by Jane Jackson
‘So, you will convey my requirements to your father.’ It was not a request.
Before she could respond he stood up. The sunlight caught his close-cropped curls and they gleamed like polished ebony. It cast bars of shadow across the fine material of his frock coat whose superb cut defined the breadth of his shoulders. Tanned by wind and sun his skin glowed bronze against his white collar. He leaned towards her and his clipped black beard reminded Caseley of a picture entitled Lucifer in a book of religious stories favoured by Miss Amelia.
‘I am offering your father the chance to make Bonython’s a major force in international maritime trade. He will want me, do not doubt it.’ Caseley stared at him. He smiled. ‘So be sure my message is delivered in its entirety. Good day, Miss Bonython. I will see you again. Very soon.’
He gave a mocking bow and strode out.
Chapter Five
A few minutes after Jago Barata left, her uncle Thomas burst in, startling her.
‘Is it true? Will Teuder be returning to the office in a few days?’
She had never seen him so fraught. He was usually such a quiet, retiring man. But he must be feeling the strain of her father’s absence almost as much as she was.
He had been so helpful, refusing to allow her to carry the heavy ledgers home each evening. Instead he had prepared a weekly balance sheet so her father could see at a glance that all was well. But Teuder had complained bitterly, demanding to see the books. The implied slur on his character and ability had offended Thomas.
Desperate to keep the peace, she had begged her father to accept the sheets. Reluctantly and with much grumbling he had agreed.
‘I – I was going to tell you a bit nearer the time,’ she stammered. ‘We cannot be sure of the exact day. It should be soon though.’ She had been compelled to tell so many lies, what difference could one more make?
‘Then I must get back. Lots to do.’ Reaching the door he glanced back. ‘Caseley, as soon as you know for certain you must tell me.’ He must have seen her surprise at his urgency. ‘So we can arrange a small celebration.’
‘I don’t think he’d want that, Uncle Thomas,’ she said quickly.
‘No, perhaps you’re right. But you will let me know?
‘Yes, of course.’
As he left the offices and turned towards the town centre, Jago reviewed his encounter with Teuder Bonython’s daughter. Caseley: an unusual name for a prickly young woman who apparently cared little for appearance, fashion, or men. With a mental shrug he dismissed her, climbed the five steps, and entered the red brick building that housed the offices of GC Fox and Company.
Only she would not be dismissed. There were hollows beneath her high cheekbones, a wide soft mouth above a stubborn chin, and dark lashes she used to veil emerald eyes flecked with bronze. There was no coyness in her manner. She appeared genuinely reluctant to have anything to do with him. He found that intriguing. As was her refusal to offer her hand.
On his sixteenth birthday, as a gift to mark his entry into manhood, his father had arranged for him to lose his virginity to an attractive young widow. His sensual mouth curved at the memory of Genez. From her he had learned consideration and the exquisite rewards of curbing his youthful impatience. He had believed himself deeply in love with her. With kindness and humour she had convinced him he wasn’t.
In the eighteen years since he had never lacked female company. His striking appearance, punctilious manners, and a background combining wealth and nobility ensured his name appeared on the guest list of every family of rank and many of those with aspirations. But he had avoided emotional entanglements.
His physical needs slaked, he had devoted his energy to his chosen profession, the sea, frequently returning to his ship sooner than planned simply to escape designing mothers. Faced with his lack of interest in their simpering daughters, more than a few hinted at their own availability, colouring his opinion of women and marriage with cynicism.
He had been celibate for a while before starting his liaison with Louise. She was earthy, generous, and honest, shunning many of the pretensions of others in her position. Physically she satisfied him as no woman had since Genez. But she was seeking more than he was inclined to give.
Opening the door he promptly forgot her.
‘My apologies for not being here to receive you in person yesterday, Captain Barata,’ George Fox said as they shook hands. ‘However, I’m afraid there is still no message.’
‘I will send a telegraph from the post office,’ Jago took the chair Fox indicated. ‘Perhaps you can tell me the latest news from Spain?’
‘The newspapers –’
‘Say very little. They are more concerned with the proposed pilot service around the Lizard, the lack of passenger revenue on the railway, and strike-breakers bound for collieries in the north where mine owners are refusing to employ union men.’ Jago crossed one long leg over the other.
‘Mr Fox, my ship is being held under writ in Bilbao. You are Vice-Consul for Spain, and I need to know exactly what’s happening out there.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Fox sat down. ‘May I offer you some coffee, or perhaps a glass –’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
George Fox shook his head. ‘The information we receive is garbled and on occasion contradictory. As you can imagine, communication is difficult and the situation changes daily. But it is a bloody war, captain. The guerilleros are behaving with appalling savagery. This is no disciplined army supporting the rights of Don Carlos to the Spanish throne. It is a rabble of murderers using the rebellion to satisfy their lust for blood and money.’
‘How far have they reached? The last news I had was that Don Carlos had stormed the port of Bilbao, and his brother Don Alfonso was moving south.’
George Fox nodded. ‘Don Alfonso’s forces plundered and terrorised their way through Aragon and invaded the heart of Castile.’ He paused. ‘With the capture of Cuenca they managed to come within eighty miles of Madrid. The citizens resisted for two days, but when Cuenca fell –’ His voice quavered and he avoided Jago’s gaze. ‘The mob, for they are little better, was unbelievably ruthless. They took few prisoners. The streets literally ran with blood.’
While Fox struggled to regain his composure, visibly distressed by the terror and wanton destruction convulsing the country whose interests he represented, for Jago this news was infinitely more painful. Spanish blood ran in his veins. Spain was part of his heritage. But his features remained impassive.
‘However, there is some good news,’ Fox said. ‘The siege of Bilbao has been lifted. General Serrano’s army defeated the Carlist forces but it was a hard-won victory and the town was a bloodbath. Rumour has it that Don Carlos fled across the border into France. Some are saying the rebellion is ended. But I have my doubts.’
He struck the desk lightly with the edges of his clenched fists. ‘Forty years this vendetta has lasted. Two branches of the same family fighting for the crown, and the republican faction adding to forty years of carnage and misery that would never have started if Ferdinand had not bypassed his brother to hand the throne of Spain to his daughter, Isabel.’ He shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Captain.’
Waving the apology aside, Jago stood up. ‘Your concern does you great credit, sir, and I appreciate it.’ He offered his hand and Fox rose to shake it warmly. ‘You’ll contact me if –’
‘I will,’ Fox promised.
Needing exercise to dispel his tension, Jago strode along Arwenack Street, heedless of the interest aroused by his dark good looks and proud bearing. Working men, recognising authority, tipped their caps. Men of substance and breeding acknowledged with a nod one of their own caste.
Respectable married ladies glanced at him then averted their eyes, smothering pangs of yearning and their guilt at such inappropriate thoughts. Girls stared openly, then clutched at each other to giggle and sigh. Sullen youths with catcalls on their lips changed their minds as cold grey eyes swept over them and they perceived beneath expert tailoring a
muscular physique that owed nothing to padding.
The aroma of freshly baked bread and roasting coffee wafting from a refreshment house reminded him that he’d eaten little breakfast, but his stride did not falter.
The street was busy. Women shopped; errand boys darted to and fro across the dusty street. A hansom rolled past, the driver sitting high at the rear, cracking his whip above the horse’s ears to quicken its pace. An argument in the bootmender’s doorway had attracted a knot of on-lookers.
The sun was high, but the tall buildings on both sides of the street acted as a funnel for the keen-edged easterly wind. The smells of fish and horse dung competed with rotting vegetables, burning wood, and the gas works.
He crossed the square in front of the church, passed the King’s Head hotel and, a few yards further on, entered the new and beautifully faced post office building. The first rush had eased and he reached the counter with little delay.
‘Good morning, Mrs Cox. My mail, if you please?’
The postmaster’s wife had a naturally pale complexion, emphasized by the high-necked black bombazine she usually wore. But she was quite pink as she raised one hand in a reflex gesture to untidy, sandy-grey hair that appeared to be on the point of escaping the bun into which it had been loosely gathered.
‘’Morning, Cap’n. I heard you was back.’
Jago’s mouth twitched. There was very little that escaped Mrs Cox, the post office being a clearing house for both local gossip and news brought in by crews of vessels returning from all over the world.
‘Staying at the Royal again are you? Only Mrs Sandow up along Woodlane have got a lovely house to rent if you was interested.’ She reached up to one end of a large wooden rack that covered half the wall its shelves partitioned into dozens of small compartments, and took down a wad of letters. As she passed them to him under the ironwork grill she leaned forward, her round face close to the heavy mesh. ‘She asked me to find a gentleman. She said you can’t be too careful these days.’
‘And you thought of me?’ Jago wondered what Mrs Cox would have thought had she seen him cuckolding the town’s leading butcher the previous night. He picked up the letters. ‘That was kind of you, Mrs Cox.’
‘’Tis a sad day if we can’t help one another.’
‘A worthy sentiment indeed. Is Mr Cox in the office?’
‘No, Cap’n. He’ve gone out to meet the steamer to collect the mails. It give’n a break. The post office make’n work from seven in the morning till ten at night. If I wasn’t here to help I don’t know how he’d do it.’
‘Please give him my regards, Mrs Cox.’ He bent towards the grill. ‘And take good care of yourself. For where would your husband, and all of us, be without you?’
‘Get on, Cap’n,’ she bridled, her cheeks glowing, one plump ink-stained hand touching the cameo brooch at her throat.
Jago left and climbed the stairs to the telegraph office on the first floor. After sending cables to Farando, his agent in Bilbao, and Ramon Gaudara, his father’s representative in Madrid, he returned to the hotel for a late lunch.
At his table, from where he could observe without being too easily seen, he ordered sea-bass with a cream and tarragon sauce, and white wine, remembering with wry amusement the boiled salt beef, figgy duff, and stewed tea he had eaten the evening before he docked.
He flicked though his mail, tossing aside envelopes he recognised as containing social invitations. This left two letters. The first was from a local solicitor informing him that the last will and testament of his maternal grandmother, Sarah Ellen Bray, had been proved, probate granted, and if he would call at the office in Market Street when convenient, the keys to the property could be handed over.
He glanced at the date on the embossed paper. 29th July 1874. It had lain at the post office for over a month. He felt a self-mocking smile curve his mouth. He, who had always travelled light, rejecting the ties imposed by personal possessions, was now a man of property.
He thought of Mrs Cox and her well-meaning attempts to prise him loose from the hotel and establish him in a house like a ‘proper gentleman’, and wondered how long it would take for the news to reach her ears.
The second letter was from his father. His mother was well, but Elena, the companion who had moved with her from Spain to Mexico, had succumbed to a chronic digestive complaint. The estancia was showing a higher profit this year and cattle sales were up. The Indians worked well under the new foreman and the unrest that had cost the estate so much in time and money, had settled down.
Then he came to the heart of the letter. ‘There has been another disaster at the Pachuca Silver Mine,’ Felipe Barata wrote, his bold scrawl flowing across the pages. ‘Fifteen killed and more than thirty injured, such waste! Indian labour might be cheap but owners risk dire consequences from both the law and political vigilante groups if they do not observe basic safety rules.
‘As for our own mines, investment in new crushing equipment had proved worthwhile and production has increased. However, the quicksilver for the extraction process has not arrived from Spain this month. I have written to Guadara in Madrid and to Juan at the mine, but have received no replies. I ask you, my son, to find out what is happening. While we are still mining some nuggets at Carmelita, the bulk of our silver is extracted from lead and copper ores and we need the quicksilver urgently. I am enquiring for supplies here, but am not hopeful as competition is too fierce.’
Jago completed his meal with a cup of coffee. How recently had his father written to Gaudara? The letter did not say. Maybe the tide had turned in the war and stability would soon be restored. But until then communication would pose an insoluble problem. He would have to allow at least twenty-four hours for Ramon to reply to this morning’s cable.
Meanwhile, assuming he managed to find some quicksilver, all he could do was co-ordinate shipping arrangements from the nearest free Spanish port. He might have to collect it himself, bring it back to Falmouth, then trans-ship it to be sent on to Mexico. Though as he was already committed to an appointment concerning unloading facilities on the wharves and another at his bank, he could not return to the shipping office until the following day.
Immediately an image of Caseley Bonython formed in his mind, her slender neck and the heavy mass of chestnut hair bundled into its confining net. She looked tired and had been as approachable as a porcupine. He brushed the image aside as he would a fly.
Yet for the rest of the afternoon her memory plagued him. Why, he could not understand. Her clothes were plain and understated to the point of making her invisible. And while her low-pitched voice offered a welcome contrast to the usual female shrillness, her tongue possessed a cutting edge that ill-became a young woman. He grew more irritable as they day wore on.
Somehow Caseley got through the rest of the day. But despite valiant efforts to concentrate on the ledgers and papers in front of her, images of Jago Barata kept intruding. Over and over again she heard his cool voice with its subtle, taunting inflections, pictured the wintry gaze that saw too much and revealed so little.
It was late afternoon when she left the office and walked briskly to Dr Vigurs’s consulting rooms.
‘He can return to the office? And the yard?’ Caseley couldn’t hide her surprise. Despite his bluster and determination, her father still seemed weak and far from well. But perhaps he had simply been too long indoors, deprived of the sunshine and fresh air he craved.
Dr Vigurs nodded. His portly figure was draped in formal black frock coat, winged collar, and grey striped trousers. Sitting behind his desk he toyed with his pince-nez. ‘An hour a day to begin with, and he must keep his drops with him at all times.’
She would be free. Able to relinquish the responsibilities she had been forced to shoulder. But what would take their place? What in her life required a fraction of the intelligence and energy she had discovered as a result of her father’s dependence on her? She pushed the thought away.
There was plenty demanding her at
tention: neglected friends, domestic duties that had been postponed. She would soon fill her days. And she would not be obliged to be civil to Jago Barata. She need not see him ever again.
But as the doctor’s gaze met hers, sudden apprehension squeezed her heart. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Caseley, what I have to tell you will not be easy to bear. However, you are strong and I know you will be able to accept it and act accordingly.’
I’m not strong. I don’t want to hear. I can’t take any more. I’m too tired. But not a word escaped as she sat stiff-backed on the edge of the chair and waited.
‘You father is still full of grit and determination, and his spirit is as willing as ever.’ He paused.
‘But?’ she prompted softly, a hollow growing in her stomach.
‘But his heart has been damaged beyond repair. He will never be the man he was.’
‘Are you saying he will be a permanent invalid?’
‘Not exactly,’ Robert Vigurs replied carefully.
‘I don’t understand. You are letting him go back to work.’
The doctor placed his hands flat on the blotter in front of him. ‘Given the right conditions your father could live for many months.’
‘Months?’ she echoed, deeply shaken. ‘But I thought – Only months? So what are the right conditions? Should he have a special diet? Are there medicines we could buy?’
‘The conditions I speak of are not purely physical, they relate to the mind and spirit. But one thing I am sure of. There is nothing more medicine can do for him. Your father’s life is in the hands of Providence, and I see little point in demanding he conserve his energy for a future he may not have.’
‘That’s why you’re letting him return to work?’ she whispered. ‘But the stress could kill him.’
‘On the other hand, it might not,’ the doctor pointed out. ‘And if it does, do you not think he will die a lot happier? He wants to go back, Caseley. It serves no purpose to stop him. Indeed it would be cruel.’
Her eyes stung and her throat ached. ‘Have you told him?’