by Erica Brown
Thinking of Max reminded him that Blanche had joined the Board of Governors of this place. Could he dare to meet with her and ask her to help? If she did find the child, he wouldn’t be able to raise him as his own, but he could at least find him a good family.
His mind was made up. Without Horatia finding out, he had to get Blanche to discover where his child was and bring him word. If the child had been adopted or boarded out to good people, at least then he could rest easy. But until then he could not.
He vowed to approach Blanche. He had to know. He really had to know.
* * *
Horatia was pleased with the way things were going. Her father would no doubt turn in his grave if he knew that she planned to sell Rivermead and diversify into property and machinery, new things which would have far-reaching effects in an expanding world.
Sugar had been his life, but he’d been raised in the days when far-flung cane fields had been a lucrative investment. Increasing shipping costs had diminished its importance and, although she’d respected, perhaps even loved her father, she was glad he was not around to stand in her way.
There was only one thing souring her achievements and there were dark lines beneath her eyes if anyone cared to look really closely. She snapped at the slightest thing. Her patience and her looks were marred by guilt. No matter how hard her husband and others might think her, giving away her son still lay heavy on her heart.
As the carriage slowed up Redcliffe Hill, the stunning edifice of St Mary’s rose on her left-hand side. The line of sycamores in the churchyard rustled as though whispering, I know, I know, I know how you feel.
‘No, you don’t,’ she murmured under her breath.
She looked out at the trees. Sycamore seeds were flying from the branches with each breath of wind. The shadow of the church fell over the carriage like a large, black blanket.
Church was a pastime reserved for Sunday, so far as Horatia was concerned. Religion was something to which she paid lip service, something one had to believe in because everyone else did. But as the church’s shadow lingered, Horatia found herself holding her breath. It felt like a rebuke.
Her next act was impulsive and completely out of character.
‘Pull in,’ she shouted to the coachman.
The church was huge, empty and silent. As the sound of her footsteps echoed around the ancient aisle and towards the altar, she thought of the thousands of people seeking solace over the preceding centuries. Some had sought absolution. Others had sought sanctuary or forgiveness.
There were few worshippers, their footsteps and whispered prayers also echoing. Did their hearts race as hers did? she wondered. Did they feel as weighed down with guilt?
‘You look lost.’
She spun around. His face was kind and his hair as white as his collar of office.
‘I suppose I am.’
His smile was warm and his eyes twinkled in understanding from within a wealth of wrinkles. ‘Then you have come to the right place. I trust you will find what you are looking for.’
She turned back to the altar, then turned again to ask him what she should say, but he was gone, had left as silently as he’d come.
For the first time in her life, Horatia Strong knelt and prayed, not as she did on Sunday, but sincerely, straight from the soul and silently, her confession destined only for God.
Chapter Ten
The summer had been wet, and early autumn showed no sign of improvement. The damp air had heralded the return of her cough, so Blanche opted to take a respite before resuming her work for the Board of St Philip’s. After due consideration, she opted to take the sea air of Clevedon rather than the waters of Bath. She wasn’t as ill as she had been. She told herself it was merely the onset of an autumn chill.
The Channel View Hotel was much smaller and less grand than the Ambassador, but its plain lines and delicate colours lent it a quiet elegance. Mrs Jones, the owner’s wife, confided that before it had become a hotel, the house had been home to a mistress of the Prince Regent.
‘It’s purely rumour, of course, and one should not always believe what one hears,’ she said with obvious relish as she helped Blanche unpack.
‘Of course,’ Blanche replied. Mrs Jones, she judged, with her quick ways and merry face, loved a titillating story.
Her room was on the first floor and was decorated in a soft green. A glass-panelled door led out onto a wrought-iron balcony in the Italian style, its ornate casts and swirls smothered by a virulent climbing plant. It overlooked a garden where roses grew alongside a gravel path leading to a dark green gate. Beyond that, people walked along the promenade, children clambered barefoot over rock pools on the pebbly beach and the incoming tide crashed in creamy-topped waves. When the tide was out, light from a wide expanse of sky made the acres of mud seem painted with silver.
Because the establishment was small, the atmosphere was intimate. Mrs Carr, a widow with poor eyesight but a good income, smiled at her. Dr Begg, a clergyman accompanied by a rough-haired terrier, nodded and wished her good day as he fought his way through the hallway, his paints, palette and easel tucked beneath his arm.
Artists’ materials brought Nelson Strong, Horatia’s brother and Blanche’s own half-brother, to mind, but there the similarity ended. Nelson had been a blond Adonis and had painted nudes; Dr Begg was angular, stove pipe thin and preferred landscapes.
Channel View turned out to be very agreeable. No one made judgements as to why she was alone and she found herself feeling quite at ease.
It was on the third day that she met Darius Clarke-Fisher.
He was outside the hotel, alighting from a Hackney carriage that had obviously brought him from the railway station. Blanche was walking along the promenade though the day was far from fair. There was a brisk wind and, just as she gained the gate, her umbrella was blown inside out.
‘Allow me,’ said a masculine voice as she struggled to turn it the right way.
From the moment he took the umbrella from her, she realized that Darius Clarke-Fisher liked to take charge.
‘There! Knight in caped travelling coat and top hat rescues fair maid in distress.’
He gave a little bow before taking her right hand in his left and placing the umbrella in it with the other. It was a firm, no-nonsense action that made her feel obliged, as though reversing an umbrella was a feat only properly performed by a man.
First she thanked him and then asked, ‘Have you come to stay?’ Later, she’d chastize herself for sounding so friendly, and for asking the question in the first place. But it didn’t seem wrong at the time.
‘Indeed I have.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Darius Clarke-Fisher.’
She thrust her hand forward in the same manner and mimicked his abrupt tone. ‘Mrs Conrad Heinkel.’
He glanced searchingly to either side of her. ‘And Mr Heinkel?’
‘Deceased.’
‘So I take it your name is not Conrad.’ He said it cheerily, his eyes locking with hers and holding his head at an attentive angle.
‘No.’
He failed to relinquish her hand. ‘So what is your name?’
‘Mrs Heinkel,’ she said brusquely. ‘Good day, Mr Clarke-Fisher. Do have a nice stay.’
She felt his gaze follow her through the door. He was interested in her. That much was clear.
That evening she shared a dinner table with Colonel and Mrs Hubert Simpson. The colonel was a quiet man unless the subject was of mules or horses. His wife, who had a girlish air despite her advanced years, talked of their life in India, the taste of boiled mutton, and of wrapping pillowcases around her ankles in order to keep the insect bites at bay.
‘And we had wire over the bath drain,’ the colonel piped up before shoving a forkful of Dover sole into his mouth.
Blanche looked to Mrs Simpson for enlightenment.
‘So the snakes couldn’t climb up.’
‘I see. Were you very young when you first went to India?’
M
rs Simpson’s cherry-red face nodded animatedly, her yellow curls like corkscrews around her face. ‘Yes. I went with my father. We used to go up into the hills in summer when Delhi became incredibly hot. There was a hill station there – Simla – I expect you’ve heard of it.’
‘I think so.’
‘That was where I met Hubert,’ she said with a modest smile.
The colonel folded his hands over his tidy midriff. ‘Best thing I ever did in my life.’
His wife simpered like a young girl, patted his hand, then with a demure expression said, ‘We have had a good marriage and a long one. It must be quite dreadful for you, my dear, to be widowed so young.’
‘It isn’t easy.’
‘And you’re still attractive, my dear. If it’s not too impertinent of me to ask, have you thought of remarrying?’
‘It’s only been two years. I’ve just set aside my weeds.’
Mrs Simpson eyed the pink and cream striped silk of Blanche’s tea gown. The cuffs were trimmed with Nottingham lace, as was the neckline. At her throat she’d pinned a cameo brooch, which was also tinged with pink and matched the freshness of her cheeks.
‘Of course. But don’t let the grass grow under your feet, my dear. There’s still hay to be made.’
At the mention of hay, the colonel re-entered the conversation. ‘And good horses to eat it! What?’
Sensing her husband was about to start talking horseflesh, Mrs Simpson steered the conversation elsewhere. ‘Now there’s a very handsome man,’ she remarked, nodding and smiling an acknowledgement to Darius Clarke-Fisher as he entered the dining room. ‘I hear he’s a widower and has tea plantations in Ceylon.’
‘Really.’
Blanche saw him smile and knew he was going to ask if he could join them. She was right.
‘I hear you were in India,’ he said to the colonel once the waiters had laid him a place.
The colonel’s fine, sandy eyebrows rose with interest. ‘Indeed I was, sir. I hear you were in Ceylon.’
‘Tea. My family has plantations there.’
‘How amusing,’ Mrs Simpson exclaimed. ‘You’re in tea and Mrs Heinkel’s family are in sugar.’
The colonel guffawed. ‘All we need now is a farmer with a herd of Jersey cows, and we’ve got the milk as well!’
Enlivened by the presence of another male with some knowledge of India, the colonel took over the conversation and started talking about horses, much to Mrs Simpson’s annoyance.
‘Horses are all very well, my dear,’ she said to her husband, ‘but let us hear a little of the more important things of life. Did you meet your dear, departed wife in India?’ she asked Mr Clarke-Fisher.
The colonel looked miffed. Darius Clarke-Fisher was unperturbed.
‘I did indeed. She was just fifteen years old when she came out and I met her in Calcutta. I was finishing my army service before going back to Ceylon. I decided to marry her straight away.’
‘She must have impressed you very much,’ said Blanche, noticing for the first time that his eyes were hazel and that his hair was dark blond and very straight.
He had a knowing smile. ‘I think you mean love at first sight. I sense you are a romantic, Mrs Heinkel, so I have no choice but to tell you the truth. It was indeed love at first sight. She also brought a sizeable dowry with her, but that, as they say in the more mundane literary circles, is another story.’
‘So her money impressed you more than the girl herself?’
Clarke-Fisher rose to her challenge, a cryptic smile on his lips. ‘No. I have plenty of money, Mrs Heinkel. This was an arrangement between our two families, the Clarke-Fishers and the Templegates. I loved Beatrice. I couldn’t help but love her, and I duly provided for her as a husband is duty bound to do.’
Blanche raised his glass and smiled. ‘To romance, Mr Clarke-Fisher.’
Clarke-Fisher raised his. ‘To falling in love, Mrs Heinkel – and to beautiful women.’
Perhaps she was lonelier than she thought, but she found herself enjoying his attention and was sure her cheeks were turning red. It was something else that contributed to her later regret, though she didn’t know that at the time.
She heard Mrs Simpson tut-tut and giggle. Clarke-Fisher was certainly a charmer, she thought, and couldn’t help smiling herself.
The only one not smiling was Colonel Simpson. He was frowning at Clarke-Fisher as though he’d suddenly changed his mind about him.
‘Templegate. Templegate,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sure I knew that family.’
‘You probably did,’ said Clarke-Fisher, his eyes fixed on Blanche as if she were the only woman in the room. ‘They were a very large family with a long history of service in India all the way back to Robert Clive’s day. But we are here,’ he said, once again raising his glass. ‘And we are in the company of ladies who deserve our full attention, so let us discard the past and talk of the present. Now ladies, perhaps when we have finished our meal and you’ve gossiped yourself hoarse, you might like to take the evening air. What say you, Colonel?’
The Colonel ceased frowning. He was not a man to dwell on vagaries. ‘If that is what the ladies want, then I shall be happy to oblige.’
By the end of an evening strolling along the promenade, Blanche had told Darius how she passed her days now her family were grown and she had no husband to look after.
‘Very noble of you, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I believe every man and woman should dabble in at least one noble cause in their life.’
‘I do not dabble, sir,’ said Blanche, a little put out.
‘But do you actually cater to their needs? Do you cook them their soup, scrub their clothes, or minister to them when they fall sick?’
‘I…’ She paused as she thought about this. She sat on the Board. She didn’t actually work amongst the inmates. ‘I see what you mean. Your comment makes me feel guilty.’
He cupped her elbow in his palm and leaned closer. ‘The last thing I wished to do, Mrs Heinkel. Please accept my apologies. I have to say that I would not allow a wife of mine to stoop so low as to frequent such a place.’
‘But I am not your wife, Mr Clarke-Fisher.’
‘I would expect a wife to run my house in a thrifty and efficient manner,’ he continued, as though he had not heard, ‘though I would, of course, check the household accounts. Women, I have found, are not capable of handling the financial aspects of domestic management.’
Blanche was speechless, but her mind was alert. This was the true Mr Darius Clarke-Fisher. She suddenly found herself reading far more into the episode with the umbrella. To him a wife was a possession, a creature to be cosseted like a Pekinese and trained like a whippet.
Later that evening, she smiled at her reflection and considered the woman Darius Clarke-Fisher had gazed at with such interest. A few grey hairs streaked from her temples. There were creases at the sides of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth, but her eyes still sparkled and she still had a waistline.
‘Will I see you soon?’ he asked her on the day she left.
‘Of course,’ she replied, but had already made up her mind she would not be seeing either him or Clevedon again.
* * *
Samson and Abigail, with Desdemona wedged between them, looked up at the high walls of the place Aggie Beven had told them would give them food and a roof over their heads. Everything they owned had been destroyed in the fire at the boarding house.
They’d stayed on Aggie’s boat for two weeks, traversing the canals and locks along the Avon and Kennet Canal, all the way to a town called Reading and back.
Although silent for most of the journey, engrossed in her own thoughts, Aggie had appreciated their help and, although she hadn’t complained about sharing her meagre food, Samson couldn’t bring himself to encroach on her generosity any longer. Besides that, the accommodation was smaller than the old slave huts in Barbados where you could at least lie full-length on the floor. The narrowboat cabin measured only eight by eight, a tight sq
ueeze for five people.
During the journey, he and Hamlet had slept out under a canvas sheet on the roof, leaving the women to share the cabin. They’d supplemented Aggie’s endless pots of tea, fried bread and fatty bacon with a few rabbits, wild ducks, pheasants and even a wandering chicken snatched from the water meadows along the way. Urged on by Aggie and supplied with a large enamel jug, they had also milked the cows that had watched lazily as they’d drifted by on the Lizzie Jane. He was a proud man and couldn’t bear to put Aggie to any inconvenience, yet he felt that was exactly what he was doing. He’d told her they would leave, and because they had no money with which to pay rent, she told them of the only place that could take them in.
‘But t’aint a nice place,’ she’s said, her pipe juggling worriedly at the corner of her mouth.
‘Can’t be any worse than some of the places I seen,’ Samson had replied. It would do for now, he thought: somewhere to lay their heads until he got the lay of the land. Then he would look for Aunt Blanche.
‘Let the boy stay. I could do with some help on this old tub, and he looks big enough to shift for himself. Ain’t that right, Harry?’
‘Hamlet,’ his son had said with a grin and a shake of his head. ‘My name’s Hamlet.’
‘What sort of name’s that?’
‘Shakespeare,’ Hamlet had said with a grin.
‘Too posh for the likes of me. Harry will do,’ she’d said, turning her back and tapping out the bowl of her pipe on the cabin roof.
It had been a terrible wrench, but Samson was sure he’d made the right decision.
‘I’m frightened,’ whispered Abigail now, her eyes big and round as she looked up at the high walls, then at the dirty, desperate people gathered around them.