by Erica Brown
‘What did you say your cousin’s name was?’
Edith had obviously been trying to rouse him from his mood. His sudden interest made her beam with pleasure, oblivious to the tightening of his features and the sudden pallor of his face.
‘Fenwick. Fenwick Clements.’
His throat felt dry. It wasn’t a common name. Here at last there might be a chance to find out exactly what had happened to Jasper Strong. Everyone from the gardener to the scullery maids, to the stable lads had been in the ballroom listening to Emmanuel that day. Only the poacher – whom Emmanuel had shot dead the following day – and the farm boy – who’d been transported to Australia – had been out and about on the estate. They could have seen something.
Tom’s voice almost cracked when he said, ‘And you say he’s been to Australia?’
There were a number of reasons a man might go to Australia: on a wool clipper, for instance. They were as good on that route as they were on the run back from China carrying a hold full of tea.
‘Yes,’ Edith said brightly, her smile hesitant as she concocted her next lie. She explained that Fenwick had gone out to make his fortune in beaver skins for top hats, but had decided the heat was too much and had come home.
Tom grinned. Edith’s lies rolled off her tongue without any regard to truth. So far as Tom knew, there were no beavers in Australia.
‘So where is he now? Still travelling?’ Tom asked.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘He came back and Ma took him in ’cos his mother had died. He’s there now, complete with his own top hat and the ways of a toff. You’d never think he’d been brought up in the country, just down here in the village as a matter of fact.’
Tom had never been a devious person, and tried to do as well by others as Jeb Strong had done for him. He assured himself that the end justified the means and asked Edith to tell him exactly where her mother lived. ‘I never got to visit,’ he added, as though he’d had every intention of doing so.
To his great satisfaction – and shame – Edith told him.
Tonight, he decided, he would saddle up and ride back into the city. No one in their right mind would venture into the Pithay late at night, and besides, it wouldn’t be fair to disturb Edith’s mother at such a late hour. A bed above one of his favourite taverns would suffice for the night. In the morning he would seek out Fenwick Clements, and the sooner the better. Once the matter of Jasper was cleared up, he could concentrate on Blanche. Tonight he would lie in a bed in Bristol, but his thoughts would be with her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alone with his thoughts, Tom didn’t notice that he was being watched.
In the black shadows thrown by the Dutch-style frontages of the old buildings lining the quay, Reuben Trout skulked and watched, his pipe clenched in blackened teeth, his breath more fetid than the black shag in the pipe.
He had a boil on the side of his nose, a red bulbous thing that seeped a thick yellow liquid, which sometimes got in the way of his vision. In a drunken moment in a dockside tavern, he’d allowed some old witch of a woman to spread zopissa – the scrapings of tar from the bottom of an old boat – on it. It had done no good. If he concentrated too hard ahead then glanced quickly to the side, it almost seemed as if a pink, blurred presence – like a small devil or a loathsome imp – was on his shoulder watching him. That’s how it was now as he sought a hiding place in Denmark Street, somewhere to scurry into should Tom Strong glance round and see him. But the only suitable doorway was already occupied. Pale and poorly dressed, he judged her just a whore out to make a shilling before midday, though in Trout’s opinion she looked unlikely to make that in a week. Dark lines circled her eyes, which stared from deep sockets. It was when she glanced at Tom and then back at him, that he realized she’d cottoned on to what he was doing. And wasn’t she the same whore he’d seen Tom drinking with and giving money to?
Digging deeply into the dusty pocket of his canvas coat, which was smeared with dirt and waterproofed on the shoulders with a few brush strokes of tar, he adopted a knowing sneer. An empty belly took priority over a curious mind, he thought as he held aloft a shiny shilling. The woman lifted her head and fixed her gaze on the coin. Unseen by Tom, he crossed over to the dark doorway.
* * *
In the morning, Tom made his way up Steep Street. First he would ride out to Durdham Downs, breathe the clean air and look down into the gorge and think of the sea. The tide was coming in. By the time he got there he might see a ship being rowed upstream, her sails furled, dependent on a mass of rowers to get her the seven miles of mud-packed bends and into the floating harbour. If she was small enough, she might make her way up into the heart of the city, but such ships were becoming fewer. The floating harbour was as far as most could go, and even that was a struggle, which brought his thoughts back to whoever wanted to buy the Miriam Strong's mooring.
Durdham Downs it would be. Decision made, he went back to where he’d left his horse, untied her and mounted up. Taking the climb up Steep Street on foot, he remounted before doubling back at the top and heading for Clifton where fine houses with high ceilings looked out to the Avon Gorge and the city beyond.
At last he could breathe and his head felt clearer. Clouds and sky seemed closer up there. He could almost believe that if he stretched he could touch them, pull them down and lay down in their softness. He urged his horse into a canter, greeted other riders – some just matrons or children on donkeys.
On the thin road that wound between the stretches of grass and trees, carriages drawn by matching pairs with cropped tails and arched necks sallied forth. He slowed to a trot, meaning to swerve back and head full pelt across the grass for the Gorge and its unparalleled view, but one particular carriage caught his eye. Black and shiny, and drawn by a matching pair of chestnuts, its blinds were closed against prying eyes, but a problem was brewing. One of the horses was foaming at the mouth and doing its best to toss its head free of the bit. The driver shouted, ‘Steady there. Steady there!’ and raised his whip, bringing it down on the horse’s back. Matters worsened. The carriage began to rock and the horse reared, one of its front legs coming down over the centre shaft to which both animals were attached.
The carriage rocked more violently as the animal panicked, and someone inside screamed.
Tom urged his mount forward, hurtling headlong across the grass.
The coachman was stout and red-faced. His whip had fallen to the ground and one of his reins dangled among the horses’ legs.
‘Get down, man,’ Tom shouted as he vaulted from his horse.
‘The animal’s gone mad. I’ll have him shot! Shot, I tell you.’
Tom stayed calm. Quickly but methodically, he tied the reins of his own horse to a handy tree; there was no point everyone losing control.
He glanced at the closed blinds. Ladies and gentlemen of the highest order did not always act as honourably as they should. An errant wife or philandering husband, perhaps? Well, they’d have bruises to show if something wasn’t done quickly. ‘Get down,’ he shouted again to the coachman.
The man hesitated still, the reins hanging loosely from his hands before he came to his senses, put the brake on and wound the reins in their proper place.
‘And get your passengers out.’
‘But they do not wish to be seen—’
‘It is preferable to being dead. Get them out!’
He was vaguely aware there were two passengers, a man and a woman. Well, he’d not spoil their fun. Secrecy and the close confines of a carriage spurred passion to enormous heights, and he knew this from experience.
Not wishing to waste time on niceties, he went to the head of the upset horse, noted the panic in the animal’s eyes, the foaming mouth and the sweat staining its neck and chest.
‘Easy,’ he said softly to the creature, and began to whistle. The horse breathed heavily, though still agitated that its leg was still over the wrong side of the shaft. Tom unbuckled the offside rein from the bit an
d threaded it back through the curb, a circle of metal protruding from the horse collar. He did the same to the other rein. The horse jerked his head and stretched his neck, glad to be free of the curb’s tight control that forced its neck into such an exaggerated arch.
The coachman, a fat man in a green frock coat and a black top hat, came to Tom’s side smelling of sweat and red in the gills. ‘Why are you whistling? What are you going to do?’
‘Whistling settles them. A Spanish gypsy told me that. Now I’m going to give the horse a hand getting his leg back and you’re going to release the other animal’s head.’
The coachman protested. ‘But this is a brand-new harness, and people like to see my horses looking fashionable.’
‘And what good’s that if the animal has to pull with his neck muscles instead of his back? Broad backs were made for pulling. Necks stuck in the same position for hours at a time result in cramp. Wouldn’t you want to stretch your neck?’
The coachman stared at him open-mouthed and rubbed at his own neck.
Tom glared. ‘Well, get to it, man! Put the animal out of its misery.’
The fat little man almost jumped out of his boots as he scurried to obey.
Still whistling, Tom bent down beneath the horse’s chest, pressed the carriage shaft down, heaved his shoulder beneath the horse and lifted gently, just enough so the animal could right itself.
Instinctively, the horse brought its leg back over the shaft.
‘There, there, boy,’ he said, stroking the animal’s pulsating cheek. The horse blew heavily and approvingly through its flared, pink nostrils.
It was only after the horses had been released from their bondage that the middle-aged man who had alighted from the coach approached him. He wore good clothes and an air of impatience. ‘Is everything all right now, Sperry?’
The coachman touched his forelock and confirmed that it was.
‘Thank you,’ the man said to Tom, and pressed a shilling into his hand before turning his back.
‘Thank you, Josiah.’
The man spun round, his nose held high and his cheeks trembling with pomp. ‘Do I know you, sir?’
Tom didn’t bother to answer. He was looking at Horatia, a picture of womanly elegance in dark purple, her skirt tiered in deep frills edged with black velvet, and her bonnet big with feathers of black, mauve and purple.
‘My lips are sealed,’ Tom said before she had chance to make her excuses.
Horatia’s cheeks turned pink. ‘This is not what you think!’
‘How dare you address this lady in such a familiar tone,’ said Josiah Benson. ‘Apologize at once!’
Tom’s smile froze, his anger still with him. He stepped towards the man, who took a pace back and another as Tom came forward, until his back was against the carriage and Tom was towering over him. ‘Will you make me apologize, sir?’
‘How dare you…’
Tom could smell his fear; sweat mixed with a large splash of eau de cologne. His hat fell off and he made the mistake of bringing a silver-topped cane up between them. Tom slowly wound his fingers about the cane, brought it up higher with one hand, and pushed the man’s face down, forcing the silver top between his lips.
‘Tom! Stop it!’
Horatia’s gloved hand was warm through the fabric of his shirt. He smelled her perfume, felt the warmth of her breath on his neck.
Sweat trickled down the face and ran into the collar of the man he held against the carriage.
Though Horatia’s fingers dug painfully into his arm, Tom did not let go. It was as if all the anger he felt about Blanche, about Jasper, and about the Strong family was encapsulated in this extremely wealthy, pompous man.
‘Tom! Please. Please, Tom. For me.’
He looked down into Horatia’s face. It was funny, but he’d never seen her plead for anything. And it was genuine. Her eyes were an incandescent blue.
Slowly, he let the cane slide from the man’s mouth. What was the point in taking out his anger on him anyway? For God’s sake, the man was dribbling on to his cravat!
With fear-filled eyes, Josiah Benson looked from Tom to Horatia for an explanation.
‘My cousin,’ said Horatia in a reluctant tone of voice. ‘Captain Tom Strong. You have met before.’ She looked Tom up and down. ‘In a ballroom and wearing respectable attire,’ she said.
Tom squirmed beneath her gaze. Even after all this time, she still made him feel as if he were a boy from the back streets.
She took Tom to one side, lay her hand on his arm and spoke sweetly. ‘It’s not what you think.’
He looked into her face, trying, as ever, to work her out.
‘Is he going to marry you?’
‘I’ve just told you, it’s nothing like that.’
Tom shook his head and tried to clear his mind again. It had seemed so fresh up here earlier. ‘I don’t think I really want to know.’
He started to turn away. Horatia grabbed his arm. ‘Please, Tom. Trust me. It’s a business matter, and I don’t want Father finding out about it.’ She hesitated, as if she were fighting an inner battle before giving him an excuse or telling him the truth. ‘I do need to speak to you, Tom. It does concern you. I tried to tell you before, if you remember rightly. But you’re so forgetful, so embroiled in your own masculine thoughts. What chance does a weak and feeble woman like me have of getting through to a man like you?’ She gave a laugh, the sort women use when they want to appear defenceless, though Horatia could never be that.
Josiah interrupted. ‘Horatia, my dear. Do come along. We have business to attend to.’
Horatia paid him no mind. ‘You could come with us,’ Horatia whispered close to his ear. ‘Josiah won’t object, not if I insist. He’s easily placated; a sweet smile, a stroke of my hand and, if all else fails, a vaguely positive answer to his hints of marriage.’
She smiled and stroked his hand too, but Tom turned away. ‘I have to go,’ he said, already striding away, his thoughts returning now to his day’s business, finding Fenwick Clements.
She looked disappointed.
Josiah called to her again. ‘My dear…’
The coachman was already up in his seat and the horses were standing in silence, their heads drooping gratefully. Horatia watched Tom mount his horse, acknowledge her politely and ride away.
He looked more sullen than usual. She wondered what had upset him, hoped he hadn’t discovered too much about her plans for expanding the Strong family business interests. If she’d been braver, she would have insisted he listen to what she had to say, but he hadn’t wanted to. I always meant to tell him, she told herself, but it was a lie. The truth was that his lack of interest had suited her because she’d feared his reaction. But soon he would find out. All she could hope was that he wouldn’t be too angry.
* * *
No one in their right mind rode a horse into the Pithay. For one thing, the alleys and lanes were so narrow, the upper storeys almost meeting in the middle, that there was little room to pass. There was also the problem of what to do with his horse while he went into the Clements household to confront Fenwick Clements. Even if he paid a street urchin to look after it, there was a very good chance it wouldn’t be there when he came out; sold on to a haulier or a butcher for a fraction of its true worth.
Ignoring the curious looks of residents peering out from dark doorways and windows, he strode almost unmolested to the crumbling building in Cock and Bottle Lane. Even though it was just after midday, little sunlight penetrated the standing gloom.
Striding over muddy puddles and what was left of wooden cobbles, he smelled the house before he got to the door, which was little more than a few planks nailed together. Rapping on it with his fist sent it crashing inwards against a wall where it remained, having slid off its hinges.
A small dog yapped. A larger one barked. The room was cold and dark. A chair and a table stood in the middle of the room and a bed was pushed against one wall piled with mildewed blankets. Cold ashes
flowed in a silver heap from an open hearth. A pot the size of a cauldron was being offered to a third dog, just like one would offer a nosebag to a hungry horse. The woman offering it looked up as he entered the room.
‘Yer in the wrong place,’ she shouted, her pock-marked face blazing with anger. ‘If you wants the trollops, they’re in the ’ouse further down.’ She waved a meaty arm in the general direction.
‘Are you Edith’s mother?’
The question took her completely off-guard. She blinked rapidly as she straightened, as though the sight of him was too bright for her eyes.
‘Who are you?’
‘Tom Strong. Captain Tom Strong.’
‘Ooow,’ she said, putting the pot down and smoothing her wool-covered hips. ‘We’re honoured, ain’t we?’
‘I want to speak to your nephew.’
Her expression seemed to grow cautious. ‘What for?’
Edith was the one who made up stories. Tom decided he could make one up too. ‘As I said, I’m a sea captain. I understand your nephew, Fenwick, isn’t it…?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said, a wary crease puckering her face.
‘Mistress Clements, I understand that Fenwick hasn’t long come back from Australia. I’m thinking of travelling there myself. I wanted to talk to him about it.’
Preening a little at being called Mistress, her wariness vanished. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘he is busy, you know. And time is money, so I’ve ’eard say…’
Tom fished a gold coin from his pocket. ‘I understand.’
‘Ooow!’ she said, sniffing as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand before reaching for the coin. ‘Is that a sovereign?’
‘Pleased to help, Cap’n!’ A tall, thin and fully dressed man leapt from beneath the pile of mildewed blankets, paused, stepped back to the bundle and pulled a battered top hat from a dusty corner.
Fenwick’s pale eyes fixed determinedly on the coin and long fingers unfurled from his grimy palm. ‘Anything you want to know about Australia, from Botany Bay to the back of beyond, I’m yer man!’
