Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  I shall be sad to see all this go, he thought. He had accepted now that the refinery would move to Avonmouth. A businessman, he’d decided, needed to be flexible. He would, of course, still have a share, but it wouldn’t be the same. If he could somehow create his own refinery there, he would still maintain control. To do that would take a lot of money, and he didn’t have enough, not nearly as much as the Strong family.

  By the time he was married, the brewery would be pushing hard to take over these premises. A year, perhaps two, and the site on which sugar had been refined for nearly a hundred years would give way to the brewing of beer.

  Desperate to salvage control, he had gone to another bank for finance, but they’d been unhelpful. No Bristol bank was big enough to stand up to the power of the Strong family. His next course was to go to London. It was his last hope. There was a piece of land at Avonmouth that was ideal for development. If only he had the money. He wouldn’t be destitute, of course, but he would have liked to improve on what Conrad Heinkel had left him. Limehouse and Hamburg could not be used to fund a bigger plant. Both needed money to upgrade. The Counterslip refinery had to survive or fall on its own merit.

  I need to be lucky, he decided, but he wasn’t the sort to believe that something would turn up, that luck was like Christmas.

  Obsessed with his plans and his dreams, he did not at first hear his clerk.

  ‘Sir? You have a visitor.’

  Stubbins was a pompous little man with short legs and a shiny pate covered with freckles. He’d worked in the office for years and had been an overseer on a sugar plantation before that. He cleared his throat now and shuffled his feet. ‘There’s a gentleman outside,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘He seems quite anxious to see you.’

  Frowning, Max said, ‘Who is the fellow?’

  Stubbins handed Max a card and Max looked at it. A smudged fingerprint was discernible on one corner. Stubbins sweated a lot. The card said, ‘Morgan, Jay and Morgan, Solicitors, Commissioners for Oaths.’ The address was Queens Square.

  Max pursed his lips. He’d heard of them. He took a deep breath and told Stubbins to show the man in.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Heinkel,’ said a pale man with jug ears and a wide mouth that seemed to cut his face in half. His milky blue eyes were unblinking and his whiskers were like a halo framing his jaw.

  Max bid him sit down, which he did with a flourish of coat-tails.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Morgan?’

  ‘Mr Jay,’ the solicitor corrected, swinging one grey trouser-leg over the other and placing a silk topper on the desk.

  ‘Mr Jay,’ said Max with a curt nod. ‘How can I help you?’

  His visitor waved a large hand as he extracted a sheaf of paper bound with ribbon from his bag. His wrists were thin and hung from his cuffs like gnarled twigs. ‘It is I who am here to help you, my dear sir. I bring good tidings with regard to a trust fund settled on you by your father in the months following your birth.’

  Max’s mood lightened. ‘A trust fund. I take it you mean money?’ His thoughts went back to the plot of land at Avonmouth. Would it be enough? And why had he heard nothing of this bequest until now?

  Mr Jay couldn’t possibly smile any wider. ‘Indeed. A lot of money, in fact.’

  Max relaxed, slammed his hands on the arms of his chair, got to his feet and fetched a decanter of port and two glasses from a cupboard. He needed money to keep the Strong family from stealing his birthright, and here it was, provided by Conrad Heinkel, his father.

  ‘Then we must celebrate.’

  Mr Jay looked surprised. It wasn’t often he was asked to celebrate even the largest of bequests.

  The port gurgled into the glasses with unbridled generosity, some slopping over the top and onto the desk. Max didn’t care about the mess. This was a special occasion.

  Visions of a brand new refinery growing brick by brick inside his head, he proposed a toast: ‘To my father’s trust fund.’

  Mr Jay spilt a little more as he raised his glass, as though he were nervous or at the very least surprised. ‘Indeed, sir. To your father’s trust fund, though I’m not quite sure I should be—’

  ‘Drink, man,’ Max ordered.

  Mr Jay’s Adam’s apple moved against his stiff collar as he did so.

  Max did the same then heaved a great sigh. ‘Well, Mr Jay, I have to admit to being surprised, very surprised indeed. I never knew there was a trust fund. Father never mentioned it. How much money does it entail?’

  Mr Jay paused, looked at him and blinked. The action seemed oddly out of place on his features, like a surprised owl. Regaining his equilibrium, he balanced a pair of spectacles on his nose, unfurled a folio of rustling paper and studied the wording.

  ‘One hundred thousand pounds.’

  Max gasped and sat back in his chair. ‘Well I’ll be damned! Well I’ll be damned!’

  It took a little time for it to sink in, but in his head the new refinery was complete from foundation to roof and the chimneys were belching smoke and steam, the sweet scent of sugar filling the air.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t know he had such an amount?’

  ‘Oh indeed he did, though he stipulated that you were not to receive your inheritance until you were twenty-one, which you were last September, I believe,’ said Mr Jay, his eyes now fixed on the scrolling words.

  Max agreed that had indeed been his birthday.

  ‘However,’ said Mr Jay, his eyes scanning the lengthy document as though he were searching for a discrepancy, a dropped letter or a misspelled word, ‘there is just one modest proviso in order for you to claim this sum.’

  Max nodded. ‘Go on.’

  Mr Jay pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and read again. ‘In order for you to claim the said inheritance, your father asks that you adopt his name.’

  Max frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Mr Jay coughed into his hand and avoided looking into his face as he repeated what he had just said.

  Suddenly the room had darkened, or at least that was the way it seemed. Max sank into his chair and leaned across his desk. A dark foreboding that he couldn’t explain flooded into his mind and made the room swim around him. He searched his mind for a plausible explanation. There was only one he could think of.

  ‘He wishes me to be called Conrad?’ he asked, though the idea seemed ludicrous. Why hadn’t he named him Conrad when he was born instead of Max?

  Mr Jay removed the spectacles from his nose and eyed Max with a cautious, almost fearful look. He shook his head. ‘The money has not been left to you by Conrad Heinkel, who I understand was your adoptive father, but the man who claims to be your natural father, Mr Nelson Samson Delaware Strong, deceased. He also stipulated that no word of the source of your inheritance would be made public without your prior permission. I trust you think that fair?’

  The vision of the new refinery became indistinct, as though a thick fog had descended on it. Things had been so good between him and his mother just yesterday. She’d told him so much, but not this. Certainly not this. He hardly dared utter the next question. It was too terrible. Surely it couldn’t be right. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, but he forced it to move, to ask the dreadful question that made him feel as though… He couldn’t get to grips to how it would make him feel, not until he knew it was so.

  He asked the dreadful question.

  ‘Nelson Strong was the son of Sir Emmanuel Strong. Is that correct?’

  Mr Jay replaced his glasses and rustled a few sheets of paper in his search for precise details. ‘Yes,’ he said, his chin held high as he perused the document over the top of his glasses.

  Max felt numb. If what this man told him was true, then that meant…

  He shook his head and hid his face in his hands. ‘It can’t be.’

  He caught Mr Jay peering at him quizzically and realized he was ignorant of the situation.

  ‘I need your signature before
I can hand over the cheque,’ the solicitor said.

  Max stared at the floor. If this lawyer was to be believed, then his love for the man he had all his life regarded as his father had been totally misplaced. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. And how could Nelson Strong be his father? By his mother’s own admission, Nelson Strong had been her half-brother, his uncle.

  He shook his head. ‘This is all too much.’

  Mr Jay coughed nervously. ‘As I have already indicated, if you are willing to change your name to Strong, the money is yours. But I will need your signature. Are you willing to sign?’

  Max eyed Mr Jay through his fingers. His mind was reeling. The refinery, his mother, his father – or the man he’d always thought of as his father – and now this, this terrible slur. His anger rumbled to the surface, erupting full force into Mr Jay’s face.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted, springing to his feet. ‘Get out!’

  Mr Jay, surprised at being shouted at after bringing what he had thought was very good news, slunk back in his chair. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Get out,’ shouted Max, grabbing him by the shoulders and flinging him towards the door.

  Mr Jay scurried out along the passageway and into the street.

  Max stared at the papers hanging from the desk. He didn’t understand. If what Jay had said was true, then he could never look at his mother in the same way again. And what would people say? He’d been quite prepared to accept unusual ancestry. But this? What chance did he have of gaining the respect of the business community of this city should they find out that he was the result of an intimacy between his mother and her own brother?

  The awful thing was, he couldn’t tell a soul, not even Magdalene. He imagined her horror, a reflection of his own. There was nothing for it but to confront his mother. At present, she was in Bath for a few days. He would go there and speak to her in private.

  There was a knock at the door. Stubbins entered. ‘The bargees and boatmen are threatening to throw their cargo into the river if they don’t get paid extra for waiting time.’

  Max said to himself, ‘Damn the boatmen!’ To Stubbins he said, ‘Get Robinson to deal with it.’ Robinson was the foreman, a useful man with a brusque manner who didn’t suffer fools or insolence gladly.

  ‘They won’t listen to him, especially that old crone, Aggie Beven. Right old dragon she is, frightens Robinson to death. Got a young darkie with her, too. Cheeky little sod. Reckons he’s a relative of yours.’ Stubbins chortled.

  Resigned that he wouldn’t be going to Bath today, Max fixed him with an icy stare. ‘Then let’s get on with it!’

  He strode out of the office, brushing hard against Stubbins and pressing him against the open door.

  Aggie Beven stood with arms akimbo, her voluminous skirts tucked up between her legs to aid her stepping from boat to quay. She was smoking a pipe and wore an old-fashioned bonnet with a broad brim and ribbons big enough to moor a galleon.

  There was a boy beside her, his face as brown and polished as a conker, and his eyes bright and full of confidence. If this was Samson’s boy, then he was no shrinking violet. He had an arrogance about him, a way of looking that said he would take no nonsense from any man. Max fancied Aggie might have had something to do with that. Aggie was a strong woman in more ways than one. She had a strong mind and a strong right arm, from what he’d heard from his labourers who’d run into her in dockside taverns and chanced a trial of strength over a beer-stained table.

  ‘So what’s the problem here?’ He directed his question at Aggie, who appeared to be leading the rest of the boatmen and bargees.

  ‘Robinson agreed, and you agreed, that we’d get an extra sixpence a hundredweight. We ain’t got it, and we need it. Ain’t our work worth that to you, Maximillian Heinkel?’

  Max was in no mood to argue. He turned to Robinson. ‘Did you agree that?’

  Robinson squirmed. ‘Well, I did tell them that, but I got so busy with the new separator and that, it slipped my mind to mention it to you.’

  His face burning with anger, Max raised his fist and pointed an accusing finger directly at Robinson. ‘Fail to inform me again, and you’re sacked!’

  Robinson looked astounded. It wasn’t surprising. He’d been with the firm since Conrad’s day. He was totally loyal, running the refinery as if it were his own. He didn’t deserve to be vilified like this in public. He looked hurt, but today Max neither noticed nor cared.

  ‘You’ll all be paid,’ he said, and aside to Stubbins, ‘Pay them.’

  He turned on his heel, but found his way blocked by Samson’s young son, his upturned face too worldly wise for his years.

  ‘Hamlet Rivermead,’ said the boy, sweeping his hat from his head. With a pointed toe and an exaggerated flourish, he bowed like a prince. ‘At your service, Mr Heinkel.’

  ‘I haven’t got time—’

  ‘We are related,’ said Hamlet, his face shining like the sun. ‘How do you do?’

  He extended his hand. Hesitantly, Max took it. A quick glance around confirmed no one was close enough to hear.

  ‘And from which of the Strong family are you descended?’ asked Max.

  Hamlet shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Could be any of them. Could be all of them. They owned us. They could do as they liked.’

  Max thought about it. It was the most chilling, the most calming thing that could have been said to him. That night he would think further on what had happened today. Tomorrow he would journey to Bath, go to the Ambassador Hotel and confront his mother.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They walked in North Parade Gardens, Tom kicking at an odd stone that happened to be in his path, poking his walking stick at a stray leaf, his eyes downcast.

  Blanche stayed silent. His distress was her distress. His guilt was his own. At one time she would have felt the same about being in the company of a man married to someone else. Recent events had caused her to take a different view of the world. Time was precious, and so was love. Only someone who was facing death could understand how she was feeling. Tom, even loving her as he did, could not possibly understand, although he did his best to do so.

  She had told him Edith was making further enquiries so they would finally know his son’s resting place. And what about Horatia? He had told her of his discovery. Ashen faced, she’d swept away, locked herself in her room. On emerging, she insisted the matter was never mentioned again, ‘it is too painful,’ she said. It seemed it was literally business as usual. But surely she was feeling the child’s loss to some degree, perhaps not as much as Tom, but even so . . .

  She recalled a children’s birthday party they’d both attended. The parents had been titled and lived in Cornwallis House. Whilst the children played their party games and ate their creamy cakes and sickly sweet jellies and blancmanges, the parents had been entertained to a piano recital in the drawing room. She had seen Horatia there with Emerald, smiling down on the child, wiping the cream from around he daughter’s face, looking as though she really cared. And yet she had given her child up… it was hard to believe, but Tom assured her it was so.

  ‘Edith is a very capable woman,’ Tom said suddenly.

  They continued walking, Blanche staring down at her hands. ‘She will do her best.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s a pleasant day.’

  ‘Tom?’ She touched his arm and they came to a halt. ‘Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive Horatia?’

  He blinked. She saw it and wondered what sudden thought had crossed his mind. ‘I do my best. I tell myself that she can’t possibly have done such a terrible thing, but I know that she did abandon the child. So, your answer is, no, I don’t think so.’

  Blanche hung her head. It was sad, but only to be expected. She knew that, but the feeling that there was more to this would not go away. ‘Life goes on,’ she said, and tucked a stray curl back beneath her bonnet.

  He nodded and came to a halt beneath a tree that was heavy with orange and
yellow leaves. The breeze blew and they were showered with petals.

  He took her hands in his. ‘My future with Horatia is doomed. But somehow, I don’t think there is anything I can do – or care to do – that will make things any different.’

  She didn’t say a word in response. She just looked at him, wishing she could heal his hurt, that she could do something to make him feel better.

  ‘My future is assured,’ she said eventually.

  He frowned. ‘Blanche, I—’

  She reached for his mouth and pressed her fingers on his lips. Her eyes sparkled when she looked at him. ‘Let me finish what I was going to say. After Max’s marriage, I intend going back to Barbados. It’s been so long. I want to go home.’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His amusement became a muted smile. ‘There’s no need to be. I never doubted it might happen one day.’ He brushed a few dried leaves that had tangled in the fancy bits on her bonnet. ‘Where will you live?’

  A dreamy look came to her eyes. ‘I’d like to live in the house where I grew up. I thought I might paint it white. It would be very pleasant to sit out there on an evening and watch the sun sink into the sea.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It would.’

  His eyes stayed fixed on her, almost as though he were imagining her doing exactly that.

  She looked away from him as she tried to swallow the tickle in her throat. It was making its presence known more forcefully. It still irked her to have it invade her precious moments, to upset the vital health she had once taken for granted. Deep inside, something had changed, and affected the way she saw the world and the things she wanted from it.

  ‘Tom, I have to ask you something.’

  ‘You sound very serious.’

  ‘It is serious.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  She saw he was smiling again. ‘I think I’m going to surprise you with what I have to say. I hope you won’t think less of me for doing so.’