from within and heard the exchange. He was greeted on exiting with that smile he remembered so well, which was one to light up a dark room.
‘None other, and about to clip this brat round the ear.’ There was little actual threat in that, not with a deep laugh to accompany it. ‘Do I detect I am come at an awkward time?’
‘I am bent upon an engagement for which I cannot delay.’ Brazier took the reins from Ben and introduced him to his new servant. ‘He’s a good lad and willing if you need anything.’
‘Food and a place to lay my head for an hour will suffice. I have been on the road for over two weeks and, being told I was close, I was up with the birds this day.’
‘There’s a spare latchkey hanging in the rear passage and food in the larder.’
‘And duties?’
‘You will see to them without aid from me and we can talk upon my return. Make yourself comfortable in one of the upper rooms. If you require water, use my name to draw it from the Navy Yard well. Also, keep an ear out for a trio of old shipmates coming to the house.’ That got a look and the names: ‘Dutchy Holland, Peddler Palmer and Cocky Logan.’
‘Which will have me head scratching worse than Peddler as to why.’
‘Later, Joe,’ Brazier said, hauling himself into the saddle. ‘I must be off, given a late arrival is to be avoided.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Prior to travelling to London, Tulkington called upon John Hawker. Another shipment was due and his man required a list of the expected contraband which, on this occasion, would stand as a test. The next task was to work out the possible dates on which it could be landed, this dependent again on the state of the moon and the height of the tides, albeit with the constant risk of bad weather, for traversing the English Channel was rarely straightforward even in high summer.
It was not unknown for a crossing, if the prevailing westerlies blew strong and continuous, to take a week, which normally would be spent waiting in harbour for the winds to moderate or shift. The very devil was to be caught out at sea in storm conditions so severe that they barred a run for a port too dangerous to enter. This could be harmful even if the vessel did not founder. Tossed about for days on end, passengers had been known to expire from sheer exhaustion.
The boat people of East Kent knew their waters and rarely put to sea if instinct, based on years of accumulated and handed-down knowledge, indicated gales in the offing. What would be a mystery to a landsman – the run and colour of the sea, the sniff and direction of the breeze, added to the shape of the clouds – was an open book to the best coastal seafarers and none more so than smugglers.
Unloading had always been less of a problem; with an eight-mile stretch of shingle coast from the fishing hamlet of Kingsdown to the Stour estuary, there was no shortage of places to land illicit cargo and many an enterprising individual had done so over decades when circumstances permitted, goods to be eagerly snapped up locally. It had been Tulkington senior’s genius to make regular in supply what had been haphazard, so now traders came from far and wide to collect their purchases.
Hawker also reported what he knew of the man he was tasked to keep an eye on, something he was too wise to undertake personally, especially when he had no need. Brazier would eye with suspicion any adult showing interest in him, but the town was full of parentless urchins who would do his bidding for a small reward in copper, or even better, a flask of gin. So every move had been marked, the information passed back to Tulkington, who found it deeply disappointing.
‘Are you sure this man is a Jack tar? No drunkenness, no women?’
‘Not much like those I’ve encountered, right enough,’ Hawker replied. ‘Had your sister to visit, but not another female and has not gone near a whorehouse or even the Playhouse or the Paragon. Flaherty the horse dealer seems to have become a companion of sorts, though I reckon it will be because Brazier bought a good cellar from Parkin.’
‘I wonder what he would say if he knew Parkin’s wine casks were supplied by us.’
‘Should I keep watchin’ him?’
It was impossible to miss the hint in the way that was asked; Hawker reckoned it a waste of time.
‘Until I return from London. He will discover from my sister where I am. Perhaps my absence for near a week will flush him out.’
He did not feel it necessary to say he had taken other precautions. That was no one else’s business but his own.
The notion of flushing Brazier out was not without foundation, though mistaken in its conclusion; Betsey had penned a letter to Brazier as soon as Henry’s carriage departed the driveway en route to Dover and the mail coach, again using one of the younger stable boys as a messenger, waiting till her aunt was occupied to despatch the lad on a cob, her message being that with her brother absent, the time must be used to become better acquainted. This was hard to achieve at Cottington but his parlour would never serve; their walks were accompanied, while a public place, even if she could shake off her aunt, was barred by convention.
So, enclosed in her note was a small sketch showing the location of the old broken gate, previously used by her to escape. Edward could gain access to the grounds, while her walks would be timed to take her within sight of the location at an agreed morning hour. Alone they could converse freely and find time to become better acquainted.
Not mentioned, or even alluded to, was the need she felt to reassure herself that the course on which she was set was a wise one. It was obvious that proximity to Edward Brazier caused her to experience a feeling of anticipation in her lower stomach, even a current of some kind running through her arm as he kissed the back of her hand on departure.
She thought him of fine character, as well as kind and considerate, but her own limited experience still allowed caution to intrude; she had really only known and been close to one man in her life. Common tales spoke of prospective husbands who had appeared perfect gentlemen prior to the nuptials, only to become drunken ogres and gamblers once the knot was tied.
There was no indication Edward Brazier was anything other than he appeared, but surely no amount of contact could be too much to lay even a slight worry to rest. Betsey was also aware of his profession, with a sure feeling it was something to which he was attached. Called to serve, it would surely be accepted with alacrity, which would take him away from her side.
If elements of that troubled her, it also induced a feeling of pride; no man of parts should shirk serving his country. Was that to be a portion of her life – wedded, comfortable, but alone for a period of unknown duration while he was at sea? Were the feelings they might share enough to stand up to what could well be a strain on any union?
The lad who watched Brazier as he took the Lower Valley Road out of Deal was not happy to venture into the open country. Scrubland was no place for the kind of waifs who gathered to drink their gin and sleep in the alleyways of the town, the rough spirit, together with huddled humanity, warding off the cold. But there was a craving for his reward, so he stayed with him till he saw the horse turning into the drive which led to Walmer Castle. Destination marked, Hawker’s ragamuffin decided that was enough, so set off for the slaughterhouse.
Walmer Castle had a captain who held the command; not that the Marquis of Waldron, who held the post, bothered to execute the duties of his office. He took the pay and delegated the work to another, a fellow who had scraped the money together to purchase a lieutenancy. That officer oversaw the small detachment of soldiers, two of whom were on sentry duty on the bridge spanning the moat, smart enough drilled to present arms to a naval officer whose equivalent army rank was that of colonel.
There was a man to take Brazier’s hat and sword and another, superior fellow in black coat and breeches who led him through the stone corridors to the main chamber, in which there was a pair of flaring and very necessary fires;
solid-stone walls did not do much to admit warmth from outside. It was a room in which to both relax and entertain, furnished with comfortable seating near, but not too near, one of the fires. A long, heavy oak dining table with high-backed chairs sat halfway between the two massive grates. Brazier noticed the table was laid for three at one end, so deduced he was to be a solitary guest.
‘Captain Edward Brazier, sir.’
Pitt rose from one of the fireside chairs to come forward and greet him, the woman who came out of another he guessed to be Lady Harriot before she was introduced. On first impression she was, as had been indicated by her brother, so heavily pregnant as to be close to term. But there was a secondary examination of a woman who was neither a beauty nor the converse.
The eyes were lively enough, but her nose was too prominent and she had her brother’s lips, which tended to that downward humourless tilt. The voice was strong and there was something about her carriage and demeanour, even with her prominent belly, which indicated such was replicated in her character.
Brazier was not entirely in ignorance of the lady: she was after all prominent socially and thus spoken of in the journals. Her husband, Sir James Eliot, was very conspicuous in the anti-slavery movement, a close associate to William Wilberforce, as was Pitt himself. Even if he knew it to be a subject fraught with pitfalls – it aroused strong passions – and given it was a fair bet the wife and sister shared their views, he knew it was bound to surface.
‘My brother was very eager to have you as a guest, Captain Brazier, which leads me to suspect you must be entertaining company indeed. He is choosy as to whom he has at table and is, in the main, obliged to feed politicos, dreary as they are in their speculations on the state of the nation.’
‘I fear he is mistaken, madam,’ Brazier replied, taking a glass of wine off a tray presented to him. ‘I’m a sad case when it comes to being amusing.’
The Contraband Shore Page 20
