by Erica Brown
‘I’m looking for a room for the night for me and me family.’
He heard her lips smacking as she took the stem of a slow-burning pipe from her mouth. ‘Come to the right place, then.’
Her voice was cracked, though strong, and her accent was similar to some he’d heard so far, though not exactly the same. He’d become aware of the strength of his own accent and that some people did not understand him very well, so he’d modulated his voice. Speaking more slowly seemed the best way forward.
Assessing the length of the boat and the fact that most of it was taken up with cargo, he took it she was not offering to share her home.
‘You know of somewhere, missus?’
‘I do. Four of you, is there?’
‘Yes.’ Pausing, he thought of the grim places he’d passed where the dirt on the windows matched the scum floating down in the harbour. ‘Don’t mean to be disrespectful, missus. But is it a clean place?’
‘Course! ‘Tis me sister’s place. Right there. Right there behind yer.’
The house she pointed at was thin as a reed and squashed between two larger buildings, one of which was a public house called The Three Horseshoes.
‘Ellbroad ‘ouse. That’s what me sister calls it. On account that the bridge is called Ellbridge, and the lane running at the side of the ‘ouse is called Broad Passage.’
Although he felt like throwing his arms around the woman’s neck, Samson’s gratefulness sang through his voice. ‘I am truly very grateful to you, missus,’ he said, taking extra care to talk slowly so there would be no misunderstanding.
‘She charges one and six a week for a room. Go knock on ‘er door. Tell ‘er Aggie sent you.’
Round-eyed with apprehension and shaking with exhaustion, Samson and his family approached Ellbroad House.
‘It looks clean.’
Samson glanced at his wife. Inwardly, he sighed with relief. Abigail had been miserably sick on the journey over and sullen since their landfall. A good sleep and a good meal and all would be well. They’d stay here until he found his Aunt Blanche.
* * *
The Demerara Empress, the biggest ship built for the Strong Shipping Line, was being unloaded of her cargo of sugar. All of it was destined for the riverside wharf of Heinkel’s Sugar Refinery, which was situated on a stretch of the river called The Counterslip that was too narrow for seagoing vessels. Onward transition required the use of a fleet of barges, a tiresome task costing both time and labour.
Four hogsheads to a net were being swung over the side by quayside cranes, which were operated by a hand-cranking mechanism. Each cask was then lifted onto the brawny backs of dockside labourers. In an unending crocodile, they heaved and puffed their way to a waiting barge.
Tom Strong frowned. He didn’t like his ships entering the narrower parts of the city docks, and he knew it couldn’t go on. Something had to be done if Heinkel’s was to survive. Max was young and Tom convinced himself that he’d be open to suggestions. It was just a question of persuading him to see sense.
He eyed the young man who stood next to him, the stubborn set of his jaw and the quickness of his eyes counting the barrels as they were taken from one vessel to another. There were so many things he would have liked to say to Blanche’s son – who was also his son – but he could not. Few people knew that there was any connection between them, and certainly not Max. All he could do was try to reason with him, to guide him as best he could but without arousing his suspicion.
‘This is a very big problem,’ he said, measuring his tone so he wouldn’t sound overbearing.
He knew he’d failed when he saw Max’s features set like cement. ‘It’s your ships that are too big.’
‘They’ll get bigger; and not just ours. It’s progress. Nothing can stop it from happening.’
‘I intend to try.’
Although exasperated, Tom maintained his equilibrium. This job had been foisted on him. Neither his shareholders nor his insurers were prepared to entertain the risk of berthing larger and larger steamships here for any longer. Much as it might dent Max’s pride, his inexperience was showing through.
‘I know how you feel, Max. It saddened me to see the demise of sail. You can’t imagine how it felt in the days when there was no steam pouring from a blackened stack, no smell of soot, just the wind in our sails, the cry of seabirds and the rush of water against the side of the ship. All those things are gone, and much as I would like to, there’s no turning the clock back. Steamships are getting bigger; that, I am afraid, is a fact.’
He waved a silver-topped cane at the ship, the toiling men and the barge needed to take the cargo from ship to refinery.
‘This is too slow a process, Max. Why don’t you reconsider a new property at Avonmouth where our ships can unload directly into the refinery? It could very well increase your output and make Heinkel’s the main refiner in Bristol.’
‘We do not restrict ourselves to Bristol!’
Tom looked at him, his stomach tightening when he saw his own blue eyes looking back, the dark blond hair streaked by sunlight, the handsome profile and the dusky complexion that would never pale with the years.
‘I’m sorry if I sound sharp, but do bear in mind that I am not the sole inheritor of this business,’ said Max. ‘My brother Hans handles the London side of the business in Limehouse and also our new refinery in Hamburg where we use both cane and beet products.’
Tom fixed his eyes on the activity before him rather than on Max’s worried frown. Persuading Max to make the move to Avonmouth was preferable to forcing him. He thought of Horatia’s grim determination to be bigger and better at everything they did: to own the largest plantation, the biggest shipping line – and become the one and only sugar refiner left in the city. It was not an impossible task; so many small refiners were shutting their doors because of transport, port and growing costs. Emmanuel Strong and Conrad Heinkel had formed a partnership over ten years before. If Max didn’t acquiesce, Horatia would brush him aside. They were her shares; a controlling number and, by her father’s will, her money was her own. The boy could end up ruined.
‘I trust your new refinery in Limehouse is going well?’ he said instead.
‘Very well, thank you. In fact, we may expand our operation there, although,’ he shrugged his broad shoulders, ‘Hamburg may be a better option. Carts from the fields rather than ships on the sea.’
Tom sensed that here was a chance to encourage the boy – he could still not quite see him as a man – in a direction more likely to reap success than staying in the old premises. He nodded affably. ‘That makes good sense, perhaps a better idea than transferring your operation to a new location in Bristol, given the tidal problems we have here—’
‘I will not neglect this place. My father built this business up from nothing when he first came here from Hamburg. This building was his dream. I will not close it and, despite the fact that you and your wife own shares in the company, I will fight you tooth and nail rather than close it down. I owe it to my father.’
It was like being hit hard in the face. Tom recognized his own stubbornness, and recalled the days when he’d been a bare-knuckle boxer. Hearing Max put his loyalty to his father before business sense was bad enough. But it was hearing him referring to Conrad as his father that really hurt. Yet what could he do? Conrad had brought Max up as his own. To tell him the truth would put a rift between them that might never heal.
‘I intend doing exactly as my father did,’ the young man added. ‘I intend that what my father left me will be left to my children, and to their children, and to their children’s children, all the way into the next century.’
Tom grasped the opportunity to change the subject and smiled. ‘It takes two to make children. Do you have a young lady in mind?’
The serious expression that Max always adopted when faced with older business associates vanished and a wide smile brightened his face.
It was his mother’s smile, and a feeling of grea
t pride, great love and great passion made Tom’s blood quicken.
‘Not yet,’ said Max, his cheeks colouring to a russet red. ‘But I will marry in time, I assure you of that. And then I shall have a son, perhaps many sons, and I will teach and guide them in the same way that my father did me. I cannot better him. He was a good man, a very good man, and I miss him very much.’
Again overcome with the pain he could never admit to, Tom turned his attention back to the quayside where the last of the hogsheads were being loaded into the barge. It would have been a dream come to true to admit his paternity. Instead, one son was dead and buried. The other didn’t know that his father lived, and circumstances would never allow him to find out.
Chapter Five
Horatia’s eyes glittered with excitement; the City Corporation’s plans for the new port at the mouth of the River Avon were spread out in front of her.
‘All this area here, here and here,’ said Septimus Monk, her lawyer. He pointed with a meticulously manicured finger. A single red ruby shone from the ring he wore.
‘How much land is available?’
She flung the question at him sharply and he was glad he’d preempted her interest. ‘All of it at present. Some of it would be very suitable for a sugar refinery.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She straightened and looked thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘Though a refinery is not part of my ongoing plans.’ She turned to him, smiling in the same way as some mothers when their young attain great things above their fellows. ‘I want that land.’
‘For a refinery?’
‘Certainly not. Thanks to our slow-acting City Corporation, the sugar trade will shortly be relocating to London. If I invest in a refinery at all, that is the place for it.’
‘And your shares in the Heinkel establishment on The Counterslip?’
‘I will sell them in order to buy the Avonmouth land.’
‘As you wish.’
The river, the sea and the land: at present mud flats, a shallow pool on a tidal river, with ducks, seagulls and all manner of other wildfowl. The present-day scene fell away. In years to come there would be a mighty dock there and the Strong family would control it.
‘Do you not approve?’
Laying down his quill pen, the lawyer clasped his hands in front of him, the fingers of one hand tapping lightly against the other. ‘On the contrary, I admire your foresight.’
Most men were wary of a strong-minded, clever woman. Septimus was not like that.
She smiled. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
He shrugged. ‘It makes sense. There used to be almost a hundred sugar refineries in this city. Now there are what – fifty?’
‘And becoming less. The river that used to be our lifeline is now our downfall. Ships are getting much bigger. I fear the Corporation may indeed have missed the boat. London is not tidal and the ships do not have to wind their way up a narrow river where one slip means catastrophe. London already has some of the biggest refineries in the country. Bristol’s time is at an end – at least for now.’
‘Hence a future port and future traffic?’
Face glowing with ideas, she said, ‘The land will be valuable. I shall be able to name my price. There is still a market for the importation and refining of cane sugar in the Bristol area, but one refinery will be enough given the improvements in refining methods in the past few years. Strong money will not be involved – except with regard to the land and buildings.’
‘Your foresight, as always, is impeccable – especially as you also own a shipping company. The transportation of merchandise is a very lucrative business.’
Their eyes met in mutual understanding.
‘You intend selling your property in Barbados.’
She looked delighted. ‘You do read my thoughts.’
On leaving the office of Septimus Monk, Horatia felt better than she had for a long time. Dealing with new ventures while trying to juggle the shortfalls of the old obliterated most thoughts of the child she’d named Isaiah.
But in the early hours of the morning, while the rest of the house slept and Tom snored gently beside her, she would suddenly awaken from dreaming of the child. In consciousness, her thoughts of him continued. How was he? Was he feeding well? Had he put on any weight?
The spring sunshine had brought out a number of nursemaids into the vicinity of the ‘Barton’. The sound of babies crying, gurgling and laughing was like the water of a running brook; a tinkling mix of happiness, humour and sadness.
She closed the blind of her carriage as she headed back to Marstone Court, but the sound of the babies still rang around the flimsy window covering.
Behind her closed eyelids the visions of a new dock and a baby vied for space in her mind. The new development won. The world was moving on, and so was the Strong family.
* * *
Following Conrad Heinkel’s death, one of his colleagues, with whom her husband had served as a magistrate, asked if Blanche might like to become an official visitor of St Philip’s Workhouse. At the time she’d declined the suggestion and had stayed in mourning for two years, as her family flew the nest. Now, thanks to her doctor’s advice, and her stay in Bath, she coughed less, felt better and had become restless. This mood coincided with a visit from the wife of the magistrate, advising her of a place on the Board of Governors of St Philip’s.
She asked Max for his opinion. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘What if I said no?’
‘I think I’d like to do something.’
Max had smiled knowingly. ‘Mother, you will do whatever you want to do, no matter what I say.’
Dimples dented her cheeks. ‘Edith refuses to call it charity. She says I’m just being nosy.’
His amusement reflected her own. Edith, their housemaid, was also a very old friend. She and Blanche had been in service together at Marstone Court.
‘I suppose it is being nosy – but nicely so.’ His expression turned more serious. ‘And your cough?’
‘I’m perfectly well. I drank enough hot spring water in Bath to wash away a lifetime of infirmities.’
A worried look creased his brow. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t continue the treatment?’
With a disarming smile and a pat on each of his strong shoulders, she reassured him that she would go back to Bath the minute her throat began to tickle.
‘Do you want to come with me, Edith?’ she asked her on the day she was to present herself at the Workhouse.
Edith turned pale. ‘No, I bloody don’t,’ she muttered, and made a dash for the warm kitchen where a pot of tea and two buttered teacakes awaited her.
It had been a long time since she’d heard Edith swear, but Blanche understood her reasons. There’d been times when Edith hadn’t been far from destitute, and she had certainly known people who’d entered the Workhouse.
Blanche braced herself for the inevitable and dressed accordingly. She chose to wear a navy blue dress with a black velvet trim around the hem. Her cape and bonnet were also suitably sombre; navy blue and black velvet to match her dress.
Widows’ weeds and black bombazine had been her sole garments for the past two years. In her heart she would have loved to wear something in yellow or red, or she thought she would, until she had tried both colours on. Black, she’d decided as she’d reached for the navy blue, had become a habit. Progress towards brighter colours would come only slowly.
Edith came in to put the dresses away and Blanche studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, which was set into the main door of the wardrobe. Usually Edith chattered like a magpie, but today she was silent.
‘Edith?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ve known you for years, Edith. I know when something is wrong.’
Edith’s face, then her body seemed to collapse. She sank onto the bed. ‘It’s you going to that place.’
‘I’m only going to see if I can
help in some way – just as a visitor.’
‘No one can help those poor sods. Do you know that they separate husbands from wives, mothers from children?’
‘I had heard.’
‘And then there’s the babies.’
Blanche felt her blood turning cold. ‘What about the babies?’
Edith shook her head. ‘No matter. Anyway, you shouldn’t be going there. Your chest could get worse visiting a place like that.’
Blanche had told herself that she was completely recovered from her illness and did not want to be proved wrong. Perhaps Edith had heard her coughing during the night. Blanche sank down onto the bed beside Edith. They’d known each other for many years. There were few secrets between them.
She looked down at her gloves and fiddled with her fingers. ‘I have to admit that I feel a little nervous. I’ve never done this before and I’ll be all alone.’
She raised her eyes into Edith’s face. Eyes downcast, Edith was still grim-faced.
‘Are you sure you won’t come with me? I would be less nervous if you were there.’
Blanche really did feel nervous, but this was also one of those times when Edith needed taking out of herself. Her second husband, Jim Stormcloud, had not come home from sea. His ship had foundered off the coast of Canada. A few of the crew were picked up, but not him. Edith had taken it hard. Two widows together, they had given support to each other.
‘I do need new hats,’ she added. ‘I thought I would call in on Madame Mabel’s first and you could give me your opinion.’
The effect was instantaneous. ‘About time!’ Edith’s face brightened and she got to her feet. ‘I’m sick of seeing you in that wretched black bonnet.’
‘I haven’t got just one bonnet.’
‘Those that ain’t black are old-fashioned. It’s time you had new ones.’
Henry McDougal, the coachman who’d taken over after John had retired, was outside waiting for them.
By the time they reached Madame Mabel’s, Blanche’s stomach was tight with nerves and she was glad for the respite of such a trivial pursuit as trying on hats before reaching her destination.
