Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  Sensing his surging anger, the woman took a step back, her arms crossed over her chest. ‘She got rid of him before you got back. I want money to keep quiet about it. Just imagine gentlefolk finding out about it. Just imagine what they’d say, all the sniggers and the nasty remarks. Couldn’t let you see him, could she? Couldn’t let you see what colour he was!’

  It was as though every drop of blood had frozen in his body. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. His jaw hurt because he was clenching it fit to split bones.

  When he at last found his voice, he wondered at its calm. Perhaps it’s not mine, he thought. It sounded like that of a judge about to pronounce the death sentence: cold, calm and very far away. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I was the monthly nurse, brought in then discarded like an old boot. The wet nurse was annoyed too, though even if you’re half blind, when you’ve got a breast full of milk, there’s always someone wanting it.’

  The history of the Strong family was peppered with stories of children sired by their forebears on African slaves. Horatia’s own father had sired such a child, Blanche, and even Horatia’s grandmother had been of dubious parentage.

  ‘The fact that my child may have been darker than expected is of little concern to me. I only care that he is dead, though I wish most heartily that he were still alive. Now leave me in peace, Daisy Draper, and never, ever mention this to me again. Is that clear?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Daisy exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously enough to part it from her neck. ‘He ain’t dead! He ain’t dead! Or at least, he weren’t when I took him away.’

  Daisy’s legs buckled beneath her as Tom gripped her shoulders, his eyes black with fury. ‘He didn’t die?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. After yer missus saw what colour it was, the doctor told me to take it away. Doctor Owen said he was a throwback and that a lot of plantation owners got a touch of black ink in their blood. It happens now and again.’

  Tom swallowed his anger and forced himself to speak calmly, his teeth aching with the effort. ‘Where did you take him?’

  She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, a conniving smile curling across her mouth. ‘I was paid very well to keep my mouth shut.’

  Her eyes narrowed as though she were weighing up exactly how much he was worth. The stench of gin and stale sweat seemed suddenly more acute.

  Tom’s nostrils flared and his lips curled like a rabid dog about to bite. There was money in his pocket; it would have been so easy to take it out and give it to her, but he stopped himself. He slid his hand across his chest and into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I want to know where you took him.’

  Her eyes followed his hand. ‘I need money. I’ve got to go away. She tried to kill me. I knows it was ‘er!’

  Tom’s blood could run no colder. ‘You’re talking about my wife?’

  ‘I asked her for money on account that I’d kept me peace, but wadn’t paid enough to keep quiet for ever. She refused, so I told ‘er I would tell you. Only fair that a man should know the truth after all. But then someone tried to kill me. If the bobbies should ever hear of it…’

  Tom took a handful of sovereigns from his pocket. ‘Five!’ he said, holding one between his finger and thumb. ‘Five sovereigns.’

  Her eyes followed the progress of each one as he counted them into her outstretched hand.

  ‘Now tell me,’ he said once her fingers had clenched over them.

  ‘I took him to St Philip’s Workhouse. They’ve got a revolving door there for foundlings. I put ‘im in and turned the door. Brave little mite, he was. Didn’t cry once.’

  But Tom wasn’t listening. Blinded by tears, his fists clenched in anger, he was striding off towards Marstone Court. As he exited the lych-gate, thunder rolled over the Mendip hills, the sky darkened and the first drops of rain began to fall.

  * * *

  By the time he got to the house, he was soaked through. Rain lashed against the windows and the frames rattled in the wind. It felt as though Marstone Court was being shaken to its foundations.

  One of the footmen approached him with a Turkish towel. He brushed it aside as he strode past.

  ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘She’s entertaining, sir.’

  ‘We weren’t expecting anyone.’

  ‘It was on the off-chance, sir. The gentleman was passing.’

  He fully expected to find Septimus Monk, in fact he wanted it to be him. If there was one person likely to be behind the attack on Daisy Draper, it was Monk. Without bothering to knock, he swung open the library door.

  Horatia was sitting in the leather armchair behind her father’s desk, a huge piece of furniture that must have taken half a cherry orchard to make.

  Sitting opposite her, and rigid with fury, was Max Heinkel.

  Tom held out his hand and Max rose to his feet, but hesitated before he shook it. Tom was glad when he did and, for one dreadful moment, was tempted to outpour everything that was in his heart, everything that the dreadful Daisy Draper had told him, not just as one man to another, but as father to son.

  Max looked far from happy. ‘I’ve only just heard about Martin Lodge – and about Horatia’s purchase of Webber’s. I have a mortgage with the bank for ten thousand pounds. I have plans for expansion.’

  ‘I assured him that everything would be fine,’ said Horatia. There was a rustling of layers of gown and petticoat as she came out from behind the desk, a smile fixed to her face. ‘No one is going to call in anyone’s debts. My purchase of the bank makes good business sense. I’m also considering entering the insurance market. I think there are good profits to be made there.’ With a sidelong look at Tom, she slid her arm through that of Max and began to usher him out of the door. ‘You have nothing to fear, my dear boy. You may carry on with your refining for as long as you wish. We will not interfere. Now how is your mother? Is she out of mourning? I do think black is rather unbecoming on a dark-skinned woman. She’ll be glad to wear something brighter. Is she keeping busy?’

  Max looked perturbed, but answered politely.

  ‘Yes. She serves on the Board of Governors for St Philip’s Workhouse. She hopes to do some good there.’

  Tom sat at his wife’s desk, an open file in front of him, and watched her being the perfect hostess until the door was closed and Max had left. In the back of his mind he noted the coincidence of Blanche’s involvement with St Philip’s.

  ‘What a nice young man – all things considered,’ Horatia said, turning back to face him. ‘He has your features; the same jaw, the same broad shoulders. I don’t think Blanche has passed on many of the Strong family traits. He doesn’t come across as a tenacious businessman. He’s too sentimental and really believes that my bank will continue to pour money into that broken-down refinery—’

  She stopped, suddenly aware that Tom was scrutinizing the papers in front of him. Something about his demeanour pulled her up short.

  ‘What’s that you’re looking at?’

  He flicked at the folder. ‘Various household expenses over the last few months – including the expenses incurred for our son’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh, darling!’

  She swept round the corner of the desk, positioned herself behind his chair and draped her arms around his shoulders, her chin resting on his head.

  ‘Imagine how I feel,’ she said, reaching over him and attempting to close the file, ‘But what’s done is done, and you really shouldn’t torture yourself like this.’

  Her perfume was heady, but although her cheek was warm against his, Tom felt as though he were swimming in an Arctic sea. He closed his eyes and thought of the child she had borne. How could she have done it? He wanted to strike her, to tell her he would never forgive her and the child must be rescued from St Philip’s Workhouse. It felt as if he were drowning in a sea of power struggles, problems and disappointments. Like a swimmer, he struggled to the surface.

  He picked up a piece of paper and waved it in her face. �
��So this is the bill for the funeral?’

  ‘Darling…’

  She tried to tear it from his hand. He kept it out of her reach.

  ‘Including the inscription on the family vault.’

  ‘Thomas—’

  ‘Why did you bother to go to all that trouble for an empty coffin?’

  For a brief moment he could not hear her breathe. He felt her body go rigid against his back, her arms like iron.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I cannot believe the extent of your deceit. I cannot believe that you would have thought me so callous as not to accept our child.’

  He turned and looked up at her. Her eyes were as round as Emerald’s on the day Martin Lodge had shot himself. She was shocked that he knew, but more than that, she was afraid.

  ‘Horatia, I know that there is African blood in the Strong family through your grandmother. And if he was a throwback to that blood, surely you knew I would accept that? He was my son, for God’s sake. Our ancestry makes us what we are. We can’t alter that. I understand your fears about what people might say. But me, Horatia? You could have trusted me.’

  He knew his eyes were misty as he looked up at her. Horatia’s surprised expression seemed to hold her speechless. She just looked at him, seemingly lost in emotions that she could not put into words. Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to speak. Tom couldn’t remember ever seeing her so tongue-tied.

  ‘I had to do what was best,’ she said at last. ‘I’d had a long labour, but I was so looking forward to you coming home. When the doctor told me what colour he was I was devastated, even though he said he’d seen throwbacks in families before.’ She fluttered her eyelashes, not in a provocative way like a young, silly girl, but because she was genuinely flustered, incapable of providing an explanation. She couldn’t find the courage to tell him that she had actually seen the child herself, had held him in her arms and looked on his dark complexion. He would think too badly of her. At last she managed to quell her heaving breasts and gave him the only defence she could.

  She looked at her husband pleadingly. ‘I told him to do what was best for the child. I thought he had, Tom, I really thought he had.’

  It was the closest he’d ever seen Horatia to hysteria. She clung to his arm, and bit her bottom lip as the tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. And she’d called him Tom, not the usual Thomas.

  ‘I did what I thought was best,’ she repeated, her voice small and her eyes screwed up, her cheeks pink. ‘But I couldn’t bear to tell you the truth, so I pretended he’d died. Doctor Owen took care of everything.’

  ‘The child must be brought home,’ he muttered.

  ‘No!’

  Her voice echoed around the room. He looked at her in surprise. How quickly her mood had changed. The pleading, the tears and the pink cheeks had all disappeared. There was fire in her eyes and her skin was pale.

  ‘You must not do that, Thomas. I made the decision in your absence. I took great care in explaining his removal. How do you think I could possibly explain his reappearance?’

  In one instant also, Tom’s heart hardened. ‘He’s my son!’

  ‘And would you ruin the lives of your other child – indeed – your other children for the sake of this one?’

  The chillness of her voice cut him like a knife.

  He took in the icy eyes, the unyielding set of her chin and the tightness of her pink lips. He recalled what he had just heard her say after letting Max out.

  ‘You’re going to call in his mortgage.’

  The hem of her dress made a sweeping sound as she drifted to the window and stood looking out of it, head turned away from him.

  ‘I want a new refinery at Avonmouth. I want one, sole refinery with the Strong family owning the controlling interest. I’ve already got a buyer for The Counterslip.’

  It was like looking at a stranger, features you were used to hiding the real person within.

  His tone was bitter. ‘You want everything your own way, Horatia.’

  Her shrug was almost imperceptible. ‘It is the way I am. Born a Strong, always a Strong. Unlike you, Tom. You are a Strong in name only. That’s what makes you so attractive.’ She smiled. It didn’t last, but froze on her face as her tone hardened. ‘And that is what also makes you so vulnerable. Yes, Tom. I will have things my way. If you take it upon yourself to search for the child, I could not possibly contemplate keeping Emerald in this house one moment longer. You must see that. There would be no alternative but to send her away to school. The public shame would be too much to bear. Her prospects would be ruined, perhaps for ever. And then, of course, there is Max… I could reconsider his position, perhaps allocate shares in the Avonmouth refinery to him… Otherwise… his mortgage is large… I would have to review it. So do remember I might publicly proclaim my brother, who also happens to be his mother’s half-brother, as his father. Imagine the shame. Imagine the scandal!’

  ‘You would really do that,’ he said, his voice little above a whisper.

  She nodded. Her eyes glittered. She meant what she said.

  Suffocated by her presence, and all affection for her finally torn from his heart, Tom left the room. He would not chance her using Max to get her own way with him. He would go to St Philip’s and find the child himself.

  It occurred to him later that she had not asked him how he knew.

  ‘Because you know who told me,’ he muttered to himself. Hands buried deep in his pockets, he watched the moon rise over the vast parkland that surrounded Marstone Court. ‘Which also means that you are indeed the one who tried to dispose of Daisy Draper.’

  * * *

  The next day he rose at dawn, refused breakfast and made his way to the stables. A groom doffed his hat as he entered the stall of his favourite horse, Rangoon, a chestnut hunter.

  ‘Is he fed and watered?’ he asked, running his hand over the muscular neck, the veins proud of the flesh, rippling beneath his touch.

  ‘Aye, sir. I was just rubbing him down,’ said the freckle-faced groom, showing him the curry-comb.

  ‘Good.’

  The groom watched in amazement as Tom fetched a saddle and bridle and proceeded to tack-up the animal himself.

  Tom hardly noticed him. His mind was set.

  It was good to breathe the clean air of early morning. Although the servants were up and about, his wife was not. He’d stolen in and looked at his sleeping daughter before leaving. She was so innocent, lying clean and warm in her own little bed, safe in the knowledge that she was cared for and loved. But what of his son? Where was he sleeping? Who cared for him?

  The birds were singing. Usually he enjoyed their song and looked for them as they twittered and chattered among the hedgerows, perhaps arguing over the surfeit of grubs and worms that slid through the wet earth of a ploughed field. Not today. Rabbits, squirrels and game birds dashed out of the way of Rangoon’s galloping hooves. The traffic intensified as he neared the city: farmers driving cows or sheep before them, on their way to the slaughterhouses in Bedminster, Greenbank and St Philip’s; dairy drays, heavy with milk churns, trundled their way to the city dairies where the creamy milk would be turned into cheese, butter or taken by smaller conveyances from door to door where eager maids or housewives came out with jugs and a penny for every pint.

  To get to St Philip’s meant crossing the city centre at the drawbridge, correctly known as St Augustine’s Bridge. From there he travelled the wider alleys of the Pithay into Old Market and out towards the Bath Road, spurring his horse on to greater effort until the sweat flew up into his face.

  By the time he got to the Workhouse, the animal’s heaving sides were dark and wet. He pulled the animal to a steady walk, feeling guilty. ‘Sorry, old fella.’

  His attention to the horse was short-lived. The sight of the Workhouse walls shocked him and reminded him of Bristol Gaol. He grimaced as he remembered his short stay there before he’d been cleared of a false murder charge.

  It w
as early, a little before seven. The labourers, who mostly worked at the cotton factory in Barton Hill or in the other small businesses in the busy little back streets, had already reported to work. Tradesmen, bakers, butchers and lamp oil sellers were out on their rounds. A milk cart went past. The measures used for ladling out the milk hung from a rack around the four churns and rattled against them as the cart plodded past.

  ‘Won’t see nothing yet,’ shouted the milkman.

  Tom turned to him with a questioning look.

  ‘They does the entries on Wednesdays only. You won’t see no queue today.’

  Tom turned his horse’s head and kept pace with the milk cart. ‘They actually refuse people entry to that place? I thought anyone who was destitute could enter.’

  The milkman had a weather-worn face, the sort used to rain, snow, hail or shine. He winked knowingly. ‘The Reverend Smart keeps a tight ship. Places for three hundred paupers, no more and no less. It’s always full.’

  Tom asked the question that was on his mind. ‘And what about babies?’

  Bringing his milk cart to a standstill, the milkman pointed at a small doorway that seemed strangely made and oddly dark. ‘See that? That there door revolves. Poor young women who have strayed from the straight and narrow put their babies in there and turn the door. The babe goes inside, and the young woman stays on the outside, her identity and her shame shielded from them on the inside. No young woman wants her good name destroyed, does she? No young man either, come to that.’

  Tom thanked him for his help and the milkman went on his way, whistling a merry tune that the birds in nearby trees seemed to pick up.

  Tom turned his horse again and looked at the grim building. The sight of it made him feel more melancholy than he’d ever felt in his life. The temptation to hammer on the door and demand entry was overpowering, but something the milkman had said lay heavy on his mind: No young woman wants her good name destroyed… no young man either….

  If he did hammer on that door, take the child – if it was still there – and return to Marstone Court with it, Horatia would wreak havoc in all their lives, especially his but more importantly, those of Emerald and Max. He knew there was no chance whatsoever that Horatia would publicly admit being the mother of a coloured child and, no matter what he did with the baby, she would get her own back. Max would be her prime target and Emerald would be sent away. There had to be another way.