The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  Emmanuel’s eyes flickered and his jaw moved as if he were masticating his worries to pulp.

  Horatia straightened, stalked to the window and snapped back the curtain. ‘Well, that settles it. Tom and I will have to go over there. We can move into Rivermead.’ And get Emily locked up, she thought. Then it will be just Tom and I, two souls thrown together by fate. Having barely met her uncle, she felt no grief at his passing; on the contrary, her spirits soared. Poor Uncle Otis had done them a favour.

  ‘Casey is a fit man to run the estate,’ her father murmured, his words ill-formed and slurred with drink. ‘Nelson or Rupert I think should go over there…’

  ‘No!’ Horatia spun round. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Of course someone has to go over there before that bloody woman burns the house down! But I think it best if I go – with Tom.’

  His ruddy complexion and barrel gut, acquired through many years of over-indulgence, caused her to pause. Never in all her life had she seen weakness in him. Perhaps she hadn’t been looking close enough to see that he was a mere shadow of his former self. Age and good living had laid him low. ‘I’m too old to cope with it,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Horatia grew impatient. ‘Did you hear a word I said, Father? Did you hear me say that Tom has to leave Bristol and that I am going with him?’

  His eyes were still bleary, but he blinked as if the details had indeed sunk in. ‘You and Tom?’

  She nodded and prepared herself for him to disagree. His smile surprised her.

  ‘I think that’s the best thing that could happen. In fact, I have already allowed for it to happen. I altered my will the moment I heard he was coming back.’

  He surprised her even more when he suddenly sat up and took hold of her hand. ‘Horatia, you are truly my daughter. The spirit of Isaiah and Samson Strong shines through you more than it does your brothers. You deserve to inherit everything, but as a single woman?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think that proper, but as a married one? Yes, my dear. Marry Tom Strong and control of the Strong fortune will pass to you. In the meantime, until my demise, why not start off with Rivermead? It seems a grand idea to me.’

  He slumped back into his chair, the lucid moment seemingly passed, but then his eyes blinked open again and he popped forward. ‘And best for you both if you get Mad Emily locked up unless you shoot her before she shoots you.’

  Following his comment, a lesser woman would have needed smelling salts and someone to loosen her stays. Horatia glowed. It was everything she’d ever wanted. Her mind worked quickly. Marriage had formed part of her plan to escape to Barbados, though she hadn’t mentioned it, believing that in time Tom would see it as a natural progression. The stakes had now increased. Initially her business and property assets would have been enough to finance their new venture. What her father was suggesting – eventual control of the Strong Sugar empire – could finance a whole navy!

  As her father gazed into space, she eyed the broken veins that lined his cheeks and had turned his nose the colour of ripe plums. Judging by a painting hanging on a wall in the first-floor landing, he’d been a handsome man when younger. Now he was white-haired and bloated with brandy. He’d been too distant a parent to love, but she’d always respected him, though knew he could lie in order to impress.

  The will. She had to be sure.

  ‘Is this the brandy talking, or do you really mean it? Is there really a will that leaves everything to me?’

  A smile slowly crossed his face, his red cheeks shining as he began gurgling with amusement. ‘I know you well, Horatia. I know you as well as I know myself, because there’s so much of me in you. I can see it in your eyes and in your actions. I know Septimus Monk fronts some of your little schemes… and don’t ask how I know,’ he said the moment she opened her mouth to do so. ‘I also know how close you and Tom have been in the library. Suffice to say that I still have my faculties and my contacts. I’m not dead yet.’

  Horatia bit her lip. It was an uncomfortable feeling to be told that someone had been spying on her, and not just with regard to business in the city, but also at home – here at Marstone Court.

  The truth came in a flash. ‘Duncan!’ The footman.

  ‘Clever girl! Follows you round like a spaniel,’ chuckled her father.

  His laughter died. Horatia guessed he was thinking of his brother. Refolding the letters, she said, ‘I think I can live in Barbados. And Tom has no choice.’

  Emmanuel’s expression fell as he contemplated his brother’s demise. ‘When we were younger, Otis used to copy everything I did, as though by doing so he might become the eldest son instead of the second.’ He sighed and clasped his hands across his belly. ‘But it was no good. He was always weaker – always second best.’

  Horatia straightened. She didn’t really want to hear about Uncle Otis and her father’s childhood. The present and the future were all that mattered, and her dreams looked as though they might come true. Things were happening so fast and she didn’t mind if things progressed even faster. She was excited beyond belief but, at the same time, she would leave nothing to chance.

  ‘I want to see the will.’

  Smiling, he shook his head. ‘My judgement was correct. You’re a typical Strong – never believe anything unless you see it with your own eyes. I’ll have a copy sent to your lawyer – that gaudy fellow, Monk. But I want it kept secret until my death. You must not divulge its contents to anyone. Is that clear?’

  ‘It is.’

  Of course she would keep it secret. Her brothers would be furious. It filled her with pride to know that she was favoured and they were not. And she would know and they would crow, confident in their ignorance they would inherit everything.

  Emmanuel covered his eyes with his hand.

  It was not the time to look excited, but Horatia couldn’t help it. Turning from her father, she looked out over the rolling parkland where a stray dog chased sheep beneath the trees. A vast fortune and the man she loved. The future looked too wonderful to be true. Then she heard him chuckle. Was he playing with her, merely pretending she would be favoured in his will? She decided then that she could not trust what he’d said. She would have it confirmed.

  ‘Poor Uncle Otis,’ she said in as sad a voice she could manage. ‘What a shame he didn’t have children.’

  ‘Hopefully you and Tom will have children.’

  The comment startled her at first then her body tingled as she recalled the feel of Tom’s hand on her breast.

  ‘I want you to promise me something.’

  For a man who had drunk so much and so early in the morning, he was incredibly lucid, though it came in spasms, his mind drifting in and out of an alcoholic mist.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If neither you nor your brothers have male issue, my wish is that Max Heinkel inherits.’

  Horatia was shocked to silence. This was not something she’d considered.

  Her father took advantage of her surprise. ‘He’s a Strong. You know it and I know it. You are the exception, Horatia, the only member of the Strong family capable of being head of the family. Nelson has a daughter, but it’s his son I’m interested in. Max Heinkel is a Strong on both sides of his family.’ He looked at her searchingly. ‘Unless you know anything to the contrary.’

  She shook her head. The matter of Nelson’s liaison with his half-sister Blanche was something they never talked about.

  Her father looked at her intently. ‘Promise me you will carry out my wishes, Horatia. Promise me, and everything is yours.’

  Horatia nodded. ‘Of course I will, though I doubt Blanche Heinkel, or indeed her husband, will be very happy about it.’

  ‘Ah, yes! Blanche Heinkel.’ He sighed as a man does when he reaches a certain age and realizes that he is closer to his death than his birth. ‘Her mother’s skin was as soft as velvet, you know – and not black, not really even brown. Just creamy dark, like milky chocolate, and she had the most pert…’

  Hor
atia was angered by the faraway look in his eyes and the way his hands followed imagined curves. ‘Father! At least have the courtesy to remember that I am the daughter of your first wife, to whom you were married at the time.’

  ‘My head aches. I need to sleep,’ he said then, burying his head in his hands. Horatia watched as he struggled to his feet. Her emotions ranged from sadness to pity to anger and disgust, as her father belched and broke wind with each step he took to the door.

  ‘My God,’ Horatia muttered. She felt sick as she regarded his deteriorating body. Death conquered even the most powerful of men and would not be bought off with money, gems or parcels of land. Soon he would die.

  After she’d left him, she went looking for Tom but was told he’d gone into Bristol to make last-minute arrangements before the new steamship left for Nova Scotia. She gave orders for black crêpe to be taken out of storage and draped over suitable ornaments and a painting of Otis that hung on the landing.

  She felt no sorrow. On the contrary, Otis drowning couldn’t have come at a better time. Tom would be told all about it – including the will – when he got back from Bristol. And she would be ready for him.

  After taking a bath, she looked at her reflection in a full-length mirror. Her négligé was white. Tiers of lace decorated the neckline and sleeves and tumbled like frozen snow from her waist. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders.

  I look like a bride on her wedding night waiting to be deflowered, she thought. Tom will be my husband. I will be his wife.

  ‘My husband,’ she said, the word rolling satisfyingly over her tongue. Married people were owned by each other. She would be owned by him, but more importantly, he would be owned by her.

  She eased the garment from her shoulders and imagined it was Tom doing it. Finally, she let it fall to the floor. Now he was looking at her over her shoulder, seeing her creamy body, her rounded hips and full breasts.

  ‘You can’t resist,’ she said to his imagined reflection, and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  In the marble and gilt surroundings of the grand salon, where some of the best Dutch masters fought for dominance with the blue sky and pinkish clouds of a painted ceiling inhabited by gods, nymphs and pudding-faced cherubs, Duncan paced his way to the drawing room with a fresh bottle of brandy. His eyes brightened when he saw Horatia. He bowed respectfully.

  Horatia had always enjoyed teasing the footman, throwing him soft smiles, stroking the side of his face after he’d done her some particular favour. Today there were more important things on her mind.

  ‘Have you seen Sir Emmanuel?’ she asked. It was some time after her speaking with her father about Uncle Otis and the matter of the will.

  ‘He’s asleep in the Egyptian room.’

  Horatia arched her eyebrows. Her father’s habit of sleeping in the stone sarcophagus prior to his death amazed her. ‘If that lid should slip he’ll be sleeping in there permanently,’ she remarked.

  ‘Would you like that?’

  Duncan’s question caught her off-guard. She felt herself reddening, her skirt swishing as she came to a standstill.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ She sounded suitably angry.

  Duncan’s brown eyes looked at her as though seeing her soul. ‘Sir Emmanuel is not quite the man he was.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, her voice laced with guilt. ‘No, he most certainly is not.’

  ‘Shall I tell him you were asking after him when he wakes up?’

  Horatia shook her head. It had occurred to her that before she told Tom anything about the will, it made sense to check that it really existed. She already knew the details but wanted to be sure that its contents were exactly as her father had outlined.

  ‘If he asks after me, tell him that I’m gone into Bristol.’

  Duncan nodded. His dark eyes looked at her as if inviting a telling word, a soft caress. But Horatia offered none of this. She was thinking of her father lying in a solid stone sarcophagus, the lid suspended on ropes threaded through iron pulleys. What if they should break? What if there should be an accident?

  She stood there for a long while after Duncan disappeared, looking out at the parkland, her hands tightly clasped and the light from the window turning her eyes light grey and her skin milky white.

  What if there should be an accident?

  A moment in time, a sudden thought that stayed fixed in her head. She would never understand where it had come from, why such a deed could implant itself so deeply. Her father had done many wicked things in his time, though had remained likeable – just as she had.

  But the thought took hold. Seemingly in the grip of a temporary madness, she drifted towards the newly constructed Egyptian room…

  Her soft pink cheeks stiffened as if they’d become layered with frost. It was as if every drop of blood had drained from her head. As she floated along the corridor, she harboured an unreal feeling; it was as though her feet weren’t touching the ground, like a dream where limbs hang heavy and propulsion seems to be independent of body or mind.

  Hesitantly, she opened the door of the Egyptian room, her heart beating hard against her ribs, her mouth so dry that her tongue stuck to its roof. She’d rarely entered this sacred shrine of his. She took root in the centre of the room, her mouth open and her eyes round and searching.

  The place was eerie and imparted a feeling of eternity. Painted gods posed on clay-coloured walls, their stance stylized and their kohl-edged eyes staring sidelong in mute surprise, almost as if they’d been discovered doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Horatia’s heart beat faster.

  The room had no windows. Candles burned in tall, bronze sconces, a glassy-eyed cobra wound around each base, eyes flickering red in response to the candlelight.

  The hem of her dress sounded like a broom sweeping the flagstone floor as she skirted the sarcophagus, all the time eyeing the hanging slab. The stout ropes holding it dropped from a central pulley, which in turn hung from a wooden gantry, the ends tied into iron hoops set into the floor.

  She heard him snoring, but didn’t look in. The whole thing seemed ridiculous. Why couldn’t he lie down on his bed like any normal person?

  He’s mad, she thought, and suddenly detested him. If his eccentricities became known, the family would be a laughing stock. She cursed him for becoming the man he was.

  Trailing her fingers along the edge of the coffin, she looked up at the ropes. It amazed her that he could lie asleep with the lid hanging over him like that. Surely he must know it was dangerous?

  Her gaze wandered up and down the ropes, noting areas where the sisal had been rubbed thinner than in other places. She ran her finger down one of the thinner strands. Her breathing quickened. Her eyes shone brightly. An accident… Such a dreadful thought, but it could happen. What would it take for it to happen?

  This was so wicked! Her heart beat so hard it made her ribs ache as she trailed her fingers over the cold. That damned will. She wished her father hadn’t told her its content. Guilt and ambition were fighting for her soul.

  She closed her eyes and reasoned with her conscience.

  I can’t.

  Afterwards she would be appalled at what she’d done, but for now she was exhilarated. It was as if she were standing on a cliff about to dive off into icy water. She knew the danger, that she might drown or hit her head on a submerged rock, but she couldn’t help herself. If nothing untoward happened, she might well be swimming in a pea-green sea, queen of her domain.

  Quietly and carefully, she undid the first rope and let it slide through until the corner had lowered enough.

  The gantry’s shadow fell over the far wall where a winged Horus stood rigid guardian of the tomb, though the flickering candlelight made him seem more real. The gantry shivered like a great, black giraffe. On closer inspection, she could see it had a hammer-like mechanism held in the teeth of a toothed iron cog. At the side there was a wheel and a handle. This, she realized, would release the cog and
the slab would come down. The ropes passed close to the iron teeth – too close. Some, as she had seen, were frayed and if another rope gave, the remaining two – there was one to each corner – might be too weak to hold the lid of her father’s tomb.

  The workmen had left some tools in a wooden box near the door. Prising open the lid, she found a saw. Although it was quite heavy, she managed to lift it and run it across one of the remaining ropes. They were incredibly tough. The sound of saw teeth grating filled the room and somehow – she would never know how – brought her to her senses. Her courage faltered. The saw fell from her hand. Her hands flew up to her cheeks.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ She shook her head. An earring was dislodged. She didn’t see it fall to the floor.

  Her father was hardly the most righteous of men, but he certainly didn’t deserve to die, and certainly not by her hand.

  The saw had made little impact on the ropes. Just a few strands had disentwined from the main twist. The ropes would hold. Her father would wake up and drink another day.

  She paused at the door. Perhaps he wasn’t in there and Duncan was mistaken. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him snore.

  For one guilty moment, she was tempted to look into the sarcophagus and wake him up just in case the ropes gave. Instead she retied the one she’d undone.

  He was her father and at one time she’d loved him; that was before her mother had died, before he’d married Verity, his second wife, before he’d taken to drink. Just at the point when she was tempted to lean over the side of the sarcophagus, wake him up and tell him she loved him, a loud belch followed by an equally loud fart echoed around the room.

  Her guilt and her love flew out of the window. ‘Good grief! How much longer do I have to put up with this? You are disgusting, Emmanuel Strong. Why are you still here? Why do you still live?’

  Her face burned with indignation and her hands itched to smack anyone who dared tell her that it was really guilt.

  She flung open the door. Duncan was outside. He made her start. She regained her composure and shot him a sidelong look as if to say, You haven't seen me here. Say nothing.