The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘Silence for prayer,’ boomed a commanding voice.

  Raised voices dropped an octave then two, then more and then silence. No one, no matter how great and good, was going to interrupt a call to prayer.

  Men who had lost their tempers and raised their fists, now swept their hands over tousled hair, picked up their hats and bowed their heads.

  Conrad, head and shoulders above most men, stood on the platform, his great head and broad body towering over everyone. Clasping his hands in prayer, his voice boomed around the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Shall we pray to God that we will eventually come to agreement on this grave subject?’

  At the sound of his voice the last murmur of dissension disappeared and heads bowed in prayer.

  Blanche smiled down into her clasped hands. Her husband’s behaviour surprised her at times.

  After intoning a prayer for good judgement and wise counsel, Conrad rested both hands on the lectern and spoke as though he were delivering a sermon. His voice was stern and strong, just as it was on Sundays when he was sure of his God and intent on sharing his deeply held beliefs with others.

  ‘Two years ago my wife and I lost a dearly beloved daughter. Much as I love my God and believe that he does most things for a reason, my faith was severely tested when my daughter died. My wife and I would have liked Anne to be with us a little longer. Faithful to the memory of my child, I came here seeking to know what progress is being made with regard to defeating this disease. Old ideas have not worked. What have we to lose in opening up our minds – and our purses – to new ideas? Please, for the sake of my daughter and all those whom we have loved and lost, listen to what is being proposed. From what I have gathered previous to attending this meeting, interim measures will be used to combat the disease such as disinfecting those areas with a history of bad cholera outbreaks. In the meantime, plans will be finalized for a large sewerage project that will improve our lives and make Bristol a place to be proud of.’

  ‘How do we know our city really is that bad?’ someone asked.

  A city alderman stood up, his square chin hard as iron and his thick fists clinging to his coat lapels. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I am not one for long speeches, but perhaps I can enlighten you on the situation. In eighteen forty-five a commission investigated this very carefully and came to the conclusion that Bristol had the third highest death rate in the country. Only Manchester and Liverpool were worse, and in these cities there was the added factor of poverty on a scale unknown in Bristol. The conclusion must be drawn that Bristol is as bad as, or worse than, any other city in terms of environment and health.’

  ‘Then we should be mightily ashamed!’

  The room erupted with noise at the unheralded interruption.

  This time there was no fear of a fight ensuing. The voice was that of a woman, one that Blanche recognized as yet another voice from the past. Disbelieving her ears, she looked round. Horatia Strong! For a split second their eyes met and the years rolled away. She still had the same overbearing presence Blanche remembered from her days at Marstone Court and she was still beautiful – like an icicle caught in a ray of sunlight.

  The strength of her presence, her stature and her status, caused everyone to turn and wonder. There she was, standing there in the midst of the crowd like an actress about to take an encore, a queen waiting to accept the homage of her courtiers.

  ‘Something should be done and will be done,’ Horatia stated as though she’d already drawn the plans herself. Her voice was as clear as a bell. ‘And before either the dock officials or the Corporation plead poverty and lack of funds, then I – Horatia Strong – will finance the initial efforts. I have lost a number of my family to this deadly scourge. This city was built on sugar – a lot of it grown on the Strong plantations in Barbados. Let sugar make the air sweeter for us to breathe!’

  A hush fell over the throng, then others, some in the hope of entering Horatia’s social circle, also pledged their assistance.

  Blanche could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  Still standing at the lectern, Conrad looked consternated, though pleased that someone was voicing a positive view he’d hoped others would express.

  Blanche turned her head from Horatia and looked at her hands, which were presently enclosed in gloves of soft purple leather. She fingered the handle of her parasol thoughtfully as she tried to come to terms with Horatia actually echoing her own thoughts. It wasn’t that she exactly hated Horatia, but they were very different women and there would always be a bone of contention between them – if you could call him that. They’d both loved Tom Strong; perhaps they still did.

  On Conrad’s return she roused herself from her thoughts and smiled at him.

  ‘I was surprised to see Miss Strong here,’ he said. ‘I am sure her presence will greatly influence support for this project.’

  Irritated that Horatia should have a central role, albeit as a financial benefactor, Blanche couldn’t bring herself to believe it was her only motive. She knew Horatia of old.

  ‘I remember being told before leaving Barbados that the Strong family only care about sugar. Perhaps that’s not entirely true,’ she said.

  Conrad looked at her questioningly. ‘Are you not being a little unfair, my dear, in view of your position in the Strong household when you first arrived here?’

  Blanche stiffened. Although she now felt committed to helping Dr Budd, she bristled at the thought of Horatia and the Strong family being involved – perhaps for their own ends.

  ‘Sugar can be used for a lot of things,’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes. That is so,’ said Conrad, frowning as he sought to grasp her meaning. ‘The money it generates, like sugar, can be used in many pies.’

  Blanche held her parasol handle with both hands, far more tightly than she needed to. ‘Yes. So what pie is Horatia baking?’

  Conrad’s face clouded over. ‘You are pre-judging her.’

  Blanche shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘She has lost members of her own family to this dreadful disease,’ Conrad said, his voice low and his tone disbelieving.

  Blanche remembered the day George and Arthur – half-brothers to herself and Horatia – had been buried. The news had come to her via a groom who worked at Marstone Court and was courting one of her scullery maids. She’d cried that day and a high wind had rattled the doors and windows and sent leaves flying high into the sky. A vision of the boys, whom she had known all too briefly, running through the parkland clinging to the string of a home-made kite would stay with her always.

  Horatia, of course, had never indulged in such antics. To Blanche she would always be the haughty doyenne of a family without a heart. Horatia certainly didn’t have one.

  ‘That wouldn’t concern Horatia overmuch. George and Arthur were half-brothers. She never liked them when I knew her, never had much to do with them in fact if she could possibly help it.’

  ‘Now, now,’ he said, his voice quiet against her ear as he patted her arm in an effort to calm the anger he saw in her eyes. ‘You must be charitable, my dear.’

  Blanche shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I find it hard. This was supposed to have been a way forward from our loss. The fact that some are here angling for business has spoiled things.’

  Conrad looked concerned. ‘You don’t know that for sure… please… Blanche…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled at other women, all chattering excitedly at the presence of Horatia Strong. She sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ She reached up and smoothed the furrow in her husband’s brow. ‘Don’t worry, Conrad. Whatever happens, I am determined to play some part in this, for Edith’s sake as well as for Anne’s.’

  His frown disappeared and he patted her hand. She was glad to see him smile and his face relax. He’d worried about her long enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘Pah! You have nothing to be sorry for. Put the woman from your mind. Forget the past. The future becko
ns and belongs to our children.’

  Blanche smiled. He was right and made her feel better. Marrying him had never been a matter of passion, more to do with a steadfast relationship in an uncertain world. When past slights or present problems surfaced in her life, he was always there to smooth them over.

  Her renewed spirits might have remained if Horatia hadn’t spotted her.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said to Conrad. ‘She’s coming this way.’

  Horatia was smiling and holding her head high. A dark blue feather curved from her bonnet to her face, its tip ending at the corner of her mouth.

  Blanche had no wish to speak to her. She took her husband’s arm and whispered, ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Face your demons,’ he whispered back.

  ‘A good description,’ Blanche muttered.

  He disentangled himself from her arm. ‘If you’ll just give me a moment to speak to the good doctor and Alderman Wright… I’m sure you can cope,’ he added.

  Reluctantly, she agreed.

  Horatia smelt of violets. A bunch of them were pinned to her pelisse. They looked real and fresh, and the colour of her bonnet matched her eyes. Her smile was surprisingly warm, perhaps even triumphant. Blanche couldn’t think why. Horatia was still a spinster. Tom was long gone.

  ‘Well, Mrs Heinkel! It’s been a long time since I saw you last, and to think, at one time I saw you every day when you were wiping the bottoms of my brothers and sisters.’

  It was exactly the sort of statement Blanche had expected. Conrad would never have believed it.

  Blanche pursed her lips and gripped her parasol handle, making believe it was Horatia’s neck. It went some way to giving her strength. ‘I think this is hardly the time and place for sarcasm. I was sorry to hear those poor little souls whom I took care of so well are no longer with us.’

  A flicker of regret softened Horatia’s features. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. And I was sorry also to hear you lost your daughter.’

  Although taken by surprise that Horatia knew of Anne’s death, Blanche didn’t show it when she thanked her.

  Horatia never had been a sentimental person and it was no surprise when her punctured expression passed and the veiled sarcasm returned, though the question was totally unexpected. ‘And your son – Max, isn’t it? He is well, I hope?’

  Something about Horatia’s smile reminded Blanche of a cat about to pounce on a bird.

  Somehow she kept her voice even. ‘He is quite well.’

  Horatia returned the smiling acknowledgements of others attending the meeting as she continued. ‘You must bring him out to Marstone Court. I’m sure Father would be pleased to see him.’ She leaned closer so no one else could hear what she said next. ‘After all, my dear, he is a member of the family, even though he was born in embarrassing circumstances…’

  Blanche felt her face reddening with anger. This was Horatia in her true colours, uttering comments meant to wound, needing to be superior no matter whose company she was in.

  Blanche gritted her teeth as she replied, her jaw aching with the effort of keeping her voice low so no one else could hear. ‘He is my son! He is nothing to do with the Strongs.’

  ‘Sshh!’ said Horatia, raising her finger to her lips. ‘You wouldn’t want the whole city to know that Max was not fathered by your husband but by your Nelson, your half-brother, my brother.’ She suppressed a sudden laugh, her eyes darting about in mock fear that someone might be listening to their conversation. ‘What’s so funny is that my father has taken it in his head to turn one of our reception rooms into an Egyptian temple. From what I understand it was quite normal for the Egyptian pharaohs to lie with their sisters. Just like you and Nelson, my dear.’

  If only Horatia knew the truth about Max’s birth! Blanche would dearly have loved to slap her half-sister’s face but she couldn’t risk it. The room was packed. Her son’s future could be ruined by wicked gossip. Her heart raced, but she kept her voice calm. ‘My son attends Clifton College as a day pupil, but if I have to I will send him away to board rather than have the Strong family interfere in his life. My children and my marriage are important to me. Of course, you wouldn’t understand that being a spinster.’

  Horatia winced as the barb hit home, but Blanche’s satisfaction was short-lived. The cat-like expression returned to her half-sister’s eyes. ‘I thought you might have been very happy to visit us at Marstone Court and meet up with old friends. We expect Captain Strong to be with us again within the next few weeks. I thought you would have jumped at the chance of seeing him again. He’s lost his wife. I think he’s lonely. But never mind. I’m there to provide consolation.’

  Blanche stayed silent. Her mouth was too dry to say anything. Tom was coming back. The temptation to visit Marstone Court was suddenly very attractive. She remembered times beneath the trees, her feet and dress wet with dew after running through the grass, the Strong children chasing a kite – Rupert, Caroline, poor little George and Arthur. But for Max’s sake, and for Conrad’s, she couldn’t.

  ‘I shall send you an invitation,’ Horatia said. The width of her smile stretched the bonnet ribbon running under her chin. ‘After all, we have such a lot in common.’

  ‘Like this project?’ said Blanche. ‘Although I can’t help getting the impression you and I are supporting it for different reasons.’

  Horatia’s eyes took on a strange look. ‘You are content to be a wife and mother, Mrs Heinkel. I am not. I am more like my father than my brothers are. I have his drive, his ambition—’

  ‘And his ruthlessness.’

  The smile returned. ‘But much more so. I will allow no one and nothing to get in my way. No one at all.’

  For some obscure reason, Blanche wasn’t convinced that business success was the only thing Horatia cared about. Her comments regarding Tom betrayed her feelings, much as she might deny them if pressed. At present there was nothing else in her life except outshining her brothers. Tom’s return might result in a different story.

  ‘Did she upset you?’ Conrad asked after Horatia had gone and he’d returned from his discussions.

  ‘No more than she ever did.’

  ‘I take it she did not mention her reasons for being here.’

  Blanche shook her head. ‘No. But she didn’t need to. She may be a woman, but she’s first and foremost a Strong. Her interests are purely mercenary.’

  Conrad shook his head disapprovingly.

  Blanche smiled. ‘I know. I’m not being very charitable. Perhaps you’re right,’ she said, slipping her arm through his.

  She decided it would be unwise to tell him that Horatia did indeed have one particular weakness like any other woman. If she did then she would also have to tell him that Tom Strong was coming back to England after ten years away. Let sleeping dogs lie, she told herself. Conrad was happy that she was something like her former self. Better to stay silent than see a new worry surface in his eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Lines born of age and experience creased Tom’s eyes as he surveyed the city scene, smelt the mix of soot and sweetness, and tasted its odd grittiness that only a draught of water could swill from his tongue.

  It was midday and the sun was attempting to penetrate the haze that clung to the skyline of churches, factories and refineries. The quay was a bustle of movement and noise. Brawny men bent into the capstans on St Augustine’s Quay, close to the culvert that brought fresh water from Jacob’s Well to where ships tied up to disgorge their cargoes of sugar, rum, tobacco, molasses and chocolate.

  His attention was drawn to a bunch of labourers who were using rope and tackle in front of the old tavern where he’d drank with Sally Ward and first met Blanche, who had just arrived from Barbados. He found himself remembering how she’d looked that day – but not her clothes, except her hat, which had become very bedraggled on the journey to Marstone Court. No. It was her eyes he remembered most of all. They were dark grey and shone like polished pewter in her coffee-coloured face. He wondered how much she
’d changed. With a pang of regret he saw that things along the quay were changing before his very eyes. Grunting and shouting, the workmen were manhandling a weather worn wooden carving from its place above the door and onto the cobbles. It was a sculpture of a half-naked American Indian Princess, the Noble Savage after which the tavern was named. Tom eyed the faded paint that still clung to the scarred wood and wondered at the reason for its fall from grace and spot above the tavern door.

  ‘What are you doing with that noble lady?’ he asked.

  One of the labourers doffed his hat. ‘They people in the Christian Morality League says it’s not right to show bare breasts – even wooden ones.’

  Tom fancied he saw a cheeky gleam in the man’s eyes. It seemed grossly unfair that the Noble Savage was being discarded. Likely her own people wouldn’t regard her bare breasts as offensive, he thought, remembering America. She was beautiful in a primitive and innocent way. Surely she deserved better, an Indian princess in need of rescuing by a knight in shining armour.

  Tom scratched the nape of his neck with the silver tip of his walking cane. He’d never been a knight, and was never likely to be, but he found himself offering to buy her. ‘I for one do not disapprove of her lack of clothes. I want her for myself. Let’s say two sovereigns, shall we?’

  The labourers looked up at him from beneath battered hats, their eyes twinkling in the dirt of their faces, nudging each other and grinning.

  Tom fetched two sovereigns from his pocket. ‘Is that enough?’

  Questioning glances were exchanged.

  ‘We can’t leave it ’ere,’ one of them blurted. ‘And we was told to take it away and burn it.’ There was a crafty look in his eyes, which swivelled to look at his colleagues before returning to Tom. ‘That ’uld keep a fire in the grate goin’ fer weeks that ’uld!’

  Tom waited for the others to react before fetching out another sovereign. ‘So let’s say three sovereigns.’

  ‘We ’as to put it somewur,’ said another man, who had just one good eye, the other seemingly sewn shut and something yellow and viscous seeping from its corner.