Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  Edith slumped on to the bed and nibbled her fingernails, which were already short. She’d always kept them so, a habit she’d started in the days when she used to blacklead the grates. No matter how careful she was, it always got stuck beneath her nails. ‘My ma says that it ain’t no use running away from providence. You got to stand and face it and do yer best.’

  Blanche raised an eyebrow and placed her parasol into the chest. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Anyway, last week you told me you were an orphan.’ Blanche threw her big white aprons to one side. She certainly wouldn’t want them in Barbados. ‘I think you make up family histories to suit the moment.’

  ‘I don’t!’ Edith had the cheek to sound hurt.

  ‘You also told me you have eight brothers and sisters the week before last, then last week it was twelve. You also told me your father died down a mine, and then you told me he got drowned at sea.’

  Edith flushed and buried her bitten nails beneath her armpits. ‘I wasn’t lying, it’s just that I get a bit carried away sometimes. I gets it from me father, so me mother says. And me cousin. Fen ’as got lots of sayings too. He’s cleverer than me, an’ he says you got to take advantage of things if they’re put in yer path – otherwise you’ll trip over yer own feet.’

  Blanche laughed and shook her head, rested her hands on the lid of the sea chest and took stock of the situation.

  ‘I’ll ask Tom to take us instead of the coachman,’ she said, and wondered if she should ask Nelson first before taking the decision, or whether she should show her commitment to their plan by arranging it herself.

  Edith bit her bottom lip, her nose wrinkling. The less Blanche had to do with Tom, the better as far as she was concerned, even though she was running away with Nelson. It was just that Blanche and Tom looked so good together, and they talked a lot, their conversation moving easily from one subject to another.

  She shook her head and tutted like a judge. ‘Oh, I don’t know that he can do that. He’s with the Reverend Strong as much as he can be, on account of the poor gentleman is dying by the day,’ said Edith. ‘He tries to feed him sometimes, which isn’t as hard as it sounds. The poor gentleman’s not taking solids, of course, just milky sop that I wouldn’t feed to a pig, but then gentry got weaker stomachs than the likes of us, and my ma reckons that plenty of fat greases yer insides and makes yer bowels work properly so as you don’t have to—’

  ‘I’d like to see him,’ Blanche said, disinclined to hear the more intimate details of the Clements’s lavatory habits. ‘Tom, that is. And right away. I’m sure Nelson would trust him to take us and that Tom can keep our trip a secret.’

  Edith’s face was as bright as sunrise. ‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed, her freckles diminishing in the pinkness of her complexion. ‘The captain’s an honourable man. He’d never let a secret slip out.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’ Blanche hid her smile and pretended to smooth out a non-existent crease in a pale blue dress.

  A dreamy look came to Edith’s face. ‘Me ma always says that you should never snitch on family and friends. You should keep the faith, she always says.’

  ‘A very wise woman, your mother. Shame I won’t get to meet her.’

  Edith looked crestfallen. She’d never considered the idea of Blanche meeting her family, but now it was mentioned, she found the idea attractive. ‘That is a shame! Tell you what, if you decide not to go, or if Nelson marries that washed-out cousin of his, you can come with me on yer next day off and meet her – and the rest of the family too. How does that sound?’

  Blanche stiffened at Edith’s careless statement. She would die if Nelson married his cousin, and there was no chance that she would change her mind about running away with him. After all, Nelson was the reason she’d come here in the first place.

  She managed to smile appreciatively. ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  Edith was the one and only friend she’d made since coming to England, apart from Tom. There was no point in upsetting her now. ‘Of course.’

  Blanche slammed the lid down on her trunk. ‘I’d better find Tom, in any case. I’ve never been to the Reverend Strong’s rooms. Will you take me there?’

  The Reverend Strong had a suite of rooms at the end of a corridor on the first floor of the west wing. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows was spectacular, and Jeb’s bed had been turned round so he could see it better. Presently, an orange sun hung low in the west between the cliffs of the Avon Gorge.

  As they traversed the landing between the stairs and corridors, Blanche glanced down into the hall. One of the footmen, possibly Duncan – though it might have been David – looked up at her. His expression was a mix of surprise and indignation as he jerked his head round, causing his white powdered wig to slip. She fancied his inclination was to run up the stairs and ask what they were doing there, but he was carrying a silver meat dish with a domed cover and obviously did not want to present the dish cold.

  Tom was sitting on the edge of Jeb Strong’s bed, spooning what looked like a milk pudding into the Reverend’s mouth. He swallowed it painfully, Tom gently scooping the excess from his chin.

  Jeb’s face froze, his gaze fixed beyond Tom and on to Blanche as she entered the room behind Edith.

  The smell of sickness and crushed lavender was overwhelming. Blanche felt her nose beginning to wrinkle, but managed to control it. Although it was Tom she was looking for, her eyes met the astonished stare of Jeb Strong.

  She knew from her mother that Jeb Strong was the youngest son, yet surely he looked the oldest? Apart from a few sparse hairs, his head was like a snowball stuck on a series of sticks that barely disturbed the smoothness of a cut velvet counterpane. His eyes rolled in his head. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

  Lifting a trembling finger, he pointed and after struggling to find his voice, murmured, ‘Viola…’

  His voice was barely above a whisper, yet to Blanche it was like a thunderclap. A member of the Strong family had admitted knowing her mother.

  Tom frowned at his foster father and wiped the spittle away from the crusted corners of the old man’s mouth. ‘Calm down, now. Calm down. It’s just Edith and the new nurse.’

  Blanche almost ran to the side of the bed behind Tom.

  ‘Blanche!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘My name’s Blanche Bianca and Viola was my mother. Did you know her? Did you know her very well?’

  She was aware that Tom was glaring at her, his expression a mix of surprise and warning. Blanche ignored him. Jeb had her undivided attention.

  Jeb Strong nodded weakly. ‘Ye… s.’ His reply was long and drawn out, like a regretful sigh.

  Edith took the opportunity to apologize to Tom for interrupting, wringing her hands, her gaze fixed adoringly on him.

  Tom stood up, his broad back blocking Blanche’s view.

  ‘I think you should go,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘I can’t go,’ she said, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘I have to ask about my mother. I have to ask the Reverend how well he knew her.’

  Tom looked angry, far removed from the man who’d offered her friendship from the moment she’d arrived. ‘You’re over-exciting him,’ he said grimly.

  Blanche was adamant. She could see from Jeb’s face that he wanted to talk to her. ‘It’s important.’

  Tom remained resolute, still barricading her from getting too close. ‘I think you should go.’

  She threw him an angry look, retreated, then rushed round to the other side of the bed

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning close to the old man, smelling his ailing breath, seeing more closely the pallor of his face and the liver spots that had prematurely aged his paper-thin skin.

  Turning mournful eyes up into her face, he struggled to speak. ‘Yo… ung.’ The word strung out on his breath.

  Blanche nodded that she understood. He was telling her he’d been so young at the time.

  ‘Beau
… ti… ful.’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

  She wasn’t sure whether he meant her mother had been beautiful or that she was. She presumed the former. He’d known her mother. He could surely confirm once and for all that Otis was her father.

  His eyes turned sadly wistful as he studied her dark complexion, and the startling contrast of her steel grey eyes. He sighed regretfully. ‘Vio… la… Hea… ven.’

  Blanche sensed that Tom was still glaring at her, his anger mounting, but she did not move.

  She leaned closer to Jeb. ‘Will you tell me who my father is?’ she whispered. ‘Will you?’ He seemed to nod, though she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Pat… ience,’ he said haltingly, then pointed, the tip of his finger touching the mole beneath her eye. ‘Pat… ience.’

  Hooded lids of loose skin closed halfway over his eyes, as if he were remembering, as if he were afraid to look at her. His voice was as watery as his eyes, which then rolled upwards as he opened them again seemingly uncomprehending who she was.

  ‘You have to go now,’ said Tom, pulling her away from the bed.

  He looked and seemed agitated, his eyes darting between her and the dozing form of Jeb Strong.

  ‘I want to ask—’ Blanche began, but Tom was already manoeuvring her towards the door while Edith wiped Jeb’s mouth.

  Suddenly, the old man’s eyes blinked open, his mouth seemed to slip to one side and he began to drool. ‘Tom…’ he slurred.

  Tom had been going to bundle her out of the door. A few fast-paced strides and he was back at the bed, bending over Jeb and admonishing him. ‘See. Now you’ve tired yourself out.’

  Jeb’s throat gurgled as his body filled with fluid.

  ‘We’ll turn you now, Reverend Strong! We’ll turn you now,’ cried Edith, panic making her cheeks turn pink and her lower lip hang with worry.

  Tom took charge. ‘Use the pillows!’

  Edith understood him, and Blanche assisted. Using the pillows to cushion their grip on his thin limbs, Tom and Edith turned Jeb on to his left side.

  Still hovering over him, Tom threw Blanche a glance. Obviously he was blaming her for Jeb’s condition. ‘I think you should leave.’

  He gripped both her shoulders and turned her from the bedside. His shirt must have been clean a few days ago. Now it hung loose, unbuttoned from the neck and halfway towards his navel. She smelled the fresh sweat and saw where tanned skin melted into white and for a split second she wondered how it would feel to the touch, if his thigh muscles would feel harder than Nelson’s… She felt her cheeks burning.

  ‘Can’t you see the man needs his rest?’

  ‘He can confirm that my father was – is Otis Strong.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Yes! Now!’

  Tom’s expression hardened and she could see his chest rising and falling rapidly against the looseness of his shirt. His face, his eyes and his lips were close enough to caress as he said, ‘I’d like to know who my father was, but I never will. Now go!’

  Edith, who was trying to manage alone, called out, ‘Captain Strong!’

  Eyes closed, Jeb’s head lay back against the pillows, his mouth wide open like the starving young of some scrawny-necked bird. Tom glared at Blanche, his hair tumbled over his tired eyes. ‘Get out! Now!’

  ‘Tom!’ Edith was struggling. Saliva shone in a runny line over Jeb’s bluish chin. Tom helped Edith carefully push him further on to his left side.

  ‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ asked Blanche. ‘He mustn’t,’ she said more quietly. ‘Not yet, God, please not yet.’

  Tom just turned away to lean on the bed, his face creased with concern as he looked down into Jeb Strong’s pale face.

  Edith applied a cold compress to Jeb’s forehead. Spittle ran from the corner of the old man’s mouth, his lips moving weakly. ‘Patience,’ he said again, the word drawn out like a breathless sigh.

  Another angry look from Tom, and Blanche left the room, but lingered outside, straining to hear what was going on. Things had not turned out as she’d planned. She’d been going to ask Tom to take her and Nelson to Bristol where they would get a ship to Barbados. Suddenly, the island of her birth seemed a lifetime away. And gnawing within her was the same question she’d been asking herself all her life. Who was she? Who was her father? She had half hoped that by going back to Barbados with Nelson by her side, that Otis might have enlightened her. But now the answer seemed much closer. It was here in Bristol on the lips of a dying man.

  As time went on, she sat down on a hall chair, wrapped her feet round its barley twist legs, and prepared to wait until Tom came out. She felt bad about upsetting him. He’d been kind to her. Her thoughts were confused. Running away with Nelson didn’t seem so urgent now. She hoped he’d understand why she had to stay longer and briefly wondered what she would do if he didn’t. Those evenings at the beach were beginning to seem wonderful memories. In England her relationship with Nelson seemed to have turned a corner, or a page. Something was different.

  Tom looked tired when he came out. He was rubbing his eyes with finger and thumb as if he would push them from their sockets. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as she got to her feet.

  Blanche said nothing, but gave a curt nod of her head as if she understood his reasons for turning her out, but did not approve. Her resolve to be cold towards him melted when she saw fear, regret and apprehension dance through his eyes.

  Cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand, he said, ‘I want to speak to you.’

  He took her to a window seat from where they could see an inky black sky scattered with stars. The sun had long since gone to bed.

  He smelled of maleness, well-worn cotton and the warm cosiness of soft leather. For a while he said nothing, as if expecting her to say something first. Blanche couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Prior to this evening, her thoughts were of Nelson and her in Barbados. Now the Reverend Strong had taken centre stage, telling her to have patience. Perhaps he would tell her more when he felt better.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked.

  Tom shook his head. ‘He’ll survive tonight, but…’

  He spread his hands helplessly. Sympathetic to his despair, Blanche took hold of one of them. Tom looked surprised.

  ‘I’ll pray for him,’ she said.

  Tom nodded, his eyes dark with worry.

  She sensed he wanted to say much more and that he felt ashamed that he’d ordered her from the room. It was easy to forgive him.

  ‘He’s sleeping now, he said. ‘Edith’s staying with him and has opened a fresh bottle of laudanum. She reckoned the last one didn’t work, no matter how much she gave him.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, and her thoughts went back to Miss Pinkerty and the many potions and powders made from plants, roots and animal’s blood, some administered hand in hand with superstitious ritual, passed down over the centuries. But there were some similarities between the old ways and the new, the Sugar Islands and England. The potion she’d given her mother to ease her pain had undeniably been laudanum – poppy juice mixed with rum. It surprised her to remember Miss Pinkerty’s respect, even fear for the concoction.

  A little is a medicine, too much is a poison.

  ‘Will you tell him about his son?’ she asked, the story he’d told her at Conrad Heinkel’s still fresh in her mind.

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t. The truth will kill him. Do you think I’m right not to?’

  It flattered her that he’d asked her opinion. She could say it was only right that he should be told about his son. But she didn’t want him to die, not until he’d told her about Otis.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ she lied.

  ‘So when do you go back to Barbados?’

  She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  His face cracked into a grin. ‘After me having to wrestle Aggie Pike before bargaining?’

  Blanche nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘I thought about it. B
ut I’ve decided not to. I have to stay. Destiny brought me here, and only destiny can send me on my way.’

  Tom sighed. ‘I know how you feel.’

  She looked away. She didn’t want to snap at him, but the hot retort was waiting to be said. How could he know how she felt? She’d been brought here, presuming she’d be welcomed as a member of the family, or at least live something like the life she was used to. Instead, she was a servant.

  She stood and looked out of the window towards the picture-book trees that edged the gravel drive. ‘I’m different. It takes more time to fit in.’

  ‘I’m different too.’

  ‘It’s not the same as being from somewhere else.’

  ‘Doesn’t the gutter count? My mother was a whore. She died at the hands of a client who then threw her in the river. They found her among the sewage and rubbish. That’s what a man thought of my mother. He had no reason to do that, none at all. She was just trying to survive.’

  Blanche bit her lip. ‘My father is a very rich man and a member of this family. That’s why they brought me here. My mother kept their secret and they kept us in style. She expected them to keep their part of the bargain and look after me even when she was no longer around. Then – this.’ She shrugged.

  ‘We have a lot in common,’ he said.

  He was right. Their mothers were sisters in survival. Both she and Tom were outsiders at Marstone Court, but in different ways.

  Perhaps they might have confided more, but Mrs Grainger was marching from the other end of the passageway, the stiff bombazine of her full skirt reminding Tom, as always, of a battleship in full sail, though twice as frightening.

  Blanche got up. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Despite wanting to get to the children before Mrs Grainger, she watched him go, his head bowed forward as if he were crying.

  After Mrs Grainger had come and gone from the nursery and the children were put to bed, she left the wider, brighter rooms and corridors behind, and went back to the draughty room beneath the rafters and unpacked her sea chest. The Reverend Strong had told her to have patience. She had to stay. She had to know. She hoped Nelson would understand.