The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘What about when Deke— ?’ Molly began.

  The dig Edith gave her this time almost bent her double.

  Edith gave no one the opportunity to ask her anything else. ‘Freddie! Grab that kettle. Lizzie, pick up that pot. Your kettle and pots will be fine,’ she said to Molly.

  The tiny room became a frenzy of activity as Edith gave directions. Bits and pieces of belongings were picked up, tucked beneath arms or thrown into a blanket whose four corners were immediately tied together to form unwieldy bundles.

  Horatia and Blanche exchanged looks as they themselves were bundled around the tiny room.

  ‘This would have been best left until tomorrow, Edith. It’ll take until then to get you some furniture,’ said Blanche.

  ‘I can manage,’ Edith said brightly. ‘I’ll make do with whatever bits of furniture you and Miss Horatia give me.’

  As they both squeezed out of the door, Edith leaned close and whispered into Blanche’s ear. ‘I don’t want that old bed anyway. It’s full of bugs and fleas, but Molly won’t mind. She’s used to it.’

  Skirts sodden, their bonnets soggy and their feet wet, Blanche, Horatia and Edith, the children following behind, hurried through the huddle of streets, courtyards and alleys as best they could, puffing and panting due to the weight of their skirts.

  John had been ordered to wait in Lewins Mead with the carriage. In the streets around Cabot’s Yard there was barely room for a handcart to pass, never mind a carriage, as Blanche had noted on her first visit there.

  Progress was slow. Besides being loaded with Edith’s multitude of pots, pans and the blankets Blanche had donated, their way was pitted with holes now turned to puddles. They picked their way gingerly as water dripped from jutting first floors and muddied eddies swirled into cavernous openings in lead-lined gutters.

  Horatia, in her element when giving orders, chivvied everyone along. Like her father, she was not easily frightened by anything or anyone, but the alleys around Lewins Mead were alien to her experience. Ramshackle houses loomed over the narrow walkways. Weeds grew around rotting doorposts. Rubbish, thrown from upstairs windows without regard for passers-by, was heaped at street corners awaiting collection, which might happen within days, perhaps weeks, or not at all.

  Blanche stopped to pick up Edith’s youngest who had landed face down in a puddle and was wailing for all she was worth.

  Street pedlars turned curious eyes in their direction, amazed that ladies of obvious wealth were walking on foot through the oldest and poorest part of the city.

  Horatia seemed oblivious to the questioning looks, her only concession to daintiness being the way she held her skirt hem as clear from the mucky ground as was possible.

  Blanche was as brave as Horatia, but more wary. She’d been to the Pithay where Edith used to live. Lewins Mead was just as rundown and equally dangerous. So far they’d been lucky. Pray God, she thought, that our luck continues.

  Horatia saw their way was blocked before Blanche did. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ she murmured.

  ‘Looks like trouble,’ Edith muttered at Horatia’s side.

  Ahead of them, two rough-looking types with square chins and hard eyes filled the wide sweep of a Norman archway, an ancient entry point to the old city wall called St John’s Arch, now crumbling and grey with the grime of centuries. They wore untailored jackets and trousers that covered their bodies without any regard whatsoever for shape, length or flexibility. Their boots were of the cheapest kind, neither left nor right but made to fit either foot.

  Horatia decided to give no quarter. ‘Out of the way, my good men. We need to come through there.’

  The biggest of the men sneered at his companion, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and said, ‘Well, I ain’t lettin’ ’e through, not till ’e tells me what ’e’s want round yur.’

  At the sound of the thickly accented voice, Blanche stopped shaking the wetness from the little girl’s skirt and caught up with Horatia and Edith. The children gathered round their mother’s skirt.

  The biggest man’s eyes travelled to Blanche and then back again to Horatia. ‘I asked thee a question,’ he said, his accent unchanged. ‘What bist doin’ ’ere?’

  Faced with intimidation, Horatia adopted her most imperious accent. ‘Goodness, what sort of language is that? Can you not speak English, my good man?’

  Blanche tensed. Couldn’t Horatia see that these were brutes, the sort who’d hit a woman without giving it a second thought?

  The man went red in the face. His companion sneered and grabbed his arm. ‘Steady now, steady. All the likes of ’er needs is a warning.’

  The other man looked dubious. ‘That ain’t up to you, George. That’s up to Jake.’

  ‘We—ll…’ said George as he rubbed his bristled chin.

  ‘Yur right, John. It is up to Jake!’

  George doubled under the force of a rabbit punch applied sharply to the small of the back, then the perpetrator pushed between the two men.

  This was obviously Jake. His head, upper torso and arms were of normal size, but his legs were uncommonly short, the result perhaps of some accident that had stunted their growth.

  ‘Stand easy, lads,’ he said in a strong Welsh accent to the two bigger men and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now let’s see what we got yur.’

  He had penetrating eyes and a elever face, disfigured down one side by a long scar that stretched from his eye to the side of his mouth. It had the effect of causing both to droop so that his smile was a sneer. A silver beard ending in a sharp point made his face seem longer than it actually was.

  ‘We’re letting you go, my dears,’ he said. ‘But like that Robin Hood, there’s a fee to be paid.’

  Although her legs shook, Blanche found her voice. ‘What sort of fee?’

  Jake grinned and licked his lips with a long tongue. Blanche shuddered. Everything about him seemed oversized – except his legs.

  He scratched at his beard. ‘Every coin you’ve got in yur purse, and every ring you’ ve got on yur finger.’

  Horatia was furious. ‘Well, you’re not having my belongings, you filthy, ugly little man!’ Her voice rang out like the crack of doom.

  Blanche found herself admiring Horatia’s bravery.

  ‘A woman should be able to traverse this city unmolested,’ Horatia went on, her voice still ringing like an alarm bell, its resonance ricocheting off the squat buildings that crowded around them. Do you know who I am?’

  As she turned her head this way and that, the purple feather that trailed from her hat lashed from side to side like the tail of an angry cat. She sounded as if someone had stepped on her tail.

  Jake said, ‘Do I know who you are?’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘No. I do not. And do I care who you are?’ He shook his head again. ‘No. I do not.’

  Horatia showed no fear, sure in the power of her own presence, the unfailing belief that she had been born superior to the likes of Jake, John and George. She had every faith it would save her now.

  Clutching her purse and the satchel she’d kept close to her side all day, she exclaimed, ‘You’ll have nothing from me!’

  The men’s ugly featured faces turned uglier. Blanche felt her stomach lurch as though it were trying to escape all by itself. Fuelled by the fear or what could happen next, she undid the strings of her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, opening it wide as she offered it, ‘there are six sovereigns in here. Take them! Take them and leave us alone.’

  Horatia stayed her hand. ‘No, Blanche! You mustn’t give in.’ Too late, George snatched it from Blanche’s hands.

  Fast for a woman encumbered with tight corsets and a huge crinoline, Horatia grabbed the dangling purse strings and tugged it for all she was worth, her heels slipping on the cobbles as a tug of war ensued.

  ‘Let them have it,’ shouted Blanche, her arms around Horatia’s waist.

  Seeing two against one, the small man leapt through the air, kicking at their skirts as he too grabbed the pu
rse.

  Freddie launched himself at the third man’s legs, clinging and kicking at his unprotected shins.

  People began to appear on the empty street, drawn by the woman's cries. Perhaps alarmed that they’d acquired an audience, the thieves tugged harder.

  ‘Will any of you help us?’ Blanche shouted at the onlookers.

  The curious now became the cowardly and melted into the shadows, lacking either the courage or the conviction to get involved. There would be no rescue from that direction.

  Edith threw herself on the man who was pulling at Freddie’s hair and raining blows upon his head. Freddie clung like a limpet to the man’s legs while his mother scrabbled at his face with her blunt, thick fingers.

  ‘Leave my boy alone, you stinking swine!’

  Horatia’s stubbornness was contagious. Blanche was now as determined to hold onto the purse as she was, though a few moments ago she would have urged caution and fleeing rather than fighting.

  In seconds she’d changed her mind again. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of Steel as the small man Jake drew a knife. Her blood ran cold.

  Terrified, she shouted at Horatia to let go.

  ‘No!’ Horatia held on.

  Yet she must have seen it, thought Blanche. Impetuously, and perhaps regretful for her lack of sympathy from the onlookers in Cabot’s Yard, she hurled herself between Horatia and the small man. There was a flash of steel, then the sound of a knife ripping through her skirt. The short man raised his arm again. He came at Horatia from another angle. Again, Blanche attempted to hurl herself between the knife and Horatia, aware that she was putting herself in danger, but determined the thieves would not succeed.

  Things happened so fast, actions and figures blurring like the details of a dream just before waking. One moment she was pushing herself forward; the next she was falling backwards, tugged from behind by something or someone she could not see. It didn’t help that her hat had fallen over her eyes, though she was aware that Edith’s girls were beside her.

  ‘Cor! Look at that!’ cried the eldest.

  Blanche pushed her hat back from her face and once her vision was unimpaired by the soggy brim and the decorative bunch of cherries at the crown, which she’d thought so splendid that morning, her mouth dropped open.

  It would not have surprised her to see Horatia lying flat out on the ground, blood oozing from her bodice and her face pale as death. What she saw instead both delighted and amazed her.

  Tom Strong was swinging Jake around by his legs, using the weight and momentum of the swinging body to hit the bigger men off their feet, finally throwing the short man and sending them all tumbling like skittles.

  Another man Blanche did not recognize accompanied him. His face was weather-beaten and his hair was long and black.

  Edith beamed as she rubbed the top of her son’s head, which seemed none the worse for having tufts pulled out of it. ‘That’s Jim Storm Cloud.’

  As Jake attempted to rise, Storm Cloud’s fist landed in his face and sent him back down. Before the two bigger men had a chance to get up, Tom grabbed both their heads and banged them soundly together. Bringing his face down level with theirs, he said, ‘If I ever catch you within ten feet of these ladies again, I’ll tear your heads from your bodies!’

  It was debatable as to whether they understood. Their eyes were unfocused; blood and spittle drooled from their mouths.

  Blood pouring from a wound where his head had hit the uneven cobbles, Jake shook his fist at Tom and Jim Storm Cloud. ‘I’ll get you bleeders!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll kill you, I swears I will!’

  Before he knew it, Storm Cloud was towering over him, his hair blowing around him like a dark cloak. ‘With your bare hands? A knife? A pistol? I will meet your challenge no matter what your weapon.’ Storm Cloud drew his finger down the front of his chest, his sharp eyes fixed on the other man’s face. ‘And I will split you in two.’

  Taking discretion as the better part of valour, Jake’s courage evaporated. He scampered off behind his long-legged friends, who had already departed, leaving behind a low murmur of admiration rippling through the gathering crowd.

  Edith nudged Blanche sharply in the ribs. ‘That Jim Storm Cloud ain’t aff ’andsome!’ she said, swaying slightly like a bashful child.

  Blanche tutted. ‘And you a married woman, Edith Beasley! Shame on you!’

  Edith slid her eyes sidelong to Tom and then back to Blanche. The implication was obvious.

  Blanche felt her face grow hot, and knew she was blushing. ‘If you were Horatia’s servant, she’d dismiss you for impertinence.’

  Edith smirked. ‘She wouldn’t notice.’ She dug Blanche in the ribs again and winked.

  Blanche looked to where a flushed Horatia was gazing into Tom’s eyes.

  ‘Tom! You came to my rescue. How wonderful!’

  ‘No it wasn’t bloody wonderful,’ snarled Tom looking at them as if they were naughty children needing their bottoms smacked. ‘If I hadn’t decided to call in on Jim, there’s no telling what might have happened. And don’t mention about taking a cab home,’ he said to Horatia as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘I’ll take you to see Monk, then it’s off home.’

  She clammed up immediately.

  ‘I live here,’ Edith piped up. ‘Or at least, I used to,’ she added after glancing at Jim Storm Cloud. She wouldn’t want him to see where she lived. ‘But I’m moving to a cottage called Little Paradise,’ she added, brightening. ‘That’s where we were off to when them louts stood in our way.’

  Tom’s eyes flickered. Blanche knew he had recognized the name of the cottage.

  Horatia found her voice. ‘We were here with disinfectant on behalf of Doctor Budd in an attempt to keep cholera at bay. Unfortunately, there was a terrific rainstorm. The drains burst and Edith offered the place she lives in to her friend. Blanche and I decided to help her move. John was supposed to be waiting for us with the carriage, although I think we may have taken a wrong turn. But we had to help Edith.’

  ‘Very commendable.’

  Blanche was dumbstruck. She joined Edith collecting the bits and pieces that had fallen out of the blankets. She didn’t want to see the look on Tom’s face, or hear Horatia outlining what needed doing in the city and the part she was playing in its improvement.

  Charity had never been Horatia’s bedfellow. And neither had Tom Strong. But perhaps that was about to change…

  * * *

  It rained on the journey to Little Paradise, but by the time they got there it had cleared. As a sly sun peered from behind a cloud, the whitewashed walls of the cottage were bathed in brightness. A rainbow arched across the sky, one end seemingly growing from a spot on the roof just right of the chimney.

  Whooping with glee, the children ran towards the house. Blanche and Edith followed. John came behind carrying the bulk of their baggage.

  Tom had gone with Horatia, who insisted she had a business appointment. Blanche wanted to believe her, but found she couldn’t. I’m not jealous, she decided, and threw herself into making Edith and her family as comfortable as she could.

  Edith’s hand trembled as Blanche handed her the key. She looked at it with moist eyes and dry lips. ‘A new home,’ she said, choking with emotion. ‘I have never had a key before, or a garden, or a front gate.’

  Too full of emotion to speak, Blanche waved her hand at the door, a simple action meant to encourage Edith to go ahead and put the key in the lock. Putting it into words was impossible.

  Freddie lost patience. ‘Go on, ma. I’m bleedin’ freezin’!’

  Edith tapped him round the ear. ‘Less of that language!’

  He smiled as he rubbed at his ear. It hadn’t really hurt, and his mother was smiling. She was happy, happier than she’d been in a long time. She always was when his father wasn’t around, but never like this. He’d never seen her eyes shining so brightly or heard her gasp with such joy as the key grated in the lock.

  The smell of fresh mint a
nd crisp wood came out to meet them. Although the sky was still leaden and the wind was tugging at the apple trees, the cottage seemed full of sunlight. The walls were painted cream, yet they seemed yellow, almost as if someone had found a way to make paint from sunshine.

  The children scampered into each of the downstairs rooms, and squealed with delight just as Blanche’s children had done as they opened the pine panelled door beside the fireplace, and discovered the narrow spiral staircase.

  Their footsteps rumbled across the ceiling as they explored the upstairs rooms.

  ‘Like a herd of wild ponies,’ laughed Blanche.

  Edith threw her arms wide. ‘This place has everything.’

  Blanche nodded as she took in the familiar surroundings that were no longer hers to use, to hide in when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

  It had been in her mind to drape blankets over grass picked from the overgrown garden. Once dried, the grass would have made temporary but comfortable beds for a time. But not today. The rain was unrelenting, and the grass was plastered flat to the ground. Instead she sent John to collect unwanted pieces of furniture from the attic of Somerset Parade. Once Horatia donated a few items, the cottage would be very well furnished.

  Horatia’s behaviour had surprised her. She’d always known that she was no simpering buttercup, but also ambitious, determined and downright ruthless at times, but she was also brave and that, she thought, is what will attract Tom to her. She shivered.

  Edith noticed. ‘Are you cold?’

  Blanche shook her head and hugged herself. ‘Just excited. Life is like that. You think everything is humdrum then suddenly it changes and things are exciting.’

  Edith pursed her lips and sucked in her breath. ‘I reckon I’ve had enough excitement for one day.’ She giggled like a girl. ‘Did you see the way Captain Tom whacked that little man into them two others.’ Holding her sides, she rocked with laughter. ‘I’ll remember that to my dying day.’ She turned suddenly serious. ‘And I’ll also remember it as the day I moved into Little Paradise – thanks to my best friend.’