Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  Cook wiped the spoon with her apron before setting it down next to the bowl. ‘And here’s some bread,’ she added, cutting a thick slice from the loaf that sat on the main table then throwing it at the side table, its edge catching some of the black blood that lay in puddles beside the dead birds.

  Blanche picked up the piece of bread and threw it back, hard. ‘I’ve not come here to eat with servants!’ It hit Cook in the eye with a resounding thwack.

  ‘Wahhh!’ wailed the cook, wiping at the flecked blood with her fingers. ‘How dare you do this to me! I’m the cook, and you’re just the daughter of a darkie b—’

  Blanche was across the room, one fine, long finger pointing like the muzzle of a pistol between the cook’s eyes. ‘Don’t you dare,’ Blanche snarled.

  ‘You’re going back on that boat, girl,’ Duncan shouted, reached to grab her, but almost jumped out of his skin as a heavy hand crushed his shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t know the circus had come to town,’ said Tom. Duncan was flung aside.

  Cook, maids and footmen subsided into chairs and subdued smiles as the captain entered, an ebony pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. Even the cook patted her hair and pinched some colour into her cheeks. He ignored them all and looked straight at Blanche and smiled.

  ‘My dear Miss Bianca, are the staff neglecting you?’ He swiftly took in the separate bowl setting and the blood-soaked table. ‘You must be starving,’ he said.

  ‘Famished.’

  A little ash from his pipe freckled the velvet lapels of his jacket and the curling pattern of his brocade waistcoat as he looked around the room.

  Blanche was now as smitten with him as everyone else, her mouth hanging slightly open and her eyes wide with surprise.

  He looked smarter, more of a gentleman than that morning, but still vital, confident in his own strength and power.

  ‘And where is Monsieur le Chef? Where is Monsieur Leon and Monsieur Pierre?’ he asked, bending slightly to sniff the roasting venison.

  ‘It’s their day off, Captain,’ ventured the cook as she struggled to her feet, her progress hampered by the full folds of her gathered skirt.

  ‘Then it’s down to you to provide us with our repast, Cook. Now fetch fresh bread and soup for both of us. We’ll dine in the servants’ hall, seeing as none of you are using it. Oh, and slice up some ham, pickles and tomatoes. And if you’ve got some cinnamon cake, well, you know it’s my favourite.’ He beamed at her broadly, as though, thought Blanche, he were the bridegroom and the cook his blushing bride.

  Cook’s animosity disappeared. She was all smiles and curtsying as she bobbed between the soup kettle and the breadboard.

  Tom glanced swiftly, yet purposefully at Duncan. ‘And bring wine.’

  The footman winced under Tom’s gaze, but struggled swiftly to his feet.

  ‘And perhaps tea for Miss Bianca,’ Tom added. ‘Come with me,’ he said to her, taking hold of her hand.

  Dumbstruck, Blanche allowed herself to be led. Before Tom had entered the kitchen, it had seemed full of backbiting, intimidation and spitefulness. Now the sun’s rays hit the copper pans and the dull yellow of the walls and high ceiling where tea towels and aprons hung from wooden stretchers. His palm was warm, his fingers gentle though callused with the scars of a dozen voyages.

  ‘Keep your head high,’ he murmured as he led her out of the kitchen and along the stone passageway to the servant’s hall.

  ‘I intend to,’ she replied, her heart fluttering with mixed feelings, a surge of emotion that for once did not include Nelson. Tom was like a breath of fresh air, hurricane even, and she wasn’t sure whether she should stand firm against his onslaught or bend with the breeze.

  There were comfortable chairs around the walls of the servants’ hall, and a dining table and chairs in the middle. Light from arched windows set high in the wall threw patches of sunlight on to the red-brick floor.

  ‘It’s stopped raining,’ said Blanche.

  Tom laughed. ‘It does sometimes.’

  He pulled out a chair for her. Blanche, her legs aching and her stomach empty, sat down. He sat across from her, his hands spread flat on the table and looked at her from below dark eyebrows. ‘They appear to be giving you a hard time already.’

  ‘I understand it’s something that comes with the position of nurse; not quite belonging to below stairs or above, but somewhere in the middle, trusted by no one.’

  He studied his hands, as if he were searching for something in his scratched knuckles. He decided, as he had on many occasions, that truth was the best course of action.

  ‘It’s not your only problem, is it? The whole household knows about your mother being of certain parentage and kept by Uncle Otis. It was bound to come out.’

  ‘It’s a man’s world. A woman has to survive as best she can,’ said Blanche, aching to add that Otis was her father, but not daring to do so.

  ‘I understand your grandfather was a sea captain.’

  She nodded and looked into his eyes. ‘I’m not sure who my father was.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Neither am I.’

  Kitty Ray the parlour maid came along with a silver tray of food and tea. Duncan followed, two claret glasses in one hand, a dust-covered wine bottle in the other.

  Tom and Blanche waited until both servants had withdrawn before continuing their conversation. Tom poured wine. Blanche began on the soup after tearing the bread into four equal pieces. After a few spoonfuls, her stomach ceased rumbling.

  ‘Why are you being kind to me?’ she asked him suddenly.

  He stared at her then smiled as if a funny thought had occurred to him. ‘I don’t know. I just feel perhaps…’ He paused as he thought it through, swallowed a spoonful of soup and said finally, ‘I should be kind to you because you deserve it.’

  Blanche thought of the scent bottle that had arrived in Barbados every year.

  ‘Did you love your mother?’

  He seemed taken by surprise at first, but collected himself. ‘My mother was a whore, and I lived my life in the dark alleys around the docks. I was starving when the Reverend Strong found me.’

  ‘You were very lucky.’

  He put down his soup spoon and took a big gulp of the claret, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘And Jasper, his real son, was very unlucky,’ he said. ‘I used to think what would happen if Jeb’s true son reappeared, that he was never drowned, but had been picked up by a fishing boat and taken on as a cabin boy? What would Jeb do then? And yes, I did love my mother. No matter what she was, I still loved her.’

  He said it so endearingly, so sincerely, that she paused in moving the spoon closer to her mouth and looked into his face. His eyes were very blue, his gaze very intense. She could well understand why the housemaids, and even the cook, smartened themselves up when he appeared.

  ‘And your mother? Did you love her?’

  Blanche nodded. ‘It didn’t matter that she wasn’t married, or that I didn’t know my father. She was my mother.’

  Tom put down his spoon and covered her hand with his. ‘We have a lot in common.’

  ‘We’re both eating soup,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head and smiling in a way that was both sad and ironic. ‘We were both born outside the Strong family to – let’s say – women of independent spirit, but have been drawn in like herring caught in a net. Who knows whether either of us will ever escape?’

  * * *

  ‘I’ll take that, Rosa,’ said Cook to one of the kitchen maids as she took a tea tray out of her hand. ‘Mr Nelson wants to see me.’

  Rosa looked surprised, but Cook ignored her.

  Mr Nelson, the master’s son, was waiting when she entered his room.

  She said, ‘Your tea, sir,’ and dropped a little curtsy. ‘If there’s anything else I can do for you, sir…?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Nelson, and gave her a brown paper package tied up with string. ‘This
is the secret ingredient for my biscuits, Cook. The substance is medicinal and is to be included when you bake me some biscuits. Almond ones, I think. But please note that these biscuits are for me and me alone. Is that clear?’

  He said it in the way his father said things, as if a disobeyed order could lead to a spell in prison.

  ‘Oh yes, sir!’ exclaimed Cook as though he’d spoken with the utmost courtesy, her rosy cheeks swelling with the strength of her smile.

  It always amazed Nelson what the servants put up with. He’d yet to see one stand their ground; certainly not Cook, he decided. She lived for the Strong family and Marstone Court, and would die in service here.

  ‘They’ll be baked this afternoon and cool by this evening. If that’s to your liking?’

  He nodded as imperiously as he knew how. ‘Very good. And remember. No one is to know about these biscuits, and no one is to touch a crumb except me. Do I have your promise, Cook?’

  ‘You do, sir,’ she said and dropped another grateful curtsy.

  After she’d left, Nelson breathed a sigh of relief. He was sweating and had called in on the family doctor earlier that day, explained his symptoms and been given a good look over by the old man.

  ‘It could be drink,’ said the doctor into Nelson’s open mouth.

  ‘I drink less than my father,’ Nelson snapped. He tensed as the doctor pulled down the rim of each eye in turn.

  ‘You are taking something to cause this,’ said the doctor as he peered up Nelson’s nostrils.

  Nelson shrugged. ‘I take nothing except…’ He paused, unwilling to think that the dragon powder he’d been introduced to by the little Chinese girl, and the odd trickle of Uncle Jeb’s medicine, was worse than rum or brandy. ‘A little laudanum and suchlike.’

  The doctor nodded sagely. ‘Up until a few months ago, I would have said this was of no consequence. But some of my profession are now saying that it is worse to take opiates than it is to drink brandy. I suggest you desist and see how you get on.’

  Nelson felt his heart palpitate at the dire words. ‘What do I do when I feel tired, when I lack energy for… certain tasks?’ He was thinking of women, but found he could not mention such intimacies.

  The doctor eyed him from over the top of his wire-framed spectacles. ‘Take a spoonful of sugar, in fact, take two.’ He chuckled at the thought of it. ‘Less expensive than opiates, especially for you, my dear fellow.’

  ‘And if I deign not to follow your advice?’

  The doctor scratched his head, his fine eyebrows meeting the many wrinkles of his freckled forehead.

  ‘Personality can change, health can be damaged – this is what is being said.’ He waved his hands. ‘Of course, it may not be so, but perhaps you should try some alternatives. I have something that may help.’

  He opened a double-fronted cabinet to reveal bottles, jars, boxes and potions of all description and colour. He handed over what looked like a plug of tobacco.

  Nelson eyed it suspiciously. ‘Do I smoke it?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said the doctor. ‘Mix it with sugar – plenty of sugar. Bake it in a cake, if you like. I’m sure you’ll find it enjoyable.’

  Later that night, Nelson stole along to Jeb’s room, regretting that he’d taken the old man’s laudanum.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ he said looking down on his uncle’s sleeping form.

  Quietly, so as not to be disturbed, he replaced what he’d taken. As silently as he came, he left. He felt pleased with himself that he’d so easily given up the practice introduced to him by the exotic Lucy Lee. He also felt excited. Blanche Bianca had arrived from Barbados. He hadn’t come across her yet, but he’d seek her out as soon as he could, though he had to be careful. This was England, not Barbados, and she was only a servant.

  * * *

  The next day she was to meet the mistress of Marstone Court, Lady Verity Strong, and afterwards the children who frequented the floor next down from hers.

  It was David, Duncan’s twin, who collected her from her room and took her to the opulent surroundings where the family lived. There were carpets, curtains, portraits and pastoral scenes the size of houses, plasterwork ceilings, the scrolls and sweeps of flowers and fruit gilded with real gold, as if they were really growing in exceptionally strong sunlight. Statues of Greek gods and heroes looked blindly across wide passageways at lacquered Chinese cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and smelling of sandalwood. Crystal chandeliers holding hundreds of candles hung overhead. At night they must look like a firmament of stars, thought Blanche.

  Tables were fashioned in the Baroque style, heavy and oozing with gilt leaves and voluptuous legs, the tops fashioned from the best Italian marble. Sconces holding six candles or more were set in the wall between each window and in front of vast mirrors fashioned in the Venetian style with etched edges of coloured glass.

  ‘There are more mirrors than paintings,’ Blanche whispered in amazement.

  ‘Lady Verity likes mirrors,’ David whispered back. ‘She thinks family portraits are old-fashioned.’

  Hands resting softly on her very round stomach, Lady Verity Strong was sitting alone in front of a lace-curtained window. Encased in Turkish slippers with turned-up toes, her feet rested on a footstool. Prince Charles, her adored brown and white spaniel, was curled up in what remained of her lap.

  Round-faced and plump, she had once been pretty, though the shape and pinkness of her mean little mouth gave her a petulant look; attractive on a young woman, but less so on a matronly mother of four with a fifth on the way.

  She wore a white lace cap that sat like a handkerchief on her head, fronds of lace trailing down with her curls at either side of her face. Slowly she turned to face Blanche, her eyebrows raising slightly as though surprised at what she saw.

  ‘You’re taller than I expected,’ she said, running her eyes over the unfashionable dress, improved by Edith’s helpful additions of calico petticoats and stiffly starched apron. ‘I expected someone darker.’

  At the sound of his mistress’s voice, the little dog awoke and jumped down from her lap and snuffled around the hem of Blanche’s dress. Blanche gritted her teeth.

  ‘Come here, Prince Charles! Come here!’

  The dog ignored her and continued its sniffing.

  Lady Verity snorted with indignation, but chose to snap at Blanche rather than at the dog.

  ‘You will look after the children. You will assist the monthly nurse, who will deal with the baby during its first few weeks. You will officiate at their meals, take them for walks, have some part in their education, mend their clothes and make clothes when necessary. Edith, the under nurse will help you. She will take you to meet them after they’ve finished their posture hour.’

  Blanche didn’t know what a monthly nurse was and neither did she understand what posture hour meant, but she wasn’t going to betray her ignorance. She’d rely on Edith to tell her. Besides, she had the distinct impression that Lady Verity didn’t want her here. Best not to antagonize lest she get sent back to Barbados, she decided.

  Lady Verity took a deep breath and tried to hold her head high, a difficult task on a woman with three chins. ‘Your mother was Negro. Is that right?’

  The statement was meant to sting, and it did.

  You might be called Blanche, but you ain’t properly white, Betsy had said.

  If Verity had turned round, she would have seen Blanche’s blazing eyes. As it was, Blanche spoke as though each word was ground from her teeth. ‘Her father, my grandfather, was from Bristol. He was a sea captain.’

  ‘And your mother had no husband?’

  Blanche detected a slight tremble in her voice, a sudden wavering when people are suppressing a sob of despair or wish to anger someone.

  It was almost on her tongue to proclaim that Otis Strong was suspected, but she kept her promise to say nothing. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah! No matter. You are only a servant. I take it you can read and write?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes. I also speak some French and I’ve been taught to paint and draw.’

  Lady Verity’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Well, I don’t know that I approve of servants of your ancestry and situation being educated at all. But never mind. Mrs Grainger, the children’s governess, might find you of some use. I see no need to introduce you to the rest of the family. You’re not important enough for that.

  ‘Prince Charles,’ she called as she waved her away.

  The dog ignored her, sat in front of Blanche and held up his front paws, obviously begging for a titbit judging by his enthusiasm and the roundness of his belly.

  Blanche knelt down and tickled the delicate little chin. The dog panted, its tongue long and pink, and its eyes big as saucers. ‘Hello, beautiful,’ she said, and the dog rolled over.

  ‘Prince Charles!’ Verity shouted, her face red with anger.

  The dog looked from Blanche to his mistress and back to Blanche again.

  Lady Verity half rose from her chair, almost as if she were about to give chase, which of course was impossible. ‘Are you still here?’ she shouted.

  Blanche headed for the door. The dog followed.

  ‘Prince Charles!’ Verity shouted again.

  Influenced by the anger in her voice, the dog threw Blanche one last soulful look before pattering towards his mistress and the window. Just before he got there, he lifted his leg and peed on the leg of a chair.

  Without curtsying, without expressing the slightest word of subservience, Blanche retreated and closed the door behind her.

  Edith was waiting for her outside. ‘I’m to take you to meet the children.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  How d’you get on?’ she asked, her face pink with enthusiasm.

  ‘The dog was friendly. Can’t say the same for the bitch though,’ said Blanche.

  Edith clapped her hands over her mouth and shook with laughter. She was still laughing as they climbed the stairs to the nursery floor.

  During a gap in Edith’s giggles, Blanche asked her what a monthly nurse was.