The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘’Tis that all right,’ said a thin-faced man at an upstairs window, a pewter chamber pot hanging from his hand. ‘I ain’t emptied it all day.’

  The crowd laughed.

  ‘Damn this,’ said Casey, shaking himself like a huge, angry bear. ‘I’ll get you, you bastard,’ he shouted, waving his fist at the man hanging out of the window. No one took his threat seriously. Everyone laughed.

  Gilmour decided that the time was right to take advantage of the situation. He asked again, ‘How much did she owe?’

  Dejected, the wind knocked completely out of his sails, Bill said, ‘Eight shillings and sixpence.’

  ‘Here’s ten shillings, but don’t tell my father that I paid it. I’ll say nothing about this incident if you don’t. Do I have your agreement?’

  Of course he did.

  He watched them as they left the alley and he revelled in the pats on the back and the gratitude of the people around him.

  Mrs Parker thanked him personally once she was sure the coast was clear.

  ‘You’re a saint,’ she said, her eyes brimming with tears and a clutch of children clinging to her skirts.

  He almost blushed. ‘Hardly.’ But he liked the feeling.

  Helping others had made him feel good. He felt less than good when he thought of his father. He made himself a promise that he would do what he could to rectify his father’s excesses, to put right the things he did wrong – but secretly. To do otherwise would be dangerous.

  * * *

  The first of the steamships was nearing completion. Metal rang against metal, as brawny men, their bodies stinking and slimy with sweat, hammered the last of the rivets into place.

  ‘She’ll do you proud,’ said the architect, who gazed at his creation as a father to a newborn son.

  Tom agreed. ‘And plenty of room for goods to Nova Scotia and guano to the West Indies – and sugar cane high as pine trees!’

  ‘Guano from Nova Scotia’s becoming a popular cargo,’ said the architect, his dreamy eyes fixed on the ship. ‘The Mathilda went straight there after her launch, though I hear she’s bringing her cargo back here. Apparently landowners and gentlemen farmers pay a great deal of money for the stuff. Bird shit, isn’t it?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yes.’

  There was something unnerving about what the architect had said. Plans for shipping guano to the West Indies and improving sugar production had been kept secret. No one outside the family was supposed to know about supplying the Strong plantation with guano thus stealing a march on other owners and selling on the surplus to coffee growers in South America. But someone had beaten them to it, though for the home market, not abroad.

  Another carriage clattered into the shipyard and stopped next to the light chaise Tom had driven himself. He smiled. Horatia never seemed to be far behind him nowadays.

  The architect hardly seemed to notice her arrival, his gaze flitting absent-mindedly between the ship and his drawings. ‘I do apologize,’ he said finally, a pencil jammed between his teeth. ‘There’s something I have to attend to.’

  Off he went, the plans still unfurled in front of him and flapping like a sail against his knees.

  ‘Have you thought of a name for her?’ Horatia asked after their initial greeting.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘No.’

  She shrugged as though she didn’t care – which was far from the truth. ‘Have it your own way.’

  ‘You’ll know when she’s launched. It won’t be long now.’

  ‘I look forward to it. Shall we take a closer look?’

  He offered her his arm. She took it.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Tom said. ‘Have you been shopping?’

  ‘No. I had some business matters to attend to.’

  ‘I hear you’ve an interest in sewage contracts. Hardly a business for a lady.’

  Her look of surprise was swiftly transfigured by a tight smile. ‘What makes you think I would be interested in such a disgusting venture?’

  ‘I must admit to some surprise.’

  Horatia had always been very good at hiding her true feelings. Nothing had changed. Her expression was calm, almost cold, yet he knew he could not take what she said as being the whole truth.

  ‘Whatever made you think I would be?’

  He shrugged. ‘An off-chance remark from someone who saw you at a meeting regarding the matter.’

  The words triggered an instant reaction in his mind. The look, the feel and the smell of Blanche made his body tense with excitement. He only hoped that Horatia did not notice.

  ‘I take it you are referring to the meeting with regard to fighting the cholera epidemics this city sometimes suffers from. Would it surprise you to know that I have a social conscience? Many people have died from disease in my own family. Cholera kills many more poor people than it does rich. I think it only appropriate that the money that first made this city great, namely from sugar, is used to tackle the problem.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Most commendable!’ This was indeed a first. He’d never known Horatia even to notice the poor, let alone help them.

  They stopped beneath the bows of the ship.

  ‘She’ll certainly be a credit to the Strong Sugar Company,’ Horatia remarked, shading her eyes with her gloved hand as she took in the ship’s strength and size.

  ‘Strong Shipping Line I think we decided on,’ said Tom. ‘She won’t just be carrying sugar. Far from it, though it appears someone has stolen our thunder.’

  ‘Really?’

  There was something about the way she said it that made him look at her. She had sounded off-hand, even amused. Her expression confirmed it. She was smiling in a self-satisfied way that made his toes curl with concern.

  ‘What have you been up to, Horatia?’

  The blue of her hat echoed that of her eyes. If she’d worn a grey hat instead, they would have reflected that too. Horatia’s eyes, like the woman herself, changed to suit the circumstances.

  ‘What did you say when I first arrived?’

  Tom shrugged as he remembered. ‘I said I wasn’t expecting you and had you been shopping.’

  ‘Shopping!’ She said it contemptuously. ‘Surely you, of all people, know me better than that. I’m my father’s daughter. My true joy is gained from the cut and thrust of business, the challenge of achieving something more worthwhile than choosing a new hat!’

  Tom couldn’t bring himself to speak. In the past he’d thought he discerned a chilly resolve in those eyes. Now he saw resentment, even anger. She was the one who’d inherited the Strong family’s business acumen. Unfortunately she’d been born a woman and nothing in this day and age could change that – unless she was clever enough to change things herself.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, and truly felt for her. ‘You’re a formidable woman, Horatia. Your brothers can’t hold a torch to you.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, Tom. You’re the only person I can really trust, so I will tell you all about it, so long as you promise to tell no one.’

  ‘No one,’ he said.

  Afterwards he was surprised he had agreed so quickly, but as the story came out, as she told him how she’d engaged the lawyer, Septimus Monk, to act on her behalf, of purchasing the Mathilda out of bankruptcy, Tom was deeply impressed. Emmanuel, Nelson and himself had envisaged a shipping company that would operate in a supporting role to sugar. Horatia had identified a new market in her own country. The population was exploding. Why risk travelling a triangular route when back and forth between Nova Scotia and Bristol would reap greater rewards?

  ‘This doesn’t mean that Strong Shipping will not make money,’ said Horatia with absolute conviction. ‘It’s just that my shipping company will make more.’

  Tom’s brain was reeling. Luckily Horatia had enough of a private fortune to follow her dream. He wondered how many women of lesser means wished they could play mor
e than a supporting role to their menfolk.

  ‘You promise you won’t tell what I’ve done?’

  ‘You’re not setting up in competition, so why should I? However, there is one question I would like answered.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The name of your shipping company?’

  She smiled secretively. ‘I thought about a name for a while. I wanted it to reflect my likes and dislikes and things that have amused me. I decided on Charles King.’

  Seeing Tom’s puzzled look, Horatia explained. ‘As you know, I greatly disliked father’s second wife, Verity. A memory that amuses me still was that she was always posting rewards when her lap dog went missing. She never found out that the man who continuously claimed the reward stole the dog on numerous occasions, then shared the money with his sister who worked at the house. Edith, I think her name was. I once saw him handing over the dog to Edith behind the laundry room.’ She laughed. ‘It was a King Charles spaniel. You see? Charles King!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Horatia had not disclosed all her true feelings to Tom, but she was angry. Not about being found out regarding her shipping company, or even that she had attended the meeting regarding the plans for dealing with cholera. No member of the Strong family had known she was at that meeting. The only people she had spoken to there who knew Tom were Conrad and Blanche Heinkel. If she had a chance of buying property in the path of the new sewer complex, she would do so. But it was also jealousy that made her want to confront Blanche. She wanted her to stay away from Tom.

  A square-shouldered woman who demanded to know her name and business before allowing her entry, opened the door of the imposing house in Somerset Parade.

  With an imperious flourish of a green-gloved hand, Horatia swept her to one side. ‘Tell your mistress that Horatia Strong wishes to speak with her.’

  The door was left gaping, as the woman followed, like a terrier about to snap at her heels.

  ‘Horatia who?’ she demanded, as though she were far more than a housekeeper.

  This was impossible! Horatia spun round. Servants did not demand anything of their mistress at Marstone Court. ‘Strong,’ she said, her eyes blazing. ‘Tell her Horatia Strong is here and she demands to be seen immediately.’

  Mrs Henderson turned on her heels, her nostrils pinched and her lips pursed. She didn’t hold with hoity-toity sorts like Horatia Strong. Wouldn’t work for the likes of her.

  Horatia started to pace the hall, then stopped when she noticed the scruffy little woman sitting on one of a pair of hall chairs. Horatia eyed the woman surreptitiously, vaguely aware that she knew her. But dressed like that? She looked like a beggar. Horatia turned away rather than acknowledge such a shabby creature.

  Mrs Henderson returned looking as pinched and put out as when she’d left. This way, Miss Strong,’ she said, her mouth snapping shut once she’d said it.

  Adopting a look of utter disdain, Horatia followed.

  The room she was shown into was like a breath of fresh air. It was green and white and for some odd reason seemed to lift her spirits. She almost felt as though she could float.

  Like the room, Blanche had an air of spring about her. She was dressed in a silver-grey day dress with a ruched bodice and mother-of-pearl buttons. Single pearls adorned her ears. Her eyes and skin glowed with health. Horatia suddenly felt overdressed and gaudy rather than naturally attractive.

  They didn’t shake hands.

  ‘Miss Strong.’ Blanche nodded curtly.

  Horatia, equally curtly, ‘Mrs Heinkel.’

  ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘No. What I came here to say won’t take long.’

  Both women spoke with clipped consonants. The air in the room turned frosty.

  Horatia had not come to be nice and it began to show. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself considering the circumstances of your birth – child of a mulatto mother and brought to this country as a servant. My father’s bastard child.’

  Blanche felt herself turning hot, but swallowed her anger. These insults were designed to unnerve her. What was it Horatia really wanted?

  ‘Get to the point, Miss Strong. Why are you here?’

  ‘How’s Max?’

  Blanche felt her temper rising. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Horatia wandered the room, eyeing the ornaments, touching the silky wallpaper and the golden gleam of a walnut writing desk.

  ‘I have a right to know, do I not? After all, he is my nephew.’ She stopped and turned. There was no doubting the threat in her eyes and her voice.

  Blanche kept her temper. ‘What is this all about? Why are you bringing all this up now?’

  Horatia’s voice simmered with anger. ‘Because you have forgotten how precarious your position is. You were lucky enough to marry a respectable man and become a respectable woman. May I suggest you stay that way and refrain from bringing shame on yourself and your family.’

  Aware that Edith was outside waiting to see her, Blanche kept her voice down. ‘May I suggest you leave – right now!’

  Horatia smiled coldly. ‘I will, but first a warning – stay away from Tom. And keep your nose out of my business.’

  Blanche’s mouth dropped open. ‘What makes you think—’

  ‘I just know you’ve seen him. Remember, you have a lot to lose. Stay away from him. Stay away!’

  Horatia’s voice seemed to echo around the room for some time after she’d left.

  Blanche stood in front of the open window in an effort to cool herself before seeing Edith. Horatia had known that she’d seen Tom. But how? Blanche herself had told no one and she trusted that Tom hadn’t either. But she’d known. Blanche had already made her own mind up not to see Tom any more, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Horatia that. Unknowingly, Horatia had given her another reason why she shouldn’t see Tom any more. No breath of scandal must affect her family, especially Max. So far as the world was concerned, Max was Conrad’s legitimate son. Conrad himself knew otherwise, but he didn’t know the full truth. Blanche had never dared tell him. His feelings for Max might change if she did.

  Once she felt presentable, she summoned her next visitor into the room.

  Blanche felt her heart lurch with pity, as her old friend shuffled across the deep pile of a Turkish rug. She was dressed in a plain brown dress and the brim of her bonnet was dented and faded with age.

  It wasn’t easy, but Blanche kept smiling, though found herself feeling almost ashamed of the striking contrast between the smartness of her own dress and Edith’s shabbiness.

  ‘Madam,’ said Edith, and dropped a little curtsey.

  Blanche felt tears springing to her eyes. This was her friend, the first female friend she’d made on arriving in Bristol from Barbados. Round in face and body, Edith had seemed to bounce through life, rarely glum and always telling stories about the exploits of her family – most of whom made their living less than legally.

  Now there were dark lines and puffiness beneath Edith’s eyes. Her face was thinner and her roundness was less pronounced; what fat remained seemed to sag as if tired of hanging onto her bones.

  Overcome by emotion, Blanche sprang to her feet. ‘Edith! It’s so wonderful to see you again.’

  Despite the fact that Edith smelt of mould and dirt, she hugged her close.

  Edith was like a block of wood, too terrified to move. ‘Madam?’

  Blanche was wise enough to realise how awkward she must be feeling and let her go.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, laughing nervously. ‘I’m supposed to be the mistress of this house, yet I’ve never quite got used to treating servants as anything but friends, especially the kind and helpful ones.’

  Edith seemed dumbstruck, her head turning almost full circle as she took in the damask drapes, the fringed chenille tablecloths set on half a dozen occasional tables, the pictures, the clocks and the upholstered chairs with their tasselled cushions.

  ‘I’ve just had it decorat
ed,’ Blanche said, and felt foolish. It sounded as though she were making excuses for her lifestyle and that Edith was a society friend visiting, not merely a servant and felon.

  Edith shrugged and bit her lip. ‘I ain’t seen nothing so nice as this in a long time.’

  As she turned, Blanche glimpsed Edith’s feet. She was wearing odd boots tied together with string. They looked as if they were made of paper. She’d heard of their existence, but had never seen them before. Edith had been shuffling either to stop them from falling off or trying to save them wearing out too quickly.

  And we used to be friends…

  Blanche resisted the urge to hustle her upstairs to the bathroom where she could strip, wash and replace her clothes with some of Blanche’s own cast-offs. But I mustn’t hurt her pride, she decided. An idea suddenly occurred to her. When Edith left the house, she would take clothes that Blanche would insist were a uniform fit for a housemaid to wear. She would also give her more children’s clothes that her own brood had outgrown.

  Blanche reached for the tasselled braid hanging at the side of the fireplace. ‘We’ll have tea together. You can tell me all about what’s been happening to you since we last saw each other.’

  Edith looked at her round-eyed like a frightened rabbit. ‘I just can’t…’ she began to stammer as she backed jerkily towards the door.

  Blanche took a firm grip on her old friend’s arm and guided her into a chair. ‘Of course you can. Besides, I’ve already ordered it. Mrs Henderson is waiting for me to ring for her to bring it in.’

  Pressing her hands on her shoulders, Blanche got her to sit down in a velveteen chair next to a copper-topped table.

  Overcome with emotion, Blanche turned away. It was terribly important that Edith didn’t see her expression. Edith wouldn’t stand for pity. Rough she might be, but she had her pride. It was possible that she might get angry, perhaps storm out and end up in court again. Next time it might not be Conrad on the bench.

  Edith looked up nervously, as Mrs Henderson, stiffly crisp in her dark blue dress and starched white apron, crossed the room and set tea, muffins, butter and jam on the table.