by Erica Brown
Blanche shook her head in exasperation. Mrs Grainger was more damaging than that.
‘This is much worse. It’s as though she’s trying to control their minds, to mould them to fear her, not for their own good, but for her satisfaction. She takes pleasure from punishing them, especially George. She enjoys being cruel.’
Horatia raised one eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard of people like her – both men and women.’ She gave it further thought. ‘And Lady Verity takes no interest in their plight?’
Blanche shook her head, amazed to discover a different Horatia beneath the haughty veneer she habitually presented to the world. She’d had little to do with her in the past. Even when passing in the house, Horatia had never regarded her, hardly seemed to notice her. Now she seemed to have her full attention.
‘I also think she’s giving them certain tinctures,’ Blanche added.
‘Tinctures?’
‘Laudanum. Opium. That sort of thing.’
Horatia cut her dead. ‘But those things are hardly harmful. In fact, I know people who favour taking a little laudanum instead of brandy. My brother, for instance, is an artist and poet. I understand such a habit heightens awareness and creativity and that Mr Samuel Taylor Coleridge used opiates when he wrote his wonderful “Kubla Khan”. All the poets use it.’
‘That’s not true!’ Blanche told her about the warning she’d had from Miss Pinkerty when her mother had fallen ill. She also told her about certain houses in Barbados – and Bristol too, she’d no doubt – where men and women lay comatose under the influence of such tinctures. ‘Their minds are destroyed,’ she said finally.
Her eyes met those of Horatia. It was almost like looking into Nelson’s, though without the languid other-worldliness. The expression in Horatia’s eyes took on a sudden intensity, as if she were seeing someone other than Blanche. ‘Obsession with the exotic,’ Horatia said. Blanche wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the opiates, to her or to something or someone else.
Horatia sprung to her feet, the papers she’d been hiding clenched tightly in her hand. ‘Bring me proof,’ she said, ‘and I will deal with it!’
* * *
Blanche made up her mind to warn the children not to take any more tinctures unless they checked with her first. It seemed highhanded though; who was she to give orders? Her interview with Horatia over, she headed for the nursery.
As she burst into the room, she saw Mrs Grainger holding George by his shoulder and forcing him to drink something from a small glass. Was it laudanum? Blanche hit the glass and its contents to the floor. ‘Stop giving them that stuff,’ she shouted, her eyes blazing.
Mrs Grainger raised her sooty eyebrows. ‘Dandelion milk? And what might be wrong with that, Miss High and Mighty?’
‘Dandelion milk?’ repeated Blanche.
‘For George’s chest,’ said Mrs Grainger with a smug smile. ‘And you, you darkie bitch, aren’t going to get away with this. I’m going to see Lady Verity and have you sent from here!’
Skirts rustling and face red, Mrs Grainger made a melodramatic exit, her skirt filling the door and her voice cracking like a sail in a storm.
Darkie. It was amazing how much it hurt to be called that. In the privacy of her room, she checked her reflection in the mirror, half afraid in case she’d turned as black as the coal in the unlit grate.
It felt as though she were wearing Marstone Court around her neck. Tired and despairing, Blanche sat on the bed, her head in her hands, thinking that perhaps she should marry Tom, or reconsider running away with Nelson. She didn’t raise it until Edith entered.
‘You’ve missed tea,’ she said brightly. ‘It was your favourite. Mutton pie and raspberry jelly. And I promised to take you along to see the Reverend when you’d finished it.’
Blanche sighed and told her what had happened.
Edith’s round, pink face expanded in amazement. ‘The old cow! What use is dandelion milk for a bad chest? No wonder poor little George pees the bed. Me mum always told us not to pick dandelions ’cos they makes you wet yourself. And they do. I know they do.’
Her visit to the Reverend Strong forgotten, Blanche almost flew at the door. ‘Come on. Let’s do something about this.’
Edith followed, her feet thudding like rubber mallets as she thundered along the landing. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t quite know yet. I’ll think of something.’
* * *
Horatia stood perfectly still, her features silhouetted against the window. The view was beautiful, though she was not really seeing it.
‘Any news from Mr Trout?’ she asked without turning her head.
Duncan looked disdainful. He hated dealing with Reuben Trout. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on the ship and on Captain Strong. He says the captain has not visited the ship as much as he usually does when he’s in port.’
‘Understandable. He has other obligations.’
‘Yes, Miss Horatia. One of those obligations is a woman named Sally, a known whore on the waterfront. The other is Brown – Blanche Bianca as she prefers to be called – the nurse from Barbados. He’s even been out and about with Edith, though in the company of the children.’
Duncan knew how Horatia felt about Tom and it gave him great pleasure to undermine her natural coolness. Her response made him feel powerful, more like a man who might – just might – get her to see that Tom did not desire her. But he did. Very much so.
Horatia did not see his smirk. The grass and trees outside the window had nothing to do with the green mist that swam before her eyes. The mere thought of Tom with another woman made her heart beat faster. Her jaw ached as she fought to control her surging emotions.
‘Edith Clements looks like a pig. Blanche is merely a servant concerned about my half-brothers and sisters. It is only natural that Captain Tom should sometimes be in their company.’ Her comment about Edith was unnecessarily cruel, but she couldn’t help it. And Blanche had spoken to her about the children.
Duncan noticed Horatia’s rigid back and trembling hands. He said, ‘They – Captain Tom and the nurse – stayed overnight at the house of Conrad Heinkel.’
Horatia felt as though she’d been consumed by fire. Imagining Tom and Blanche together was unbearable. Through clenched teeth she said, ‘And no progress has been made regarding that berth?’
‘Mr Benson did mention that if there was no ship there, the berth would be free anyway.’
‘Then we have to get rid of it!’
Horatia rarely let anger cloud her judgement or her actions, but the vision of Tom and Blanche together swam before her eyes and she only half considered the impact of what she was saying.
Like a puppeteer pleased to have pulled the right strings, Duncan felt bigger and better than he’d ever felt in his life. ‘I will tell Mr Benson,’ he said.
Horatia seemed not to hear him. ‘Tomorrow you may take a message to Mr Benson regarding the matter of the Miriam Strong to that effect. Just tell him that I rely on his good judgement.’
After her most loyal footman had left, Horatia looked at the open page of a book Nelson had taken from the bookcase earlier entitled, A Thorough Study and Pictorial History of the Sugar Islands.
Sugar and the West Indies had been part of her family’s history for a long time. The city of Bristol had grown far beyond its medieval confines as a direct result of the plantations and the triangular trade.
At least Josiah Benson understood her ambition. He had advised her on investment in railways, shipyards and a study of the mail system between Britain and North America. He also wanted to marry her, but her heart ached for Tom.
If Mrs Grainger hadn’t rapped at the door, Horatia would perhaps have saved her anger for Tom, or more likely, Blanche. But Horatia’s dislike for her stepmother was just as strong and with a greater history than her jealousy of Blanche.
Mrs Grainger’s lips were pursed. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Horatia, but Lady Verity is bathing her little dog and can’t see me just now, bu
t I wonder—’
‘Certainly.’
They stood, Horatia a whole head taller than the bulkier frame of Mrs Grainger.
‘I have long been in this house—’ Mrs Grainger began with a superior expression.
‘Get to the point.’
Thrown for a moment, Mrs Grainger swiftly recovered. ‘I’ve been giving Master George dandelion juice for his chest. Now, that young woman from Barbados has told me that it’s my fault he wets the bed, that dandelion juice makes him do that. I feel under the circumstances—’
‘She’s right!’ Horatia remembered as a child picking armfuls of the bright yellow flowers for feeding to the rabbits the gamekeeper kept for cooking. Their nanny at the time, one of the many Peters, had told her to wash her hands before eating because they were indeed a natural diuretic.
Mrs Grainger looked devastated. Blanche and that wretched Edith had come breezing into the nursery and laid down the law as if she had no status in this house, no power.
‘Never in all my years—’ she said.
‘That’s enough!’
Horatia turned on her heel and went back to looking out of the window, even though she’d tired of the view. She didn’t want Mrs Grainger to see the turmoil in her eyes, the hurt, the anger, and the utter dejection. ‘No more dandelion juice! Less laundry, though perhaps more coughing.’
Mrs Grainger was dismissed, but not before Horatia had thrown her one last question.
‘How old are you, Mrs Grainger?’
Realizing the significance of the question and afraid to answer, Mrs Grainger’s eyes darted swiftly around the room as if she were looking for the answer in the bookcase, behind the mantel clock or hanging from the tapestry face screen that sat before the fire.
‘Sixty-two,’ she said at last.
By this time, Horatia was sitting at her desk, running her eyes over the papers regarding the granting of Royal Mail contracts. She looked up from her paperwork. ‘Goodness. I don’t suppose you’re likely to be around when Alicia May is ready for the nursery.’
She didn’t see the look of terror on Mrs Grainger’s face, but knew it was there. Smarting from Duncan’s news regarding Tom and Blanche, Horatia had needed to lash out at someone. Mrs Grainger had chosen the wrong moment.
* * *
Still sick at heart after seeing Blanche with Nelson, and then having to tell Clarence that his mother was dead, Tom had stayed with Conrad rather than going back to Marstone Court or to the Miriam Strong.
A new centrifugal filtering system was being installed, and Tom assisted. Using his hands and working out what pipe work and machinery went where helped occupy his mind and keep darker thoughts at bay.
Conrad’s shadow fell over him just as he was fixing the central balance of the system. The big German jerked his head casually as he slid his pipe into the corner of his mouth. ‘We have a spy. I have seen a man hiding outside and he is watching us.’
Disturbed, Tom turned back to the job in hand to gather his thoughts. The spy couldn’t possibly be informing on Conrad. Emmanuel had given that job to him, not that he’d actually done any. He liked Conrad too much for that and had ended up helping him, much to Emmanuel’s displeasure.
‘I hadn’t noticed him,’ said Tom, ‘though I will keep an eye out in future.’
‘You think he is watching you, not me?’ asked Conrad.
Tom laughed, rubbed the grease from his hands on to his trousers, and shouted at the foreman to oversee the fixing of pipes to the new system now that the main tank was in place. He turned with Conrad towards the pleasant little office, which was painted green with windows that looked out over the river.
Conrad walked with head bowed, hands buried deep in his pockets, a habit common in tall men who wished to appear shorter.
‘We will see if this man is following me or you,’ said Conrad after the door to the office he shared with Tom was firmly closed. ‘I have to go somewhere with my colleagues.’ He patted his broad waistline and smiled in a satisfied manner, opened a drawer and brought out a big book, the same book Tom had seen beneath his arm before.
‘You are wondering?’ Conrad asked, his bright eyes sparkling with barely suppressed amusement, or so it seemed to Tom, who slumped into a chair and shook his head.
‘Not really.’
Conrad’s smile almost split his face in two. ‘Your uncle thinks I am making covenants with my compatriots in the Sugar Bakers Association. He does not trust us because most of us are Germans.’
Conrad was an instinctive man and was not easily fooled.
‘I trust you.’
‘I know you do. But your uncle does not. Perhaps he has sent another spy because his first one failed him?’
Tom smiled at the inference and shook his head. Conrad had known from the start that he’d been placed in the refinery for more than one reason.
‘But you do attend a lot of meetings, Conrad.’
Conrad placed the book on the desk and pushed it towards him. ‘The Bible. We are Lutherans and have been holding services at each other’s houses. Now we are going to build our own church. We have been making plans, meeting, pooling our resources in order to purchase a piece of land. Tell that to your uncle. He is invited to attend once we have built it.’
Tom rested his head on his hand. ‘Sir Emmanuel’s ambitions are confined to this life rather than the hereafter. No doubt he’s depending on bluffing his way into heaven when the time comes.’
‘He will fail. He looks less than an angel,’ Conrad said with a laugh.
‘Not pretty enough,’ remarked Tom with a smile, thought of Blanche and fell into silence.
Conrad too fell silent with his own thoughts, which turned out to be much the same as Tom’s.
‘And how is the girl who makes kites and likes chocolate?’ he asked. ‘Miss Blanche Bianca.’
Tom remembered the way Conrad had looked at Blanche and felt a pang of jealousy. ‘Half thinking of going back to Barbados,’ he said as if it were the honest truth, though he knew full well that Blanche had changed her mind.
‘That would be a very great shame,’ said Conrad. He took a sheaf of paper from his desk. ‘Will you give this to her?’
Tom took it. It was a sealed letter.
‘I would like to make a contract with her to look after my children. As I said to you, it’s clear she loves children and I think it would be good – for us and for her,’ said Conrad, his blue eyes thoughtful behind the plume of smoke that rose from his pipe.
‘Yes,’ said Tom, envisaging Blanche employed as a governess in the Heinkel household, which was less demanding that the Strong family and without the autocratic atmosphere of Marstone Court. He’d avoided her since witnessing the scene among the silver birch trees. However, he took the letter and slid it into his belt.
‘So, who do you think this man is?’ asked Conrad, reverting to their initial subject of discussion.
Thoughtfully, Tom flicked his fingers at the chair arm. ‘Is he out there now?’
Conrad sighed and nodded. ‘I think so.’
Tom followed him to the second floor of the refinery. Rows of windows let in plenty of light by which to work. The building had been so constructed because unshielded candle flames were too much of a hazard. Even now, sugar refineries were notoriously difficult to insure. Pressed tightly into one of these windows, Tom and Conrad gazed at the scene on the ground without being seen themselves.
Like a dockside rat, the spy lurked between a mountain of barrels and bales of charcoal.
‘Do you know him?’ Conrad asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Tom grimly. ‘That’s Reuben Trout.’
‘He is not a friend?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. He is not a friend.’
* * *
Jimmy Palmer had drunk too much. In his fuddled brain he dreamed he was hot and that someone was pressing a blanket over his head. He couldn’t breathe. If he could just get the blanket away from his mouth…
He pushed at i
t. The blanket disappeared and still he couldn’t breathe. Shedding the euphoric comfort of dreams, he blinked his eyes open, but saw nothing. The pungency of burning caulk assaulted his nostrils like grains of hot sand. Just a dream, he thought, as his eyelids got heavy and began to close. Just a dream…
‘Mr Palmer! Mr Palmer!’
With great difficulty, he blinked his eyes open again. Someone was calling him and hammering on the cabin door… Smoke was pouring under the door and the first flames were licking at its base. Coughing and spluttering, he roused himself to the point of one foot landing on the floor. If he hadn’t been drunk, perhaps he’d have been quicker, but just as he managed to put his second foot on the floor, someone outside shouted, ‘Clarence! Get out!’
Jimmy heard no more. A wall of flame spread like an opening fan from the door and along the walls. The force threw him back on to his bed and this time he would not wake up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Miriam Strong was no more. Tom was on his way home from the refinery when he saw the flames rising above the roof of the Hole in the Wall.
Dreading what he would find, he spurred his horse through the narrow streets, street vendors, urchins, sailors and packmen diving out of his way.
The boys, black with soot and shivering in their nightshirts, huddled in a group against the tavern wall, staring with unblinking eyes at the remains of the ship. For most of them, it was the only home they’d ever known.
Mirrored reflections of the flames skidded over adjacent windows and highlighted the terror in the boys’ faces.
‘Is everyone safe?’ he shouted. ‘Is anyone still on her?’
No one answered. Dumb with fear, the boys stared up at him. Tom didn’t hesitate.
He organized a human chain, pails of water passed hand to hand. The ship was insured, but there was no time to knock the men of the insurance company’s pumping engine out of bed. Help was needed now, and although there were onlookers, men used to working as a team would be best.
