The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

  THE CONSUL’S DAUGHTER

  Jane Jackson

  The Consul’s Daughter is the first in Jane Jackson’s epic new historical series, The Captain’s Honour.

  Caseley is the 21-year-old daughter of Teuder Bonython, successful shipyard owner and consul for Mexico. When Teuder falls ill, Caseley takes responsibility for the shipyard, the consulate, and her father’s health – but as a young woman in Victorian England, she must hide her talents in a world dominated by men.

  Not being conventionally beautiful, Caseley also resigns herself to a life without love … until she encounters Jago Barata, half-Spanish captain of a Bonython ship. Jago is fearless and determined, a brilliant sailor – he’s also impudent, arrogant, and unnaturally perceptive. Love is the last thing on Caseley’s mind as their every encounter sets her and Jago at each other’s throats.

  Then, just when she thinks Jago is out of her life for good, fate intervenes. Caseley must deliver a letter to Spain on behalf of her father – a letter containing information that could seal the fate of Spain one way or another. It will be a journey filled with doubt, intrigue and danger – and the only ship leaving in time is Jago’s…

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jane Jackson

  Chapter One

  ‘Drunk again?’

  Rage flushed Teuder Bonython’s pallid complexion. He tugged with shaking fingers at the neck of his white nightshirt. ‘He needs a thrashing to knock some sense into him.’ He closed his eyes, labouring to breathe, the grooves in his forehead deepening.

  Seated on the side of the bed, Caseley leaned forward. ‘Are you in pain, Father? Will you have your drops now?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Ben is putting him to bed.’

  He looked up at her. The wretchedness and frustration in his gaze wrenched her heart. ‘How many times is that this week? I want the truth.’

  ‘Four, I think.’ She looked at his blue-veined hand clenching the sheet. ‘He’s going through a difficult –’

  ‘Damn it, Ralph is twenty-five years old.’ Bitterness and despair twisted his mouth. ‘My only son.’ He looked at her. His pale eyes, usually so sharp beneath shaggy grey brows, now held bewilderment. ‘Why, Caseley? Why is he doing this? To me, to the family?’

  ‘He’s unhappy,’ she said softly.

  A strangled laugh tore itself from her father’s throat. ‘Good God in Heaven, what’s he got to be unhappy about? How much more does he want?’

  Not more, less. Caseley said nothing. She reached forward to the bedside table and unscrewed the top from a fluted brown bottle resting on a silver tray. Pouring several drops of amber liquid into a glass she added water from a carafe.

  ‘I don’t need that,’ Teuder growled. But as she held the glass to his lips he drank obediently. The burst of anger had drained him, and though the purple tinge had faded, beneath the flush on his cheeks his skin was grey.

  ‘You’re a good lass,’ he muttered. ‘You should be tending a husband and children, not burdened with me and the business and your wastrel brother.’

  ‘You’re no burden.’ Caseley smiled. He had no idea how much the well-meant words hurt.

  ‘If only your mother were here.’

  ‘It wouldn’t help Ralph, Father,’ she said as gently as she could. ‘Try to sleep now. Dr Vigurs is coming tomorrow, and if you don’t look better than you do now, he’ll keep you in bed for another week.’

  ‘Doctors,’ Teuder grunted, his papery eyelids drooping. ‘What do they know?’ But he didn’t protest as she straightened the covers and blew out the candle. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

  ‘Goodnight.’ He grunted again and she limped out. She closed the door quietly. Turning she saw a stocky man in his early thirties carrying an oil lamp coming along the passage.

  ‘How is my brother?’

  ‘Sleeping. He’ve parted with most of it, begging your pardon, miss. But I brung the bucket back up, just in case.’

  She hid her distaste at the all too vivid image Ben’s reply conjured. She should be used to it by now. Hadn’t she done her share of holding Ralph’s head? She understood the desperate battle raging within him, and admired his talent. But she was tired of his self-destructive behaviour.

  ‘He’ll have some thick head come morning.’

  ‘Where was he found this time?’

  ‘In the alley behind the Marine Hotel. Henry didn’t know how long he’d been there. He wouldn’t have seen him at all but for taking out a couple of barrels. He put him in a cab and sent him home.’

  ‘I’ll see Mr Voss is paid for his trouble.’ Caseley mentally added this to the already long list of tasks for the morning. She opened the kitchen door. ‘I expect you’d like something to eat before –’ She broke off.

  The large scrubbed table was set with a knife and fork, a mug of ale, and a plate of cold beef, pickled onions, and a lump of cheese. A spotless white apron tied over her grey calico dress, mousy hair gathered into a bun, Liza-Jane, thin as a willow and strong as an ox, emerged from the pantry carrying a crusty loaf.

  ‘Evening, miss.’ Her brown eyes slid past Caseley and a blush crept up her throat to stain her sharp features. ‘I just done a bit of supper for Ben.’ Picking up a long knife in a work-roughened hand that trembled slightly she began to slice the bread.

  Despite her exhaustion, Caseley had to smile. ‘He’s earned it, Liza-Jane.’

  The maid’s colour deepened and in the soft light from the gas-mantle she looked eighteen instead of twenty-eight. What must it be like, to care so much for someone that his mere presence was transforming?

  Caseley looked round. ‘Where’s Rosina?’

  ‘She’ve gone up bed, miss,’ Liza-Jane said. ‘Got one of her headaches. I brewed up some mint and marjoram, and when I looked in a few minutes ago she was sleeping.’

  Caseley had a strong suspicion that the housekeeper’s headache was more diplomatic than real. Until her husband’s untimely death, swept overboard from his fishing boat ten years ago, Rosina Renfree had been blessed with a very happy marriage, and she took every opportunity to encourage the growing attachment between Liza-Jane and Ben Tonkin, who had joined the household a year ago as valet, gardener, and handyman.

  ‘Want a cup of something, do you, miss? It won’t take a minute.’

  Caseley shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ She took a lamp from the shelf, lit it, and replaced the glass funnel. ‘Ben, I’m grateful.’

  ‘No trouble, miss.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She paused at the door. ‘Liza-Jane, make sure the copper is lit first thing, will you? Dr Vigurs is coming and Father’s bed linen must be changed. Mrs Clemmow will be here by eight thirty.’

  ‘Right, miss. ’Night.’

  Caseley sensed their relief as she closed the kitchen door. As she climbed the stairs once more, the brass lamp cast distorted shadows on wall and ceiling.

  In her room she set the lamp down on top of her writing cabinet. A tall clothes press filled an alcove. The brass bedstead gleamed above the lilac spread. Behind the door a flower-patterned
ewer and basin stood on the marble top of the night table and several white towels were folded over a rail at the side.

  She sank into her chair, gazing at the litter of invoices, orders, requests for quotations, and other paperwork generated by a busy and successful shipbuilding and repair yard. The long narrow drawer holding her pens and ink was pulled out, everything exactly as she left it when her father had called, woken by Ralph’s drunken shouting.

  Caseley rested her head against the chair’s high back. What would Miss Hester say seeing her now?

  Under the meticulous eye and strict discipline of the Misses Hester and Amelia Wills who ran the School for Young Ladies on Florence Terrace, she had learned to compose and address correspondence for every occasion in beautiful flowing script. She had studied literature, mathematics sufficient to ensure she could balance a household budget, deportment, piano and watercolour painting. Miss Hester deemed her embroidery exquisite.

  Though being able to dance was another important accomplishment, she had been excused due to the accident that had left her with a crushed foot and pronounced limp. Her classmates sympathised, but no one wanted to partner her. So while they mastered the complexities of the waltz and mazurka, she studied Spanish.

  It would have shocked Miss Amelia deeply to know that instead of reading Castilian poetry, her star pupil was gazing at a letter penned in Mexican Spanish requesting information concerning the qualities of different steam pumping engines for use in the Guanajuato silver mines.

  Propping her elbows on the paper-strewn writing slope, Caseley buried her face in her hands.

  There was a quick tap on the door and Liza-Jane walked in carrying a cup and saucer. ‘I know you said you didn’t want nothing, but you’re looking proper wisht. I’ve brung you some camomile tea.’ Beneath the severe centre parting her forehead puckered in concern. ‘All right, are you?’

  Caseley looked up, her eyes hot with unshed tears. ‘Actually, I was laughing.’

  ‘Bleddy cry if you didn’t, eh, miss?’

  Caseley lifted one shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t help though, would it?’ She sat up straight. ‘Thank you for the tea.’

  Liza-Jane placed the cup and saucer by the lamp. ‘Drink it while it’s hot.’

  ‘Ben’s a lucky man. I hope he realises it. And Liza?’ The maid turned in the doorway. ‘Thank him again for taking care of Ralph. I couldn’t have faced it tonight.’

  After Liza-Jane had closed the door Caseley picked up the cup and cradled in between her palms. Sipping the honey-sweetened liquid she stared into space, disjointed thoughts and images tumbling through her mind.

  Ralph’s ashen, sweaty face had lolled against Ben’s shoulder, as the manservant carried him upstairs.

  Her great bull of a father, weakened by illness, was unable to understand his son’s rejection of the business that should have been his inheritance. She remembered finding her father hunched over the desk in his office, his face dusky grey and creased with pain.

  ‘Tired, that’s all,’ he gasped. ‘A few days’ rest and I’ll be fine. You can stand in for me.’

  The responsibility terrified her. ‘Father, I can’t. I don’t know enough. Surely Uncle Thomas or Uncle Richard would –?’

  ‘This is my business, girl,’ he croaked. ‘Thomas can only think in figures. While there’s no one to beat Richard at finding cargoes for our vessels and those we’re agent for, neither of them knows a thing about shipbuilding or repair. You must stand in for me.’

  He clutched her hand, his grip painful. ‘If word gets out I’m sick, people will take their work elsewhere. Once we lose a vessel to another yard we won’t get it back. You’ve been translating letters and replies long enough to know what’s needed. You must act for me, Caseley. It won’t be for long. In a week or two and I’ll be fine.’

  So under the disapproving eye of Dr Vigurs her father had – through her – continued to run his business. But he was not recovering as quickly as either of them had hoped.

  Unable to remain in the office after official closing time, partly to avoid speculation about the true state of her father’s health, but also because Bar Road linked the docks with the town and at night was crowded with sailors and prostitutes, she had started bringing work home.

  A soft knock on the door brought her head up as Liza-Jane looked in.

  ‘I’m going up bed, miss. Doors is all locked and the lights out. Finished your drink, have you?’

  Caseley looked down at the still-full cup, now cool. ‘Not quite,’ she smiled. ‘But I will. Goodnight, Liza-Jane.’

  ‘’Night, miss.’

  Swallowing a mouthful of tea, Caseley set the cup on the saucer and studied the letter from Mexico. But the words would not register.

  Obeying an impulse she slipped off her shoes, opened the door, and padded quietly along the passage and up the dark narrow staircase to the small tower that gave the house its name.

  The captain who had built the house had added the windowed tower so he could point his telescope over the narrow spit of land at the back of his property to the bay beyond and know which ships were coming into port long before they arrived.

  But it was not to the open sea that Caseley looked. Resting her forehead against the cold glass, she gazed out over the inner harbour. Below her, on the far side of the road, the Bar with its warehouses, boatyards, saw pits, and timber pools curved round to the left. They were quiet during the hours of darkness. But daybreak would bring renewed noise and activity.

  Above the wharves and quays, the town rose from the river to sprawl over the hillside. A fat pale moon, veiled by scudding cloud, hung low over the village of Flushing on the far side of the harbour, its ghostly light silvering the dark, rolling water.

  The rising wind keened and sighed in the rigging of ships moored in the harbour and alongside the quays. It clapped ropes against masts and made the beech trees creak and rustle in the garden next door.

  Along the road the door of the Dock and Railway Inn opened. A man staggered out, his arm around a laughing woman. As they stopped in the shadows she turned away and went back to her room.

  Chapter Two

  Jago Barata eased himself up, leaned against the wooden headboard, lit a thin brown cheroot, and blew a thin plume of fragrant smoke. Cropped short, black curls clung to his forehead and temples. Sweat glistened on his broad shoulders, chest, and flat belly. Against the damp sheets and pillows his caramel skin glowed with animal health and as he raised his arm to tap ash from his cheroot, muscle and sinew flexed, gleaming in the lamplight.

  Why was there no news? Alfonso Gaudara, his father’s agent in Spain, had promised the writ holding his schooner in the blockaded port of Bilbao would be rescinded. Word of this should have been waited for him yesterday when he arrived back from South America.

  Twice today he had called to see George Fox, vice-consul for Spain at his office in Arwenack Street. Both times the man had been out and, though apologetic, the clerk had been adamant. There was no message for Captain Barata.

  Tomorrow he would go to the telegraph office. Each day the Cara lay idle in Bilbao he lost money. He had only a part-share in Cygnet. Though she handled well, and he was glad to have use of her, he wanted the Cara out of Spain in time for the fruit trade from the Azores starting in December. In the meantime he would use Cygnet for whatever deep-water runs he could get.

  Unloading at the docks had been completed this evening and the hides he had carried from the Rio Grande were in the warehouse ready for transport to leather factories. He would need to allow a couple more days to rid the ship of the stench and for repairs to the jib boom and two jib sails.

  It had been a close call, a collision that should never have happened yet could have been so much worse. That master would not tangle with him again. In the wrong place at the wrong time he had lacked the seamanship to get himself out of the way. Jago had little sympathy for him.

  They had made a fast passage, only fourteen days across the Atlantic from the Gul
f of Mexico. But it was more than two months since they had touched Cornish shores. His men would welcome a day or two with their families.

  He knew the value of a contented crew. At sea since the age of sixteen, he had neither time nor inclination for any but brief casual relationships. He was baffled by his mate’s willingness to walk the eight miles from Falmouth to Feock to spend twelve hours with his wife and children then walk back to be on board in time to catch the tide. Yet when turnaround was expected to be even shorter, he supervised the unloading himself so the mate could still make his visit home.

  He gained the mate’s gratitude and unswerving loyalty, and used the time for paperwork. Knowing he was in his cabin ensured the crew worked hard and fast.

  He knew he had a reputation as a hard but fair master with eyes in the back of his head. An ironic smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Despite the old tales about dual ancestry, his had produced no special powers or sorcery. His gifts were simply an instinctive understanding of human nature, and intelligence that required him to curb his impatience with those less mentally agile than himself.

  The woman beside him stirred and sighed, drawing her legs together from their abandoned sprawl as she pulled the sheet over her full breasts in a gesture of studied coyness.

  ‘You’ve forgotten I’m here,’ she pouted.

  Jago stubbed out the cheroot. ‘My dear Louise, how could I forget you, even for a moment.’

  The hotel’s bedroom window faced out onto Market Street. Porters shouted names and information to the desk clerks. Parties who had enjoyed a good meal and fine wines in the dining room laughed and chatted beneath the portico while awaiting their cabs. In the passage outside the bedroom, guests came and went, pageboys carrying messages knocked on doors.

  Then the blast of a horn and the thunder of hooves and iron-rimmed wheels announced the arrival of the late evening mail.

  Jago reached for his watch on the night table beside the bed.

  Louise stuck her lower lip out even further. ‘I suppose you want me to go.’

  ‘Will your husband not wonder where you are?’ He asked mildly.