by Sarah Lark
Thomas Reed forced his daughter out of the house as often as possible, but Nora no longer found pleasure in conversation, good food, music, or dance. She left her spinet — formerly so beloved — untouched, and when Thomas gave her a beautiful Arabian mare, she dutifully rode the animal daily in St. James’s Park, but showed no hint of her earlier enthusiasm for a fast gallop and challenging hunting obstacles.
Not even Lady Margaret’s last, helpless advice got any results: Nora by no means fell in love with the good-looking young groom that Thomas Reed had sent to join her in his desperation. She didn’t seem to see the young man at all. At least the exercise in the fresh air drove the ghostly pallor from her cheeks. Although, a snow-white complexion conformed to the prevailing ideal of beauty, a healthy young woman acquired it more frequently with the help of a powder puff than by avoiding the sun.
When Simon Greenborough’s death day had passed a second time, Thomas Reed was almost ready to resign himself to his daughter’s melancholy. Still, she declined every invitation that came her way. Just after the “scandal,” her society had taken a bit of distance. After all, they did not know whether Thomas Reed’s daughter would ultimately turn out to be a fallen woman. But after it became certain that her misstep would have no consequences, and Lady Margaret and her daughter Eileen also dropped hints regarding the undoubtedly platonic love of the merchant’s daughter and the nobleman, people were ready to accept Nora Reed again. In many families, her suitability as a marriage candidate for one of the sons was discussed. After all, the young woman was quite beautiful and the only heir. Since Nora had turned nineteen, the calls from middle-aged ladies vividly reporting on their sons had come in with more frequency. The mothers were impressed with Nora without exception, leaving the scandal to fade entirely into oblivion. How could such a modest, reserved young woman also be capable of the antics that were rumored about her? Nora Reed was polite, and well bred, and dressed tastefully. She preferred muted colors, avoided ruffles and ribbons, and when she chatted, it wasn’t about the next ball or the best seamstress, but usually about her charitable activities. For a woman of her age, this might have been a bit strange, but it also spoke to an unusual maturity, that such a young thing was already so charitably engaged.
In fact, the subject of feeding the poor and medical care in the East End was the only thing that brought back Nora’s old momentum, and allowed her new acquaintances to discover her grace and enthusiasm. She solicited donations with charm and skill, and went to the most sordid parts of the city herself, to oversee the distribution. This had all started at one of the evening events that Thomas Reed had so desperately and eagerly organized, shortly after Nora’s return. One of the invited matrons, Mrs. Anne Wendrington, spoke of an orphanage that she supported.
“The poor creatures aren’t even necessarily orphans, but the parents just don’t take care of them and are themselves completely dependent on gin. It is frightening, this propensity for alcoholism, as the liquor makes these people forget everything!” Mrs. Wedrington sipped from her wine glass complacently.
To the surprise of the other guests, and the dismay of her father, Nora raised her voice in response.
“That is because gin is cheaper than water in those areas. And often even healthier, unless you like to drink the manure that they get from the Thames?”
Mrs. Wendrington frowned. “Cheaper than water? How can that be? Although, we have been considering setting up tea and soup kitchens for children and parents, with spiritual guidance. The reverend from St. George’s—”
Nora laughed mockingly. “You’d do better to send a doctor; the Bible doesn’t help people when their children cough their lungs out of their bodies. And they rarely starve. A few bones boiled in a soup and a bit of cabbage, and if it’s the waste from the butcher or the market stall — that’s all cheap. And if the mother is dependent on gin, the little girls will grow up quickly and the sister will cook for the younger ones. It’s even more difficult with the wood or charcoal to start a fire. If you start there, and if you distribute clean water … actually, the entire East End has to be torn down and rebuilt!” Nora finally exclaimed.
“Nora!” Thomas Reed reprimanded.
Mrs. Wedrington swallowed, but didn’t seem displeased. “We should finish with this unpleasant topic here and now,” she then said. “But we must speak again, Miss Reed. We might very well need such a keen observer and a young lady with such vigor at our charity!”
Shortly thereafter, she invited Nora to her house, and since then, the young woman gave all the money that she had previously put aside for clothes and pleasures to the improvement of the conditions in the East End. Nora set up soup kitchens and started off by engaging the busy Dr. Mason for regular hours set aside for destitute patients. Of course, it was all just a drop in the bucket — very few women from among the merchants or even from the nobility ventured into the infamous neighborhoods, or even had any idea of how the poor lived. But at least the work tore Nora from her lethargy.
Thomas Reed was not certain if he should be happy about it. “She will become an old maid!” he complained to Lady Margaret, who had just happily married off her Eileen.
“If she leaves the house, then it’s only with these matrons in the East End, and afterwards she smells of the liniments that the doctor there prescribes — she seems to personally assist him. Or she gallops alone on horseback through the park and the poor servant can hardly keep up. I’ve had to start looking for a new one who isn’t as good-looking, but is a better rider! And sometimes she comes back looking as if she’d been crying — even though the chap swears she hasn’t been to the cemetery. She’s not interested in dancing, or going to the theater, or away on country outings. If I forcefully drag her out into society; she crouches with the ladies and tries to warm them to her charity. She hardly looks at young men — it’s a waste; she is a young beauty and the gentlemen would jump at the opportunity. And their mothers, too — every matron in this city would like to introduce Nora to her son. But Nora never lets it get as far as that. So it never has to do with a marriage. Meanwhile, it’s about time. I would like to have a few grandchildren at some point, maybe a boy who would like to run the trading house.”
Lady Margaret shrugged. “You should take her to a doctor,” she then said. “There are remedies for melancholy.”
Though Thomas Reed didn’t really believe that Nora was ill, he dutifully brought her to Dr. Morris, who prescribed laudanum.
Nora thought the remedy smelled like the poppy syrup she had given Simon and when she tried it out, she felt for the first time that she could imagine the effect that gin had on women like Mrs. Tanner. Nora felt sedated and peaceful, but she didn’t want to be sedated and peaceful. She lived with her pain and grief for Simon. She looked for him on the winding paths in St. James’s Park, tried to sense his spirit in the East End, and between the pages of the few books that he had possessed, and that Wilson had brought to her from the attic.
In them, she found her earliest consolation. She read the words that Simon had read, and dreamed his dreams, since the books were about distant islands and their explorers. She always wore Simon’s ring on the velvet ribbon around her neck — it offered her some comfort. But really, her spirit was on the island in their fantasy world, which she couldn’t evoke on her own. The laudanum didn’t help. Nora waited a few days, and then she threw it away.
And then one day her father invited Elias Fortnam to one of his dinner parties.
CHAPTER 2
Nora halfheartedly checked the table decorations in the large dining room. The maid had set the table for seven people. Thomas Reed would preside, and expected two married couples, as well as a Mr. Fortnam — a business associate of her father’s whom Nora had never heard anything about. She sighed with resignation at the thought of the conversation she would have to make with the man tonight — her father had undoubtedly intended him as her table partner. Nora straightened one of the Meissen porcelain plates — the service had
cost a small fortune — one, which could have been used far more sensibly in the soup kitchen. She’d also had to buy a new dress, since her father had insisted that she dress in a more womanly fashion. Nora was still girlishly thin, which, as the cook complained again and again, was because she ate too little. In any case, she lacked a female figure, at least according to Eileen and Lady MacDougal.
The two women never tired of harassing Nora to make more of herself, little realizing that Nora didn’t care how she looked. She preferred to wear a practical dress to an expensive gown — although her new burgundy brocade dress was undoubtedly beautiful. The seamstress had insisted on emphasizing her small chest with a voluminous lace trim at the neckline, and had adorned the gown with golden bows and flounces instead of black appliqué, as Nora would have wanted.
“You are so beautiful, you can’t be running around like a crow!” the woman argued and Nora eventually gave in.
Nora glanced at the fire in the chimney, where the catches were positioned so that no cinders could jump out onto the precious silk carpets, or the marble statues that were on either side of the fireplace. Nora suspected that they were Roman deities. It was really all the same to her father — he sought the advice of architects on the purchase of artworks for his house, and regarded them merely as a financial investment.
Anyway, everything was ready and all she had to do now was get dressed — her lady’s maid was waiting, most certainly engaged with the inspection of the powder tins and makeup boxes, the acquisition of which Nora’s father had insisted upon. Nora should look like all the young women in her social class. She knew that he was eager to have her married in the near future, and could even understand his wish for grandchildren. But on this, she would not be willing to compromise. It was unthinkable to answer to any of the young gentlemen presented to her in a never-ending series. They all looked the same in their colorful, richly adorned coats that opened onto excessively lace-trimmed shirts; with their tight knee breeches and buckled shoes — and the elaborate white wigs, under which a head of hair might have been hidden. Blond, thinning hair or even dark curls like Simon’s … Nora would never find out and nor did she care.
Without any enthusiasm, she allowed her maid to transform her into a white made-up fictional character. All the same, her complexion was even, her lips were full, and her eyes were so strikingly green that she could hardly be mistaken for someone else. In the end, she felt that she looked like a porcelain doll: beautiful but lifeless.
Thomas Reed didn’t seem to see it the same way — he spoke warmly of her appearance when she came down the wide staircase to the vestibule of the house, and even Lady Margaret and her husband found complimentary things to say.
“What a beautiful dress, Nora! You look properly grown!” the lady said kindly. “I so hope to see you dance again soon. We’re giving a ball next month for the baptism of Eileen’s baby. She has a son now …”
The painful expression in her father’s eyes didn’t escape Nora’s notice as she watched him congratulate them on the birth of their first grandchild. She also forced out a few words for her part, but then they were all distracted by the knocking at the door. The maid went to receive the next guest. Nora peered through the stained glass panes that separated the entrance area from the vestibule, as the tall man took off his coat.
“No, no, not the flowers, girls, I will present them myself.”
The voice was loud and commanding. The man did not wait for the maid to lead him in, either. He confidently stepped through the glass doors — and Nora went pale under her makeup when she saw the flowers in his hand.
It was a slight madness, but since Simon had asked for her hand, no one had directly given her a bouquet. It was common for the housemaid to take gifts at the entrance and then demonstratively arrange them in the room where Nora and her father entertained their guests. However, this man held the bouquet out in front of him, letting his eyes run across the women in the hall until he quickly determined which was the hostess. He bowed to Nora, and held out the flowers.
“Miss Reed? I thank you for the invitation!”
Thomas Reed smiled at the visitor. “Nora, Lady Margaret, Lord MacDougal, May I introduce Mr. Elias Fortnam?”
For the first time, Nora was thankful for the thick layer of powder that mercifully hid her pale and then blushing face. She now also managed to politely thank him and take a closer look at the man, who had just greeted Lady Margaret and Lord MacDougal. With relief, she realized that her feeling of déjà-vu had been an illusion. Elias Fortnam had nothing, absolutely nothing in common with Simon Greenborough — perhaps with the exception of the fact that he also didn’t wear a powdered wig. His hair was generously powdered gray, so that you couldn’t tell the color, but his billowing mane was undoubtedly real. Otherwise, Fortnam had foregone powdering his face, perhaps because it was impossible to completely cover his tan with makeup. It was an unusually dark complexion for December in London. And Elias Fortnam stood out otherwise, as well. Instead of the usual knee breeches, he wore pantaloons, long, dark trousers; with a coat and short vest made from wool in muted colors. Riding boots replaced the buckled shoes. Nora knew that this style was called mode à l’anglaise and was becoming more popular in England in particular. In her father’s circle, however, it had still not become the norm. Mr. Fortnam’s clothes seemed new and hardly worn.
“Mr. Fortnam arrived in London just a few days ago,” her father informed the MacDougals. “But we’ve been doing business for quite some time. Mr. Fortnam is a sugar cane planter. He’s from Jamaica.”
Nora froze. Other than the Wentworths from Barbados, she had never met anyone else who had property in the colonies. After Simon’s death, she had no longer pushed for such acquaintances, and it might very well have been a coincidence that her father brought no one else to the house who could speak of the islands. Or perhaps he had done so deliberately, so as to avoid nurturing her dreams of emigration.
“Really?” Lady Margaret immediately feigned interest. Meanwhile, Nora had to receive their other visitors, Mr. and Mrs. Roundbottom. Mr. Roundbottom greeted Fortnam like an old friend. Naturally, he was also a merchant and had dealt with planters. Elias Fortnam only turned back to Nora when it was time to escort her to the table.
“I hope you will permit me the honor,” he said, charmingly.
Nora politely put her hand on his arm, and led him into the dining room. She then had the time to take a closer look at him. Fortnam was a tall, heavyset man, around her father’s age, and undoubtedly strong. His face was broad, with somewhat narrow lips. Beneath his ample brow, attentive blue eyes looked down at Nora with friendly interest rather than the searching expression that most men had when they approached her. No doubt, he hadn’t heard anything of the scandal, or of her restraint and unsociability, which had recently become a theme when the topic of Thomas Reed’s daughter came up.
“Jamaica must be beautiful,” she remarked when they were finally seated and the servants were serving the first course.
Fortnam smiled at her. “Oh, yes!” he exclaimed. “At least, if one has no objections to humid heat — it is very hot throughout the year and there are occasionally violent hurricanes. We could do well without the latter — the year before last, one annihilated half of my harvest. And the heat, well, many of the whites don’t like it, and the ladies certainly enjoy complaining. But it is vital, or else the sugar cane wouldn’t grow. The vegetation is lush, even inland. Anywhere that we have not cleared is overgrown with jungle.”
“Isn’t it also a rainy area?” Lord Macdougal inquired. “Whereupon, I suppose you will again answer that you like it because it makes the sugar cane grow.”
Fortnam smiled. “We could even irrigate it without rain,” he noted. “There are plenty of streams and rivers that flow down from the mountains. That’s even how the island got its name. Jamaica comes from Chaymaka — island of the springs.”
“But Chaymaka isn’t Spanish, is it?” Nora asked.
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bsp; Fortnam furrowed his brow. “What makes you say that? Oh, because the island was originally occupied by the Spanish? But that was long ago. Admiral Penn had already relieved the chaps of it in 1655. No, the name comes from the natives, since there were probably some kinds of Indians then—”
“The Arawaks,” Nora remembered. Simon had told her about them. “They were likely very … peaceful.”
Fortnam laughed heartily. “Surely a reason for their extinction. But no one really knows, they were already mostly gone when the Spanish came; Columbus and his men took care of the rest of them. At least now there are no more Indians, just us and the Negroes — who cause enough trouble as it is.”
“You have problems with the free blacks?” Mr. Roundbottom asked.
Fortnam shrugged. “Problems is an exaggeration; there are just a few sitting up in the mountains. And if you ask me, I would have smoked out the nests long ago. No idea why it still hasn’t been managed. So you always have to watch out a bit, they like to have raids. Though, my plantation, Cascarilla Gardens, lies directly on the coast, near the capital, Spanish Town. We are not at risk — they rarely dare to go so far out from the mountains. They rather pillage the smaller planters who settle further inland.”
“But don’t they harbor your runaway slaves?” Roundbottom prodded further.
Fortnam casually poured himself a glass of wine and filled Nora’s glass before answering. “It varies. Sometimes they also turn them in. For money, of course. The Negroes really aren’t all one big, happy family. It’s best to make sure that none of them run away.”
Nora decided to change the subject. She didn’t want to talk about slaves, and it would be so much nicer to learn more about the island.
“Aren’t there mangrove forests in Jamaica?” she inquired in a soft voice.
Fortnam laughed. “That’s right, Miss Reed, we will speak of more pleasant things. Jamaica is a paradise if you like tropical plants, birds, flowers, butterflies … Did you know that we have the largest species in the world?”