by Erica Brown
He would have dozed off right away, but a slight sound that was not a horse or a rat or a mouse or a bat eased like a squeaking door out of the darkness.
Opening his eyes, he lay completely still, waiting to hear the sound again before putting it down to imagination. There was silence for a while, but just as his eyelids flickered with tiredness, he heard it again.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he rose up from the hay and listened. There it was. A footstep.
Suddenly he felt vulnerable. His heart began to hammer in his chest. If Tom Strong caught him, he’d be dead.
Cunning and lying had always got Trout out of tight corners up until now. Although he was getting old, these attributes still served him well. Keeping very still, he felt for the stone beer bottle, his fingers barely disturbing the straw. The stone was cold. Slowly, he wound his fingers around the bottle’s neck as the pus from his boil seeped down the side of his nose. He couldn’t hope to outfight Tom Strong, but whatever happened, he vowed he would not go down without a struggle.
The footsteps came closer. A long shadow fell in front of him. Distorted by the light behind, it was hard to judge who it was, but Reuben Trout was taking no chances. When flesh and blood replaced shadow, he hurled himself forward.
Whoever it was struck at him first. He heard his head crack as something heavy smashed down on it. Blood blinded him and mixed with the pus from his boil, seeping into his mouth and over his chin.
He might have choked on it, but another blow landed on his head, and this one was fatal.
‘That’s for my mother,’ said Clarence, breathless from his exertion with the ironworker’s mallet.
Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned.
‘What have you done?’ Tom could hardly believe what he was seeing. Clarence had taken the revenge that should have been his.
‘I had to,’ said the boy, his eyes wide and bright in his dirty face.
‘Get out of here!’ He snatched the mallet from the boy’s hand and pushed him towards the door. ‘Get out of here. Go down to the old warehouse opposite where the ship used to be.’
Tom felt the stickiness of blood on the hand with which he’d pushed the boy. ‘But clean yourself up first. Get rid of that blood or they’ll be hanging you.’
Clarence looked puzzled. Tom didn’t have much time to explain. ‘You’ve had enough problems in your life. Get out of here. I’ll deal with this.’
The boy obeyed, though hesitated at the door. Then he asked, ‘Are you my father?’
The question took Tom by surprise. It also clutched at his heart. He shook his head. ‘No, son. But I wish I was.’
‘So do I,’ said the boy, and was gone.
Tom stared down at the grim corpse. This was murder and he’d taken the boy’s guilt upon himself. Once his debt to Reuben Trout was paid, he’d had every intention of seeking out Blanche, of asking at every ship on the quay to see if she’d booked a passage back to Barbados. Failing that, he would have enquired at every inn, every boarding house along the quay. Clarence had changed all that.
He could not allow the boy to take the blame. He would have killed Trout anyway and hadn’t really considered what he would do after that. Now he had only one option. He had to take berth on a ship, even if only as an able seaman. The Americas or Australia would be the best bet. Perhaps Boston, perhaps Botany Bay. The only thing that would stop him going would be if he found Blanche. He could protest his innocence. After all, Trout was a well-known ruffian. Anyone could have done it. But Tom had been asking questions and there were many who’d bear witness to that, especially Cuthbert Stoke, who must be aching for revenge after losing money on his last fight.
Leaving Trout to the devil and the darkness, Tom made his way to the quay and immediately found a ship needing a captain, the last having dropped dead after forty years at sea. From there he made his way to Somerset Parade. He had to get a message to Blanche.
Hammering at Conrad Heinkel’s front door in the middle of the night would attract the attention of neighbours. He didn’t want to be seen, or have Conrad implicated.
A high wall surrounded the garden at the rear of Conrad’s new house in Redcliffe Parade. He remembered an arched door of stout oak set into the wall, mostly used by servants.
The access lane at the rear of the properties was dark and narrow. Tom felt his way along the wall, glad there was no moon, though the darkness impaired his progress. At last his fingers touched the gate handle, an iron ring hanging like the nose ring of a giant bull. He twisted it and pushed at the gate and found it locked.
He felt the stones of the wall. Unlike the house, which was built of smoothly finished Bath stone, it was rough, uneven and had useful footholds. Always good at climbing trees at Marstone Court, Tom used that skill now. His muscles further strengthened by the physical demands of a sailing ship, he clambered up and over the wall.
When he got to the back door, he stopped. Hammering at the back door was as bad as hammering at the front. Even if the neighbours weren’t disturbed, the servants would be.
Looking up at the windows of the first floor, he calculated the exact position of Conrad’s bedroom. He knew it was at the back of the house overlooking the garden, because he knew that Conrad didn’t sleep well at times. After lighting his pipe, he sometimes stood at his bedroom window remembering his wife and how they used to walk together in the moonlight. Just as he thought that, the moon came out from behind the clouds making the garden seem as if it were covered in a silver cobweb.
It was luck, pure luck! He heard a window being opened, then smelt the aroma of good, strong Virginia. He stepped back and looked up.
‘Conrad,’ he whispered.
Conrad’s head appeared out of the window. He wore no nightcap and no nightshirt either as far as Tom could tell.
‘Tom?’
‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’
Conrad nodded.
A minute later a flickering candle bobbed behind the scullery window and Conrad, dressed in a red quilted dressing gown, opened the door. He appeared apprehensive. Not surprising, thought Tom, being disturbed at this time of night.
For a moment, it seemed as though he wasn’t going to invite him in, but then thought better of it. The candle was balanced on the edge of the copper, a scoop of a thing where Mrs Porter, the laundress, beat and boiled the family’s laundry. Conrad closed the door a fraction, though not entirely. It was as if he was leaving Tom room to escape, as if he knew…
Quieter than usual, Conrad sucked on his pipe.
‘I’m going away,’ said Tom. ‘I’m skippering the Dominion to Boston tomorrow – or perhaps I should say today.’ He smiled, though inside he hurt.
‘I will miss you. The refinery will miss you. But I understand.’ Tom presumed he was referring to Jeb’s recent death and that he understood how difficult it was for him at Marstone Court. But he couldn’t leave it at that. He had to tell Conrad the truth.
He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. Tonight a man was killed.’ He went on to tell him about finding young Clarence standing over the body of Reuben Trout. ‘Some may suspect me, but I want you to know the truth. I also want to give young Clarence a chance to get on with his life. Jeb gave me that chance. I feel obliged to do the same for Clarence.’
Conrad sunk down on to a chair, shook his head and rubbed at his face with his big, meaty hands. ‘I thought you came here because…’ He sighed and chose not to finish the sentence. He looked up at him. ‘I will keep your secret, Tom.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand. As they shook, Conrad smiled and looked suddenly sheepish. ‘I thought you had come to see Blanche and to tell her not to marry me.’
Tom was stunned. ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘She is here. At present she is governess to my children. But I have asked her to marry me. It was in the letter you delivered for me?’
It was damned hard to hide his jealousy, but he did the best he could. ‘Forgive me, Conrad. I forgo
t. Is she well?’
Conrad told him how distraught Blanche had been when he’d found her, and how even now she was asleep upstairs. ‘In a separate bedroom, of course, until we are married,’ he said. ‘She has too much fire to be a servant, but she will make a good wife, one that will suit Conrad Heinkel anyway. We marry the day after tomorrow. Quick, yes? Tongues will wag!’
Tom didn’t ask whether the Strong family would be informed or invited to the wedding. Social niceties meant nothing to Conrad. He did what he deemed right and as he pleased.
He thought about demanding to see her, but what did he have to offer? Word would spread that he’d killed Rueben Trout. He certainly couldn’t deny wanting to, and he couldn’t let Clarence take the blame. Just as he’d taken advantage of Jasper’s death, so Clarence could build a new life if Tom took the blame overseas with him.
‘I’m glad for you,’ he said, though it pained him to say it.
‘Good voyages, Tom.’
‘Good voyages,’ Tom repeated, the tightness in his chest seeming to prevent him from saying anything more. Although he wanted to leave a message for Blanche, telling her that his feelings had not changed, regardless of everything, what right did he have to come between them now? What could he give her compared with Conrad?
They parted, and although Tom knew that Conrad watched him until he disappeared through the arched doorway, he never looked back.
* * *
The breakfast table was set with the prettiest china that Blanche had ever seen in her life and every morning since moving in at Redcliffe, she’d taken great pride in helping the maid lay it out the way she liked it. Conrad had told her it was called Dresden and his wife had liked it just as much as she did.
Realizing it meant a lot to him, she always made a point after breakfast of helping to take it to the kitchen. Both the parlour and kitchen servants had been bemused, eyeing her warily as though trying to work out her motive. Although she tried to make friends with them, to put them at their ease, she found the task impossible. The moment she entered the kitchen, their gossiping stopped, except for this particular morning when she caught the tail end of the conversation.
One of the scullery maids was saying, ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I opened the window and looked out. That man was out there, the one who works with the master at the refinery but used to be a sea captain.’
‘You mean Tom Strong?’ said the cook with a frown. ‘Now what would he be doing here in the middle of the night?’
‘I couldn’t hear what was said, but…’
The moment they realized that Blanche was in the doorway, the conversation ceased.
She must have looked like a ghost to them. Her hands shook so much that the china tinkled like broken glass on the tea tray. She wanted to ask them more, to shake it out of the scullery maid if necessary. Tom had clearly come to see Conrad, so she’d ask him why Tom had come here and why he hadn’t told her.
Conrad’s valet was brushing the shoulders of his favourite frock-tailed coat. It was green with black trim around the collars and cuffs, a little ostentatious for wearing to the refinery, but he liked it.
Blanche stood in the doorway, her fingers locking and unlocking with agitation.
Conrad smiled at her. ‘Is something the matter, my dear?’
‘Yes.’
Sensing her mood, Conrad ordered his valet to leave.
Blanche closed the door behind him. She hardly gave Conrad chance to cross the room before she said, ‘What was Tom doing here last night?’
‘Ah!’
‘Did he come to see me?’
Conrad thought about it then shook his head. ‘No.’
‘So why was he here?’
As he always did when truth seemed the only course, Conrad sank into a chair and rubbed his cheeks with both hands. ‘He is going back to sea.’
Blanche was thunderstruck. She’d never see him again. ‘Did he mention me?’
Conrad thought about it. ‘You were mentioned. I told him we were to be married.’
Her bosoms heaved. It felt as though her heart was trying to escape from her chest.
Conrad Heinkel was not a hard man. He was also extremely honest and would not force a woman into marriage if she had the least doubt about doing so. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I wish you to become my wife, but I will not drag you to the altar. Say your goodbyes to Tom before he sails. I understand that you must. And if afterwards you feel you do not wish to marry me, I will understand.’
He refused the presence of the coachman and drove her himself to St Augustine’s Quay, but before they’d even got to St Augustine’s Bridge, more commonly known as the drawbridge, they could see that the tide was in and the ship had sailed.
‘We will still try,’ said Conrad calmly and whipped the horses into a canter, dust flying as they headed towards Rownham Landing.
The ship slid like a spoon over milk, pulled by one of the new steam tugs.
Hooves slid on the shiny cobbles as Blanche and Conrad followed the ship and the tide out of the floating harbour and towards Windmill Hill. By the time they’d traversed the narrow country lane that led up the hill, they were slightly ahead of the ship, but not by much.
Blanche leaped out of the carriage before Conrad had chance to help her out. The wind caught at her bonnet. It was almost warmer now, not cold as on the day she’d first arrived in Bristol.
Conrad stayed by the carriage. She was grateful for that, though she had no idea what Tom would do when and if he saw her. Leap over the side and swim ashore?
Men were climbing in the ship’s rigging, tying off sheets and making ready the sails for when they dropped the pilot, and slid out from the Avon into the Severn, the Bristol Channel and the open sea.
As the ship drew level, she saw a lone figure standing close to the helm. She could tell by the way he moved that he was giving orders, overseeing whatever was going on. When he shouted orders up into the rigging, she saw his head turn, his body stilled. He had seen her.
For one incredible instant they were alone together, confiding their innermost thoughts to each other, their regrets and their fears.
As the ship slid slowly by, he raised his hand in one final salute and Blanche raised hers. He was going where he had to be, and she was staying where she was needed.
She stood for a while until the ship had passed from view and the wind felt colder.
She’d brushed the tears from her eyes by the time she got back to Conrad who looked at her with concern.
‘Are you better now?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and managed to smile. ‘I’m better now.’ And she really thought she was.
Also by Erica Brown
The Strong Family Trilogy
Daughter of Destiny
The Sugar Merchant's Wife
Return to Paradise
First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Erica Brown 2005, 2018
The moral right of Erica Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630450
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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