The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘You’re a rogue,’ said Tom as he fetched out another coin.

  The man pretended to take umbrage. ‘Now just you look ’ere—’

  Tom swiftly raised his cane. ‘No! You look!’

  The man grimaced, his one healthy eye worriedly eyeing the point of the walking stick that was presently stabbed against his shoulder.

  ‘Five sovereigns,’ said Tom. ‘More than enough for you to hire a horse and cart and show a good profit.’

  Thoughts of money replaced those of violence. A crooked smile lifted the man’s mouth. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you kindly.’

  The others conceded once their leader had agreed terms.

  The man with the viscous eye doffed his hat solicitously. ‘Now whereabouts do you wants it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Tom, pleased with what he’d achieved, though he couldn’t for the moment think where the hell he would eventually put her.

  He gave them instructions to take the carving out to Marstone Court – specifically with instructions for the footman there to deal with its unloading and location in the rambling mansion. He imagined the footman’s face and hoped it was Duncan, if he was still there, but it didn’t matter if it was not. In his experience, the footmen at Marstone Court adopted more airs and graces than the Strong family itself.

  ‘You’re a gent, sir,’ said the man with one eye, doffing his hat again and again.

  ‘Stop!’

  Tom turned at the sound of his first mate’s voice. Jim Storm Cloud, a Red Indian from America who had accompanied Tom on many a voyage, was shouting at someone who had dared to fill a pail from the quayside water pipe.

  ‘Get off with you! That water’s for the ships, not for the likes of you!’

  The young boy went sprawling, but quickly righted himself, grabbed his pail and swung it against the first mate’s legs. ‘I wants it fer me sister,’ he shouted defiantly, the loudness of his voice and the prospect of violence drawing a crowd. ‘She’s got to ’ave it! She’s got to!’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Tom, reaching for the boy. ‘What’s—’

  Thinking he’d attracted another assailant, the boy swung the wooden pail hard into Tom’s knees. There was a cracking sound and an exclamation from the crowd. Tom grimaced.

  ‘Ragged little ruffian,’ someone shouted.

  Recovering swiftly, Tom caught the boy by both shoulders, meaning to threaten the lad with a good thrashing. He found himself completely disarmed by sunken eyes that were bright despite the hunger etched on his face.

  Jim Storm Cloud grabbed the pail, swung it by its handle and smashed it against a cast-iron capstan where it broke into smithereens.

  ‘My pail! My pail!’ The boy looked as if he would burst into tears. ‘Oh no!’ His bottom lip quivered as he fought to hold back the tears.

  ‘This water is for ships,’ said Jim.

  Tom shook his head. ‘The Quay Pipe is free to any man.’ He bent down so that his face was level with that of the boy. Keeping his voice soft and his gaze steady. ‘Why this particular water, young fella?’

  The boy’s freckles seemed to take on a life of their own as his face crumpled with concern. ‘My sister got the cholera. The doctor said that if she had water from ’ere, she would live and she did, and he said that if we all drank this water, then none of us would get sick.’

  Tom laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Where do you live, son?’ The boy wiped his snotty nose on the back of what little was left of his sleeve. ‘Cabot’s Yard in Lewins Mead.’

  Tom stopped smiling. A host of emotions sparked in his eyes. ‘That’s close to Cock and Bottle Lane.’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘What sort of place is it?’ asked Jim Storm Cloud on seeing Tom’s expression.

  ‘A very old place.’

  ‘It stinks,’ said the boy.

  Tom smiled. ‘True.’ The boy smelt too, mostly of poverty rather than outright filth. Thin, knobbly wrists poked like knotted sticks from a grey jersey that looked as though it had been cut down from something larger. His knees were scabbed, the crusts standing proud of dirt and hard skin.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Freddie Beasley of Cabot’s Yard,’ the boy said proudly, his thumbs braced in what remained of his coat pockets.

  ‘Then, Freddie Beasley of Cabot’s Yard, you shall have your water.’

  ‘How can I ’ave it now?’ cried the boy, his face puckered with concern. ‘That bloke there’s broke me bucket!’

  ‘He’ll get you another,’ said Tom straightening. ‘Won’t you, Jim?’

  Jim Storm Cloud looked consternated, his brows beetling close together and his chin jutting out in an attempt to swallow his objection as he fetched another pail.

  Tom reached into his pocket. ‘Here’s five shillings to give to your mother so she can replace the broken pail.’

  Freddie snatched it warily, then wiped his nostrils on the sleeve of his shirt.

  When Jim came back, the boy eyed him with interest. ‘You bin burnt?’ he asked, his face creased with puzzlement. ‘You’re ever so red.’

  Jim’s jaw dropped. First came a sharp grunt that started deep in his chest like a strong cough, then he was laughing, bellowing like a bull and stamping his feet so that the dusty ground rose in clouds around his feet.

  Tom laughed. ‘Jim is a Red Indian. He’s from America.’

  Before Jim’s laughter had died away, a high-stepping Hackney with brightly jingling harness and pulling a smartly turned-out gig, trotted along the quay, workmen scattering in its path.

  ‘Horses ain’t allowed ’long ’ere,’ somebody shouted.

  Ignoring this, the driver, a young man of good looks and obvious wealth, tossed the reins and half a crown to a small boy and sprang from the gig onto the slippery cobbles. ‘Captain Tom!’

  Tom was amazed. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said that Nelson Strong was younger in England than he was in America. But he knew it wasn’t Nelson. Nelson was sailing from Boston to Barbados to while away a week or two looking over the plantation, though looking over a few dark-skinned beauties might be nearer the truth. Tom overcame his confusion, adopting a calmly pleasant expression as he swiftly calculated the only person it could be.

  ‘Don’t you recognize me, Tom?’

  A slow smile spread over Tom’s features. ‘I’ve a suspicion I do, though the fellow I’m thinking of was no more than four feet high when I last saw him.’

  The young man gripped Tom’s shoulders with his hands. ‘Then stop looking at me as though you’ve seen a ghost! I know I look like my brother – but he is a trifle older than me,’ he said with obvious relish.

  ‘Rupert?’ He could hardly believe it. Rupert had been just a boy when he’d left Bristol.

  Smartly dressed in well-tailored clothes, Rupert beamed. ‘I’m no longer imprisoned in a nursery at the top of the house, being taught by a governess, or packed off to the school that came after that.’ His cheeks turned pink. ‘Captain… Tom… I’m so pleased to see you. You can’t imagine how excited we all were to receive Nelson’s letter…’

  It was Tom’s turn to clap his hands to Rupert’s shoulders, shaking him with good humour as though Rupert were still the boy of good disposition with a liking for the sea. ‘Your timing is admirable. How did you know I’d be here?’

  Rupert beamed proudly. ‘News travels fast in Bristol when one of her old sons is expected – one of her more successful old sons, should I say? Nelson told us all about your shipping line in Boston and that your brother-in-law now runs it. I’m sorry about your wife,’ he added more soberly.

  ‘That’s all in the past now. I’m back in Bristol and there’s another shipping line to build into an empire. There’s so much I want to know, especially about the steamships.’

  ‘Have you seen them yet?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No. I was also wondering about your father. How is he?’

  ‘Unchanged in some ways, though still the
same in others. Of course, you know my mother died some years ago.’

  Tom nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Rupert shrugged. He didn’t say that he didn’t care, but Tom got the impression that he did not miss her and could understand why. Lady Verity had not been the most loving of mothers.

  ‘Everyone is looking forward to seeing you again,’ Rupert said once he’d regained his smile and dragged his gaze from the ship. ‘Let’s be off. Marstone Court awaits us.’

  ‘My ma used to work there!’ Tousled and not smelling too good, the urchin with the bucket forced himself in between them. ‘She told me about that place with the grass, the trees and the big ’ouse an all. She used to work there looking after an old gentleman with dribble down ’is chin and a wheelchair. And she ’ad a friend there too. She was foreign and dark and ’er mother was a slave in the Sugar Islands!’

  Both men looked down at him.

  ‘Scallywag,’ said Rupert with obvious amusement.

  Tom barely heard him. He was too busy studying the boy’s face. He noted the hazel eyes, the freckles and rounded features. His curiosity was aroused.

  ‘What was your mother’s name, boy?’

  ‘Edith,’ said Freddie, his eyes shining brightly in his dirty face.

  There was only one servant of that name that Tom remembered. ‘You’re Edith’s son? Edith Clements?’

  The boy blinked up at him. ‘S’pose I am,’ he said looking a little unsure. ‘Only she married me dad so ain’t called Clements now.’

  ‘I remember Edith,’ said Rupert. ‘She was very friendly with Blanche, our nanny, who married Conrad Heinkel. Did you know that, Tom?’

  ‘Did she?’ Of course he knew, just as he knew that Blanche was Rupert’s half-sister, although Rupert did not.

  As the memories flooded back, Tom eyed the buildings that ringed the harbour. For a fleeting moment, he half expected to see Blanche running along the quay, her dark skin shining, her eyes as deep as pewter and bright as silver, and her hair streaming out behind.

  ‘Give Edith my best regards,’ said Tom, having regained his self-control. Tapping the boy on the shoulder with his stick, he added, ‘Tell her Captain Tom Strong sends his best.’

  Face flushed with pleasure, Freddie’s mouth hung open like a fish on a hook before he managed to say, ‘That I will, sir! That I will!’

  Freddie didn’t know many people of quality, in fact, he didn’t know any at all, and this was the first who’d ever spoken to him as though he mattered.

  Tom looked down at the boy who was watching and listening with unrestrained interest. ‘Go on, boy. Take your water.’

  Freddie set the pail Jim Storm Cloud had given him beneath the filler pipe and used both hands to turn the stout, iron cock.

  Rupert continued. ‘I’ll get your luggage sent on,’ he said, his hand already raised to summon a brawny body to carry out the task.

  Tom swung his walking stick over his shoulder and looked to where the labourers were wrestling the Noble Savage into an upright position in order to make loading her easier on their muscles. ‘I trust no one will mind, but I’m taking a lady with me.’

  Surprised and aware of Tom’s reputation, Rupert raised his eyebrows. ‘Do I know her?’

  Tom grinned and patted Rupert’s chest. ‘Not intimately. She’s old, half naked and weighs a ton.’

  Rupert’s puzzled gaze followed that of Tom. ‘My word,’ he said, bursting into laughter. ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘It’s a present.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Horatia. Someone silent and wooden is ideal company for a woman who likes the sound of her own voice.’

  * * *

  The inn that used to be called the Noble Savage still did a good trade and not all of it legal. The dark tavern catered for many tastes. Beer and strong spirits were served on the ground floor. The upstairs rooms could be hired by the day, the night or the hour.

  Silas Osborne rubbed at his bristled chin. He was down to his last ten shillings, but quite suddenly was less worried about it than he had been. His ship had just come in – metaphorically and in actuality. Needing fresh air, he’d just opened the window of the small room he’d rented. It was on the second floor and had sloping ceilings, a bed and the most frugal of furnishings. Many before him had slept between the stinking sheets, which were changed rarely and of indeterminate colour. Even though the air outside was tinged with the smoke of a busy city, it was far preferable to that of the room.

  He would have taken just a few gulps and closed the window again if the sight of the men taking down the wooden Indian hadn’t drawn his attention. A slow smile crossed his face. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. If it ain’t Tom Strong. Now what would ’e be wantin’ with a scruffy ole bit of wooden injun?’

  He watched thoughtfully as Tom Strong returned to his ship, a sleek, low-bellied West Indiaman, probably one of the last of her type to be made. Steam was taking over now, and rightly so. Silas would burn the lot if he had his way.

  His attention was drawn to a man with hawk-like features, standing on deck, legs braced and hands clasped behind his back. His arms were bare and, like his face, red as clay. Glossy black hair, plaited and tied with something colourful, reached almost to his waist.

  Silas Osborne was fascinated. The man reminded him of the lump of carved wood that had just been removed from the front of the inn, only he was male and much more colourful. But his attention kept returning to Tom Strong. Someone he knew very well was always saying that he wanted to know the minute he returned, that he had an old score to settle and he’d pay well for information.

  Silas fingered a boil beneath his chin, digging it until it bled, and still he was thinking. How much did Stoke want to pay? Ten, twenty, thirty sovereigns? He gritted his teeth as he tried to work it out. His calculations were interrupted suddenly.

  ‘Are you going to pay me now?’ said a muffled voice from behind him on the bed.

  Silas sneered but didn’t look round. ‘Did we agree a price?’

  ‘A sovereign! I did all you wanted me to. I’m worth it, ain’t I?’ Her voice was a plaintive blend of demand and fear.

  ‘Y-e-s,’ the man said slowly. ‘Though not so much as that man down there,’ he murmured to himself.

  Scratching the fleas from his chest and feeling in a far better mood than earlier when he’d awoken with a hangover, he turned back from the window. The prospect of money – a lot of money – energized his sagging body and made him reconsider his intentions.

  The whore he’d picked up last night was struggling from the bed, her linen undergarments stuffed against her groin in an effort to soak up the blood flow he’d caused.

  ‘Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?’

  She froze, her eyes wide with fear above the white cotton. ‘I’m going now – when you pay me that is…’

  His smile was cruelly confident. Better times and better whores were on their way. In the meantime he’d continue playing at being the cat to the trollop’s mouse.

  ‘I ’aven’t finished with you yet, ’ave I? And when I do, I’ll pay you even more, won’t I?’

  ‘You sounds as though you got plenty of money. You didn’t just now.’

  His smile turned grim. She was braver than he’d given her credit for. Leaning over her, he braced his arms either side of her shoulders, his palms flat on the lumpy mattress.

  ‘Enough for you fer now, and soon, once I’ve seen that old rogue Stoke, who calls ’imself Councillor Cuthbert now, I’ll ’ave plenty!’

  Chapter Six

  Bootless, his legs thin and his clothes patched, Freddie Beasley ran determinedly, avoiding the street gangs who attempted to gain his attention, tempting him with claims that a pie man was close by.

  ‘Drop ’im and he drops his tray, and we picks up his pies!’ they shouted. ‘Come on, Freddie!’

  The thought of a fresh pie – even one that had fallen into the dirt and got stepped on in the skirmish
– was enough to set his mouth watering, but he wouldn’t be distracted. Not today.

  Today he wanted to make his mother happy. He was sure his news would do that.

  Freddie thought about things more than he talked about them. He kept his feelings to himself. He’d lost four brothers and sisters last year and the anguish of watching them die had remained with him for ages afterwards. He’d never showed his sadness, of course, not when his mother was around. Whilst his father, Deke Beasley, was away at sea, he was the man of the house. That’s what his mother said. His father never said much on the matter, but then he spent most of the time drunk when he was home. On the whole, Freddie liked his father better when he wasn’t there.

  Following his brothers’ deaths, there’d been respite for a while. Mother, his sisters and he had succumbed to no more than the usual coughs and wheezing chests of a winter spent in houses not fit for pigs. Icy weather meant frosted patterns on the inside of the window panes, the chimney filling the room with smoke from a smouldering fire, and icicles hanging from the pump in the yard, their only source of fresh water.

  His mother was bending over a washtub when he arrived back, water sloshing from the pail. A wide smile divided his face.

  After putting down the pail, he stood to attention before the tub and gave his mother a snappy salute. ‘Captain Strong sends ’is regards,’ he said as though he were six feet tall rather than a little less than four.

  Edith’s mouth dropped open and her cheeks went redder than they did when she was blowing at a coal fire. ‘Captain Strong? You’ve seen Captain Strong?’

  ‘He sends his best regards.’

  ‘You little beggar! You’re lying!’

  ‘No I ain’t!’ Freddie grinned. ‘Besides his regards, he sent you this.’

  Edith’s eyes and mouth were as round as the coins she held in the palm of her hand. She shook her head in disbelief. First, Blanche and now, Tom. It seemed too good to be true, but she couldn’t help being doubtful. Hopelessness had become a way of life. She grabbed Freddie’s ear. ‘How did you know it was him?’