by Erica Brown
Josiah Benson, who was there representing his wife, Caroline, Horatia’s half-sister, nodded in agreement. ‘Much more sensible and far less costly.’
‘There is a fire risk—’ Tom began.
‘A small one,’ said Max, surprised at his own sharpness.
He ignored Tom’s troubled frown. In his heart of hearts, he agreed that the chimney should be swept, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree with anything Tom uttered. He couldn’t help being awkward because he felt awkward. It wasn’t every day a man discovered his father.
‘Can we move on?’
Everyone agreed, though Tom’s nod was barely perceptible. Max took it that he had agreed and handed the meeting over to Woodbine Chester, who acted as company secretary and general factotum.
The main topic of the day was the future of the refinery.
Chester droned on about the costs of ferrying sugar by barge from ship to refinery. ‘There are two proposed plans of action,’ he said finally. ‘One, proposed by Mr Max Heinkel, that we purchase land at the mouth of the river and build a new refinery, but maintain these premises as additional warehousing facilities, perhaps to be used for overspill refining. Two, proposed by Mr Thomas Strong on behalf of his wife, we sell our present site and move our total operation to London.’
Max looked around the table. Some shuffled nervously, but few met his gaze. A nod, a frown, a thoughtful stroking of whiskers or chin, as they all considered the matter.
Only Tom was looking straight at him. ‘I understood that you did not wish for these premises to be sold. You’ll not have such a big say in a refinery controlled by my wife’s pet bankers.’
There were raised eyebrows. Never had he referred to his wife in such a derisory way. One of the implicated bankers turned a furious shade of puce. ‘We were not ungenerous.’
‘If dividing a man’s cake into unequal parts is not ungenerous—’ Tom continued.
Surprised at his off-hand manner, Max held his gaze. ‘It doesn’t really matter. I’ve changed my mind. Thanks to an inheritance, I have gone ahead and purchased the Avonmouth site in my own name.’ He paused, his eyes scrutinizing the men, all of whom were older than him. ‘My new name, I should say. Strong. Maximillian Strong.’
There followed a hum of gasps and murmurs of surprise. None was more shocked than Tom.
Fired up with a thrusting confidence, which seemed to shine from his eyes and glow in his face, Max went on. ‘My mother, as some of you may know, is a daughter of the late Sir Emmanuel Strong, and widow of Conrad Heinkel. I will not go into the reasons for adopting my grandfather’s name at this time. This is a private matter. My decision regarding Avonmouth was taken after listening to the sound advice of a valued friend. Gentlemen, I am looking to the future. Bigger ships mean bigger facilities. The days of sailing ships coming up the Avon are long past, but in honour of the man who brought me up, the refinery will retain the name of Heinkel. The new refinery will be a shrine to Conrad Heinkel, and a beacon of hope for the generations to come.’
Tom met Max’s accusing glare and knew then for sure that Blanche had finally told their son the truth. He felt a mix of elation and surprise. Was that why he’d taken the name Strong, because he now knew who his father was?
Woodbine interrupted. ‘So how does the meeting vote?’
Josiah Benson cleared his throat and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. ‘Regardless of family sympathies, our first priority is to reduce our transportation costs, that is those incurred in transferring cargo from ship to refinery. With that in mind, I feel that we should back Maximillian’s plans for the new refinery at Avonmouth – that’s if he wants or needs our support,’ he said, raising his bushy eyebrows at Max.
‘Your investment is welcome, so long as you concede that I own the biggest share and am therefore in overall control.’
He saw Tom Strong look at him from beneath a shock of dark hair, greying now at the temples. What had he looked like when his mother had first known him?
Hezekial Carey, a merchant venturer and past mayor of the city, shook his head. ‘Gentlemen. My honorable friend, Mr Benson, is right. There is no sentiment in business, and neither is there any age limit. Our young friend here is the best placed to take us forward with new ideas. We have had our day in the sun, but that doesn’t mean we cannot bathe in some of his reflected rays. I for one have every intention of backing this venture, and not just with my shares. I will also put pressure on the planning authorities to speed up the process so that not a day of production is lost. I vote for supporting the move.’
Tom got to his feet, took a few paces to the window and eyed the view outside. ‘The dock is no holy grail, gentlemen. Let’s get that straight from the start. Although the proposed port at Avonmouth will take bigger ships, the tidal problem still remains. Ships waiting out in the channel for the tide to turn cost money. Should the port authority fix too high a fee for berthing, business could be lean indeed.’
He turned from the window, his presence dominating the room.
‘This is an opportunity to build a modern refinery, not just to facilitate easier off-loading, but without the tidal problems we experience in the Bristol Channel. There is only a few feet differential between high and low tide on the east coast. Here on the west coast it’s closer to forty feet – second only to the Bay of Tundy in Canada. My inclination would be to abandon the new docks and relocate to London unless you have no need of borrowing and can finance the scheme in its entirety.’
‘I have the money to finance the complete venture,’ said Max.
Tom nodded acknowledgement. Inside, he surged with pride. Somehow Max had broken the stranglehold of the Strong family. He truly was an independent man.
Hezekial Carey slapped Max’s shoulder as the directors made their way out. ‘We’ve made the right decision, my boy. I’m sure your father would have approved.’
‘Well that’s not for us to know, is it?’ said Max, unable to veil the sarcasm in his voice.
Then it was just Tom and Max alone in The Boiler House.
They held each other’s gaze, weighing up what the other might be thinking or be about to say. One of them had to break. It turned out to be Tom.
‘I suppose your mother told you.’
‘Yes. She did.’
Tom ran his fingers around the crown of his hat, looking at it searchingly before placing it on his head.
Max looked awkward. It wasn’t every day a man found secrets bursting around his head like fireworks.
‘I’ve always looked out for you,’ Tom said at last. ‘It was one of the reasons I stayed with Horatia and in Bristol.’
‘And now those reasons no longer exist?’
‘The truth’s out, not just about you, but about my wife.’ A look of puzzlement came to his face. ‘The only thing I don’t understand is why you took the name Strong. It’s a great honour, though of course I wasn’t born with the name myself. I was adopted, you see—’
‘It wasn’t out of respect for you. I did it for the one hundred thousand pounds left to me in Nelson’s will.’
Tom was astounded. ‘One hundred thousand? Are you sure?’
Max smiled triumphantly. ‘How else do you think I managed to finance the Avonmouth site all by myself?’
‘But that’s impossible. Sir Emmanuel judged that Horatia was best able to further enhance the Strong interests. Nelson was only allotted a yearly income.’
Now it was Max who frowned, his mind whirling with possibilities. ‘Tell me,’ he said, closing the door between them and the passage recently vacated by those attending the meeting, ‘have you heard of a man named Darius Clarke-Fisher?’
Tom nodded. ‘We met briefly in Bath.’
Taking a decanter from a tall chest, Max poured them both a large brandy.
‘It was Clarke-Fisher who told me that you and my mother were having an affair. Fie offered to marry my mother, take her off my hands like a load of dirty laundry – his insinuation rather tha
n description,’ Max added on seeing Tom’s indignant expression. ‘He also mentioned your wife. Do you suppose he saw her, too? Is it possible she could contrive this? I mean, giving away so much money just like that.’
Tom threw the drink into his mouth so that it hit the back of his throat and burned as it went down. ‘She would,’ he said darkly. ‘She can afford to. You cannot imagine just how much money the family have.’ His face lightened suddenly. ‘Just a minute. This wasn’t just a matter of revenge, hurting Blanche and hurting me. She never expected you actually to change your name. All she intended was to sow seeds of doubt into your relationship with your mother, seeds that would reap a bitter harvest in years to come.’
Max looked surprised then burst out laughing. ‘She would really do that?’
Still amused, Tom nodded. ‘She usually reads people very well, but not this time. My dear boy,’ he said, chuckling as he slapped Max on the back, ‘you’ve beaten her at her own game. Not only did you react differently than she’d supposed you would, but you’ve also beaten her to the land at Avonmouth and control of the refinery. I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,’ he said, his laughter resuming and shaking his head.
Max was ecstatic. The difficulty he’d thought he would have in relating to Captain Tom Strong, his natural father, didn’t exist. And he’d beaten the Strong family! He felt as though he could fly. Instead, he reached for the decanter again.
‘Another brandy, Captain?’
Tom held out his glass. ‘To a young man his father would have been proud of – just as I am,’ he said as he raised his glass in a toast.
Max glowed. He understood that the toast was for Conrad, for him, but also for Tom.
* * *
The conservatory attached to the house had been extended in recent years to take in the old orangery built in the eighteenth century by Isaiah Strong. The structure now boasted a huge dome at its centre, and iron arches in the Hindu style formed its sides.
Tom was sitting in a cast-iron chair smoking a cigarillo and surrounded by shiny-leaved plants. An Irish setter lay at his feet. It lifted its tail and wagged lazily at Horatia’s approach.
Tom’s smile was warm. ‘Will you take a seat and a smoke?’
She looked taken aback at first; after all, she had always tried to keep her smoking secret, forgetting that the smell seeps into fabrics, hair and breath.
He indicated the chair next to him then took a cigarillo from his inside pocket. On this occasion, she declined.
‘And how was your London trip?’
‘Good.’
Her voice was clipped. He guessed that Septimus Monk, or Mr Jay from Queen’s Square, had already told her that she’d misjudged Maximillian Heinkel and as a result she was a hundred thousand pounds lighter.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he said, getting up from the chair and standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his feet slightly apart. He was determined not to lose his temper. His spirits were soaring, his heart lighter than it had been for years. If she cared to notice the look in his eyes, she would see only warmth. But she wasn’t looking. He’d already handed her the letter that Duncan had written to the Workhouse.
He drew leisurely on his cigarillo, blowing the smoke into the air in lazy, perfectly formed rings. He couldn’t help imagining her in bed with Duncan. Had she been as cold and unyielding with Duncan as she was with him? He’d never know, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask.
‘You were very lucky to be born rich, Horatia. No woman contemplating adultery could afford to buy her lover a hotel. Duncan was lucky, too.’
Her face was turned away from him. Unusually for her, she said nothing in her defence. Her gaze seemed fixed on an India rubber plant, as though she were seeing something there that was invisible to his own eyes.
‘Was it that you couldn’t endure the whispers, the gossip, the nasty remarks of your male minions in the worlds of banking, sugar and shipping? Not to mention the adverse affects it could have on your daughter? I presume you’d envisaged a future role for her in the Strong business interests, as a pawn in a marriage contract perhaps?’
‘I couldn’t bear…’ she began, half turning towards him, then turning away again.
‘The gossip?’
Sighing, she closed her eyes as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘I thought it best to tell you he died when I saw his colour and knew—’
‘He couldn’t be mine. You could have got away with saying that he was a throwback to African ancestry. But no. You took him to the Workhouse.’
‘But I couldn’t allow him to stay there,’ she blurted.
Tom sighed. ‘Never mind, Horatia. It’s all water under the bridge. Now let us attend to the matter in a manner that suits both of us. I never had your business acumen, and you could never quite relinquish your ambition, no matter if you’d had a dozen children. Therefore, I suggest that we go our separate ways without any recriminations from either of us. You will stay here as queen of the Strong empire, just as you’ve always wanted – and, together with Emerald, I will go to live at Rivermead.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘You’re going with Blanche Heinkel, aren’t you?’
He nodded and made no excuses. He could have lied and said that she was going along as housekeeper or nursemaid to Emerald. In a way, she was. Her own family were all grown up. Emerald would need the woman’s touch he could not give her, and Blanche needed to be in a warmer climate. It all made sense.
Horatia’s hands were clad in lace mittens trimmed with tiny seed pearls. Her knuckles showed white through the fine mesh as she clasped her hands tightly together and one or two pearls popped off in response.
So far, Tom was surprised at her composure. He’d expected anger before she saw the advantages – no ties to a child or a husband, her mind as well as her body set free – but still, it was unusual, in fact slightly surreal. After all, he was telling her that he was leaving her to live with another woman and, what was worse, he was taking their daughter. He braced himself for the onslaught that he was still sure would come. She had every right to be angry and he had every right to feel as guilty as sin.
‘I think your proposal makes sense.’
He looked at her. Her eyes were downcast. Her fingers fidgeted nervously.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Of course I did. You wish to live with Blanche in Barbados and you wish our daughter to live with you.’
He studied her more closely to make sure that this was Horatia Strong, his wife, he was talking to. He couldn’t quite believe it.
‘I was never suited to be a mother, Thomas. I love our daughter, please believe that.’ She looked up at him and he could see by her expression and the moistness of her eyes that she really meant it. He’d never seen such sincerity in her face. ‘I cannot help being what I am. There is within me this desperate hunger to succeed, to expand the Strong family fortune, to be better than my father and grandfather. Thus it is that my priorities are directed towards myself. Isaiah was conceived in a moment of careless abandon. It is rare that I am driven by lust, as I am sure you have noticed. Strange as it may seem for me to admit, I know that Emerald will be better looked after by another woman than me. Blanche has inherited the more congenial aspects of the Strong family, the gentler elements which my grandmother possessed. I cannot imagine a better home for Emerald than with you and Blanche.’
Tom found himself taking a deep breath as if it were the first for a long while. This was not at all the response he had expected. He’d anticipated a horrendous argument and a threat that she would do all in her power to stop him taking Emerald from her. Instead, she had injected an element of uncharacteristic unselfishness into the occasion. He found himself almost loving her for it.
‘I didn’t expect this,’ he said at last.
Her smile was slow and had an element of pain about it. ‘Whatever you may think in later years, please believe me when I say it was not an easy decision t
o come to. She is still of my body, but I know my limitations. Being a mother does not come easily to me, and I have no wish to end up like my stepmother, Lady Verity, who left the upbringing of her children to servants. I do not want that.’
She laughed as if she couldn’t believe she had made such an incredible, and in most eyes, unnatural decision. ‘I love you, I love her, but I also love the cut and thrust of business. I have been left a legacy that few women ever inherit. I intend to build on that legacy, those admirable foundations put down by my great-grandfather. I enjoy beating men at their own game. I am totally committed to what I do, just as you are committed to Blanche and to Emerald.’
Never in his life could he remember Horatia ever looking as serene as she did now, as though everything was exactly how she wanted it to be. There was one thorn that was bound to be hurting her, one unforeseen occurrence to a carefully laid plan.
‘I presume you will now invest more heavily in the properties you purchased in Limehouse rather than Bristol.’
He had to admit, she tried very hard to stop herself from stiffening, but her shoulders turned rigid and, for one moment, her jaw looked as if it had been carved from ice.
‘I think you should leave now. You no longer belong here.’
She looked forlorn, but he told himself it wouldn’t last. Horatia would find solace doing what she did best, alone with the power she’d always relished.
He left her there, told his valet to forward his trunk to the Greyhound Hotel where he would reside until the time came to leave the city of his birth.
He declined the carriage, preferring to take a horse. The Greyhound had very fine livery stables where privately owned animals were lodged next to those used by the Post Office.
He felt happy as he rode the country road from Marstone Court to Bristol. The world seemed cleaner somehow. Low-lying mist feathered the muddy riverbanks. Cattle, full of cud, were picking spots in meadows where the sun had already warmed the ground. The feel of frost was in the air and the hedges were bursting with berries and the bustling of sparrows, blackbirds and blue tits.
