by Erica Brown
Tom let Horatia guide him to the study where Emmanuel Strong sat smoking behind his desk, an open accounts ledger spread out in front of him.
His eyes sparkled when he saw Tom. ‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ he said with something akin to excitement.
Tom grimaced. ‘And I’ve got something to ask you.’
Emmanuel looked surprised, perhaps even a little wary. ‘Ask.’
‘It’s a family matter. I know I’m not really family, but it’s only the question of a name.’
Emmanuel had an open look, though some wariness remained in his eyes. ‘Whose name?’
‘A woman’s.’
Puzzled, Emmanuel nodded for him to go on.
‘Who was Patience Strong?’
Emmanuel stared at him. Then, to Tom’s surprise, he burst out laughing.
Horatia smiled. ‘Patience Strong was my grandmother.’ Her smile wavered. She threw Emmanuel a look of contempt and said, ‘My father has a lot in common with my grandfather. Both married twice.’
Tom shook his head and scratched at the base of his neck. He was puzzled.
Emmanuel said, ‘Patience was my father’s first wife.’
‘I see.’
‘Was there anything else you wanted to know about her?’
‘Not really. Jeb was muttering something about patience. I thought he meant the virtue, then I saw the name at the cemetery.’ He shrugged. ‘He just got agitated. That’s all.’
Emmanuel sighed as if relieved Tom hadn’t asked him something more personal. ‘Now, down to business,’ he exclaimed and poured himself a large port from a flat-bottomed ship’s decanter. Before Emmanuel had chance to replace the stopper, Tom had got himself an empty glass and glared at his adoptive uncle, as though daring him to send the stopper home. Begrudgingly, Emmanuel poured him a drink, though not as large a measure as he’d poured for himself.
Both men sipped before Emmanuel said, ‘I hear the Germans are holding a lot of meetings lately. What are they up to?’
Tom almost choked on his drink. ‘They’re always holding meetings. Mostly it’s to do with their church. They’re Lutherans, aren’t they?’
Emmanuel shook his head, his jowls flopping like those of an aged bulldog. ‘They’re foreigners and they all belong to the Master Sugar Bakers Association. I don’t like guilds. I don’t like anybody forming societies that can harm the trade of this country in general and this family in particular. There have been rumours and pamphlets—’
‘Pamphlets written by people who think that anyone not born in this country has to be its enemy!’
Emmanuel’s eyes were like jet beads and his face was red from too much drink. He was beginning to look older than he was, his jowls resting on his oversized cravat and his waistcoat straining around his girth. Wigs had been fashionable in previous years but not now. Emmanuel’s hair was receding fast and his head was shiny with sweat.
‘My only concern is for this family. Our plantations are not making as much as they were. It makes sense for us to control the refining process as well as growing the cane. It does not make sense for the process to be in the hands of these Germans.’
Tom wanted to hit him. It was true that the original guild members were all from the continent, mostly Hanseatic Germans, but some Dutch sugar bakers too. But the ruthless determination of Isaiah Strong, Emmanuel’s grandfather, had founded a dynasty that was strong in both name and nature. No one was allowed to threaten the wealth and power they held so dear. Tom was in their power. Not until Jeb was dead would he feel free to leave and never return. Until then, he had to toe the line, or at least pretend to. But he liked Conrad Heinkel, and he would not betray him.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Emmanuel drained his glass, poured himself another and took a large swig of that. ‘I want you to find a way of gaining control of the refinery.’
Tom frowned. ‘How do you want me to do this?’
Emmanuel downed his drink and poured himself another. Tom had barely touched his.
‘Identify differences, such as religion, unpatriotic and unsociable behaviour, corruptive morals, et cetera. Sow the seeds of public outrage in the right part of the city and—’
‘Eighteen thirty-one.’
Emmanuel pursed his lips at the mention of this date. In this year, the Bristol Riots had taken place and the most imposing buildings of the city had been burned down, including the Custom House on Queen Square. ‘I want them run out of the city, preferably out of the country.’
‘So you can buy the business for a song?’
‘Of course.’
Tom slammed his glass down on the desk, causing some of the dark, red liquid to slop on to the leather top.
‘God, but you’re a bastard, Emmanuel Strong – Sir Emmanuel Strong! It’s hard to believe that you’re Jeb’s brother, for a finer man never lived.’
‘Fine?’ Emmanuel cried. ‘How little you know of the man. He committed the worst sin imaginable and thought by turning religious he might be spared the wrath of God!’
Emmanuel’s eyes were bright with triumph. Tom was confused. Jeb was not capable of sin. He knew him well. It was impossible. He looked around him as if for moral support in his belief, and glanced at Horatia. She seemed distracted, smiling, as though she knew something far more interesting than either of them.
‘There’s nothing more to be said.’ Tom headed for the door, Emmanuel calling out after him.
‘How dare you walk out on me! Don’t forget who you are! Nothing!’
Tom paused by the door, his face dark with anger. ‘Well, I’d sooner be nothing than be Emmanuel Strong. A bastard! That’s what you are. A low-down, stinking bastard!’
Emmanuel Strong staggered slightly. Trembling with rage, he laid his palms on the desk, then heaved a drawer open and brought out a pistol.
‘Get out of my sight! Get out of my house! Get out! Get out!’
His face puce with anger, he aimed the pistol at Tom’s chest, his hand shaking from the effect of his anger and too much drink.
‘Father!’
Horatia grabbed the pistol from his waving arm, unclenched his fingers from around the stock, and took it from him.
‘Go,’ she shouted to Tom. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
Before Tom left the room, Emmanuel had sunk into his chair, his face still red and glistening with sweat, and his body trembling with anger.
Horatia grabbed Tom’s sleeve before he’d got as far as the stairs. She looked worried. ‘Don’t leave, Tom. He doesn’t mean it.’
Tom smiled and shook his head. ‘Of course he does.’
‘No. It’s the drink—’
Tom raised a finger. ‘Your father is never affected by drink, Horatia. He means it.’
‘You can’t leave. You can’t. What about Uncle Jeb?’
Tom’s own anger was making him grind his teeth and set his jaw. At the mention of Jeb, his tension slowly subsided. He nodded, surprised at the intensity of Horatia’s expression, the concern, the fear and also the passion in her eyes.
‘You’re right. I can’t leave.’
Horatia visibly relaxed. ‘So you’ll do as he asks?’
He didn’t answer.
‘You don’t need to do it. It won’t matter that much, Tom. Bristol’s falling behind in the sugar stakes.’ The secretiveness he’d seen earlier returned to her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘As I told you before, there are other things besides sugar, Tom. With a little planning and a lot of courage, great achievements are possible.’
He said nothing. Horatia was surprising. She was beautiful, clever and more determined than her father could ever be. But she’d never been allowed to shine, simply because she was a woman.
Her eyes sparkled as she held his arm. ‘We’re going to build ships, Tom, big ships like the Great Western. I’ve invested my own money in the venture, but you mustn’t tell Father.’
He frowned. ‘You mean like Mr Brunel’s ship rather than sailing s
hips?’
She nodded. ‘Ships that can get to New York inside two weeks. Ships that can take the mail from London to New York in a fraction of the time it takes to sail there.’
He hadn’t drunk enough for his head to reel, but it was certainly doing that now. First Sir Emmanuel Strong had laid this business of the sugar refinery at his door, damn him. And now it seemed Horatia had her own plans for the future of the Strong family.
‘Don’t breathe a word,’ she added, her lips almost brushing his cheek.
Emmanuel Strong filled the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and anger still colouring his face. ‘Aren’t you bloody gone yet?’
Tom turned on his heel.
He went to his room where he broke out a bottle of rum. He would have preferred to have gone into Bristol, drink a little, fight a little, perhaps find Sally and have another try at getting her to go to Portishead to be with her sister. But he had to go into the sugar refinery tomorrow morning. He liked Conrad Heinkel. He liked the tough men who sweated over the sugar boilers, filled the furnaces, heaved the hogsheads and pulled on pulleys that opened shutters, valves and boiling pans. As he drank he considered finding Blanche and telling her all about it. One look at those deep grey eyes and he’d forget everything.
After finishing the bottle, he fell into a deep sleep, a world of dreams far from the problems that chased round and around in his mind. He never heard Horatia entering the room. He never saw the way she stared at him, her hand resting on her bosom as if she sought to stop her heart beating so hard.
Holding her breath, she leaned over him. ‘Goodnight, Captain,’ she said softly, and planted a kiss on his lips. She watched him for a while. No other man made her feel like he did. The look of him, the smell of him, invaded her dreams and occupied her mind in those moments when passion overrode her deep love of power. She was a woman in a man’s world, but was striving to rise above the usual position of her sex. Men were easily used if handled correctly. She could wind them around her little finger – except Tom. He was her Achilles’ heel, and she could neither admit to nor escape from it.
Chapter Twenty
Following a warm bath and the administration of a little gripe water. Alicia May was put down to sleep. Normally Blanche would have eaten supper with the children, but since the baby’s arrival a tray was brought up to her from the kitchen by one of the scullery maids and left without a word being said. Blanche had got used to the silent stare of whoever delivered it. She was sure that Duncan had given the order that she should be ostracized by the rest of the staff. In a close-knit household, it was only natural for jealousies and personal dislikes. Blanche did not let it worry her. The only servant whose silence hurt was Edith and she knew the reason for that. She would have tackled her about it on her day off when Edith would step in to take care of the baby, but Nelson’s invitation took priority.
She was singing to the drowsy baby when the knock came at the door and Edith entered bearing her supper tray. ‘It’s roast mutton and apple pie. I got you a bit extra.’ The words tumbled from Edith’s mouth and she coloured up to her eyebrows as she said it. Blanche sensed the time of regret and forgiveness had arrived, but why now?
At the sound of Edith’s resonant voice, Alicia May opened her mouth and yelled.
‘You could be a little quieter,’ said Blanche, and tried not to look surprised, but it was easy to see that Edith’s attitude had changed. Blanche remembered seeing her running through the trees after Tom. What had been said to change Edith? She told herself she didn’t feel jealous, only intrigued.
Edith stood with her hands behind her back, shifting her weight from one hip to the other and looking as if she were searching for something to say.
Blanche picked up the baby and swayed and hummed in a constant rhythm in an effort to stop Alicia May from yelling.
‘Let me take her,’ Edith offered.
Hungry for her own dinner, Blanche handed Edith the baby. ‘I’ve got just the thing for you,’ said Edith, looking down into the baby’s face.
Alicia May continued to yell.
Blanche put down her spoon. ‘Perhaps I should try—’
Edith spun away, one hand rummaging in the pocket of her apron. ‘Now, don’t you worry. Eat that food I got for you.’ Blanche sat at the table and lifted the lid on the tray. Her mouth began to water. Cook certainly made a nice pastry. She thought of asking Edith why the change of heart, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Tom meant nothing to her. She would tell Edith that, but not until after tomorrow when she’d met Nelson in the churchyard. She couldn’t tell her until after then, and she wasn’t exactly sure she knew why.
After a few mouthfuls, her attention went back to Edith who was tipping a spoonful of something into Alicia May’s mouth. Blanche frowned. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh that’s all right,’ chirped Edith. ‘It’s only laudanum.’ Blanche remembered Miss Pinkerty administering laudanum to her mother.
Just wine and moondust. It will take you to paradise and back again, but take you to hell if you’re not careful.
‘Give me that!’ Blanche snatched the bottle from Edith.
Edith looked at her askance. ‘There ain’t no harm in it. My mother gave us a tot of Holland to shut us up. Didn’t hurt us, did it? We’re all hale and hearty.’
‘Who gave you this?’
‘Well, Mrs Grainger said—’
‘Oh, did she?’
Blanche could barely control her anger. Already Mrs Grainger was infiltrating the life of the youngest member of the Strong family. ‘You are not to give anything to that baby without my say-so. Is that clear?’
Edith pouted and her bottom lip quivered. Blanche took the baby from her and settled her in the crib. The child was already falling asleep, yet to Blanche’s mind, it didn’t seem a healthy sleep. Babies made comforting little noises before they fell asleep. Alicia May had gone out like a snuffed candle.
Blanche was angry. ‘Whatever possessed you, Edith?’
Edith chewed at her lip before an avalanche of words fell out of her mouth. ‘Well, I told Mrs Grainger that we were going out with Captain Tom tomorrow, and she said the duty nurse wouldn’t be too pleased about that because she’s got a lot of sewing to do and wouldn’t want to be doing with a baby crying, and then she said she had just the thing to keep her quiet.’
Blanche opened a window, tipped the bottle, and let the contents drip on to the ground below.
‘I didn’t think it would do no harm,’ simpered Edith. ‘No different to the stuff she gives young George for his chest.’
Blanche spun round. ‘Chest?’
Edith shrugged awkwardly. ‘Something,’ she said with a glum expression. ‘Not laudanum though.’
Making a mental note to check what Mrs Grainger was giving George, Blanche resettled herself at the table and continued with her food. But it was hard to concentrate on eating. She was angry with Edith, angry with Mrs Grainger, and angry with a family that gave scant attention to its youngest and most vulnerable members. Tom’s marriage proposal and Nelson’s offer to run away with her were shuffled to the back of her mind. Then there was Edith. What was she up to? Rekindling their friendship, for certain. She could almost feel Edith’s embarrassment, her aching to make friends and not being sure how to go about it.
At last she seemed to give in. ‘I’m supposed to be going out tomorrow.’
Blanche continued eating.
At last all the pent-up tension seemed to break like a dam in full flood. Edith burst into tears and flung herself down on her knees next to the table and Blanche.
‘Please be my friend again, Blanche. I think I should die if you weren’t never me friend no more.’
Blanche pretended to think about it as she chewed her food. After all, it wasn’t her fault that Tom had kissed her and asked her to marry him. She couldn’t help it if it made Edith jealous. She said, ‘I’ll be your friend again, Edith, but on one condition.’
Edith’s eyes were round with adorati
on. ‘Anything, Blanche. Anything at all.’
‘I want to be kept informed of any improvement in the Reverend Strong’s health. I know some times are more lucid than others and that his mind returns and he speaks almost properly.’
Edith suddenly looked as if she were having second thoughts about her offer. ‘Why?’
‘I want to ask him some questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘The sort that are important to me.’
Edith nodded thoughtfully and sprang to her feet. Sniffing first, she wiped her eyes and her nose on her apron.
‘That’s all right then!’
Her face brightened immediately, though Blanche sensed by the way she kept hopping from one leg to another that there was something else she wanted to say.
‘Are your shoes on fire?’ Blanche let her cutlery clatter on to her plate. ‘Please tell me what else you want, Edith, then perhaps I can eat my supper in peace.’
Edith looked fit to explode with excitement. ‘I just told you. We’re going out with Captain Tom tomorrow. He’s going to take the children down onto the Miriam Strong.’
‘Yes, you did tell me. That’s very good of him, but I can’t go.’
Keeping her eyes downcast, she picked up her cutlery again.
‘We have to. We’re responsible for them children. We have to go.’ Edith was almost begging.
Blanche sighed and laid the cutlery back down. ‘We can’t both go. Someone has to look after Alicia May and make sure no one gives her any more laudanum.’ She wasn’t going to admit to meeting Nelson. Edith would only ask her questions as to what she was expecting, were they going to go to Barbados and was he really going to marry his plain little cousin. She decided to make a joke of it.