The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  Then, in the middle of the audience, three men dressed in the rough clothes of dock workers stood up. One of them shouted, ‘What about us? What about the workers whose lives depend on trade? What are you going to do about us?’

  Mr Carruthers stopped speaking for a second. ‘I understand your worries, my friend. But no human life can be dependent on the enslavement of another of God’s servants for its wellbeing. No human has the right to enslave another. We are all God’s children.’

  ‘I ain’t,’ said the man, suddenly throwing a bottle which smashed against the lectern. Others stood up in the hall and began to throw rotten fruit and more bottles towards the stage. Stewards rushed in from the side to prevent them, waving their arms ineffectually to prevent the violence.

  On stage, I could see Mr Carruthers pleading for calm. ‘Gentlemen, please, there is no need for this. This is a peaceful meeting.’

  On my left, the man who had heckled Mr Carruthers picked up a chair and threw it at a steward. Two other men, one carrying a short baton, began to strike the people around him, lashing out at anybody who came close.

  One of the three old ladies screamed and collapsed on the floor. I tried to reach over the melee of struggling bodies to help her, then my waist was encircled from behind and I was lifted up into the air.

  I tried to turn around to strike my attacker before I heard a voice.

  ‘Miss Roylance, it is me, Charles Carruthers. I suggest you leave this hall immediately.’ He looked over towards the door, where another group of rough-looking men were pushing their way into the hall.

  ‘But I—’

  He lifted me up on to the stage and climbed up after me. I stared out over the hall. The stewards were attempting to push the men out while the old ladies were sitting and shaking on their chairs, waving umbrellas above their heads.

  ‘Come this way, Miss Roylance, there is a room at the back where you can hide while I sort this out.’

  ‘I’m not hiding anywhere, Mr Carruthers.’ I planted my feet on the stage, indicating I would not be moved.

  He moved towards me then hesitated, glancing back towards the melee on the floor of the hall.

  Then he turned and walked to the front of the stage, arms held wide, shouting in a booming voice, ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please ask your questions and I will answer them.’

  For a second the noise stopped as everybody looked up towards the commanding figure of Charles Carruthers.

  One man shouted from the middle of the crowd, ‘Our jobs, what will happen to our jobs if you ban slavery?’

  Mr Carruthers smiled and his voice dropped a register. ‘I understand your fears. You’re worried you might not be able to feed your family, am I right?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘That’s what you all fear, isn’t it? That trade will collapse and you will have no jobs left.’

  An Irish voice belonging to a large, well-built man boomed out, ‘Without the docks, there will be nothin’.’

  The pushing and fighting had stopped now and everybody was staring towards the stage.

  ‘Oh, I agree, sir,’ Mr Carruthers responded. ‘Without the docks Liverpool would have nothing, but let me tell you, stopping the slave trade won’t decrease jobs. On the contrary, it will increase them. Won’t sugar still be needed?’

  The Irish man nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Won’t cotton be needed by the mills of Lancashire?’

  There were a few mutters of agreement from inside the hall.

  ‘Won’t Ireland still be exporting cattle and wheat and potatoes to feed the people of the new mill towns?’

  The sounds of agreement increased across the hall.

  Charles Carruthers paused for a moment before smiling. ‘And won’t rum still be drunk in the ale houses of Liverpool?’

  ‘It will… too much,’ came a voice from the back.

  ‘Too little if you ask me,’ answered the Irish man.

  Charles Carruthers raised his arms higher. ‘The one thing that will increase the welfare of everybody is free trade carried out by free people living in free nations.’ He now spoke to the Irish man directly. ‘Now, sir, would you like to sit down and listen to what I have to say? If at the end you still disagree with me, we will shake hands on our disagreement and go our separate ways, firm in the knowledge that we have heard the arguments for and against this malicious trade in human beings. Why, weren’t your own countrymen sent against their will to the self-same islands of the Caribbean by Cromwell as indentured servants?’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Mick,’ shouted the man who had started the fight.

  The Irish man sat down. ‘I want to hear what ye man has to say.’ His supporters, the men who had pushed their way into the hall, sat down with him.

  On the other side of the room, the thug who had started the fight, seeing he had no support, stormed out through a side door.

  The rest of the meeting proceeded calmly, with questions asked and answers given. I looked on from the side of the stage as Mr Carruthers rebutted each and every argument put to him with strength and politeness, listening carefully and answering simply and directly.

  At the end of the meeting, he stood in the centre of the stage and said, ‘Dear friends, I know I have not convinced all of you this evening but I hope in some small way I have made you ponder the opportunities that the abolition of this iniquitous enslavement of our fellow human beings allows us. If we decide to go forward with this emancipation, mankind in future ages shall point to the abolition of colonial slavery as the commencement of an era that will be the most benign and brilliant the world has ever seen. I look forward to that day, ladies and gentlemen, with you and our God by my side.’

  As he finished his speech, I felt my heart soar and I knew instantly I had fallen under the spell of Charles Carruthers’ words.

  Even better, I knew now I had a cause that would make my life, and that of those around me, meaningful.

  I must convince my father of the rightness of Mr Carruthers and the Anti-Slavery League.

  Chapter TWENTY-two

  July 10, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  For a moment, Emily stopped writing as the memories flooded back. She remembered the fervour, the excitement with which she had gone home that night. Filled with passion for the cause, and the man, whom she now held dear.

  With almost prescient clarity, she could remember the ensuing meeting with her father. She took up her pen and began writing again.

  1827 – Liverpool

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I went to a meeting of the Anti-Slavery League. Mr Carruthers was the speaker.’

  My father rose from the chair and walked over to where I was standing, wagging his finger in my face. ‘Those people are blackguards. They would ruin us, our company and Liverpool, and you have the gall to tell me you attended one of their meetings?’

  I stood my ground, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I listened to the arguments both for and against. It seems to me to be obvious and un-Christian. To enslave our fellow man is morally wrong.’

  ‘Morally wrong,’ he shouted. ‘What do you think pays for this fine muslin at six shillings a yard?’ He tugged at my dress. ‘Or for this house? Or the food I put on your table?’ He strode over to the fireplace and took a large gulp of wine.

  I glanced over to my brother for support. He was sitting in a chair, casually examining his fingernails.

  ‘Father,’ he eventually said, ‘it is important Emily understands the arguments on both sides of the slavery question. I will give her a pamphlet from General Tarleton to help her understand how slavery is beneficial to the economic and cultural wellbeing of the African.’

  My father seemed to be satisfied with this until I could not keep quiet any longer and spoke again. ‘How can selling a man, his wife and their children in a market be good for their economic and cultural wellbeing?’

  ‘Go to your room, young lady. I will not be insulted in my own home. Remain th
ere until you are called for.’

  I looked across at Henry, still playing with the end of his fingers. He indicated with his head that I should leave.

  ‘Locking me in my room won’t change my mind, Father. I have decided to support the Anti-Slavery League in its efforts in Liverpool.’

  After this speech, I opened the door and left the room, running upstairs as fast as my skirts would allow me. Father was not going to browbeat me this time. My mind was made up. I would support Charles to rid Liverpool of the pernicious evil of slavery.

  I stopped on the landing and listened, hearing both my father and brother’s voices. Silently I tiptoed down the stairs again. I was desperate to hear what they were saying about me.

  As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I saw Rosie walk across the hall with a fresh decanter of claret. In the absence of the housekeeper, who was visiting her sister, Rosie must have been dispatched to serve it. She saw me on the stairs and I placed my finger across my lips.

  She went in to serve my father and brother and left immediately she had finished.

  ‘What are you doing, milady?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to find out what they are saying. Keep a lookout for me,’ I whispered.

  She nodded and placed herself at the entrance to the servants’ quarters.

  I tiptoed to the door and placed my ear to the keyhole.

  My brother was talking. ’…do not be too worried by this outbreak of independence, Father. I see the malign influence of a man in this, influencing the emotions of a young girl.’

  ‘Who?’ asked my father.

  ‘Mr Charles Carruthers. I saw them talking at Signor Panizzi’s soiree the other evening.’

  I heard Father stride over to his desk. Oh, how I longed to see what he was doing but the only evidence I could rely on was that of my ears. I heard rapid scratching and then my father said, ‘It is time she was married off. I’ve made a list of suitable candidates. Sir Archibald, the superintendent of docks, seems to be the best. I’ve seen the way he looks at her.’

  Dear reader, I was tempted to push open the door and shout, ‘I will not marry that lecherous man, whatever you order.’ Luckily, my brother was of the same mind but for different reasons.

  ‘Too old, too fat and too stupid. One of the Gladstone sons would be a better match for both the company and for trade. Let me sound them out at the Club tomorrow night.’

  ‘Very well. In the meantime, what are we to do with her?’

  ‘I think a little trip into the country would do her good, away from the distractions of Liverpool. Didn’t she make friends with the Marlowes at school? Perhaps I could arrange an invite to their house at Wickham Hall?’

  ‘Remind them I helped the father with a large loan last year. They owe us a favour.’

  ‘I will, Father. And if they ask for more money?’

  ‘Give it to them. They are as poor as church mice but parade around with all the airs of the aristocracy. I’ve had my eyes on their house for a long time. Do they have an eligible son, by any chance?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, only a daughter. A plain woman – Clara by name. She went to school with Emily.’

  I remembered Clara well and my brother had described her exactly. I was surprised he was acquainted with her, though.

  ‘Perhaps a month or so in the country would do her good. Fresh air and boredom. Always a good antidote for a young woman with an active imagination.’

  Then Father rang the bell for more wine and Rosie had to go downstairs to fetch it before anybody else answered the call.

  ‘There is one other matter we have to discuss…’ my brother continued. He seemed to be the one leading the conversation rather than my father. How he had changed in the time he had been in Liverpool.

  ‘The anti-slavery movement is gaining strength throughout the country. We will not be able to resist them for ever.’

  ‘They are just a bunch of Quakers who love to hear their sound of their own voices.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate them, Father. Why, even here in Liverpool the movement is gaining force and strength.’

  ‘Did you send the men to their meeting yesterday?’

  ‘I did, but they failed to stop it. The pacifism of the Quakers is their strength, and when combined with a messianic belief in the rights of men, well…’.

  What was that about men? Had my father paid those men to barrack the meeting? It couldn’t be true.

  ‘We’ll see them off, don’t you worry. The trade is worth far too much to the Exchequer, plus we control Parliament through our paid men.’

  ‘There is a desire to reform Parliament, though – to bring in the vote for property owners…’

  ‘Property owners?’ he spat. ‘We’ll own them as well as their property.’

  ‘I would not be so sure, Father. And besides, we must look at the future of our estates.’

  Rosie appeared by my side with the fresh decanter. I stepped back into the shadows to avoid being seen when she opened the door.

  From my hiding place I could see Father and my brother in the room, discussing my future without a care in the world for my thoughts or feelings.

  As soon as Rosie closed the door, I rushed back and placed my ear at the keyhole.

  My father was now pacing up and down. ‘Come on, out with it. Don’t beat about the bush, explain yourself, Henry.’

  ‘Since the passage of the Slave Trading Act in 1807, we have been unable to re-invigorate our slave stock. Bussa’s rebellion was catastrophic for our interests.’

  ‘We stopped ‘em and killed the ringleaders, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did, Father, but perhaps we were too effective.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The slaves are no longer as productive as before.’

  ‘Just tell Mr Howard to flog them harder, then.’

  ‘Productive in the sense of producing replacements for themselves and their work.’

  ‘The slave trade was abolished twenty years ago and we have still survived!’

  ‘But for how much longer, Father? We should look to the future and invest our money here at home rather than developing our estates, which have no future nor any labour.’

  For a second something caught in my throat and I had to suppress my natural reaction to cough.

  My brother had stopped speaking; perhaps he had heard me.

  ’Go on…’ I heard my father urge.

  Thankfully, Henry continued. ‘Railways, cotton, banking, insurance. That’s where our future lies, not in the production of sugar, rum and molasses. There’s talk of a new railway from Liverpool to Manchester – that’s the future.’

  ‘A horseless carriage on rails? A mere toy?’

  ‘But a toy that can move men and materials at the speed of twenty-five miles an hour to and from the docks at Liverpool.’

  ‘We’ve always made our money in sugar and trade. Let that be an end to it.’ I heard a chink of a glass and the sound of pouring liquid.. ‘There is nothing to worry about with these anti-slavers, you mark my words. And as for your railways, they are just a fad. Haven’t they already killed one government minister in Huskisson?’ He drank a long draught of wine. ‘Aye, with a bit of luck they’ll get rid of a few more. They won’t be missed either, you mark my words. The slave trade will still be making Liverpool rich when I’m in my grave pushing up daisies.’

  Then I heard the sofa creak. ‘You asked for my thoughts, Father, and I have given them to you. Now, I must be off to the Club. I will be seeing Gladstone. Shall I tell him about my sister’s availability for marriage?’

  My father was silent for a minute. ‘Not yet, we’ll see how she is when she comes back from the country.’

  ‘Fine, but I wouldn’t wait too long. I do not trust Mr Carruthers in this matter. I will take my leave, Father.’

  At those words I rushed upstairs, desperate to make the landing before my brother left the room. I made it and looked down at the drawing-room door through the rowels of the s
tairs as he walked out, put on his coat and hat aided by Rosie, took his walking stick and left by the front door.

  I sat there for a long while, thinking of my predicament. What was I to do?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Monday, August 19, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne Sinclair stood outside Manchester Museum and had a choice. She could go to the solicitors Wendy had recommended last night or she could go to visit Robert and Vera.

  It was no choice really. She went back to her BMW and drove out to see her stepfather and his wife in Buxton. The solicitors could wait for another few days and so could her ex-husband.

  For once the drive was pleasant; the sun was shining, a few clouds skidded across an azure sky and despite it being Monday, the traffic was light along the A6.

  Forty minutes later she parked outside Robert and Vera’s nursing home and walked in to be greeted by Violet, the new girl on reception.

  ‘Hello, Jayne, didn’t expect to see you here today.’

  ‘Last-minute decision. Are they in their usual spot?’

  ‘Where else? They’ve finished the Guardian crossword and moved on to the Times.’

  ‘Robert will be grumpy, he hates doing that one.’

  Violet made a face. ‘Vera’s choice, I think.’

  Jayne pushed her way through the fire doors and into the television room. A few of the residents were dozing while Homes Under the Hammer droned away on the television.

  Robert had decided to come to the home after living alone became difficult. He had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Most days he was fine, but a few times he lapsed into silence, unaware of where or even who he was.

  Luckily, he met Vera at the home and together they made a fine couple. Jayne’s mother had died many years ago and Jayne was so happy when Robert finally found happiness with another woman.

  She found them sitting outside under the shade of an old beech tree, arguing about a clue.