Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  ‘And little children suffer,’ whispered Blanche.

  ‘I think you mean, “suffer little children”,’ said Smart.

  ‘No. I do not.’

  She sensed she’d confused him. The Bible excerpts that coloured his speech, the texts decorated on the walls and ceilings were just that, mere decoration.

  Her head spun when she got to her feet and, although she was determined to visit the nursery, she knew she could not manage it today. Her obligation to Samson and his family would also be put aside for now. Somehow she would get them out of here, but had to be careful. Much as it grieved her to admit it, she would not hurt her family’s prospects.

  Despite her loathing of the man, she was grateful to lean on Smart’s arm as he led her out through the gate and helped her into her carriage. As he did so, Blanche saw Warden Tinsley slap the reins across the rump of a sway-backed nag pulling a cart. The cart held one of the strange beds she’d seen in the communal dormitory, the lid now closed on its occupant who had fallen asleep for ever. The cart stopped a few feet in front of her carriage, causing the matching chestnuts to snort as if they knew what the cart contained.

  ‘I bid you good day, Mrs Heinkel,’ said the Reverend Smart, raising his hat. ‘I’m just going to say a few words over the woman.’

  Blanche found it impossible to drag her eyes away from the coffin. Twenty years had passed since she’d first come to Bristol. If Conrad had not married her, could she too have met a pauper’s end?

  ‘Will anyone say a prayer over her grave when she arrives at the churchyard?’ she asked.

  Smart shook his head and nervously cleared his throat. ‘Oh no. No, of course not. At least, not for a while. She’s a pauper, you see. First she’ll go to the medical school. Those that die paupers always go to the medical school before burial.’

  She did not remember what happened next. The carriage was moving, or perhaps she was. Her eyes were becoming unfocused, her surroundings seeming to swim before her eyes. Whether she gave the order to the coachman, or whether Smart did, she would never know. The shivers, the fever, the sweating and the faintness returned along with a new spasm of coughs.

  By the time they arrived back at Somerset Parade, she was laid at full stretch on the seat. When she finally opened her eyes, she was in her own bed and it was the next morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Throughout the meeting, Tom was aware of Max’s hostility and felt helpless before it. Thanks to Horatia, the air between them was soured. Max was fiercely loyal to his father’s memory and would never willingly relinquish his holdings in The Counterslip property. But Horatia was right. The site would become less and less profitable. How to persuade Max that it would be best if he sold and built a new property at Avonmouth, or move to London?

  The meeting was being held in a room above the Corn Exchange. The sound of the city filtered in through the windows. Cabs jostled their way past the copper-topped corn nails outside the building where deals were still agreed and paid for ‘on the nail’. Carts carrying hay, wood, pigs and beer pushed aside street-sellers and red-robed judges on their way to the assizes.

  Tom watched the scene below, his hands folded behind his back.

  Behind him, Max repeated, ‘I will not shut The Counterslip. I owe it to my father.’

  Tom understood how Max was feeling. He too had been stubborn in his youth.

  The new chairman of Webbers, a man named Michael Forge, explained that it wasn’t really up to him. ‘You have to understand that the Strong family, through their acquisition of the bank, now have almost as many shares as you do.’

  ‘But not enough,’ snapped Max.

  Tom frowned as he continued to eye the street outside where a beggar’s dog was doing tricks with a ball and a hoop. Just as I have to, he thought. It was imperative he impressed on Max that he could lose everything if he didn’t agree. Saying it sounded easy, but how could he explain Horatia’s vindictiveness? Admitting the reason would surely lead to the truth, and now was not the time to admit he was his father.

  One positive aspect was that a brewery was interested in The Counterslip site. Unlike sugar refiners, breweries were not reliant upon large ships crossing the Atlantic. The hops they used came from Kent via the Thames and along the Avon and Kennet Canal. More hops came from Herefordshire, brought down the Severn on large barges designed specially for the job. Horatia had changed her mind about calling in the mortgage, so long as Max agreed to the sale. So far, Max had resisted. But what were his options?

  Tom turned and faced the meeting. There were six men there including himself and Max. Two of the others were shareholders. A clerk sitting next to Michael Forge took copious notes of the proceedings.

  Tom slid his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and blanched when he looked at Max. He saw himself in his eyes, but besides that, he saw his vulnerability. Max was trying very hard to act the part of the experienced businessman. For the first time he understood the weight of responsibility placed on the young man’s shoulders. He had a widowed mother and a younger sister to maintain. It couldn’t be easy, and his heart went out to him.

  ‘It makes sense, Max. Ships are getting bigger. The cost of transferring loads from ship to barge is making The Counterslip unprofitable. A decision has to be made – and quickly.’

  He saw the look of relief on the faces around him. No one had been willing to state the truth. They’d waited for him.

  ‘This is very true,’ said Michael Forge, folding his hands in front of him as though he were about to deliver a Sunday sermon. ‘It makes sense to sell The Counterslip site, purchase land at Avonmouth and build a new refinery there.’

  Max bowed and shook his head. Tom sensed his strain.

  ‘The cost of a new refinery would be exorbitant. My portion of profit from the sale of The Counterslip site would only amount to a quarter of the cost. Your portion, too,’ he said directly to Tom. ‘I take it the rest of the money would come from the Strong family and, indirectly, from this bank. Therefore, whereas now I hold over half the shares in the refinery, in future I would only own one quarter. The controlling interest would pass to the Strongs.’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I will hang on.’

  Despite the fact that he disagreed with his decision, Tom’s eyes shone with admiration. To the surprise of everyone there, Max had perfect understanding of what they were up to. The city that had once boasted over twenty sugar refineries had less than half that now and the figure would diminish even further. Those that were left must be larger and in the right position in order to compete in a shrinking market. Max understood that but was fighting to maintain control of his refinery.

  The meeting broke up soon after that in an uncomfortable silence. As they made their way along the landing to the staircase that would take them out into St Nicholas Market, Tom took the opportunity to speak to Max alone.

  ‘I understand your motives, and I sympathize.’

  Max eyed him warily. ‘You won’t persuade me otherwise until I am guaranteed a fair share of any planned relocation.’

  Tom nodded and noted the way Max’s chin jutted forward, proud of his bottom lip. ‘I understand that and will not try and persuade you otherwise. I think Conrad would have been proud of you.’

  The comment was well received. Max’s features relaxed a little. ‘You and my father were friends.’

  Tom looked down at his walking cane as he tapped it on the floor. ‘Yes. We were friends. And of course, I knew your mother.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  They walked down the stairs in silence. At the halfway point, Tom asked, ‘How is your mother? I haven’t seen her for some time.’

  Much to Tom’s alarm, Max looked downcast. ‘She has not been well. Damp and cold weather do not agree with her. She’s taking the waters in Bath at the moment. I did offer to buy her a house there, but she says not to. She insists the Ambassador Hotel suits her fine and not to waste money. It’s a comfortable place, though not so nice as being home, of cour
se. I think the waters do her good.’

  Tom briefly wondered whether Max could hear the thud of his heart. He had been trying to think of a suitable excuse for visiting Blanche at home. Now he didn’t need to. All he had to do was go to the Ambassador Hotel in Bath. No one would know. He would make sure of that.

  * * *

  Penance, thought Horatia, gazing at the gleaming silver cross dominating the high altar, the tip of its shadow almost reaching the hem of her skirt. Penance, that is what people used to do in payment for their sins. That’s what I should be doing. But what penance do I deserve?

  It was the third time she had called in at St Mary Redcliffe. Each time it followed a successful meeting with her lawyer, Septimus Monk. Her plans for diversifying away from sugar were going well, too well it seemed. Unencumbered by children, she moved like a man in the business world, and knew she was lucky. Few women ever reached their full mental potential. Her mind was bright with possibilities, figures added and subtracted, plans memorized, potential examined and analyzed.

  Soon, the Strong family fortune would no longer depend on sugar. Selling the plantation would be the most difficult task. A large number of investors and owners had pulled out of the West Indies altogether. Her only hope was to find someone willing to reap less profits than would have been expected in years gone by. Someone would be found. She was sure of it. Things were going extremely well, and it troubled her. Where was the retribution for what she’d done?

  Somehow, she was sure it would come. Success always came at a price. In time she would find out what hers would be. In the meantime she would continue to pray for forgiveness.

  The clergyman caught her on the way out. ‘You are becoming a regular visitor.’

  His smile was disarming. She’d approached the exit telling herself that she need not visit the church any more. But there was something in his eyes that brought her up short.

  ‘I had a need to come.’

  He nodded sagely, as though he were looking into her soul and had picked out the barbs that were hurting her. ‘Are you saying that your need no longer exists?’

  It wasn’t a habit of hers to fiddle with her fingers as some people did when they were wearing gloves, but she found herself doing it now. ‘Perhaps.’ She was unnecessarily sharp and regretted it. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He mistook her meaning. ‘Then you should tell those concerned that you are sorry.’

  She held her head pertly. ‘Not God?’

  His smile did not diminish. ‘If you are telling those concerned that you are sorry, you are indeed telling God.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You’re love struck,’ said Edith, and playfully pinched Max’s cheek, just as she’d done when he was little.

  He turned bright red and his serious expression was replaced with an irrepressible grin. ‘Sometimes you forget you’re a servant.’

  Grinning broadly, she nudged his arm. ‘And sometimes you forget that I’ve seen you without any clothes on and know what you’ve got to offer!’

  ‘I was only a child then.’

  ‘And you ain’t now. It’s time you was married.’

  Most people of Edith’s class would never have been so personal. But she wasn’t just a servant. She was his mother’s friend, was warm and chirpy and easily tolerated.

  ‘Ooow! Look!’ said Edith who’d spied a hansom pulling up outside the door.

  Max moved so fast that he was at her side almost before she knew it. He didn’t see her sidelong grin. His gaze was fixed outside the window. They both watched as Magdalene Cherry came tripping out of a cab with a hatbox dangling from one arm.

  ‘I can’t believe my mother’s bought another hat.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ said Edith. ‘She’s having her old ones redesigned in the same style the Queen’s wearing nowadays. Anyway, are you complaining? And don’t deny it; I know a lovesick puppy when I see one.’

  ‘She’s only a milliner, Edith.’

  He sounded sad and it touched her heart. ‘Are you saying she’s not good enough for you?’

  ‘I have a position, Edith. That’s what my family are likely to say.’

  Edith crossed her arms and eyed him as if she were about to lay a cane across his backside. ‘Don’t you go making yur excuses to me, Max, my boy. Don’t you go saying to me that she’s only good enough for a dalliance. Do you know how many poor girls have been dallied with and ended up with a bundle and their lives ruined?’

  Max tried to protest. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  Magdalene disappeared from their view behind one of the potted trees standing on either side of the door.

  ‘I’d better get that,’ said Edith as the sound of the knocker reverberated through the hallway. She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Can’t expect you to open the door for a common little milliner, can we?’

  ‘No… I expect…’

  He was going to say that one of the other maids would answer the door, and that Magdalene should be ushered into the drawing room, but Edith was gone.

  He listened as the door was opened. The sound of conversation filtered into the room, though he couldn’t work out what was being said. Then he heard a light laughing, the sort that women do when they’re sharing secrets.

  He walked to the door and reached for the handle. No. He couldn’t do it. His hand flopped to his side. But he listened, and if he listened very carefully, he could pick out Magdalene’s voice from the muffled conversation.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ he said, walking back to the window, hands clasped behind his back. From there he walked to the fireplace, to an armchair, to the door, then back to the window. ‘She’s just a milliner.’ He thought of what Edith had said and repeated the same sentiment. ‘You cannot take advantage of her.’

  There! It was said. But he ached to run across the room and throw the door open, invite her in and insist Edith fetched them tea. It was torture standing there: his head determining that he stay fixed to the spot; his heart aching to do as it pleased.

  He heard her laugh. He was sure it was her. His mind was made up. The door beckoned. How could he possibly let her leave without seeing her lovely face again?

  Before he’d gone half a dozen paces, the door opened.

  She was dressed in her usual uniform, but had added a red scarf around her throat. The effect, combined with her dark features and pink cheeks, was breathtaking. He was reminded of a painting he’d seen of a flowerseller by some Italian artist whose name he couldn’t quite recall.

  Edith stood behind her and winked at him. ‘Miss Cherry has a little problem regarding your mother’s hat. I said she’d better see you about it. I’ll get some tea, shall I?’

  Max opened his mouth, but no sound came out, which was just as well, because Edith was gone, the door slammed firmly shut behind her.

  His heart hammering like a battering ram against his ribs, Max turned to Magdalene – and felt his legs turn to water. He cleared his throat. ‘You have a problem with my mother’s hat?’

  ‘I need to try it on her, but I’ve been told by Mrs Blackcloud that she isn’t here.’

  ‘That is correct. Perhaps you’d like to leave it with me and I will make sure my mother attends to the matter on her return.’

  Even to his own ears, he sounded priggish, like any upper-class man addressing a lowly servant or tradesperson.

  A black, springy curl escaped from beneath her bonnet as Magdalene shook her head. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that. I need it to be tried on now. I need to see if the veil reaches the proper length.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t see at all. What difference did the length of a veil make to a woman’s bonnet? Fashion had a lot to answer for and was something he’d never quite understood.

  Magdalene cocked her head to one side. ‘Perhaps you could try it on. I could see then whether the length was right.’

  Max pointed at his chest. ‘Me?’ He felt himself blushing profusely.

  ‘I think that would do very we
ll,’ said Magdalene, her nimble fingers already unfastening the ribbons that kept the box firmly shut. She folded back the silk-lined lid and, with a dramatic flourish, brought out a blue velvet bonnet trimmed with bows and a veil hanging down behind. ‘Voilà! As Madame Mabel would say. If you could just try it on…’ She edged towards him.

  Max held up both hands before his horrified expression. ‘No! I don’t think I could…’

  ‘Oh!’ There was a sparkle in her eyes that made him think she was enjoying his discomfort. There was also something else, a cheeky, secretive look that made him think she had already decided on the outcome of this meeting.

  She set the hat back in its box. He noticed how narrow her waist was, how ample her bosom and how creamy her complexion.

  ‘Then I think we shall have to compromise, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘If it means that I don’t have to try on that bonnet, then yes, I think a compromise is a very good idea.’

  She wore dark blue kid gloves. Her hands were small. He watched, fascinated, as she undid her bonnet strings. ‘I shall have to try it on, and you will have to judge that the length is correct. Does that sound a better idea?’

  ‘It seems so to me.’

  After placing her own bonnet on a small tripod table, she lifted his mother’s bonnet from the box and walked to the mantelpiece. The mirror above the mantelpiece was large and gilded, bows and grapes intertwining at its apex, and small shelves standing proud at its sides.

  Magdalene stood before it holding the hat above her head.

  Max couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her bodice was tight, the curve of her breasts accentuated by the raising of her arms. Posed like that, he was reminded of a Greek statue, voluptuous but perfectly formed.

  As she tied the bonnet strings beneath her chin, he became aware that she was watching him watching her via the mirror’s reflection.

  She smiled. ‘And now you will help me judge that the bonnet is right?’