by Erica Brown
As Blanche threw clothes and precious things back into the sea chest, and other more immediate needs into a leather bag, Edith’s head appeared round the door, her face wreathed in smiles.
‘Did you like the surprise?’ she asked innocently.
Too troubled to say anything, Blanche continued packing.
Edith had obviously been expecting a thank you for having orchestrated the meeting on Nelson’s behalf. Her face dropped. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m leaving,’ Blanche said, as the last of her dresses were packed into her sea chest. ‘I can only carry a small bag. I’ll send word to you of where I am. Perhaps you could arrange for my things to be delivered once I’ve got an address? I might take passage to Australia.’
Edith shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. ‘’E didn’t ’urt you, did ’e? I wouldn’t ’ave followed his orders if I’d thought he was goin’ to ’urt you.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
She didn’t look at Edith, and she didn’t stop packing. Her jaw hurt with the effort of keeping her mouth shut, just in case she shouted out the truth, and she couldn’t admit to that, never in a million years.
Edith looked hopelessly lost. ‘I thought you loved Nelson.’ She sounded on the verge of tears.
As a brother. Blanche was devastated.
‘Leave that to one of the men,’ Edith said, as Blanche pulled on the leather straps that fastened the wooden chest.
‘I can do it.’ She gave one final tug, and the strap slid from around the chest. With a surprised yell, Blanche fell back against Edith, knocking her over like a skittle, Blanche sitting in Edith’s lap.
It was all too much. Blanche began to cry. Edith let out a loud moan. ‘I’ve broken something.’
Concerned for her friend, Blanche wiped her eyes. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘It doesn’t. I’ve busted me corset. Just look where it’s pushed me bosoms.’
Blanche twisted round. Edith’s corset had moved up with the impact of falling. The top of her ample bosoms wobbled like half-set jellies above her bodice. Blanche couldn’t help but laugh through her tears. Edith was a character, far from perfect in looks or deeds, but good all the same.
Edith’s laughter gradually subsided. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. Her concern was genuine, her eyes sadder than Lady Verity’s spoilt spaniel.
Blanche got to her feet. ‘I have to.’ She kissed Edith on the cheek. ‘And thank you for being a friend.’
Edith looked perplexed.
‘Remember my clothes when I first arrived? If it hadn’t been for you I would have frozen to death – and looked a fright.’
Edith shrugged. ‘Even though a woman’s only got the purse of a pauper and the taste of a toff, she should still do ’er best to follow fashion.’
Blanche unfastened the shell-studded jewellery box that now contained the money received from Aggie Pike and Tom. She sighed. ‘I hope this is enough to get me a passage back to Barbados. If it’s not, I might have to sell the earrings.’
‘Fen could sell them for you,’ Edith said brightly, ‘but if you want a bit to tide you over…’
She lifted her dress and fumbled in the folds of her calico petticoat and pantalets.
‘Here,’ she said, handing Blanche four warm guineas. ‘I was savin’ ’em for me bottom drawer, which is why I kept them in me drawers…’ She giggled.
‘Most apt,’ said Blanche.
‘Most apt,’ Edith repeated. In awe of Blanche since the day they’d met, Edith had taken to copying some of the ‘posher’ things she said.
With a guilty expression, Edith fell to silence. ‘Blanche, do you really have to? Is it my fault?’
Blanche shook her head. Her instinct was to run away. It didn’t matter that both Tom and Conrad had asked to marry her. She had been familiar with her own brother and felt eternally damned for it.
She fled the Strong house, her shame giving wings to her feet, her small leather bag banging against her side.
* * *
Blanche stopped running when she reached the riverbank, out of sight of Marstone Court. A sloop was leaving on the tide along a golden path thrown by the setting sun. Her gaze strayed from the ship to the cliffs of the Avon Gorge. ‘Women wounded by love throw themselves over they cliffs,’ Edith had told her. The sloop seemed a preferable alternative. She watched the unfurled sails fall from its mast. Better to leave on a ship than leap off a cliff.
By the time she got to the city, she’d long ceased running. Her legs ached and her arms felt heavy. Wisps of hair strayed from beneath her bonnet and blew across her face. The evening breeze whipped at her shawl. Tired after such a long walk, the weight of her bag wearied her further, even though she’d only packed the minimum of clothing. The rest would be sent for, she’d told a distraught Edith, but she didn’t know when, mostly because she didn’t know where she was going. Getting a ship seemed the best thing to do, and she didn’t really care where the ship was going.
Lights came on in the windows of houses and inns as she entered the city. Shouts, singing and laughter poured from the doors of dockside taverns. She wished she could be merry too, but didn’t think she’d ever be so again.
Still clutching her bag, she paused on the cobbled quay and studied the names of the ships berthed there, hoping to recognize one she’d seen in Barbados.
Suddenly she felt terribly homesick and missed her mother as never before. Then the raucous shouts of drunken men roused her from her thoughts and three sailors fell from a tavern door, their pigtails askew and their faces red. One of them spotted her and staggered forward.
‘What price for a little dockside doxy?’ he shouted, his hand shovelling in his pocket. ‘If she wants money to fill that bag she’s carrying, she’ll take all three of us.’
His friends laughed. He reached for her, and Blanche ran. Swifter than any of them, she ran blindly away from the quayside, the drunken men and the tarts, their grubby breasts on view, and their hands on their hips.
Breathing heavily, she ran into alleys that smelled of mould, maggots and urine. So long as she could see the masts of ships, she kept running until she found herself entering alleys that seemed vaguely familiar. She was in the Pithay where Edith’s family lived. Dire as it was, she had to have somewhere to sleep tonight, and Edith’s family were all she had. And Fen might be of help to her.
As she approached what she thought was the right house – one hovel looked much like another in the unrelenting darkness – the door flew open. The meagre light shining from within lit a man’s sharp features, natty clothes and short stature. She thought she recognized him, and he seemed to know her.
‘Now then,’ he said, pulling up sharply, his goatee beard quivering and pointed like the tip of a sword. ‘What have we here?’ She’d seen him – somewhere. In any case, there was no one else around, just smells and emptiness, and he was all she had.
‘I’ve come to see if Mrs Clements can give me a bed for the night,’ she said in as confident a voice as she could muster. ‘I’m taking a ship for Australia before the end of the week.’
She didn’t know why she didn’t say Barbados, or even whether there was a ship in harbour actually going to Australia, but she knew convicts were sent there, and the jails were full so she reckoned it had to be a regular run.
The nattily dressed little man eyed her appraisingly, then smiled and jerked his head towards the open door, which was swaying slightly on its hinges. The smell of dirt seeped into the night air. ‘Could you put up with that stink for long?’
The smell was noxious, and somehow different than the last time she’d visited. And there was no barking.
‘Are the dogs gone?’ she asked. Perhaps Spike had stopped stealing dogs in order to claim rewards.
Right on cue, the sound of a braying donkey broke the silence. ‘He’s branched out, you might say,’ said the man, grinning broadly. ‘Some rich brat’s pet donkey that got lost, you might say, up on the Downs. Takes up a bit
more room than dogs did.’
Blanche tried to peer past him, looking for some sign that Mrs Clements was there.
‘She’s at home,’ said the man, ‘though not quite with us.’ He pushed the door open.
Edith’s mother was sprawled on the only chair she owned, her legs and mouth wide open, a tin mug and a cracked jug within inches of her meaty hand.
‘Drunk,’ said the man.
Blanche winced as the disgusting stink of the place hit her full in the face. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand, though it gave little respite.
The man, whose identity she still couldn’t quite recall, nudged her with his elbow. ‘Stinks somethink ’orrible, don’t it?’
One look conveyed her agreement.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking hold of her elbow and guiding her back down the steps, ‘I know a place you can stay. T’aint nothink posh, mind, but it’s a bit cleaner than this place.’
Blanche let herself be led. Anything, she decided, was better than spending the night with a braying donkey and a gin-sodden woman.
That was before Stoke took her to stay with Mrs Harkness, who was a little cleaner, but a lot more dangerous.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As Blanche bumped into Cuthbert Stoke, Mrs Grainger was taking the children downstairs to have tea with their parents at Marstone Court.
The governess greeted her master then her mistress with a curt nod and a sharply announced, ‘Good evening.’
The atmosphere in the dining room seemed more formal than usual, but she gave it not great regard. The room was big, the marble fireplace ostentatiously elaborate, and the gleaming furniture reflecting the light of a hundred candles.
It then occurred to her that neither parent had returned her greeting. How terribly impolite, she thought, swallowed her ire, but promised herself to take it out on whoever she could before the night was out.
‘The children have learned a charming little poem for you,’ she exclaimed, her lips stretching thinly across her small, yellow teeth. ‘Come along, children,’ she said, pushing each one into their place beside each other.
Sir Emmanuel’s voice boomed out, ‘That won’t be necessary.’
Not easily deterred from her objectives, even by her employers or the lack of moral fibre in others, Mrs Grainger chose to believe that she had misheard, and repeated again that the children had learned a poem especially for them.
Sir Emmanuel got to his feet and, for the first time since entering the room, she saw the coldness in his eyes. At the same time, she heard the crockery rattling in Lady Verity’s hands, and noticed then that the mistress’s hands were shaking and she was not looking in her direction as she usually did.
Seemingly prearranged, Duncan appeared.
‘Have you found Miss Horatia?’ Emmanuel asked him.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bring her here.’
Mrs Grainger had never been so flummoxed. Her sooty eyebrows furrowed and she suddenly sensed, instinctively, that her reign was at an end. But she was not a woman who took kindly to being dismissed. Making an instant decision, she said, ‘I do apologize for any inconvenience, but I have received a message to say that my mother is sick. She’s very old. I have to go to her.’
The fact that her mother was long dead and would have been around ninety-eight if she were still alive was not the point. She had not given the Strongs chance to sack her. She had resigned.
‘I’m sure you’ll understand,’ she said, with a tight smile, her surprisingly spindly fingers clasped before her.
‘Yes,’ said Sir Emmanuel, and as she didn’t mention a pension or references, neither did he.
Horatia entered, dressed in green velvet, a crochet-work collar gracing her shoulders and framing her face.
‘See that Mrs Grainger packs and leaves the premises, my dear.’ He glanced disdainfully at Lady Verity. ‘I don’t think my wife is up to it.’
Horatia smiled triumphantly. In one fell swoop she had brought her stepmother low and had gained the ear of her father. Perhaps soon he would be favourable to her having as much input in Strong business affairs as Nelson.
‘This way, Mrs Grainger,’ said a gloating Horatia.
Although Mrs Grainger’s back was ramrod straight, she didn’t seem as tall. Losing her job had left her looking squashed and small.
Before they got out the door, Nelson came flying into the room, his face white and his blue eyes big as saucers. He looked into the faces of all of them, as if seeking help in saying what he had to say.
‘It’s the ship, Uncle Jeb’s ship. It went up in flames last night.’
Emmanuel looked shocked. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed and with genuine cause. Lost ships meant lost money. Had Jeb insured the Miriam Strong?
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Horatia, immediately thinking of Tom.
Nelson nodded, glanced at his sister, and noted she was as white as death. ‘The captain.’
Horatia’s hand flew to her chest.
‘Jimmy Palmer, I think his name was,’ said Nelson. ‘But that’s not all. Someone was stupid enough to tell Uncle Jeb. His heart’s giving out. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for the doctor.’
* * *
Tom couldn’t find Clarence and now there was no time to look. A stable boy had been sent from Marstone Court with a message. Jeb was sinking fast and news had reached him about the fire. He had no choice but to return there as quickly as he could.
As usual, the room smelt of lavender. Tom decided he would always hate the smell of this inconsequential plant.
Jeb lay silently against his pillows because he could no longer do anything else. There was no respite now from being turned to one side or the other. The rattling of his chest echoed around the room in the same way as the ticking of a clock, each sound representing the relentless passing of time.
The doctor silently shook his head. Emmanuel stood with pursed lips, hands behind his back and a worried frown creasing his forehead. Nelson and Horatia stood side by side at the window but apart from their father.
Tom sat with head bowed, aware he still stunk of charred wood and singed hair. He was afraid to look into Jeb’s eyes.
Edith, usually so blustery and busy, moved like a shadow as she wiped Jeb’s dribbling mouth, rinsed the cloth in a china bowl, then gently bathed his face. Once she’d finished, she left the family gathering and moved away into an adjoining room.
Tom clasped his hands tightly together. ‘The Miriam Strong went up in flames last night,’ he said, though he knew that Jeb had already been told the news. He hung his head, not able to look into the eyes of the man whom he truly wished was his real father. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered and stared down at his knees. ‘If I could have prevented it…’ He stopped. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Jeb began to speak, his words slurred and accompanied by more dribble. Tom strained to hear.
The doctor fluttered closer. ‘He shouldn’t be talking,’ he said to Tom as though it were his fault. ‘It will drain his energy.’
The doctor retreated before Tom’s frozen glare. ‘And he’ll live perhaps an hour longer? Let the man speak!’
Jeb spoke more clearly than he had for months. ‘Like me, her time’s done. Atonement. We both sinned. Both killed… Her… the ship… more… honourably… than I did.’
Tom stared, not understanding, not wanting to hear. ‘You’re sick. You don’t know what you’re saying.’
He heard Emmanuel clear his throat and shuffle his feet. ‘I’ll see you out, Doctor.’
The door opened and closed. Horatia and Nelson moved closer, their expressions confirming that they had no intention of leaving Jeb and Tom to face this alone.
Jeb shook his head and weakly raised a hand, the veins blue and pulsating against the slack, pale skin. ‘I must… confess,’ Jeb began.
Tom shook his head. ‘No. There’s no need.’
‘Every need!’
The old man turned red in the f
ace as he raised himself up off his pillows. Tom considered calling for Edith. Jeb had barely raised his head for weeks.
‘The ship…’ said Jeb, and pride came to his eyes, ‘old ship… fighting ship. More prizes than Victory.’
Jeb spluttered. Tom raised the pillows behind his head so he could bring up the phlegm from his congested lungs. He held the bowl. Jeb spat out what was left of his lungs. Horatia swallowed her revulsion and dabbed at his face with a cloth. Nelson stood on the opposite side of the bed to Tom.
‘I have… to… tell.’
Horatia leaned across and mopped Jeb’s brow. ‘You don’t have to tell anything,’ she said softly.
Nelson frowned questioningly at Tom. ‘What’s he talking about?’
Jeb’s eyes glittered with amusement as Tom finally guessed Jeb’s long-held secret. ‘He’s talking about the Miriam Strong. Under her former name, she took more prizes than Victory.’
Still not understanding, Nelson shook his head.
‘Temeraire?’ ventured Horatia, sounding and looking astonished.
A fleeting smile crossed Jeb’s face.
‘Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire?’ said Nelson. ‘I still don’t understand. He painted her on her way to being decommissioned. Is he saying she never got there? That he bought her?’
Tom smiled. ‘Just a few years after Trafalgar.’
Suddenly Jeb’s deathbed seemed less fearsome or sad.
‘Had… to… have… her,’ said Jeb, his weak mouth seeming to catch somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
The Battle of Trafalgar, the Temeraire. A veil seemed to lift in Tom’s mind. It all happened years ago, long before Jasper was born. Setting up the training ship had been one of many good works Jeb Strong had undertaken before his son’s birth. Could it be that Jeb might have adopted him anyway? And if that was the case, what was the atonement he’d referred to?