by M J Lee
He stood up, fervour showing in his eyes. ‘I need to go and tell the congregation. We should organise prayer meetings to give thanks for the news this evening.’ He turned to run out of the room.
‘Before you go, Charles, I have news of my own.’
He stopped for a second and turned back.
‘I am pregnant. Your child will be born next May, if the Lord so wills it. Are you pleased?’
He knelt down in front of me, grasping my hands. ‘Two such pieces of news on the same day! I don’t know what I have done to encourage such good fortune. Truly, the Lord must be watching over us this day.’
I smiled and leant forward to kiss him on the forehead. It had occurred to me that if slavery was abolished, what further need would there be for an organiser of an anti-slavery society?
I had quickly dismissed this idea before it took root in my mind. Today, was not the day to trouble Charles with my worries.
Chapter forty-five
Wednesday, August 21, 2019
International Slavery Museum, Liverpool
They finished the boxes just before the archive closed, scanning the contents rather than reading every cargo manifest and trade letter. There was nothing more related to either Charles Carruthers or Emily Roylance in any of the other boxes.
‘What next, Jayne?’ Rachel asked.
The genealogist thought for a moment. ‘It’s a long shot, but let me see.’ She took out her laptop and typed in the web address for University College London.
‘Why are you checking a university?’
‘Because it’s home to the database for the legacies of British slave ownership. In 1834, the British government freed the colonial slaves by paying their owners a bounty for each slave.’
‘Really?’
Jayne nodded.
‘And what did the slaves get?’
‘Nothing but their freedom.’
‘Why would the government give the slave owners money?’
‘Because slaves were classed as property and in those days, it was thought impossible for a government to deprive an individual of his property, so they were compensated.’
‘Ugh, that’s disgusting.’
‘Not at that time. It was thought of as logical and legally enforceable.’
The search box came up and Jayne typed in the name ‘Roylance’. Instantly, the results appeared.
‘I thought so. The Roylances owned slaves and received money for them when they were freed.’
They looked at the results together.
Jeremiah Roylance
Address:Holt St, Liverpool
Awardee:Barbados
Perseverance Estate 3926 11s 11d (178 enslaved)
Bulkeleys Trinidad 2458 6s 8d (126 enslaved)
Carmichaels 5006 3s 10d (231 enslaved)
Henry Roylance
Address:Holt St, Liverpool
Awardee:Barbados 5004 2478 8s 5d (120 enslaved)
Trinidad 9675 3s 6d (448 enslaved)
‘The Roylances were paid all that money to free their slaves?’ Rachel asked, shocked.
‘Over twenty-three thousand pounds by my reckoning, which would be roughly three million pounds in today’s money.’
‘That’s terrible, Jayne.’
‘We shouldn’t judge these people by our standards.’
‘Why not?’ The actress then sighed. ‘We still haven’t found my African ancestor.’
‘No, we haven’t, but the ownership of slave estates in the Caribbean gives us a link we can follow up on.’
‘Does it? I don’t know. I’m tired of all this. Take me home, Jayne. I’ve had enough for today.’
Rachel was quiet as they drove back from Liverpool to Cheshire. Once again, her brother was waiting for them as Jayne parked at the front of the house. He must spend his life checking the CCTV, she thought, or whoever was following them had already rung the house to warn him.
Whatever it was, Jayne was ready in case anybody pulled the same stunt as last night. This time she wasn’t going to let them get away with it.
As Rachel got out of the car, David greeted her with a cheery, ‘How was your day? Did you enjoy the wild-goose chase?’
‘Not really,’ Rachel sulked. ‘We discovered a lot about a family called Carruthers, and another called Roylance, but nothing to link them directly to any African ancestors. I’m beginning to think you are right, David, it’s just a wild-goose chase. The DNA results must be wrong.’ She turned back to Jayne. ‘You’ve got just two days left to discover the truth, Mrs Sinclair, before the programme goes on air. I hope we’re not wasting my time and my money.’ With that she flounced into the hall, without saying goodbye.
David laughed. ‘Looks like you have an unhappy client, Mrs Sinclair. And knowing Rachel, when she’s unhappy, she’s not a nice person to be around.’
Jayne didn’t reply, simply restarting the engine and spinning the wheels on the car to create a cloud of dust that enveloped the man. She had had enough of the bloody Marlowes to last a lifetime. She wished she had never taken this rotten case.
On the drive back to Manchester, she quietly seethed with anger, but kept her eyes peeled for any signs of danger.
There were no grey Range Rovers trying to run her off the road tonight. But she arrived back at home with her shoulders aching and her body tired from gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
Chapter FORTY-six
July 12, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
Emily woke up with her head resting on her open book. Outside, the early morning light was streaming in through the windows on another bright summer’s day. She must have dozed off whilst writing. The last line on the page was smudged and ink had transferred to the cotton sleeve of her dress.
No matter.
Her brother was due back today. She only had a little time left in which to write, and it was the most important part of her story.
She took up her pen, dipped it in the ink and began to compose her thoughts.
1833–4 – Manchester
Unfortunately for me, the pregnancy was not a happy one. The morning sickness that I endured left me tired and morose, and later, the gradual expansion of my body left me lethargic and bitter. The baby seemed to suck the very essence out of me as it grew in my womb. Some days I found it impossible to get out of bed.
Added to this were my worries concerning Charles. As I had expected, the passage of the bill, even though it was not yet law, meant that the society began to cut back on expenses, the major one of which was Charles’s salary and benefice.
He was told just before Christmas that his services were no longer required.
‘What are we going to do, Charles?’
He took my hand as I lay in bed, fatigued by the baby growing inside me.
‘Something will turn up, don’t you worry. And in the end, there’s always my family. I can always ask them for help to tide us over.’
Finally, after two months of seeking and failing to find another position, Charles did turn to his family for aid.
They rebuffed him with strong words. His father even went so far as to call me ‘a jezebel who has tempted Charles with the forbidden fruit’.
Despite mixing up two completely different bible stories, I felt about as close to a jezebel as Lady Caroline Lamb was to an honest woman.
Charles, however, was not despondent. He tramped the streets of Manchester, calling on all the traders and merchants who had supported his work in the past, but to no avail. There really was no need for a preacher whose sole claim to fame was an ability to organise an anti-slavery society.
Soon we were given leave to quit our rented house when we could no longer afford to pay the landlord. And in the harsh early months of winter and the crueller months of spring, it was often better for me to stay in bed rather than risk the damp cold of the parlour and the sitting room.
‘I could approach my father, or at least my brother,’ I offered. ‘I’m sure he would listen.’
> Charles reluctantly agreed. I sent a letter out the next day and received a reply by return of post from my brother. The tones were rather cold and unemotional but the message was clear.
Dear Sister,
Thank you for your letter of the 24th.
It was gratifying to hear the news of your pregnancy.
Father is as well as can be expected.
I’m afraid he refuses to countenance sending you any money whilst you remain married to that man. If you will leave him, he will, of course, accept yourself and your child into our family.
I am to be married to Miss Clara Marlowe, probably next year as she has just embarked on a grand tour of Europe.
I remain your obedient and loving brother,
Henry
I read the letter four or five times, each time seeing less and less warmth in it. It was almost as if my brother was writing to a stranger. Had he changed so much, or had he always been so cold?
I didn’t know the answer.
When Charles returned after his afternoon searching for a position, I hid the letter so he wouldn’t see it. Lately, he had become more and more despondent and I didn’t want to burden him with the news from my family. Somehow, we would get through these trials and tribulations together. Hadn’t our marriage vows talked of ‘to have and to hold, from this day forward; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law’?
I would keep my vows whatever happened.
Chapter FORTY-seven
July 12, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
1834 – Manchester
On April 6th, 1834, at nine o’clock in the morning, Charles died.
As I sit here and write these words my tears drop on to the page and stain the ink. Dear reader, you don’t know how difficult it was for me to write those words.
At the time, all I remember was an immense numbness that seemed to suffuse my body and overwhelm my spirit.
We had moved into a small house in Ancoats, far from the comfort and security of our old home, but it was all that we could afford.
Charles, after much traipsing through the streets of Manchester, had finally found a position as a clerk with a firm of solicitors, but the hours were long and the pay meagre. Gradually, he grew thinner and thinner as I think he forswore his own food in favour of feeding myself and our baby, who was yet to be born.
Within weeks of starting his new position, he woke up one morning vomiting and unable to control his bowels. At that time, I feared it was the pestilence, an evil miasma that inhabited the whole area.
We could not afford a doctor but a local lady came in and administered a poultice to his stomach. Unfortunately, it was too late.
My poor Charles passed away in my arms, a black evil dribbling from his mouth.
He was never going to see the abolition of slavery, a goal he had spent his whole life working for.
He would never see our child, the soul for whom he had sacrificed so much.
He would never feel my skin next to his, nor hear my heart as it beat close to his again.
And me? I lost so much too.
I would never hear his voice, nor feel his touch, nor taste the beauty of his lips.
I wrote a letter to his family but received no answer, and nor did I expect any.
At least I was given assistance by the congregation of the Quakers. Charles received a proper funeral and would not rest for eternity in a pauper’s grave.
But what was to become of me and our child?
Mrs Cummins, the midwife, told me I was to give birth to a boy in the middle of April.
She had just prepared the dose of laudanum she had procured from the chemists. Apparently, the shock of Charles’ death could adversely affect the baby, so I was to be dosed for the following week until the birth.
I did not like it as I spent my time dreaming of Charles and his smile like the dawning sun.
I wished that Charles were there by my side.
But he was not, and I was alone.
Chapter FORTY-eight
July 12, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
1834 – Manchester
On April 18th, 1834, my baby was born.
A happy, healthy baby boy, as Mrs Cummins had predicted, weighing in at six pounds and twelve ounces.
I named him Liberty, after the achievement of his father and in honour of the year the slaves finally achieved freedom.
At least Charles will be remembered even though it broke my heart every time I said his name.
I remember feeling my baby lying in the bed beside me, his face screwed up tight against the world and a shock of black hair, just like his father, crowning his head.
I do not know what I would have done without Mrs Cummins’ kindness. She had looked after me since Charles died, feeding me and caring for me to the detriment of her own family.
But I could not avail myself of her kindness for too long. Soon, I would have to leave that house and find a way of sustaining myself and my child.
At that time, I thought I could become a governess or offer lessons in reading and writing. It could be difficult with Liberty by my side, but I was sure we could find a way.
I was more positive than I had been ever since my pregnancy began. Perhaps it was the laudanum speaking, or perhaps simply the physical act of giving birth had relieved me of the burden of having a child inside me.
I did not know. But it was time to sleep before Liberty woke again and demanded to be fed.
We had to make our own way in the world from then on.
Chapter FORTY-nine
Wednesday, August 21, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
When Jayne opened the door to her home in Didsbury, Mr Smith didn’t come out to greet her. She called his name, expecting him to rush out with his tail erect and his furry body pressing against her legs.
Still nothing.
She listened and called his name again.
No response.
Instantly the hackles on her neck rose. Something was wrong. She rushed into the kitchen to find the whole place in disarray; papers scattered everywhere, her computer shattered on the floor, the glass of the patio door broken.
In the corner, Mr Smith lay beneath one of her coats that had been thrown on the floor. He peered out cautiously, saw her and then rushed over. She picked him up, nestling her face in his fur.
‘You’re okay, Mr Smith, you’re okay,’ she whispered.
Her feet crunched over broken glass as she walked around the kitchen. Still holding Mr Smith, she picked up the bar chair that had been thrown to the ground. Next to it, her computer lay smashed, its screen and innards spilling out over the tiles. Luckily, she backed up all her files into the cloud and on to hard copy. Most of her paper files were scattered all over the floor, however; her life, her cases, just the detritus of some thug who had broken into her house.
It was then she looked up and saw the far wall. In big, bold, blue letters, the intruder had sprayed: ‘LEAVE IT ALONE OR ELSE’.
Leave what alone? Did they mean the case? Maybe this wasn’t a burglary. And then she remembered her jewellery. She didn’t have much, but Paul had given her a few things over the years. He particularly enjoyed the fine workmanship of classic watches and had given her a Rolex and a Cartier on their fifth and tenth wedding anniversaries respectively. Celebrations that seemed to belong to a different time and place.
Putting Mr Smith down in the hall close to his favourite windowsill, she ran upstairs and opened her dressing-table drawer, taking out her jewellery box.
She opened it but everything was there. Her watches were nestling on their velvet cushions, her diamond wedding ring still in its box from Chaumier, assorted gold and silver necklaces untouched.
Strange. Why would a burglar go to all the trouble of breaking in and then steal nothing?
Her detective training kicked in. She checked the
house. All those items that should have been stolen – televisions, electrical appliances and the rest – were all still there. Nothing was missing.
She walked back into the kitchen. The desktop computer, easily the quickest item to sell if a druggie needed money, was lying broken and forlorn on the island counter where she had left it.
Then she looked again at the words sprayed on the wall. This wasn’t a burglary but another warning. With a start, she remembered Rachel’s necklace.
She raced over to the cupboard where she kept her work files. Stupidly, she had placed the necklace and its box into a manila envelope and put it in Rachel Marlowe’s case file, ready to return to her.
She looked in the case file.
Nothing there.
The necklace, all her notes on the case and the Marlowe family tree, which she had so painstakingly recreated, was gone.
She knew now who had taken it. There was no point calling the police; she knew exactly who had done this.
And they were going to pay.
Chapter Fifty
July 12, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
1834-37 – Manchester
For nearly three years my baby and I existed through the kindness of strangers.
Mrs Cummins and the congregation of the Quakers provided me with food and hand-me-down clothes. I took in washing and cleaned their houses, receiving pennies in return for my labour, but at least with what I earned I could buy fresh milk for Liberty.
After the first year, I moved from the house in Ancoats to a room in Angel’s Meadows. There were no angels there, and precious little grass, but the landlady was a kindly old soul who rented her rooms to those women of a genteel disposition who had fallen on hard times.