Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  A tavern! A common dockside tavern! Damn the man, leaving her waiting here while he was inside drinking his fill and all in the Strong family’s time.

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she said.

  Feeling warmer than she had since leaving Barbados, due to her anger rather than a rise in temperature, she swept through the door.

  Heads turned, eyes narrowed through clouds of thick smoke, and flaccid lips sucked thoughtfully on chewed pipe stems as she entered.

  ‘I’m looking for the driver of the bay horse outside,’ she said, her voice seeming to bounce off the low ceiling and daubed walls.

  A man with greasy hair and smoking a clay pipe pointed a blackened fingernail towards an alcove close to where huge barrels of beer were ranged on racks. Above them, a row of pewter mugs dripped from a blackened beam. ‘He’s over there.’ He grinned as he added, ‘He’s got company,’ then spat a goblet of phlegm into a brass spittoon close to his feet.

  Ugly habits were of no consequence to Blanche. She was almost certain by now that the driver could not possibly be Nelson. He would not frequent such a place as this. It was obviously some servant taking advantage of the situation. The nerve! Well, she’d deal with him.

  Stiffly determined, she walked towards where the man had indicated. Low mutterings and conversations of the dark interior resumed as she espied the man she presumed to be the rig’s driver. A woman sat opposite him over a rough trestle, shielded from the other customers by a stout wooden pillar.

  The man was tanned, with dark hair and blue eyes. On seeing her, his mouth fell open.

  The woman looked up and started to rise. ‘Nosey parker! Who d’you think yer looking at?’

  ‘My name is Blanche Bianca. I’ve come from Barbados and expected to be met. I did not expect to have to enter such a place,’ she waved her hands at her surroundings, ‘as this!’

  ‘She wants me,’ said Tom when he’d at last found his voice. He was taken aback at her appearance. The West Indies bred plump nurses with big breasts and motherly dispositions; at least, that was what he’d heard. He’d taken little notice in the homegrown nurses previously appointed at Marstone Court. None of them had been particularly engrossing. But Blanche Bianca! He’d never seen anything quite like her.

  ‘What’s she want you for!’ The woman sounded surprised.

  Blanche was cold, tired and not in the mood to be charitable. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be wanting the likes of you,’ she said. She would have said more, but the flame from a tallow candle flared and threw light over the woman’s haggard face. Dull eyes looked out from under shadowed brows. Her cheeks were heavily rouged and her hat might have been quite grand at one time, but was now edged with grease, its ribbon dirty.

  The man got to his feet. ‘I have to go, Sal.’ His gaze stayed fixed on Blanche.

  Sal looked at Blanche then back at him. ‘Oh, yeah! Too good for the likes of me, but her…’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘Now, here’s a few coins for you. Buy yourself a meat pie or a bit of fish down at the market.’

  He was tall, his hair tied at the nape of his neck like the sailors on board the ship from Barbados. Blanche took in that much, but didn’t want to linger. She shivered. Most of all, she wanted to be warm.

  ‘Can we go now?’ she said, turning towards the door. ‘The family will be expecting me.’

  ‘More than you can imagine,’ he said, and got to the door before she did. ‘Do excuse me, but I have an errand to run before getting back to Marstone Court. I’ve promised you’ll be there by teatime.’

  As he held the door for her to pass through, his eyes seemed to smile as much as his mouth, perhaps more so. He was genuinely glad to see her. His smile and welcome was the warmest thing she’d seen since leaving Barbados.

  It wasn’t easy, but she had to remind herself that he was only a servant. ‘The sooner the better,’ she said, holding her head high as she made for the cart. ‘Though we might have got there sooner if I hadn’t had to search for you in a common dockside tavern in the company of a trollop!’

  Tom studied the grey eyes, the dark hair that tumbled out from beneath her bonnet. Her skin was dusky brown, her eyelashes long and black. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, if not the most beautiful, and she moved like a ship gliding over water, regal, soundlessly and as though her course of action was already decided.

  No red-blooded male could resist her, he thought, and yet her sharp rebuke at finding him in a tavern and her haughty manner with Sally had offended him. Lovely as she was, Blanche Bianca was acting like a lady of means, not like a servant at all. It wouldn’t hurt to bring her down a peg.

  The cart sagged slightly as he loaded her brass-bound chest, then got up beside her. ‘You’ve a sharp tongue, Mrs Peters,’ he said.

  ‘My name’s Bianca. Miss Bianca. And I expected to see better sights on arrival in this city than the inside of a tavern.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Peters.’

  Hadn’t the man heard right? ‘Bianca! My name is Blanche Bianca,’ she said as loudly and as stridently as she could.

  ‘Not for long,’ he muttered, but she didn’t bother to ask what he meant by it.

  ‘Who was that woman?’ she asked. ‘Why did you give her money?’

  ‘Because she needs it.’

  He knew she wanted to ask him what Sal had done in return. He wouldn’t enlighten her that as a member of the Strong family, albeit by adoption, he had responsibilities. Giving a little to the poor and needy was expected. Wealth was easily shared with those who had nothing. He felt at pains to add, ‘There are many in this city who are poor and sick. Sal is both.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Blanche as though she didn’t really believe him.

  As the boy let go the horse’s head, a gust of wind blew his cap off.

  Blanche gasped. The child was completely bald, his skull patterned with the telling circles of ringworm. He tried to cover his bare head with his hands. Scrabbling at the dirty puddles and grimy cobbles, he at last retrieved his cap and placed it on his head, pulling it down to cover his ears.

  Blanche stared, surprised and horrified that Tom’s words had been proved so immediately. ‘Poor child.’

  ‘Besides the taverns, that’s one of our regular sights,’ he said grimly, a nerve flickering in his cheek.

  Blanche softened. ‘There are lots of children with ringworm?’ she asked.

  The nerve flickered again. ‘Some. But I meant starving. There’re a lot of hungry children in this city.’ He still didn’t tell her he was a Strong and had every intention of continuing the good works started by the Reverend Jebediah Strong. She had treated him like a servant. Let her continue to believe it.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ she ordered and fumbled in her valise before he’d chance to slap the reins over the horse’s back.

  ‘Give him this,’ she said nudging his elbow.

  Tom looked down at the shilling she held in her gloved fingers. ‘There’s no need to do that. He’s already had a shilling from me.’

  ‘I insist.’

  Resignedly, he took it and allowed his first reaction to her beauty to resurface. Charity, generosity and sympathy made people more attractive.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing the coin to the boy.

  ‘Fanks, missus,’ said the boy. ‘Be seein’ yo, Cap’n.’

  Tom waved him away and turned the horse’s head towards the refinery to see Conrad before returning to Marstone Court.

  Blanche shrugged her cloak more closely about herself and tried to will the cold away – impossible, of course. Anxious to acquaint herself with her new home, she soon became engrossed in her surroundings. To some extent, it helped her forget that the sky was as grey as the city.

  They passed between leaning buildings from an earlier age, which jostled against the more modern aspects of brick warehouses, factories and paper mills, all contributing to the business of the city. Here and there, stone buttresses jutted out from new
er buildings built around them.

  ‘The castle,’ he said, pre-empting her question. ‘The walls are gone, but the old buttresses remain in places. Not much left of it though.’

  He told her a little history of the castle, how it had been destroyed during the Civil War, and about John Cabot, who’d sailed from the port and found America. He also told her about the first steam-powered ship to cross the Atlantic, which had sailed from Bristol only recently.

  It pleased him to tell her things, just as it pleased him to tell stories of the sea to the apprentices on the Miriam Strong. Knowledge broadened minds and helped people settle in more quickly. Even servants were curious.

  They crossed the river where barges, some pulled by horses and some by men, made their careful way past ships to their final destination of factory, warehouse or mill, perhaps further upriver.

  ‘The barges are taking goods from the ships and leaving the city,’ he said, again anticipating her next question. ‘Some towards Caine on the Kennet. Others up to Stroud. A few up the Severn to Gloucester and the Black Country.’

  The smell of the river lessened as they wound their way through streets filled with carters, street sellers, and men with brooms and shovels laying into piles of horse muck and other refuse. They had a cart piled high with it. Blanche wrinkled her nose, but the smell was soon gone, overtaken by the sweet scent of the smoke spiralling up from the tall chimneys she saw before her. The refinery building was higher than anything she’d ever seen in Barbados. Six storeys loomed before her, though dwarfed by the chimneys that soared above the roof. A large sign, ‘STRONG AND HEINKEL, SUGAR REFINERS’, was bright and shiny, obviously new.

  As they entered the gate, a man ran up, doffed his hat and took hold the reins. ‘Good day, Cap’n Tom.’

  At hearing him addressed as Captain, Blanche looked at him curiously, but he gave her no explanation. ‘Where is Herr Heinkel?’

  Before the man had chance to answer, someone shouted from one of the small windows two storeys up, ‘Tom! Wait! I want to see you, my friend.’

  Although puzzled, not to mention strangely attracted to her driver, Blanche sighed and sunk into her seat. She was tired and had not eaten properly for days. The food served on ship had been difficult to keep down, possibly because boiled mutton that was salted before being cooked, didn’t agree with her, and possibly because the heaving of the sea made any food difficult to digest. But they couldn’t leave, not if they were on Strong family business. It wouldn’t do to be petulant in front of the servants.

  Goodness knew how many stairs there were between the small window and the ground, but whoever had shouted was obviously on their way down. Blanche eyed the door to their left, willing whoever it was to come out of there before she froze to death.

  Eventually a big, red-faced man came tumbling out, closely followed by two golden-haired children. He glanced at her, took a second look and bowed his head slightly. ‘Good day, madam,’ he said reverentially.

  She returned the greeting. He looked important, even wealthy in a solid, conservative kind of way. He wore good clothes, and men standing around doffed their hats respectfully. The children smiled at her, and she smiled back. Intrigued by her presence, they approached the cart.

  ‘Tom, you have recovered?’ asked the big man.

  His eyes kept sliding to her; his accent was not Bristolian or Barbadian, but similar to that of the Dutch planters and shippers that had called into Bridgetown on occasion.

  Tom looked contrite. ‘Conrad, I have to apologize.’

  His voice dropped almost to a whisper, but Blanche could still hear him.

  ‘My behaviour was unforgivable, but Emmanuel Strong makes me lose my temper…’

  The man called Conrad shook his head and held up his hand. ‘No need to do that. I understand.’ He leaned closer. ‘You must realize why I went into business with him, Tom, but that does not mean I have to like him.’

  Tom nodded and ran both hands over his head, a spontaneous gesture of relief. ‘I don’t like him much either. Whatever I can do to help you, I will. I think you know that.’

  Conrad smiled. ‘You are so like Jebediah. I know,’ he added, putting up his hand in order to halt Tom’s instant protest, ‘you are not of his blood.’ He poked a thick, strong finger at Tom’s chest. ‘But you are of his heart.’

  If Tom had been a woman, he would have blushed. As it was, he managed to contain the surge of emotion he felt in his heart. ‘I value your friendship,’ he said to Conrad. He grinned and raised his eyes. ‘And I value you getting me home safely. My behaviour was inexcusable.’

  Conrad shrugged. ‘We all behave badly sometimes. Did anyone see you arrive in my coach?’

  Tom shook his head.

  Conrad looked relieved. ‘Then you will be coming back to work?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom.

  Blanche found herself listening intently to every word, her gaze flicking from one man to another. They were big men, one golden, one dark, and both seemingly of the same mind.

  She let her hand dangle over the side of the gig, tapping her fingers impatiently against the shiny black paintwork, and felt a pair of tiny hands slide into hers. She looked down into two expectant faces.

  ‘I have broken my kite,’ said the boy, lifting a limp, torn thing that looked as though it had crashed. He had a bright, open expression and his hair was as blond as that of his father, who was clearly Conrad.

  ‘Can you mend kites?’ asked the girl, a shadow of her brother, not so big but just as bright in countenance and with hair as golden.

  ‘What happened to it?’ Blanche asked, bending down so she could talk to them better.

  Sighing as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, he said, ‘The wind blew it into a tree.’

  The children watched with intense interest as Blanche examined the torn muslin. ‘I’m sure that if you asked your mother, she’s bound to have some scrap of material in her work basket to patch it with.’

  ‘Our mother’s dead,’ said the girl in a matter-of-fact manner.

  ‘Oh!’ It sounded pathetic, but there was no point saying she was sorry because Blanche had never known the woman. Instead she said, ‘My mother’s dead too.’

  The girl jerked her chin in affirmation. The boy said nothing. Acceptance had set in ages ago, thought Blanche.

  She suggested they take off the muslin and mend it with newspaper. ‘It’ll work just as well. I made one when I was a child. It had a tail as long as an alligator.’

  ‘What’s an alligator?’ the boy asked, as she stepped down from the vehicle.

  As she explained what that was, she sensed she was being watched. When she glanced up, her eyes met those of the children’s father, who was watching her with great interest over Tom’s shoulder. Tom turned to see where Conrad was looking. His expression, which had been relatively serious, now seemed surprised.

  Feeling herself reddening, Blanche looked away. ‘Now, let me show you what to do,’ she said and began to show how it could be mended. ‘Remove the muslin and glue the paper to the frame. Make lots and lots of bows for the tail by twisting pieces of paper around the string.’

  The children giggled with delight, as much for her attention to them as for her description of how to mend their kite. She sensed their mother had spent a great deal of time with them before she’d died and that they were missing her very much.

  Tom said, ‘When you’ve finished playing, we’ll get going.’ He sounded amused.

  Conrad and his children watched them leave. She waved and first the children then their father waved back. She smiled. These people, as well as Tom, had made her day feel considerably warmer.

  ‘They were very nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom.

  ‘He was foreign?’

  ‘German. Most sugar refiners are German.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Tom congratulated himself. He had told her things about the city and had whetted her appetite for knowledge. Now she
was asking him questions that he was pleased to answer. It made him feel good, that she needed him, even though they’d only just met.

  ‘The Germans have a refining tradition. They are master sugar bakers. We British preferred growing sugar. Larger fortunes were made growing sugar rather than refining it.’

  ‘Because sugar was expensive?’ asked Blanche not wanting to appear ignorant, coming as she did from Barbados.

  ‘Because labour was cheap,’ Tom replied and could have bitten off his tongue.

  It had been a few years since the slaves were freed. Mentioning that time and that trade made him feel guilty. The whole period, so far as he was concerned, should never have happened. But many men of means still bemoaned its passing.

  ‘Slaves,’ said Blanche in little more than a whisper.

  Tom felt a need to explain, to lay the ghosts that haunted a whole country. ‘It was to do with white labour being so short, and the slave trade in Africa already being in existence. It was just a step away to load them on to ships…’

  Blanche cut him dead. ‘My mother was a slave.’

  Tom stared.

  Blanche stiffened. She hadn’t meant to admit that. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone.’

  Tom’s eyes swept from her to the road ahead and back again. ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘The family knows, of course.’

  ‘Ah yes, but you wouldn’t want the servants to find out,’ said Tom with a sharp nod. He could easily imagine how it would be. Gossip and intimidation, especially about a newcomer, sprang easily into existence in the small world of a country house.

  ‘I’m a ward of the family,’ she blurted, instantly hating herself because she sounded pompous and ashamed of her mother. She tried again. ‘My mother died so they have to take care of me.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Tom, as warning bells sounded in his head. No one had told him she was to be a ward of the family. Rupert had assured him she was to be their nurse, and so had the coachman who’d risen from his sickbed in order to thank him for making the trip. If he hadn’t had such an aching head, he would have gone looking for Nelson and asked him for the details, but he’d taken Rupert’s word and that of the coachman as proof enough.