Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  He stepped back, his expression reflecting the most bitter of his inner thoughts. ‘I am thinking, Horatia. I’m thinking how I could possibly have been so naive to think we might be successful as man and wife. This is not a union between man and woman. I should never have believed that it could be. Why do you have to make so much money? Why do you have to trample over anyone that doesn’t agree with what you want?’

  Disinclined to slip into outright anger, he turned to go, grimacing as his fingernails dug deeply into the palms of his clenched fists.

  Her face reddened with anger. ‘I… am… ambitious! I do not feel I am living unless I am presented with a challenge. I cannot beg my way through life, or live it like a trollop, laid out flat on my back. Or end up in the gutter. Not everyone is as lucky as you, Captain Thomas Strong! Adopted son of the late Reverend Jebediah Strong.’

  He walked on swiftly, knowing it would annoy her more, even though she was pouring insult after insult on both him and the man who had raised him.

  Stiff with fury, she shouted louder. ‘You’re just the son of a whore, and the adopted son of an idiot who drooled into his necktie. How dare you turn your back on me!’

  Spinning round to face her, he raised a finger in front of his mouth. ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Emerald.’

  The veins on Horatia’s neck stood out as she fought to restrain her annoyance. ‘I’ll shout if I wish. This is my house, Thomas. My house, my father’s before me and his father’s before that. You are here by chance and have no say in what goes on here. You were born in the gutter. You weren’t born in this house and you certainly were not bred to be a gentleman!’

  His patience was at an end. ‘And you, Horatia, sound as though your breeding is finally winning through. This house was built on the backs of slave labour. And they’re very loud too, you know. I’ve seen the women, descendents of those slaves, selling their fish on the waterfront in Bridgetown, shouting at the tops of their voices. Yes, Horatia, your breeding is certainly shining through.’

  He could see by her expression that the barb had hurt. He’d not meant to bring up the fact that somewhere in her background was an ancestor with the same colour skin as the son she’d borne. In a way, he could understand how she’d felt. For nine months she’d carried his child, had planned for its birth, suffered the debilitating discomfort pregnancy confers on a woman. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d been looking forward to the event, perhaps expecting a child of her own colouring, or perhaps the same as her daughter, who looked like her father.

  The anger fled from her eyes and she wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly, as her shoulders slumped and her head bowed, she looked smaller than she actually was, as though the hurt was making her crumple.

  Despite the life he’d led, the boxing, the seafaring and the harsh existence of his early years, he couldn’t bear to hurt anyone. He’d done exactly what she feared he might do on hearing about the baby’s colour: he’d thrown it into her face. It was cruel. In response to the guilt he felt, he retraced his steps and folded her in his arms. Her head drooped upon his shoulder and she broke into sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He had to say it. The guilt was all his. Regardless of the terrible things she’d done, that she would ransom his conscience and his illegitimate son if it meant getting her own way, he couldn’t bring himself to be purposely cruel. After all, she was the mother of his beloved Emerald. They were married. The least he could give her was a little respect, a little compassion.

  Without another word to each other, they made their way to the bedroom they regarded as belonging to both of them, even though Tom now had a separate bedroom of his own.

  Horatia looked up at him with liquid eyes. ‘Will you sleep with me this evening?’

  He couldn’t conceal his surprise. Despite her lack of passion, in ten years of marriage, he had never been unfaithful to Horatia – except in his dreams. There it was always the same dark-skinned woman with grey eyes. He knew her features well, knew her name, but never uttered it just in case Horatia should hear him and blight his dreams just as she’d blighted his life.

  Meeting Blanche in Bath had heightened his sexual desire. The look, the feel, the scent of her was still vivid in his mind. He wanted her. He’d always wanted her, but he was tied to Horatia. There was no other option. She was his wife. He had to put Blanche from his mind.

  After snuffing out the oil lamp, he got into bed. Horatia immediately eased herself against him. He put his arm around her, her head resting against his shoulder joint.

  The darkness was welcome. At least she couldn’t see his face. Her body was warm; her firm hip pressed against his. Her womanly smell was tinged with rosewater. She used it generously, soaked her underwear with it and smoothed it over her body after she had a bath.

  Her closeness and her scent was enticing and he couldn’t stop the throbbing in his groin. It hurt and he needed to get rid of it. Closing his eyes tightly, he pretended it was Blanche lying beside him and that she was murmuring sweet words of passion into his ear. But Blanche’s body would be undulating, her thighs rubbing against his, her hands exploring his body just as much as he explored hers. Horatia never moved. She just waited.

  He rolled onto his side so he was facing her, his eyes still closed as he brushed soft, sweet-smelling hair… If only… Her breast was warm beneath his palm, but larger, less firm than he knew Blanche’s breast to be.

  The vision was shattered. He stopped what he was doing and rolled onto his back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Horatia sounded hurt.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Unfair, he thought to himself. Get her out of your mind. Horatia at least deserves to be in your head when you make love to her. It would be so easy to recommence if, just for once, she made the first move. But she wouldn’t, and now his vision of Blanche had shattered, he couldn’t bring himself to carry on until they’d cleared the air between them. With Horatia this was best done with talk of business.

  ‘I was thinking about Lodge. You shouldn’t have told him about the bank. It might have been best if you’d never bought it. We could have achieved our objectives without it.’

  The bed moved as she raised herself up on one elbow and rested her head in her hand. ‘No, we couldn’t. There’s such potential in a new dock, Thomas. Imagine the new warehousing, cranes and systems, all requiring finance. Now we have a bank, and its investors are at our disposal, nothing can stop us becoming the richest family in the city.’

  He marvelled at the sound of her voice. Talk business and everything else that had passed between them was forgotten. He was forgiven for his outburst regarding her pedigree. Nothing mattered so much to Horatia as business, even her personal happiness, even, it had to be said, her family.

  Although it was too dark to see clearly, he knew she was studying him in that forthright way of hers, challenging him to speak before she did. He never managed to beat her to it.

  ‘If we own the land, we control the port. Growing and refining sugar is not as lucrative as it once was. You know that. All the bigger refineries and warehouses will transfer to Avonmouth. Those that don’t will disappear. By the end of the century, not one refinery will remain in this city. You know and I know that they are struggling to cover their costs. Small ships cost money. Bigger ships carrying heavier payloads are the way forward. No refiner in this city can survive in the current economic climate without the new port. And we will reap profits from it, purely because we own the land on which it is built.’

  Tom lay silently and thought of Max. The prospect of his son thinking him a liar did not lie easy on his conscience. He’d so wanted to cultivate a closeness with him without arousing Horatia’s jealousy. Such a prospect was no longer likely.

  Suddenly, his anger seemed inseparable from his desire. She gave a little gasp as he hitched up her silken nightgown and heaved himself on top of her. There was no preamble, no kiss or caress, just an animal desire to relieve himself of the t
ension caused as much by his mood as his sex drive.

  Her back never arched as some women do, she never murmured sweet words, nor cried out in ecstasy. The only thing she did was to rest her hands upon his back, lying there until he was spent and had rolled over to sleep.

  But this time was different. As he reached the zenith of his pleasure, she dug her fingernails into his shoulders. His cry of pleasure was mixed with pain and he felt a trickle of blood run warmly down his back.

  He rolled off and lay there panting.

  Horatia turned her back on him as she pulled the hem of her nightgown down to her feet. Her voice was cold as ice. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again.’

  She was trembling. He could feel it across the space between them. The darkness was like a thick veil around them. He was glad of it. She couldn’t see his expression, and he couldn’t see hers. He didn’t want to see the anger there, or the threat of reprisal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Reverend Smart had a private office at the Workhouse. It was situated on the first floor, just off the private dining room where the Board of Governors ate lunch.

  It had been far from easy, but Blanche had persuaded Edith to accompany her.

  ‘I don’t have to go in, do I?’ Edith had asked, her expression leaving Blanche in no doubt that the thought of entering that ominous place filled her with dread.

  Blanche had pleaded. ‘Just inside, within shouting distance, while I speak to the Reverend Smart alone in his office. Please?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Edith, suddenly getting the picture and pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. ‘He’s THAT type, is he? One hand on the Bible and one inside yer bodice given half a chance. Well, I’ve met the likes of him before. And don’t you worry. I promise I’ll be nearby.’

  Although Edith looked uncomfortable with the idea, Blanche knew she wouldn’t let her down.

  The Reverend Smart kept a very concise record of all entrants. Persuading him to check those records for a newborn black baby should be easy: sweetly spoken words, a soft smile – hence the need for a chaperone. Blanche ran her fingers over the gowns in her wardrobe. Which should she wear? Which would be the most appealing to a man like Smart?

  Her fingers darted between her black mourning dress and a bright yellow. It was one of her favourites and was decorated with green and mauve violets around each layer of frill. The black wouldn’t suit. It might remind Smart of her widowed, and thus available, status. The yellow was too bright. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was frivolous and ripe for seduction either.

  With Edith’s help, she opted for a coffee-coloured dress with a tightly corseted top of fine lace that stretched from her neck to her wrists. It was elegant, attractive but neutral.

  The day was warm and sunny. As they rattled out of Somerset Parade and down the hill, a host of down from late-seeding dandelions floated up from the grass around St Mary Redcliffe.

  Blanche looked away. A few days before the death of Anne, her eldest daughter, from cholera the little girl had been standing on a common crowded with the fluffy heads of dandelions. It still hurt to see them.

  A pensive Edith followed Blanche into the outer yard of the Workhouse, an amused smirk lighting her frown as she took in the muddled uniform and the awkward gait of Corporal Young.

  ‘Looks as though he’s bin in more regiments than I’ve ‘ad hot dinners,’ she muttered so only Blanche could hear. The smell of mutton stew came out to meet them and Edith sniffed disdainfully. ‘Scrag end by the smell of it.’

  Blanche wasn’t fooled by her nonchalance. Edith was nervous, hating being inside these walls. Given half a chance, she would leg it out of the gate. Blanche was feeling something similar. Her heart was beating madly and her lips moved soundlessly as she rehearsed what she would say to the Reverend Smart.

  Corporal Young told them to wait while he clomped up the stairs to tell Smart of their arrival. Blanche ignored him and followed, a reluctant Edith bringing up the rear.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Edith. Round-eyed she studied the numerous biblical texts painted on the walls. Their footsteps sounded like iron-shod hooves on the bare boards. ‘Fancy eating a meal in a drab room like this, poor souls.’

  ‘Pour souls indeed,’ said Blanche, chuckling. ‘This is where the Board eats.’

  Edith’s eyebrows almost disappeared beneath her hairline. ‘Really?’

  Blanche could see she was appalled. ‘It’s only right that our surroundings are just slightly better than the inmates.’

  ‘Thank God I’m not one of them,’ Edith muttered.

  Nervously, Blanche eyed the closed door of Smart’s office. It was reassuring to hear the murmur of voices from within. It proved that if she screamed, Edith would hear and come running.

  ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll be here,’ said Edith as if reading her thoughts.

  Only minutes after she said it, the door opened and Corporal Young re-emerged.

  ‘You’re to go in,’ he said, his mouth hanging open in something akin to a grin.

  To her surprise, Smart was not alone. The blackness of his suit was accentuated by the starched whiteness of his collar and cuffs. He was sitting behind his desk, his hands clasped before him. At his side stood Mrs Tinsley, her hands clasped at her waist. It was as if they’d been cast from the same mould, though not in the same position. Both looked pleased with themselves.

  Blanche knew it wouldn’t last once she asked to see the Reverend Smart alone.

  ‘It’s very important, and a very private matter,’ she said, purposefully avoiding Mrs Tinsley’s punctured expression.

  Smart’s smile almost split his face in half – just as she’d expected it to. ‘Why, of course, my dear lady.’ He turned to Mrs Tinsley, saw the impending anger, but chose to ignore it. ‘If you would excuse us, Mrs Tinsley.’ His teeth shone like a row of polished tombstones.

  At first it seemed that Mrs Tinsley would not acquiesce. Her eyelids fluttered and her chin moved up and down as if she were chomping hay. With a sudden snort, she tossed her head, clenched her fists and headed for the door.

  After the door had slammed on her exit, the sound of exclamation came from outside. She’d met Edith. Woe betide Mrs Tinsley putting on airs and graces with her, Blanche thought and almost smiled.

  ‘I’ve come with a friend,’ said Blanche on seeing Smart’s puzzled look.

  ‘I see.’ Resigned that his actions were likely to be monitored, the Reverend Smart came from behind his desk and fetched her a chair. ‘Do sit down, dear lady. Now! What can I do for you?’

  Blanche had thought very carefully about what she would say. Too dangerous to admit to the baby’s parentage, she had concocted a believable story.

  ‘A young woman employed at my family’s plantation in the West Indies came to Bristol, but unfortunately found herself with child and without a husband. Unknown to my family, the child was delivered and brought here. The young woman concerned then sought employment in London, but died there. Her married sister subsequently came looking for her, heard about the baby and where it had been taken. She also became aware that I was on the Board of Governors. Thus, she asked me to make enquiries.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Smart, and gave a single, momentous nod, acknowledging that he understood completely. ‘And this child, was it a girl or a boy?’

  ‘A boy.’

  He held his head on one side as though there was something slightly distasteful about what he was going to say next. ‘And it was of colour?’

  Blanche stiffened, but tried not to show it. ‘Yes.’

  He reached for his register. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Three months, possibly four.’

  The cover of the ledger thudded on the desk. He licked his thumb and looked up at her between turning each page.

  ‘Did she leave a name with the child?’

  ‘A name – Draper – and two sovereigns, I believe.’

  Smart fixed his attention to his beloved ledger. �
�Boy child name of Draper…’ he mumbled, as his finger followed a line of copperplate characters. ‘My word. It would appear that the child was only here for a matter of two days. It wasn’t me who signed the entry. I was ill at the time, my leg you know.’

  Assuming the worse, Blanche felt the room beginning to swim around her. ‘You mean he’s dead?’ Her voice was little above a whisper.

  He shook his head and looked somewhat surprised. ‘I don’t know for sure, though I assume he must be dead. As I said, someone else made the entry – not correctly. That is why I prefer to write the entries myself. I am more precise than most people.’ He frowned. ‘Unless he’s still in the nursery of course – though I can find no trace that he’s still here. Either the poor child is in the arms of the Lord, or he is still in the nursery and has accidentally been omitted from the record.’ With that, he slammed the ledger shut.

  ‘We must look,’ said Blanche springing to her feet. ‘Will you take me there?’

  The speed with which she got to the door brought on a tightness in her chest, but it was bearable. What wasn’t bearable was the prospect of telling Tom that his son was dead. If there was the slightest chance…

  The Reverend Smart didn’t argue with her. Edith looked surprised to see her emerge so quickly. Suspecting the worse, she fixed Smart with a hard stare.

  The cleric turned pale and stepped behind Blanche.

  ‘Edith! We’re going to see the babies in the nursery,’ said Blanche before Edith had a chance to challenge the Reverend.

  Edith allowed herself to be swept further into a building she’d prefer not to be in at all.

  A small wooden door, with bars set into it at eye level, opened into a room that was as far from being a nursery as it was possible to be.