by Erica Brown
He nodded and attempted to recover his poise. ‘Of course. It looks very nice.’
‘But the veil? Is it the right length?’
He shrugged. What did he know about veils? What did he know about bonnets either, for that matter? ‘Yes. It looks… just right.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s no good. I can’t see its length.’ A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘You see the place on my back where the veil falls?’
He nodded. His mouth had turned intolerably dry.
‘Touch the spot. Run your fingers across my back in the exact spot to where it falls.’
As he moved closer to her, he felt as diaphanous as the veil itself, like steam or smoke, drifting lightly over the floor. The top of her head reached his chin. Her body was close to his. She smelled of violets. As he raised his hand to a spot about halfway down her back, their eyes met in the mirror.
‘Trace your hand along,’ she said softly. ‘Just the tips of your fingers.’
He felt her back tense beneath his touch. She turned her head slightly and he trembled.
‘You have a very light touch,’ she said.
Her voice was hushed but the words were drawn-out, like an autumn wind blowing through sycamore leaves.
She turned a little more. The fabric of his waistcoat whispered against her sleeve.
All thoughts of resisting her vanished. His heart was pumping fit to burst when his fingers again crossed her back. For some reason he could not quite comprehend – her warm flesh was next to his; he could feel the heat of it through his clothes, through her clothes too --his arm snaked around her back. Her face was upturned and her eyes gazed into his. It was easy to kiss her. In fact, he wondered why he had never done it before.
* * *
Edith took her time with the tea, humming to herself as she smoothed a white cotton tray cloth decorated with red cross-stitches around its border. The cloth was particularly special. Her daughter Molly had done the stitching some time before she went into service in London. At the thought of her daughter and times past, she hesitated before placing the crockery on the tray. Running her fingers over the carefully proportioned stitches, she recalled how Molly had frowned over the task of decorating the cloth. It seemed such a long time ago now. All her children had left home, one girl in service, one married, one boy in the army in India and another sailing backwards and forwards out of Liverpool to America.
And me all alone, she thought. As her eyes filled with water, she bit her lip to stop from sobbing. If only Jim had come home from sea. But he didn’t, she told herself, so make the best of things you can.
After wiping her eyes with her apron, she judged the time was ripe for taking the tea upstairs to the young couple. She had high hopes for them. She’d seen the look in Max’s eyes, and she’d also interpreted from Magdalene’s cocky stance that she was interested, but playful. Max will learn, she thought as she climbed the stairs.
Just as she’d expected, they were both flushed and sprang swiftly away from each other when she entered the room.
‘Do you want me to pour?’ she asked chirpily, her eyes shining.
It was Magdalene who answered. ‘No, no. Of course not. I’m quite strong enough to lift a teapot, thank you very much.’
Edith beamed with satisfaction. ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’
Once outside the drawing room her ear lingered a while against the door. She couldn’t wait to tell Blanche about it when she got back from Bath. She was sure she’d be pleased. What did it matter that the girl was only a milliner so long as she made Max happy?
Chapter Thirteen
Bath was full of tourists taking the waters, walking in the sunshine around the Royal Crescent, across Pulteney Bridge and in the cloistered haven that was North Parade Gardens.
Blanche was feeling a little better, though much to Edith’s chagrin, she was wearing black again.
‘It’s like wearing a suit of armour,’ she had explained. ‘There’s no need to explain to anyone that I am a widow, and because it seems I am still in mourning, I am respected and left alone.’
On this particular visit, she did not desire company, but wanted time to think. What should she do about Samson and his family? How could she explain it to her children that they were relatives and, as such, she could not possibly see them destitute?
Perhaps it was the stout breakfast she’d been served, but courage poured over her.
I need to get back to Bristol, she told herself. I need to go to the Workhouse and face them, reminders of a past I had chosen to forget.
There was, for an instant, an echo of Viola, the strong-minded mother who had made sure her daughter was not born into slavery.
Determined she would do what was right, she’d made her way to the railway station. Running her finger down the timetable, she saw there were two trains going to Bristol that day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.
Trembling slightly, she made her way to the ticket office, her fingers fumbling in her reticule for the correct fare. Half a crown for a first class seat.
There were other people ahead of her in the queue. An elderly lady with an ear trumpet was asking the ticket seller to repeat what he had just said.
‘I said it’s two and six first class, one and six for second, and one shilling for third. Which is it you want?’
Blanche didn’t hear her answer. She was still rummaging for her money, and all the time thinking of how she would tell her children that relatives of theirs were currently residing in the Workhouse.
‘Next!’ said the ticket seller.
She took hold of her purse, let it go, pulled the strings of her reticule shut, then opened them again.
‘Madam, I have not got all day.’
She suddenly realized he was talking to her. What courage she’d had sank to her boots.
‘I… I’ve left my money back in my hotel. I’ll get someone there to come along… and buy my ticket…’
She sounded unsure, and the ticket seller looked unconvinced.
‘Next,’ he shouted again, and the man behind her stepped forward.
She hurried away, her heart beating madly. What was happening to her? In the past she’d always prided herself on doing what was right, but it wasn’t so easy now. Today’s life was so different from her past. She’d never wanted for anything like some people had, like Edith for instance, but the one thing she had gained was the respect of her peers. Her children had inherited position and the respect that went with it. She didn’t want them injured, but how could she help Samson at the same time as maintaining the status quo?
Accompanied by the warm sun and her thoughts, she wandered into North Parade Gardens, just a short distance from her hotel. The air was heavy with the perfume of late blooms and wet grass. A child ran past striking a hoop with a small stick. A caravan of nursemaids passed by, each pushing identical versions of a three-wheeled device called a perambulator, newly invented baby carriages for those who could afford them. The park had become crowded with a sea of colourful crinolines and smartly dressed gentlemen, their flamboyantly tied cravats, resembling seagulls with folded wings, nestling at their throats. Her eyes swept over them, not recognizing anyone… and then she saw him: Mr Darius Clarke-Fisher, head and shoulders above everyone else.
Hoping he hadn’t seen her, she drew her veil down over her face and hurried away as fast as she could. She thought she heard him call her name, but didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see him, determined to be alone until she was ready to go home.
On her walk back to the Ambassador Hotel, she thought of her reaction. How different it would have been had she spied Tom Strong in New Parade Gardens.
They’d met socially on a few occasions, their exchange necessarily terse in the presence of their respective spouses, but she remembered when things had been different; long ago when she’d first arrived in Bristol and they’d lain together beneath the roof of Conrad Heinkel who had later become her husband. Other
events had taken over, and Conrad had offered her security rather than passion. For the most part she had not regretted it, but even after all this time, the passion for one man above all others was still there, simmering beneath the surface. Thoughts of what might have been were perhaps the main reason she would not remarry, though there were bound to be offers, Mr Darius Clarke-Fisher for one.
She baulked at the thought of it and walked quickly despite the tightness of her stays and the thin heels of her canvas summer boots.
By the time she gained the hotel, her face was flushed but her breathing had returned to normal. She ran a gloved hand down the smocked panel of her bodice. Remember who you are, she told herself. Mrs Blanche Heinkel, a respectable widow.
The interior of the hotel was dark and cool, the walls panelled in walnut and a thick carpet covering the floor. A brass-faced floor clock stood against one wall. No gentleman could pass it without fetching his watch from his pocket and checking the time.
Sam the concierge met her in the foyer and asked her if she would like tea.
Blanche smiled at him. ‘I would indeed. How is Mary by the way?’
‘Doing very well, madam. She much prefers being a nursemaid to waiting on tables. Mr Devere, the hotel owner, is very pleased with her.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
She’d met Mary on first arriving at the hotel, too jolly and intuitive a girl to wait on tables, and Blanche had struck up quite a rapport with her. Sometimes Mary had got a ticking off for lingering too long after delivering Blanche her tea, almost to the point of being dismissed, and Blanche had had to intervene. But then she’d been given the job of nursemaid to the owner’s child. Seemingly, it had turned out to suit her very well. Blanche liked to think that it was as a result of her intervention and continuing patronage. It made her feel warm and eminently satisfied.
She sought her usual table with the view of Pulteney Bridge, the table where Rupert had warned her that Samson was coming to Bristol. Would anything have been different if she’d heeded his warning? She didn’t think so.
In the act of throwing her veil back over her bonnet, she inadvertently glanced towards the door, saw the concierge about to enter with a tea tray, but pause as if someone out of her view had spoken to him. She thought nothing of it, but turned her attention back to the view.
‘Tea, madam?’
The sound of his voice caused her to start. Even before she looked round, she knew who would be there and who had caused the concierge to pause at the door.
Tom Strong smiled and, as his face relaxed, a lock of hair fell onto his forehead. His coat was a green-blue, his waistcoat grey and his cravat a mixture of the two. He wore it casually, yet strikingly. Tom had never been stiffly formal, sometimes verging on untidy but in an appealing, attractive way.
His presence caused a wave of interest. A woman with iron-grey hair and sporting a pince-nez put down her cup and left the room. A man rustled his newspaper and threw a disapproving look in their direction before hiding behind it.
‘Widows should not entertain handsome men in hotel lounges,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed merrily. ‘Not even if they’re very old friends?’
‘Very old friends,’ she said loudly so that no one was in any doubt, then in a quieter voice that was full of affection, ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’
‘I’m a well-travelled man.’
‘And you never do anything without a reason. Tom, tell me what are you doing here.’
He set down the tray, flicked his coat-tails out behind him and took a seat, tugging at his trouser legs so they wouldn’t cling too tightly to his thighs.
‘Blanche. It’s so good to see a friendly face,’ he said, his hands clasped tightly before him.
The expression in his eyes told her he was glad to see her. The dark hollows beneath them and the tightness of his mouth told her that he was not here to swear undying love.
‘Tom what is it?’ Without thinking about what she was doing, she covered his hands with her own. They felt cold and hard, the knuckles white with tension.
He sighed and dropped his head. ‘Please forgive me. I didn’t know what else to do…’ he began.
Blanche frowned. Tom had always been so strong, so dependable.
‘Have some tea,’ she said, releasing his hands. She poured milk and tea into his cup, and dropped in a large chunk of sugar, freshly cut from a loaf.
It surprised her to see his hand shaking as he took the tea.
He smiled nervously and wrapped both hands around the saucer. ‘I’m sorry about this. I must pull myself together.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘Max mentioned it at a business meeting a few days ago. I would have got here sooner, but…’ He shrugged.
‘I think you’d better tell me what this is all about.’
He told her then about his child, about Horatia’s lies and the terrible truth, imparted by Daisy Draper, that the baby, his son, had been placed in St Philip’s Workhouse because of the colour of his skin.
Now it was Blanche’s hand that trembled, the spoon rattling in the saucer as she placed the tea back on the tray. ‘My God!’ Her exclamation was low but full of emotion.
The horrors of her last visit to the Workhouse came flooding back to her; the tiny newborn being carried by the dreadful Ethel to the nursery, the mother of the child taken away in one of the terrible lidded beds, not to be buried, but to be dissected at the medical school, her options in death as grim as they’d been in life.
‘Horatia sent your baby there?’
He nodded, his head seeming to sink into his shoulders with the weight of his sadness. ‘His colour wouldn’t have mattered a jot to me. I know that the Strong blood isn’t as pure as they try to make out…’ He jerked up, suddenly aware of what he had said. ‘Not that I’m saying…’
‘Oh, Tom. Tom!’ Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. His devastation was tangible, like bitter almond on her tongue. His grief was her grief, more so because she had seen that place and knew the child’s chances of survival were virtually nil.
His eyes locked with hers. ‘I can’t enquire myself, Blanche. I went there, determined that I would demand the return of my son, but I couldn’t.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘I spoke to a milkman out on his rounds. Something he said made me reconsider. Besides his skin colour, how could we suddenly explain the reappearance of a child Horatia had told everyone was dead?’
‘It would be hard for both of you.’
Something about the way he lowered his eyes made her think that there was something he wasn’t telling her.
‘She threatened you with something, didn’t she?’
He nodded, took both her hands in his and held them against his mouth. His breath was warm against her fingertips. His lips were soft. Although murmurings of disapproval travelled around the room, she bid them no heed. The moment was too precious, too long awaited. They were here, the two of them. Horatia might as well have been on the moon. The genteel and faded Bath society had little to do with the more vibrant commerciality of its sister city. The two rarely mixed. No one would know of this very public and intimate moment.
‘She threatened to send Emerald away to boarding school…’He hesitated again.
Blanche knew there was more to come and guessed. ‘Max?’
He nodded. ‘She threatened to tell Max that I’m his father.’
‘No! She couldn’t.’ She withdrew her hands as though they’d been burned. She saw the hurt in his eyes and shook her head. ‘He’d be devastated. You know how much he thought of Conrad, how much he misses him.’
Tom nodded, opened his mouth to reassure her, but was suddenly interrupted.
The tall, lean figure of Mr Darius Clarke-Fisher threw a shadow over the proceedings.
‘Mrs Heinkel. We meet again.’
Bowing stiffly from the waist, he raised his hat, his beady eyes shifting sidelong to Tom and then back to her.
; ‘I trust I am not interrupting any mutual intimacy…?’
Tom rose to his feet. The look in his eyes certainly wasn’t amenable.
Blanche attempted to smooth the sudden prickliness of the air. ‘An old friend… Captain Thomas Strong…’
She could have bitten off her tongue. Why hadn’t she given a false name? Darius Clarke-Fisher knew Bristol society. Had he seen them so closely entwined?
‘I do believe I know of you,’ said Darius, and was slow to shake hands.
Blanche perceived an immediate animosity between them and it angered her. One had no call to presume on her affection. The other had every reason to but, by virtue of the fact that he was married, was not entitled to do so.
‘I’m just leaving,’ said Tom, reaching for his hat, gloves and stick. ‘Anything I can do with regard to your charitable work, Mrs Heinkel, please get in touch. I have an office in the Corn Exchange.’
Their eyes met in one swift instant of understanding. ‘I am deeply touched by your interest in my work, and am sure we can work together towards a conclusion that is satisfactory to all.’
His smile was tight and he left brusquely, not looking back, though Blanche’s gaze followed him to the door.
Without being invited, Mr Clarke-Fisher sat himself down in the chair just vacated by Tom. He smiled at her. ‘My dear Mrs Heinkel.’ He leaned forward.
She felt threatened and sat back further in her chair. She did not want him too close to her, certainly not as close as Tom had been.
‘I saw you walking in North Parade Gardens. I called out, but you did not appear to notice,’ said Mr Clarke-Fisher.
‘I do apologize. My thoughts were elsewhere, and it was very crowded in North Parade. In fact, it’s always crowded there. I take it you followed me?’
He nodded, lit a large cigar, even though smoking wasn’t allowed in the hotel drawing room, and looked around him. His gaze settled on the Caravaggio copy.
‘Have you ever been to Venice?’
‘Never, though I would like to one day.’
Swiftly, so swiftly that she hardly saw it move, his hand landed on hers. ‘I could take you there, Mrs Heinkel.’
