by Erica Brown
The horse eased into a trot as they left the narrow streets and dark buildings of the city behind. The road and the river ran between flat farmland, lush water meadows and marshy bogs where pigs jostled and grunted among the couch grass.
Despite the sombre weather, everything was new and exciting and aroused her interest. The sky was grey, the grass was limp with rain, even the river was brown not blue like the sea she was used to or the gurgling stream over which she had leapt the first time she’d met Nelson.
There must have been a faraway look in her eyes, judging by Tom’s expression when she caught him glancing at her. It was as though he were trying to weigh up what she was thinking.
Holding her head to one side, her chin high, she asked if she’d grown horns.
At first he seemed taken aback, then collected himself and pointed just below her eye. ‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’
She touched where he indicated. ‘It’s not dirt. It’s a beauty spot. A real one.’
He nodded at the explanation, as if satisfied, but every so often she felt his eyes on her.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ he said.
‘What were you told to expect?’
She couldn’t help the quaver of apprehension. Some inbuilt instinct was telling her that things would not go that smoothly in this country. Trying to expel her unease was useless. It sat there, like a sleeping moth.
Just when she thought she had it under control, she heard him sigh and say, ‘I don’t think you’ve been told the truth, young woman.’
Although he’d spread a blanket over their legs, Blanche shivered, as much from the wetness of her clothes as from the nervous chill that coursed down her spine. A series of loud sneezes proved impossible to stop.
‘What do you mean?’
She tried to hold her head high, though it was almost impossible against the continually driving rain that spattered her face and ran down her nose.
‘Your nose is running,’ he said and despite himself, dotted her nose with his finger.
She rubbed it off on the corner of her sleeve; like a child, he thought. And she’d come here in all innocence, supposing she’d be a ward of the family not a servant. He had to tell her the truth and give her time to arrive at Marstone Court with her dignity intact.
They stopped in a narrow lane.
‘Look, Blanche Bianca, we need to talk about why you’re here.’
‘I’m to be a ward…’ she said, her voice faltering as she studied the look in Tom’s eyes and remembered what the solicitor had really said, something about being bonded.
Tom took hold of her hand in both of his. They felt strong and warm. Her first inclination was to pull back, but she changed her mind.
‘I’m given to understand that you’re here to be nurse to the younger members of the Strong family, four of them in fact, and one more on the way.’
Blanche shook her head. ‘No, no, no! I am not a servant! I have been brought over here because my mother died and my father…’
She stopped herself. She’d made a promise and signed a paper at the solicitor’s in Barbados.
Tom shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘Miss Bianca, I offered to pick you up because the coachman is sick at the moment. All I was told was that a new nurse was coming over from Barbados to help in the confinement of Lady Verity Strong.’
Blanche could hardly believe her ears. ‘A nurse!’
He immediately regretted being so blunt. ‘Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.’
‘You certainly have,’ she said, her chest heaving with a sickening apprehension that she may indeed have read things wrongly. She also remembered the look in Betsy’s eyes when she’d mentioned being bonded, and her comment about the Strongs only caring about sugar. Whatever the truth of the matter, she couldn’t help but retaliate.
‘What would you know? Men who frequent low places with cheap doxies aren’t likely to be party to the business of respectable people!’
‘I’ve already told you. Sally is an old friend and I’ve been trying to help her and her son.’
‘And why would you want to help the child of a woman like that, as if I didn’t know?’ She stared at him accusingly.
‘I have my reasons,’ he said, dropped her hand and gripped the reins tightly. The rain clamped his hair to his head and dripped off his chin. He clucked and the horse moved forward.
They would have continued for some time in silence if the wind hadn’t chosen that moment to lift her bonnet and send it bouncing on to her shoulders. Only the fact that the ribbons secured it around her neck kept it from flying away. Wisps of hair floated around her face and the rain and the spray from the road flew into her face.
‘Damn this weather,’ she said as she attempted to get her bonnet back on her head.
The driver burst into laughter. ‘Now, now! That’s hardly the right kind of language for the nursery. Think of the effect on your young charges!’
At first she wanted to laugh, but her wounded pride was not easily healed. ‘I am not a nurse!’
But deep down she knew he was speaking the truth. She had merely blinded herself to it, refusing to acknowledge what bonded really meant and caught up in the excitement of seeing Nelson again.
At last he said, ‘I know how it is to be close to a family, yet not regarded as one of them.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Blanche protested. ‘What would a coachman know about it?’
Tom was persistent. ‘I know how it is to be part of the Strong family, yet not part of it. Jeb Strong adopted me when I was just a child. His own son had died in an accident.’
He swallowed hard as he remembered the body in the chimney.
‘Even before his son died, he’d been engaged in good works since some incident back in his youth. I was one of those good works. All the same, I’m not a Strong. Sometimes I can see resentment in the faces of servants, even tradesmen. But I accept that. I was not born a Strong. I never can be a Strong – except in name.’
Blanche was speechless. Being told she had been brought to England as a servant was not the future she’d foreseen, but Tom had spoken with an emotional intensity that affected her deeply. It seemed at odds with his rugged appearance.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last.
Once her throat and lips were less dry, she said, ‘I too have secrets. Some of them hurt.’
She noticed that little creases appeared around his eyes when he smiled, and their blueness intensified. ‘If ever you need to share your hurts, bring them to me. It might help.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and immediately fell into a thoughtful silence. She’d expected so much from living in England. Tom had punctured her imagined world and yet, at the same time, he’d offered her his friendship. Deep inside a small voice told her to value that. In time she would need it.
The size and splendour of Marstone Court finally came into view.
The house was larger and grander than anything she’d ever seen, built of honey-coloured stone extensions filtering off from either side of the original building. Steps led up to a pillared portico built to resemble the entrance to a Greek temple, each pillar joined to its neighbour by ornate railings of wrought ironwork. There were so many chimneys, and so many windows, like a deck of playing cards laid out over a table. In the centre of the roof was a glass dome that would glint like crystal in sunlight.
Blanche caught her breath. ‘I can’t go in. I can’t possibly go in.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said.
Her eyes flashed. ‘I’m not,’ she snapped, and wished she wasn’t.
Tom helped her down before pulling a brass handle to one side of the door. Somewhere deep within the house, a bell rang.
A black servant wearing a white wig and the most splendid livery she’d ever seen in her life opened the door.
Tom laid her trunk before the footman’s buckled shoes. ‘Here you are, Duncan. It’s all yours now.’ With that, he turned to go.
Acknowledging Blanche
with the most disdainful of looks, Duncan’s nostrils flared like a fiery horse. ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Strong, but servants are supposed to go round to the rear entrance.’
Tom turned back. He’d never liked Duncan and was in no doubt that it showed in his face. ‘Inconvenient,’ he said.
Blanche caught the note of warning in his voice.
The footman bristled, hairs on his upper lip seeming to stand proud as he said, ‘May I also point out that it is not my job to handle luggage? I will instruct a porter.’
Tom re-entered, walking slowly, purposefully, as if he were measuring his paces, until there were only inches between them. His voice was little above a rumble. ‘Don’t tempt me, Duncan. I dislike you as much as you dislike me.’
Blanche almost wanted to cheer with delight when she saw the fierceness in Tom’s eyes and saw the footman’s eyes flicker with fear. ‘I’ll get it done, Captain Strong.’ His voice was laced with defiance.
‘I’ll do it myself, Duncan,’ Tom said. Pushing the footman aside, he lifted the chest that had once belonged to her grandfather.
‘Follow me, Miss Bianca,’ he called over his shoulder.
Blanche followed him up a grand staircase that swept up in marble splendour to the first floor. Above her the staircase spiralled out of view up into the glass dome, the sky lending its natural light.
The footman lingered in the hall below them looking perplexed. ‘The back staircase is for servants,’ he shouted up at them.
‘I’m not a servant,’ Tom shouted back.
Wider stairs became ever more narrow as they climbed higher. At last they were in a brown painted corridor, doors on either side.
Tom stopped occasionally, seemingly trying to work out which door was the right one. At last he came to a standstill.
‘This is it,’ he said at last.
Blanche sensed hesitation. It seemed strange in such a confident man. ‘You don’t seem very sure.’
Yes, he was hesitant, but had no intention of telling her the reason why. Soot, debris, and the body had all been removed from the room – but not from his mind.
‘This is where the chimney divides.’ He took a firm grip of the brass knob and flung the door open in one sweeping gesture. ‘The chimney was swept just for you. I believe you have this floor of the house to yourself.’
He set her sea chest beside the bed and stood, feeling sorry for her and wondering if there was any way he could make things better.
Blanche ran her fingers over the patchwork bedspread and glanced down on to the unlit coals of the reinstalled fire grate.
Tom cleared his throat. ‘Did you have better than this is Barbados?’
‘It was painted white, and had polished floorboards and blue shutters opening out on to a veranda.’ Her voice was melodic, her accent a mix of West Indian and West Country, picked up from the English overseers on the Rivermead Plantation.
She looked out over the slop yard and the stables beyond. ‘I had a view of the Caribbean,’ she said wistfully.
She didn’t need to tell him how disappointed she was. He could see it in her eyes.
‘I’ll pick you flowers from the garden,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That should brighten it up.’
A bemused smile twitched her lips. ‘At this time of year?’
He smiled too. ‘Perhaps not. But at least you have food,’ he said, indicating the bread, cheese, two apples and a pitcher of water on top of the chest of drawers.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t sound very impressed.
‘I think it best you get out of those wet things.’ he said, indicating the soggy dress that dragged on her frame. ‘Perhaps if you made yourself comfortable…’
Blanche didn’t reply. She was numb with cold, tired and disappointed, though she blamed herself for the latter. How foolish she’d been to think that the family was going to adopt her, to think that Nelson would be waiting for her, to think that she was ever likely to rise much above her mother’s station in life.
She sensed rather than heard Tom taking his leave of her.
‘Remember what I told you,’ he said, pausing by the door, his face full of concern and his tone sincere. ‘If you ever need anyone to share your concerns…’
‘She nodded, her mouth tightly shut and her eyes big and moist.
Tom closed the door behind him, but lingered, assuming she’d burst into tears. He heard nothing but a big sigh. Blanche Bianca, he reasoned, was made of sterner stuff. Too proud to display her despair, she would keep it all inside, but at some time it was bound to burst out.
* * *
In his house next to the refinery, passed to him by his father, Conrad Heinkel oversaw his children’s bedtime prayers, a habit he’d inherited from his wife Lottie who’d died in childbirth some years earlier.
After the usual prayers, Lisel, his daughter, added, ‘And bless our move to the new house with the garden on Redcliffe Parade, and if you can find us a new mother, God, make her just like the pretty lady who helped us with our kites. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ echoed her brother.
‘Amen,’ whispered Conrad from his place by the door.
Chapter Twelve
Too tired even to eat the bread and cheese, Blanche collapsed on the bed, still fully dressed and wet through. Where was Nelson? She wondered. Why wasn’t he here to greet her?
When she slept she dreamed Nelson was showing her St Mary Redcliffe church, the Old Vic theatre, the wide lawns of Queen Square and the grandeur of the Avon Gorge; the places he’d talked to her about. She woke up shivering.
‘Just dreams,’ she murmured, tears of anger stinging her eyes. ‘Dreams don’t count.’
In a parody of her mother’s voice, she added, ‘Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, Blanche, my girl.’
Bonnet, cape and shawl, all heavy with wetness, were removed and slumped to the floor. Damp at the sleeves and sodden around the hem, her dress clung to her body. Shivering, she dragged a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around herself, its woollen roughness scratching her skin.
A church clock struck twelve. It was already noon! She’d slept for more than two hours and now she was hungry.
As she ate the bread and cheese and sipped some water, she studied her surroundings – and wished she were back at home in Barbados.
The room nestled under the eaves and had a small window with bars across it. Walls of duck-egg blue reflected the cold north light that eased through the window, making the plain room seem even colder. Pegs for hanging her clothes lined the walls at chin height. There was a bed, one chair plus a large chest of drawers on which sat a mirror that swung in its frame. A smaller chest stood beside it on twig-thin legs. When she tried to open the top drawer, a lid sprang open to reveal a porcelain basin complete with stopper and soap. Opening the cupboard lower down revealed a matching jug. A simple washstand, beautifully hidden. She dipped her hand into the jug. The water was cool and the Turkish towel that hung from a hook on the cabinet’s side was thin and had taken on the coldness of the room.
‘Dear God,’ she exclaimed, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Oh, to be back in Barbados where the sun was warm and washing with cold water was a delight rather than an ordeal.
She shivered again. It was the warmest dress she owned and the soft wool clung stubbornly to her limbs as she tried to peel it off. When her bodice was hanging around her waist and her breasts were bare, someone knocked at the door.
‘Who’s there?’
‘My name’s Edith. My room’s along the end of the landing next to the attic stairs.’ The voice was loud, like that of a market woman selling live chickens or fresh fish. ‘I thought you might need some help in unpacking.’
The door flew open and Edith swept in, her bright smile freezing and her face reddening at the sight of Blanche bare-breasted, her cotton chemise barely reaching to her knees.
‘Oh! Sorry!’
Cold air concerned Blanche more so than modesty. ‘Well, don’t just stand there! Come
in and close the door. It’s cold enough in here as it is and if I don’t get out of these damp things, I’ll be stone dead cold!’
Edith pushed the door behind her and stood looking awkward. She had a round face, pink cheeks that looked like splashed paint and big breasts that strained against the bib of her apron. Blanche guessed Edith liked her food. Her eyes strayed to the contents of the open chest.
‘Looks like you got lovely things.’ She peered closer and trailed her fingers over the soft silks, the muslins, the pretty bonnets and soft kid gloves, the shell-studded jewellery box and finally the silver stopper of the blue scent bottle, which she pulled out and held up to the light.
‘I’ve seen one like this before,’ she said dreamily.
Blanche stopped straightening her dress. ‘Where?’
Edith shrugged. ‘Don’t know for sure… but… oh, yes. I was sent to collect it from a shop near John Street. I was given a letter to go with it and was then told to take it to one of the ships going to the Sugar Islands.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes.’
Suddenly Blanche felt as though she were melting. ‘Who was the letter from?’
‘The master writing to his brother, I expect. Mr Otis runs the plantation. Did you know him?’
For a moment it was difficult to answer. ‘Everyone on the island knows him. He’s a very important man.’
Edith nodded as though she did and didn’t understand.
‘It’s very precious,’ she said, took it from Edith and placed it back in the chest beneath the jewellery box, her hand shaking slightly.
Edith watched with interest as Blanche chose a pale blue linen dress to wear. Heavier than muslin, she’d always thought it ugly, but it might keep her warm. ‘Well,’ she said as she shrugged her arms into her sleeves and turned her back towards Edith, ‘are you going to help me?’
Edith blinked herself into sudden alertness. ‘Sorry. I was just thinkin’ I ain’t ever seen anyone as dark-skinned as you – only they blokes that comes over from America looking for work and begging on the streets. Runaway slaves, they is, oh and some of the seamen.’ She giggled before returning to her constant stream of words. ‘But then not naked! I ain’t seen any of them naked, or even almost naked, no matter what colour their skins. My, my! Just look! You’re covered in goose pimples. You must be freezing. Why ain’t you lit the fire? Ain’t you got no tinder box?’
