by Erica Brown
‘Perhaps you should ask your friend, Mrs Grainger.’ She said it with an impish smile, knowing what to expect in response.
‘I ain’t going with that old Tartar! And I don’t think Tom will be too keen either.’
Blanche hid her smile. No, Tom wouldn’t be too keen.
Edith was too besotted with Tom to throw away the chance of spending most of the day with him. ‘Seems a shame you can’t come. I could have taken you and the children to see what dogs me brother’s got,’ she said, tracing her fingers around the edge of the washstand and not daring to look into Blanche’s face.
Blanche had two reasons for hiding her expression. Firstly, it was hard to imagine the Strong children among those dark alleys or inside the dingy house where Edith’s mother fed chopped-up rats to stolen dogs. Secondly, she didn’t want Edith to see the sparkle in her eyes. She’d guess immediately that she was off to see Nelson.
‘You’ll have to go alone,’ she said at last. ‘I’m sure Tom won’t mind.’
‘Oh!’ At first Edith looked quite put out, but soon she smiled with pleasure. ‘Of course, I can manage the children by myself.’
Blanche smiled. ‘And can you manage Captain Strong by yourself?’
Edith’s face could not go any redder. ‘I’ll try,’ she exclaimed, her voice trembling with excitement.
Blanche’s tone became serious. ‘And no more laudanum, not without mine or a doctor’s consent.’
Edith nodded. ‘But you had no need to waste it. Mr Nelson would have made use of it. Bottles, powders, and a bubbly thing with a long pipe…’ She outlined the shape and size of the hookah with her hands.
Blanche froze. Muddled excerpts of past conversations flooded into her mind. Creative imagination. Artistic vision. She remembered him talking passionately of exploring his inner self, delving into the depths of his soul… the way his face had shone, the brilliance of his eyes.
‘Shouldn’t he take it either?’ Edith asked.
‘No,’ she said softly, her appetite completely lost. ‘He shouldn’t.’
* * *
The children, Edith in the midst of them, came bounding down the steps to where Tom waited with the governess cart, the reins connected to the bridle of a high-stepping hackney. He’d opted for the governess cart because he’d used it to fetch Blanche when she’d first arrived in Bristol. He was certain she’d appreciate the thought, and because of its size, she’d have to sit up front with him in the driver’s seat. He had it all worked out. But where was she?
He wound the reins and got down to help Edith get aboard, his eyes continually searching the arched doorway through which they’d come.
Please come, Blanche. Don’t keep me waiting.
His impatience finally got the better of him. ‘Where’s Blanche?’
Looking a little miffed, Edith plumped herself down heavily in the front seat of the cart. ‘Blanche isn’t coming. It’s just me.’
‘It’s her day off. Where is she?’
‘Got other fish to fry,’ snapped Edith.
To say that Tom was disappointed was putting it mildly. A whole day of children and Edith, he thought as he got up into the governess cart and took the reins. At present, Edith was silent, but before long she’d be chattering excitedly, her stories getting more bizarre the more excitable she got.
Tom stared straight ahead over the horse’s back and urged it forward. His curiosity was hard to contain. ‘Has Blanche got a sweetheart?’ he asked Edith jokingly.
Edith shrugged and looked sour. ‘P’raps she has. P’raps she ain’t. But there you are, stands to reason ’e’s more important to ’er than you and that boat of yours. But never mind. Don’t you worry about that baggage,’ she added, her voice sweetening along with her expression, ‘we’ll ’ave a wonderful day without ’er. Cook’s packed a picnic and we can sit in Queen Square or on the boat and throw bread to the ducks. Won’t that be wonderful?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Tom, and hoped for rain.
* * *
Lady Verity paced her room, the stiff bombazine of her mauve dress hissing each time she turned and re-trod the same expanse of floor between window and grand piano, the latter groaning beneath the weight of Hungarian glass ornaments bequeathed to her by an Austrian aunt.
‘You’re using my family,’ she shouted at her husband.
Emmanuel was pouring himself a nip of rum. Women got more disagreeable as they got older, he thought, and eyed his wife’s spreading body, bubbles of fat pressing against her bodice that corseting could no longer restrain.
Verity glared angrily at his brimming glass. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she screamed, ‘it’s early morning. Do you have to start drinking already?’
Calmly and slowly, Emmanuel downed his drink and promptly poured himself another. ‘At least it’s not Sunday, not that the vicar would notice.’
She stopped dead and stared at him, her fat face bursting with anger. ‘To hell with the vicar! Did you hear what I said? What about my family?’
Emmanuel Strong was used to his wife’s tirades and had put up with them in the past. But she’d been younger then, prettier and not nearly so fat. He thought of the women he’d known, the ones he still knew and those he had yet to meet. Verity had done her duty, but her matronly figure no longer interested him. Although in his late fifties, Emmanuel considered himself a handsome man, despite his increasing girth and his thinning hair. He chose to believe that the dark-haired beauty awaiting him in the city loved him as much for himself as his money.
Sensing his attention had strayed, Verity marched up to him and glared up into his face. ‘Did you hear what I said, or are you going deaf? But there you are! What can I expect having married a man old enough to be my father!’
Emmanuel’s features stiffened. He hated being reminded of his age, hated to think he was older than Otis and Jeb, and that the latter would soon be dead.
‘You’re making too much of this.’ He shot her a warning look.
Verity chose to ignore it. ‘No, I am not. My family were landed gentry when yours were still picking apples in Herefordshire. They married into some of the best families in Europe. But you wouldn’t understand the significance of that.’
Emmanuel barely controlled his temper. ‘Why should you care about Conrad Heinkel? He’s only a distant cousin, and German, not Austrian.’
Verity took great pride in being related to Austrians, something to do with the long-running power of the Habsburgs. Germans, she’d always said, were blunt-headed militarists, ruthless in battle, and lacking the cultural refinement of their Austrian cousins. Emmanuel thought this a load of rubbish, though he’d never said so. Now she’d lost her looks, he no longer cared about her feelings.
Verity did not heed the warning signs; one more drink, the swiftness with which he drained the glass, slamming it down on the sideboard, refilling it and drinking again, the clenching of his jaw and fist. She kept on at him.
‘You wouldn’t have gained a share in the sugar refinery if it hadn’t been for me,’ she shouted, her shrill voice like nails scratching glass. ‘He only trusted you to have a share because he trusted me.’
It was true that the refiners were a close-knit lot, foreigners and members of a secretive organization. He’d been lucky to get a share at all, but his whole purpose had been to seize control once he’d starved Heinkel of supplies. In the past, plantation owners had rarely got involving with refining. They’d made more than enough from planting in the days before slavery was abolished.
He poured yet another glass of rum. Like a long-suffering saint, Verity raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Do you have to drink so much?’
Eyeing his wife over the rim of his glass, Emmanuel downed it in one gulp. ‘It was a means to an end. I wanted more children to continue the family line, and you had the pedigree and the build to produce them. I chose you in the same way as a farmer might choose a cow.’
Verity’s cheeks puffed up and reddened. ‘Pity the b
ull was way past his prime,’ she spat back at him, saw her husband’s expression darken, and wished she’d kept quiet. She backed away, and Emmanuel followed.
He bore down on her, choosing his words carefully and speaking them precisely. ‘You’re the brood mare I chose to bear my children. You’re the pan that warmed my bed, the receptacle for my seed. You opened your legs and I entered; without preamble, passion, or any erotic input from you whatsoever.’
Verity was every inch the flushed and affronted matron. ‘You disgusting…’ She raised her hand to slap his face. He caught her wrist.
‘Let me go!’
‘No.’
Struggling to free herself, she dared look into her eyes and saw reflected all that Emmanuel Strong had been, all that he’d become.
Still holding her wrist, he pressed down on her shoulder, down and down, until she was on her knees. She hit at him with her free hand, struggled against his grip, her protests stifled as he forced her head tight against his body.
‘You promised to obey me, Verity, and obey me you shall. Whatever I want you to do, you will do.’
She continued to struggle, though not for long.
‘That’s right,’ he said, as her struggles lessened. ‘Stay as you are, and we will renew the more intimate side of our marriage to my satisfaction.’
Stiff-shouldered, Verity stayed still, her husband’s hand holding her head against his crotch and leaving her in no doubt what he wanted her to do.
Later, she did not protest when he told her he was going out.
* * *
The next morning Emmanuel wrestled with his cravat into which he was trying to insert a silver pin. It was a job his valet usually carried out.
Susannah smiled up at him. ‘Let me help you.’ Her fingers burrowed under his.
He hadn’t particularly wanted her near him. He might desire her again, and he’d had her twice already. Her body was too voluptuous and her smell too feminine. He just couldn’t help himself. Twice. He prided himself on that; her so young and him so mature.
Susannah was as unlike Verity as it was possible to be. Verity used to smell of violets, but lately smelled of milk and stale sweat. As a lactating mother, the former was only to be expected. The latter was mostly due to the fact that she still squeezed herself into dresses that no longer fitted her.
As the smiling Susannah fastened the pin, he gazed down to her breasts, quivering gently between her raised arms. She was wearing a Chinese robe, the green silk of which was embroidered in gold thread with rampant dragons and pink-blossomed trees. The belt was unfastened. The robe gaped. His eyes roamed further, down over her belly, her thighs, all the way to her toes. No, not like Verity at all. Much darker. Much more exotic.
He smiled. ‘Do you like your present?’
She smiled demurely and reached for a blue glass bottle. Her eyes locked on his, she lifted the stopper and dabbed perfume between her breasts.
‘Do you?’ she asked, her eyes full of promise.
Emmanuel groaned, tore resignedly at his cravat and sunk his face into her chest.
* * *
Blanche had refused to wear the corset and stiff petticoats that Edith had got her from Lady Verity’s cast-offs. Instead she’d put on the old-style chemise, over which she wore a lemon dress. Spring was maturing towards summer and the thought of wearing stiff underwear and a bell-shaped skirt was too much to bear. It was also the dress she’d worn the last time she’d been with Nelson. Hopefully, it would seem as if the time apart had never happened.
Unfortunately, Bristol was not Barbados. The sun was bright, but the breeze was brisk and clutched at the filmy fabric of her skirt, fastening it around her body and limbs.
A man was scything the long grass among the older gravestones. He glanced at her passing, went back to his task, then stopped and looked at her again. It was almost as though he’d mistaken her for someone else.
Blanche nodded a greeting. He returned it, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then went back to his work.
Next to a copse of silver birch, Nelson was sitting on a stone, facing the church and his easel. Aware that this was a secret meeting and he wouldn’t want anyone to see her, Blanche hid in the spangled shadows of the trees, carefully picking her way over the mossy ground. She stopped just behind him.
For a moment she stood silently, relishing the way his hair curled around the nape of his neck. He too was still, his hand steady as he sketched the details of the church and the leaning gravestones. She cast her mind back to their first meeting, how godlike he’d seemed with his hair tumbling over his eyes, his shirt undone and the faint smell of his sweat. If she concentrated very hard, she could imagine herself back there on the warm sand. Back then his presence had made her heart beat faster. Its beat was more hesitant now, lacked the frisson of excitement she remembered from Barbados.
No matter, she thought. The feelings will return once we do what we did back then. I know they will.
‘Nelson.’
He looked around him before turning. His hand ceased sketching.
‘You look like a wood nymph.’
She wanted to believe things could be as they were. Blinding herself with the memory of Barbadian evenings, she told herself that making love to Nelson now would somehow make everything right again. The idea was ridiculous, she thought afterwards – but she let it happen.
His body was warm against hers as he came closer. Her belly tightened at the smell of him, the feel of his hardening beneath the ridiculous smock he wore for his painting.
‘I’ve been longing for this,’ he said, his voice husky against her ear. ‘I’ve lain in my bed and thought of you and Barbados and those wonderful nights staring at the sea.’ He cupped her face with his hands. ‘I can’t believe we’re alone at last.’
Blanche couldn’t think of a single thing to say. More of her mother’s words of advice flooded her mind.
Mostly, you need a man to look after you.
Your looks won’t last for ever.
Take advantage where and when you can.
Back in Barbados she had been at the mercy of her feelings for Nelson. This was different.
Everything will be all right, she told herself. This is a new city, a new country and the first time Nelson and I have been alone together since Barbados.
They fell on to the mossy ground beneath the birch trees. He traced her breasts, her waist and her hips with his right hand, just as he might draw her if he’d had charcoal between his fingers. Her breasts strained against the low-necked bodice of her dress, her nipples slipping out above the thin fabric as she raised her arms and lost control in the onslaught of his kisses.
Afterwards she felt ashamed. Nelson lay on his back, smiling at the sky.
‘You’ll have to marry me now,’ she said.
He drew a small phial from his pocket, pulled off the stopper and sipped at its contents.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, her blood seeming to run cold.
‘The doctor gave it me when I saw him in London. He said it would help wean me off my laudanum craving.’ His lashes quivered on his cheeks as he closed his eyes.
Blanche felt uneasy. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t come. ‘Are you sure it will cure you?’
He began to laugh, and it felt as though it were at her. ‘So he tells me.’ He opened his eyes and looked up at her. ‘It’s very nice medicine. Do you want to try some?’
She shook her head and knew then, with certainty, that she’d made a terrible mistake.
* * *
The man scything the long grass looked up as Duncan passed and nodded a greeting but got none in return. The footman did not notice as Josh spat contemptuously into the grass. Duncan had seen the easel, the abandoned charcoal and paints. He’d been right to follow Blanche, correct in his assumption that she was meeting Nelson. On seeing the artist’s materials, he had wondered why Nelson hadn’t chosen a more interesting view. There were ornate glass windows along the nave of the ch
urch, for example, an obvious choice for an artist who cared for colour and form. Here there was a lack of contrast in the stonework, the unkept greenery and the ugly tombstones, most of which were covered in birds droppings. He shook his head. This particular spot was not suitable at all. All that could be seen were blank walls and gargoyles. But it was private.
He knew instinctively what he would find. They lay there in each other’s arms, oblivious to him and the world in general. Like a spectator at the theatre, he watched them beneath the trees far longer than he needed to. Horatia would expect a full report, which suited him. He enjoyed watching other people doing such things, though he could never do them himself. Degrading and dirty, he thought.
When he got back to Marstone Court, the elms and oaks of the park were casting long shadows across the grass. Halfway up the drive, he heard the rumbling of carriage wheels and the sharp scuff of hooves against loose stones. The best carriage was coming down the drive pulled by four Cleveland bays. A newly created coat of arms decorated the dark green of the coach door. Gilt lines embellished the windows and doorframe. Through the polished glass, Duncan could see Sir Emmanuel Strong, his body stiff and his face red with either anger, port or both.
As prescribed by etiquette, Duncan became as a tree, unseeing, unfeeling and unnoticed. Yet another fight with Verity, no doubt. Stupid woman. Her ladyship was treading a thin line between toleration and open hostility; also between fidelity and adultery. Sir Emmanuel was a red-blooded man. He’d take his pleasure wherever he pleased, and might very well flaunt it if his wife wasn’t careful. That’s what wealth does for you, Duncan thought.
Upon seeing the coach leave, he knew where to find Horatia. She would be in her father’s study, rummaging through his papers, which she often did when her father was out of the way.
In the house he straightened his cravat and pushed his white gloves more firmly on to his fingers before knocking on the study door.