The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  ‘I know what it’s like to be poor,’ she said one day as we sat in her kitchen, warming ourselves in front of the range, Liberty drinking his milk in my arms.

  ‘Before I married Mr Harcourt,’ she continued, ‘bless his soul, I had nothing but the clothes I stood up in. He rescued me from the streets and promised me the house when he died. A kindly man, but old. I thought that when I married him I didn’t have long to wait. But blow me, didn’t the old sod last to be eighty-two? Here was I thinking when he pops his clogs, I’ll find myself a young ‘un and have a bit of fun. But by the time he’d finally gone, I’d lost all the will. Bless me, ain’t life a card, eh?’ She laughed loudly at herself through a mouth absent of teeth but full of gums.

  There were three other women in the house as well as myself. All had fallen on hard times for one reason or another, but I was the only one with a child.

  Generally, Liberty enjoyed having four new mothers to look after him, but occasionally problems arose, particularly when he was teething and crying loudly every night. Mrs Harcourt, the landlady, wanted to rub gin on his gums.

  ‘My love, I bought a pennyworth at the grog shop just for him. See, he likes the taste, don’t he? And it’ll help stop his infernal noise of an evening.’

  I moved out soon afterwards, taking my son and my meagre belongings to another room in Chorlton-upon-Medlock. Here I had a basement which wasn’t as clean as Mrs Harcourt’s house, close as it was to Arkwright’s mill, but the rent was cheaper and the other residents didn’t bother me at all. Eighteen people lived in the same house, all sharing one outside toilet whose waste was taken away each morning by the gunny man for sale to the market gardens in Stretford.

  I managed by taking in washing and writing letters for the other residents to their relatives back in Ireland.

  ‘Sure, none of them have the reading, but the priest can tell them what’s going on. Now, won’t they be excited to just be receiving the thing, rather than reading it.’

  It wasn’t the perfect life for Liberty, but at least we managed and he ate well, growing into a strong, healthy boy, if prone to prolonged fits of crying for no apparent reason.

  Then, one day, I fell sick.

  It was the same illness Charles had contracted; fever, followed by vomiting and the sweats. Pestilence, the locals called it, but I knew it probably came from the bad water we were forced to drink.

  I lay in my bed wasting away, Liberty beside me, his head buried in my sweaty hair. I had no money, no food and no energy to work any more. I had not paid the rent and the new landlord had already told me to pay up or leave.

  In one of those moments of lucidity that occasionally occur in the middle of an illness, I woke one morning and, borrowing a pen and paper at the local church, wrote a letter to my father.

  Dear Father,

  I am your daughter, Emily. As you may be unaware, my late husband, Charles, passed away these three years now. Since then, I have had a son, Liberty, who is the spitting image of his father. I write to you in his name, not for myself or in desire of anything from you, but to beseech you to take him under your care and patronage. It pains me to say it, but in my present circumstances, I cannot give him the sort of upbringing and life he both deserves and desires as the grandson of Jeremiah Roylance.

  I beg you, Father, whatever you may feel about me and the wrongs I may have trespassed upon you in the past, for my son’s sake, forgive him even if you are unable to forgive me.

  I ask you to change your mind and accept my son into the household as your grandson.

  Your faithful and loving daughter,

  Emily

  I gave the letter to the coachman plying the Manchester to Liverpool route, along with the last shilling I possessed in the world. Neither myself nor my son would eat that night, but if it meant he could escape this life of meanness and drudgery, it would all be worth it.

  For myself, I cared not a jot, but my son was my world. More than that, he was the living embodiment of my husband, a symbol of both our love and our commitment to each other.

  If, by giving him up, I could create a better life for him, a life of privilege and education, I would do so willingly and without a moment’s hesitation.

  The answer came far earlier than I thought possible. Two days later, a liveried servant brought me a letter. I tore it open in my eagerness to read the contents.

  Dear Sister,

  It was pleasant to receive your letter addressed to Father after all these years. I am sorry you have fallen on hard times. Perhaps our Lord the Redeemer took the opportunity to remind you of the error of your ways when you went against the wishes of our father and married Charles Carruthers.

  Nonetheless, it was gratifying to receive your news and I congratulate you on the arrival of your son. However, Liberty is a strange name for a boy; it has a dissenting feel about it.

  There is one piece of bad news I must impart. Father passed away two years ago. After you left, he wasn’t in good health and, if truth be known, he adapted slowly to the change in circumstances of our estates and our fortune since the emancipation of the slaves. The former has decreased and the latter increased exponentially.

  I am now residing at Wickham Hall. I married your former classmate, Clare Marlowe, and am in the process of disposing of both the house and the business in Liverpool. Indeed, I am soon to adopt the name and title of Henry Marlowe, therefore all your future correspondence should be addressed to me by this title.

  As for your request regarding your son, I am happy to say I will accede to it on three conditions:

  The boy adopts the name of Marlowe is the first.

  The second is that I will have full control of the boy’s upbringing and education.

  Finally, that you accompany him and come to live with us here at Wickham Hall. I will not have a sister of mine disgrace the family name by living in such conditions as you now find yourself.

  Accordingly, I will send a coach to fetch you both to Wickham Hall in three days’ time, at ten in the morning. If either yourself or your son board the coach, I shall presume you have agreed to my terms.

  Your brother,

  Henry Marlowe

  Father was dead? Why hadn’t Henry told me before? Why had he left me in ignorance until that day?

  I looked across at my sleeping son, his chest rising slowly and his body thin beneath the rags covering him. In the half-light from the small window into the basement, he looked almost wraith-like, his skin white as parchment. A harsh cough erupted from his thin lips, but still he slept on.

  I knew then what I had to do. My needs, my feelings, didn’t matter any more. I had to do what was right for him.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Chapter FifTy-one

  July 12, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1837 – Cheshire

  It took one whole day to travel from Manchester to Wickham Hall.

  Early that morning, I dressed Liberty and myself in our best clothes, the ones I kept at the bottom of the case for use at Sunday church.

  The coach arrived and all the neighbours gathered to stare as it rattled down the cobbled street and stopped outside our house.

  ‘Lady Muck’s done alright for hersel’!’

  ‘Can I get a ride, mister?’

  ‘Where you goin’?’

  I hugged Mrs Cummins, the midwife, who had come to see me off, and stepped up into the velvet-lined coach, helped by the kindly driver. Staring straight ahead with Liberty sitting upright beside me, they started off at ten o’clock precisely, stopping just once to change horses.

  The coach was well constructed and comfortable, with the new elliptical springs that made the journey far less tiring than I remembered. Still, by the time we arrived at Wickham Hall we were both exhausted.

  Clara took one look at Liberty and sniffed. ‘He needs a bath?’ The housekeeper stepped forward. ‘Make sure he washes well, and burn those clothes. We don’t know where they’ve been.’


  ‘Hello, Clara,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long time since school.’

  ‘It has,’ answered Clara curtly, ‘and look at the state you have allowed yourself to fall into. All through marrying a most unsuitable man.’

  Liberty was led upstairs, holding the hand of Mrs Trevor and glancing backwards towards me. I smiled to reassure him.

  ‘Sister, we have something to discuss with you now,’ said Henry.

  ‘I am tired, brother, it has been a long journey.’

  ‘I’m afraid this cannot wait. Come into the library with me.’

  I followed him into the room which I remembered from my visit to Wickham Hall all those years ago, when I was young and naïve and foolish.

  As soon as I approached the table in the centre, my brother placed a document in my hand.

  ‘As I communicated in my letter, there are some agreements we must have from you before both Clara and I can allow you and your son to remain at Wickham Hall. You must sign them now.’

  I slumped heavily in the library chair; around me all the books seemed to form a prison whose walls were made of words. ‘What does it say, Henry?’ I asked wearily.

  My brother glanced at his wife before continuing. ‘The details have been drawn up by my solicitors, but essentially the document states that we – that is, Clara and myself – will become the boy’s legal guardians and have full control over his education and upbringing. As we are unlikely to have children of our own, I intend to make the boy my heir. He will inherit Wickham Hall and the estate.’

  I was too tired to speak, so I just nodded my head. It was Clara who spoke next.

  ‘Obviously a name like Liberty cannot be attached to the Marlowe surname, and so we will rename the boy. From now on, he will be known as Royston Marlowe. It was my grandfather’s name and it reflects the proud traditions of my family. Do you agree?’

  I thought of Charles. What would he want? In the split second I was given to think, I decided he would want the best life possible for Liberty, a life I was unable to give him myself.

  I stared down at the table and nodded.

  Clara smiled, adding, ‘From today onwards, you will only call him Royston. Do you agree?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Finally, you will, from today onwards, refer to yourself as his aunt, not his mother,’ Henry added. ‘Clara and I will retain the titles of mother and father for ourselves. You will live here with us at Wickham Hall, of course, as a member of my family.’

  ‘But that is impossible. He will always know me as his mother, I gave birth to him.’

  ‘In time he will forget, like all boys,’ said Clara. ‘Do you agree, or shall we instruct the coachmen to take you back to Manchester?’

  I looked down at the hands lying in my lap. Once they had touched fine silk and embroidered intricate samplers. Now, they were red and chapped and wrinkled. Hands made tired and old in the constant struggle to feed and clothe Liberty.

  Dear reader, an immense tiredness washed over me. I knew I could not do it any more. If I did not accede to their demands, both Liberty and I would end up in the workhouse and what would happen then? More than likely, my son would be taken away from me. At least now I could see him every day. Watch him grow and become a strong, healthy and happy man.

  ‘Do you agree?’ my brother insisted.

  I nodded once more and whispered, ‘I agree.’

  ‘Then sign the document and let us have done with it. The boy, Royston, can start a new life.’

  I picked up the pen in my trembling hands. I found myself hesitating before I signed, the sharpened point of the quill hovering over the page.

  ‘Sign it,’ Clara said.

  I wrote my name.

  My brother reached forwarded, snatching the document from me. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Clara, will you show my sister to her rooms?’

  In a trance, I stood up and followed Clara out of the library, up the stairs and into the room where I was to spend most of the next five years.

  My own private prison.

  Chapter fifty-two

  Wednesday, August 21, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne spent most of that evening cleaning the kitchen and throwing out all the broken glassware and crockery. She called the window repair service, who said they could only come in two days’ time. Another hassle. She knocked out the rest of the glass and found a sheet of cardboard to paste over the empty space. It wouldn’t stop a determined burglar, but the chances of another break-in were remote.

  The words sprayed on the wall were impossible to remove. She was going to redecorate anyway, but this was just another expense she didn’t need at the moment.

  She thought again about calling one of her old friends in the police, but decided against it. The law could be slow and ponderous; she was going to sort this out herself in her own way. It was time for it all to stop.

  Jayne had won a reputation in the police as being particularly tough on men who attacked women. The other coppers had often made jokes about it in the canteen and the locker room.

  ‘Here she comes again, Manchester’s answer to the Yorkshire Ripper, except she takes men apart.’ Or, ‘It’s the ball-breaker, hang on to your tackle, lads.’

  She didn’t care then and she cared even less now. Nobody, absolutely nobody, should attempt to scare or hit women. If they did, she would take them down.

  After feeding Mr Smith she tried to let him out as usual to court the amorous cat at number seven, but he refused to go, sticking close to her.

  ‘Okay, stay here then, but I’m going to take a long bath.’

  She opened a classic New Zealand sauvignon blanc and poured a large glass, taking it upstairs.

  Relaxing in the warm bath and drinking the wine made her think about Paul again. She really did have to contact the divorce solicitors. Now more than ever, the house was the most important thing to her. Strangely, it being violated made her even more determined to protect it in the future.

  From Paul or anybody else.

  As she lay in the hot water, she allowed her mind to wander over the day’s events. She knew there was a connection between Emily Roylance and Rachel Marlowe, but how could she prove it? And even if she did, where was the link to African ancestry?

  The puzzle still remained unsolved, and now there were just two days left before the programme was aired.

  As Jayne’s head began to sink beneath the water, an idea came to her.

  Could that be the link? Could it be as simple as that?

  Chapter fifty-three

  Thursday, August 22, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  The following morning Jayne was up bright and early.

  After her bath, she had spent the rest of the evening thinking about the case and planning her course of action. She was pretty certain now who Rachel’s African ancestor was; it was the only scenario that managed to fit all the facts.

  It was also clear to her that only one person could have been responsible for the road-rage attack and for the break-in. It was time to move on to the offensive by making a couple of calls.

  The first was to Rachel, waking her up.

  ‘Er, hello?’ her client answered sleepily.

  ‘Hi, Rachel, it’s Jayne Sinclair. I’ve finally solved your puzzle for you. Can I come to Wickham Hall to show you this morning?’

  Rachel’s voice was instantly more awake. ‘Really? That’s great news. Who is it?’

  Jayne ignored the question. ’I’ll be there at ten thirty. As it concerns your brother and your father too, could you make sure they attend, please?’

  ‘I’ll ask them, I’m sure they’ll want to know. How did you do it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  She then called the second number, that belonging to her ex-boss in the police. ‘Hi Charlie, it’s Jayne.’

  ‘Hi Jayne, it’s a long time since I heard from you. Still enjoying your retirement, are we?’

  ‘Not really reti
red, I’m working harder now than I ever did.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Charlie, I have a favour I need to ask you.’

  She explained the problem and worked out a course of action with her ex-boss, who was now a Chief Superintendent. Finally, after all had been agreed, she put down the phone and stood still for a moment, staring at the cardboard covering up the hole in her patio door. Mr Smith was at her feet, still staying close to her, not like his usual behaviour at all.

  She reached down and picked him up, nuzzling his soft fur with her face. For once he didn’t try to wriggle out of her grasp, but just lay there enjoying the attention.

  ‘Nobody, absolutely nobody, gets away with trying to scare me,’ she said out loud. ‘Except you, of course, you old tom cat.’

  Chapter fifty-four

  Thursday, August 22, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  At the main entrance to Wickham Hall, she was met by Rachel this time, looking as lovely as ever.

  ‘Hi, Jayne. Father and David are waiting in the library for you. They can’t wait to discover what you’ve found out.’

  ‘I bet they can’t.’

  ‘Have you eaten? There’s still some breakfast left.’

  ‘I have, thanks, but a coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I’ll get Mrs Davies to bring some to the library. Shall we get started straight away? I have to leave before three and Father has an appointment in Chester at noon.’

  Jayne smiled to herself. ‘Of course.’

  Both men were in the library. David was lounging on the sofa staring up into the air. His father was sitting more upright in the armchair, reading the Financial Times again, a pot of tea at his elbow.

  When they entered, David immediately sat upright whilst Sir Harold Marlowe folded his paper neatly, placing it on the table next to the tea.