by Erica Brown
‘Who will, of course, be well versed in what has to be done,’ Nelson responded.
Horatia slammed her fan shut. ‘I wish I’d been born a man.’
Nelson adopted an expression of mock horror. ‘Heavens, no! That would make you heir apparent and me second son.’
‘And able to follow your own star – painter, poet or general cad.’
Nelson grinned. ‘The prospect’s enticing. Perhaps we should change places.’
‘I wish we could, my dear brother,’ she said, adopting a more serious tone that instantly reminded him of his father.
‘I take it none of these young men excites you?’
Horatia stopped pacing the terrace with him, let go his arm and took a deep breath that was full of exasperation, anger and longing. ‘Business excites me. Making money excites me.’
‘You have your own money left to you by Mother, and good advice from Josiah Benson, so I hear.’
Benson advised them both on the matter of the stocks and shares left to them by their mother. Horatia’s face brightened at the mention of it, but she held her smile in check.
‘He no longer advises me.’
Nelson looked taken aback.
‘I advise him,’ she said with obvious pride. ‘I was beginning to find his advice too retrospective. I told him I felt that a new century required new ideas so we should look out for any opportunity arising in new industries or innovative inventions. So far my judgement has proved better than his. But it isn’t enough. I will never be like the simpering little rosebuds standing around that ballroom. A smart uniform or a fine pair of whiskers will never enthrall me!’
The steady creak of small wheels turning beneath a heavy weight signalled the arrival of Uncle Jeb. Tom had arrived home from the sea and was pushing him in his wheelchair.
Tom’s tanned complexion was accentuated by the whiteness of his crisp cravat and the dark blue of his evening suit. His dark hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck; a slightly old-fashioned style, and mainly favoured at sea, but it suited him. Horatia’s expression softened and her smile – obviously for Tom rather than her uncle – lit up her face.
Jebediah Strong was not the man he used to be. His health had deteriorated considerably following the death of his wife and three of his daughters. Emmanuel had insisted he move in to Marstone Court with Ruth, Rachel and Leah, his three remaining daughters. All three had left to marry, a fact that was still a thorn in Horatia’s side. Her father never stopped reminding her of it.
‘All married,’ Emmanuel had shouted at his spinster daughter. ‘So why aren’t you?’
‘Because I’m too much like my father,’ she’d retorted.
Jeb was slumped to one side in his chair. He still managed to speak, though his words were slurred and spit bubbled from the corner of his mouth.
‘Not dancing, my dear?’
‘I haven’t met the right partner,’ she said, her eyes bright as she smiled at Tom.
Tom bent over Jeb to wipe the dribble from his mouth.
Horatia watched then said, ‘Let’s place Uncle Jeb so he can look into the ballroom and see the dancing. Would you like that, Uncle Jeb?’ Though her offer was aimed at her uncle, her gaze was fixed on Tom.
Seeking his approval – and his affection, thought Nelson.
‘Yes,’ he slurred.
Tom looked apprehensive as she edged to his side. Between them they pushed the wheelchair closer to the large windows of the ballroom, Horatia’s fingers grazing those of Tom.
‘Do you like that, Uncle Jeb?’ Horatia asked cheerfully, as if touching Tom was purely accidental.
‘Yes,’ he slurred again.
Bending over her uncle, Horatia looked up at Tom as she said, ‘I think it would be nice if Tom and I danced for you. What do you think, Tom?’
Tom seemed to take a deep breath. ‘If that’s what Jeb wants.’
Horatia stood expectantly.
Jeb seemed to nod, though with his debilitating affliction it was hard to tell. Tom offered Horatia his arm.
‘My sister always gets what she wants,’ said Nelson, as he and Jeb watched them take the floor.
‘Her father won’t like it,’ said Jeb, his words seeming to drown in his throat.
‘No fortune, no profit,’ murmured Nelson. They were all pawns in his father’s great game and, as such, they had been trained to play their parts. Horatia had been educated to be a lady, to speak French, to draw, to hold polite conversation and to look beautiful. She was a valuable asset her father would use to best advantage – if she let him.
Jeb struggled for control of his mouth before managing to say, ‘Off soon?’
‘Yes,’ said Nelson. ‘Next Wednesday on the early morning tide.’
Jeb struggled again. ‘You’re… looking… forward to it?’
‘Exotic places… hmm… yes, I think so,’ he said thoughtfully.
Jeb made a rattling sound as he fought to speak. Eventually he said, ‘Rrrr… egards to Otis.’
‘Of course. I hear Barbados is beautiful,’ said Nelson. ‘If that is so, then I shall paint it.’
‘Beau… ti… ful.’ Nelson did not notice the faraway look in his uncle’s eyes and the tear that rolled slowly down his cheek.
Inside the brightly lit ballroom where the buzz of conversation mixed with the clink of cut glass and silver cutlery, Emmanuel Strong stood alone. Through a blur of colour and energy amongst a rainbow of silks, evening suits and uniforms, Horatia and Tom whirled around the dance floor. Horatia was gazing up into Tom’s eyes in a way that worried him. He did his best to reassure himself. After all, they’d known each other from childhood and Tom, he decided, knew his place. All the same, he thought, looking around him for one particular face, one particular presence that exuded money, it wouldn’t hurt to hedge one’s bets.
‘Josiah!’ he exclaimed, slapping the broad back of the richest banker in the city, noting the good clothes, stocky build and healthily pink complexion. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, my boy.’
Benson allowed himself to be led into a colonnade where the lighting was less bright. Emmanuel noticed his gaze kept straying to the dance floor every time Horatia swept by in the arms of Tom Strong.
Emmanuel seemed to be looking too, though in actuality he was studying Josiah Benson, evaluating just how far he would go in order to gain his daughter’s hand. The man was besotted, that much was obvious.
‘I understand you’ve been advising my daughter with regard to the monies settled on her by her mother,’ said Emmanuel. ‘How long did it take before she was advising you?’
Josiah jerked his gaze away from the dance floor. Emmanuel assessed his expression as one of embarrassment, but he recovered quickly.
‘She has a fine mind.’
‘And a fine body.’
Josiah flinched at such forthrightness.
Emmanuel twirled the thick Carabino cigar he had specially made in Havana and brought over on his ships in boxes of two dozen, forty boxes at a time.
‘Women are like fish,’ Emmanuel continued. ‘You have to keep them interested before you reel them in. In that regard, you have to give them every assistance, no matter how devious the means, until you become a habit, a confidante they cannot live without. Do you understand me, Benson?’
He could almost feel Benson’s amazement through the thick cigar smoke that circled his head.
‘You favour my suit?’
‘So much so that I will assist you in any way I can. I know that money is no object, but in order for my daughter to achieve her business aims – and for you to bask in her gratitude and, one hopes, her affection – you may need something or someone else.’
He didn’t need to look at Josiah to see his stunned rapture.
‘I’m most grateful.’
And so you should be, thought Emmanuel. The prospect of melding a sugar fortune with that of a banker was mutually attractive. In the meantime he could not possibly allow a re
lationship to develop between Horatia and Tom. He’d keep an eye on them. That was easy enough at Marstone Court, but in the city…
As the music changed, he saw Tom trying to leave the dance floor and Horatia pulling him back. Josiah made his excuses; Emmanuel nodded his affirmation, and watched as Tom eased himself away from Horatia and Josiah Benson took his place. Her smile seemed brittle and her eyes, he noted, followed Tom from the floor.
At the end of the evening, noisy toasts were made to Nelson’s health and a good voyage to Barbados. Emmanuel didn’t bother to join in. Good luck, bon voyage and safe journey had been repeated over and over again that evening. His son had been born into privilege. One day he’d inherit a fortune. That was good luck enough so far as Emmanuel was concerned, and anyway, his thoughts were elsewhere.
There was no doubting what he had to do. The situation was too dangerous to ignore. He couldn’t possibly contemplate his daughter’s fortune falling into the hands of a guttersnipe. Even in the city it would be wise to have Tom watched, he decided, preferably by someone who would not be noticed among the quays and inns and warehouses, the places Tom frequented and knew best. He remembered the name of a man they’d used years ago who’d been diligent in action and areas where the Strongs could not possibly be seen. Trout was his name. Reuben Trout.
Chapter Four
The sun was setting in Barbados, thin grey clouds drifting like torn lace against a rose pink sky.
‘One hundred and eighty-one, one hundred and eighty-two, one hundred and eighty-three, one hundred and eighty-four…’
Dark-haired and grey-eyed, Blanche Bianca, Viola’s daughter, was running barefoot along the shoreline, dodging surf as it tumbled on to the sand. ‘One hundred and eighty-five, one hundred and eighty-six…’ she counted to the beat of her stride; the wind was in her hair and the hem of her dress clung wet around her ankles.
The beach formed a lingering spit from the edge of the immense plantation owned by the Strong family, back along to the tangled copse that bordered the house she shared with her mother. Every evening she ran close to the water’s edge, not stopping until she’d counted to three hundred. At that point she was over the boundary into the Rivermead plantation where she would stop, take a deep breath, then turn and run all the way back again.
A cool stream tumbling from hills in the island’s interior dissected the beach at the perimeter of the Strong estate. The water tinkled like bells over exposed rocks and tangled tree roots. Officially, this was private property, a fact that Blanche habitually ignored. Lengthening her stride, she cleared the stream, her long brown legs kicking spouts of dry sand behind her. ‘Two hundred and fifty,’ she exclaimed on landing.
Tinged pink by the setting sun, the sand was warm and dry beneath her toes as she emerged from the cover of palm trees and ran onwards, her stride slowing when she saw that the beach was not empty as it usually was. An artist’s easel stood uneasily on three spindly legs. A stool and a jumble of boxes, jars and brushes anchored the corner of a blanket spread out on the sand.
Her counting faltered. ‘Two hundred… and seventy-five…’ she said, breathless now as she came to a stop.
She looked all around her, the evening breeze tossing wisps of dark hair around her face. Someone from Rivermead had left this here. No one else could have afforded the boxed paints, the sable brushes, the rosewood palette. Whoever it was had also left the work in progress. Blanche couldn’t resist taking a peek at the painting.
Stepping on to the blanket, she held her hair back from her face and got close, then even closer as she fell in love with the beauty of the work. It was of the sea at evening, spangled pink by the setting sun, palms in silhouette against an orange sky. Although beautiful sunset had never seemed so bright to her as on this canvas. It was as though the artist had captured reality and improved upon it, as though he were seeing something no one else could see.
So where was this maestro?
She looked towards the cane fields, the trees and the plantation house beyond. When she looked along the beach and towards the sea she saw the pile of clothes, then the head bobbing about in the waves, a raised hand waving to her.
Remembering this was private property, she sprang on to her toes, meaning to run back the way she had come.
She heard a male voice shout, ‘Hoy! Don’t go!’
She stopped and reconsidered. Will he shoot me for trespassing? She smiled at her foolishness. The man in the sea was at a distinct disadvantage. He was not dressed and armed only with paintbrushes and a rich imagination.
He was obviously one of the Strong family, she decided, or perhaps a guest. Who else could afford time to paint? Who else would be swimming off this beach? They owned this as they owned many things.
She stood closer to the layered bundle of clothes that lay just beyond the reach of the surf and watched as he came to shore, his shoulders then bare torso slowly rising out of the green sea.
He paused. ‘Do you mind turning your back?’
He had a handsome face, a straight nose and an easy smile.
She folded her arms. ‘Why should I?’
At first he seemed to seriously consider the question before his smile travelled to his eyes.
‘Then stay there,’ he said blithely, and slowly, very slowly, he started forward again, his body inching slowly into sight with every step he took.
Blanche held his gaze. She could see he was daring her to stay there, to see him emerge from the sea completely naked. He expected her to run. Most women would.
Head held high, she stood her ground.
Hairless, his body gleamed like soft gold and he kept smiling, smiling all the time, willing her to drop her eyes, to see he wore nothing, nothing at all.
He shook his head and smiled, water trickling down his body. ‘I could paint you,’ he said as he reached down for his breeches.
Blanche kept up her defiance. ‘I might not want you to.’ She lied and watched, fascinated, as strands of blond hair fell forward and droplets of water made pinholes in the sand.
He glanced up at her as he pulled on his breeches. His eyes were as blue as the willow pattern on Chinese porcelain – deep blue and shiny, bright against white. Blanche felt something light and alien flutter in her heart.
‘I think you should be a painting,’ he said. ‘I could make you beautiful.’
The fluttering did not die, though the defiance returned. Blanche was speechless. ‘You could make me beautiful? Are you saying I’m ugly?’ She wanted him to say no.
He grinned and Blanche felt her face reddening. Damn the man! She’d promised herself she wouldn’t blush, be bashful or run away. Now he was making her want to do all those things.
His head gradually appeared through the neck of his shirt and his bare torso disappeared. He was still smiling when he eventually emerged. ‘Have you seen my painting?’
‘No!’
‘I saw you looking.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Yes. A long-legged one with the most fetching eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. I have to paint them!’
She’d never had anyone wanting to paint her before, let alone saying she had fetching eyes and long legs. ‘You shouldn’t have been looking.’
He picked up his shoes and headed for her and his easel. ‘At your eyes?’ His look was querulous as well as amused.
‘At my legs!’
He laughed and she found herself wanting to stroke his hair back from his forehead and caress the tight muscles that cinched in his belly.
Suddenly, he pounced on the painting sitting on the easel, and gripped it tightly between his hands. Frowning, he said, ‘Is this really evening? Is this really a thing of beauty?’
Blanche eyed the painting with him. ‘It is beautiful. Every evening in Barbados is like that.’
She jumped as he gripped the framework more tightly, brought up his knee and cracked the painting in two. It made a snapping sound, like a pistol shot.
‘Not
beautiful enough,’ he said, grimacing as he stooped and rummaged among a stack of other canvases, some bigger and some smaller than the one he’d just destroyed.
‘This, this and this,’ he shouted, flinging the paintings out over the sand. ‘I want none of them. They’re not beautiful enough.’
‘No!’ Blanche shouted, as he flung every painting into the air. She ran after them and retrieved as many as she could. ‘They’re lovely,’ she said.
There were sunsets framed by palm trees and ruined sugar mills standing sentinel on the hills, their crumbling domes black against the sky. She gathered all of them up and piled them where they’d been before.
‘I’ll use that one,’ he said, snatching a medium-sized painting from her hands. ‘Now sit down there.’ He pointed to a rock that spiked the sand.
‘I’m usually home by eight,’ she told him, but allowed him to push her down until she was sitting on the rock. ‘I run for the same time, over the same distance every night. They’ll come looking if I’m late.’ They wouldn’t, but it made her feel safer to say so.
But he wasn’t listening. He’d begun painting over a hilltop scene, went on to wipe the brush, grab a sketch pad and charcoal, made her sit down when she tried to get up, altered the angle of her shoulder, her head and the way her sleeve fell off her shoulder. Then he lightly brushed the black beauty spot that sat beneath her right eye and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘What’s your name, girl?’
She gulped before answering. ‘Blanche Bianca.’
‘Blanche,’ he said as if by repeating the name it was instantly committed to memory. ‘In future, you will present yourself on this rock every night—’
‘But my mother might not—’
‘Your mother will do as she’s told. If she protests, tell her that Nelson Strong, son of Sir Emmanuel Strong, requires your presence each and every night that he is in Barbados.’
He talked as he painted her, telling her about Marstone Court, the splendid house he lived in back in England that was surrounded by over two hundred acres of parkland and close to the City of Bristol. He told her of the city’s sights, especially the Old Vic in King Street where the great Mrs Siddons had played alongside David Garrick, the Shakespeare Inn where Defoe was supposed to have met his inspiration for Robinson Crusoe. ‘It’s mostly used by smugglers and thieves nowadays,’ he told her. ‘The types that would sell their mothers for a tot of rum or a bag of sugar.’