The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  Blanche glared back at her. Convinced that Horatia had her own reasons for supporting Dr Budd’s project, she couldn’t bring herself to sympathize. Horatia’s heart – and certainly her stomach – were not in it. She was here to impress Tom. That’s none of your concern, said the voice of reason inside her head. Easier said than done. Tom was like an itch she couldn’t ignore. No matter that she shouldn’t scratch it, she couldn’t help it. It was there, hidden from the view of others, noticeable only to her.

  The privy door suddenly banged open and a child ran out and disappeared beneath a narrow arch.

  Horatia stood there staring at the privy as she attempted to steel her stomach before doing what had to be done. Few people knew she had a delicate stomach. It was not something a woman of substance was ever likely to admit to and she certainly had no intention of admitting it to Blanche.

  ‘Horatia!’ Blanche jerked her head towards the privy. ‘Are you going to help, or are you just here to gawp?’

  Horatia stiffened her shoulders and headed for the recently vacated privy. The stink was awful but she gritted her teeth, praying her stomach wouldn’t let her down and shame her in front of Blanche.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Reeling back, she let the flagon of disinfectant fall. Some was spilt, but it didn’t break.

  Blanche stormed over. ‘What a useless woman you are, Horatia Strong!’

  Horatia bit her tongue. It would have been so easy to lose her temper, but she wouldn’t. Neither would she admit the weakness of her stomach. The moment was strained and oddly silent, but full of activity, as Blanche swooped on the disinfectant, muttering how pointless it was that Horatia was there.

  The moment was strangely opportune. In the brief moment of enforced silence, Horatia recognized something of herself in Blanche. Resilience, strength, steadfastness and determination; they were all there. But why the surprise? she asked herself. After all, she is your half-sister.

  Blissfully ignorant of their hostile emotions, it was Edith who saved the day. ‘Let me do that,’ she said, easing Horatia aside. ‘I’ve got a stronger stomach than a lady like you, Miss Horatia.’

  Defeated by her stomach and relieved that someone else had offered to do the job, Horatia stepped back.

  But she was far from happy. I’ve been defeated by a privy, she thought grimly, and I wanted to prove myself. Now what do I do?

  Angry and perplexed, she tried to regain her self-esteem, to think carefully about what she was trying to achieve and whether there were different skills she could bring to the project. Backing out now was not an option. The fact that she intended making money from buying and selling properties along the proposed sewer route was beside the point. Proving to Tom that there was a softer side to her nature was just as important. Surely there’s something I’m good at besides business, she thought?

  Just then, she caught sight of an old man, who was looking up at her, his eyes watery blue in a creased face. The stubble on his chin was silver and his trousers were tied with string just below the knees.

  He spat on the ground before leaning grandly on a long staff he carried. ‘What you doin’ thur?’ he asked.

  Although he was poorly dressed, he had an air of authority, resting on his staff as though it were a royal banner.

  Horatia was strangely glad he’d asked her the question rather than anyone else. This was something she felt able to do and did so, explaining it to him in great detail. He looked at her baffled, his toothless mouth gaping.

  Edith intervened. ‘We’re making it smell sweeter, Jack,’ she shouted close to his ear. And to Horatia, ‘He’s deaf.’ And back to Jack. ‘Deaf as a bloody post, ain’t you, Jack?’

  He nodded vigorously, his lips drawing back in a toothless grin.

  ‘He’s not very bright either,’ Edith added.

  ‘Like this place,’ said Horatia, looking and feeling thoroughly fed up.

  Blanche heard her. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

  Horatia scowled. ‘Yes I bloody well did.’

  Blanche looked surprised. Because she’s never heard me swear before, thought Horatia then changed her mind. Blanche wanted her to give up. She wanted her to retch at the sight of all this squalor and to declare herself beaten. But I’ve surprised her, thought Horatia, and, for the first time that day, felt incredibly self-satisfied.

  Although Cabot’s Yard was always dingy, it was still possible to tell when clouds hid the sun. A grey gloom settled at the same time as raindrops the size of pennies plopped onto the grimy ground and quickly formed puddles. In no time at all skirts were sodden and feathers in hats were drooping and dripping onto soaked shoulders.

  ‘We need to go indoors,’ said Blanche, pushing wet strands of hair away from her face.

  Reluctantly, Edith opened her own front door. Blanche and Horatia followed.

  ‘It ain’t much,’ said Edith on seeing Horatia’s shocked expression. ‘But at least it’s dry,’ she added defensively.

  ‘This fire is just enough to take away the chill,’ said Blanche. Purposely, she made for the fire, determined that Edith shouldn’t feel embarrassed about her home, and ready to confront Horatia if she showed further repugnance.

  ‘Better than being soaked to the skin,’ said Horatia as she lifted her drenched skirt over the threshold.

  Blanche contained her surprise. She was happy enough that Edith’s pride would not be affronted. The room was small and their skirts took up as much room as Edith’s table. Sitting this close to her half-sister, Blanche noted Horatia’s clear skin, the scent of her dress and her earrings – tear-shaped pearls set in gold. Horatia held herself very stiffly, as though her backbone were made of iron. Perhaps due to the back boards Blanche had seen in the nursery at Marstone Court all those years ago. Horatia’s other half-brothers and sister had been strapped to them – wooden paddles that fitted across the back and under the arms – for an hour at a time, a device meant to help them sit straight.

  Droplets of water scattered, as Horatia shook her hat, sizzling as they landed on the dying fire. Scrutinizing the place that Edith called home, her gaze finally fixed on the bed that Edith shared with her children.

  Flexing her fingers before the meagre heat of the fire, Blanche watched for Horatia’s reaction, ready to meet any sign of disdain. Comfortable within their own worlds, rich people blamed the poor for being poor. It never occurred to them that they might be trapped in their world – just as to some extent they too were trapped, though with the rigours of class and society structure rather than the urgent need to keep a roof over their heads and a meal on the table.

  ‘Are your children upstairs?’ Horatia suddenly asked Edith.

  Blanche threw her a desultory glare, which went unnoticed. Horatia thought that Edith lived in more than one room.

  Edith, bless her heart, didn’t seem to understand her meaning. ‘Well, actually, Miss Horatia, as I told Bla— Mrs Heinkel, they’re downstairs with Molly, though I told them before they went, that they ain’t to drink the water down there.’ She looked proudly at Blanche. ‘Freddie still fetches water from the Quay Pipe only – St John’s if he’s feeling tired after working as a beer boy in the char room. They’re under strict instructions not to drink anything Molly gives them.’

  Blanche beamed at her approvingly. ‘Very good, Edith. You’ve really taken Doctor Budd’s advice.’

  Edith, with her pink face and her round body, her plain dress and her plain speaking, knew and understood what was at stake here. The poor could be educated to improve their health; Edith proved that. And soon, Edith’s lot would improve even more.

  Her heart felt it would burst with joy as she said to Horatia, ‘Edith is moving to a cottage called Little Paradise shortly.’

  ‘It has a garden with trees,’ Edith added brightly.

  ‘And not before time.’ Horatia’s gaze strayed to the rain trickling through the ill-fitting windows and collecting in puddles on the sills. ‘Do you actually pay rent for this place?’

&nb
sp; Edith was busying herself straightening the sparse bedding and hanging washed pots from the beams. ‘Well, it certainly ain’t free,’ she said over her shoulder as she stretched to hang an iron pot on a nail positioned a little higher than the rest. ‘I pays a shilling a week to Mrs Green. She collects it for Mr Cuthbert, the owner, though sometimes his son, Mr Gilmour Cuthbert comes round to collect it.’

  Horatia’s disdainful look disappeared. Suddenly she was standing close to Edith, her face full of interest. ‘Cuthbert? Isn’t he a city alderman?’

  Edith shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Does he ever come round himself?’

  ‘Once or twice, but not usually.’

  ‘Does he own many properties around here?’

  ‘A lot, though they’re not all rented for shillings. Some are rented for pounds, lots of pounds. But then,’ she winked salaciously, ‘they’re the ones that’s earning it – if you know what I means. I think Mrs Green runs one of them. She’s a bawd, you know. Still, don’t worry me none. I’m going to live in Little Paradise. Ain’t that a pretty name?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Horatia in an absent-minded fashion. ‘It is.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Blanche, who had listened with interest to their conversation, intrigued by the sudden fire in Horatia’s eyes at the mention of Stanley Cuthbert.

  ‘I’m going to grow potatoes, cabbages, peas and catmint in the garden at Little Paradise,’ said Edith. She went on to recount her other plans, including rabbits, chickens and a watercress bed.

  Blanche considered reminding her that it was only a garden and not a five-acre field, but didn’t have the heart. It didn’t hurt to have dreams, only when they didn’t come true.

  ‘It’s still raining,’ she said instead, eyeing the desolate scene outside.

  Islands of rubble, mostly moss and bits of slate fallen from rickety roofs, dotted the rising water. Inches deep, it lapped at slime-covered doorsteps, slurping and gurgling around choked drains and clay gutters.

  Her gaze was drawn to something long and dark creeping across the surface of the water. At first she thought it was a fat eel writhing with the swirling flood before realizing that a brown stain was seeping from beneath the privy, snaking across the yard and into the gullies, down into the well.

  Visible proof of how cholera stalked its victims.

  ‘Look,’ she shouted, opening the casement so she could see better. ‘Do you see it?’ she asked the other women, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Oh my God! Is that what I think it is?’ said Horatia and turned away. ‘Disgusting.’

  Blanche continued to watch. Although the water level remained the same, and would as long as it rained, she could see it disappearing through cracks in the cobbles and the loose earth around the base of the well. The brown stain eddied and whirled with the rainwater, finding the same channels.

  Dwellers of Cabot’s Yard had disappeared with the rain. Blanche stayed looking out, dejected because all their work – in the form of disinfectant – had been swilled away with the rain. Heavy and unrelenting, it formed a thick curtain, obscuring her view across the yard, splashing upwards in short sharp bursts as it hit the ground.

  At first she thought the wind had caught the rain, forming the downpour into thicker shapes that swept towards her. Then suddenly she counted three shapes rising up from the cellar entrance halfway across the yard. The three children ran through the pouring rain in bare feet, their hair plastered to their heads and their clothes to their bodies.

  Horatia cried out as they dashed straight into the house and the luxuriant width of her crinoline dress.

  ‘I’m in a mad house,’ she muttered as she attempted to shake the dampness from her skirt.

  ‘You will be, talking to yourself like that,’ Blanche remarked with amusement.

  The two girls who had come in flattened themselves against the wall and stared at their well-dressed visitors. Their house was suddenly much too crowded, mostly by the width of Horatia’s crinoline.

  Freddie went straight to his mother. ‘Molly’s place is flooded,’ he shouted as he hopped from one foot to the other. ‘Her skirt’s up round her ears and she’s floating.’

  ‘And she’s wet up to ‘er bum!’ added one of the girls, easing away from the wall so she could be better seen and heard.

  ‘And she said that the Lizzie Brady is in,’ cried the youngest.

  Blanche saw Edith pale at the last comment, before a more stoical look came to her face and she headed straight for the door. ‘Bloody Molly McBean!’

  The children followed.

  ‘Do you think it’s time we left?’ Horatia asked Blanche. ‘I don’t wish to appear uncharitable towards this Molly woman, but I have no intention of getting any wetter than I already am.’

  Bundling her skirt into a manageable bunch in front of her, Blanche settled herself on one of the two stools that Edith possessed. ‘No. I have to stay to see if I can do anything.’ Frowning, she added quietly, ‘We’ve achieved precious little otherwise today. The rain’s washed all the disinfectant away.’

  ‘But isn’t that a good thing?’ said Horatia. ‘Doesn’t that mean the rain’s done the job for us?’

  Blanche shook her head. ‘You saw the contents of the privy seeping across the yard. There’ll be another outbreak of cholera in no time – mark my words.’

  Horatia frowned. ‘What a shameful waste of time.’

  Blanche was surprised at the obvious concern on Horatia’s face. She’d never considered her a sympathetic character. Today had certainly been a turning point for both of them.

  Edith returned complete with Molly and her brood, all of them rushing into the room like a flock of soggy hens and soaked chicks.

  ‘It’s two foot high down there and stinks rotten,’ said Edith, her skirts hitched up around her plump knees, and her paper boots waterlogged and breaking into pieces.

  Molly, a sodden shawl covering her hump, was holding onto Edith’s arm. From eldest to youngest, her children did the same, each one hanging onto the arm of the elder sibling and down to the youngest.

  She was wailing loudly. ‘Wass I goin’ to do? Wass I goin’ to do?’

  ‘Give me a minute to think and I’ll tell you,’ said Edith, patting Molly’s wrinkled hand. Grinning reassuringly at Blanche, she said, ‘She’ll be all right in a minute.’

  The reassurance was obviously not enough.

  ‘Wass I goin’ to do?’ Molly continued, her children joining in and wailing as loudly as she, their voices needle sharp on the nerves.

  Blanche automatically thought of the size of Marstone Court and looked expectantly at Horatia.

  Horatia seemed dumbstruck, her gaze fixed on the strange creature with the curved back and the oversize mop cap, the frill of which flopped on her shoulders.

  No, Marstone Court and the Strong family were not ready for the likes of the McBeans.

  Blanche bit her lip and considered the next, and more likely option. What would Conrad say if she took them in?

  Edith hugged her neighbour close, Molly’s capped hat barely reaching her chin. ‘Never you mind, Molly. You can stay yur until they gets your place dried out.’

  Judging by the expression on Edith’s face, offering charity had not been easy. Molly had scooted off and left Edith to face the beak. But Molly had looked after the children in her absence.

  Blanche was amazed by their values. The bed was big enough for husband; wife and children top to tail, but it would be a bit of a squash to fit in Molly and her brood.

  During a brief break in the wailing, Edith suggested the best option of all. ‘It’s goin’ to be ages before Molly’s place is half decent to live in. If she takes over this place, could I move into my cottage today?’

  Both Blanche and Horatia visibly relaxed and exchanged swift and thankful glances. Neither had been willing to visualize the McBean family taking up residence in either one of the most desirous properties in Bristol.

  ‘I don’t s
ee why not,’ said Blanche with undisguised enthusiasm.

  ‘Wonderful idea,’ echoed Horatia.

  Molly’s wailing continued, though not quite so resonant as before. Her eyes skitted from one woman to another as she digested the information and waited for the arrangement to be confirmed.

  Edith lifted the limp frill of Molly’s cap so she could look straight into her face. ‘There you are, Moll. It’s all settled.’

  The wailing stopped abruptly. ‘Bist thee sure?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘Thees ain’t ’avin I on?’

  ‘Why should I? I’m moving into my new cottage,’ said Edith in as superior a manner as any duchess. ‘Should ’ave done it days ago.’

  ‘But what about me things?’ said Molly, a hopeful look in her eyes. ‘It’s all floating about in a sea of mucky water downstairs. I ain’t got a stick left, I ain’t.’

  Blanche frowned. Molly was right. If Edith took her things, the place would be bare. Poor Molly and her family couldn’t be expected to sleep on the floor.

  ‘Well, let me see,’ she began, holding her hand against her head, which was beginning to ache. There were too many things to think about.

  The problem was taken out of her hands.

  ‘Can we get on with this?’ said Horatia. Determined to get things moving, she turned round swiftly, the width of her skirt sending a small McBean flying towards the bed. She pointed at Molly. ‘This woman can take over here, and we can move you to Little Paradise, Edith. Now, I shall pay for a carter and arrange for some items to be donated from Marstone Court. I’m sure we have plenty of furniture in store that we’re never likely to use,’ she announced.

  Blanche wanted to tell her not to interfere, that Edith and these people were her concern, but the truth was that Horatia had made a decision while she’d still been thinking about it.

  Horatia pulled on her soaking gloves, pushing her fingers into the sticky leather and wriggling them for room. She turned to Edith. ‘The rain seems to have stopped. Can you leave now?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Edith cried, and nudged Molly. ‘I’m moving into a cottage with a garden, and once I’m settled in, you can come and see me, if you like.’