Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  Her eyes flickered as though she were calculating the worthiness of her venture, evaluating what she could afford against her determination that her plan did the most damage possible. ‘One hundred thousand pounds. I want you to word the document so that Maximillian Heinkel is informed that my brother was his father.’

  For the one and only time in their acquaintance, Septimus Monk trembled. Once he’d pulled himself together, he said, ‘You must have great affection for this young man to bequeath him such a large sum in your brother’s name.’

  Her eyes flashed like fire when she glared at him, as if he’d woken her from a deep sleep and she wasn’t too pleased about it. ‘Don’t patronize me, Septimus. You know me better than that, and on this occasion the instructions I have given you are all you need to know.’

  She left him without saying goodbye.

  On her way back to Marstone Court, Horatia cried before the altar in St Mary Redcliffe. She was torn in two.

  ‘Would you like to talk to me in private?’

  Strangely enough, the minister’s presence was not imposing in any way.

  Rarely did Horatia share even her most humdrum thoughts with any other human being. Perhaps it was his smile. Perhaps it was his flitting presence and soft words said in the right way at the right time, as though he already knew of her problems, but she nodded and followed him into his private office.

  ‘You can tell me what you like,’ he said after closing the door. ‘And I will make tea. When you have finished, I will give you the benefit of my advice.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘And hope to God that it is indeed of some benefit.’

  * * *

  Edith and Blanche had set up croquet hoops on the lawn and were laughing at their efforts to knock the balls through each spindly arch.

  That was where Max found them when he got home. His head had been aching when he’d left the refinery, mostly due to the onerous task of going through the ledgers with his accounts clerk and finding that profits were down. The transport costs were eating up money faster than they could make it. It made good sense to move the refinery to Avonmouth, and although he had a certain amount of money to put into a new site, it would not be enough to give him autonomy. The Strong family would be the largest shareholders. He would cease to have much say in the running of the plant. Added to that, if he read their moves correctly, they were also in the process of gobbling up land at the river’s mouth. Not only would they be refiners, they would also be landlords. He couldn’t hope to compete without some other injection of cash.

  A red ball rolled swiftly towards a hoop, hit it and ricocheted off beneath a laurel bush.

  Edith shrieked with delight. ‘I’ve won! I’ve won!’

  He grinned to himself as his mother, in an uncharacteristic fit of pique, went down on all fours and reached beneath the bush.

  Just as she drew back, the ball clutched in her hand, she bent from the waist, her hand flying across her chest as she began to cough.

  ‘Mother?’ He ran to her, dropped to her side and, with Edith’s help got her to her feet. ‘Mother,’ he said, his face creased with concern. ‘Come into the house. Sit down.’

  She held up a hand in order to call a halt. ‘Don’t fuss, Max. I’m fine. I’m just fine.’

  Max guided his mother into the house, hardly able to tear his gaze from her face. How long had she had those dark circles beneath her eyes? And since when had her complexion taken on that greyish colour?

  The loving son guided his mother to a chair, noting that Edith was not with them. If she had been, he would have told her to fetch a hot drink or, better still, a brandy. The moment she appeared, he would do so.

  ‘Now,’ he said, kneeling at the side of her chair. ‘Do I get you the smelling salts?’

  He was relieved when she laughed.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said.

  He suggested she went for a lie-down.

  ‘I’m not an invalid,’ she protested.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you were, but you did give cause for concern out there.’

  She shook her head as though it were nothing. ‘It was the dust. You know what laurel bushes are like for dust.’

  But there was a wary look in her eyes that he didn’t like.

  ‘Max,’ she said, fixing her gaze on the polished fender where she rested her feet. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  He managed to convince himself that he’d been mistaken about the dark circles and the change in her complexion. Relieved and suddenly light-headed, he broke into laughter. ‘And now we have your little secret. No need to fear, Mother. I already know. Mr Clarke-Fisher came to see me. I told him I would speak to you first, but I have no objection to you marrying him. In fact, Mother, I have decided to marry Magdalene Cherry, and all thanks to your love of hats.’

  He stopped, suddenly aware of the look of horror on her face. He presumed it was with regard to his proposed marriage to a milliner and readied himself for confrontation.

  ‘How dare he!’

  Max frowned. He’d so wanted to make things right. This was not the reaction he’d anticipated. ‘What do you mean, Mother?’

  Her expression was one of outright amazement. ‘He told you that I intended to marry him?’

  ‘Yes, but he decided to see me first before pursuing you further. He said he thought it was only right that he should offer following your stay together in Clevedon, and the possibility of your reputation being compromised…’ Something about the brilliance of his mother’s eyes made him pause.

  ‘Together? He told you that we stayed in Clevedon together?’ Her pale cheeks suddenly regained a little colour. Her chest heaved in time with her quick breathing, with indignation rather than shortness of breath.

  The man had duped him. Max had inadvertently insulted his mother. ‘Was he lying?’

  Blanche raised her voice. ‘He was lying about Clevedon, and he was lying about my reaction to his proposal of marriage. I can’t stand the man, and I have no intention of marrying him – not ever!’

  ‘Oh!’ Although Max looked perplexed, he felt mightily relieved. ‘Thank goodness for that. It wasn’t that I can’t countenance you remarrying, he just didn’t seem your type – nothing like Father.’

  Max retrieved Darius Clarke-Fisher’s business card from his pocket and tore it into tiny pieces.

  ‘Well, that’s the end of that,’ he said, as the pieces fluttered into the fireplace, speckles of snow white against the polished blackness of the grate.

  Blanche covered her face with her hands. It was bad enough that Clarke-Fisher had tried to blacken her reputation, but to use the lie in order to get her to the altar was unforgivable.

  But she’d get over it. Nothing in life was as important as life itself, and she intended to make the most of the time she had left. Her family and those she loved – all those she loved – were what mattered.

  Sighing with relief, she settled back in her chair. ‘Thank goodness that’s sorted out.’ The absurdity of it all suddenly struck her. ‘Imagine me marrying a man like that.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to.’

  ‘So tell me how you lost your heart to Madame Mabel’s assistant,’ said Blanche, reaching for her son’s hand.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Max. Now it was his turn to blush. ‘I hope you won’t object, Mother.’

  He turned his clear blue eyes on hers and she felt her heart leap with love and pride. Unlike his mother, who had married for security and also for his sake, he would follow his heart. She envied him that.

  Smiling, she reached out and ruffled his hair, just as she had when he’d been a small boy. ‘Follow your heart, Max. Always follow your heart.’

  He took hold of her hand and kissed it. ‘I was foolish to keep it from you.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I feared your reaction to me marrying a milliner.’

  Her face clouded and her gaze seemed to drift off into the distance. ‘A man named Conrad Heinkel also married beneath him. He married a nanny in service at Marstone Court.�
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  Max’s smile diminished as he remembered the rest of what Clarke-Fisher had said about West Indian ancestry. He now believed his mother was descended from slaves.

  ‘And you came from Barbados.’

  It hurt him to see her wince.

  ‘Mother, have you any idea how many people in this city have interests in the sugar trade? Do you also have any idea how many of those have Negro blood in their veins? And what about the rest of us? Why do we all suppose we are of the same tree going back to the Battle of Hastings, that Englishmen have blond hair and blue eyes and all speak the same tongue. These islands have given shelter to people from all over the world since ancient times. Perhaps I was a little priggish in the past, but since Magdalene came along, I weigh up the worth of people as people, not by their station in society or their racial or cultural roots. Does that make sense?’

  He couldn’t quite work out her expression. There was surprise, there was joy, but there was something else in her eyes that he couldn’t quite work out.

  Blanche’s thoughts were with Samson and his family. They were safely cocooned in Little Paradise with Edith and fending for themselves. She was ashamed that she had not declared herself their relative on the day they’d arrived at the Workhouse. The reasons had seemed perfectly acceptable at the time. She did not want her family’s chances in life ruined by coloured relatives that no one knew they had. And yet, here was Max, the very person she had been trying to protect, telling her that he was not disposed to bigotry of any sort. It was refreshingly different, and a total surprise.

  ‘Then I think it’s time you met your relatives,’ she said, and went on to tell him about Samson.

  ‘…And my father was Sir Emmanuel Strong, though I didn’t realize that at first… Hard to imagine, really.’

  Edith, who had lingered in the garden, listened in silence. In her hand she held Blanche’s handkerchief. It was blood-stained. Her eyes moist, her fingers tightly clenched, Edith knew what it meant, was equally sure that Max knew nothing about it and that Blanche did not want him to know.

  Later, she would get Blanche alone, and perhaps then she would learn the truth.

  * * *

  On the days she was at Somerset Parade, it had been Edith’s habit to help Blanche off with her dress and unlace her corsets once she’d got out her nightgown.

  Tonight was no different, but when she entered the room, she saw that Blanche was leaning out of the window.

  The view was well worth studying. The night sky was studded with stars and a full moon bloomed like a rising loaf. The garden was spangled with silver.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ said Blanche without turning round. Her voice sounded full of wonder.

  Edith swallowed and swiped at her runny nose. She didn’t have a cold, but it would be so easy to cry. I mustn’t, she decided. I have to be strong for Blanche.

  On receiving no response from Edith, Blanche turned round. ‘Did you hear what I said…?’

  A single tear squeezed from the corner of Edith’s eye, and she sniffed. ‘Yes. I heard.’

  She saw the expression on Edith’s face, the outstretched hand and the handkerchief sitting in Edith’s palm. The truth was out. ‘Have you told Max?’ she asked, her voice barely audible.

  Edith shook her head. ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to.’

  Blanche hung her head and turned back to the stars. ‘Tom is the only other person who knows. He more or less guessed. And my doctor, of course.’

  ‘And the rest of your family?’

  Her eyes were big and full of pleading. ‘I don’t want any of them to know. You mustn’t say anything. Promise me that.’

  Edith took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I won’t tell.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Little Paradise was becoming noisier than it had been in a long time, and Edith loved it.

  Samson was a good carpenter and, thanks to Max, had been found a job as a ship’s joiner at Charlie Hill’s Shipyard. Both Abigail and Edith, accompanied by Desdemona, still visited the Workhouse to oversee the care of the babies.

  It was Max who explained to Samson that his mother had not recognized him at the Workhouse.

  ‘Little Paradise is the right name for this house,’ Samson had replied, as Edith pushed yet another dish of mutton stew in front of him. ‘And I’m grateful to your mother for getting us out of that place. I’ve left a message with the narrowboat people for my son. He’s working on one of them pretty boats for a woman named Aggie Beven. She was good to us, she was. Seems there’s a lot of people to be grateful to in this city.’

  Max told Magdalene about his relatives and took her to see them. He was greatly relieved to see that she was as unconcerned with their origins and their colour as he was.

  ‘You don’t mind that they’re foreigners?’ he asked.

  She shook her pretty head of dark curls. ‘Of course not. I’m a foreigner meself, if you like to go back a few generations.’

  ‘You are? I didn’t know that.’

  She clung to his arm, her chin resting on his shoulder. ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘Of course not. But I am surprised. Your name doesn’t sound foreign.’

  ‘Cherry. My mother picked it, just like you would a cherry.’

  ‘Where did your family come from?’

  ‘Prussia,’ she said, her dark eyes still studying him for the slightest reaction for her to pick on and exploit, but only in fun. That was the way it was, like a game between them.

  ‘So what was your family name?’

  ‘Goldstein.’

  ‘Isn’t that Jewish?’

  ‘Yes. My family were Jewish.’

  ‘And are they now – Jewish?’

  There were dimples at the sides of her mouth. ‘Sometimes. Does it matter?’

  He looked into her dark eyes and smelled her scent of crushed violets. He shook his head. ‘No. It doesn’t.’

  * * *

  Under pressure from the Board of Governors, who had learned of the conditions from Blanche, the nursery had been moved into a lighter room on the first floor. A number of inmates were now employed to look after the babies, but Edith and Abigail couldn’t stop themselves poking their noses in. In effect, this was their idea, via Blanche, of course. They weren’t about to let it slide now that conditions for the babies had improved.

  Edith banned Blanche from visiting the Workhouse.

  ‘We’ll take care of everything. You catch something nasty if you goes there too often. So if you dare put a foot over the threshold, I’ll tell Max just how ill you are. And I mean it!’

  But Blanche insisted that she had to go into the Workhouse one last time.

  ‘No,’ said Edith, standing foursquare before the front door.

  ‘This is ridiculous. You’re the servant and I’m the mistress.’

  Arms folded over her ample chest, Edith shook her head. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I have a special errand to make,’ Blanche pleaded. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘So’s your son’s wedding, but you’re not going to be there on the day if you don’t look after yourself.’

  Blanche covered her face with her hands, then held them prayer-like before her. The records kept by the Reverend Smart had been surprisingly incomplete. She’d wanted to ask Mrs Tinsley whether she remembered the dark-skinned child. Doubtless, the warden’s wife would be less than civil to her. After all, she had undermined her position at the Workhouse. There was much more of a self-help mentality among the inmates. The exploitation and bullying of the old regime had weakened considerably.

  With a rustle of mauve silk, Blanche sighed and sank onto a chaise longue. Her head sank into her hands. ‘There is something very important that I have to find out,’ she said into her fingers. ‘I have to ask Mrs Tinsley a very important question.’

  ‘You? Ask questions of Mrs Tinsley? Well, a delightful baggage she is, and not well disposed towards you now, is she?’

  Blanche shook her head. ‘Th
at’s very true.’

  ‘Right old cow, she is, or tries to be. Not with me, of course. She knows I won’t stand any of her nonsense.’

  ‘That’s even truer,’ said Blanche, looking up and wondering, just wondering, whether Edith might be more likely to get an answer. ‘Edith,’ she said, taking hold of her hand and pulling her down in front of her so their conversation could not be overheard. ‘What I am going to tell you is very secret.’

  ‘Ooow! I do like secrets.’

  Blanche threw her a warning look. ‘And it has to remain a secret.’ Edith’s brightness dissipated, a sad look pulling down the corners of her mouth. ‘I washed the handkerchief. Max didn’t see it.’

  They both fell to silence, Blanche because she was grateful to have such a friend, and Edith because she feared losing the best friend she’d ever had.

  Once she’d recovered, Blanche went on to tell her all that had transpired with regard to the baby born to Horatia and Tom Strong.

  ‘That Daisy Draper! I wouldn’t put a dog in that place, let alone me own flesh and blood. Not that I’m saying it ain’t improved, mark you…’

  Blanche nodded impatiently. ‘I know. There’s a record of the child being admitted in the Reverend Smart’s ledger, but no record of what happened to him. What I would like you to do is to ask Mrs Tinsley. She’s sure to know. She makes it her duty to know all that’s going on in that place. Do you think you can do that?’

  Edith looked genuinely affronted. ‘Do you doubt my powers of persuasion?’ she said, getting to her feet. Rolling her sleeves up to her elbows exposed forearms the size of cooked hams. ‘You leave that old cow to me,’ she said, and licked her lips, relishing the thought of the confrontation to come.

  * * *

  Max was in his office, the door wide open. The heat of the refinery was thick with the smell of sugar. Furnaces throbbed with white-hot fire, metal scraped against metal. The pans that turned the sugar from muscavado to the finished product made a whistling sound as they spun the sugar so it separated from the impurities, the crystals to be formed into loaves and sold to a wholesaler, who in turn would sell them on to every grocer in the city.