The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  * * *

  Horatia watched the sun glowing in the west. She’d wiped the tears from her eyes, and the evening air cooled her cheeks.

  The sky was clear, and a plume of smoke from a bonfire was curling up from the direction of the kitchen garden where some pieces from her father’s collection of Egyptian antiquities were being burned. No one could stand entering her father’s personal retreat as it was. Soon she would have it decorated in a modern style with richly coloured wallpaper and heavy drapes of green brocade and furniture with turned legs and sprung cushions.

  Two servants were manhandling the wooden carving that Tom had rescued from a dockside inn and were heading towards the smoke. At first, Horatia raised her hand, meaning to tell them that the carving belonged to her husband and shouldn’t be burned, but she changed her mind. She was his wife but he wasn’t treating her as such, not in bed where it truly mattered. All the perceived hurts she’d suffered at his hands came back to haunt her and made her clench her teeth so hard that her jaw ached. Well, let them take his precious carving and burn it to cinders. It would serve him right.

  Wood smoke had a delicious smell, one she’d always appreciated, but the thought that the smell might be coming from something Tom loved, suddenly made her change her mind again. She called for the men not to burn it, but they didn’t hear her.

  The grass was damp under foot, and even though she kept to the path, the hem of her dress became sodden with dew.

  There was a doorway set in the wall surrounding the kitchen garden. Horatia went through. The bonfire was directly ahead of her, but there was no sign of the Indian or the two men who’d been carrying the carving.

  She called out. At first there was nothing except the call of nightjars, and the hoot of an owl from across the meadow.

  She stepped further towards the fire, aware that shadows were getting longer and that soon the sun would set and the garden and the world would be in darkness. Horatia stared at the fire, the sparks rising from the crackling wood like burning butterflies. Just when she least expected it, the shadows lengthened and stepped out from the woods.

  Startled, Horatia’s hand flew to her throat.

  ‘Sorry to frighten you, ma’am,’ said one of the gardeners, his hat immediately snatched from his head. ‘We’re just burning up the rubbish – as ordered.’

  ‘The wooden statue – where is it?’

  The two men looked at the bonfire, then at each other, until one of them said, ‘Well, it were there a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘Well, where is it now?’

  They both shrugged and exchanged puzzled looks.

  Horatia sighed impatiently. ‘So what did it do? Walk off by itself?’

  One of the gardeners shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Maybe it’s off with the fairies, it being such a heathen thing an’ that.’

  The man wished he were mouse-high as Horatia glared at him in utter disbelief.

  ‘Fairies indeed,’ she exclaimed, stamped her foot and stalked off.

  * * *

  Autumn leaves rattled as they blew against the front door of Little Paradise.

  ‘I’m going to sweep them away once and for all,’ Edith muttered, putting the darning to one side and reaching for her broom.

  On opening the door, she came face to face with Jim Storm Cloud, or at least with his chest. The doorway was low and he had to duck to come in.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, as he stood, the top of his head brushing the ceiling.

  ‘I am going away. I am ship’s captain now.’

  Edith’s face dropped. ‘Oh!’

  ‘But I will be back.’

  Edith made a face. ‘Now where have I heard that one before?’

  Jim looked hurt. ‘I am not like your husband. I will be back when I say I will be back, and I will not go to tavern first.’

  ‘Oh,’ Edith said again, more lightly this time.

  ‘And I have brought you a present.’

  Things were definitely improving, thought Edith. The tall American, who was at least twice the size of the late Deke Beasley, led her back outside, though this time he forgot to duck and banged his head.

  After making suitably sympathetic noises, Edith found herself face to face with a Red Indian effigy that had more than a fleeting similarity to the flesh and blood example standing next to her, except that it looked as if it were female.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, unable to think of a single world to say, or at least one that conveyed appreciation she didn’t really feel. What in the world would she do with it?

  Sensing her confusion, Jim came up with the answer.

  ‘I brought her here to remind you of me when I am away.’ He pointed at the blackened backside where the wood had started to burn. ‘She had been badly treated. She needs a good home. Will you look after her for me?’

  Edith sighed happily. ‘Of course I will, and like you say, she’ll remind me of you.’

  Jim beamed. ‘Good.’

  Memories of Deke Beasley were hard to shift. Although Jim had told her he would be returning, the old doubt returned. She couldn’t help wanting to make sure.

  ‘Are you sure you’re coming back?’ she asked, and immediately found herself assessing how many logs the wooden effigy would make if she ran short of fuel during the winter.

  Jim’s big hands grasped her shoulders and took her breath away.

  ‘I have told you I will be back, and I mean it.’ He nodded at the wooden statue. ‘We have nowhere else to go, so we both belong here. What do you think?’

  Edith smiled. ‘I suppose we do.’

  * * *

  Sweeping inland from the Atlantic, the prevailing westerly funnelled into the close confines of the Avon Gorge, then spilled upwards around the brick towers of a new bridge designed by Mr Brunel. The towers were presently lying abandoned, the instigators of the project having run out of money.

  Following the departure of the construction gangs, Clifton Down had reacquired its rural character, sheep grazing amid the long grass and wispy strands of ‘grandfather’s beard’ flying on the wind along with the last of the dandelion clocks.

  ‘Not too close to the edge, Max,’ Blanche shouted, her anxious gaze following her eldest son as he ran backwards. Like her younger children, his head was thrown back, his attention fixed on the paper kite that whirled and dived above their heads.

  ‘Be careful,’ she shouted again, one hand pressed on her bonnet, which seemed in danger of joining the kite.

  The brisk breeze caught at her skirt and sent strands of hair flying across her face. The kite soared high on the breeze, then suddenly dived into a windless pocket, tumbled through the air and tangled in the branches of a tree. His hat thrown to one side and his blond hair flying, Max ran towards the tree, half of which hung over the cliff edge, its roots pulled from the ground.

  ‘Max! No!’

  Anxious to get to him, but blinded by the breeze, Blanche caught her foot in tangled grass and fell to the ground, her skirt billowing in the air.

  There were other people enjoying the last of the fine weather on Clifton Down. It was only to be expected that someone would offer to help her up.

  Flustered and winded, she took the hand that was offered her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She was too surprised to say anything. The last person she’d expected to see was Tom.

  ‘I thought you were in Barbados with your new bride?’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Don’t worry,’ he said with a swift smile. ‘I’ll get it down.’

  Before she had a chance to thank him, he’d bounded off. Like a boy, she thought, and it made her feel warm.

  The children stood aside as he said something to them before climbing the tree. She remembered the children at Marstone Court being as attentive to Tom when she’d first come to England. There’d always been something different about him, his presence enhanced by the tales he told of sea monsters, distant lands and exciting adventures. />
  Used to climbing masts, Tom scrambled up onto the lower branches, pulling himself up by his arms and pushing up with his legs. He made short work of it, retrieving the kite far more quickly than Max would have done.

  The kite was flying again by the time Tom got back to Blanche, who was still brushing grass seeds and sticky brown burrs from her dress.

  ‘They almost match,’ he said with amusement as he plucked a single burr from the chocolate-coloured dress she was wearing. ‘Like movable spots.’

  She laughed lightly, almost as if they were strangers, and avoided returning his gaze. Instead she kept her attention fixed on her children. They were the only barrier she had between Tom, passion and ruin.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked.

  ‘I went to Little Paradise. Edith told me you were up here.’

  Blanche laughed. The lovely sound drew him to look at her.

  ‘Edith knows me well, too well I think sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘She’s like a sister to you.’

  ‘She makes me laugh, even though at times she’s quite outrageous.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Nelson was like that.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose he was.’

  They both fell to silence as they considered his passing. Blanche spoke first.

  ‘I take it they have not found his body.’

  ‘No. Thank you for coming to the memorial service.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  She paused as one of her daughters tumbled into the grass, then got up, brushed herself off and waved to her mother to confirm she was all right.

  ‘Horatia wants a child,’ Tom said.

  The suddenness of the statement took her by surprise. A strand of dark hair blew across her face as she looked at him – then wished she hadn’t. One look into those clear, blue eyes, and she wanted to fall in to his arms. She brushed the thought away, but not too far because she liked the way it made her feel.

  ‘Isn’t that a matter you should be discussing with her, not me?’

  Tom took a deep breath. ‘She wants your child.’

  Blanche was taken aback. ‘Max? I was afraid she might now that Nelson is gone. She probably feels that he should inherit Nelson’s wealth, and will disclose my… indiscretion with Nelson should I refuse. Is that her intention?’

  Tom frowned. ‘You do not seem overly concerned.’

  Blanche felt her face reddening.

  He touched her hand. ‘You’re blushing. I didn’t mean to embarrass you by resurrecting the implications of your son’s birth.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re not embarrassing me because of what you believe to be the truth. I’m blushing because it seems I have to tell you the real truth. I’d hoped to avoid it, for Conrad’s sake as much as for Max.’

  Tom looked at the people promenading, riding, and playing amongst the rich grass of Clifton Down. He wasn’t quite sure of what he was about to hear, but intuitively, he knew it had something to do with him.

  Blanche waited until a couple mounted on matching dapple-greys sauntered past, the dark green of the woman’s riding habit like a jewel against the gold and grey-green of the grass.

  ‘I gave birth to Max six months after Conrad married me. Do you understand what I’m saying, Tom?’

  At first a mix of conflicting emotions crossed his face. In a way it amused her. Men were not entirely aware of the cycles of women, the map of their being.

  ‘It takes nine months from conception to birth, Tom. Conrad and I married straight after you left, a mere week or so after leaving Marstone Court following my… lying with Nelson in the woods near the church. But I was already carrying, Tom.’

  She had no choice but to look into his face then. This was such an important confession. She had to know how he felt about it. She saw him swallow. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as the truth dawned and he became as wise as she.

  Much to her surprise, he shook his head. ‘If what you are saying is true, why is it that Max looks so much like Nelson?’

  Blanche looked at him intently. ‘Why shouldn’t he? My father was Sir Emmanuel Strong. I’m Nelson and Horatia’s sister. Why shouldn’t he look like a Strong?’

  Tom didn’t protest. But it wasn’t every day that a man acquires a son he didn’t know he had.

  There was just one question that needed answering; Blanche could see it there in his eyes and decided to explain before he could ask.

  ‘Conrad could cope with adopting a child who would be much disadvantaged if the truth got out, but he couldn’t possibly cope with Max being yours. Despite his kindly and sometimes sanctimonious exterior, Conrad is a jealous man. I thought it better for all concerned that he never knew the truth. I told him the child had been born prematurely. Being a man he accepted that.’

  Tom found it hard to drag his eyes away from the strong-limbed boy who bolted ahead of his sisters dragging the kite behind him. It was Blanche who reminded him that the daylight was dying and it was time to go.

  Before she left, she touched his arm. Her eyes glistened. ‘Marriages are not always made in heaven, Tom. Horatia loves you. Give her what she asks. Make the most of what you’ve got.’

  ‘Just as you do with Conrad?’ There was a bitter edge to his voice that he immediately regretted. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.’

  ‘Yes, you did. It was the truth. You always spoke the truth.’

  He lifted one eyebrow in the familiar way as he smiled. ‘So compromise is the truth to a happy marriage.’

  She nodded. ‘Compromise and be happy… well… as happy as you can be.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I wish I could kiss you,’ she said softly, ‘but the children might see me.’

  ‘Then do it anyway.’

  A loud cheer went up as the kite soared into a cloudless sky that was crisp with the promise of frost. The children ran after it, Blanche and Tom totally forgotten.

  He knew before turning round that she was looking at him. A moment, and the warmth of her lips were on his. The world, the present and the past all faded beyond his closed eyes. This was bliss, a moment to savour for ever.

  Afterwards, he watched her from a distance and wondered what to do next. Everything had seemed cut and dried before she’d told him the truth about Max. The Demerara Queen was ready to sail, but leaving Bristol was no longer an option. Max being his son had changed all that. He had to stay, at least to keep Horatia from upsetting the delicate lie that Blanche had woven around her son. Like her he would compromise and do his best to be happy. He wasn’t sure he’d be good at living with Horatia, but he had a lifetime to try. Practice makes perfect, he thought and smiled at the fact that neither he nor Horatia were perfect. Perhaps their imperfection would be their strength.

  Also by Erica Brown

  The Strong Family Trilogy

  Daughter of Destiny

  The Sugar Merchant's Wife

  Return to Paradise

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Erica Brown, 2005, 2018

  The moral right of Erica Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788630467

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemb
lance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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