The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  So she had booked a meeting with him and now here she was, outside the old Victorian building. It was a long time since she had been inside. Her last time was over twenty-five years ago when Robert had taken her on a visit here when she was fourteen or fifteen years old.

  She had spent most of that week arguing with her mother, the typical fights teenagers get into with their parents. Her skirts were either too short or too long. Her hair at that time was styled in the curls of Kylie Minogue, which her mother said made her look like a poodle on heat. The final bone of contention was her boyfriend at that time, Gerry. A lovely lad who looked just like Jason Donovan and was an apprentice plumber.

  One Saturday morning it had all kicked off.

  ‘I’m having no daughter of mine with a man who spends most of his time up to his elbows in shit.’

  ‘Mum, he spends most of his time making tea and laying bathroom tiles.’

  ‘He’s too old for you.’

  ‘He’s only twenty-one.’

  ‘You told me he was eighteen!’

  Jayne had forgotten the little white lie she’d told when she had first spoken to her mother about Gerry.

  ‘He’s too old. I’m not having it, understand, little lady?’

  ‘Oh, I can see you’re not having it, that’s why you’re so irritable all the time.’

  Her mother stared at her for a moment before the arm came round in a wide arc and struck Jayne on her face. The blow didn’t hurt but the shock did. How dare her mother strike her? She went to lift her hand when Robert caught her and ushered her out of the house before she did any real damage.

  They ended up at Manchester Museum.

  ‘Look, lass, your mother means well. She cares for you.’

  ‘Hitting your daughter across the face is a funny way of showing you care.’

  ‘Sometimes, people can’t say the words...’

  ‘By people, you mean my mother?’

  ‘She loves you, Jayne.’

  ‘How do you put up with her, Robert?’

  At this time, Jayne had been going through her phase of calling him by his name. She no longer felt comfortable calling him ‘Dad’ as he was her stepfather.

  ‘I love your mother, Jayne. Always have done, always will do.’

  ‘Despite her temper?’

  ‘Because of her temper.’

  ‘You’re a strange man, Robert.’

  ‘And I love you too, always remember that, lass.’

  They had gone into the museum and spent hours looking at the mummies in their cases. She realised later it was Robert’s understated way of telling her that all the arguments would pass. Nothing lasts for ever. These 3000-year-old mummies had once lived and laughed and loved, and now they were nothing but shrivelled corpses in a museum.

  He was a subtle man, was her stepfather.

  And now she was here again, twenty-five years later, with an appointment to see Donald Livesey, curator of the jewellery section.

  She sat down in his office and, after the usual introductions, pulled out the necklace Rachel Marlowe had given her and handed it over to him.

  ‘Hmm, we don’t see many of these.’

  He was a dapper man, almost a caricature of a university don; spotted bow tie, horn-rimmed glasses, a tweed suit, brown brogues, and hair swept across the top of his head in a comb-over. He spoke with an accent that definitely wasn’t from Manchester.

  He took off his glasses and placed a loop to his eye in order to examine the necklace more closely. ‘Fascinating.’ He seemed to be oblivious of Jayne’s presence as he peered through his loop, examining every element of the jewellery.

  Finally, he looked up. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It’s from a friend. Handed down through the family.’

  He laughed. ‘Sounds like an episode of Antiques Roadshow.’

  ‘Do you know where it might have come from?’

  ‘A better question is, where doesn’t this come from?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘See here, this barrel-shaped piece near the centre?’

  Jayne leaned forward to take a closer look.

  ‘Well, that’s Roman, without a doubt. Rolled gold, and I bet we’ll find a little message or curse inside.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something like “Mighty Jupiter, help me get the job with the procurator” or “Mighty Jupiter, make sure Caius Dodos Impator’s left hand drops off because he’s a thief”. Nice people, the Romans. Pretty common piece, though. And here—’ he pointed to another section shaped like an animal, ‘—it’s hallmarked with the lion’s head for London and the letter mark of an “E”, so it was made in 1740. Yet over here is a piece also hallmarked, but this time with the marks for Edinburgh 1781. Although it’s hallmarked Scotland, it’s definitely French, again from the eighteenth century.’

  ‘I thought it was just a charm necklace.’

  ‘It’s exactly that. And a very charming piece of jewellery, first one I’ve ever seen like it.’ He pointed to another charm hanging from the gold chain. ‘This is another French piece – art deco, from the look of it, around 1927. This is probably Dutch judging from the style. And this centrepiece with the stylised lion—’ he pointed to the design at the centre of the necklace, ‘—is African.’

  ‘African?’

  ‘Ashanti, probably, from the area we now know as Ghana. Quite old and very collectible. These primitive gold pieces do very well in the auction houses.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘That’s about it. All in all, a mish-mash of jewellery pieces and styles assembled from many different objects and put together by somebody wanting to create their own piece.’

  ‘Any thoughts on the age?’

  ‘Not really. The English and French pieces are eighteenth century, the Roman is probably fourth century, but the most modern piece is art deco. So somebody was adding to it after 1927. The African piece is difficult to date, but is probably late eighteenth or early nineteenth century.’

  ‘It’s a bit strange, isn’t it, to have charms from all those places and dates mixed together?’

  ‘I haven’t seen a piece like it, to be honest. Wouldn’t want it for the museum, though, too eclectic. You might sell it through a dealer, if you want.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not interested in selling it, I just want to know where it came from.’

  ‘I think the simple answer is everywhere. Not much help, I’m afraid.’

  They shook hands and she left, not before thanking Mr Livesey for his time and knowledge.

  Standing outside the Victorian building, she shook her head. The African piece of the charm necklace might hint at Rachel’s past but nothing else did. What had she said about it? ‘She told me she had added this charm to protect and guide me through life. I was to add something and give it to my daughter.’

  Strange. Had it been handed down from mother to daughter over the years?

  Perhaps. But how was it going to help Jayne in her search?

  ’Well, this case just gets stranger and stranger.’

  A student walking past her suddenly stopped and walked in the opposite direction.

  She really would have to stop talking to herself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  July 10, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1827 – Liverpool

  I remember the first time I set eyes on him. My brother and I had been invited to a literary soiree. It was almost two years after I had left the and I had done nothing except read, embroider and pass my time in the frivolous pursuits of a young, wealthy girl in Liverpool. Occasionally, boredom had led me to go for long walks on my own, much to the consternation of my father and brother. These walks were probably the reason my brother had arranged the invite in the first place; anything to keep me occupied.

  The soiree was supposed to one of the highlights of the literary year, organised by Mr Roscoe, the pre-eminent historian and banker who had fought long and hard to be
stow the merchants of Liverpool with the benefits of his learning.

  The candles flickered in their sconces. The dresses glittered as they twirled. The audience were hushed by the dulcet tones of Signor Panizzi as he lectured on the Italian poets, particularly Dante, at the Royal Institution.

  Unfortunately, as he spoke no English, he lectured in Italian and as a result I spent most of my time yawning, as did the rest of the audience.

  Next to me, Henry was sitting upright, his eyes unwavering from the speaker.

  Bored, I glanced to my left and right. The great and good of Liverpool were at the Institution that evening, all intent on imbibing a dose of culture and learning they felt was their right as residents of one of the leading cities of England.

  On my right, Sir Archibald Sutton sat with his sister. Still as fat as ever, he now presided over the expansion of the docks and the construction of the many fine new buildings that dominated the shoreline.

  He waved at me, his chubby fingers like fat sausages wriggling on a butcher’s block.

  I immediately looked away, only to find another man staring at me from the other side. I nudged my brother. ‘Who is that?’

  My brother glanced away from Signor Panizzi for a second. ‘That’s Mr Carruthers, here to support his branch of the Anti-Slavery League. Can you imagine it? In Liverpool of all places?’

  I looked at the man out of the corner of my eye, only to find him staring openly back at me. He was tall, dark and had curly black hair, and was wearing a jacket cut in the modern style favoured by Lord Canning, the new prime minister.

  I decided to concentrate once more on Signor Panizzi’s lecture. That good man droned on in Italian for the next quarter of an hour without pausing for breath. I hazarded another glance at Mr Carruthers. He was still staring at me and this time he had the temerity to smile.

  I turned my eyes back to Signor Panizzi, avoiding Mr Carruthers’ gaze completely by concentrating on the speaker’s florid waxed moustache as it wriggled like a caterpillar under his nose.

  When the good Signor finally paused for breath and we were given a break of ten minutes, my brother and I rose to walk to the lobby. Henry, on pretence of talking to one of the other merchants of the city, left me alone for a few minutes.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr Carruthers was watching me but I pretended not to notice. He hesitated twice before finally plucking up enough courage to approach.

  He bowed clumsily in front of me. ‘M-M-M-Miss Roylance, I presume?’ he stuttered nervously.

  ‘Have we been introduced, sir?’ I asked in a voice that I thought sounded imperious but probably came out as a high-pitched squeak.

  ’N-N-Not yet, Miss Roylance, but by approaching you tonight, I hope to have resolved that problem. My name is Charles Carruthers, and I have the honour to be your obedient servant—’

  ‘You are neither my servant nor my slave, sir. Unless we have been formally introduced, I—’

  Mr Carruthers began to redden. ’I would have thought formal introductions were such things of the past. For a modern lady, I would have—’

  ‘And who says I am modern, sir?’

  ‘From what I have heard, the whole of Liverpool is agog with your exploits, Miss Roylance…your wildness of nature.’

  It was true. Since I had left Miss Fanshawe’s Academy more than a year ago, I had developed a reputation for being a young woman of independent mind and spirit. My father had often criticised me for wandering around the docks unescorted and unchaperoned. But life at home was so boring. How many books could one read? How many samplers could one embroider? And how many sermons could one listen to?

  ‘My exploits, as you call them, have nothing to do with anybody but myself, Mr Carruthers. I wonder you have time for such idle gossip if you are here to expand your branch of the Anti-Slavery League in a city built on the proceeds of the whole system.’

  For the first time I saw him smile and his voice became more confident. ’I am gratified, Miss Roylance, that you have enquired about my business even though you pretend never to have heard of me.’

  I felt my face reddening, ‘I—’

  But he continued before I could respond. ‘If you would really like to hear about my work, I am giving a public lecture on the case for the abolition of slavery tomorrow evening if you would care to come.’

  A bell was rung to remind the audience to return to the auditorium. ‘At least my lecture will be in the King’s English.’

  He handed over a card, which I took with my gloved hand. ‘I’m afraid I am busy tomorrow evening, but perhaps another time, Mr Carruthers.’

  ‘As you wish, Miss Roylance.’

  The bell was rung for a second time. I could see my brother wending his way back through the crowd to rejoin me.

  Mr Carruthers bowed once more. ‘I am sorry for taking up your time, Miss Roylance.’ He withdrew as my brother approached.

  ‘What did he want?’ Henry asked.

  ‘He invited me to a meeting of the Anti-Slavery League tomorrow evening.’

  ‘You’re not going to go?’

  I remember staring at the expanse of Mr Carruthers’ back and his broad shoulders as he danced his way through the crowd of merchants. ‘No, I don’t suppose I will,’ I answered.

  Little did I know how untrue that statement was.

  Chapter TWENTY-one

  July 10, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1827 – Liverpool

  I stepped into the hall and was surprised to see that it was packed.

  After attending the Sunday service where the Reverend White had spent two hours prattling on about the innate goodness of God, I had gone home and embroidered yet another sampler.

  As the afternoon ticked away and the clock on the drawing room mantlepiece ticked along with it, I made my decision.

  I stood up and told my father I was going to visit my friend, Alice Chambers, to discuss Signor Panizzi’s lecture and to borrow a copy of Dante’s Inferno in translation.

  I don’t know why I did it. Boredom, probably. Or that wildness of nature Mr Carruthers had mentioned yesterday. He had not been the most charming of men when he spoke to me. Indeed, I found him full of himself and his ideas. Why then did I go?

  A woman approached me near the entrance, dressed in a severe black dress fastened at the neck with a single pearl button. ‘You’re here for the lecture?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘And would you like to become a member of the Society?’

  ‘I would like to hear what Mr Carruthers has to say first.’

  ‘The Reverend Carruthers will begin his lecture in five minutes. If you would care to take a seat?’ She pointed to an empty chair next to three old ladies.

  I was surprised Mr Carruthers hadn’t mentioned that he was a man of the cloth yesterday. Had I misheard him?

  As I took my seat next to the old ladies, the oil lamps at the side of the stage dimmed slightly and a man walked on to a lectern. Mr Carruthers.

  To my eyes he looked different from last night. Altogether more self-assured and confident. Not like the diffident, almost apologetic man who had approached me in the lobby of the Institute.

  The audience quietened as Mr Carruthers assembled his papers on the lectern, then stared out over the assembled crowd.

  For a moment, just as he began to speak, his eyes caught mine and he nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, his voice strong and resonant, ‘we are gathered here this evening to meet as the Liverpool branch of the Anti-Slavery League.’ He paused for a moment and a smile crossed his face. A smile I felt was solely for my benefit.

  ‘You may be wondering why we have opened a branch in this city. After all, it is a metropolis built on the proceeds of the whole system of slavery.’ Once more a smile and a glance in my direction. ‘It is precisely because Liverpool owes its very existence to the institution of slavery that we have decided to goad the lion in his den, to be a
biblical Daniel, taking the fight against slavery to the very centre of its corrupt web.’ At the end of this line, his voice rose and his hand clenched the lectern in front of him. The audience immediately began to applaud, understanding every word, unlike last night.

  Mr Carruthers paused again, drawing himself up to his full height and said, ‘As a son of Liverpool, born here not so long ago, as were most of you, we will oppose the whole system in this den of inequity because slavery is a moral and ethical outrage against the laws of God. And let me tell you, what we will see in this great city is the triumph of the great struggle for the deliverance of the enslaved African from the most oppressive bondage that ever tried the endurance of humanity; thereby achieving a moral victory, ensuring that justice, freedom, the clemency of power and the peaceful glories of civilisation shall have a place in the hearts of these poor enslaved men.’

  The last words were spoken with fervour, encouraging the audience to erupt in applause.

  Mr Carruthers continued in a quieter, calmer voice. ‘But such a victory will not be won lightly nor easily, for against us are waged the Gods of Mammon, many of whom reside here amongst us.’

  The three old woman beside me were staring at the stage in awe. I found myself listening closely too, hearing the mellifluous tones and cadences of Mr Carruthers’ speech, losing myself in the magnificence of his arguments and the moral strength of his convictions. Gone was the nervous creature I had seen last night, and in its place, a lion had arisen.

  ‘Liverpool must purge itself from the stain which slavery has brought upon it. Slavery hated the light, slavery hated the truth, slavery hated knowledge and religion. Who would deny that slavery loved darkness? That it loved ignorance, that it sought concealment? Light would expose its enormities and would make it blush, and reason would hold it up to the universal execration of mankind.’

  Here he lowered his voice again and spoke almost in a whisper. ‘But it was said that the planters loved religion. They showed it by pulling down chapels. They showed it by punishing missionaries. They showed it by desecrating the Sabbath. The planters laughed at religion, desecrating the altars of God, and they, therefore, were mad…’