The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

  ‘I’m going to see Dr Vigurs, then I’ll call on Mr Nancholas.’

  ‘Ben can fetch the undertaker. There’s no call for you to –’

  ‘There’s something else I must do,’ Caseley interrupted and went upstairs to put on a clean jacket. As she left the house the housekeeper was still protesting, visibly concerned.

  The doctor was busy with a patient so Caseley left a message with the sour-faced housekeeper. ‘Please ask the doctor to call when it’s convenient. Tell him there’s no urgency,’ she added in the new calm voice that seemed to belong to someone else.

  Mr Nancholas expressed his deepest sympathy in hushed tones while making washing motions with his hands. He urged her to inspect his range of coffins and suggested they decide upon the number and types of cab she would require for the cortège. Caseley shut off the flow by inviting him to call at the house later that afternoon. He was still washing and mouthing condolences as she closed the door behind her.

  She went into the office and told Richard.

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ Taking both her hands in his he squeezed them. ‘I am so very sorry.’

  The genuine sympathy and kindness in her uncle’s words and gesture caused a wrenching pang. But leaving a few minutes later she was still dry-eyed.

  She reached the house in Florence Terrace, unaware of the route she had taken or the people she had passed.

  ‘Are my aunt and uncle in?’ she asked when the stocky maid opened the door.

  The girl nodded and stepped back. ‘In the drawing room they are. Want me to show you in? Only I got–’

  ‘No, thank you. I know the way.’

  Rose nodded, closed the front door and stomped back to the kitchen.

  A door off the hall opened. ‘Rose? Who –?’ Margaret Bonython froze, paling so the rouge daubed on the flesh covering her cheekbones stood out in two bright patches. Shock and guilt chased across her face. ‘Caseley! What – what a surprise.’ Her forced smile was more a grimace.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Caseley walked past her into the stuffy over-furnished room.

  Thomas was huddled in a tall wing-backed chair beside the brightly burning fire. His face was the colour of clay, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. He flinched when he saw her. Her gaze went to the glass in his trembling hand and she smelled the pungent aroma of whisky.

  ‘I suppose he sent you,’ Thomas said. ‘I can’t work today. I’m not well.’ His gaze slid away from hers. He did indeed look ill.

  Caseley sat down, her back very straight. She folded her hands in her lap and looked from one to the other.

  ‘I know.’ She saw Thomas flinch.

  ‘What did he want to tell you for? He had no business …’ He gulped the whisky, the glass clattering against his teeth.

  Margaret wrung her hands. ‘It was simply an unfortunate misunderstanding. Anyway, it’s all settled now.’ Her mouth stretched in a travesty of a smile. Caseley remained silent. ‘Thomas only borrowed the money,’ she blustered. ‘He was going to pay it back. If that stupid Luke Dower hadn’t got himself arrested by the customs men –’

  ‘Margaret –’ Thomas croaked.

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ his wife snapped.

  ‘Luke Dower?’ Caseley held her aunt’s gaze.

  ‘It was all his fault,’ Margaret babbled. She leaned forward in an armchair upholstered in emerald green velvet, determined to convince. ‘Thomas didn’t know anything about the gold coins. It was supposed to be honest business. He was to be an agent, handling goods for clients abroad. Only Luke never paid Thomas when he should have. Then your dear father decided to check the books.’ Her mouth pursed. ‘So Thomas had to borrow off Colenzo to repay what he’d borrowed from the business.’

  ‘Are you saying that if Father had not returned to work when he did, Uncle Thomas would not have had to borrow from Colenzo?’ Caseley’s calm seemed to reassure her aunt.

  ‘That’s right. I knew you would understand.’

  ‘He would simply have continued stealing from the family business?’ Caseley went on as if her aunt had not spoken. ‘He would have entered into further arrangements with known criminals in order to make more money for himself?’

  Margaret’s eyes bulged and her mouth sagged open then snapped shut like a trap. Indignation swelled her bosom.

  ‘It was all your father’s fault. How are we supposed to maintain any kind of standard on the pittance he pays? Keeping up appearances costs money. Not that you would understand. You don’t know the first thing about style. Prices are going up all the time. We have a position to uphold –’

  ‘So you would steal to maintain it?’

  Margaret didn’t even hear her. ‘I told your father it wasn’t our fault. I told him he would have to pay Colenzo off for the sake of the family name. Like I said, no one need ever know. Luke Dower won’t talk. Even if he does, Thomas will swear he had no idea there was anything dishonest –’

  ‘Margaret,’ Thomas pleaded.

  ‘Shut up,’ she spat, her expression venomous. She turned back to Caseley. ‘Everything will just go on as normal. That’s in everyone’s best interests, isn’t it? It won’t do your father any good to make a fuss, him being a consul and everything. That’s what I told him anyway. Now it’s all tidied up we’ll say no more about it.’

  Caseley stood up. ‘When did you discuss this with my father?’

  ‘When? The day before yesterday. Of course it all fell on my shoulders. He,’ she glared at the slumped figure of her husband, ‘wasn’t fit for anything.’ She turned a suspicious gaze on Caseley, her mouth pursing again. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. There’s no call for you to be hanging around the office, not now your father is back. Far better that you leave business matters to those who understand them.’

  ‘Like your husband?’ Caseley suggested.

  Margaret flushed an ugly brick colour. ‘You mind your tongue, miss. We all know why you spend so much time in the office and down at the boatyard. Got your eyes on that Spaniard, haven’t you? It’s disgusting. Your father should know better.’

  Caseley walked to the door. Her heart drummed against her ribs as she turned to look from her uncle’s drunken misery to her aunt’s malice.

  ‘My father died this morning,’ she said through stiff lips. ‘The pair of you killed him.’

  In the silence that followed her footsteps were loud on the hall’s tiled floor. She pulled the front door closed on Thomas’s groan and Margaret’s shriek, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Never had she felt so tired.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was nearly four when she got home. Messages of sympathy were beginning to arrive. Liza-Jane, her eyes pink-rimmed and swollen, had time for little but answering the door.

  Rosina brought a bowl of chicken soup to Caseley in the dining room, refusing to leave until she ate it all. ‘’Tis nice and easy to swallow, bird.

  ‘I can’t, Rosina. My stomach hurts.’

  ‘It probably think your throat have been cut. You’re hungry, bird. That’s what’s wrong. Come on now. You want to do your best for your father, you need to keep your strength up.’

  Caseley lifted the spoon and sipped. For a moment she feared her stomach would rebel. But as she swallowed the hot aromatic soup, she felt the knots loosen. After several more mouthfuls, warmth slid along her veins and the dull ache at the back of her skull receded.

  Rosina talked of the past, reminding Caseley of incidents long forgotten, laughing and crying over Teuder’s irascibility and his kindness, so often hidden beneath noise and bluster.

  ‘You could get ’n to do anything so long as you convinced ’n it was his idea all along. Men!’ She stood up, shaking her head with a fond sad smile. ‘Break your heart they do, but ’twould be a dull old world without them.’

  Caseley was spared having to respond by the sound of the front door slamming. She had seen questions in Rosina’s eyes. They were too close for the housekeeper not to have recognised that aside from her father’s
death, she was deeply unhappy.

  ‘You stay there, miss.’ She patted Caseley’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’ She hurried out. Hearing her voice, sharp and scolding, Caseley tensed.

  The door swung open and her brother lurched in. His clothes were creased and stained, his hair dishevelled, and he needed a shave. Under his arm he carried a large, flat, oblong object wrapped in brown paper. He had the slow blink she had come to dread and seemed to be having trouble focusing.

  Caseley turned away, propping her elbows on the table as she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Wass’ matter? Why’s Rosina been crying? And skinny Liza? For God’s sake, I was only away a couple of nights.’

  Caseley looked at him. She felt distanced from everything and oddly calm. ‘It isn’t about you, Ralph. Father died this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ He dropped the parcel onto the table then slumped into a chair, resting his head against the high wooden back. ‘Sudden, wasn’t it?’

  Evidence of his dissipation was clear in his slack mouth, sallow complexion, and the pouches of skin beneath his muddy eyes.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘What do you expect?’ he retorted angrily. ‘Grief? Why should I pretend something I don’t feel? We never got on, you know that.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘I’ve been staying with Jason.’

  ‘Why, Ralph?’

  ‘Why what?’

  His vacant expression ignited a spark of anger that flared hot and bright. ‘Why stay with Jason? Why not come home? Why be drunk at this time of day?’

  He didn’t answer and her anger died as quickly as it had flamed. How nice it would be to go to sleep and not wake up.

  With unsteady hands Ralph ripped the paper off the parcel to reveal a freshly painted canvas. He pushed it towards her.

  Lifting it she turned it towards the light, looking carefully at the portrait. Posed against a background of crimson drapes a pretty girl with corn-coloured hair wore a low-cut bodice that framed her white shoulders in a froth of lace. She caught her breath as she saw it: the sulky wilfulness behind the sweet smile, a restless boredom in the china blue eyes. She glanced away then looked again. But it wasn’t her imagination. It was there, real and clear. She looked at her brother in awe.

  ‘Ralph, it’s brilliant. But –’ She stopped, reluctant to add to his misery.

  ‘But,’ he agreed, his careless shrug not deceiving her for an instant.

  ‘They didn’t like it.’ Caseley stated. How could they?

  ‘The Tidburys said it was nothing at all like their daughter. How, when she was the prettiest girl in the entire town, had I managed to make her look so plain? The Lashbrookes, including her husband Edwin, simply looked uncomfortable. They know that painting is a true likeness, but prefer to pretend it isn’t.’

  ‘And Frances?’ Caseley was curious. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She burst into tears and wanted to know why I hate her so much. I don’t hate her. I hardly know her.’ He shrugged. ‘I painted what I saw.’ His hands, long-fingered, talented and grimy, hung over the arms of the chair. ‘Anyway, they refused the portrait.’

  ‘So you went and got drunk for two days.’

  Tense and furious he half-rose then fell back onto the chair, his features softening into the familiar expression of petulance and self-pity. ‘How could I expect you to understand?’

  Caseley laid the canvas down. ‘I understand this. You have to choose. If you can see Frances Lashbrook’s character reflected in her face, you can see the same, good and bad, in other people. Ralph, you can commit yourself to your painting, honour your vision and talent, and accept the rejections that are bound to come. Or you can give up, live in a bottle, and be a failure who lacked the courage even to try. If you choose to paint I’ll help you all I can. But I won’t give you the money to drink yourself to death.’

  ‘What money?’ he sneered. ‘You haven’t got any. Now Father’s gone, the house and the business will be mine.’

  ‘No, they won’t.’ She spoke quietly.

  It took a moment to register then Ralph’s head jerked. ‘What do you mean, they won’t?’ Shock had sobered him.

  Caseley stood up. ‘I was with Father when he died. Just before … the end he told me he had changed his will.’ She watched all colour drain from her brother’s face.

  ‘He didn’t – You can’t mean – You?’

  ‘I didn’t know, Ralph.’ She guessed what was coming. ‘Truly, I didn’t. He was worried about your drinking. I think he saw everything he had worked so hard to build being frittered away.’

  His face distorted, ugly with rage. ‘You sneaky, manipulating bitch! It’s mine. I’m the eldest. I was his only son, for God’s sake. It’s mine by right.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘What the hell will you do with the business? What do you know about running a boatyard? Or are you going to sell it? It’s probably worth a bit. You could buy yourself a husband.’

  Clasping her upper arms, holding the hurt inside, Caseley went to the window. She felt as brittle as fine glass, but tried to make allowances for Ralph’s disappointment. Their father’s decision was a bitter blow to him.

  The sun was going down: another day almost over and her last link with childhood broken.

  ‘I shan’t sell,’ she said, talking to herself as much as him, exploring possibilities. ‘I learned a lot helping father during his illness. With Richard and Toby to advise –’

  The door slammed and she fell silent.

  The funeral took place three days later. The parish church was packed. The doors were left open so those left standing on the steps or in the road could hear.

  Caseley had closed both office and yard for the day. Dressed in their Sunday best, their faces shaved and scrubbed shiny, hair slicked flat, every man and boy who worked at Bonython’s followed a red-eyed Toby into the church.

  At the graveside, with Richard and Helen on one side, Margaret, Thomas, and their daughter, Charlotte on the other, Caseley said her silent farewell. Ralph had not appeared.

  As the finality of the moment hit her, she swayed. A hand gripped her arm, drawing her gently back. Her eyes burning behind the black veil, she glanced round, hoping, needing so desperately … and looked into Richard’s kind face, furrowed in concern.

  Of course he had not come. Why would he? She had told him she never wanted to see him again. He had sent a note of condolence, his bold scrawl instantly recognisable. Her heart had thumped, her fingers unsteady as she opened the envelope. The wording had been formal as befitted the occasion. Yet he had signed it, ‘As ever, Jago.’

  What did he mean, as ever? What was there between them but lies, blackmail, and mistrust? Was that what he wanted her to remember? She needed no reminding.

  Crushing the paper into a ball she had been about to hurl it into the fire. But she couldn’t, and tossed it onto her deck instead. That night, unable to sleep, she had crept out of bed and lit the lamp. Sitting at her desk she smoothed the crumpled paper flat, and gazed at those three words for a long time.

  The following day she was up early. Life had to go on and responsibility for all her father’s employees now rested on her shoulders. Passing the yard on her way to the office, she caught sight of Cygnet, easing away from the quay.

  Stopping, she looked for the tall, bearded figure. Nathan was at the wheel. Hammer, Jimbo, and Martin moved swiftly about the deck, setting the smaller sails. She did not see Jago.

  Recovering, she hurried on along the road. He was probably below in the day room, bent over the chart table, plotting their course. The image was so vividly, painfully real that she stumbled and almost fell.

  With a hand against the high wall, she fought for mental balance. It should be getting easier, not more difficult. She should be missing him less, not more.

  He was out of her life. It was a mutual decision. The problems between them were insurmountable. He had passed through her life
like a shooting star. Brief, brilliant, tantalising her with a wish, a hope.

  She was glad he had sailed again so soon. There would be no embarrassing encounters at the office. She would not have to face those mocking grey eyes. She would be able to work without hoping for, yet dreading, his footstep on the stairs, his cynical smile at her temerity to imagine she could succeed in a man’s world. Far better he had gone.

  Nodding to Sam she entered her father’s office. A neat pile of letters had been stacked in the centre of the desk. She took off her bonnet and hung up her cape, now washed free of salt and neatly pressed. She looked at her mother’s bureau. Then walked round behind her father’s desk.

  She had just sat down in his chair when the door opened and Richard entered. His round shoulders and puckered features made him appear more mole-like than ever.

  ‘What’s to be done about Thomas? He sent Charlotte down with a message that he is still unwell and Margaret is prostrate with grief.’ He clicked his tongue.

  Caseley sighed, turning the ivory letter-opener over in her fingers. ‘I don’t know. What are your thoughts?’

  Clasping his lapels, Richard paced to and fro. ‘We cannot ignore what he did. But as a partner he has a financial interest in the company. It would cost more than we can afford to buy him out, especially now. Not only have we lost the money he embezzled, we’ve also lost the amount Teuder had to draw to pay off Colenzo.’ He stopped, shamefaced. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I don’t mean to reopen old wounds.’

  She waved his apology away. ‘It must be faced. Though it was a shock to learn how much was involved, and that Father had emptied his personal account to repay the debt.’

  ‘Your father was an honourable man, Caseley.’ Richard paused in his pacing to look at her. ‘He knew the business could not have withstood such a drain on its working capital. Has it caused problems at home?’

  She made a small, helpless gesture. ‘I haven’t told Ralph about Uncle Thomas. But he’s threatening to contest the will anyway.’

  ‘What about the bequests to Rosina, Liza-Jane, and Ben? Short of selling the house, there’s nothing left to pay them.’