Triangle Trade

by Geoff Woodland

  Charlotte sipped the tea as her maid left the room. She replaced her empty teacup on the bedside table and allowed her head to fall back on the pillow, placing an arm over her eyes to shield them from the light. The crackling fire made her realise that somebody had entered her room while she slept, to either reset the fire or rekindle the ashes.

  She went over the events of the previous day and suddenly realised she had made a mistake. She wanted George’s money, but not George. He was old enough to be her father and although he appeared to be the handsome suitor before they married, last night he had become old. She could not understand how he had grown so old, so quickly.

  She decided that she would play the sweet wife for outsiders, but not in private. She would become the epitome of a new wife and laugh at the right time to George’s feeble jokes and fuss over the wives of George’s customers. She would serve tea to those honoured by an invitation. Her energy would be directed into her new house and she would have it running like a well-oiled clock in no time at all. The staff would know their place and what was required of them each day.

  The guest room was cold. The fire had not been laid because all the staff expected him and his new wife to share the main bedroom.

  Eventually George fell asleep. His dreams were full of William lost at sea, and he lost on land, ever parted from his son. In the dream he searched for his first wife, but every time he got close to her she would move and he’d start the search afresh. He felt a sense of disloyalty throughout the dream.

  On waking, he realised the sense of disloyalty was to Charlotte, because he compared her to his first wife. He woke early in a cold sweat. It was still dark. He lit a lamp and studied his watch. It was only five-thirty. He could hear the servants moving about downstairs. They would be preparing breakfast and relaying the fires. Would Charlotte be awake?

  He knocked gently on Charlotte’s door, but did not receive a reply. He turned the handle softly and pushed open the door.

  The still burning lamp cast enough light for him to move about. He stepped over the clothes on the floor and saw that the fire was nearly out. He riddled the ash gently, so as not to make too much noise. Placing fresh wood onto the embers, he blew softly to encourage the small flame. The fire took hold as he watched his wife’s sleeping face. Her face, framed by her hair, made him catch his breath as he realised that such a beautiful person had married him. The wood began to crackle as the fire consumed the fresh fuel. With a final glance he quietly left his sleeping wife.

  Returning to the guest room he rang for Alfred to run his bath and to put out some fresh clothes. The dressing room, attached to the master bedroom, had a door that lead off the main passageway. This allowed servants to prepare their master’s clothes without disturbing him, if he happened to be in the master bedroom. Alfred would be able to obtain fresh clothes for him without his wife knowing.

  ‘Thank you, Alfred; I will be down for breakfast after my bath. Please tell Cook that I think Mrs King will be sleeping late today.’

  ‘Yes, Sur.’

  October 1806

  George tried and tried to break down Charlotte’s apparent resentment. For over four months they shared the same house, but not the same bed. He didn’t understand what had happened or how he had offended her. She never had time for him. He was fortunate if he saw her one or two evenings a week at dinner, when they didn’t have guests. Most of the time she took her meals in the master bedroom. He tried to talk to her and offered to join her in the bedroom for dinner, so that she didn’t have to dress formally. She would not allow him to enter the bedroom, let alone eat with her in the room.

  Charlotte converted the master bedroom into her own bedroom. The only concession she made was that George could still use the dressing room as long as he entered and exited via the door from the passageway.

  On one of the rare occasions she shared dinner with George, Charlotte said, ‘We have been invited to my parents for a family dinner.’

  ‘Are we going?’

  ‘Of course we are going, what a stupid question.’

  He remained silent. He was not in the mood for another argument.

  The dinner gathering was just family. Donald, Sarah, George and Charlotte. The early evening was pleasant enough, but it changed when they sat quietly enjoying a glass of port. The two men agreed not to leave the women at the end of the meal, so they all adjourned to the sitting room. The conversation turned to business and the forthcoming Christmas festivities.

  The business was doing well. They had received two ships in the last six months from the Africa trade. Both men complained of the idiots in Westminster, who did not know what they were talking about when they tried to ban the trade in Negroes. Times were grim, as it appeared Wilberforce’s anti-slavery proposal would win a majority. Various resolutions had been put to Parliament and the new Whig government supported abolition.

  Both Donald and George feared that in the early part of the New Year of 1807, Wilberforce would introduce his Abolition Bill again, and this time it would become law.

  ‘There may be a way around the problem, George,’ said Donald.

  ‘How so, if they make it illegal we will not be able to trade in slaves.’

  ‘There is always a way. I understand the proposal is to make it illegal for British ships to carry slaves. If this is so, then we will own ships that are not British.’

  ‘If we own the ships, surely that makes them British?’

  ‘George, George, we must use our brains, and perhaps our connections. We will not personally own the ships, but we will damn well control them!’

  ‘Mr Nicholson, have you forgotten yourself. Such language in front of Charlotte and your wife, I am ashamed of you!’ snapped Sarah.

  ‘Madam, I apologise for the lack of respect, but this Wilberforce fellow is trying to put us out of business. If he does, you will have a lot more to complain about than an occasional overheard word. Our livelihood is in the Africa trade and we have to find a way to trade. If they pass this Bill, it will increase the price of the slaves. They will be in short supply, and with any shortage, we will always have an increase in price. I am beginning to like the fellow already,’ laughed Donald, draining his glass before reaching for the decanter.

  ‘Do you think we will be able to control foreign ships carrying our cargo, Donald?’

  ‘Rest assured, George, I have considered the problem for some time and I have thought of ways to get round a number of possibilities. It all depends on the actual Bill. Once we know the details, then we will be able to plan accordingly. The use of a foreign-controlled ship is not something I would advocate. One cannot control the variables and, as you know, controlling the variables means profit for you and me.’

  ‘A toast to Donald, ladies, may his mind never stop working, nor the profits dry up.’

  ‘Donald,’ whispered Sarah, who still smarted from her husband’s comments.

  ‘Father,’ said Charlotte, and raised her glass. She sipped her drink and glanced worriedly at her father.

  ‘No more talk about bad business, this is supposed to be a family party,’ said Donald, standing with his back to the fire surveying the three people before him. ‘Let us talk of happier things. Is there perhaps a chance your mother can be a grandmother?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Truth

  ‘Father!’ said Charlotte, blushing, ‘it is not the sort of conversation we wish to pursue.’

  ‘Why not? It is a reasonable question!’

  ‘Donald, leave the poor girl alone,’ said Sarah, ‘she will tell us when she is ready. I can’t believe you asked such a question in mixed company.’

  ‘Mixed company? What are you talking about, woman? Mixed company indeed, I asked the question in front of my wife, my son-in-law and my daughter, the three closest people to me, and I am told I am in the wrong.’

  ‘Well, you are. It is not a subject to be discussed. Look at Charlotte, she is blushing in embarrassment. You drink too much, that’s y
our trouble.’

  ‘Oh, so now I am the wicked person, and all I wanted to know was if you were going to be a grandmother. It is a question you asked me only the other evening, when we were on our own. Remember?’

  ‘I asked the question in the privacy of our own rooms.’

  ‘I have asked the question in the privacy of our dining room, to our daughter, in front of her husband. So what is the difference?’

  ‘Donald, let’s talk of other things,’ suggested George.

  ‘No, George, I like straight speaking. It is how I built the company and it is how I intend to carry on. The best way to find something out from your own family is to ask them, don’t you agree?’

  ‘In principle, Donald, yes, but I can’t answer the question about you both becoming grandparents.’

  Charlotte turned her head to her husband with a look that implored him not to say any more, and not to comment on their marriage being unconsummated.

  George finished speaking without looking at Charlotte. ‘In regard to the future of the family, I know as much as you in regard to your grandchildren.’

  Charlotte buried her face in her hands and prayed the conversation would change, or God would strike her dead so that she would not have to listen to everyone discuss her.

  ‘Donald,’ said Sarah, ‘no more. Can’t you see you have upset Charlotte? George is ill at ease too. Please change the subject.’

  Donald glanced at his daughter and then at George, who did appear a little uneasy. Had he touched a nerve? His nose told him things were not quite right. Perhaps George can’t father another child, which could be reason why he was single for so long after his wife’s death. Perhaps he can’t function properly. He set the thought aside, to be worked on at a later date, and changed the subject.

  ‘Did I tell you I have been asked to stand for Mayor?’

  ‘Mayor? You never mentioned this to me,’ said his wife.

  ‘You were too busy asking me about grandchildren.’

  ‘Congratulations, Donald, may I offer my hand?’ said George.

  ‘Thank you, George, will you be able to help if I require assistance?’

  ‘Of course, Old Man, it will be my pleasure and privilege,’ said George shaking Donald’s hand.

  Charlotte glanced at her father and her husband, pleased that they had changed the subject. It was time to reassert herself.

  She bit down hard on her tongue to force tears from her eyes. She was determined not to have a child by George, but knew that she could not show her true feelings. She had to play the embarrassed fragile wife.

  ‘Charlotte, dear, what is the matter?’ cried her mother as she wrapped her arms around her daughter.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ shouted Sarah at her husband.

  ‘My fault? I have changed the subject and told you of my good news. Because she is unable to discuss certain subjects with her parents, and her husband, she starts to cry.’

  ‘You embarrassed her. The subject is not a fit subject for a young lady in mixed company.’

  ‘I am still learning, George, after all these years. My fault, I suppose, for having a daughter.’

  ‘I do think it would be best if I took Charlotte home, Donald. She is upset and perhaps I can calm her. I’ll put her to bed when we get home.’

  ‘You do that, George,’ he replied, adding in a whisper, and with a smile, ‘and you make sure you bed her properly, because we want grandchildren. None of us are getting any younger, so make ‘em twins, Old Man.’

  ‘Come, Charlotte,’ said George, holding his hand out to assist her to rise. ‘I will take you home.’

  Charlotte rose and rested her hand on George’s arm as they collected their cloaks.

  In the coach George tried to take Charlotte’s hand to comfort her, but she pulled away and hissed, ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ and then lapsed into silence.

  George looked at his wife and had the overwhelming desire to strike her. After some seconds of tense silence, George asked, ‘Why did you marry me, Charlotte?’ Charlotte gave no indication of hearing the question. The only sound was the clip-clop of the horses. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard you,’ she whispered, and turned her head away so that George could not see her face. She peered out of the coach’s window in to the black night.

  ‘I’ll repeat the question, Charlotte. Why did you marry me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So you don’t love me?’

  ‘Love you? No, George, I don’t love you. I never have.’

  George felt as if a horse had kicked him in the stomach. He sat in the darkness and tried to comprehend Charlotte’s words. He felt physically sick.

  They arrived at their home in silence, each busy with their own thoughts, each condemning the other for the hurt they perceived had been caused.

  George followed his wife up the curved stairway to their respective bedrooms. ‘Am I such a wicked fellow to live with?’

  ‘No, George, you are not wicked, just dull.’

  ‘Dull? I thought you liked a quiet life.’

  ‘I do, George, but not so quiet that I can hear my blood flowing.’

  ‘I thought you loved me for who I am. I know I am not a great person for parties, but can we rekindle the time when we looked forward to the future, and our marriage? Can we pretend that time is here again?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, George. I don’t love you, and I don’t think I ever will.’

  ‘Then why did you marry me?’ he cried in anguish. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? A question I have asked myself a number of times.’

  ‘Did you ever find the answer?’

  ‘I liked you, George,’ she said as she pushed open the door of the master bedroom. ‘I thought I would grow to love you, but I don’t think I can.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What I want now, George, and what I wanted earlier, are two different things. Now all I want is to be left alone so that I can get some sleep. Oh, by the way, I suggest you tell my parents you cannot have children. The fault lies in you.’

  ‘Cannot have children?’ George flustered. ‘Who will believe me when I already have a son?’

  ‘Well, think of something. Just don’t blame me.’

  ‘Perhaps I should tell them you are childless because you will not agree to your wifely duties. Few men would have waited this long. We have been married for nearly six months, and have I treated you in any way about which you can complain? Have I not supplied you with everything you desired? Isn’t it true I have not forced myself on to you, nor demanded to share your bed? What I should say is that you should share my bed!’

  ‘You have been a perfect gentleman, George, of that I have no complaint.’

  ‘The perfect gentleman wishes you good night! I’m going to my room. I have a lot to think about.’

  ‘Goodnight, George,’ she whispered, and closed her door behind her.

  Burning with indignation, George walked to his room.

  ‘My room indeed!’ muttered George to himself. ‘It is nothing but the guest room. I have become a guest in my own home, and I am tired of being the decent fellow.’

  He kicked the door closed behind him and threw his jacket on the bed.

  Pulling back the bedclothes, he grabbed his nightclothes. He caught sight of his face in the mirror.

  ‘Decent fellow! Decent fellow!’ he shouted at his reflection. ‘I have spent years being the decent fellow, and this time I am tired of the whole thing.’

  He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the carpet. His pants, shoes and underclothes followed. He dragged his nightshirt over his head and sat on the side of the bed to contemplate the future.

  The house was silent. Had the servants heard the two of them arguing? Servants always know when a master and mistress fight. They must know he wasn’t sharing his wife’s bed.

  He glanced around the room and saw the brandy decanter and a single glass. The single glass added to his frustration.
Alfred knew more than he let on.

  George poured himself a large brandy. He sipped the drink and smiled as the familiar taste trickled down his throat. In his opinion brandy was the best thing that the French had ever produced. He sipped again as he sat on the bed.

  It was common for married couples to take lovers when their marriage no longer worked.

  He drank again and thought a little more. He didn’t want a mistress when he had not yet taken his wife. He wanted to do things in the right order, take his wife before he took a mistress. He puzzled as to how he could take his wife when she would not sleep in the same bed with him. He daydreamed of forcing himself on her, but knew he couldn’t go that far as he was a gentleman, and a gentleman does not force his way with a lady, even if she is his wife.

  He drained his glass, poured a second, and tried to remember when he had last slept with a woman. It was a very long time ago. He sipped his drink and dreamed she was lying there now waiting for him to come to her. He disregarded this idea, as she would have called out if she wanted him to go to her. He drank once again and fantasised that she was shy, and didn’t wish to wake the servants.

  George lurched to the bedroom door and opened it gently, listening for any sound from across the hall. All was silent.

  He took another drink, and placed his ear to Charlotte’s door and listened.

  Quiet.

  He raised the brandy to his lips before realising it was gone. Quietly he returned to his room and refilled the glass.

  He knew she didn’t love him. He was entitled to show her, and the world, why she didn’t love him. If he took her tonight, the world would say it was his right as her husband. His problem was that if the world found out he waited six months to bed his own wife, he would be the laughing stock of Liverpool.

  George listened once again at Charlotte’s door, before entering. The room was very quiet. The only light was from the smouldering fire. Charlotte lay on her back, her head to one side.

  He moved closer to the bed and watched his wife. He finished the remaining brandy and placed the empty glass on the floor.