The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  The Merchant’s Daughter

  A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

  M. J. Lee

  About M. J. Lee

  Martin Lee is the author of contemporary and historical crime novels. The Merchant’s Daughter is the seventh book featuring genealogical investigator, Jayne Sinclair.

  The Jayne Sinclair Series

  The Irish Inheritance

  The Somme Legacy

  The American Candidate

  The Vanished Child

  The Lost Christmas

  The Sinclair Betrayal

  The Inspector Danilov Series

  Death in Shanghai

  City of Shadows

  The Murder Game

  The Killing Time

  The Inspector Thomas Ridpath thrillers

  Where the Truth Lies

  Where the Dead Fall

  Where the Silence Calls

  Other Fiction

  Samuel Pepys and the Stolen Diary

  The Fall

  Chapter ONE

  July 05, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Last night, Emily Roylance dreamt she was in Barbados again. The waving palms, the songs of the slaves as they cut the sugar cane, the breeze fresh off the ocean, the tang of the sea floating in the air. It was as if she was there, back on the estate, sleeping in the arms of her nanny.

  And then she woke up.

  At first she was disoriented, still unsure whether she was dreaming or awake, but the creaking of the old timbers reminded her all too quickly that she was still in the house she hated from the bottom of her soul.

  On the landing, the clock sounded the hours. She counted each strike to make sure she had the right time. Four o’clock in the morning.

  Outside her window the first rays of dawn were fighting to creep over the trees that lined the drive.

  She rose quickly, listening to the house.

  There was no movement.

  She crossed over to her desk and pulled out the notebook she had secreted in the back of one of the mahogany drawers, buried beneath her cotton nightdresses.

  She opened the first page. The paper was virgin white, not touched by pen or human hand. She dipped her pen in the ink and wrote as elegantly as she could the first words.

  An Account of the Life of Emily Roylance

  The words lay on the page, frightening in their simplicity. Should she continue, or should she cease immediately before her brother and his wife discovered what she was doing?

  She sat there for a moment in the early morning light, transfixed with indecision.

  Was this the right course to take?

  She had made the decision to write the story of her life in one of those rare moments of lucidity when the influence of the laudanum was no longer clouding her brain.

  For the last week, she had been pouring the medicine prepared by Dr Lansdowne into the flower beds outside her window. She hoped the hollyhock would survive its daily dose of the soporific.

  Now she felt clear enough to begin writing. A narrative that she would work on in the early hours of the morning, when the house was still and before the servants rose to light the fires and prepare breakfast.

  In this account of her life, she had no intention to shock or discomfit whoever might, by some misfortune, discover this book. On the contrary, she hoped that nobody would ever read the unfortunate events that had blighted her life and placed her in the position she now found herself; a prisoner in a gilded cage.

  The passing of Mrs Harriet Wilson, the author of the celebrated memoirs of her life as a courtesan, in the spring of the previous year, reminded her that time’s wing’d chariot was for ever hurrying near. There was one thing of which she was sure: death would come to her soon. It was not an event that saddened her, rather, she welcomed it with open arms.

  So it was with no small trepidation that she seized the moment to write her history. A moment when the usual fog of her existence cleared for a brief time and she could see what had happened and why it took place as it did.

  If her brother discovered the words written here, no reader would ever contemplate her predicament or her downfall.

  He would not appreciate the truths written in these pages, obsessed as he was in creating those stout, high walls that served to obscure their family origins and defend their name.

  She understood and accepted that possibility, for these words were not written to be read but to provide insight to herself. It was as if, by describing all that had happened to her, she could somehow make sense of it, give it a wholeness that was so obviously lacking at the time the events took place. A life that should have been blessed with eternal sunshine, given the advantages of both her class and her fortune.

  But a life that was shadowed from the beginning by a secret so devastating that, should it be revealed, would destroy her family in the eyes of polite society. A society that had become even more polite since the accession of the young queen to the throne and the arrival of her consort Albert from Germany.

  The riotous and carefree days of the Prince Regent in the year she was born had given way to the more formal and hypocritical society of today. A modern society given to the worship of money and things material to the detriment of a basic civility and tolerance.

  She picked up the pen and began to write.

  My name is Emily Roylance and I was born on March 4, 1806; the daughter of Jeremiah Roylance, merchant, and Dolores Sharpe, spinster, on the Perseverance Estate on the island of Barbados. My brother Henry and I lived in the big house surrounded by fields of cane and were indulged by the servants and the slaves that my father possessed in abundance. It was an idyllic childhood where my every whim was encouraged and satisfied, with the word ‘no’ never passing my mother’s lips.

  My father was rarely seen. He was either working with the estate overseers, at his office in Bridgetown, or on one of his many trips back to Liverpool to settle his business affairs and sell the rum, sugar, molasses and other goods we produced on the estate in such abundance.

  Mother, on the other hand, was a gay presence, always laughing and happy except when Father was at home, and then she became as quiet as the cane on a still day - passive and powerless, meek, charming, and submissive.

  This heaven on earth, this Eden, was shattered one day in 1816 when I was but ten years old…

  Outside her room, she heard a noise. The pen froze in its position above the paper, a drop of ink slowly falling from the sharpened nib.

  Was somebody there?

  Was somebody spying on her?

  Then, the soft voices of the maids calling to each other down the corridor, followed by the padding of feet as other servants carried nightsoil from the rooms to the privies.

  She dried the ink with a quick dusting of powder and closed the book. She would write more tomorrow night, but now it was time to stop and return to her bed to pretend to be asleep.

  Placing the book back in its secret place, she crept back to the bed and crawled beneath the covers.

  She had so much to recount, she hoped her brother would not discover the book before she finished her tale.

  Chapter TWO

  Wednesday, August 14, 2019

  Harboro Television Studios, Manchester

  The TV host, Danielle Hurst, held up a golden envelope. ’I have your Where Do You Come From? DNA results here in my hand. Are you excited, Rachel?’

  ‘Can’t wait to hear about them. Am I Anglo-Saxon? Welsh? Do I have a little bit of Viking in me?’

  ‘We’d all like a little bit of Viking in us.’ The host gurned towards the camera as the audience laughed at the risqué joke.

  ‘But we’re not going to reveal the results yet…’

  The audience groa
ned as she dramatically hid the envelope behind her back.

  ‘Let’s talk a little about you first, shall we? Rachel Marlowe – you’re famous for playing costume roles?’

  ‘I do seem to have spent my life laced up tightly in a corset. It’s the price an actress must pay to play the part.’

  A quiet laugh from the audience at her self-deprecating humour.

  ‘Lady Anne in To Have and Have Not. Catherine de Braganza in Charles II…’

  ‘Dealing with his many mistresses…’

  ‘And the fabulously aristocratic Diana Manners, in The Coterie, the BAFTA Award-winning production of British upper-class life in the years between the wars.’

  ‘It was a wonderful part and she was an amazing woman to play.’

  ‘Her life is not dissimilar to yours, is it not?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She was much posher than I am.’

  ‘Didn’t you grow up on a family estate in Cheshire, Wickham Hall?’ A picture of an elegant Georgian building flashed up on the screen behind Rachel’s head.

  ‘I was very lucky. It was a wonderful childhood, full of activity, horses, dressing up and messing around. Daddy worked hard but Mummy was always there for myself and my brother.’

  ‘You then went to Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Very posh.’ Again, a raised eyebrow directed at the camera and the millions watching on television from the comfort of their homes.

  Rachel brushed back the dark fringe that covered one eye. ’It was a bit posh, but good fun and I loved my friends at school. Didn’t learn much, though, I was one of those who wasn’t terribly academic.’

  ‘When did you discover you wanted to be an actress?’

  ‘I’ve always known, ever since I was a child. My brother and I—’

  ‘See, coming from a council estate in Southwark, I would have said “me and me bruvver”…’

  The audience laughed again.

  ‘We’ve both come a long way, haven’t we?’

  The audience laughed and a black studio manager waved his hands to encourage them to clap.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Rachel after the applause had died down, ‘as I was saying, my brother and I used to dress up and put on shows together for an audience of two - Mother and the cook. Cook was always complaining that she had to attend so many shows there was no time to make lunch.’

  ‘And then RADA?’

  A picture of a fresh-faced young ingénue surrounded by other equally enthusiastic students appeared on the screen.

  Rachel looked up at it. ‘No tight Gucci dresses then. The Royal Academy for Dramatic Arts was wonderful. It opened my eyes to the possibilities of acting. How to replicate another person, become them rather than oneself. To hide oneself in a part.’

  ‘And you’ve never looked back?’

  ‘I was lucky in my second year to audition for a part in the Casanova film and even luckier to get it.’

  ‘Who can forget that outrageous dress?’ An image of a beautiful woman spilling out of her dress appeared on the screen behind them. Danielle Hurst winked at the camera. ‘Old Casanova didn’t stand a chance, did he?’

  ‘Not much, no,’ Rachel said, self-deprecatingly. ‘It was a bit revealing.’

  ‘Revealing? I could see the freckles on your tummy through the material.’

  ‘It was a wee bit tight. You know, I had to wriggle into it each day before the shoot.’

  ‘No underwear then?’

  ‘There was no room…’

  Loud laughter from the audience.

  ‘I mean, there wasn’t even space for me to eat.’

  ‘The sacrifices an actress has to make for her art.’

  More laughter from the audience.

  The host pulled the golden envelope back out from behind her back. ‘But enough of your dresses, it’s time for your results.’

  A collective intake of breath from the audience.

  ‘And we will get to them when Where Do You Come From? returns after the break.’

  The audience applauded and cheered as the title card for the show appeared on the screen behind them. The floor manager stepped forward. ‘And we’re out. Relax, everybody. We’ll start filming again in three.’

  A make-up artist rushed forward to Danielle Hurst’s side. As the woman dabbed the sweat off the host’s brow and added a fresh coat of powder, the host leant forward and touched Rachel Marlowe’s arm. ‘Sorry about the breaks, but we like to have the feel of a live show even though everything is recorded. We’ll splice in the film of you walking through your estate and in the local pub in editing.’

  ‘How do you think it’s going?’

  ‘It’s going great, the joke we rehearsed worked rather well, didn’t it?’

  ‘You think so? I’m so glad. I’m always so nervous on these chat shows. I was on Graham Norton last week, promoting To Have and Have Not, and I was so scared I wasn’t going to be funny like all his other guests. Luckily, Tom Hanks was on the couch too. Now he is a true gentleman.’

  ‘It’s nerve wracking, isn’t it? But don’t worry, the audience here loves you. And I think you’ll be surprised by the DNA results. They are very interesting…’

  ‘Really? Sounds wonderful.’

  The floor manager stepped in front of them. ‘Taping again in thirty seconds, Danielle.’

  The make-up artist rushed off the podium. Danielle Hurst checked her face in the monitor. Rachel Marlowe pulled her dress down over her knees and casually wiped the tips of her Louboutins, ensuring her legs were gracefully stretched out in front of her so they could be picked up by the camera.

  ‘Three - two - one.’ The floor manager counted down, folding down a finger with each number.

  A broad smile instantly leapt on to Danielle’s face and her voice was charged with enthusiasm. ‘Welcome back to Where Do You Come From? – the celebrity chat show with a difference. We talk with the stars, look at their lives; where they were born and brought up, and how they live today. But we also perform a DNA test to show the real person behind the celebrity. Who were their ancestors and where did they come from? Maybe we’ll even find some long-lost cousins they never knew existed. Tonight we have with us the gorgeous, beautiful and talented Rachel Marlowe, star of stage and screen.’

  The audience erupted in a chorus of cheers and hollering, egged on by the floor manager.

  Rachel smiled and waved at the audience.

  Danielle held up the golden envelope. ‘Excited, Rachel?’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  The audience went quiet. A soft drum roll was played off stage. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on Danielle and her guest.

  ‘Feels like the Oscars, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I can hope…’ said Rachel.

  The audience laughed dutifully.

  ‘This is the bit I like best,’ said Danielle, ripping the envelope violently open. From inside, she took out a single sheet of paper.

  On the monitor, the camera cut from a close-up of Rachel’s face waiting expectantly, to a close-up of the sheet of paper, to a tight shot of Danielle reading the results, and finally back to Rachel, biting her bottom lip and curling her thick, dark hair around her finger.

  ‘Rachel Marlowe, I can reveal the results of your DNA test are…’ The drum roll increased in intensity, the audience was stilled. ‘That you are 56% Anglo-Saxon, 28% Irish, 10% Viking – there’s that little bit of Viking you wanted inside you – and finally, and most interestingly, you are 6% African, specifically the area around present-day Ghana.’

  Chapter THREE

  Wednesday, August 14, 2019

  Harboro Television Studios, Manchester

  ‘What?’ Rachel Marlowe’s mouth opened wide. ‘What did you say? Ghana? You mean from Africa? African?’

  ‘Well, according to our results you have an ancestor born in the area we now know as Ghana. How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m shocked… I mean, pleasantly shocked.’ Rachel quickly recovered and went into actress mode. ‘I always th
ought I was so classically English. You know – upturned nose, peaches and cream complexion. And now to suddenly find out part of me is from Africa. I’m… shocked. Pleased, of course, because it adds another level to my own history. But I never expected that part of me comes from Africa.’

  ‘You even have a long-lost cousin in our crew.’

  ‘Really?’ Rachel’s eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘It’s Mike, and he’s your cousin six times removed.’

  The camera quickly panned round to the floor manager, who smiled shyly and gave a little wave.

  ‘Mike, where were you born?’ asked Danielle.

  ‘In Manchester, but my dad is from Ghana.’

  Rachel Marlowe pointed at the floor manager. ‘He’s my cousin?’

  ‘Sixth cousin to be more precise. So that means he’s related to your great-great-great-great-grandfather.’ Danielle counted off her fingers as she spoke the words.

  ‘Really?’ Emily’s mouth opened wide, but the actress within her quickly recovered her poise. ‘That’s amazing. Hi, cousin.’ She waved to the floor manager.

  ‘Here’s our resident guru, Professor Syrus Jacobs, to explain the results to you.’

  On the screen behind them, a man wearing a bright green cravat and a Panama hat appeared. His nose and cheeks were irrigated by faint red veins, like a satellite picture of a river delta. His voice was rich and musical as he began speaking.

  ‘These are fascinating results, Rachel, most interesting. As I have said many times, the DNA results for the Anglo-Saxon and Irish heritages are not peculiar given that your family comes from the north-west of England and the waves of migration that have flowed through the region. Viking is less common in that area. You find it more often in Cumbria, around the Lake District, Yorkshire and towards Newcastle. And obviously, it’s even more common the further north one travels, with the Outer Hebrides showing people with a very high percentage of Viking heritage.’

  He took a breath. ‘Again, a function of the centuries’ of invasion by the Vikings before their eventual assimilation into Anglo-Saxon society by the tenth century.’ Here, he paused a moment and scratched the end of his large nose. ‘What is fascinating is the African DNA result…’