The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  ‘She’s a fine woman,’ Tom said.

  Emmanuel nodded knowingly. ‘And will make someone a fine wife.’

  Tom laughed. ‘But only a fine husband who doesn’t mind an independent spirit and a devious nature.’

  ‘You, Tom,’ said Emmanuel, his right index finger jabbing at Tom’s shoulder. ‘You! Horatia would not tolerate a lesser man.’

  ‘The choice is hers,’ said Tom, wondering if Horatia was aware that her father was laying the ground for a union between them.

  ‘It’s yours too. I’d approve, Tom, and I’d make it worth your while.’

  Preferring to take it as a joke, Tom shook his head and laughed. I’ve only just got back to Bristol, Sir. Give me time to catch my breath.’

  ‘She’ll make you rich, Tom.’

  ‘Better still if she can make me happy.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Emmanuel. ‘Let’s see.’

  He sank down into the stone coffin. Tom stood for a while, thinking on what the old man had said. His thoughts were finally interrupted by the sound of deep snoring from within the tomb. Emmanuel slept, but not yet for eternity.

  Chapter Seven

  With the aid of his stick, Cuthbert Stoke, who now called himself Sydney Cuthbert, limped across the room to the window. Lips pursed and nostrils flared, he watched as Silas Osborne whistled his way down George Street.

  And so he should, thought Stoke, still bristling with the news Silas had brought and the price he’d demanded for it.

  Stoke had come up in the world since his days of pimping and promoting bare knuckle bouts in and around the city. He was respectable now, a man with a fine household and legitimate businesses including city centre properties and slaughterhouses.

  His house in George Street had five floors, the basement area housing the kitchen, scullery and laundry room, the top floor being the servants’ quarters. He also had a son who was of such fine character that he’d never questioned his father’s reasons for changing the family name. Gilmour was as innocent as his mother had been.

  The door opening followed a polite knock. ‘I saw a rather despicable character leave the house. Who was he?’

  At the sound of his son’s voice, Stoke stopped clenching his jaw and forced his grimace to become a smile.

  ‘Gilmour, my boy.’

  Gilmour had a homely look about him and a sensitive manner not inherited from his father. He looked concerned. ‘Did he upset you? You look a little down.’

  Stoke shook his head. ‘He did not upset me. He merely reminded me of someone who did.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No need to be.’

  Stoke eyed his round-faced, pink-cheeked son with amazement. He’d never quite come to terms with Gilmour’s cherubic looks and genteel demeanour, which was totally at odds with his own. He was so like his mother; a homely and respectable lady whom Stoke had left in the country whilst he’d gone to seek his fortune in the city.

  Stoke squeezed a smile and tapped his leg. ‘The same man who threw me across a room causing my leg to shatter.’

  He didn’t mention that this man, Tom Strong, also threw a fight, which caused him to lose a great deal of money. He’d never told Gilmour the more sordid details of his past life, only that he’d had an accident, which necessitated him using a cane.

  ‘Is it hurting at present, Father?’

  Stoke grimaced and rubbed tellingly at his thigh. ‘A little, son, but it will get better soon.’

  And not with medicines or a warm poultice, he thought, as a plan for revenge formed in his mind. Rumours had abounded that Captain Tom Strong had murdered Reuben Trout on the night he was found with his head caved in. Ten years had gone by and due to lack of witnesses, the matter was forgotten. There’s the rub, thought Stoke, as his son poured him a measure of brandy. Persuade Silas Osborne to be a witness and you’ll have the best revenge a man can have. Tom Strong would swing from the gallows, and good riddance too!

  ‘Here’s to my leg getting better,’ he said with sudden cheerfulness and downed his brandy in one big gulp.

  * * *

  The sight of the great steamship filled Tom’s heart with joy. There were three being built. The one they were looking at was closest to completion.

  ‘She has an iron skeleton, which means her holds are unobstructed with cross-trusses,’ the engineer explained.

  Tom nodded. ‘She has excellent lines considering she’s made of iron.’

  ‘I knew you’d like her,’ said Horatia and squeezed his arm. Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘You can name her if you like.’

  Tom looked to her father for approval. ‘Sir?’

  Emmanuel smiled despite the cigar clenched in his teeth. ‘Certainly, Tom. Name her.’

  Tom eyed the ship’s strong lines. One name above all others came immediately to mind. ‘A lot of men will depend on her strength. Her name should reflect that.’

  Emmanuel nodded. ‘A good sentiment for a good ship.’

  ‘And she deserves a good name,’ Horatia interrupted, a hopeful look on her face, one hand on her bosom as if her heart were racing. ‘Come along, Tom. What will you name her?’ She sounded breathless.

  Tom addressed Sir Emmanuel. ‘I don’t have to decide now, do I?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘In that case I will think about it.’

  Horatia persisted. ‘Will you name it after a lady?’

  Tom smiled warmly at her. ‘I think I shall consider all the lovely ladies I have ever known and decide which is the most appropriate.’

  Horatia laughed and took his arm as they made their way to the engineer’s office. His answer both puzzled and pleased her. He’d named no one, but had smiled as if one were uppermost in his mind.

  The engineer doffed his hat and asked them to wait inside whilst he oversaw the launch of a ship around which a crowd of ship-wrights swarmed, the vessel held upright by tautly strained ropes. ‘I do apologize, gentlemen – lady,’ he said.

  Tom noted that this ship too was steam-powered, though smaller than the ones commissioned by Emmanuel Strong. Its name was Mathilda. ‘May we watch?’

  ‘You are most welcome.’

  Sir Emmanuel asked if the owners were present so that he could congratulate them. The engineer answered that they were not and that an unnamed company owned the ship and was managed through a Bristol solicitor.

  ‘Probably a foreigner,’ he added. ‘They sometimes prefer to be anonymous. Being foreign can be an obstacle to obtaining British trade.’

  It took close to half an hour, but eventually the steamship slid into the water. Everyone cheered, including the Strong party. Horatia cheered the loudest and her face shone with excitement.

  Tom leaned close to her and shouted above the din. ‘You cheer as if this ship belonged to Strong Sugar.’

  ‘It’s good practice for when ours are launched.’

  Tom suddenly became aware that someone else was watching the launch with an amused expression on his face. The man was tall, refined and dressed in a way that invoked suspicion.

  ‘Popinjay,’ Sir Emmanuel muttered on noticing the same figure. ‘That’s the lawyer, I suppose. Septimus Monk. A shrewd mind, but not the sort you’d want to share a room with – if you get my meaning,’ he said to Tom, tapping the side of his nose.

  Monk looked in their direction, doffed his hat and, smiling, bowed slightly. Tom returned his acknowledgement. Sir Emmanuel ignored him. It struck Tom that Monk seemed transfixed by Horatia, odd in the circumstances if his reputation was to be believed.

  The moment they were back in the carriage, Emmanuel got out his hip flask. ‘To steamships, Tom! And to another generation of Strong expansion,’ he added, raising his flask to Tom and Horatia in turn.

  Tom took a swift sip. Horatia did the same. ‘Today is special,’ she said in response to Tom’s surprised expression and proceeded to light up a cigarillo. Tom did the same and they shared the same match, his hand cupping hers.
<
br />   ‘I don’t know that I approve of women smoking. It’s not healthy,’ said Emmanuel as he took out another cigar. Tom and Horatia exchanged amused looks.

  The old bridge at Ashton was closed for repairs so they followed a detour that would take them into the city and back out again. Tom asked if they could stop at his ship so he could check with Jim that everything was alright. The carriage waited as Tom went aboard the Demerara Queen where Jim Storm Cloud was sitting on a barrel. To Tom’s surprise, Edith’s boy Freddie was sitting at his feet, arms hugging his knees. Jim stopped telling one of his many stories of life on the prairies, looked up and got to his feet. ‘Captain.’

  Freddie got up too. ‘My ma nearly had a fit when I told her I’d seen you.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Did she now!’ He turned to Jim. ‘Soon, we’ll have a fleet again, though they’ll be steam not sail. But the old girl still has a part to play,’ he said slapping at the helm. ‘Down to Spain, perhaps for oranges, or Oporto for the Croft Company.’

  Freddie went on. ‘She said it was funny, me seeing you and her seeing her friend Blanche on the same day. After all this time… that’s what she said.’

  The mention of Blanche stopped Tom in his tracks. ‘What else did your mother say?’

  Freddie shrugged. ‘Only that she saw her friend, Blanche. That’s all she said. Oh, and that she looked sad ’cos her little girl died from the cholera.’

  Blanche had never been far from Tom’s thoughts since his return to Bristol. Now his heart went out to her. It had occurred to him to visit her at home, but she was a married woman. He could hardly ask Conrad how she was – not in any great depth. Besides he didn’t want word of a visit to Mrs Heinkel getting back to Horatia. Perhaps if he saw Edith first he could get some idea of Blanche’s situation. Edith and Blanche had been great friends.

  ‘For old times’ sake, I think I must visit your mother,’ he said, smiling down at Freddie. ‘Will you take me to her?’

  Freddie beamed so widely it looked as though his face might split in half. ‘Course I will.’

  Tom made his excuses to Emmanuel and Horatia. ‘I’m taking this young lad back to his parents. He’s been making a nuisance of himself to my first mate,’ he lied.

  ‘That’s not what—’ Freddie began.

  Below the window and out of the sight of the carriage occupants, Tom’s hand clapped swiftly over Freddie’s mouth.

  Horatia protested. ‘Tom? I’ll come with you.’

  Emmanuel patted her hand and bid her sit back down. He winked at Tom. ‘I don’t think you’d feel comfortable with the sort of people Tom’s off to see. We’ll see you later, Tom.’

  ‘My apologies to you both.’

  He had the sense to throw Horatia a kiss, poor compensation for not keeping her company, but greatly appreciated judging by her instant blush. She’d been clinging to him ever since he’d got back from America, talking business mostly, but becoming more intimate each time they were alone. He put her out of his mind for the moment and followed Freddie Beasley to Cabot’s Yard.

  * * *

  Blanche decided she owed Edith a great debt. If she hadn’t bumped into her that day, she would never have been persuaded to attend Dr Budd’s meeting.

  ‘Edith and her family are almost destitute,’ she said to Conrad. ‘I’m going to take her some food.’

  Conrad was delighted to see his wife so full of her old spirit but also told her that it was wildly reckless to venture into the most deprived part of the city. He insisted that John, their coachman, should go with her. Clothes the children had grown out of were piled in the trap along with a tin of biscuits, two pounds of cheese, a side of smoked bacon and a large pork pie. She’d also taken three blankets from the housekeeper’s cupboard, much to Mrs Henderson’s disgust.

  The sky was bright with silver-white clouds that became yellow and grey as they passed over factory chimneys. The day turned darker once they’d crossed the Drawbridge and entered Lewins Mead. Blanche gazed down at the dark water where rats slid from sloping banks and fed as they squirmed among the rubbish. She wrinkled her nose. The smell was terrible. Even the horse needed greater urging to go forward through the piles of rubbish left to rot in the narrow alleys. The coachman clicked his tongue and used a flick of the whip.

  Looking up, she saw a woman hanging from a window on one side of the street passing something to a neighbour on the other. The sky was just a ribbon between the two roofs. The place was dark, dank and smelled of decay.

  The coachman slowed the horse and asked if she could tell him the exact address.

  ‘Cabot’s Yard. It has to be down here,’ she said.

  ‘Down there,’ shouted a match seller who had heard her. She felt obliged to buy a bundle of matches tied with string. She also felt obliged to hand over far more than their true price. ‘For your trouble,’ she said, and the match seller thanked her profusely.

  ‘Good job we only brought the trap, Mrs Heinkel,’ said John, as the alley narrowed. ‘The carriage would never have got through.’

  Blanche sighed. ‘It’s a shame. I could have piled so much more into the carriage.’

  John grinned to himself. Mrs Heinkel made him feel warm. She was a good person and hadn’t once considered that she might be putting herself in danger. Lewins Mead was worse than the Pithay and that was putting it mildly. He took one hand off the reins and felt for the loaded pistol the master had insisted he take with him. ‘But you are not to tell your mistress,’ Conrad had added.

  ‘This is it!’

  Blanche jumped down before John had time to pull the horse to a halt.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pointing to the name etched into the wall of a ramshackle building – Cabot’s Yard. Another narrow alley, too narrow even for the trap, led to it.

  Duty-bound though nervous, John passed a shilling to the most honest looking person he could see. ‘Look after the rig well, boy, and there’ll be another shilling when I get back.’

  The boy grinned. John winced. The gap in the boy’s front teeth was big enough to drive a train through. John took the goods from the back of the trap and followed his mistress, his eyes darting from side to side and his bravery bolstered by the slap of the pistol against his hip.

  Cabot’s Yard looked deserted. The air smelled of dirt and tufts of grass grew from unkempt drains and mouldy window sills. At number five someone had made the effort to scrub their front step and paint it white. Blanche naturally assumed that this must be Edith’s home and rapped smartly at the door.

  Her heart raced as she imagined what Edith would say on seeing her again and how much she’d appreciate the things she’d brought her. Bumping into Edith had played a part in lifting her from her depression. She couldn’t possibly just forget her.

  She had the sudden feeling that someone had peered at her from the small, square window to the side of the door. When she looked, however, she fancied they’d darted away, not wishing to be seen. Undaunted, she rapped again.

  ‘Looks like no one’s at home, madam,’ said John from behind the pile of clothes and food. ‘Should we try another day?’

  Blanche said nothing but stepped back and looked at the upstairs window. Suddenly it opened and a woman’s head popped out. ‘What do you want?’

  I’ve come to see Edith. I don’t know her married name, but she used to be called Edith Clements.’

  ‘Beasley. Edith Beasley.’ The woman wiped her nose on a dirty shawl that hung from her shoulders, then squinted at John’s bundle. ‘What you got there, then?’

  ‘It’s for Edith. There’s clothes and food. Can I leave it here with you?’

  The woman’s face brightened. ‘Course you can. Leave it outside me front door.’

  Presuming that the door in front of her was Edith’s, Blanche searched for another door but was unsuccessful. ‘Where exactly is your door?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s round the back,’ the woman said quickly. ‘But it don’t matter. Leave it there and I’ll be right round.’ She
disappeared.

  ‘Leave it there, John.’ Blanche indicated a dip in the cobbles at the side of the door.

  John looked worried. ‘Don’t you think it might be better to take it away and bring it back again?’

  Blanche was adamant. ‘We have to trust people. Leave it. Anyway, Edith doesn’t look like the only one in need of food and clothes around here.’

  He did as ordered then helped her back into the trap.

  ‘And don’t look back,’ she warned him as he took the reins, an anxious look on his face. ‘Whoever takes it is welcome. There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  John had been about to glance over his shoulder, but managed to restrain himself in time.

  They’d gone only twenty yards or so when the alley twisted to the right and Cabot’s Yard was gone from view.

  ‘I hope you know your way out of here, John,’ said Blanche, as they rounded the crumbling walls of what had once been St Augustine’s Priory.

  ‘So do I, madam,’ he muttered, thought of the pistol, and hoped his aim was as good as it had been in his army days.

  * * *

  ‘Fanny Arkwright, don’t you dare!’

  Fanny, who lived in a room above Edith’s, had just been in the act of reaching for the bundle of clothes and food, when Edith opened her door and pounced on her.

  ‘So why didn’t you answer the door if you wants it?’ Fanny demanded petulantly, disappointed at being found out.

  ‘I got me reasons and they ain’t none of your business!’

  Edith wrested the clothes and food from her neighbour’s grasp, her glower enough to burn the currants in a bun.

  Fanny spat on the ground and stamped her foot. ‘You should give me some. I was gonna look after it for you.’

  ‘I bet you were!’ Edith slammed the door.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer the door, Ma?’ asked Lizzie, who was still thin but looking better every day.

  Edith sighed and rumpled her daughter’s hair. ‘Me and Blanche used to live in luxury. How can I let her see me living in a dump like this?’