The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘Ow! Let me go, Ma.’

  Edith let go his ear then rubbed it affectionately. ‘Was it really him? Was it really?’

  Freddie’s grin brightened their grim surroundings. ‘I told ’im you used to work at ’is place, and that you ’ad a friend from the Sugar Islands.’

  ‘Blanche,’ said Edith, her voice wistful. She sank slowly down onto her one and only three-legged stool. ‘Well, fancy that. After all these years; first I sees Blanche, and then you sees Captain Strong.’ She shook her head, her eyes dreamy.

  They had a good supper that night. Freddie went out for a ham bone and two loaves of bread. They ate silently and quickly like starving rabbits, their jaws chomping at the best food they’d had for days. Edith sent Freddie out around the pub for two bottles of beer, enough for all of them to have a sip.

  After they’d eaten and drunk their fill, Edith put the leftover coins into a tin tea caddy she kept hidden behind the plaster. The family were sworn to secrecy about the hiding place. If Deke found out where it was when he got home – whenever that was – it would all go on beer.

  They settled down in front of the fire, the kindling and coal sending sparks flying up the chimney. They were warmer and better fed than they’d been for ages.

  Freddie’s face glowed in the light of the fire. ‘You liked it out at that Marstone Court, didn’t you, Ma?’

  Edith smiled. ‘Too right I did. At least I used to know where me next meal was coming from.’

  Sensing she was about to recount her tales of Marstone Court, the children gathered round on bended knees, their faces upturned and expectant.

  ‘Lovely days,’ Edith murmured as she remembered.

  ‘Was that before you met me dad?’ Freddie asked.

  He knew it was, but mention of his father always did the trick. She’d start talking about the old days, better than any story they’d ever been told.

  ‘It most certainly was. There was no Deke Beasley in them days, him with his wicked words and his cheeky grin. It was downhill all the way once he came on the scene,’ she said vehemently. Eyeing their faces, her voice softened. ‘But there, if I hadn’t met him, there wouldn’t have been you lot.’

  She ruffled their hair and laughed at their grimy faces. And there wouldn’t have been any of the others who’d only had a few years of life before meeting their maker, she thought and sighed. That was the trouble with Deke Beasley; he was vigorous and she was fertile. Nine months to the day after he came home from sea, there’d been another mouth to feed. It had happened every year since she married him.

  ‘So tell us about you and Blanche,’ Freddie demanded.

  ‘You do keep on, Freddie Beasley,’ she said with pretend annoyance, then grinned and hugged him close. ‘Blanche used to run like the wind. I remember her running with kites around the big park at Marstone Court. There were red deer in that park, and sheep and rabbits and lots and lots of birds. And sometimes we’d go on picnics beneath the trees and sometimes we’d go into Bristol and go aboard a ship that taught destitute boys about seamanship. It was called the Miriam Strong.’

  Freddie’s mouth dropped open. ‘I’d have liked that,’ he said.

  Edith grimaced. ‘You’re a chip off the old block, you are.’

  Freddie grinned and shook his head. ‘No, I’m not.’

  Edith weighed him up in an effort to evaluate just how much of the father was in the son. ‘No. I don’t think you are,’ she agreed finally.

  That night she turned over on the bed shared by the whole family and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was at Marstone Court, running with the children, chasing Blanche and a high-flying kite, a sweet dream that only lasted till dawn.

  When morning came, Lizzie managed to get out of bed for the first time since she’d been taken ill. Smoothing the damp hair away from her child’s hot forehead, Edith felt hopeful. ‘I’ll make you some soup. Would you like that?’ she asked with her customary exuberance.

  Lizzie smiled weakly and mumbled that she would. Edith felt her heart leap in her chest.

  ‘I’ve got money,’ Edith added. ‘Oyster soup, I think.’

  Edith ignored the fact that her daughter’s skin was still clammy and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. It would go. She was sure of it. Anyway, she had to have hope. Everyone living in Lewins Mead had to have hope; there was sod all else to live on!

  After swinging her legs out of bed and tucking the meagre bedding around her daughter’s thin little body, she shouted for her son.

  ‘Freddie! Get along and get me a pound of oysters and mussels.’

  ‘Get us some too,’ shouted a thin voice from down in the basement. Edith bit her lip. Molly McBean and her brood had less than they did. She was always asking Edith for leftover food or clothes that Edith had given up trying to mend. What were rags to Edith were Sunday best to Molly McBean. Molly herself had a hunched back and protruding teeth. Her poor little mites were bandy-legged and their hair was full of lice.

  She’d calculated that the money from Tom and Blanche would last them for a fortnight at least, but not if she shared it with Molly. Mentally she tossed the coins from one hand to another, counting them as they went. She could tell Molly to cadge her daily bread from elsewhere, but she didn’t have the heart.

  Sliding her tongue to one side of her mouth, Edith dug out her money tin from the hollow behind the flaking plaster, and prised open the rusty lid. For a moment she eyed the few coins possessively before sighing and letting them drop into Freddie’s outstretched hand. ‘Oh well…’ she sighed resignedly. Goodness knows where their next meal would come from once it was spent, but at least they’d eat well while it lasted.

  * * *

  As a trio of servants removed the custards, cakes and cheese from the dining table, Horatia turned away from the french doors. ‘Tom! You are wicked!’

  She was referring to the wooden statue that was presently being unloaded from a wagon and trying not to laugh.

  Tom grinned through the smoke of his cigarillo. ‘I couldn’t resist. Call it a coming home present.’

  She flashed her eyes and looked at him in mock displeasure. ‘Rupert told me what you said.’

  Tom groaned. ‘The scoundrel! Never trust a man in a chequered waistcoat.’

  Horatia gurgled with laughter. ‘But I forgive you.’

  Her breasts swelled against her tight, turquoise bodice and her eyes sparkled. More than anyone else at Marstone Court, Horatia Strong was glad Tom was home.

  Sir Emmanuel Strong was slumped in a chair, his waistcoat straining over his paunch. ‘Will someone fill my bloody glass?’ he demanded, banging his whisky tumbler on the table at the side of his chair.

  Out of sight of her father, Horatia threw Tom an exasperated look.

  Tom shook his head just as secretively and raised a finger to his lips. It’s no trouble. Let’s keep the peace. He took the decanter from the sideboard and refilled it. Nelson was right. Sir Emmanuel drank far more than he used to.

  After a swig of whisky, the old man eyed Tom speculatively, his eyes bloodshot in an overblown face. ‘My daughter pretends to be a blushing maiden, but we are not fooled, are we, Tom?’

  ‘Father!’ Horatia sounded genuinely offended, though she smiled, her gaze fixed on Tom.

  ‘I don’t mean physically, my dear,’ said her father, his words slurred with drink. ‘I have every faith in your chastity. You know its value and, as in business, will hold out for the best deal.’

  Tom was amazed both by the statement and Horatia’s composure. Apart from a tension around her mouth, her expression was unchanged. What was she thinking?

  ‘I mean business, Tom,’ chuckled Emmanuel. ‘My daughter pretends that she’s the same as any other spinster; socializing, soirées and seducing likely husbands with a fluttering of eyelashes and a glimpse of bare bosom. But she’s not. I know she’s not.’ He grinned at Horatia as if she’d been trying to hide her true self and he had found her out. ‘She’s like a spider in a web
. She has my brain, Tom, trapped in a female body. I’m not sure whose brains my surviving sons have got, but I know damn well they’re not as shrewd as she is.’

  Horatia spoke loudly over her father’s head and directly to Tom. ‘He’s going mad. I’m sure of it. Another year or so and we’ll have to think of having him put away.’ It seemed meant in fun, but Tom wasn’t sure. It never paid to be too sure with Horatia.

  Emmanuel shook a finger at his daughter. ‘It wouldn’t be in your favour to commit me to an asylum, my dear. Not until I do what I have to do. The old dog’s not finished yet!’ He turned to Tom. ‘I’m rewriting my will, Tom. A powerful thing a will.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll be head of this family to the bitter end – the very end – or woe betide them all. Now. Let’s hear about this company you built up. Started from nothing, so I hear.’

  ‘Not exactly from nothing. The company was in a mess when I first encountered it. I identified the weaknesses, sought new vessels and new markets. Initially there were just three ships and few cargoes. There are now fifteen ships and many routes have been gained from those less open to progress and too slow to adapt.’

  ‘And you married the owner’s daughter. A very shrewd move. I’d have done the same myself.’ Emmanuel’s eyes shone almost as brightly as they had ten years before, but he was eyeing Tom differently now, almost as though he were seeing a reflection of himself.

  ‘Margaret, my wife died, as you know. Once she was gone and control of the business passed to a family member with no interest in progress or expansion, there seemed to be no point in staying. Steamships are the future, and Nelson came along with a timely plan to use steamships on the West Indian Trade. The time had come for me to leave, so I took the Demerara Queen in settlement of my portion of the business and came here—’

  ‘You came home,’ said Horatia, who had so far listened in silence.

  Emmanuel’s face shone with admiration. ‘I’m sorry about your wife and losing control of the business, Tom, but everything happens for a reason, and do you know who I thought of when I heard about your success?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  There was a loud slapping noise as Emmanuel’s palm hit the chair arm. ‘I thought of my grandfather!’ he exclaimed. ‘Like you, he made the first Strong fortune from nothing. On arrival in Barbados he hacked fields from forest and planted cane with his bare hands and a few indentured servants. Later on he bought a few shiploads of slaves from Africa. Everything grew from that.’

  With a loud slurp, he took a swig of whisky before sinking back into his chair. ‘Yes, you’re just like my grandfather, so much, in fact, that I could almost believe you are a full family member and not just an urchin my brother picked up from the street. Indeed,’ he said, his eyes shining, ‘a true family member! Admirable, Tom. Admirable.’ He raised his glass for Tom to refill, which he did.

  Tom poured himself a glass of port and a sherry for Horatia. ‘My life in America is all behind me now.’

  ‘Letting you go is their loss and our gain,’ said Horatia, her fingers trailing across his and her grey silk dress rustling as she twisted to face him. ‘Adopting progressive practices and inventions before anyone else is the way forward, especially steamships. You know that as well as we do.’

  In the past Horatia had not always been Tom’s favourite person, but he was certainly warming to her. It was obvious that she was truly interested and fully understood the facts. He found himself addressing her with his ideas rather than her father.

  ‘Do you realize how much time will be saved on a trip between Bristol and Barbados? Do you know that you can double, even treble the amount of trips you do in a year?’

  Horatia shook her head, her eyes betraying that she was hanging on every word he uttered.

  Emmanuel interrupted, his glass empty again. ‘Only thing is, can we get the cane to grow fast enough for that many trips?’

  ‘I understand what you mean, sir,’ said Tom. ‘Eight sailings a year can easily be turned into sixteen, perhaps even more, with the power of steam. As I see it, you have two options. First, you endeavour to gain other markets. In effect, the steamship company will stand alone and not be merely an appendage of Strong Sugar. Tax advantages need to be considered. The second option is that Strong Sugar endeavours to increase its yield of sugar with the help of applied fertilizers; I hear the guano from Nova Scotia is particularly beneficial to crop growth.’

  ‘Fill my glass!’ said Emmanuel, struggling to his feet. ‘See?’ he exclaimed loudly to his daughter, not noticing her surprised expression. ‘Didn’t I tell you that my brother Jeb did a good job of bringing up this young man? You’re a credit to the family, Tom. A credit indeed. Why, what you’re suggesting is almost like a new triangular trade; goods out of Bristol – perhaps iron or coal – to Nova Scotia, then guano from there to Barbados – sell it to growers on the other islands if we can – then sugar and rum back here. It’s a capital idea. Why has no one thought of it before?’

  Overcome with excitement, Emmanuel let the empty glass fall to the carpet, tottered slightly, and reached for Tom’s arm. ‘I wish you were my son, Tom. I’d feel I was leaving the Strong inheritance in capable hands. As it is…’

  Embarrassed by Emmanuel’s uncharacteristic sentimentality, Tom said, ‘You have your sons, Nelson and Rupert.’

  Emmanuel waved the idea aside. ‘Let’s not talk of them. Let’s discuss our plans and capabilities. Let’s also talk of my mortality. Leaving my interests and wealth in capable hands helps me cope with the thought of eternity. Come, I want to show you my epitaph, my Egyptian room. You must see my Egyptian room.’ Emmanuel steered Tom towards the west corridor.

  Tom threw Horatia a pleading look. Was she coming too? She shook her head. He fancied she suddenly had something else on her mind, wondered what it could be.

  Duncan and another footman stood either side of a pair of double doors, which were flung open at their approach.

  Tom felt the head footman’s eyes follow him and saw the jealousy simmering there. As he passed through the door, closely following the stumbling figure of Sir Emmanuel Strong, a shiver ran down his back, as though a knife were embedded between his shoulder blades.

  The doors closed. The sound of their footsteps echoed over the marble floor and walls, the room’s colours turned mellow by simple tallow candles held in iron sconces cast in the Egyptian style.

  Although the room was cold, Duncan’s look had been colder. As a man, he was arrogant. As a servant who coveted above his station, he erred towards dangerous. Duncan adored Horatia. My return is not welcome, thought Tom.

  The situation was quite extraordinary. It wasn’t unknown for servants to have a crush on their employers, but it was amazing that Duncan’s feelings for Horatia had lasted so long.

  Tom shrugged it off. Emmanuel’s enthusiasm for his latest building project was too powerful to ignore. ‘This is my Egyptian room,’ he said, spreading his arms and staggering as he twirled around like a child’s wayward top.

  ‘It’s like a temple,’ said Tom, surprised by its coldness and slightly intimidated by the procession of figures forming a frieze around the walls.

  ‘Not a temple, Tom, it’s a tomb,’ said Emmanuel, his voice echoing in the stillness.

  Tom fingered the stone sarcophagus that dominated the room. It was heavy and solid, at variance with the stick-like furniture raided from the tombs of dead kings and now standing in the corners of what had once been a morning room. No natural daylight was evident.

  ‘There are no windows,’ Tom observed.

  ‘I had them bricked up. The pharaohs built their tombs without windows.’

  Tom eyed the old man thoughtfully. Was he comparing his own wealth and power with a pharaoh? It occurred to him that perhaps Horatia had heard similar comments, had formed her own conclusions and really was considering having her father put away.

  Emmanuel rested his hands on the stone tomb and peered into its depths. ‘It’s quite comforta
ble. I’ve had a pillow and mattress placed in the bottom. I take a nap in here now and again.’

  To Tom’s amazement, Emmanuel began clambering over the stone ledge.

  ‘Sir,’ he exclaimed, grabbing his arm. ‘Surely you’ve no wish to occupy your grave until you have to?’

  With one leg posed awkwardly over the lip, and standing on tiptoe, Emmanuel grinned. ‘Why not? I’m going to spend eternity in here. Might as well get used to it.’

  Genuinely concerned for the old man’s welfare, Tom tried again. ‘It’s freezing in here. Let us go back to the drawing room and have a glass or two of Madeira to warm us up.’ He said it with a smile like people do when they’re trying to jolly along someone older and senile, or someone young and wilful.

  Emmanuel shook his head, his thinning hair wafting around his head like scraps of broken cloud. ‘Promise me, Tom, that if I should die in this stone coffin, you allow no one to get me out, put me in a wooden coffin and bury me in the family mausoleum. There are two wives buried out there and a few children. I don’t want to disturb them, and they probably don’t want to disturb me. I believe that the only way I am going to attain everlasting peace is to remain here. Will you promise me that after I die, I remain in this coffin and am never buried out there? Do you promise me that, Tom?’

  Strangely enough, it didn’t seem an unreasonable demand and, with a bit of luck, he might not be around when it happened. Tom nodded. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Emmanuel smiled. ‘I knew I could count on you, Tom. You always did stand up for what was right.’

  ‘Blame your brother for that. After all, he was a clergyman.’

  Tom assumed a relaxed expression, as Emmanuel thoughtfully traced his tongue slowly along his bottom lip.

  ‘My brother was a good man. He used to make God sound as if he were a beloved grandfather or a favourite uncle. He did well by you, Tom. You’re a good man too, but you’ve also got greatness in you.’

  ‘If you say so, Sir.’

  ‘My sons haven’t got greatness. They’re good enough, but not ambitious or shrewd. Now, Horatia on the other hand…’ He laughed. Tom thought he also looked proud.