The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

‘Him?’ She gave a derisive snort. ‘He wouldn’t notice if I lay naked on the slab between a side of beef and a leg of pork.’

  Jago’s mouth twitched. ‘No man worthy of the name could fail to be moved by your beauty, Louise.’

  She tossed her untidy mane and preened. ‘You got some lovely way with words. ’Tis true though. He’ve got three shops, and when he isn’t working in one he’s visiting the others. Money, money, money, that’s all he think of.’

  Jago regarded her with faint amusement. ‘But surely that was why you married him?’

  ‘’Course it was,’ Louise agreed readily. ‘I got three older sisters. I wanted a nice house, and nice clothes nobody else had worn first. He’d have got good value from me. But I aren’t no ornament, just for show, to be took down and dusted off once a month.’ Sighing, she lifted Jago’s hand to her breast. ‘I’m a woman and I do need a man.’

  The blend of coyness and invitation in her soft purr stirred him not at all. He freed his hand without haste. ‘No, Louise.’ As her full mouth grew sulky he added, ‘I am concerned for your –’ He hesitated over the word reputation, aware that, offended by his rejection and her husband’s neglect, she could with truth accuse him of having little concern for it before. Guarding her good name was her responsibility, not his. But that would carry little weight with her in this mood. ‘For your well-being. What if your husband should return home and find you not there?’

  ‘He’s at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. They talk for hours in the Council Chamber, then go and talk some more in the King’s Head.’ She raised herself on one elbow, allowing the sheet to drop as she arched her magnificent breasts towards him. ‘C’mon, Jago. Just once more?’

  He smothered a pang of irritation. He liked her earthy honesty. But she never seemed to realise when enough was enough. He pushed back the sheet and with one lithe movement rose from the bed. Taking one of the towels from the washstand he wrapped it without haste or shyness around his lean hips.

  ‘Go home, Louise.’ He spoke softly, but the steely edge to his voice had her scrambling quickly into her clothes.

  ‘See you again soon?’

  ‘I expect so.’ He took two notes from his wallet and picking up the little blue velvet drawstring purse trimmed with ribbon that matched her dress, pushed them into the gathered neck.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’ Her tone was a blend of resentment and gratitude.

  ‘I know. But a gift is always welcome, is it not?’

  ‘Come again next week, shall I?’ she asked, twisting her frizzy hennaed hair into an untidy coil, then pinning her hat on top and tilting it at a rakish angle.

  ‘No. Tonight you bribed a porter to let you in here while I was out. You will not do that again.’

  She gazed at him, clutching the little purse, hearing the paper money crackle beneath her fingers. ‘But you said you’d see me soon.’

  He hadn’t said that. ‘I will make any future arrangements.’

  ‘I might decide not to come.’ She shook out her skirts.

  Jago inclined his head. ‘That would be your choice, and I shall accept your decision.’

  Louise’s shoulders drooped and suddenly she looked much older than her thirty-one years. ‘You arrogant bastard.’ There was no malice in her tone, just weary acceptance and a hint of admiration. Unlocking the door, she glanced up and down the passage then left without another word, closing it softly it behind her.

  Rubbing one hand over his dark beard, Jago’s aquiline nostrils flared at his own scent. After opening the sash window he tugged the bell-pull.

  When the boy appeared, he ordered hot water. ‘I want a bath.’

  ‘Now, sir?’ the boy asked, startled.

  ‘Now,’ Jago growled. The taste of wine was sour in his mouth. ‘Bring a pot of coffee as well.’ As the door closed he lit another cheroot and propped himself on pillows against the headboard. He had much to think about.

  In the big double bed, his striped nightshirt buttoned up to the neck, Thomas Bonython looked up from a large leather-bound ledger and peered over his spectacles.

  ‘What was that, dear?’

  Seated at her dressing table his wife glared at him in the gilt-framed mirror as she rubbed cream into her fleshy face. A lace-frilled cap covered her hair and she wore a voluminous peignoir of peach satin with deep flounces of lace at the neck and cuffs.

  ‘I said it’s ridiculous, Caseley in Teuder’s office trying to look as if she knows what she’s doing. At least she hasn’t the cheek to use his desk. When I called in yesterday she was working on that little walnut bureau of her mother’s in one corner. I told her Teuder should have done the proper thing and appointed you to take over while he was –’

  Thomas jerked upright. ‘You did what?’

  ‘She said you could discuss the matter with Teuder when he’s better.’ Her tone was venomous. ‘Just who does she think she is?’

  ‘She’s young,’ he placated automatically, his thoughts racing. ‘She’ll be finding the situation difficult.’

  Margaret swung round on the tapestry-covered stool. ‘That is exactly my point, Thomas. She should not even be there. You are next in age to Teuder. You should have been asked to take over.’ She turned back to the crowded dressing table, opened another jar, and began to rub almond-scented cream into the backs of her plump white hands.

  ‘Teuder would have had to raise your salary, or at least increase your share of the profits. We need the money, Thomas. Look at this place.’ She gazed with obvious discontent around the over-furnished room. ‘Heaven knows what Bess did to those curtains when she had them down in the spring. They have never looked right since. And Charlotte needs at least three new dresses for Christmas.’

  ‘Three?’ Thomas bleated.

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, our daughter is now fourteen years old. She’s a young lady and will be a laughing stock among her friends if she has to wear last season’s clothes to the parties and dances.’

  ‘Yes, but do they all have to be new?’ He hesitated. ‘Surely some different trimmings, an alteration here and there.’ He waved a vague hand.

  His wife’s thin mouth tightened in disapproval. ‘Regardless of our grievances against certain members of the family, we Bonythons have a position to uphold. If Charlotte appears in last season’s dresses she will be snubbed.’

  ‘Come now.’ Thomas felt his smile wilt as he tried once more to defuse his wife’s wrath. ‘I am certain Charlotte’s friends would not be so unkind.’

  Margaret raised her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. ‘How can you be so naive? I’m not talking about her friends. Though I don’t doubt some young hussy would delight in sharpening her tongue and her wits at our daughter’s expense. People in our position excite jealousy, Thomas. It is the mothers we have to guard our little girl against. And I cannot possibly invite the Trembaths here again until we have the Chesterfield re-covered. I saw Maria Trembath eyeing the worn patch on the seat. Apricot velvet would look nice.’

  She stood up and blew out the candles in their gilt holder, then took off her wrapper to reveal a long white flannel nightdress with a pie-frill collar and full sleeves. Climbing between the starched sheets, she settled herself on the two feather pillows and pursed her lips. ‘So, what are you going to do about it, Thomas?

  He closed the big leather book and placed it on the bedside table. ‘About what, my dear?’ Time was running out. The audit was due shortly. If he could persuade Teuder to let him do it himself, he might be able to juggle the figures.

  ‘About Caseley, of course.’

  Thomas removed his spectacles and placed them carefully on the polished table alongside the accounts ledger. He had promised himself it would be once only. But now, with so many demands to meet, he could see no other option. They could count him in. He would tell them tomorrow. Excitement stirred, warming his pallid cheeks.

  ‘Nothing, my dear.’

  Margaret’s head jerked off the pillow as she glared at him. �
��Nothing? You mean –’

  ‘I mean,’ Thomas’s interruption startled his wife into silence. ‘I am happy for Caseley to remain exactly where she is. I never liked Teuder looking over my shoulder, always checking up on me. Since his illness Caseley has so much to do at the yard that she leaves all financial matters to me. For the first time I am my own master, and I like it.’

  ‘What about me? People are talking behind our backs about you being passed over. But because Teuder is sick and you don’t have to report to him like a – a – schoolboy, you are happy.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I thought that with my encouragement you could make something of yourself, show Teuder that he had underestimated you. This would have been the perfect opportunity. You are content with so little, Thomas.’

  ‘Will you listen?’ He fought to contain his simmering rage, terrified of what might happen should he let it loose. ‘Caseley is clever, but she’s young and too much is being asked of her. Teuder’s main interest is the yard. That is where he is directing her attention.’

  ‘How does that help you?’

  He hesitated. He had been warned to tell no one. But they weren’t married to Margaret. They had no idea of the pressures a wife like her inflicted on a man. He had to tell her. Not everything, just enough, or she would play the martyr for weeks. Besides, it would show her he was as capable as Teuder of handling complicated business deals. Though obviously he could not give too many details. But the extra money would be a boon. She would welcome that. And when Margaret was happy she was more accommodating.

  ‘It allows me to run a little private enterprise. Certain items will be brought to me, and all I have to do is ensure they reach the people who want them. For this service I will receive a commission.

  Seeing her expression sharpen he knew he had her. ‘How much?’

  ‘That depends on the value of the goods. But the items we have in mind should make the venture well worthwhile.’

  ‘You said we. Who –?’

  He shook his head. ‘No names. I had to promise. I shouldn’t even be telling you this much.’ He placed a tentative hand over his wife’s. ‘My only contact is the man who brings me the goods. I arrange transport to their destination. The first consignment arrived yesterday and will be on its way to London on the mail coach tomorrow morning.’

  ‘When will you be paid?’ Her expression was avid.

  ‘Within forty-eight hours, provided the buyer receives the package intact.’ His voice quivered with suppressed excitement. ‘Teuder has done me a favour by bringing Caseley in. Be nice to her, Margaret. We want everything to remain exactly as it is.’ His hand crept upward to rest on his wife’s large, flannel-covered breast.

  She did not move. ‘It has been an exhausting day, Thomas. Perhaps by the weekend we may have something to celebrate.’ She rolled away, dislodging his hand. ‘Turn the lamp out, dear.’

  He did as he was told.

  Chapter Three

  Caseley’s dreams were filled with people pursuing her demanding decisions and information she didn’t have. Restless, disturbed, she kept waking and listened to the wind rattling the window and causing a door left unfastened in the yard opposite to bang monotonously.

  Soon after dawn, unable to remain in a bed that offered neither comfort nor escape, she had got up. Slipping a robe over her nightgown, her hair rippling down her back, she had worked on a reply to the letter from Mexico. She was busy writing at her desk when Liza-Jane brought in hot water.

  She dressed in a plain bottle green skirt gathered to fullness at the back waist and a shirt-like bodice the colour of thick cream with a round neck and buttoned cuffs. She brushed her hair until it gleamed like burnished bronze then bundled it into a net secured on her nape with two pins.

  Examining her reflection in the ornate mirror she pinched her cheeks to give them some colour. About the shadows under her eyes she could do nothing.

  Passing her father’s door she heard Ben’s voice as he washed and shaved her father.

  She ate a boiled egg and a slice of toast, drank the last of her tea, and was dabbing her mouth with her napkin when the door opened.

  Unshaven, his hair tousled, with one hand shading his eyes against the sunshine streaming in through the window, Ralph walked carefully to the table and eased himself down onto a chair.

  ‘God, I feel awful.’ He supported his head on hands that trembled. His crumpled shirt was unfastened at the neck and wrists and his dark trousers were stained.

  ‘Why do you do it, Ralph?’ Caseley asked softly.

  ‘No lectures, Caseley. Not today, especially not now.’ He let his hand drop and leaned back. His bloodshot eyes were narrowed against the bright morning and the pain she guessed was hammering at his temples. ‘Give me something, Caseley. One of your brews? I can’t stand this.’

  About to say that he didn’t have to, that he wouldn’t suffer if he simply left the cork in the bottle, she knew she’d be wasting her breath.

  ‘Please?’ He sounded desperate.

  ‘All right.’ She stood up. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He sank his head into his hands once more.

  She paused in the doorway. ‘Could you eat anything?’

  He shook his head, clearly regretting the movement as his thin shoulders tensed against renewed pain.

  As Caseley entered the kitchen Rosina looked up from the pastry she was making. ‘All right, my ’andsome? Want something more?’

  ‘Some lime tea for Ralph. His nerves are in a dreadful state.’ She went to one of the large wooden cupboards.

  ‘I bet his stomach don’t feel too happy neither. A teaspoon of grated nutmeg on a slice of bread and butter, that’s what he need.’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Caseley measured a teaspoonful of dried lime flowers into a cup. ‘I doubt he’d keep it down right now.’ She lifted the heavy kettle from the black-leaded range and poured boiling water onto the flower heads then returned the kettle to the slab with its gleaming brass rail. ‘How’s your head?’

  The housekeeper looked up in surprise. ‘My –? She lowered her voice. ‘I reckon ’tis me time of life.’

  Caseley strained the lime infusion into a fresh cup. ‘Odd that they usually happen the evenings.’

  ‘Do they? Well, I never.’ Rosina’s amazement was beautifully judged. ‘Some strange that is.’

  Before Caseley could reply, Liza-Jane came in from the scullery carrying a large basket of wet washing.

  ‘I’ll just get this put on the line for Mary. Some lovely drying day it is.’ She turned to Rosina. ‘You was right about Louise Downing.’ Her voice held mingled censure and excitement. ‘She have got another fancy man.’

  ‘I knew it. Didn’t I tell you?’ Rosina crowed. ‘Is it Jimmy Mitchell? I seen the way he do look at her. ’Tis all Ada Mitchell can do to serve her. But then Ada always look like she’s sucking lemons.’

  Caseley knew she shouldn’t condone gossip. But since her father fell ill she was spending most of each day discussing cargos and destinations with Uncle Richard or ship repairs, labour costs, and wholesale rates for oakum, pitch, Norwegian pine, and English oak with her father. She translated letters relating to his consular work, and relayed his instructions for work at the yard. A little local gossip made a welcome change.

  ‘’Tis never right, her carrying on like she do,’ Liza-Jane said.

  ‘’Tis his own fault.’ Rosina sprinkled flour on the pastry board before rolling out a lump of dough. ‘If he spent a bit less time with they dead carcasses and a bit more on the live one he’s married to, she wouldn’t stray. Anyhow, who’s the new fancy man? She’ve kept this one quiet.’

  ‘Because he’s foreign,’ said Liza-Jane.

  Rosina looked up. ‘He isn’t a Falmouth man?’

  Liza-Jane rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘He isn’t English. Leastways, that’s what Mary said. Betty Chard told her she seen Louise coming out of the Royal
Hotel about ten o’clock last night.’

  ‘That don’t mean anything.’ Rosina pursed her lips as she pushed the rolling pin to and fro. ‘Louise have been seen coming out of stranger places than that at ten of an evening.’

  Caseley opened the jar of honey and stirred a spoonful into the lime tea.

  ‘Well, Betty’s eldest is a boot boy up the hotel and he says he’ve seen her in there four or five times in the past six months, and always at the same time as they foreigners.’

  Rosina gasped, the pastry forgotten. ‘There’s more than one?’

  Liza-Jane nodded. ‘That’s what Betty told Mary.

  Rosina snorted. ‘Get on, ’tis just guessing. What Betty don’t know she do make up. That woman is some terrible gossip.’

  Biting her lip to hide her smile, Caseley picked up the cup and saucer and returned to the breakfast room. Ralph was where she had left him, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

  She felt a pang of sympathy as she set the cup on the table beside him. ‘Drink it while it’s hot, Ralph. It will help.’

  He turned to look at her. Despite the bloating and the stubble his face appeared young and defenceless. ‘I can’t go on like this.’

  Caseley looked at the long sensitive fingers, now grimy and trembling, at the thin body taut with nervous tension and the pain of yet another hangover, at the stained, dishevelled clothing. ‘No,’ she agreed quietly. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘What am I to do, Caseley?’

  ‘You have to talk to him.’

  ‘He won’t listen.’

  ‘Ralph, you haven’t tried.’

  He glared at her. ‘Of course I’ve tried –’

  ‘To tell him what you really want? Have you, Ralph? I’ve heard you rant about what you don’t want. You’ve ridiculed all the ideals he grew up believing in. But I’ve never once heard you explain quietly and reasonably exactly what your ambitions are. Do you even know?’

  ‘How can you say that?’ He was deathly pale. ‘I thought you understood. Are you turning against me as well?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not. But you’re destroying yourself, drinking like this.’