Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  Tom didn’t meet Horatia’s gaze. ‘He doesn’t mind me calling him Jeb.’

  He wouldn’t admit to not feeling worthy of calling him Father. He was grateful to Jeb of course, but even after all these years, he couldn’t help regarding himself as no more than a substitute for Jeb’s real son, Jasper.

  ‘He sleeps a lot nowadays.’ She looked concerned. ‘It won’t be long, Tom. It might be best that you stay on here for a while. Another sea voyage and he may not be here when you get back. And no exciting stories of your exploits, please. A surge of excitement or shock could kill him.’

  Tom thought of the portrait of Jasper hanging on the wall in Jeb’s house, the piece of velvet he’d plucked from the body in the chimney.

  Horatia did not allow him to dwell on matters. ‘You’re filthy,’ she said, her gaze raking him from head to toe. ‘And smellier than usual,’ she added. She had never been able to hide her weakness for Tom. It was the only true weakness she possessed, which was perhaps why she countered her warm expression with a sarcastic comment.

  ‘The sweep needed a hand with something.’

  ‘So I heard,’ said Horatia, looping her arm through his and walking with Tom to his room. ‘You know servants can’t resist gossip. Neither can I, come to that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Tom wryly. ‘You’re a woman.’

  Horatia’s face fell. ‘Oh, Tom! Don’t say that. You know I’m not like other women. I sometimes think I should have been born a man. What do you think? Would you have preferred it if I had?’

  Tom did not feel inclined to respond to her obvious insult to his masculinity. He said, ‘I think it very wise of you not to be like other women. It sets you apart.’

  Her face brightened and her voice oozed honey. ‘Does it really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘It will suit you to be a life-long spinster.’

  He left her outside his bedroom door looking unsure whether he was extolling or vilifying her independent spirit.

  Once inside his room, he splashed cold water on to his face, wetted his hair and welcomed the coldness as it trickled from the nape of his neck, around his shoulders and over his chest.

  Closing his eyes, he wondered how he was going to face Jeb. He’d probably know by now. Gossip spread quickly. He’d have been told it was a sweep’s boy, from years back, perhaps from before the Strong family had bought the estate and extended the house.

  Thank God, thought Tom.

  With a mix of fear and amazement, he fingered the piece of brown velvet he’d taken from the body. He had to keep Jeb from knowing his son’s true fate, but for his own peace of mind, he had to find out how on earth Jasper had got there.

  * * *

  Edith left Rupert outside the laundry-room door. ‘Wait here,’ she ordered, and dashed back towards the icehouse, thanking Michael and all his angels that Captain Strong had not discovered the skinny figure lurking there.

  Hair as stiff as a brush, and legs not much thicker than a broom handle, the figure Tom had earlier espied among the sheep, stepped from behind the water butt. ‘Where’s me money?’

  Edith wrinkled her nose at her brother Spike. ‘You stink!’

  ‘Never mind that. Where’s me money?’ He held out his grimy hand.

  Edith sighed resignedly as she dropped a coin into the dirt-encrusted palm. ‘One guinea. There you are. Now shove off before I dunk you in the tub along with the boy in there.’

  Pale blue eyes opened wide in a face that was as dirty as his palms. ‘Hot water? What you trying to do, kill me? Look,’ he said, sliding his hand over a greasy coat shoulder, ‘bit of dirt keeps the weather off. See?’ Water picked up from the edge of the butt, trickled over his shoulder without seeping into the cloth.

  Edith was unimpressed. ‘Go,’ she hissed, and pushed him hard enough to set his legs running whether he’d wanted them to or not.

  By the time she got back to where she’d left Rupert, his brothers and sister had arrived, possibly to give him moral support, or more likely, to escape the dictates of the tyrannical Mrs Grainger.

  Entering the laundry room was like being immersed in warm soup. Clouds of steam hung in the air, and puddles of water splashed underfoot.

  Mrs McTavish, the laundress, was heaving a sheet out from a large wooden tub with a boiler stick that was soft and white from years of immersion in thick, soapy water.

  ‘Have you finished with that water, Mrs McTavish?’ Edith asked the big, red-armed woman.

  Mrs McTavish looked up sharply, her small blue eyes softening as she saw Rupert. ‘Have ya bin down the coalhole, bairn?’

  ‘Up one, more like,’ said Edith. ‘I thought it best to scrub him down here.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Mrs McTavish shaking her head. ‘Taking water up them flights of stairs is hard work.’ She reached out and pinched Rupert’s cheek. ‘The water needs more hot in it, but I see no wrong in you getting in there first, so long as you don’t mind a few soaked linens floating ’round you.’

  Rupert was already peeling off his underwear. His limbs, face and neck were pot black. The rest of his body was white as marble.

  ‘You look like a gypsy horse, one that pulls caravans,’ said Caroline and laughed nervously. She was putting a brave face on going upstairs late for lessons.

  Edith was worried herself. Mrs Grainger terrified her. Excuses could be made for Rupert, but not for all of them. ‘You really should be at your lessons,’ she said.

  ‘It’s cold up there,’ said Arthur.

  ‘And Mrs Grainger is a bitch,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Miss Caroline! Now where in the world did you pick up language like that?’ Edith sounded suitably shocked, though in all honesty, she heartily agreed.

  ‘I heard Tom use that word in the stables when Sadie, the coachman’s dog, was having her puppies. He said that Sadie wasn’t the only bitch at Marstone Court. I think he meant my half-sister Horatia, though it could just as easily have been my mother.’

  Edith and Kath McTavish exchanged looks. It wasn’t their place to comment, and they didn’t need to. Both knew what the other was thinking.

  ‘Now that’s enough of that,’ said Edith, as a naked Rupert climbed into the tub of hot, soapy water just as one last item of laundry bubbled to the surface.

  Rupert pulled the item from the water. ‘Drawers!’ he said, and pushed them towards Mrs McTavish who got them out, wrung them and fed them through the mangle.

  ‘Now the rest of you had better be going,’ she said, rolling her sleeves further up her fat, red arms and reaching for the soap and scrubbing brush.

  ‘We’d better wait for Rupert,’ said the defiant Caroline. ‘Mrs Grainger might worry if we’re not all together.’

  Edith wasn’t fooled. As Mrs McTavish worked the water pump so she could swill bits of lint off the scrubbing brush, she muttered, ‘More likely to be waiting there with a birch cane.’

  Mrs McTavish nudged her and nodded at George who was clinging to her apron string, his lip quivering. As he burst into tears, a trickle of urine ran from under his dress and down into his shoes. Poor mite, thought Edith, and felt like crying herself. Every time Mrs Grainger’s name was mentioned, George wet himself.

  ‘I hear the Captain’s home,’ said Mrs McTavish.

  Edith’s cheeks dimpled as she recalled the hot flush that had swept over her face when she’d seen him strip off his jerkin and shirt, ready to climb the chimney if need be.

  ‘I saw him earlier. He asked for my help with something.’

  Mrs McTavish was instantly attentive. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ Edith flustered.

  Mrs McTavish kept her gaze fixed on Edith’s plump face. ‘Nothing don’t turn a lass pink as a poached salmon, does it now?’ Edith flushed pinker.

  ‘The sweep’s boy got stuck in the chimney,’ she said, the words tumbling out more quickly than she was thinking.

  ‘Captain Tom sent me up after him,’ shouted a boastful Rupert as he bobbed and d
ipped among the extra washing Mrs McTavish had added to the tub.

  A small voice came from behind Edith’s skirt. ‘He was dead, wasn’t he, Edith? He was dead.’

  Edith patted George’s head and turned him swiftly towards the door. ‘Come along, Caroline, Arthur. Take your brother and go back to the nursery. Rupert and I will be along shortly.’

  After Rupert had been scrubbed and dried, he scurried with Edith back to the nursery, both slightly scared of meeting Mrs Grainger before they got there.

  ‘Why doesn’t Captain Tom want anyone to know about the dead boy?’ Rupert asked Edith.

  ‘No doubt he has his reasons.’

  * * *

  There was no response when Tom knocked at Jeb’s door, so he let himself in. The curtains were drawn and the room smelt of lavender, which appeared to be scattered all over the floor.

  He expected Jeb to look ill, but hadn’t expected him to have shrunk into a skeletal parody of the figure he’d once been. The sound of his breathing seemed similar to the whirring of a clock between the falling of the weights, only louder and more worn.

  Tom called to mind Horatia’s comment about not returning to sea. She was right. He couldn’t possibly go back now.

  His gaze went automatically to the portrait of Jasper Strong, his fresh face smiling out into the room, his cheeks rosy. He was wearing a brown velvet suit and his hair was the colour of corn.

  Overcome by his feelings, and knowing that he had to compose himself before seeing Jeb, Tom let himself out of the room. Filled with a mix of anger and despair, he clenched his fists, wanting to take a swipe at life for being so unfair to those he loved.

  Nelson caught him on his way to the stables. ‘Off to Bristol already?’

  ‘I need to.’

  ‘To vent your frustration,’ stated Nelson matter-of-factly.

  It was odd; Nelson seemed to latch on to human emotions without any need for explanation.

  ‘Give my apologies, will you?’

  Nelson nodded, a half smile on his face. ‘Might have come with you, but Father wouldn’t be pleased. Cousin Adelaide is coming. Father’s hoping for a family alliance.’

  ‘A marriage?’

  Tom couldn’t help his tone. It was just that Nelson didn’t seem the marrying sort. In his own way, he was as independent as his sister and a considered thinker, although more inclined towards art than business.

  ‘A dire arrangement,’ said Nelson with obvious disdain.

  He walked with Tom to the stables and watched as Tom tightened his horse’s girth.

  ‘Will you fight tonight?’

  Tom grimaced. ‘If I can.’

  It had always been the same. He had to relieve his anger somehow. Unlike Emmanuel, Nelson’s father, he seldom lost his temper, and, unlike Nelson, he was a good boxer. Bare-knuckle fighting helped him cope.

  Nelson held the horse’s head as Tom mounted. ‘Nice to see you home, Tom. I’ll see you when you get back and tell you about everything you’ve missed.’

  ‘Like how pretty your little bride is?’ Tom asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  Nelson shook a finger at him and laughed. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Tom. And I’m an artist, remember? I seek perfection, a hint of the exotic.’ He shook his head forlornly. ‘And Cousin Adelaide is neither perfect nor exotic.’

  ‘Does such a woman exist?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nelson, a faraway look in his eyes.

  But Tom had already kicked his heels into his horse’s side and didn’t hear.

  Chapter Eight

  The tall stacks of Conrad Heinkel’s sugar refinery snorted sweet-smelling smoke into the atmosphere above the pan-tiled roof of the Fourteen Stars. The seventeenth-century tavern had arched windows and upper storeys that jutted over the road. It also sagged at one corner, so leaned for support on the building next door, which housed the stables and vehicles of Bennetts Carriers.

  Carters, ostlers, stable lads and clerks were thirsty at the end of their days’ labour at Bennetts, so appreciated having an inn next door. The inn provided refreshment, and after working hours, Bennetts became a venue for cockfights, dogfights, and bareknuckle boxing.

  Inside, where the horses and closed vans were kept, the air was thick with smoke, noise, the sweet scent of hay and the tang of horse droppings and liberally sprayed urine.

  Bales of hay and straw formed an adequate ring, though hardly enough to keep either the gathered men or their enthusiasm at bay. Some men pressed close, their faces red with excitement, eyes bulging, and spittle flying from their mouths as they shouted odds, oaths and encouragement at the two half-naked men who fought bare-knuckled over the sawdust and scattered straw.

  ‘Half a crown on the captain!’

  The bet was taken and passed on around the ring among the press of sweating men. Storm lanterns hung from heavy beams, their flickering light throwing giant shadows on to the plastered walls and making ugly the features of men aroused by greed and violence.

  Both men fought of their own volition. Both were middle-weights, though Tom Strong’s opponent was thicker-set, his muscles less defined than Tom’s, obviously a man who’d never pulled on ropes in heavy seas or shinned up ragged rigging as the ship rolled from side to side in a gale.

  By virtue of his calling, Tom’s body was hard and lithe, and he moved quickly. He was regarded as a sporting type, a man’s man, though he never attended cockfights, bull baiting or other so-called gentlemanly sports. He only fought men, whom, he argued, fought out of choice; animals were goaded to do so.

  He was stripped to his drawers, his body glistening with sweat. Long strands of dark hair had escaped the strip of leather tying it at the nape of his neck, and strayed damply around his neck and shoulders.

  Quick on his feet, his eyes never leaving his opponent’s face, he lashed out with a left, skipped quickly back, then in with a right. There was a cracking of bones as his bare fist met his opponent’s chin. Victory was close at hand and even though the crowd had not heard the blow, they saw it and could smell that the fight was almost over. Their excited shouts turned into bellows of approval as his opponent’s knees buckled, his eyes rolled in his head and he slid to the ground.

  A wild cheering went up as a small man with greedy eyes and a goatee beard grabbed Tom’s wrist and raised his arm triumphantly above his head.

  ‘Bristol’s very own Wild Rover, Tom Strong!’

  In that moment of triumph with his arm held high, Tom smelled himself and remembered that he hadn’t been home for two days. Getting drunk and fighting was hardly going to help matters, but the prospect of going back to Marstone Court, facing Jeb and not disclosing the truth about the boy in the chimney, was a grave responsibility. He’d had to get things straight in his mind. He must lie, of course. There was no alternative. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the boy in the chimney was Jasper Strong, but why had he climbed the chimney in the first place? On no account could Jeb be told the truth. He was too weak, too close to dying.

  ‘My money,’ he said impatiently, dragging his arm from the referee’s grasp.

  The beady-eyed little man, oddly dapper in waistcoat and breeches, though his back was humped and his legs were too short for his body, was good at organizing these events and supplemented his income with a share of the take. He eyed Tom with the same appraising look he’d give to a horse. ‘Want me to fix you a few more fights? There’s a travelling champion coming to Bristol at Whitsuntide. There’ll be a booth up on the Downs along with the coconut shies, the bearded lady and all them other strange things people like to look at.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Tom clicked the fingers of his open hand in front of the little man’s face. ‘The money, Stoke.’

  Stoke shook his head solemnly and counted ten sovereigns into Tom’s hand. ‘Might be a different kettle of fish if you needed the money, eh? I mean, really needed it. Luck of the devil you had, Strong, getting yerself adopted by that family.’

  His
response was curt. ‘I prefer to earn my own money.’

  Over the years, Jeb Strong had made sure Tom had been accepted fully into the Strong family and he’d never felt awkward with any of them, though he preferred being away at sea. But after setting eyes on the sad remains of Jeb and Miriam’s real son, he now felt like a cuckoo in the nest, a usurper of the rightful heir. He had no intention of sharing his emotions with anyone, however, so turned away and looked for his clothes, finally seeing Sally Ward waving them at him. He smiled at her and shook his head.

  ‘Give me my clothes, Sal. I’m turning cold.’

  ‘And I’m turning thirty,’ she said with a high-pitched laugh. That’s a lie, thought Tom, but didn’t say so. Sally Ward was well past thirty but still trying to look eighteen with the help of rouge and smudges of soot around her eyes. There was a hopeful look in her eyes and a kind of urgency in the way she fussed around him.

  ‘Fancy spending some of that money on me?’ She winked at him saucily and stood as provocatively as she knew how, her bosoms bubbling over the top of a bodice that was far too tight for her.

  Tom took his trousers, shirt and leather jerkin from her outstretched hand, and smelled the gin on her breath. ‘I need it for other things.’

  ‘What, you? Tom Strong? The Strongs got bags of cash!’

  Tom clenched his jaw as he fastened his trousers. ‘I like the freedom,’ he said.

  Tom had a wild reputation. No one could really understand why he mingled with prostitutes, street fighters and people in poor man’s boots, the sort made to fit either foot rather than favouring left or right. If asked, he couldn’t really explain. In the past he might have said he was trying to maintain a link with the life he’d been born into, just in case Jasper had returned. Now, perhaps, he was merely enjoying their company, and recognizing in them something his mother had once been.

  Sally was fawning all over him. He would have pushed her aside then and there, but noticed the dark bruise beneath her right eye. One man pushing her around was enough without him doing it too. Sally took his lack of action as encouragement. Before he’d had a chance to fasten his shirt, she was up against him, her hands running down his bare chest and carrying on downwards to squeeze and rub against his private parts. Although reluctant to linger, he felt himself hardening; only natural, of course. Sally was a professional.