The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘I have decided to hand over my share of the company to Arbroath.’

  Tom felt his temper rising, but kept his voice steady. ‘You mean the controlling share?’

  Alistair nodded. ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Including Margaret’s share?’

  Embarrassed, Alistair looked away. ‘I wish to keep control within the family.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to leave it in the control of outsiders,’ said Arbroath.

  Tom felt empty and angry that he should be dismissed so carelessly. He also wanted to flatten Arbroath’s smug expression. Not only had he lost his wife, but now his livelihood.

  Alistair tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. ‘Bearing in mind that you do own a number of shares, there’s no reason why you can’t stay a company executive and, of course, you will still own the Demerara Queen.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Tom through clenched teeth. ‘She’s my ship.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ said Alistair, his voice as worn-out as his health. ‘I don’t want the responsibility of it any more.’ He sank into his chair, his head in his hands. ‘My pride in the business died with my daughter. Cruel as it may sound, I really do not want anything more to do with you. You were Margaret’s husband and it upsets me to be reminded of her passing. I’m sorry, Tom. Everything is left to the family.’

  ‘But we had plans,’ Tom protested. ‘New routes, new cargoes and new steamships.’

  Arbroath looked suitably smug. ‘I intend running the business in the way it’s always been run. Our fortune was made using sailing ships and that is the way it will stay.’

  Tom was flabbergasted. ‘With no regard for progress?’

  ‘If you mean steamships, certainly not. It’s far too risky.’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Let’s not part as bad friends,’ said Arbroath.

  ‘What makes you think we’re parting company?’

  Arbroath showed no sign of embarrassment. ‘We wouldn’t get on, Tom. You know it, and so do I. Come. Will you shake my hand?’

  Tom stared at the proffered hand, the neatly clipped and incredibly clean fingernails, and the lily-white skin that had hardly tied a bootlace, let alone pulled on a rope. He felt the greatest repugnance for Arbroath, but only pity for his father-in-law.

  ‘So it’s finally come,’ he said without taking Arbroath’s hand, his angry gaze fixed on Alistair.

  ‘Perhaps if there had been a child…’ Alistair began.

  He sounded pitiful and Tom suddenly found himself hating him. He never had before. He’d tolerated him as a business associate, though never as a friend. All the same, he’d considered him an honourable man. That particular illusion was now shattered.

  Tom held his head high as he made for the door. ‘Goodbye, Alistair.’

  The slammed door curtailed their farewells. There’s nothing more to say, thought Tom as he headed for his carriage. He’d been squeezed out as the result of an old man’s grief and a younger man’s ambition. Boston had suddenly lost its appeal. Old friends and an older city beckoned. For the first time in years he wanted to return to England.

  Chapter Three

  ‘My wife used to be a warm and wonderful woman. Now she is distant. Sometimes she wanders the rooms of the cottage where she took the children on the last day our daughter enjoyed good health. I fear following her there because she reacts so angrily if I do. My eldest son has followed her and told me this. He says she also sits in the window seat and stares across at the common where our daughter picked flowers that day.’ Conrad Heinkel rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said to the doctor who’d been recommended to him as knowledgeable in the matter of melancholia. He’d described his wife’s behaviour in great detail and now awaited an answer.

  Dr Walters had a large head and gaunt features. His jowls settled against his collar like slabs of mutton on a plate. He reminded Conrad of an elderly bloodhound he’d once owned. He would have mentioned the fact if the occasion had not been so serious.

  The doctor took a deep breath as medical men are inclined to do after a period of deep thought. ‘Before matters get much worse, I think I should admit her to the institution for observation.’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘I can’t allow that.’

  Dr Walters sighed. Not all husbands were as tolerant as Conrad Heinkel, in fact, some were keen to act even when their wives’ conditions were far less than serious. ‘Your main concern seems to be her wandering the streets and spending time at this cottage, the last place she visited with your daughter.’

  Conrad nodded. ‘That is correct, though she only wanders the streets to get to the cottage. Sometimes she takes the pony and trap.’ The doctor interlaced his fingers thoughtfully and paced the room. ‘Might I suggest you stop her from visiting the cottage by locking her in a secure room and not let her out until she comes to her senses?’

  Conrad was astonished. ‘I can’t possibly do that! She’s not mad, just ill.’

  The doctor tutted and shook his head. ‘You may have to. The alternatives are too terrible to contemplate.’

  ‘And what are those alternatives?’

  Dr Walters pursed his lips and chose his words carefully. ‘Your first option is to let things go on as they are and chance her staying the same or that a miracle occurs. However, if left untreated, it is just as likely that she will slip further into melancholy until she reaches a point where life has no attraction for her. If things are left to get to that stage, there is a chance she will do the unspeakable – and take her own life.’

  ‘God, no!’ Conrad exclaimed, shaking his head. ‘And the second alternative?’

  ‘If you give her into my care, I will treat her with all the latest techniques available and, of course, she will be in the company of other such poor souls. I am of the opinion that the sight of such unfortunates can be very beneficial.’

  Conrad looked at him in shock. ‘Are you saying that she would be incarcerated with the insane?’

  The doctor’s lips spread in a condescending smile. ‘I am a great believer in shock treatment. It could make her realize just how lucky she is that she still has three children and a very comfortable life.’

  ‘The lowest of men and the meanest of hovels would be better than that,’ Conrad managed, his face red with indignation.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the doctor, sensing his big fee for a newly incarcerated patient was not forthcoming. ‘Now let me see,’ he went on, throwing his head back, his gaze directed towards the ceiling. ‘There could be a third alternative. I understand your daughter died from cholera?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Focusing your wife’s mind on the source of her sadness might help. I met a doctor lately who has some new-fangled ideas on how to combat cholera. He’s caught it twice himself, so I believe. The illness may have addled his brain or his ideas on defeating it may be very sound, but everything’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

  Conrad had a terrible urge to shake the man to death if he didn’t get to the point. ‘I trust he succeeds. But how would this benefit my wife?’

  ‘He’s giving a talk somewhere and asking for support from people of influence and the Corporation in particular, and I have to say you may find the subject matter rather dull. He’s going to be talking about the building of a new sewerage system and disinfecting those areas of the city where the disease is most prevalent. Perhaps news of such progressive ideas might lift your wife’s spirits.’

  Conrad eyed him with renewed interest. ‘Who is this man?’

  Dr Walters reached for his hat. ‘Can’t quite recall the name, but I will get it to you.’

  Conrad felt better as he escorted the doctor back through the Heinkel Sugar Refinery. With renewed confidence, he proudly pointed out items of interest. His business had been built up in the short time since he had come to this country from Germany and he was now a leading light in the Guild
of Master Sugar Bakers, most of whom were also German. Clouds of steam rose from the boiling pans in the char house. The men feeding the hopper that tipped charcoal into the filter beds were naked to the waist, their flesh red and gleaming with sweat. The air was hot and sticky with sweetness.

  ‘Damned hot,’ said the doctor, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Do let me know as soon as possible what your intentions are regarding your wife. Space at the asylum is limited.’

  Conrad pursed his lips and nodded at the beer boys who crouched in a line, waiting for the order to fetch liquid refreshment for the sweating labourers. ‘I have already decided. I would like to find out more about this doctor and his plans,’ he said.

  ‘If that is your wish, I will send you the details.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a while after the doctor had left, Conrad stared at the wall, unable to accept that putting his wife away would cure anything. She didn’t rant and rave as a lunatic; she was merely withdrawn. In time, he told himself, she would stop getting up at the crack of dawn, stop spending afternoons at Little Paradise and return to being the woman he’d married. Getting her to attend a meeting and listen to what these people had to say might be the first step to her recovery. At least, that’s what he hoped. Falling to his knees in the privacy of his office, he prayed to God for help – ‘For her sake more than for mine.’ Then he got up, blew his nose and tried to concentrate on his business.

  * * *

  A blind beggar sat against the railings outside the offices of Septimus Monk, the most powerful lawyer in the city. He sat very still and although the tin cup before him held few coins, he made no attempt to beg for more.

  Inside, Horatia Strong rested her back against a tasselled cushion in a velvet-covered chair and lost no time in getting straight to the point. ‘I want you to ensure that my name is not linked with this venture, that you set up this company on my behalf and that no one, not even my family, knows of my involvement. Is that clear?’

  Septimus Monk eyed her warily.

  She guessed what he was thinking. ‘You expected one of my brothers, I presume.’

  ‘I do not usually deal with the kind of businesses women are involved in. I only deal with large corporate matters of an international nature. I do not deal with shops, stables or rented properties unless the latter are very large concerns – and certainly not drapers and haberdashers.’ His disdain was obvious.

  Horatia never moved a muscle. ‘I would not have come to you unless my business was of an international nature and large enough to satisfy the vanity and pay the vast commission of a man like you.’

  Monk raised his eyebrows. Her directness surprised him, just as she’d intended. He’d stood proxy for many businessmen in his time. Their reasons for secrecy had never mattered to him. All that concerned him was whether the scheme was shrewdly thought out and that the remuneration would be worth the risk.

  ‘I see,’ he said and rested his elbows on his desk as he studied the straight-backed woman sitting across from him.

  ‘I made enquiries about you before making an appointment to see you, Mr Monk. I needed to know whether your abilities were up to my standard.’

  He tried hard to control his expression, but Horatia was quick to see the mix of surprise and fear that entered his eyes.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Then you must know from those enquiries that my word is my bond. I will respect your anonymity.’

  ‘I don’t want your word. I want your written pledge.’ Her words were clipped, her expression unreadable.

  Monk looked surprised. Few men had ever asked for his assurances in writing and fewer still, she guessed, had made enquiries into his personal life and background. He was the bastard son of a duke and had been doted on by his mother. His personal life could put him in jail if he wasn’t careful, and Septimus Monk was very careful, although the way he dressed went some way to advertising his sexual predilections. Few men wore such flamboyant waistcoats, had hair falling in waves over their collar or smelt like a late-blooming peony.

  He recovered quickly. ‘Of course. I will have my clerk prepare it immediately.’

  He rang a bell. The door was opened by a dark-eyed youth with pouting lips who received his instructions silently then threw Horatia a piercing, almost jealous look before he left.

  ‘You are clear on my brief?’

  Monk nodded. ‘I am to set up a company and purchase the ship Matilda from bankruptcy, equip her ready for sail complete with crew and master. I will hold shares by proxy to your account. I am also to obtain letters of credit both here and in Nova Scotia.’

  Horatia’s expression remained unaltered as she handed him the document. ‘This is the full list of companies who will be supplying goods for the outgoing trip and contacts with regard for her return cargoes.’

  The crisp parchment crackled like burning kindling as she passed the list across.

  Monk took it, his eyes scanning for the slightest flaw likely to end in loss rather than gain. The ship was 602 tons and would take coal and railway sleepers to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and bring back guano, an extremely valuable fertilizer replenished year after year by thousands of seabirds.

  Although his expression was unchanged, Horatia knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘As you can see, Mr Monk, no Chinese porcelain or pretty cottons, but guano. Bird shit. Muck makes money, and that muck makes things grow. The population of this country is growing and needs feeding. In order for corn and cabbages to grow more quickly, they too need feeding. I hear the results of guano are so outstanding that the price is expected to hit the roof – for exactly the reasons I mention.’

  Septimus Monk sat back in his chair. It occurred to him as odd that she wasn’t married. Any normal man was sure to be attracted to her – not him, of course. ‘A very commendable plan, Miss Strong.’

  ‘For a woman?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He laughed a little too self-consciously.

  Horatia was not fooled. The thought had obviously entered his head.

  ‘I have no bias towards gender when it comes to business, Miss Strong.’

  ‘No bias towards gender in any regard, surely, Mr Monk?’

  Monk smiled and their eyes met in something approaching understanding. ‘I have to admit to some surprise that such an eligible lady as yourself has not yet married.’

  She smiled back. ‘Why haven’t you married, Mr Monk?’

  He shook his head and pretended to study the folio sitting on his desk. ‘It does not suit my disposition, Miss Strong.’

  ‘Neither does it suit mine, Mr Monk. Indeed, a man would have to be very exceptional.’

  ‘There’s always someone,’ Monk countered. ‘Under the right circumstances.’

  It was brief but for a second her expression softened. ‘I suppose so. In the meantime, please ensure that my business interests are looked after without any regard to my sex or my matrimonial status.’

  He bowed his head. ‘I will.’

  ‘I know I can trust you,’ she said as they parted.

  ‘You can count on me,’ he replied.

  Horatia’s skirts rustled as she rose and made for the door. ‘I know. I checked.’

  After she’d gone, his clerk, Alexander, threw him a petulant glare. ‘That’s a hard bitch if ever I saw one,’ he said, his voice jagged with jealousy.

  Monk cupped the boy’s face with both hands and smiled. ‘That, my dear boy, is a woman after my own heart. An admirable example of her gender, my boy.’

  Then his look hardened and his fist swung, fetching Alexander a heavy slap across his face that made it glow red and sent him crashing into a bookcase. Legal folios and documents fell from the open shelves and nestled around the boy’s ankles.

  Monk waved a finger at him. ‘That lady is a client. You will not call any of my clients names – is that clear?’

  The clerk stared at him wide-eyed, as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He touched it, felt its warmth, then looked
at his bloodied fingers with amazement.

  ‘Now fetch me a fresh quill,’ Monk’s expression softened along with his voice. ‘There’s a good boy.’

  * * *

  A heavy downpour pounded on the coach roof all the way back to Marstone Court. Horatia sat staring at the rain, though not really seeing it. Her blood was racing with excitement. She could imagine her father and grandfather feeling just as she was now when they were on the verge of making their fortunes. She’d inherited a good deal of that fortune, but making money for oneself was far more satisfying than having it given to you. Business was like a drug, something she couldn’t possibly live without. Not for her contenting herself with soirées, balls and weekends at country houses, filling her stomach with food and her head with gossip. At thirty-three she was unmarried and would be downright bored if her mother hadn’t left her a substantial sum that family advisers had invested on her behalf. With that she had consistently dabbled in business ventures that had, for the most part, been undetected by any member of her family. She had made very good profits, though not enough to satisfy her ego. It was like a hunger. She had to be better than the men of the family. She had to be better than all men when it came to business. There was no husband, no child in her life and she doubted there ever would be. The only man she had ever loved had left Bristol ten years ago. She sincerely hoped he would come back. Nelson had gone to Boston to ask him if he would but his return was doubtful. He had married money and even though his wife had died, she didn’t feel it likely that he would accept Nelson’s offer. But she could hope, and in the meantime she would feed the hunger of achievement that drove her.

  Chapter Four

  Blanche showed little interest when Conrad told her about the meeting.

  ‘I am told that Doctor Budd has been studying cholera for some years,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t really see why you wish me to come,’ she said, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.