by Erica Brown
‘I need to think and I need a drink,’ he said and promptly took himself into the Fourteen Stars, which was just a short walk away.
* * *
By the time Sally appeared, Tom had done little thinking and far too much drinking.
‘What’s yer problem?’ Sally said, stroking his cheek.
‘I’ve become a landlubber,’ he replied, looking sorry for himself.
‘Oh, never mind,’ she cooed against his ear. ‘Let me make things better for you.’
He turned bleary eyes on her. ‘You’re supposed to be in Portishead with your sister.’
He was vaguely aware of someone leaning over his shoulder, asking Sally if Tom had a few spare sovereigns in his pocket.
‘I don’t know,’ she blurted, then almost screeched as Stoke gripped her hair so tight, she thought she could feel it ripping out of her head.
‘Find out,’ he hissed.
Her head burned, but when she felt her hair it was still there. With Stoke’s eyes upon her, she delved into Tom’s pockets and felt money. Before lifting any, she glanced back to Stoke, who had now turned his attention to a rough-looking man with a boil on his face. They looked over, then laughed and looked away again.
Damn the man! Well, if Stoke was trying to set her up with that ugly bloke, he was very much mistaken. She was off.
She half rose, fully meaning to scarper before Stoke could get any of Tom’s money off her, and before he told her to earn it by being ‘nice’ to his ugly companion.
A crowd of seamen pushed into the bar, blocking the view of Stoke and his friend. They looked rough too. She couldn’t leave Tom with this sort of company in the state he was in, not after he’d been so kind.
She bent close to Tom’s ear. ‘Won’t be long, Tom. I’m going to get your German friend that you told me about.’
She kept low as she made her way across the room and out of the door. The Heinkel Sugar Refinery was only just along the road, and she knew that Herr Heinkel had a house in Rosemary Lane. She raced there as fast as her legs could go, her boots slapping on the uneven cobbles.
The door was dark blue and had a brass knocker set two-thirds of the way up. There was a boot scraper to one side of the door, an oil light fixed into a cast-iron bracket on the other.
Grasping the knocker, she gave it a heavy rap, then repeated it again and again and again.
There was no time to spare. If she were unlucky, Stoke or any of those men would have gone through Tom’s pockets and worse by the time they got back.
A maid in nightcap and gown, a shawl thrown over her shoulders, appeared. She looked shocked by Sally’s smudged eyes and thin face.
‘I need to speak to Mr Heinkel,’ she blurted.
The woman frowned. ‘At this time of night?’
‘It’s important.’
‘Well, come back in the morning.’
The woman started to close the door.
‘No!’ screeched Sally. ‘I have to see him. It’s about Captain Strong, Tom Strong!’
A voice suddenly boomed from the top of the stairs inside the house. ‘Who is it, Mary?’
Sally didn’t give her chance to answer. ‘Sally Ward! It’s Captain Tom. He needs your help.’
A man in a bed-gown and wearing a nightcap came halfway down the stairs. Conrad Heinkel was frowning. ‘What is wrong?’
Sally breathlessly explained, though elaborated, and did not mention that she’d been ordered to go through Tom’s pockets. It made people nervous to invite thieves into the house.
‘He was upset about his father and not being able to go back to sea, and the training ship and everything… and now he’s drunk. He needs to get home and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to come.’
Conrad’s response was immediate.
‘Harness a horse and get out the carriage, he said to two male servants that had appeared. ‘Collect the Captain from whatever gutter he’s fallen into, and take him home. But be discreet.’ The servants looked at him blankly. ‘Quietly! Without disturbing the family,’ he said and wished he were back in Hanover, where servants jumped to it without lengthy instructions and blank looks.
Outside and beyond Conrad’s hearing, they unleashed a barrage of reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this.
‘Putting us out of our way for a tart? Look at it. Long past her best, that one. Wouldn’t give you tuppence for a ride!’
Sally ignored their jibes and took them to the tavern table over which Tom was sprawled. Thankfully Stoke was nowhere in sight.
‘I can go with you,’ Sally said brightly, excited by the thought of taking a coach ride out to Marstone Court.
‘No need. We know the way.’
Sally tried again. ‘Just for the fun of it,’ she added.
Staggering beneath the weight of Tom’s body made the men even grumpier. At last they had him in the chaise. Then they turned to her and said, ‘You can go now. We’ll take over from here.’
They laughed as they drove off. Sally watched them go, left alone in the darkness, the only light falling from the narrow windows of the Fourteen Stars.
Unwilling to go back to the tavern, she headed off towards St Augustine’s Bridge and her cold, damp room at the bottom of the Christmas Steps. At least Tom would be safe and warm in his own bed tonight.
* * *
Fearful of footpads, Heinkel’s servants kept a fast pace out through the village of Bedminster and along the road to Ashton. By the time they got there, Marstone Court was in darkness, but they did manage to rouse the gateman, saying that they’d brought Mr Tom Strong home from the city.
The gateman rubbed his eyes.
‘He’s been working hard at the refinery,’ the coach driver said. ‘Mr Heinkel ordered us to bring him home.’
‘Working at this time of night? Strayed into an inn no doubt,’ the gateman grumbled as he cranked open the gates. ‘Now, don’t you be long,’ he added as they drove through. ‘My bed’s still warm and I want to get back in it. And don’t go waking the whole bloody house or the master will be fetching a flintlock to you!’
The coachman and his colleague took his warning to heart and stopped some distance from the house. Discretion being the better part of valour, they left Tom lying beneath a tree to the side of the house.
‘Will he be all right?’ said the coachman to his colleague.
‘The night dew will do him good,’ said the other man as he heaved himself up inside the coach and made himself comfortable in the warm spot lately occupied by Tom Strong.
Peeved that he’d been left sitting up on top all alone, the coachman continued, ‘Are you sure no one’s seen us?’
‘Only the moon,’ said the man, and slammed the door shut.
Nervously but as quietly as possible, the coachman turned the horses’ heads back down the drive towards the gate, unaware that other eyes watched from high on the fourth floor. Caroline, a light sleeper, had heard the carriage and was looking out of the window on to the moonlit scene below.
‘It’s Captain Tom,’ she whispered.
Rupert pushed her to one side so he could get a better view.
Arthur knelt on the window seat, peered out and asked, ‘Is he dead?’
Georgie was still sound asleep, chewing at the woollen mittens he was forced to wear to stop him sucking his thumbs. Mrs Grainger had given him a concoction to make him sleep. ‘Tincture of poppy seed and dandelion,’ she’d said when Edith had asked what it was.
‘He can’t stay out there all night. We have to rescue him,’ Caroline pronounced.
They spoke in whispers and were extremely quiet finding their slippers and sneaking out of their room.
‘The back stairs,’ whispered Caroline.
Rupert was thinking about how big Tom was. ‘How are we going to get him in?’
Everyone bumped into Caroline as she stopped to think. ‘We’ll get Edith up. She’ll help us.’ And off they trotted along the landing and down the back stairs.
Edith’s ha
ir was in rag curls and she was dreaming of suet pudding with treacle, her lips smacking together as though it were real. Caroline tugged one of the ragged bumps of hair. Edith frowned and smacked at her hand. Caroline persisted until a disgruntled Edith woke up.
‘It’s Captain Tom. We’ve got to help him.’ She explained about the coach and how the two men had left Tom beneath a tree.
Edith reached for her shawl and pulled on her boots.
The door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked as they tugged it open. The three children, Edith and the meagre flame of half a wax candle filed out into the night.
They trod lightly, the wetness of the grass seeping into the children’s slippers. Edith shivered beneath her shawl and asked herself why she was doing this. If Grainger found them out here, the children would get the birch across their backsides and she’d get the sack. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
Moonlight filtering through the tree dappled Tom’s body.
‘He’s too big to carry all the way to the house,’ whispered Rupert.
Edith knelt down at his side, Caroline opposite her. ‘We have to wake him.’ She patted his cheeks in the attempt. He groaned but didn’t open his eyes.
‘Let me,’ said Rupert and proceeded to slap Tom’s cheeks in quick, sharp slaps that sounded almost like gunshots in the silence.
‘Not so loud,’ said Edith. ‘We need to wake him, but quietly.’
‘My knees are wet,’ moaned Arthur.
‘Grass! Wet grass,’ said Edith grabbing handfuls of it and rubbing it over Tom’s flushed cheeks. His eyes flickered and his groans were almost words.
‘Again,’ said Caroline, and immediately repeated what Edith had done.
This time he was almost coherent, though his sentences were unfinished. ‘Someone must have… he couldn’t have climbed… Jasper… why?’
‘Soon ’ave you inside, sir,’ Edith whispered. ‘All together now…’
With great difficulty, they got him to his feet, Edith on one side, Caroline to the other and the two boys following behind, Arthur holding the flickering candle.
‘He’s heavy,’ said Caroline.
Edith agreed. ‘We’ll never get him up all them stairs to his own bed.’ She panted while she thought about it. ‘I know. The laundry room.’
‘Won’t it be locked?’ asked Arthur.
‘Goodness,’ Rupert muttered, ‘who’d want to steal our dirty laundry?’
Edith giggled at the thought of a masked burglar running off with armfuls of pantalets or Lady Verity’s whalebone corsets.
They staggered as far as the laundry door, which was open, just as Edith had said.
Baskets piled high with white twill, cotton and linen shone silver in the moonlight that filtered through two small windows.
‘Oh, me goodness! Me legs are going,’ said Edith, her knees bending beneath the weight.
Rupert had the presence of mind to tip the laundry from the baskets and spread it on the floor.
‘Careful,’ whispered Edith, as they slowly lowered Tom on to his makeshift bed.
Caroline shoved a folded sheet beneath his head and Edith covered him with a pair of chintz curtains.
For a few minutes they knelt silently at his side, panting after the exertion, their white breath drifting like smoke through patches of moonlight.
‘Will he be better in the morning?’ asked Arthur.
‘Mostly, though his head will be aching – but that’s his fault. Just you remember that, Arthur – You shouldn’t oughter, drink too much porter.’
Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Edith grabbed his elbow and jerked him to his feet. ‘I’m glad to ’ear it, young master. Let it be a lesson to you.’
That the statement made little sense to any one didn’t really matter. Edith had done her bit for Captain Tom. She felt proud. If there was anyone in this house she’d help at the drop of a hat, it was him.
Rupert would have lingered, but Edith ushered him out and made sure everyone was back in their beds before she went to hers. Despite the discomfort of having her hair in rags, Edith fell asleep minutes after her head hit the pillow.
Safe in the knowledge that everyone was sleeping soundly, Rupert slid from his bed, dressed quickly and made his way along the dark corridors, down the servants’ stairs and back to the laundry.
Tom was fast asleep, not a pretty sight at all with his mouth open and snoring loudly. But Rupert was determined to make sure that Tom woke up in the morning. In the meantime, he bundled himself in more laundry and fell asleep, his body curled up and his hand resting on Tom’s shoulder.
A cockerel crowing at a nearby farm woke Tom before six o’clock. He started then blinked, surprised to see where he was and who was laid sound asleep close by.
He tried to move without disturbing the boy, but Rupert opened his eyes, saw Tom looking at him and smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re better,’ he said, his face shining with innocence.
Tom’s throat felt dry as a sun-drenched beach, but he managed to ask how he’d got from Bristol to the laundry room.
‘A coach brought you and left you on the grass. We brought you here.’
‘We?’
Rupert got to his feet and as he stretched, explained everything.
‘So where are you going now?’ Tom asked, as Rupert made his way swiftly to the door.
Rupert’s young eyes were suddenly fearful, not at all as brightly alert as when he’d first awoken and smiled at him. ‘Mrs Grainger mustn’t catch me here. I have to go.’
Tom pushed himself up on to his elbows. It felt as though a Zulu warrior was beating a war drum inside his head. He winced, closed his eyes then counted to five before reopening them. The way the children went around singing the praises of their governess had never quite rung true in his book, but Verity and Emmanuel seemed to think it quite wonderful – probably because it suited them. They preferred to provide the more material needs of their children, without the emotional involvement.
Tom said, ‘You don’t like her very much, do you?’
Rupert averted his eyes. A tuft of grass pushing up through the flagstone floor seemed suddenly to be more interesting. He kicked idly at it with his slippered foot. Finally, he shook his head.
Tom felt for him. The Strong children were well dressed, well fed and lived in a fine house, but they were little more than orphans. ‘Do you want me to tell your parents you don’t like her?’
Rupert’s eyes grew round with fear. ‘No. Please. You don’t know her. Besides, there’s a new Peters coming today. Things will be better when she gets here.’
Tom frowned. He knew the name, but the amount of drink he’d consumed had muddled his brain. ‘Peters?’
Rupert’s face brightened. ‘A new nurse. You see, if we have a nurse, things aren’t so bad with Mrs Grainger – until she gets rid of her, that is.’ His face turned crestfallen. ‘She always gets rid of them in the end.’
Perhaps a witness to Mrs Grainger’s persecution was the best option for now. ‘When did you say this new nurse is coming?’
Rupert opened the door. Tom could see he was agitated, wanting to stay but too afraid. ‘She arrives on the ship from Barbados today. Mrs Grainger says she’s black and we’ll only see her in daylight. She frightened George and made him cry.’
Tom wondered at Mrs Grainger’s narrow-mindedness. He’d met people of all colours all over the world and only found differences in cultures, not in human nature. Poor children, having a woman like that governing their lives.
‘There you are then,’ Tom exclaimed in a show of cheerfulness, and shook Rupert’s shoulder. ‘She’ll be here by teatime.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘No, she won’t. Mrs Grainger said she’d have to stay on the ship until tomorrow. The coachman’s ill, you see, so there’s no one to collect her.’
Tom rubbed at his aching head and closed his eyes tightly shut. He had been thinking of taking a bath, walking in the wind, then visiting Jeb following
a light luncheon. Twenty blacksmiths were hammering nails into his head. He supposed a trip into Bristol would clear his head just as well. He sighed resignedly. ‘I’ll find out what ship she arrives on.’
‘Ianthe, at midday.’ Rupert grinned. ‘I told Nelson that Mrs Grainger had locked George in the attic, and Nelson told me not to worry because our new nurse was arriving at midday on the Ianthe.’’
‘Did he now?’
Tom couldn’t help being surprised that Nelson should know the comings and goings of servants unless they were involved in looking after him personally. Tom struggled to his feet, swore and winced as he hit the top of his head on a low-hanging beam.
He rubbed at yet another hammering ache. ‘At midday, you say?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
He squeezed the ache from his eyes with his thumbs and winced as the first light of daybreak pierced the windows. Damn it, he wouldn’t leave the children without a nurse for one more day.
Rupert lingered by the door. ‘She won’t eat us, will she, Captain?’
‘The nurse? Good grief, no. I’ve heard of many fine men brought up by Negro nurses out in the colonies.’ He grinned. ‘Not one inch of them was chewed. You’ve nothing to fear.’
Hesitantly, because he still wasn’t sure, Rupert’s expression brightened as he said, ‘I’ll tell George that we’ll have a new nurse by tomorrow and that she won’t eat him.’
‘Today!’ Tom exclaimed, tucking his shirt into his trousers. ‘By mid-afternoon, Ianthe will be tied up and cargo and passengers will be unloaded. I’ll collect her then.’
‘You will?’ Rupert exclaimed.
‘I will,’ said Tom. ‘Now, what’s this nurse’s name?’
Rupert frowned. ‘Peters. It’s always Peters, although I think Mamma wanted to call this one Brown or Black. Father told her that would be cruel, and besides, we’re used to the name Peters, but Nelson said that her real name is Blanche Bianca.’
‘Of course,’ said Tom, remembering now that the Strongs’ combined memories were such that they couldn’t be bothered to call a person by their correct name. But how did Nelson know her real name?
‘I’ll find her,’ he said, and followed Rupert out of the door.
