Copper Kingdom

by Iris Gower

  Marriage was impossible for he already had a wife and a baby daughter, and James had turned her love for him into despair when he had told her there was nothing he could do to help her.

  ‘My advice is to marry as soon as possible.’ His eyes had been dark, unfathomable, and she had longed to throw herself at his feet and beg him not to desert her when she needed him most.

  Arthur Richardson had been the means of her salvation. A man twenty years her senior, he had outlived one wife who had left him no issue and he had become a constant visitor to Victoria’s home, a close friend of her parents.

  He had always indulged and pampered her and when Victoria turned to him for comfort, he had arranged the marriage between them with surprising speed. To this day, Victoria never knew how much Arthur understood of the situation but certainly he had accepted Sterling as his own.

  She had always been grateful to him, respecting him even while she could not give him the passion she had spent upon James; and Arthur had loved her dearly, his possessiveness a balm to her broken spirit.

  It was a relief when, some time later, she had brought forth a son who was the image of Arthur in every way except one. Where Arthur was steadfast, Rickie was wild. He seemed to grow up with a strange grudge against his elder brother, almost as though he knew that his rightful place as heir to the Richardson fortune had been stolen from him.

  Victoria moved towards the window and stared out into the darkness. How many times had she stood here this way thinking about James? She had been unfaithful to her husband in her mind many times but never once in fact.

  And James had continued to be involved in her life though she had thought it strange at first when he had decided to buy into the copper company. But in those early years, his quick mind and his flair for a good purchase had made him an asset.

  After a time, he had lost interest in the business, leaving the bulk of the work to Arthur. It seemed to Victoria then that once he was satisfied that his son’s future was secure financially, James was content to keep his distance.

  She realised that it must have been difficult for him over the years, seeing Sterling growing up to manhood, especially after his wife had died leaving him with only one daughter and no son to bear his name.

  And now they were good friends. James was almost fifty years of age and just as handsome as he had always been. Victoria’s heart lifted a little, was it not possible that some time in the future they might come together again?

  Dreamily, she moved to the desk that stood to the left of the white marble fire place. Her fingers searched in the small niche beneath one of the drawers and she took out the tiny key, staring at it speculatively. There was no need for secrecy now that Arthur was dead.

  Within the drawer lay a dark oak box, flat and smooth, decorated with gilt hinges and inlaid with ivory. The lock was small but intricate and it was with difficulty that Victoria opened it; her eyes were no longer as sharp as they had once been. She fingered the smooth lid in anticipation, she would read the letter again, just once, and then she would destroy it. Arthur’s death had made her aware of her own mortality and no one must be allowed to read the contents of that letter.

  It had been James’s one indiscretion, written after the birth of their son, smuggled to her by her most trusted maidservant. It spoke in graphic terms of their union and told of his undying gratitude for the gift of a son. She had forgiven him then totally and unconditionally for his weakness when she had first told him of her dilemma. She made many excuses for him in her mind and the years had done the rest.

  She pushed back the lid and looked down into the satin-lined box. A wave of nausea swept over her as she saw that there was no letter, only emptiness. She tried to stem the panic that flared through her and her fingers feverishly probed within the drawer. It must be there, she reasoned, breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself, no one knew of its existence, it could not have simply vanished.

  She drew open cupboard doors, feeling within the dark interior of the desk, desperate now. She pulled out drawers and felt behind them, even kneeling upon the floor to try to see behind the solid piece of furniture.

  At last, she sank down into a chair and dabbed distractedly at the beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. Dumbly, she stared at the scene of disarray before her. Tortoise-shell combs lay among perfumed linen handkerchiefs and the long leg of a pale silk stocking hung grotesquely over the edge of the desk.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t I burn it years ago?’ she mumbled, closing her eyes in anguish. The letter was a potential weapon of destruction, one that could entirely ruin the life of her elder son. She thought of hostile eyes reading the words that were imprinted on her mind, and suddenly she felt cold.

  Forcing herself into activity, she went through the tall, dividing doors into Arthur’s room. The bed was neatly made, the covers turned down as though it would be occupied as usual that night, and Victoria felt suddenly bereft and alone. He had been more to her than she had realised, her rock, a man to lean upon even though many times she had chided him for his unbending nature.

  Victoria was calmer now; she began to search systematically through her husband’s belongings. His gold watch in its bed of rich red velvet was silent now and she stared at its ornate face as though she would find an answer to her problem in the gleaming gold numerals and the slender, motionless hands.

  She pushed the large handkerchiefs back into place; her search was fruitless, the letter was not here. She stood in the silence battling with an unfamiliar feeling of fear and tried to be rational: who could have taken the letter and why?

  She returned to her own room just as there was a knock on the door. Sterling looked in at her, his smile changing to an expression of concern.

  ‘Mother.’ He quickly crossed the carpet and drew her into his arms. ‘You are such a stoic always that I forget you must be grieving for Father.’

  Victoria’s heart went out to her son. She had always loved him the best, his welfare had come before his brother Rickie’s and Arthur’s, though she prided herself on her ability to hide her feelings.

  ‘I’ve just got a tiny headache.’ She patted his cheek reassuringly. ‘Nothing that won’t pass.’

  ‘Can’t I get you anything?’ he asked, moving away from her, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. He was so handsome, she thought, so like his father.

  ‘No, I’m all right, Sterling.’ She forced herself to smile though her mind was still on the letter. Why had she not destroyed it all those years ago, what perverse vanity had caused her to keep it locked away?

  ‘Well, you don’t look all right to me,’ Sterling said abruptly. ‘Father’s sickness was harder on you than on any of us.’

  Victoria sank into a chair. Her son was right, she had sat with Arthur day and night, knowing instinctively that this last bout of fever would prove too much for him. He had aged rapidly over the past months, had taken to drinking a little more wine than was good for him and yet, ironically, she had not been with him when he had breathed his last.

  She was aware of Sterling poking the fire with quick, restless movements, and her eyes softened. He was so tall, but thin yet. Soon he would become broad of shoulder and thigh, just like James. She almost wished he was a child again so that she could feel his arms warm around her neck and know that she was the centre of his universe. But those days had vanished for ever.

  She wondered if her son had known yet the joy of a woman’s love. Passion he had surely experienced for there was a pent-up sensuality in his nature that showed in the strong lines of his mouth. In that too he was following his father. And yet there had always been a strange antagonism between them; even as a small boy, Sterling had pulled away whenever James had attempted to make friends with him.

  ‘I’m thinking of moving in to an establishment of my own.’ Sterling spoke casually and Victoria’s heart plummeted like a stone. ‘It’s high time, Mother.’

  ‘I expect you are right.’ Her tone was even but she l
onged to cry out to him to stay with her for just a while longer, she did not want to be alone.

  ‘You’ll still have Rickie.’ Sterling must have guessed something of her thoughts. ‘He’s finished with college for good now and I can’t see him wishing to come into the business, he’s always hated it, so he claims.’

  Victoria had an overwhelming desire to be alone. How could Rickie ever take Sterling’s place? The boy was a stranger to her, always had been from the moment she had looked into his tiny, red, newborn face and wondered if she had been presented with a changeling.

  She had felt nothing but relief when a few years later Arthur had suggested that the boy attend boarding school back in Cornwall, so that her second son had been more out of her life than in it. She rose to her feet.

  ‘Go on out with you, I must prepare myself for dinner,’ she said to Sterling in mock reproof. ‘You’ll keep me talking here all night, go along off with you.’

  But he was not deceived by her pretence of lightheartedness. He stood looking back into the room at her for a long silent moment, then he smiled and the admiration in his eyes was like a balm.

  ‘See you at dinner then, Mother.’

  Victoria stared at the closed door, feeling suddenly drained. Her son imagined that it was her grief at Arthur’s death that was fretting her and of course, that was part of it. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and saw behind closed lids every word of the letter James had written to her.

  ‘Fool!’ she said to herself in sudden anger. She moved towards the bed and sank down onto the soft silk of the counterpane. She felt suddenly very alone and terribly vulnerable, she who had always imagined herself to be strong. But she would not cry, what good were tears? And yet her spreading fingers were suddenly moist.

  Later when she entered the dining room, Sterling and Rickie were seated opposite each other, staring across the candlelit table as though they were adversaries. Almost absently, Victoria noted that Arthur’s place had been set; she must speak to the servants about it. Her attention was caught by Rickie’s voice raised in triumph.

  ‘I just knew it, you’re taking on the man at the cemetery, the one with the fish cart. Do you really want such riff-raff in the works?’

  Victoria took her place, resisting the impulse to leap to Sterling’s defence. He was a man now, well able to speak out for himself.

  Sterling leaned back easily in his chair, shaking out the immaculately white napkin.

  ‘David Llewelyn is an experienced copper man,’ he said goodnaturedly. ‘He was dismissed because of some lack of communication and I intend to reinstate him.’

  Rickie gave a short laugh. ‘And I suppose you didn’t even notice the pretty wench with him.’ His tone was heavy with sarcasm. Staring at him, Victoria wondered how she could feel such antipathy towards her own son; perhaps it was because she could see her own failings written so clearly into Rickie’s nature.

  Sterling shrugged without answering and Rickie, obviously piqued that his barb had missed its mark, leaned forward, elbows resting on the pristine damask cloth.

  ‘You are so above it all, so high and mighty, aren’t you Sterling?’ His voice shook with anger. ‘But remember, pride comes before a fall.’ He rose quickly and strode towards the door.

  ‘Rickie!’ Victoria called, ‘come back here at once, how dare you be so rude as to leave the table that way?’ But the door had slammed shut and Rickie was gone.

  ‘What on earth’s wrong with him?’ Sterling asked thoughtfully. ‘He must be taking father’s death more badly than I thought.’

  Victoria fought back the wings of black panic that beat at her. Rickie must have a very good reason for behaving so abominably and she did not think that it had anything to do with Arthur’s demise. A terrible suspicion began to take shape in her mind, she remembered the empty box with vivid clarity and she gripped her hands tightly together in her lap.

  ‘Let’s have dinner,’ she said with forced calmness, and no one would have suspected that her world was falling to pieces around her.

  Chapter Three

  The green smoke lay low over the row of cottages, penetrating the crevices in the stonework, filling the cobbled roadway with a stench that caught the breath and burned the eyes of the children playing there.

  Mali stood in the doorway staring into the dimness of the evening. Her heart was heavy within her, loneliness a burden she could scarcely bear. From the corner of Market Street came the sound of Dai End House playing the accordion. The plaintive melody rose and fell on the still air like a lament. Mali’s throat tightened. Behind her the cottage was empty and silent and she was reluctant to return to the kitchen’s warmth. She drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, listening to the screams of delight from the children as they chased a rat into the canal.

  Her father had left the house almost an hour ago. He had pulled a cap on his unruly hair and wound a scarf around his bull neck and Mali, watching him walk down the row, his big shoulders slumped, did not begrudge him the relief he would find in a jug of ale at the Mexico Fountain.

  Abruptly the music died, even the children were silent, watching as a tall figure made his way easily along the cobbled street. It was as if he was being drawn towards Mali by an invisible thread as inexorably he moved forward.

  She stepped back a pace into the light of the kitchen and the man followed her without so much as by your leave.

  ‘Mr Richardson!’ She heard the disbelief in her voice but even through her anger, she could not help but feel the magnetism of him. He closed the door and Mali swallowed hard.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing here,’ she said. ‘If it’s to put us out into the street, then don’t bother, we know well enough that the cottage is yours.’

  He took off his black hat and his hair gleamed brightly in the warm glow from the lamp. He smiled easily and seated himself in a chair, staring up at her, and his dark blue, almost violet eyes seemed to be undressing her.

  ‘I haven’t come to “put you out into the street” at all,’ he said smoothly. ‘On the contrary.’ His eyes continued to gaze at her with disconcerting frankness and Mali became aware that her hair was hanging in untidy curls upon her shoulders and that she was wearing one of her oldest skirts that had been patched and mended many times.

  ‘Then what do you want?’ she asked hotly. She folded her arms around her waist, drawing the shawl closer. It was a gesture of self protection and she saw by his quick smile that he understood it.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He leaned forward in the chair, his eyes warm with laughter. ‘I won’t ravish you.’

  Mali bit her lip in anger. ‘Dad would give you a hammering if you so much as touched me,’ she said quickly and then felt very foolish as his smile widened.

  ‘I don’t know what you find so funny!’ she said. ‘But say your piece, whatever it is, and go.’ She moved towards the fire and absently pushed the large kettle onto the flames.

  ‘Ah, good, you’re about to make me some tea.’ He spoke evenly and Mali took a deep breath, searching her mind for something scathing to say to him but then he was on his feet, standing beside her.

  ‘I’ve come to offer your father his old job back.’ He was so close that she could smell the clean soapy scent of him. She felt small and insignificant against his tallness and once the meaning of his words sunk in she was bereft of speech.

  He leaned towards her and before she knew what he was about, he had taken her face between his hands.

  ‘You are a very pretty girl,’ he said lightly, and for a breathless moment she thought that he meant to kiss her.

  Suddenly she came to her senses. ‘Get away from me!’ She pushed at him fiercely and smiling, he moved away from her. She felt shaken but as Sterling resumed his seat he seemed to be completely in control of the situation. Mali tried to compose herself and spoke without looking at him.

  ‘I don’t know if Dad will want the job, he’s a proud man.’ She was angered by the way her voi
ce trembled but there was nothing she could do about it. ‘I’ll tell him you called. Now leave me, please.’

  ‘Very well.’ Swiftly he rose to his feet. ‘Tell your father that I will expect him to start first shift in the morning.’ All at once he was again the great Mr Richardson, copper boss. It was as though he had never taken her face between his hands and looked into her eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ She held her head aloft for he had come specially to the cottage in the row to ask Dad to return to work and it was a good feeling.

  She stood in the doorway and the gas lights were lit now along the cobbled roadway, casting shadows into the canal, but her eyes were on the tall figure disappearing into the distance. The sharp sudden turmoil within her made her catch her breath. Her skin seemed to tingle where he had touched her and she felt again the strength of his long, sensitive fingers. But men like the copper boss were not to be trusted and she would not lose her head over him, she told herself firmly.

  Quite abruptly huge drops of rain began to fall cold and sharp, beating up from the cobbles. Children were running into the cottages and doors began to close so that in a moment the row was empty. Mali sighed and moved back into the kitchen, about to close her own door when a light voice called to her.

  ‘Mali don’t shut me out, ‘tis me, Katie.’

  The Irish girl hurried inside, her hair swinging damply against her shoulders and her pale skin holding a radiance that had nothing to do with the coldness of the night air.

  ‘I’ve just left me William.’ She spoke breathlessly. ‘I’m in love so I am.’

  Mali smiled, ‘Sit down have some tea, ti’n disgwl yn oer.’

  Katie laughed and flung back her hair. ‘What strange words you speak Mali, but soft and beautiful so they are.’

  ‘I only meant you must be cold,’ Mali explained, stirring the coals beneath the kettle. ‘Bring me some cups from the dresser and tell me all about your William.’