by H C Storrer
Nathan nodded, chewing his tongue. “You’re right, you are enti’led to yers. I gots the ’undred ’ere.” Nathan pulled open the drawer filled with the town’s money.
“Is you deaf?” William protested. “A ’undred pounds wouldn’t clean me toes.”
“No, no, I insist. Can’t ‘ave me mate walkn’ round penniless.” Quick as a flint, Nathan whipped a loaded pistol from the drawer, cocking it in a fluid motion as he held it to William’s head. “Me finks you overplayed yer ’and, mate.”
“Now, Cap’n,” William swallowed hard, “I was only foolin. If you—you wouldn’t go and ruin yer ’ard-earned reputation by blow’n me brains out. There would be questions.”
“Not ’ardly. I is a resp’able gent around these parts.” Nathan stood, straightening to his full height as he stepped around the desk and pulled William to his feet. “You, on the o’ver ’and, is a stranger and no-count thief. These fine people wouldn’t give yer corpse a second look.”
“You ain’t gonna kill your best mate, Cap’n. Will knows you… I saved yer life.” William pleaded as Nathan ushered him to the door.
“It’s because you is me mate that you ain’t dead yet. Now you concern yerself with me wellbeing and I will worry about me edge. You is best to be me eyes an ears if you know what’s good for ya.” Grabbing William by the collar, Nathan shoved him down the hall and out of the building. William’s feet slid and stumbled to a stop in the dirt, spilling the Scotch from the decanter still in his grasp.
Straightening, William turned with his gappy smile. “You can count on me, Cap’n. An me fanks ye for the nip!”
Nathan rolled the the pistol out of sight and sent the heavy door to the frame with a loud bang. His past had followed him like a bloodhound. At his desk, the bundle of seven hundred pounds caught his eye in the still-open drawer, the coins and notes beseeching. There had been a time when that amount of money would have tickled his cockles with glee. Now it seemed like Adelson’s investment was an anchor, cankered and rusted. For the briefest of moments, he had everything he’d ever wanted. Exchanging his pistol for the crystal glass, he downed the last bit of whisky, scooped up the notes, and grabbed his cloak. There was only one thing worse than losing, and that was losing with an audience. Reaching back to the gouged mahogany top, he snatched up the pistol and stuffed it into his pocket. With men like William prowling about the game was all but up.
***
Margaux awoke to a dark, hulking body riffling through her small writing desk. “Who is it?” she asked timidly; already knowing the answer.
“I need a draft!” Nathan burst toward her, toppling a chair in his path.
“A draft?” She was confused. She had heard Nathan was lurking somewhere around the docks, but she had assumed that her husband would return to her once again repentant. Now, the sting of his drunken blow seemed to rebound with full force.
“Money, you stupid whore!” his frosty breath billowed into the room. Throwing the blankets off her body, he shoved a small box tied with a knotted pink ribbon under her nose. “What’s this, eh?” Nathan had proof of her remorseless behavior. “You never even opened it!”
“I… I—” Margaux scrambled to cover herself once again.
Having none of it, Nathan grabbed her by her hair and dragged her off the mattress, shaking her head violently. “Is this what you finks of me? Toss me away like me trinkets?”
“Are you drunk again?” Margaux asked.
“And what if I am?” Nathan reached out and with an open palm caught her in the face. The swing of his arm casting him into the light of the moon. What it revealed was a man with filthy clothes and hair matted in mud, his face splotched with red from his own misfortune.
“I know you keep some pounds around. I needs that money!”
“I keep money ’idden, in the desk.” She pointed with a shaky hand. “You owe men money? You could have just asked.”
“I—” Nathan stopped, confused. He hadn’t slept since the day William had showed up in his office. The comment broke open the dam of hatred in his mind. It was all her fault. He had a plan, but her own stubbornness had destroyed everything. Frustrated and angry, he rummaged about the walnut slant top, finally tossing the contents from inside. “How do you get this blasted thing open?”
As Margaux stood to help, he shoved her back to the ground and retrieved the pistol from his waistband. Using the brass pommel of it like a club, he reared back and in a single blow smashed in the leather skiver. He tore the broken wood out of his way like an animal and gripped the satchel of gold coin. Stuffing it and the small box into his cloak, Nathan stood erect, observed his work, and then made for the door.
“An’ when should we expect your return?” Margaux asked.
“When I’ve a mind to,” Nathan snarled.
Chapter 4
“A hh, Nathan, you’ve returned.” Mr. Adelson heaved himself from a chair as Nathan entered the parlor through the white fluted arch..
Stopping short, Nathan appraised him cautiously before tossing his hat on the inlaid marble table with a smirk. Straightening his fresh-cleaned suit of clothes and sinking into the settee, he studiously ignored Margaux’s narrowed eyes and tipped his head. “Adelson.”
“I have been discussing business with your wife. It seems there might be a question about the viability of Peters Shipping.”
“And why would you think that?” Nathan narrowed his eyes upon Margaux with a glare, his ears heating with betrayal.
Her scowl deepened in return. His tidy, clean-shaven, appearance and cavalier attitude was a direct contrast to the man who attacked her several days before.
“I have heard that your debts… that there has been an aggressive campaign to collect on your debts.” The palatable tension between the two caused Mr. Adelson’s voice to falter as he tried to maintain his composure.
“My debts?” Nathan turned back, incredulous.
“Maybe we can speak alone,” Mr. Adelson offered.
“It don’t matter, she’s as dumb as a post when it comes to business.” Nathan waved an indifferent hand towards his wife. “Nothing we say can’t be ‘eard by her.”
Margaux stood, indignant. “You took several ‘undred pounds from me to pay men who had beaten you. Mr. Adelson wants to know where ze money is.” Margaux turned to leave. Cautiously, she stopped to retrieve her husband’s hat. It took every ounce of strength to control her shaking hand as Nathan’s gaze bored into her.
Once they were alone, Mr. Adelson sat back down in his chair and leaned forward. “Well, then, I will get right to it. I am in doubt about my investment with your firm.”
“An why would that be?” Nathan scowled as he relaxed farther into his seat.
“I had given you a draft of seven hundred pounds to procure repairs on your vessel and to hire a crew. It is no secret that you have been spending your days at the gambling club, and from what your wife has told me, I can only assume the funds have been wasted there... and upon that fine suit of clothing.”
Nathan’s air of indifference darkened. He had come with half a mind to, again, patch things up with Margaux, but now he was furious, betrayed. It was just like her to lure him in with feelings of guilt only to cut his throat in the end. That was probably how she had tricked him into marrying her, the siren. She knew the company was all but lost, a secret she had waited to spring on him only after the marriage was signed and sealed. He could see her plan of humiliation perfectly now, Margaux had called Adelson over to shame him publicly. The fuming powder keg of anger ready to explode, he spoke menacingly as he sat up straight. “Well, then. I don’t think I wants to be in business with a faithless coward. Perhaps it’s best we do part ways.”
“That would be agreeable.” Adelson was beet red but avoided shouting down Nathan’s insult. “But you see, Sir, I must demand a return on my investment.”
“Then ‘ere is your seven ‘undred.” Nathan produced a fistful of banknotes. Tossing the funds to the ground, he le
aned forward and flicked in a single copper. “An’ a penny for yer trouble.”
“There... there is no need for all of this,” Mr. Adelson stammered.
“You don’t trust me, an’ I don’t trust you.” Nathan was gruff, and he no longer tried to hide his more natural language. “Now pick up the money, before I toss ye from me ‘ome.”
“Sir, there was an agreement upon interest,” Mr. Adelson objected.
Nathan stood quickly and thrust the shorter man to the floorboards by his neck. As he held Adelson there Nathan leaned to his ear and growled, “If you read our contract, you would know that interest would not be pay’ble on an early wifdrawal. Now scoop up yer pounds and leave me ’ome.”
In triumph, Nathan released his quarry, straightened his black suit, and sauntered to the liquor cabinet. As Adelson gathered the money and left, the brute rummaged indifferently amongst the clinking spirits. After several drafts of port, Nathan decided he needed what was left, and tottered with the bottle towards the stairs.
“An’ what of my money?” Margaux met him coming from the study.
Instantly, Nathan grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the wall. “What business is it of yours?” he spat close to her ear. “We’re wed—what’s yours is mine. I’s been try’n ta save yer dead ‘usband’s name and this is the fanks I’m ’anded!” Slapping her hands away, he slammed her against the wall again, cracking the plaster.
“Stop it!” Jacques ran across the hall to help.
With a terrible pop, Nathan’s bottle burst across the boy’s forehead. In shock, Jacques lay upon his back running cautious fingers through the port mingling with the blood and tears streaming down his face.
“ ’Ow dare you strike a child.” Margaux pounded on Nathan’s chest. “Why do you not just leave this place!”
Nathan gripped her throat tightly. “An’ leave me ‘ome?” Reaching back, he slapped her across the face and tossed her on the floor next to her crying son. “Shut that boy up!” Like he had dumped a soiled rag, Nathan didn’t take a second look as he climbed the stairs, mumbling about how her plan had backfired.
***
Jacques sat at the grand walnut table in the dining room. The bandage across his forehead may have hid the wound, but the low throb was a constant reminder of his hate for their tormentor. Surreptitiously, he took small glances at his mother who stared at her own marks over and over in a small silver mirror. In the same moment as the servants entered to lay out breakfast, Margaux quickly lowered the silver and glass as Jacques shifted his gaze back to the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. The small gash may have stopped bleeding, but the yellow bruises around his eyes made it look all the worse.
Avoiding eye contact, the servants moved swiftly through the room and then disappeared. Jacques was glad for it. Their wounds were an open shame, one he wished no audience, especially Anna, to see. From his peripheral he observed his mother return to her looking glass and with a light hand caressing her cheek. Jacques stomach turned sour. He should have protected her, the purple bruise and swollen lip evidence of his failure..
As diligent as his mother had been in trying to keep Nathan’s growing escapades from him, Jacques had heard the tales from their staff. He could sense that it was more than just the physical pain that was causing her harm, the brute was holding his mother’s heart in the balance. He had known from the beginning that something was off with the man, but he never suspected it would turn out to be as bad as all this. Now he was sure—this was the real Nathan. The man his mother had fallen in love with did not exist at all.
When Nathan finally stumbled down stairs, Jacques sat silent, staring past his untouched breakfast as the beast prowled around the room looking more like a bear than a man. Gone were the niceties he had veneered over his rough edges. After drinking a black cup of coffee, Nathan went about his business at the liquor cabinet with a chunk of buttered bread wedged between his teeth. Jacques moved to stand, that poison was what brought out the monster and he would have none of it. Hastily his mothers hand shot out and forced him to his seat, the movement drawing Nathan’s attention.
“You know, one should be more careful.” Nathan spoke through the bite of bread as he stepped to the table and gripped her chin gruffly.
Jacques head whipped up, uncontained anger etched on his face. “Watch yerself, pup.” Nathan smirked, flicking the boy behind the ear as he took a long draft of Caribbean rum then sauntered from the house.
Like a reflex, Jacques’ gaze found the clock face once more, wishing that its ticking would stop keeping time with his mother’s shoulders as they quivered in silent sobs.
***
As the weeks passed, it was obvious that it was more than drink that consumed their tormentor. When Jacques stepped in again to defend his mother, this time with a fire poker, he was beaten senseless, Nathan unwilling to let the lad go until he went limp. Like so many before her, Margaux was at a loss of what to do.
“Sit up straight, we do not slouch,” Margaux chided, trying to return to a sense of normalcy when Nathan was not about.
“It’s my back, Maman,” Jacques complained. “It hurts when I stretch it.”
“Let me ‘ave a look.” Margaux turned the boy around and began to lift the folds of his shirt. “You should not come close to ‘im when ‘ee is angry with me.”
“But he might kill you, Maman,” Jacques said in a grunt as pain lanced through his lungs.
“It is not as bad as all—” Her tongue froze in her mouth. Along the left side of Jacques’ ribs, a purple and black bruise faded to green as it circled to his spine. Shrinking from the sight she bit her tongue as tears breached her lids and spilled down her cheeks. Taking a moment to compose herself she turned the boy about. “You must not come near ’im again. I can protect myself. Do you understand?”
“But, Maman.”
“Promise me,” Margaux barked, and then calmed. “When ’ee is angry, let ’im be.”
Jacques hung his head in defeat and nodded silently.
Without warning, the front door slammed, shaking the whole of the house. “Quickly, up to your room!” Margaux ushered Jacques to the servant’s entrance, her voice quivering with anxiety.
“But—” Jacques began to protest.
“No! You promised, we must not make ’im so angry.” Pushing the boy through the door, her heart raced as she spun to the room and began to straighten its already perfect order, unaware of what arbitrary line would set Nathan off. She had concluded that pretending there was nothing wrong and treating Nathan as a loving wife would keep him appeased.
Across the hall, she could hear the brute rummaging through the liquor cabinet when the shattering of glass drew her eyes to the door. Swallowing hard, she clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking. As his stomping footfalls drew closer, a flash of intuition pricked the pores of her arms—nothing was going to change his manner.
***
As a lady of society—whatever social calendar existed in Penzance—Margaux became withdrawn. Her bruises were an embarrassment, and her husband’s drunken antics too much to try and explain. Canceling lunches and turning away visitors, she found herself in a prison of worry and stress.
As the weeks turned into months it was obvious the only thing that determined Nathan’s mood was how much he had consumed at the public house or how much money he won or lost at the gambling hall. Nathan had felt liberated when he stopped giving a fig about Edwin’s sunken business. He had assumed there would be money enough to live a life of ease. When the funds started to diminish, and reality approached, he began to skulk about the home brooding. Soon, whatever staff had not quit, Nathan started to let go. “She stole me coat!” he demanded of Kathy, the eldest of the maids. Mr. Timons, the gardener, had shifty eyes. One after another, the home emptied of servants; then the furniture began to disappear.
Margaux held her tongue. She felt it best not to start a quarrel she knew would end in a violent beating. Too slowly, th
e coldest months of winter gave way to spring. Stress had led to a lack of appetite and sleepless nights without end. The want of nourishment had left the poor woman gaunt and easily broken by a cough that lingered for weeks. The beatings had become more frequent, with no provocation at all, as if Nathan enjoyed them. She needed a way out.
“I must wis-draw zirty pounds from my account.” Margaux sat clutching a small purse with proof of her late husband’s fortune. Her frail constitution was in stark contrast to the finely carved pillars of the institution that held her trust. She needed just enough money for her and Jacques to make it to London. There, she could secure the funds to make the crossing to Calais and then home. The wrath of her father would be nothing in comparison to the purgatory her life had become.
“Well, m’dame.” The clerk chewed his lip, unable to meet her eye. “I would think that the bank could find a way to… you see—”
“What is ze problem?” Margaux asked, “I need to wis-draw zis money.”
“Well you see…” The clerk wiped his face and then excused himself. “Let me go speak with the—” Quickly, he turned and slunk away. Margaux had her suspicions, but she was sure Nathan could not have spent the fortune in its entirety.
It was just a moment when the gangly Mr. Openshaw in his black suit and powdered wig stood before her. “I am truly sorry for the hard times you have fallen on, but you do not have thirty pounds to withdraw.”