by Erica Brown
After breakfasting on dry bread and water, Tom washed himself and strode down to the gatehouse. The smell of fat frying drifted out of the open door along with the gateman. After the usual formalities, he asked whose carriage had brought him home.
‘Mr Heinkel’s, so I understand.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Tom was mortified. Not only had he run out on Conrad, but the man had also rescued him from himself and got him home safely.
He thanked the gateman and strode around the grounds before judging it time to leave for the city. He would collect the new nurse from the Ianthe and would also see Conrad to apologize for his behaviour.
One of the stable lads was on hand to help him harness a horse. ‘The governess cart will do,’ he said, when the lad asked him which carriage he was taking. ‘I need the fresh air.’
It didn’t matter that the day was grey and cold and threatening to rain. The stiff breeze that froze his ears and pulled at his hair, also helped to clear his head. When he got to the quay, he left the horse in the hands of a lad who looked in need of sixpence. ‘Take a shilling,’ he said, and flipped the lad a coin.
The masts of the Ianthe were not yet in view. Tom checked his timepiece. The tide was only just coming in and the ship would come in with it, the rowers of the pilot, or one of the new paddle steamer tugs, helped by six knots of incoming water.
He strolled along the quay, eyeing the fast sailing barques that came up from Seville, their holds filled with dewy-skinned oranges.
Further along the quay another ship, The Pride of Cork, was unloading a cargo of pigs, fattened on the rich pastureland of south-east Ireland. The pigs were squealing and honking, weaving this way and that beneath the canes of their keepers.
Tom watched the scene idly. It soothed his soul and helped him cope with life ashore and the refinery, where men baked red in the heat from the sugar pans. He was doing it for Jeb. A familiar voice called out and disrupted his thoughts.
‘Feeling better now?’ It was Sally.
Tom rubbed at his head and smiled. ‘A bit. Did I get very drunk?’
Sally rested her hands on her hips and smiled saucily. ‘Too drunk to be of use to a girl like me.’ She beckoned him close. ‘I called you a carriage.’
Tom frowned.
‘The German’s house is right next to the refinery. He got his coachman out to take you home.’
‘Yes, I’ll have to apologize to Mr Heinkel for my intrusion. But thank you anyway.’
Sally was nervously biting her blackened fingernails. A flea swung from a strand of hair trailing out from beneath her bonnet. ‘Can I talk to you, Tom?’
Sally smelled bad; not just dirty because she was poor, but because she was ill, the pungent, slightly acidic smell of sickness clinging to her skin and her clothes. A straw hat with a blue silk bow on the side threw shadows over her face and made the grey circles under her eyes seem greyer.
Remembering their last meeting, Tom sighed. ‘I thought you were going to your sister’s?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, you know what Portis’ead’s like. Then there’s me sister… me life wouldn’t be me own.’
It was second nature for Tom to help others, mostly as a result of the kindness Jeb Strong had shown to him, but also because he couldn’t help it. Normally he would have washed his hands of Sally long ago. But like his mother, she walked the streets for a living.
‘So where’s the money I gave you?’ he asked her.
She shrugged again and began twisting the corners of her shawl. ‘I spent some on gin… and a hat.’
‘So I see,’ he said, taking in the floppy blue bow. ‘Isn’t it a little grand for St Augustine’s Quay?’
She smiled and touched the brim lovingly. ‘Paid two bob for it. Don’t you think it’s nice?’
‘I suppose so.’ He didn’t mention that it looked more suited to summer than this time of year. Besides, it wasn’t terribly important. What did irk him was that he’d given her money in order for her to leave her squalid life and Stoke behind.
‘So what else did you spend it on?’
She looked coy suddenly, acting as if she were a courtesan dressed in silks and satins, not a streetwalker in a stained dress and a dirty hat. ‘Come and buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
He didn’t want to go with her. Ianthe would be coming upriver now, past Shirehampton village and around the Horseshoe Bend, and between the steep, high cliffs of the Avon Gorge. But he had an inkling as to where a proportion of his money might have gone, and it made him angry. ‘Come on.’ Grasping her elbow none too gently, he guided her towards a dockside tavern.
* * *
Horatia closed the heavy door softly behind her. The library was dark and smelled of the books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A high-backed couch sat between a large desk and a leather chair, half of its length hidden behind a four-panelled screen depicting hunting scenes from Greek myths; a semi-naked Diana chasing a white stag through an ever darkening glade.
Neither the scene nor the furniture was easily seen because the wooden shutters that covered the windows had not been unfastened as they should have been. Horatia’s skirts rustled like a host of dry leaves as she bustled to the window, making a mental note to speak to the housekeeper about it. The servants were up at five, so there was no excuse for them to be closed.
In other circumstances, she would have called for a servant to open them rather than wrestle with the iron stave that slotted behind the shutters and hinged into the wall on the right-hand side. But time and secrecy were of the utmost.
Carefully, she opened the shutters. Just as she congratulated herself for carrying out the task so quietly, the iron bar slid from her hand and thudded against the wall.
‘Damn it,’ she said, as it swung out and chipped a particularly fine Ming vase that matched another on the other side of the window.
‘Horatia?’ It was said in a long, lazy way, as if the speaker was having a problem with his tongue.
She spun round just as a limp hand flopped over the back of the couch. Nelson was sprawled full-length, a stupid smile on his face and faraway look in his eyes.
A Bristol Blue port glass fell from his hand to the floor and rolled out of sight.
‘What are you doing here?’ Horatia asked.
‘I don’t want to be here,’ he said with a languid smile. ‘I want to be in Barbados. I want to feel warm again… so I can write… so I can paint… so I can bide my while with…’ His voice fell away.
Horatia eyed her brother’s languid expression, the way his eyes seemed to whirl around in his head.
She judged it safe enough to carry out her task. After checking her brother was paying her no attention, she fetched a note out of her pocket, unfolded the thick, creamy paper and read it again:
My dear Miss Strong,
May I first say how I much appreciate the pleasure of being received by you as a friend, and in this regard I am only too pleased to continue advising you in your business matters, but perhaps with the desire of winning your favourable regard?
Horatia skipped Josiah Benson’s protestations of love and affection, and went on to the paragraphs that most interested her.
…I have therefore done as you requested and bought stocks in Mr Brunel’s Great Western Railway, which, we both agree, is the transport system of the future – imagine, London in a matter of hours!
Of course, the income envisaged from this enterprise is nothing when compared to ‘our secret’ plan. I am making enquiries in this regard, though with obvious discretion. As we know, there are a number of parties who could unsettle our project should it be discovered before the right and proper time.
May I ask for your forbearance and your permission to use whatever and whoever possible to fulfil our glorious objectives?
Yours affectionately,
Josiah Benson
Horatia’s eyes glittered with excitement and her heart palpitated like a young maid faced with her first marriage prop
osal. Josiah Benson was now her most trusted friend and business adviser. Of course, he’d like to be much more, but so long as she played her games with him, promised him everything, but gave little in return, she would keep him where she wanted him. He was the conduit through which she could participate in the world of business and men.
Before Nelson had chance to rise, she sat swiftly at the desk and wrote a note giving Josiah her full permission to use all means at his disposal to achieve their objectives. She then rang for a servant.
David, Duncan’s twin brother appeared. He was as tall as his brother, just as dark, but didn’t have the same seductive way of looking at her. She told him to go away and send Duncan.
The corner of David’s mouth twitched as if he were longing to smile. Horatia glared at him.
He left quickly and sent his brother.
Duncan’s eyes seemed to mock her as she handed him the note, though his expression remained unchanged.
‘Take it to Mr Benson,’ she said, her voice necessarily soft as she placed a finger on her mouth, then pointed towards the chaise.
They were not alone. Duncan knew when it was wise to be politic and take his leave.
‘Who was that?’ Nelson mumbled. He tried to raise himself from the chaise, but rolled off and on to the floor.
‘A servant,’ she said, standing over him.
‘I’ve lost my virgin bride,’ he said blearily.
‘How careless of you.’
‘I upset her mother,’ he said once he was on his hands and knees.
Horatia smiled. ‘How jolly!’
At last on his feet, Nelson said, ‘Father didn’t think so.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Horatia as she tucked Josiah’s note into her pocket. ‘He was very hopeful of marrying at least one of us off.’
‘I’m going to stand my ground,’ he said grandly, hitching his thumbs into his waistcoat.
‘I don’t doubt it. You can be quite stubborn when you wish.’
‘I told him I wanted to become more involved with the family business before settling down. Anyway, there are lots of girls like Adelaide of good family and with fortunes that would bond easily with ours. He seemed to like that.’
‘Was it the truth?’
Nelson slammed open the library window and took deep breaths in front if it. ‘Of course. Father isn’t going to live for ever. Someone has to take over.’
Horatia’s smile vanished. It hurt her immeasurably to think that her younger brother was regarded as more capable of running the family business than she.
She suddenly remembered a conversation she’d overheard between her father and her uncle regarding the girl Nelson had been involved with in Barbados.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go back to Barbados and take over from Uncle Otis? You could trust me to run things here.’
Nelson’s stupor seemed to dissipate. ‘That would depend on what was waiting for me there.’
Chapter Eleven
Blanche wrapped her arms around herself as the cold wind whipped her hair across her face and stung her eyes. The sky was grey and heavy, and the river was the colour of mud as it curled its way through the high cliffs of the Avon Gorge towards the centre of Bristol.
Ianthe, the ship that had brought her from Bridgetown, had furled her sails and was being rowed up the river by a bevy of brutish men all heaving in time, their oars dipping, rising and dipping again into the murky water.
They were sweating, their faces burned red raw by the ice-cold wind. Sweating, Blanche decided, was something she would never do in this wet, cold country. ‘They must be freezing,’ she muttered.
‘Won’t stop ’em rowing,’ said the first mate who was close by. ‘They’ll row their hearts out. ’Tis their last day, you see. Steam’s taking over from men.’ He pointed to a boat chugging in the opposite direction to them, regardless of wind and tide. Smoke plumed like a giant feather from its coal-black stack. ‘The master – Sir Emmanuel, that is – gave them this last day of rowing one of his ships up the river. He’s employed them the longest, I’ll give ’im ’is due. But there. That’s progress for you. Keeps them warm though,’ he added.
‘I’m glad for them,’ said Blanche, almost envious of their plight – at least of being warm. I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again, she thought, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
A fall of water escaped from a furled sail, as the ship lurched in the wind. Some of the sailors grinned. Soaked through, Blanche gritted her teeth, opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of terraced houses rising in tiers above the steep-sided gorge. The houses looked opulent and made her feel better. Things were bound to improve. England and Bristol couldn’t be grey and miserable all the time.
By the time Ianthe had moored at St Augustine’s Quay, a steady drizzle was falling. A colonnade of buildings with over-hanging upper floors, some with the curved scrolls and ormolu of Dutch brickwork, towered towards the water. The cobbled quay, slick with mud and oily tar, divided the houses from the ships. A bridge crossed the water some way distant, packed with people hurrying, carrying bundles, pushing handcarts and dodging every conceivable piece of horse traffic ever invented. It was as busy as Bridgetown, but very different; the houses looked hard and cold, and the air left a sooty taste in the mouth and smelled of iron, coal and a sickly mix of sugar and horse dung.
‘I’m to be met,’ she said to the first mate as he carried her chest down the gangplank, Blanche treading carefully behind him.
‘Aye,’ he said with an exhausted sigh and put it down beside her. ‘If you’re sure. Captain Briggs did say it were best for you to stay aboard. You’ll get plenty cold waitin’ here.’
‘I couldn’t get any colder,’ she said brusquely as she wrapped her cloak around her. ‘I won’t be waiting long. They’ll send a servant to collect me. I’m family, you know.’
He touched his forelock as if he recognized that fact. It pleased her, made her feel warmer inside even though she was soaked to the skin.
She held on to the hope that someone would be waiting for her and, just as steadfastly, she also gripped the thick shawl and woollen cloak that covered her shivering shoulders.
The quay was alive with men and movement. Eyes bright with curiosity watched her as she paced beside the leather-bound chest, which held all her worldly goods; her shoes, her mother’s jewels, a little money, and the high-waisted dresses made in Barbados.
A lank young man of barely sixteen rested his hands on his knees, stared at her and asked, ‘You a darkie?’ He leered and added, ‘Didn’t know they looked like you.’
‘She’s a Spaniard!’ shouted another man. ‘Came up from Seville with the oranges.’
‘Creole!’ shouted another. ‘Ship’s come from the Sugar Islands, not Spain.’
Ignoring the shouts and lewd appraisal of labourers offloading hogsheads of sugar, rum and molasses, she scrutinized the length of quay, turning her nose up at the smell of muddy water and questionable effluent that floated around the ship. As if the smell wasn’t bad enough, the noise hammered at her head. Sledges sliding over cobbles, some pulled by men, some by horses or donkeys, rattled and grated.
Nothing she heard or saw could dent her confidence, until she saw the dresses the women were wearing. Panic set in as she realized that fashions in Barbados were far behind those of Bristol. She’d seen a few women in Barbados wearing wide dresses with tight bodices and layers of frills from waist to hem. She’d considered them the exception to fashion rather than the norm. What a fool she’d look in her empire-line dresses with their high waists, low necklines and flimsy materials. Her spirits sank.
Much as she searched, she couldn’t see the grand carriage she’d expected to meet her. Wagons, sleds, dogcarts and handcarts crowded the quay. Only one other form of conveyance stood waiting.
Her gaze settled on a governess cart, pulled by a white-socked bay with a docked tail and an arched neck. That must be it, I suppose, she thought with a plummeting heart. An enclosed c
arriage would have been far preferable in this weather and she’d so hoped that Nelson would be here to greet her. Why wasn’t he?
She looked around her. Men heaved ropes and rolled barrels or leaned on walls and capstans, smoking clay pipes, but none looked likely to be the driver. A skinny boy with jug ears, which helped support an oversize cap, held the docked bay’s head.
The wind whipped the light wool of her skirt around her legs as she approached him. It was the thickest she owned, though not thick enough for this climate. She swept towards the cart, her hand flat on her stomach as if to keep the butterflies within under control. ‘Is this the carriage from Marstone Court?’ she asked, unwilling to call it a cart, governess or otherwise.
The boy squinted up at her. ‘Yeah.’
‘So where is the driver?’
He pointed to a dark doorway from which came an abundance of noise each time it swung open before slamming shut again.
‘Oh, is he now?’ she muttered through chattering teeth.
The sight of a carved statue above the door stopped her in her tracks. It depicted a half-naked woman with long plaits and a skirt of what looked like leaves, and she was standing on a stone shelf that jutted out from the main building. It looked rough and primitive, not at all the sort of thing she’d expected to see in a Christian country. But nothing was quite as she’d expected it to be. If only her mother was here. Sighing, she closed her eyes, imagined her mother’s voice and what she would say.
‘I’m with you,’ she whispered. She talked to herself quite often nowadays, almost as if she were mother as well as daughter. A little mad perhaps, but she must keep her spirits up. What was past was past. Purposefully, she stood and read the words beneath the carved idol. In stout letters it said, ‘La Sauvage Noblesse'.
‘The Noble Savage,’ she murmured.
Beneath that, was a scrawled handmade sign:
Beer tuppence,
Gin penny a gill.
Drunk for a shilling, dead drunk for two.
