Henderson smiled. ‘But you won’t. It would be most unladylike.’
Maria laid her hand on his arm. ‘Of course not.’
‘Does one never get to do what one wishes in polite society?’ he tried.
Maria rolled her eyes. She hoped the captain wasn’t going to be tiresome, not least because she found him difficult to resist. It was easier now off the Bittersweet, and she hoped it would be easier still in London. It was important to get back to normal.
‘It is my wish to deliver my manuscripts. It is my wish to gather materials for my new charge . . .’ she started. ‘When I get to London—’
‘These are paper wishes, Maria. Insubstantial. Fleeting. They cannot drive you.’
She ignored him. ‘I shall see old friends. I shall be welcomed by old friends,’ she said pointedly. ‘I hope that perhaps there will be news of the war in the broadsheets. When we left, Cochrane was close to victory. I hope he has achieved it. These wishes are not paper, James. They are important. They are the work of our nation.’
‘I’m going to miss you, and you shall miss me too, I wager. We are flesh and blood, not merely some kind of legacy.’
‘You’re confident, sir.’
‘Not at all. I am half-terrified. I have lading papers, Maria. I have fiscal responsibilities. I have a profit to make. But still, I shall miss you. Every day. And I know you will feel the same.’
‘You, sir, shall find another lady. A far more suitable lady than an old widow like me.’
‘A lady who doesn’t care about my station?’
‘Your station is changing, is it not? Come now, let us part friends.’
Henderson nodded. ‘Friends,’ he said, with no edge to his tone, and then without warning he grabbed her by the waist and waltzed along the path.
Her heart was racing. She dropped her head so that it touched his shoulder. Somehow that gave her strength. People stared momentarily at this high-spirited display, but they soon turned back to their conversations. Maria couldn’t berate him. It wasn’t in her. She wished sometimes she might behave more like a man.
‘Really,’ she managed to get out.
Henderson dropped her hands and held her eyes with his own as he bowed. ‘Forgive me.’
‘You can’t continue to do whatever you want and simply say sorry afterwards, James. Honestly, did they teach you nothing about decorum in the colonies?’
They turned to walk back in the general direction of the inn. Her fingers were butterflies that could not find somewhere to light. She wondered if it had been a good idea to invite him to dine. She felt light-headed despite the fresh air and had to drag her attention back to the manuscripts secreted in her bags and to the necessity of the Empress’s shopping. She was used to partings, but this was difficult. Henderson, however, did not push his advantage.
‘I wager they’ll have lamb. It’s the perfect time of year for English lamb and we shall find a decent French red here – why, the coast is only a whisper away. No one makes gravy like the English. I had not thought of it, but there will be proper English pudding. Treacle pudding, Maria.’
A sly smile split Maria’s lips. He was not trying to ruin her. She must simply be careful and keep control of her feelings. At the least, the food would be a distraction.
‘Mrs Maria Graham invites you to a very English dinner, sir.’ She curtseyed.
‘Excuse me.’
The voice came from behind and the tone was authoritative. As they turned, an older gentleman in a pale frock coat bowed. Two younger men stood behind him on the path. One seemed somehow too pink; his hair was slightly wet where it protruded from his top hat. The older youth had an easy air. The old man smiled.
‘Excuse me, madam. Did you say Mrs Maria Graham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here in Bristol?’
‘Yes.’
‘The scholar?’
Maria nodded.
The gentleman beamed. ‘Oh, I beg of you, where is she? I should like very much to meet the lady. I am a great admirer.’
Maria stood straighter. ‘I am she,’ she announced.
The man looked flustered. His nimble fingers played on his walking cane as if the breeze had caught them. ‘Mrs Maria Graham, the author?’ he hazarded, as if it were not possible.
‘Yes.’
Captain Henderson hooted. ‘This gentleman finds you too pretty, Maria, to be a bluestocking. And far too young, I’ll warrant.’
‘Oh no. No. Certainly not,’ the old man insisted, his cheeks already rosy but growing substantially more so. ‘I have admired your work, madam. A Residence in India? Three Months Passed in the Mountains East of Rome? Marvellous. Why, it is quite as if I was travelling in such exotic locations myself. You have a wonderful eye. Given the maturity of your prose, I had thought you might be of more advanced years, that is all.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I must know what brings you to Bristol, if it is not too impertinent a question. And, of course, if I might be of any assistance.’
Maria curtseyed. ‘I’m on my way to London. Lately arrived from the Americas.’
‘Another book, I’ll be bound.’ The old fellow chortled. His sons looked embarrassed at this familiarity. One hopped from one foot to the other and the other stared into the distance. Maria took the intrusion in good grace.
‘If John Murray will take my manuscripts, then yes. Two books. A residence in Chile and a voyage to Brazil.’
‘Capital. Brazil.’ The old man clapped delightedly and the loose ends of his pale-blue cravat bounced against his waistcoat. ‘Mr Murray. Now there is an exceptionally interesting fellow and I can hardly think of a subject that would hold my attention better. Well, if you are in Bristol this evening, I must invite you and your husband to a recital and dinner. We are to have Beethoven’s new sonata for the pianoforte.’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ Maria started.
‘I shan’t hear a refusal,’ the old man insisted, his cheeks now glowing with excitement and his lips peppered with spittle. ‘Why I shan’t be forgiven if I don’t bring you. And quite right too. You must inveigle your wife, sir, to grace us with her company.’
‘I am Captain Henderson.’ He bowed and took up the old fellow’s idiom so successfully that Maria regarded him with surprise. ‘Mrs Graham, sadly, is not my wife, but I’m sure that she would be honoured to attend. We were to dine alone, but what of it? Mrs Graham has had no other company all the long trip from Brazil and neither of us has any acquaintances in Bristol. The invitation is most kind. What is your name, sir? I shall be pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Where are my manners? My name is Joseph Fry. At your service.’
Both Maria and Henderson regarded each other plainly. It flashed through Henderson’s mind that surely this could not be the fellow of whom he had spent the afternoon being so wary.
‘Mr Joseph Fry the manufacturer of cocoa?’ Maria asked.
‘Indeed. My sons will be delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. Mrs Maria Graham. In Bristol. Who would have thought? A published author of such renown. Richard! Francis! You must be aware of Mrs Graham’s work?’
The young men bowed. They looked, Henderson thought, like plain enough lads. English through and through, and the greener for it. Such boys, working in a family business, must lack a sense of adventure, he thought. If they were brought up here, what could they have experienced? A smile broke out on his face. For years he had done business with the sharp-eyed burghers of North America. He had scrambled for every penny. Mr Fry was of a different mettle, and his sons too. Doing business with gentlemen felt easy already. Perhaps he had belonged in England all along, Henderson observed, as the younger boy kissed Maria’s gloved fingers. The older one merely bowed and kept his distance.
‘My wife and my other son are waiting at the concert, which is at the home of a dear friend of the family, Mrs Falconer. Do you object to music?’
Both Henderson and Mrs Graham affirmed they did not.
‘But we aren’t dressed for dinner,’ Mrs Graham said.
‘Pah. To have a mind such as yours at the dinner table, madam, one cares little about evening dress. It is mere convention.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I certainly do,’ Fry fussed. ‘Come along. We are almost late on account of Richard. He is, it seems, most particular about his toilette. And that has, of course, ended luckily for us. My guess is they will hold the commencement of Herr Beethoven’s sonata until our arrival.’
‘I hear your cocoa, sir, is excellent. Mrs Graham recommended it only the other day,’ Henderson said.
‘Well, well. How kind. You shall see us forgiven for our tardiness, Mrs Graham,’ Mr Fry insisted, now striding with his silver-topped cane in hand, ushering them towards the park’s gates. ‘And that is very fortunate. Isn’t this nice?’
18
Bristol
The drawing room sported a carved mantle of green Carrara marble and the long windows looked westwards so as the sun dropped from the sky every last beam of cold light was on show. The women were decked in velvet and satin, each curl in place as they listened to the piano. The men stood, their clothes darker and their hair powdered. Richard Fry longed to pick the pockets of the worthies at these events, but though he knew how to effect such a crime, he restrained himself as the mournful sonata (number 31, his mother hissed) got underway. Instead, the boy’s attention was taken up by the butler’s shoes, the amount of rouge worn by the three ladies of marriageable age, and the noting of a tiny mouse, dead but unattended by the waiting staff, where the skirting met the floor.
Mrs Graham perched on a chaise upholstered in lavender velvet. Captain Henderson’s hand, she became aware, was a mere inch from her shoulder. Joseph Fry hovered nearby.
As darkness settled over Bristol like glossy tar and the Avon was shrouded in black almost in time to the music, the glow from the candelabras made the small glasses of Madeira that had been distributed shine like topaz. It had been a while since the captain had needed a fire and the flaming logs in the grate intrigued him. He settled to listen. For Henderson, the music was simply a hymn to Maria and to this as well – this grand occasion of coming home. He had never been invited to a recital. The ease with which Fry had extended his invitation and the delight of the hostess at meeting Maria, an unexpected guest of honour, was full of promise. It was exactly what he had hoped of England. The world he had left behind was, it seemed, quite as he imagined it.
At dinner, the long mahogany table stretched from one end of the house to the other, decked with glittering tableware. Henderson was seated next to Mrs Fry on one side and a young lady so shy she could barely bring herself to speak on the other. The girl’s mother glared, silently lashing blushes out of the child, whose cheeks reflected the vermillion dining room walls.
‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Henderson whispered. ‘Conver-
sation can be overrated.’
This at least made the child relax and Henderson turned his attentions to Mrs Fry, who was concerned by the tardiness of her male relations and the ins and outs of morality. She scarcely drew breath as she ranged between these subjects.
‘I have no idea, Captain, where the Fry gentlemen get to. One hesitates of course to act the harridan, but they hold up everything. Why, even when we are to meet.’ Here she lowered her voice in the manner of someone whispering on stage. ‘For we are Friends, you see. Quakers. And tonight – a social engagement with such dear acquaintances. The Fry gentlemen are perpetually half an hour late. The music was wonderful, wasn’t it? Many of my husband’s brethren don’t hold with the playing of music. Are you a gentleman of conscience, Captain?’ Mrs Fry did not pause for a reply. ‘For I can understand why the playing of instruments may seem sinful and yet there is such beauty in it. I myself liked to sing hymns when I was a girl. Of course, I do not drink. That is beyond the pale.’ She sniffed, eyeing Henderson’s wine glass. ‘Intemperance,’ she spat, ‘is a sin.’ Here Mrs Fry left a short pause, but it was so unexpected that Henderson had not enough time to gather his thoughts. He sneaked a sideways glance at the silent girl, who was engaged in buttering a piece of bread. ‘You see, sir,’ Mrs Fry continued, ‘there are so many pitfalls . . .’
The table was decked with food. Tureens of creams and consommé were laid alongside an elaborately decorated poached fish, roasted meat and boiled calf’s tongue, a simple garden salad and creamed carrots. Rolls baked in the shape of diamonds, glistening pats of pale butter, jellied apples, lemon mousse and a pudding gorged with raisins rose above marzipan fancies and a vat of custard topped with butterscotch. The simple courses served on board the Bittersweet paled in the face of this sculpted array. On the other side of the table, Henderson watched Maria in the candlelight, as beautiful as she was every night. A goddess to be worshipped. Would she cut him dead if she met him at a gathering such as this in London? Without Maria, might Captain Henderson hope for an invitation? He paused briefly to assess his chances and then turned his attention back to the food until his hand came to rest on his stomach.
Smooth as silk, the ladies retired in a cloud of perfume and chatter, into the candle-strewn drawing room. As the door closed, there was a moment of absolute silence that lay like a blanket over the gentlemen. Tobacco, a snuff mill, two decanters of port and three more of gem-like cordials were fetched by the butler and two footmen. The table breathed out and a burst of conversation followed, an octave lower than that which had accompanied dinner. Cigars were passed. A fug gathered.
‘Captain Henderson,’ Mr Fry exclaimed. ‘You have not been home for some time?’
Henderson rolled a cigar expertly between his fingers. He belonged here; he felt it. ‘I have been in the Americas, sir,’ he declared.
‘Brazil, eh?’
‘Indeed. Venezuela. The Guianas. And, along the eastern coast. Trinidad. Boston. New York.’
‘And what do you think of our erstwhile colonies?’
‘They are managing well enough without His Majesty. I hope it is not treason to say so. They are provincial, of course, but prospering. New York has grown in the last year, quite substantially.’
‘The colonies trouble me.’ Fry swept aside the Declaration of Independence and lumped the Americas together with other British possessions worldwide. ‘They continue to employ the evil practice of slavery. I am a man and your brother. That is my motto. And still our navy captures ships cargoed with men. There are too many who are happy to benefit from such wickedness. It is shameful, is it not?’
There was a general murmur of assent. The Frys and their ilk were Whigs and abolitionists. Good men. Henderson nodded. It was his own inclination, even if he was not fully educated in its precepts. English politics were far distant.
‘Yes,’ the captain chimed. ‘Though I know a few abroad who think it is their right to own the person of another man or woman, I do not condone the trade or its practices. Still, I cannot understand how the world will set itself if it were to cease.’
‘Better, I’ll warrant,’ Joseph Fry insisted. ‘It is unconscionable for such evil to continue. Thou shalt not labour on the Sabbath. Do they think of that as they enjoin their human possessions to work all hours? Why, even Reeves here, whose family made its fortune in sugar, has quit. The last man among us, and we are proud of him. If we cannot endure it at home, why must we bear the practice abroad? What is wrong in England must be wrong the world wide.’
Reeves sipped his wine. He was dressed like a fop with a powdered wig that sent up puffs of chalk when he moved. ‘We sold our plantations. But it is not as simple a question as you’d like, Fry. Not every slave wants to be free. Not every master is the fiend you’d paint him. And prices will rise as a consequence of the ban. We are out of it and I am glad. It was far-sighted of my father. He is a gentleman of conscience and could bear it no longer.’
Richard Fry, drinking mint cordial the colour of emerald, cut in. ‘I say let the prices rise. This is a matter of conscience alone.
We must make the change and see how the world falls.’
‘Easy for you,’ Reeves replied. ‘But how do you know where your beans come from? If slavery is abandoned, the prices of exports will rise, Richard, and will you choose the more expensive cargo?’
Richard looked as if he might spring to his feet. ‘We cannot audit every shipment. We can only trust the word of those with whom we trade. Chocolate is an expensive commodity. Sugar too. And by our industry, we hope to bring it to many whose conditions are not a great deal better than those indentured on the other side of the ocean. Did the story of that poor starving maid not send a shiver through you? What kind of people are we if we do not feed our own? Fry’s cocoa should be for everyone. And as you know, prices have fallen this year – sugar and cocoa are down.’
‘The price has fallen only because production is up. Costs have certainly not fallen on plantations where they do not indulge in slave labour,’ Reeves snapped. ‘Besides, chocolate is a luxury too good for most. My kitchen maid can have milk. Chocolate is for my wife on a Sunday. You are the latest of us returned from the colonies – what’s your view, Captain Henderson?’
Henderson took a sip of port. He considered. ‘I know of no cacao plantations that do not use slaves,’ he said slowly. ‘But there are few British plantations in Brazil where I trade. And in Trinidad, where we docked en route, slavery is widespread. I agree that each fellow’s case is different. Some use their slaves more kindly than others. But that does not make the principle right. And if prices rise to take into account a labourer’s wage, I cannot see how the common man will be able to afford chocolate. It is difficult to farm.’
‘See.’ Reeves was triumphant. ‘It is an impossibility Fry. You cannot have your cake and eat it. You cannot abolish slavery and provide cheap, nourishing food.’
Joseph Fry, ever the patriarch, stepped in to smooth matters. He was a nice old duffer, even if the business he engaged in could be cut-throat. ‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘There must be a way we can have both morality and a profit. We are masters of invention and must shape the world. This is England.’
On Starlit Seas Page 19