The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

  The first drops of rain were already falling as she hurried along the high pavement. But no matter how much distance she put between herself and the house she had only to close her eyes to recall every detail of every room.

  Her hat had no brim and the slanting rain, blown by the wind, raised little puffs like smoke as it hammered onto the dusty road, darkening it and turning it to mud. It soaked into her cape and skirt and ran cold down her face, mingling with her tears. In front gardens flowers bowed their heads, and trees dripped as their leaves were washed clean.

  The heavy clouds parted and the rain eased as Caseley reached the stationer’s. Pausing on the step she dried her face with a wisp of lace handkerchief. She bought an envelope, slid the letter inside, and sealed and addressed it, hotly aware of the tremor in her hands and the assistant’s curiosity.

  By the time she reached the Royal Hotel a watery sun was shining. People had left doorways in which they had taken shelter and the street was becoming busy again.

  She walked up the steps and into the noisy crowded foyer. The smell of wet clothes and tobacco smoke caught in her throat. She eased her way through to the desk. Waving to attract the attention of one of the uniformed messenger boys she handed him the envelope.

  ‘Please see that Captain Barata receives this as soon as possible.’ She dropped a coin into his other hand.

  The boy touched his cap with a forefinger. ‘Yes, miss.’ He tucked the envelope into a long rack on the wall beside the board on which numbered hooks held keys.

  Turning away, Caseley fought her way to the door. It was done. She had regained control of her life and salvaged a little dignity. There would be a price to pay. But she refused to think about that now.

  Rosina met her in the hall. ‘Soaked, you are,’ she scolded, taking the sodden cape and holding it at arm’s length. ‘Get up they stairs and change while I make you a nice cup of tea. How didn’t you get a cab instead of walking all that way and getting drenched?’

  ‘I had some errands.’ Caseley removed her hat and pushed wet curls back from her forehead.

  ‘So how’s it coming on then?’ Rosina’s expectant smile faded. ‘What is it, my bird? What’s wrong?’

  Caseley shook her head, fighting for control. ‘I –’ she cleared the thickness from her throat. ‘I shan’t be doing any more up there, Rosina.’

  The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. ‘What d’you mean? Why not? I know it haven’t been easy, but ’twas far better than working in that there office all day and bringing more home to work on half the night. I can’t believe the captain don’t want you up there no more. Not after all he done to get you there in the first place.’

  Caseley started towards the stairs. ‘Who knows how Captain Barata’s mind works, Rosina.’

  ‘What happened?’ Rosina’s face puckered in concern.

  ‘I knew he didn’t like me much,’ Caseley’s throat ached. ‘But to send Louise Downing –’ She swallowed hard then shrugged. ‘It’s not important.’ She tried to smile. ‘Father will have to be told and that won’t be easy.’

  ‘Louise Downing was up the captain’s house? What’s the woman thinking of? You sure he knew she was there?’

  Caseley shrugged again. ‘Apparently he told her about the house this morning. It’s none of our business, Rosina.’

  She started up the stairs. If only she could go away. But that was impossible. She could not leave her father, especially now. Nor would it make any difference. She could not out-run her thoughts.

  ‘I’ll get you that tea, my treasure,’ Rosina called after her. ‘Oh, afore I forget, your father’s in the parlour. He said he want to see you soon as you come in.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘He can wait till you’ve changed and got something hot inside of you. White as a sheet you are. Go on now, bird.’ Muttering indignantly, she hurried away to the kitchen and Caseley continued up the stairs.

  Having changed her clothes for a full-sleeved bodice of pale green sprigged cotton over a plain skirt of pine worsted, her hair held back in two combs and falling loose in heavy waves down her back, she approached the parlour.

  The hot tea had soothed her tender stomach and restored some colour to her cheeks. She reached for the doorknob. She would tell her father about the figures she had pretended were his. But not yet, not until she was certain there was no alternative. First she had to tell him she would no longer be a party to his agreement with Jago Barata.

  She knocked lightly and went in. Her father was in his usual chair beside the hearth. The fire was lit and despite the heavy, dark overcrowded furniture, the glowing coals made the room feel cosy.

  ‘You took your time,’ he grumbled, resting his head in the angle between the high padded back and winged side.

  ‘I got caught in the rain,’ she apologised and started forward. ‘Father, there’s something I –’

  ‘It will have to wait.’ With the impatient gesture of one bony hand he scooped up an opened package from the scalloped-edged round table beside his chair. ‘This arrived in the afternoon post.’ He pulled out a folded sheet of paper and an envelope sealed with red wax imprinted with a signet.

  ‘It was addressed to me as consul for Mexico, it’s from a group of Spaniards with interests in both countries. They want the documents in the sealed envelope taken by hand to Spain and placed into the hands of Canovas del Castillo, leader of the royalists.’

  Caseley was horrified. ‘Father, you can’t. You’ve been ill. You’re not strong enough for such a journey. Anyway, why were the documents sent to you? Why not to the Embassy in London, or direct to Spain?’

  ‘If you’ll hold your tongue a moment, I’ll tell you.’

  She flushed. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Teuder Bonython sucked in a breath. ‘When these men heard that certain members of the royalist party were trying to safeguard their own futures by dealing in secret with the rebels, they sent similar packages, one direct to Spain, the other to the Embassy in London. Both these packages contained false information. Their suspicions proved well-founded when that information was offered for sale to the rebels. Knowing their usual routes of communication are compromised they have approached me. It is a great honour, Caseley, proof of their faith in my integrity.’

  ‘I understand that, Father. Truly I do.’ Crouching by his chair she placed her hand over his. ‘But you must see it’s impossible for you to go? Can you not confide in Mr Fox? He is Vice-Consul for Spain –’

  ‘And as such is bound by oath to serve whichever government is in power. Spain is currently a republic. So how can he honour his pledge and handle documents that might assist the restoration of Queen Isabel’s son, Alfonso, to the throne?’

  ‘How do you know what’s in the documents?’

  ‘When Jago was describing the situation in Spain he spoke of del Castillo, though he was not complimentary.’

  The mention of Jago’s name sent an uncomfortable tingle along Caseley’s nerves. ‘Does he know about this?’ She indicated the package.

  ‘No one knows. And no one must find out. Secrecy is vital. I’ve told you only because I have no choice.’

  ‘Father –’

  ‘Will you stop fussing and listen!’ His face suffused with angry colour. ‘I know I can’t go, Goddammit. I’m too weak.’ His head fell back. ‘Besides, if I’m to die soon I want to be here, not in a strange country torn apart by bloody civil war.’

  ‘Oh, Father.’ Her eyes filled at this acknowledgement that his time was running out.

  ‘None of that,’ he muttered. His hand rested briefly on her bent head. ‘I cannot go to Spain, Caseley. So you must.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Her head jerked up. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’ Her father was impatient. ‘There’s no one else I can trust.’

  ‘When –?’ Her voice emerged as a dry croak.

  ‘I’m trying to tell you.’ Wincing, he pressed the heel of his hand against his chest.

  She jumped up. ‘Where
are your drops?’

  His eyes were closed, his forehead trenched with lines of pain. ‘I want brandy.’

  Catching sight of the small tray standing on a table in the corner she rushed across, and with shaking hands poured water into the glass then picked up the medicine bottle.

  ‘No, I can’t be doing with fog in my head. There are things you need to know. Pour me a brandy. Please, Caseley?’

  He never asked. Demands, orders, instructions, she was used to those. She had never heard him plead.

  He tried to smile, but it was no more than a twitch of purple-tinged lips. ‘Humour an old man. I’d as soon spend what time is left to me in my right mind.’

  Replacing the medicine bottle on the tray she took a small bunch of keys from her skirt pocket, went to the chiffonier, and unlocked the doors of silvered glass. The neck of the bottle clattered against the glass as she poured. Her father was facing death and sending her away.

  She handed him the spirit and watched as he swallowed half of it in one gulp, his lips peeling back from his teeth as he shuddered. Replacing the bottle she re-locked the doors.

  It was three years since, in an effort to curb Ralph’s drinking, her father decreed that all money and alcohol in the house be kept under lock and key. It had not worked. Ralph still got drunk. Only he did it in town, on credit, pawning his belongings, mortgaging his allowance, or at the expense of his friends.

  Her father sighed deeply. The harsh grooves in his face softened as he relaxed. ‘You sail tomorrow morning. Officially you are going on my behalf to sign a new trading agreement with Señor Miguel Spinoza, for whom we will carry iron ore. I had Thomas work out the figures with our attorney this afternoon. The contract is perfectly legal. A telegraph message has been sent to say you’re on your way.’

  Caseley wrapped her arms across her body. Despite the glowing fire and the warmth in the room, she was chilled to her bones.

  ‘But where am I going? And how am I to get there?’ She had arrived home fighting a tangle of emotions and working up the courage to tell her father about actions she had taken on his behalf, only to have all of it brushed aside as irrelevant.

  Now, with no warning or time to prepare, she was being sent to Spain on a matter of vital importance and secrecy.

  ‘I spoke to Toby this afternoon. Cygnet’s repairs are finished. Jago is sailing her to Santander to collect a cargo. You will sail with him.’

  The room went dark. With a noise like rushing water in her head, feeling as though she might shatter into a million fragments, Caseley reached blindly for the back of a chair. She collapsed onto it as her knees gave way. Her father was still talking.

  ‘… Should take three or four days, depending on the weather. I’ve always said there are worse storms in the Bay of Biscay at the end of summer than in January. Still, you’ll be safe enough with Jago.’

  She closed her eyes. Safe? Only an hour ago she had planned never to see him again, to lick her wounds in private. That they were self-inflicted, the result of her own gullibility and foolishness, did not make them hurt less.

  Now she had to spend at least a week on a boat with him. A week that would allow neither respite nor escape. Having received her letter he would know she was aware of his relationship with Louise Downing.

  She had deliberately kept it brief. But he was astute. What if he had seen through the polite formality to the anguish beneath? She had been so naïve. How would she survive a week of barbed shafts delivered with careless skill and lethal accuracy? She couldn’t. It was impossible.

  ‘You might show some interest!’ Her father’s bellow made her jump and her head flew up. ‘I don’t expect you to understand how much it would have meant to me to go. All these years I’ve been consul, authenticating signatures, signing crews on and off, arranging sightseeing tours for visiting dignitaries, and acting as agent for trade contracts. All these years of routine, then this comes along.’ There was hopelessness in his headshake.

  ‘I’ve always been a practical man, happiest at sea or in the yard. Now I’m too old and sick to go to Spain myself.’ He thumped one fist on the arm of his chair. ‘And I can’t trust my son to go in my place.’

  For the first time Caseley began to comprehend the enormity of his disappointment. Immersed in her own problems, she had not realised how deeply her father had been hurt by Ralph’s rejection of the inheritance that was more than merely a business.

  The consulship was a position of trust and prestige, a public honouring of moral and financial integrity. Though not hereditary, in the case of a family business the post often passed from father to son. But there was no chance of Ralph retaining it.

  Hard-pressed to cope with all her father demanded of her, plus the intolerable strain of keeping secrets from him, she had not looked beneath the surface, hearing only his complaints, orders, irascibility.

  He made a weary gesture and closed his eyes. ‘It’s not you I’m railing at, girl. But what was the point of it all?’

  Pushing herself out of the chair, Caseley knelt in front of him. He had little time left. He had seen two wives and his elder son die. Then all he had worked for, all he had built and nurtured had been tossed aside by his remaining son. She was under no illusion. She could never take the place of the sons he had regarded as his stake in the future. But she had a choice: to give the knife a final twist, or do this one last thing for him.

  He would never know what it cost her. But in going to Spain she would not be haunted by the anguish of ‘if only’ and ‘too late’. She licked paper-dry lips.

  ‘I won’t let you down, Father. The documents will be delivered as safely and secretly as if you had taken them yourself.’

  Opening his eyes, he gazed at her. ‘If only you had been a boy.’

  Patting his knee she rose to her feet. She was less than a son to her father and less than a woman to Jago Barata.

  ‘What was it you wanted to tell me when you came in?’

  She turned away to put his brandy glass on the table. ‘Nothing important.’ She offered her arm. ‘Shall we go and have dinner?’ Her stomach was a small hard knot and the thought of food made her feel queasy. ‘I expect there are other things I should know. Who will meet me? How will I know him?’

  Later, she bathed and washed her hair in the slipper bath in front of her bedroom fire, refusing to think about the lack of facilities aboard the schooner. Rosina laid skirts, blouses, and underwear on the bed.

  Shrouded in a white cotton nightgown, Caseley perched on a padded footstool beside the fire, her head tilted as she brushed her hair.

  Rolling each item of clothing to minimise creasing, Rosina paused, a smile dimpling her plump cheeks. ‘I’d give good money to see Louise Downing’s face when she hear about this.’

  Caseley glanced up. ‘About what?’ She swung her hair to the other side and resumed brushing.

  ‘You and the captain sailing to Spain together. She’ll be mad as fire. Still, ’tis time he come to his senses.’

  ‘We’re not sailing together, Rosina.’ Caseley’s cheeks were burning. She was too close to the flames. ‘We both have business there. There’s no more to it than that. He doesn’t even like me.’

  Rosina snorted. ‘Don’t you believe it, bird. I’ll fetch clean towels for you to take.’

  When the last item had been neatly tucked into the leather portmanteau, Rosina had gently rubbed Caseley’s upper arm. ‘Be all right, will you?’

  She nodded. She would keep out of his way. When he was in the cabin she would go on deck. When he was on deck she would stay below.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She crossed to the shelf to choose a book.

  She hadn’t expected to see him again, and wished it wasn’t necessary. She had defied him. He would be angry.

  Dawn had just broken when she left the house next morning. Her sleep had been restless and her eyes felt hot and gritty. But the cool air was fresh after the rain. It rippled over her face like silk, sharpening her senses.


  The smell of frying bacon wafted from a nearby house on the stirring breeze.

  She looked both ways before crossing the muddy road. But apart from a brewer’s dray laden with casks turning into the yard of the Dock Inn, there was no traffic and few people. She closed the tall gate behind her and walked through the quiet yard towards the quay and slip, her bag bumping against her leg. Passing the sawpits and the golden dunes of sawdust, the silent sheds and the timber pool, she saw Cygnet’s tall masts.

  The jibs and topsails were loosed, the foresail set and the huge fore-and-aft mainsail partly hoisted. Gulls screamed mournfully as they wheeled overhead. The breeze sang in the rigging and made the shrouds slap against the masts.

  Her hull protected from the rough stone quay by cork and rope fenders, the schooner floated on the rising tide, held only by a single rope at bow and stern. Smoke rose from the curved chimney of the cooking shack bolted to the deck behind the foremast.

  Her footsteps faltered and she stopped. Where was everyone? ‘Hello?’ She cleared her throat and tried again. This time her voice was at least audible.

  A head popped out of the cooking shack. She beckoned and the skinny boy glanced round to make sure it was him she was waving at before he crossed the deck to her, wiping his hands on a grubby cloth.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  Caseley smiled at him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Laity, miss. Martin Laity.’

  ‘I’m Miss Bonython. Will you help me aboard?’

  Startled, the boy’s glance jumped from her bag to the companionway hatch and back to her. ‘Aboard ’ere, miss?’

  ‘Yes.’ Caseley tamped down impatience. ‘If you will take my bag, I’ll get over the side by myself.’

  The boy glanced round again then backed away. ‘I’d better git the cap’n.’

  ‘Please take my bag first.’ She hefted it onto the gunwale. Taking it reluctantly, the boy set it on the deck.