by Erica Brown
Jim nodded. ‘Yes, but he sold all his game.’
‘Oh.’ Edith couldn’t help sounding disappointed, and thought she must look it too. ‘Could have done with that. He charges a fair price, and I certainly don’t want to pay too much. I’ve just paid half a crown for me husband to be buried. He died of cholera, you know.’ She jerked her head at Freddie and ruffled his hair. ‘I’m the only breadwinner they got now. Got to do what I can and can’t afford to waste money.’
Jim seemed to think, then moved. He disappeared without saying a word, and Edith found herself feeling disappointed. But he wasn’t gone for long. He came back up on deck and walked down the gangplank onto the quay.
Normally, Edith would have lapped up the look of him, the long stride, the gleaming hair and the hawk-like features. Today, the rabbits he held in one hand and the red plumed birds he held in the other attracted her attention.
‘For you,’ he said.
He towered over her, his warmth gently soothing. Suddenly, she felt very small in his presence. Deke had told her he would always look after her, but never had. This man did not need to say anything. He was there, a barrier between her and harm.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, and couldn’t stop the tears running down her face. ‘It’s so good of you.’
‘You have no husband now. Someone has to take care of you.’
Smiling through her tears, she said, ‘I thought it was Tom you took care of.’
‘Yes. I am like his shadow, I am there in the background but unseen by most.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she said, touching his hand as she took the gifts he offered.
‘I think you are too,’ he said, and Edith blushed.
Silly me, she said to herself, and all because of a couple of rabbits and a brace of pheasant.
But it wasn’t just that, and she hoped Jim felt the same way.
* * *
There were only half a dozen passengers on the maiden voyage of the Horatia Strong to Barbados. One of them was Nelson. Another was Stoke – addressed as Mr Cuthbert by the crew – who was only going as far as Queenstown, Ireland in order to negotiate pig prices and shipping arrangements.
A ribbon of blue sky stretched above the Avon Gorge as they made their way out to sea and a prevailing westerly blew up the Bristol Channel.
By the time they’d left the mouth of the river, a bank of cloud was covering the blue and the wind was piling the sea into white-capped waves. The tide was running in the opposite direction to the wind, so the sails were hauled in, the two funnels chuffing up huge clouds of steam.
Nelson leaned over the rail, his nostrils dilating as he sniffed in the salty air and eyed the sleek-backed gulls wheeling and diving above the moving ship. He’d travelled across the Atlantic many times and had never got sick. His head was unusually clear and he was as excited as a schoolboy on a special adventure. When he got to Barbados he’d have Rivermead House to himself. The estate manager had written to say that Otis’s in-laws had committed Emily to an asylum for her own safety. He’d already decided to have a house full of nubile servants to wait on his every need. The cane fields would be left to the manager. Nelson was not interested in growing sugar, only in spending the money it generated.
Going to sea was not a first-time event for Stoke, but he only did it when it was really necessary. He’d been offered a big contract to supply the army at Taunton Barracks with pork products and the best place to buy pigs was Ireland, the market at Queenstown in particular. Normally he would have left the negotiations to Sean Casey, a man he employed to run that side of his business, but Sean was sick and getting sicker. He’d caught syphilis from a woman who called herself an actress. It was rumoured that the only performance she’d ever given was to a whole battalion of dragoon guards at the barracks in Old Market. It was too short notice to send anyone else, so Stoke had to go himself.
Much to Nelson’s great delight, Stoke was puking over the side rail before they’d left the Bristol Channel.
Nelson sidled up alongside him against the rail. ‘Bring it up, man. The gulls won’t waste it,’ he cried, and fetched Stoke a hefty slap on the back.
Unfortunately, the ship rolled at the same time as Nelson delivered the blow. Stoke was winded and not at all amused. He spun round on Nelson, pure venom plastered all over his face along with a dribble of sick at the side of his mouth.
‘Have a care, Nelson Strong. You’re like that bastard cousin of yours that should have hung by the neck a while back, except that your weakness is opium whereas his is the coloured wife of a German – foreigners both, bastards all!’
Nelson was furious. Grabbing the man’s coat lapels, he thrust his own haggard face into that of Stoke. He didn’t know where his strength came from, but he knew he had the courage to use it. Cuthbert, or Stoke as he used to be called, had done the Strongs much harm.
‘How dare you insult my family! How dare you insult Mrs Heinkel and her husband!’ He tightened his grip, glad to see the man’s face turning slightly purple.
Stoke scowled. ‘When I get back to Bristol, everyone shall know that the Strong family has an incestuous secret involving a coloured girl, her half-brother and a deceased knight of the realm. See how that does it for the Strong family reputation. I’ll destroy you! I’ll destroy you all!’
‘I’ll kill you!’ Nelson’s hands closed tightly around Stoke’s neck. His shout brought the first mate and a crewmember running along the deck.
Brawny arms and calloused hands dragged them apart. ‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ shouted the first mate as he and the other man held them back from each other.
‘I’ll see you before I disembark, Nelson Strong.’
‘Be sure that you do,’ Nelson responded.
They returned to their cabins accompanied by a merchant seaman instructed to keep an eye on them both.
Down in his cabin, Stoke gloated over what he knew and decided that at some time in the future, he would destroy Tom Strong by different means. He’d get to his heart if he hurt Blanche Heinkel. Yes, he decided, that’s what I’ll do.
Nelson lay on his berth, nursing his anger like a wounded puppy. He could not forget what the man had said and instinctively knew that he’d use it against his family. That night he barely contained the anger he felt on seeing Stoke sitting opposite him at the dining table. The only time he didn’t feel that anger was when he was under the influence of opium, which he smoked through an ebony hookah he’d acquired on the waterfront at Bristol.
Slowly but surely, he drifted into a continuous state of dreamlike absurdity where he took revenge on all those who had ever upset him. Top of the list was his father who had passed him over with regard to inheriting the Strong fortune in favour of his sister.
Being passed over in favour of a younger brother was bad enough, but a sister? A woman?
Then there was Blanche. Why hadn’t he been told that she might be his sister? The boy would never have been born – or would he? What did he look like?
The face he’d seen superimposed on that of the boy drifted away on a sea of opium, and when he dreamed it was of Stoke. His grin was as wide as that of a snake, toothless because his teeth were so small and hidden by the hairs around his mouth. The closer they got to Ireland, the more he wanted to stamp on his head, to send him curling and writhing into the sea.
The Irish Sea had a terrible reputation and showed its temper on a regular basis. Clouds swirled low, merging like molten metal into the heaving sea and the wind turned fierce. The ship should have got to Queenstown in two, three days at the most. The weather, the winds and the tide all contrived to hold them back. A boiler broke down so they were forced to fall back on the sails.
Nelson shivered as the icy wind tore at his hair and sprayed icy water over his face. On spotting Captain Walker, he raised a hand in greeting. Walker barely acknowledged him. He was too busy overseeing the safety of his ship, staggering from port to starboard, his thick legs braced.
Wave
upon wave tossed the ship’s prow skywards so at times it felt as if they were flying. Sliding into the following trough was like diving into the blackness of hell, stomach churning at the prospect of not rising up again.
As the ship yawed for the twentieth time, Nelson grabbed a rope and held onto a rail. Once the wave had crashed on the deck and they had again tilted skywards, Nelson saw Stoke staggering up onto the deck, having no doubt discovered that to stay below was worse on the stomach. Stoke lunged to the ship’s side, hung his head over and retched.
A wave drenched him, and for a moment he was hidden from sight. The ship twisted as her master tried to stay slightly off the wind. Nelson balked at the possibilities of what could go wrong; if the wind and a wave caught her beam on at the same time, the ship would roll. Full to the Plimsoll Line with a shallow keel and heavy rigged masts, she wasn’t likely to right herself.
And Stoke would be gone, he thought. The fact that he would be gone too didn’t worry him. He hadn’t made the best of his life. He hadn’t always been a good man. Perhaps his own child might do better being brought up by his wife’s family rather than inherit the less than respectable past of the Strong family.
His own past weighed heavily on his mind, though he was not so selfish as to want the crew to die. They all had wives and families of their own, no doubt. He watched them struggling to reef down the heavy canvas sails, their bare feet slipping on wet spars and blood seeping from recent rope burns.
Gritting his teeth, he eased forward, his eyes fixed on Stoke, the hate coiled up inside him like a clock spring, tighter and tighter, tensed beyond breaking point.
Uncaring that the wind stung his face and the sea dripped from tendrils of hair that clung to his cheeks, he crossed the deck and, progressing slowly, hand over hand, he made for Stoke.
The sea, the wind and the heaving ship no longer mattered. The hatred he felt for this man, coupled with his own guilt, made him more determined than he’d ever been in his life. This man had to be stopped, not because he would squeeze him for every penny he had, but because he must not be allowed to ruin the lives of the people he loved. Max must never know who his real father was; that was his shame, his guilt. And Blanche deserved to be happy.
The fault, he’d decided, was his, and it was up to him to do something about it. Stoke was the man who sought to gain from it.
Screaming through the sails, the wind hid all sound of his approach. Stoke suspected nothing. The ship’s rail was high, and although Stoke’s torso was half over Nelson knew that his destruction was dependent on lifting the man off his legs.
Bracing his legs, he timed his moment, lunging on Stoke at the same time as the ship dived into yet another trough. Soaked in spray, hidden by an avalanche of sea, Nelson found strength he never knew he had. Wrapping his arms around him, he heaved him off his feet, up onto the rail and left the surge of the waves to provide the momentum.
Soaked to the skin, Captain Walker chose to turn round just as the wave hit the starboard quarter. At first he saw two figures struggling amongst a green wall of sea.
Once the ship had righted itself and the wave had drained from the deck, there was nothing. Both men had gone.
Chapter Thirty
Before dinner, Tom escaped into the garden where the wet scent of September helped clear his mind. He’d always liked the garden at Marstone Court. He went to his favourite seat at the end of the rose-covered promenade, hidden by red-berried honeysuckle. Although a little damp, he sat down and lit a cigarillo, a habit he’d taken to one night in Hispaniola when a hurricane was lashing the ships to the shore and there was a fair likelihood of them all being blown to kingdom come.
He heard the rustling of her dress and smelled Horatia’s presence before he actually saw her. Unlike the half-naked women of the tropics, she had that musty, slightly sweaty smell, due of course to her tight bodice and voluminous skirt. Once a week it was sprayed beneath the arms with rose water, but was seldom laundered. Poor laundresses, he thought. What a job they had.
She smiled down at him, though looked a little drawn. The news of Nelson’s death had come as a shock. Rupert would go to Barbados in Nelson’s place and was glad to do so.
Tom moved sideways so she’d have room to sit. Close to, she smelled of violets, dabbed around her neck and enough to override the smell of her dress.
She sat very close; as if that would bridge the gap that had sprung up between them following her admission that she’d known he was proved innocent of murder before they’d married. He kept his eyes fixed on a large cabbage rose whose golden petals were falling to earth one by one. He heard her sigh as she took a deep breath.
‘Have you decided what to do?’ she asked.
He carried on smoking and stared straight ahead.
Horatia tried again. ‘I mean, about the ships. Are you going to run them from here?’
‘I think so.’
He was aware of her body relaxing and heard her sigh of relief.
‘But I’m not sure whether I will be here.’
He heard her intake of breath. ‘But who will run the shipping line?’
‘You will.’
‘What will you do? Where will you go?’
He shrugged. ‘Wherever fate takes me.’
Her relief turned to anger. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t leave. It’s desertion!’
He looked at her. Her lips were pink, her flesh was white and her eyes were blue enough to drown in. She was a piece of best quality Dresden, chillingly white and wonderful to look at, but hollow inside.
‘I don’t care what it is. There are some trips I need to make in order to win cargoes. I shall concentrate on them while I think things through.’
‘But you can hire an agent to do that,’ Horatia protested.
‘I could, but I won’t.’
‘Tom, you have to believe me when I say I didn’t know that Duncan was going to do what he did, if he did it, but it may just have easily been an accident. The ropes were…’
‘Have they found him yet?’
Unwilling to chance his luck, Duncan had run away, presumably to sea though no one could be sure. An under footman returning from an assignation with a housemaid, had seen him leave the room. He was the last man to enter the room that night before the maid entered in the morning. The police had asked a few questions. Duncan had bluffed it out but had gone by the next morning.
‘Not that I am aware.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am! Don’t you trust me?’
He looked at her again. ‘Can you blame me? You’re my wife. I must accept that, but trust? I can never trust you again, Horatia, certainly not if my life depended on it.’
‘Tom, I knew it couldn’t be you that killed Reuben Trout. The man hired his brutality to anyone who would pay.’
‘Including you?’
She flustered. ‘I was looking after our interests.’
‘The Strong family, you mean?’
‘And yours, Tom.’ She tried to touch his hand, but he pulled away.
He blew a circle of smoke. ‘I never wanted to come back here,’ he said, eyeing the birds flocking overhead prior to flying off to warmer climes.
‘But surely it was worthwhile,’ said Horatia.
He didn’t need to look at her to know she had an intense expression on her face and was desperate for him to reply that yes, it had been worthwhile.
‘I was trapped.’
‘You were only in prison for a while.’
He looked at her. She paled, half expecting what he was about to say. ‘I didn’t mean Bristol Gaol. I mean you and your father dangling the prospect of a shipping line in front of me, and steamships at that. My own fault too, I suppose. I blame my own ambition and willingness to rise to a challenge. But the damage is done. You’re my wife in name, but don’t expect it to be so in practice.’
Horatia gasped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Your behaviour leaves me co
ld.’
‘But if we don’t have children, if we don’t have sons…’ Her breasts rose more quickly in time with her breathing.
‘I know. The money goes…’ He paused. ‘Elsewhere.’
‘You could try,’ she said.
He knew it embarrassed her to speak of the lack of intimacies between them. Every night was the same; she lay in bed waiting for him to pull her into his arms. Only when the urging of his loins and the vision of Blanche became too much to bear did he finally surrender, though without preliminary caresses and kisses.
‘I want a child,’ Horatia blurted. ‘We have to have a child.’
Tom shook his head.
Horatia sat bolt upright, hands clasped in her lap and gazed straight ahead. ‘I have consulted a solicitor. As Max is Nelson’s son, he is entitled to inherit and I’m not afraid to make it public. There! Is that enough to persuade you?’
The implication was clear and a cold hand seemed to squeeze Tom’s heart. He studied her chiselled features, as perfect and cold as marble.
‘You were sworn to secrecy. You cannot make it public that Max is Nelson’s son. Blanche would be devastated, and the boy’s life would be affected for ever. Even when he becomes a man, the finger of public morality would be pointed in his direction.’
‘I don’t care about that. I want you to love me – properly. I’m not like one of the trollops you knew so well from St Augustine’s Quay.’ Years ago he would have slapped her face, but the years had tempered his reactions. He thought of the years ahead, married to a woman he’d once respected but did not love. He’d thought their marriage would be tolerable, not infused with the passion he felt for Blanche, but happy enough. But Horatia had fallen back to type and would have dragged him off to Barbados. He would not have known he was innocent until they got there or perhaps not at all. He knew her well enough to think she would have held the threat of hanging over him for ever. Horatia liked being in control.
The only thing he could do was go back to sea. He’d made up his mind but was not going to tell her, not until he’d made final arrangements at least. The Demerara Queen was getting ready to depart under the captaincy of Jim Storm Cloud. He would go with it and not tell her. But first, he had to see Blanche. He had to see her one last time and warn her.