The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  Horatia did not move a muscle as less close relatives – including aunts and uncles by marriage, cousins and even Caroline’s husband, left the room. Only Tom, Horatia, Rupert, Nelson and Caroline were left.

  ‘You are all sworn to secrecy on this next part of the will. Do I have your word?’

  Everyone nodded in agreement and uttered muffled affirmation.

  ‘Then I will continue,’ said the lawyer.

  He cleared his throat again and bent to his task.

  ‘Should this match not occur, I bequeath said inheritance to Maximillian Conrad Heinkel, a boy I believe to be my grandson and likely to be influenced both by his adoptive father, Conrad Heinkel and his mother, my daughter Blanche…’

  Horatia wasn’t listening. Her heart danced. The Strong fortune was hers… so long as… She eyed Tom sidelong. The Strong fortune and Tom was all she’d ever wanted.

  But Tom was frowning, his hands clenched between his knees. She hadn’t expected him to look happy exactly, but she had expected him to say something. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. She hardly noticed the lawyer, Caroline, Nelson and Rupert leave the room.

  Now it was her turn to clasp his hand. As she did so, the earring fell to the floor. ‘The beginning of a new era,’ she said. ‘You and I.’

  He didn’t answer at first, when he did his words surprised her. ‘You really loved your father.’

  At first she was speechless, then she said, ‘Of course I did. How could you ever have doubted me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I found the earring entangled in one of the ropes. I knew how much you wanted to inherit and I feared…’

  She touched his face. ‘At any other time I might be angry with you, but not today.’

  His eyes locked with hers. ‘Then I won’t be angry at you about naming the ship after yourself.’

  Her smile lit up her face. She looked young again, as fresh and full of herself as she’d been when he’d first been taken to Marstone Court all those years ago.

  A cloud seemed to fall on both of them at the same time. Tom voiced what they were both thinking. ‘Your brothers are not going to be very happy at this.’

  Their fears were well founded. As those attending helped themselves to refreshments and grumbled their resentments, Nelson nudged his sister’s elbow. ‘You’ve got what you wanted, old girl. You’re the one giving the orders.’ His mouth curled with sarcasm as he looked at Tom. ‘You came at a high price, Tom, and it was me who persuaded you to come back from Boston. You’ve done well. Congratulations.’

  Despite the insult, Tom remained calm. He could understand how Nelson was feeling.

  Nelson turned back to his sister. ‘I trust you’ll have the good grace to give me what I want.’

  She’d not expected him to hate her for stealing his birthright, but there it was, burning like black coals in his eyes. ‘You hate being in business. You’ve always said so.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll live with it – so long as you allow me to run the plantation now Otis is gone. My wife and child will have to stay here, of course.’

  Horatia exchanged looks with Tom. ‘I can’t do that, Nelson. Tom and I are going to Barbados, at least for the time being until things calm down.’

  Nelson sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, plastering it back from his forehead. Tom sensed his exasperation. He was trapped in a loveless marriage.

  As he turned to leave, Tom stepped into his path. ‘A board of directors will be properly set up in this country to manage things. You’ll serve on the board, Nelson. Both you and Rupert.’

  He felt Horatia’s eyes on him and guessed she was surprised that he was already taking control.

  ‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Horatia, instantly recognizing Tom’s attempt to placate her brother.

  As a result of his addiction, Nelson’s moods were far from stable. His calm countenance receded as his face reddened. His eyes grew round and angry, and he slurred, ‘You don’t understand! None of you understand!’

  ‘Then tell us,’ said Tom, placing himself between brother and sister, unsure what form Nelson’s anger might take, but determined that Horatia would not be hurt. ‘What do you really want to go to Barbados for? And don’t tell me it’s to grow sugar cane.’

  Nelson seemed incapable of understanding what Tom was saying. His whole body was shivering. ‘You don’t understand,’ he shouted again, then stalked off without a backward glance at his sister or a sideways glance at Tom.

  ‘He’ll come round,’ said Horatia with a confidence Tom sensed she didn’t really feel. ‘He’ll understand. I’ll talk to him.’

  * * *

  Gilmour Cuthbert was grim-faced as he gained entry to a house in Park Row. It described itself as a gentlemen’s club. Like most such clubs, women were banned – except those who lived in the rooms above and provided services of a sexual nature to the members.

  A well-dressed woman, her prim looks and dark dress setting her apart from those selling their services, greeted him.

  ‘As we haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you here before, sir, perhaps you would like to sit awhile and talk to our young ladies before making a selection?’

  Pretty young women, their clothes as fine as any debutante, their eyes bright with interest and gems twinkling from their ears, wrists and necks, smiled at him.

  It was not what he’d been led to believe. The room was not red and filled with plush velvet furniture; the lighting was subtle, and swathes of cream and white lace were swathed romantically with bolts of green and blue at windows and doors.

  He was led to a chair and offered cigars and brandy. He declined both. A blond man opposite him was indulging freely. Before swigging back a second or third brandy, he brought out a pouch and proceeded to sprinkle what looked like brown sugar into his drink. Gilmour thought he’d seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Are you staring at me, sir?’ asked the man.

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought I knew you from somewhere.’

  Nelson Strong raised his eyes disdainfully. ‘Do you indeed?’

  Gilmour frowned. ‘Ah, yes. I do know you. You’re Nelson Strong.’

  ‘Indeed I am. Nelson Strong – gentleman of Bristol who much prefers to be in Barbados. But my sister’s going there in my stead,’ he said, his eyes fixed glassily on the granules floating on top of his drink. ‘And all because of the threat of hanging to my dearly beloved prospective brother-in-law, Captain Thomas Jebediah Strong.’

  Gilmour frowned. ‘But surely that is no longer necessary? Surely your sister has passed on the information I gave to Septimus Monk that exonerates him from any suspicion of murder? Which means, of course, that he has no need to flee to Barbados.’

  Nelson blinked. Suddenly the floating granules were no longer so interesting. ‘What did you say?’

  Gilmour repeated what he’d said, though omitted the reference to Barbados, the part that interested Nelson the most. Not that it was needed. Even Nelson’s foggy mind reached the right conclusion.

  The brandy slopped over as Nelson set his glass down on a table with a heavy thud. ‘Come with me,’ he said, pulling Gilmour to his feet.

  ‘Wait! I have not completed my mission,’ shouted Gilmour as he rummaged for something in the inner pocket of his coat. ‘I’ve come here to save these women from sin.’

  To Nelson’s and the young women’s amusement, he pulled out a Bible. ‘And all shall be saved from thy wrath with the words of this book…’ he began, but didn’t get the chance to say any more.

  ‘So long as he saves one for me,’ muttered Nelson, bundling Gilmour out of the door. Outside he turned to the fresh-faced young man and straightened the shoulders of his beautifully tailored jacket. ‘Do you realize what danger you are in attempting to save the sinners in establishments such as these? One huge pimp and you’re a pile of horse manure – or at least rolling in it with a bloody nose and broken ribs for your trouble.’

  Gilmour shook his head. ‘No.’

  His feet hardly t
ouched the ground, as Nelson frog-marched him along the street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked in a timorous voice.

  ‘To save another soul,’ Nelson replied.

  ‘Whose soul is that, pray?’

  ‘Mine,’ said Nelson. ‘Now tell me again about this evidence you gave to Septimus Monk.’

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  No one was surprised that Horatia made a lovely bride and that the most elevated citizens were invited to the wedding, with the exception of Mr and Mrs Conrad Heinkel.

  ‘I’m surprised that the family are included in your guest list,’ said Tom.

  ‘Why not? The cathedral has enough room.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant. I was wondering if they’d forgiven you for inheriting the bulk of the estate.’

  ‘I don’t really care,’ she said, and he could tell by her expression that she meant it.

  Her dress was of cream silk. Rows of seed pearls ran down her bodice and the silk was of such a fine quality that the slightest breeze lifted the hem so it almost seemed as though she were floating. The veil was long and held in place with a circlet of white roses and purple violets. Her bouquet filled the air with the scent of lilac, roses, violets and apple blossom.

  Tom tried not to think of funerals, to persuade himself that he could be happy, that Horatia had always determined to make him her own. Well, now he was hers, and once it was all over and they’d signed the register, he asked himself why he had done it, then answered his own question: there was no one else he could marry.

  They spent a few days in a hotel in the city of Bath after that. Tom decided he liked the place, even though it was past its Regency glory days.

  Horatia hated it, especially the invalids who crowded the pavements in their bath chairs and cupped their ears in the reception area, shouting their wants to their carers.

  He hadn’t quite known what to expect on their wedding night. She told him to turn off the light and he thought she was feigning shyness. He didn’t doubt she was a virgin, but he found the idea of her being bashful hard to believe.

  Then she pulled back the curtains and opened the window. Her naked body gleamed in the moonlight. Dressed in brocades and silks she was beautiful; naked she was more so, her breasts round and ripe, her body a long curve from shoulder to hip. Her hair hung to her waist.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked him.

  ‘That I will take you to bed,’ he said.

  Her body was warm beneath his and he explored it at his leisure. He caressed her neck, her bosom and her belly with his lips, heard her suck in her breath and sigh. She caressed his back and shoulders, but throughout the whole process, she lay unmoving beneath him. When he finally reached his peak, she rolled out from under him, disappeared into her dressing room, and came out smelling of soap and rosewater.

  Later, he lay listening to her breathing. He didn’t know whether she had enjoyed the experience, and he couldn’t tell whether she was a virgin. Somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. Whatever she said, whatever anyone said, theirs was a marriage of convenience. Horatia was capable of jealousy and affection, perhaps even love of a kind, but he wasn’t sure she was capable of passion.

  One week later, they were to leave the country.

  ‘And not before time,’ Horatia grumbled.

  * * *

  Tom was surprised to hear he had a visitor on the very day he was to depart to Barbados with his new bride. When he got down into the palatial reception hall of Marstone Court, an area big enough for a full-scale orchestra, Nelson, his brother-in-law, was being helped into a balloon-backed hall chair by two footmen, his face shiny with sweat and dark crescents beneath his eyes. ‘Get off. Leave me alone,’ he shouted as they tried to sit him upright. He slid forward once again, his legs buckling as he tried to dig his heels against the slippery floor.

  A young man Tom did not recognize was with him.

  ‘Tom, my dear fellow,’ Nelson shouted on seeing him. ‘You don’t need to go to Barbados. Gilmour here will tell you all about it. You’re free to go where you will, Tom. Free to set aside my sister if you wish to. She’s had you by false pretences, Tom. False pretences!’

  After straightening his jacket, the young man offered his hand. ‘Gilmour Cuthbert. You may have known my father. He calls himself Sydney Cuthbert, although he was born by the name of Cuthbert Stoke.’

  Tom was speechless. It was like being hit over the head suddenly, a numbness spreading from the brain throughout the body.

  He immediately wanted to ask questions, but Nelson was presently his first priority.

  ‘I take it Mr Nelson has not had an accident,’ said Tom after swiftly weighing up his brother-in-law’s appearance.

  ‘He insisted I come here. We would have arrived earlier, but…’ Gilmour spread his hands helplessly then went on to explain. ‘I met him in a place of very ill repute, a place where…’ The young man paused, afraid to mention that the place was a den of opium dealers, prostitution and debauchery, with a speciality in women from many nations.

  Tom finished his sentence for him. ‘A place where a gentleman should not be.’

  ‘You are correct, sir,’ said Gilmour Cuthbert with a curt nod of his head. ‘I myself was there on the Lord’s business. I save sinners, you see, ladies of the night. It is small recompense for my father’s past dealings, but I do my best. He is ignorant of my mission, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Tom, amazed by all this.

  Gilmour went on. ‘He seemed annoyed that you were leaving for the West Indies because of an accusation of murder. I informed him that I couldn’t understand why that should be now that I had handed over certain information to Septimus Monk. Mr Monk assured me that he would pass the information on to you or a member of your family. It would mean you were a free man with no threat of the gallows hanging over you.’

  Tom looked at him grim-faced. ‘I take it that my cousin’s mind was infused with opium.’

  The young man nodded. ‘Almost, though he threw his pipe down when I told him what I knew and frog-marched me out of the club and along to his carriage.’

  Tom ordered the servants to take Nelson to his room. His mind reeled from the realization that the threat of hanging was lifted. But why hadn’t this news been passed to him sooner? And just how did Stoke’s son fit in?

  ‘Will you take a drink with me?’ he asked Gilmour.

  ‘Indeed, thank you, sir,’ said Gilmour Cuthbert and followed Tom to the drawing room.

  ‘May I enquire as to the content of the information you have regarding the murder of Reuben Trout?’ Tom asked, pouring a measure of claret for them both.

  Gilmour nodded amiably. ‘Of course, sir. I heard my father talk of you disparagingly, and knew from his tone that he hated you. I know what my father is like. You see, Clarence Ward was my brother.’

  Tom was dumbfounded. Gilmour went on to recount the same story he’d told Septimus Monk.

  ‘I told Mr Monk about the letter I received from Clarence Ward before he left for Australia confessing to the murder of Reuben Trout. He assured me the information would be passed on, and I know he was true to his word. A while later, after leaving a Bible class I’d attended at St Bartholomew’s, I saw Miss Horatia Strong – now your wife – enter the offices of said lawyer some time later. I presumed he had told her that the true murderer had confessed and that you did not need to leave for Barbados, but I thought it best to check. I entered his offices and asked him. He assured me that it was so.’

  Tom stood stunned. His mouth was dry as stale biscuits. His heart pounded and there was a sickness in his stomach.

  ‘My wife went to see Septimus Monk?’

  Gilmour Cuthbert’s youthful confidence seemed to retreat as he answered, ‘Well… yes… according to a friend of mine who lives with…’

  Tom fancied he saw a blush on the stubble-free face; the boy had not started shaving yet.

  Tom nodded in understanding. ‘Please. Continue.’


  Gilmour, his face reddening more, nodded. ‘He heard him talking about it, saying that he’d told her and thinking she was a woman of outstanding cunning and that she aroused mixed feelings.’

  Tom gritted his teeth. ‘She certainly does.’ He was oddly proud at hearing Horatia referred to as cunning. He was also angry that she had known he was cleared of the murder charge and had not told him, everything arranged, no doubt, by Septimus Monk.

  He calmed himself as he saw Gilmour out. Before he left, the young man paused by the door, his expression betraying some inner struggle preventing him from stating something else. At last he blurted it out. ‘I think my father may have a lot to do with you being arrested and the truth being withheld. My father is a rich man but is not always charitable. He tells me that men never get rich by being charitable, and that I should bear this in mind when I come to inherit his wealth.’

  His eyes shone as he looked up into Tom’s face. ‘I hate to tell him that when I come to inherit, I will immerse myself in charitable works. I think it only right to return something of what you have earned on the backs of others to those more unfortunate than yourself, don’t you?’

  Tom was taken aback by the fresh-faced enthusiasm of Gilmour Cuthbert, though inside he burned with anger. He managed a warm smile as he shook the young man’s hand and thanked him for bringing Nelson home.

  ‘I apologize for his behaviour. I’m afraid he’s rather obnoxious when he is under the influence of poppy juice.’

  Gilmour laughed in a courteously inoffensive way. ‘On the contrary, he was very amusing. He talked a lot but didn’t appear to understand a word I was saying. He told me about being disinherited and half suspecting that his father’s death hadn’t been an accident. He told me it again and again. The exertion of talking and forcing me to come here caused him to pass out. It was late by then so I took him to where I live before coming here. Luckily, my father was out on business in Hereford. He’ll be back shortly. He’s booked a passage on your new steamship.’