Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  While the adults congregated in the dining room and dined on wine-rich pheasant, wild duck, fat geese and a broad saddle of beef, the children were fed boiled mutton, semolina and bread and butter up in the nursery.

  The nursery was on the fourth floor and was furnished to be of service rather than to impress like the rest of the house. The windows were small, and the walls were painted a dull mushroom colour that did nothing to lift the gloom and compensate for the lack of light.

  Nelson Strong, Sir Emmanuel’s son, took to Tom immediately, which caused his sister Horatia to scowl. It seemed to Tom that she considered her brother to be her property and hers alone.

  ‘Do you have a pony?’ Nelson asked brightly.

  Tom shook his head, but wished he could say yes. He so wanted to fit in.

  Nelson made a face. ‘Neither do I.I hate riding and shooting and things like that. I like theatre, nice clothes and looking handsome. Do you like poetry?’

  Tom was unsure, though disinclined to admit it. ‘Yes.’

  Nelson reclined in his chair like a Regency dandy, his older female cousins in rapt attention and hanging on to his every word. Leah, Ruth and Rachel sat like puppies at his feet. ‘Do recite some for me.’

  Tom scratched his head as he thought about it, then recited the only poetry he knew, the first lines of a sea shanty he’d heard sailors singing as they fell out of the dockside taverns along St Augustine’s Quay.

  Oh, Betsy is a buxom wench, she’s tasty and she’s willing,

  And she’ll do anything you want, if you’ve got just a shilling,

  So hoist ’em up, me pretty girl, oh get em down, me darling,

  For I’m a-sailing shortly now, and you’ll not get a farthing.

  Charity, Piety and Patience, Jeb’s eldest daughters, threw their hands over their mouths, to stifle their giggles. Ruth, Rachel and the very youngest, Leah, not quite understanding the sentiments, grinned hesitantly, Leah eventually clapping her hands in childish delight.

  Nelson beamed. ‘Not exactly Richard Brinsley Sheridan, but very entertaining.’

  The only one who did not laugh was Horatia, Nelson’s older sister. They were very alike, both golden-haired and blue-eyed, though Nelson was but a weaker imitation of his sister, like a reflection in foggy glass. Horatia glared hard at her brother who suddenly looked ashamed of liking the rude ditty.

  Horatia was angry. ‘Shut up, all of you!’

  Her voice was like the crack of doom. The children fell into silence. Nelson seemed to shrink in his chair, his semolina spoon slipping silently into his dish.

  Tom had been wary of Horatia from the moment they’d arrived. Although he’d bowed to her and said good afternoon, she had not responded, but had looked him up and down as if he were still in rags and wore no shoes. Only when everyone else was out of earshot, did she whisper, ‘You’re wearing a dead boy’s clothes.’

  He’d felt himself colour, and was only glad that no one else heard what she’d said.

  The Reverend Strong’s daughters sat like stones in their chairs as Horatia’s eyes raked over them, her look far too disdainful for a child of her age. Her gaze finally settled on Tom, just as he’d expected it would. ‘You don’t belong here. And we have no wish to hear your dirty dockside songs from your dirty mouth and the dirty place you first came from.’

  Tom clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to hit her. After all, she was a girl and Jeb’s niece.

  Horatia held herself like an adult, a haughty look on her face and her blue eyes hardening to suit her mood. Everyone stayed silent and still, afraid to move lest her stony look fell on them.

  She said, ‘You’re a brute of a boy. Do you know that? You’re not our kind at all.’

  For the Reverend Strong’s sake, Tom had no wish to rock the boat. Without returning her gaze, he went on eating, sure that in time she would tire of her game and leave him alone to torture someone else.

  ‘Well, brute, aren’t you going to say anything?’

  Tom carried on eating and would have continued to do so, but Horatia made the mistake of saying the worst thing possible.

  ‘Your mother was a whore, and you never had a father. There’s a word for a child like you―’

  Tom let fly his bowl.

  Horatia herself sat dumb and immobile as dribbles of semolina trickled down her face and into her open mouth. A deep hush fell.

  Then, Leah began to giggle. Gradually, each of her sisters began to giggle too. Tom showed no emotion, but kept his eyes fixed on Horatia’s face. Nelson merely stared into his lap, a wry grin flickering over his lips. As the giggles grew into loud laughter, Horatia’s stone features cracked with rage. She opened her mouth wide, threw back her head and screamed, ‘Nanny Peters!’

  The scream soared on the air. The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs quickened and a small figure in a dark dress with a white apron and mop cap dashed to her darling Horatia’s side.

  ‘Oh, my poor dear!’ the nurse exclaimed.

  Of course, the whole story came out. Tom knew he was in for a birching. The Reverend Strong wouldn’t let him get away with reciting rude verses in the presence of young ladies and behaving as he did towards Horatia.

  Tom was summoned to the library at Marstone Court where the Reverend Strong waited, a bundle of birch twigs in his right hand. He sighed and shook his head at Tom. ‘I have to do this, boy, though I don’t want to. You do realize that, don’t you?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  At the crook of the Reverend Strong’s finger, he made his way to the corner where he was standing behind a big green chair.

  ‘Pull down your breeches and bend over the chair, boy.’

  Feeling less than contrite, Tom did as he was told. The chair’s leather was cold against his belly. As the birch swished through the air on the first stroke, he felt the air grow colder. Although his backside warmed under the birch, a draught blowing in from somewhere lessened its intensity. The windows were closed, and then he realized he hadn’t shut the door properly. As the sixth and last stroke rose and fell, he glanced over his shoulder. Through the narrow gap he saw a figure and knew it was Horatia.

  He knew she’d be enjoying this. She’d deliberately insulted him. Although Jeb wielded the birch, she was the one really beating him, showing him her power and he hated her for it.

  Outside the door, Horatia bit her lip guiltily. Absorbed in what was going on, she didn’t notice Nelson approaching until he spoke to her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a loud voice that made her jump.

  Embarrassed at being caught watching, she pushed past him, her nose in the air.

  Undeterred and intrigued by her behaviour, Nelson danced along at her side, skipped across in front of her, laughing and singing, ‘Horatia has a sweetheart, Horatia has a sweetheart.’

  At the end of the hall, Horatia stopped dead and slapped his face. ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’

  Although his face stung, Nelson grinned. ‘You like that boy Tom. I know you do. He’s a boy and you’re a girl, and—’

  His sister’s cheeks flushed pink as she snapped, ‘That’s a stupid statement, Nelson. I know what I am. I don’t need you to tell me. And what would you know about such things anyway? You know nothing. Nothing at all!’

  Now it was Nelson’s turn to be embarrassed because he didn’t know that much, only the way the maid giggled after one of the stable lads had whispered in her ear. But he wouldn’t be put down.

  ‘One day I’ll know all there is to know. Father will tell me,’ he said emphatically. ‘Father knows everything.’

  Chapter Three

  Over the years, Nelson learned a little more about men and women, thanks to an obliging housemaid who didn’t mind a handsome young lad sneaking a quick grope on the stairs.

  It was in the autumn of 1832 when he was ordered to accompany his father to Bath for the weekend on what he presumed to be a business meeting. He’d attended others, but never in Bath.


  ‘Why do I have to go?’ he asked, as their carriage clattered over the gravelled drive through the park.

  ‘Because you’re seventeen. It’s time,’ said Emmanuel purposefully.

  Nelson smiled to himself. So his father thought he was still a virgin. Best to humour the old man.

  They went to the house in Green Park where Nelson was introduced to a certain Madame Sybil. She had a pink nose, a plunging neckline and wore enough gold to sink a battleship.

  ‘Tonight you become a man, my son,’ his father said, accompanying his comment with a hefty slap on Nelson’s back.

  A high-cheeked Chinese girl with sleek black hair and a small rosebud mouth showed them into a ground-floor salon. Nelson’s attitude changed in an instant. She was the most exotic woman he’d ever seen.

  ‘I have to paint her,’ he said to his father.

  Emmanuel looked at him in disbelief. ‘You’re not here to paint a girl, son. You’re here to poke one!’

  Madame Sybil paraded a number of her girls in front of the seated Nelson. He stared at them all. Blonde, brunette, redhead and colours in between, they were all lovely, but his mind was fixed on the Chinese girl who had let them in.

  ‘Her,’ he said and pointed.

  ‘Lucy Lee, mon cher.’ Madame Sybil raised her eyebrows in his father’s direction.

  His father nodded. ‘If that’s the boy’s fantasy, then let him have her.’

  Madame Sybil was unusually pensive. Emmanuel misinterpreted the reason and dug into his waistcoat pocket. ‘You want money? Then I’ll give you more money. Just see that my son gets what he wants.’

  The pensive look disappeared as Madame Sybil poked the golden guineas into her copious cleavage. ‘Then he shall have Lucy Lee and all the fantasies he requires.’

  Nelson was mesmerized by the smiling Chinese girl and, although he’d had some experience with the maids, he felt immensely nervous. He never took his eyes off her as she led him by the hand to a room on the first-floor landing.

  He hesitated as they stopped at a door.

  ‘You are nervous?’ she asked.

  He nodded, his mouth too dry for words.

  Lucy Lee smiled. ‘I have something for you that will calm your soul.’

  Taking a small, round box from inside the bosom of her robe, she took off the lid, dipped her finger into the contents and dabbed it on his tongue.

  Nelson gulped it down.

  Lucy Lee smiled. ‘Dragon powder will also give you courage.’

  He didn’t know what it was she gave him, but its effect was meteoric. His nervousness melted away as he entered the most splendid of rooms. Red walls, red carpet, red curtains and a bedspread of red silk embroidered with a writhing dragon. The dragon took his eye.

  ‘That’s an amazing beast,’ he said in breathless admiration and was sure he could see it moving, its jaws opening and closing and its tail lashing from one side of the bed to the other.

  ‘So is this,’ said Lucy Lee, her tiny hand closing over the hardness at the front of his trousers.

  Her body was as smooth as the silk. She moved like the dragon that decorated the bedspread, curving her spine so that her breasts and belly teased, withdrew, then pressed against his body. At times it felt as though they were flying on the dragon’s back, the world misty and vague beneath them.

  When it was over, he slept. His father collected him in the morning, his expression a mix of pride and satisfaction.

  ‘I felt like I was flying,’ Nelson said blearily, as the coachman bundled him into the carriage. ‘She gave me something. It was better than brandy.’

  ‘Opium,’ said his father. ‘Unlike brandy, it calms the blood. I hear it yields good profits. Maybe I should expand to the East and trade in opium as well as maintaining our sugar interests to the West.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I may enquire.’

  Nelson closed his eyes, not surprised that his father’s thoughts had turned to trade. Wealth was wonderful, but Lucy Lee was still in his mind and her smell lingered on his clothes.

  He came back on many occasions after that and each time he tasted a little of the dragon powder. Nothing was beyond his reach, not sex and certainly not painting. In fact he saw colours, shapes and scenes as he’d never seen them before.

  Unknown to his father, he persuaded Lucy to sit for him, every sitting ending with them making love on the silken bedspread, sometimes just once.

  Their time together lasted until Lucy Lee ran away with a Spanish acrobat.

  ‘How could she?’ Nelson wailed when Madame Sybil told him. ‘I wanted to paint another portrait of her.’

  ‘This time with her clothes on?’ said Madame Sybil raising her finely plucked eyebrows that helped take attention away from the pitted redness of her nose.

  Nelson laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was sweating like a horse, perspiration running down his back and beading his forehead. It was Lucy Lee’s fault, he told himself, wrapping his arms around himself as he started to shiver.

  ‘You choose another girl,’ said Madame Sybil. ‘I only charge you half price. Oui?’

  Still with his eyes closed, Nelson said, ‘Do you have any more Chinese girls?’

  ‘No.’

  He shook his head. Lucy Lee had been the most exotic thing to enter his life. Every other woman he would ever meet would have to match up to her. They would have to be unique, dark-haired and slender.

  Madame Sybil seemed to understand. ‘You want something a little different?’

  He nodded, biting his bottom lip as he fought to overcome the wave of nausea curdling his stomach.

  ‘You keep in touch,’ she said, tapping his chest with the tip of her ivory fan. ‘I find you something. I promise. I always find you something.’

  ‘And the dragon powder,’ he blurted. ‘Can you get that for me too?’

  She looked at him sadly and sighed. ‘There is an apothecary on the corner of Trenchard Street. You can buy it there. It is not expensive. Even the poorest of mothers buy it for their babies.’

  * * *

  A ball was held on Nelson’s twenty-first birthday, partly to celebrate his engagement to his cousin Adelaide Tillingham, and partly because he was about to depart to see Uncle Otis in Barbados and get to know more about the sugar trade.

  Both the ball and his impending departure to Barbados were welcome; the same could not be said about the engagement to Adelaide, which had been agreed in principle even before he’d met the girl. He had not protested. His sister Horatia had told him it didn’t matter whether he was married or not. He was a man. Marriage would not impair his lifestyle in any way whatsoever.

  ‘Unlike me,’ Horatia had grimaced, having just had another argument with her father over the fact that she was twenty-three years old and still not married. ‘I can’t say that I’m at variance with loving and honouring a husband as stated in the marriage service, but I might find obeying rather more difficult.’

  Nelson laughed. ‘You’re outrageous!’

  ‘And you’re a wastrel – though you hide it well.’

  ‘And you’re beautiful.’

  ‘And you’re handsome – though I would say that, wouldn’t I? We look so alike.’

  For the ball, Horatia Strong wore a blue silk dress that shimmered when she moved. Silver and white feathers fluttered in her hair, and blonde ringlets framed her face. Whereas all the other young girls at the ball were pink-cheeked from dancing and blushing at the attention of young men, Horatia was listening with interest to the conversation of men in their forties, fifties and above.

  Through a haze of cigar smoke, her father watched, sighed and shook his head.

  ‘She should be circulating with young men, not talking with old ones,’ muttered his wife, Verity, whom he’d married following the death of Horatia and Nelson’s mother. As bevies of beautiful women floated and danced around them, she held on to his arm tightly, as if afraid he might escape.

  Emmanuel was as concerned as she was that Hora
tia showed little interest in young men. She much preferred older ones who talked of plantations, the price of sugar, insurance costs and shipping manifests.

  ‘She’ll marry when she’s ready,’ he said in a confident manner, though he didn’t feel it. I’ll damn well make her, he thought to himself, but blanched at the prospect. She was strong-willed. He would have trouble persuading her.

  He studied the men with whom she was talking. Now which of them would be the best marriage prospect with a view to expanding the Strong fortune? How about Stephenson, a widower and a millionaire with substantial interests in cocoa and copper? Or Josiah Benson, a banker and wealthy merchant? At present he was standing closest to Horatia, seemingly hanging on to her every word.

  Emmanuel believed in using every means at his disposal to build a business empire. His children were part of those means – Horatia and Nelson, plus the four children Verity had presented. They were all usable capital.

  He looked again at Horatia, but she had gone.

  ‘Did you see where Horatia went?’ he asked Verity, almost hopeful that she’d sneaked outside with a suitable – even an unsuitable – and lustful young man.

  ‘The last I saw of her, she was holding Josiah Benson in thrall. Perhaps she’s with him.’

  Emmanuel grunted approvingly. Josiah Benson had his finger in a lot of pies. He’d be a welcome addition to the family.

  Horatia was not with Benson but out on the terrace, strolling arm in arm with her brother Nelson. She waved her fan in front of her face, glad to breathe the fresh air rather than the fug inside.

  ‘He won’t be pleased,’ Nelson was saying. ‘He’s probably looking for you right now before your honour is compromised.’

  Horatia laughed. ‘Of course he won’t. He’ll be hoping that I’ve finally favoured some callow youth with acne and a large fortune.’

  Nelson raised his eyebrows. ‘Not favouring him too much, I hope.’

  Her expression echoed his own. ‘And compromise my honour? My dear Nelson, a woman is supposed to be untouched on her wedding night, guided in what to do by her husband.’