‘Thank you, Sir, the honour is all ours,’ said Sarah, a slight smile on her lips as she looked at Charlotte.
George turned and presented his arms so that each lady could link hers with his, and strode into the main part of the entertaining area.
The noise of the other guests rose and fell as they entered the large room that was a-buzz with the talk of business and making money. A small orchestra played in the far corner of the room, but few heard the music. George surveyed the fifty or so people who had gathered to help him celebrate his good fortune, and felt at ease with the world. He had arrived and was now part of the society elite in Liverpool. The house, with its manicured lawns to Duke Street, had cost him a large proportion of his profits from the African trade, but it was worth every penny. From the master bedroom George could see the haze of grey that hung over Liverpool. His new house was close enough to the city to allow him to be in his office within half an hour, yet far enough away to avoid the heavily polluted air. Other great houses (George liked to think of his house in this manner) had been built along the same street as the more influential and wealthy settled further out of town. The African trade had helped Liverpool become very prosperous, and the families involved had built most of the larger homes.
His guests’ acceptance of his invitation to visit indicated that the more prominent traders considered him an equal. By inviting everyone who was anyone, George had laid the foundation of a strong business network.
‘Alderman and Mrs Nicholson, Mr Henry Nicholson and Miss Charlotte Nicholson.’
A few heads turned, and some of the guests waved.
‘May I offer you both a glass of champagne?’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah, accepting a glass from the bewigged servant. ‘It appears the partnership is profitable.’
‘Indeed it is, Ma’am, and this small gathering is evidence of the result of our successes.’
Charlotte accepted a glass from the waiter and raised it slightly in a silent toast to George.
Donald sipped his champagne and allowed his eyes to roam over the chattering crowd. In a few moments he had summed up the guests in order of business importance.
The waiter offered the tray to Henry. ‘Make it rum, a large one,’ Henry told him. The waiter found it difficult to take his eyes off Henry’s beaten face. He stood like a rabbit in the glare of a light.
‘I said rum,’ Henry said. ‘Are you deaf?’
‘Fetch the gentleman a large glass of rum, and be quick about it,’ said George, in an effort to forestall any trouble.
The waiter, released from his frozen state by George’s barked order, rushed off to do as his master bid.
‘A good gathering, George,’ sniffed Nicholson, and followed it by a snort.
‘I think so, Donald. Some of the guests have come from Manchester. They are mainly our trade-goods suppliers, who naturally hope we will buy more off them.’
‘If we can make the same profits, I don’t care where we buy the trade goods.’
He pulled out a large handkerchief and sneezed. ‘Dashed cold outside.’
‘Could not have put it better myself about the trade goods, Donald. Sorry about the weather, though, couldn’t control it,’ smiled George. ‘This may not be the time nor place, Donald, but I would like to have a talk with you in the library some time this evening.’
Nicholson looked at King and smiled. He realised George had a slight heightened colour on his cheeks and felt that it was not from the drink.
‘I am at your pleasure, George.’
‘Perhaps after dinner, when the ladies withdraw?’
‘Fine, fine,’ said Nicholson, drifting off to take advantage of some of the guests. A talkative merchant with a belly full of wine was a good target.
George turned to see Sarah Nicholson in conversation with the wife of one of the older members of Liverpool’s society. The dowager, many called her.
‘Are you well?’ whispered Charlotte as she sidled up to George and placed her hand on his arm. George could feel his arm suddenly hot from her gentle touch. Her perfume filled his head with the scent of summer flowers and days wasted under a warm sun. He glanced around in case anyone realised the effect Charlotte had on him, and noticed Henry leaning on the side of the fireplace, a large glass of rum clasped in his fist, as he half-listened to a small group of businessmen.
‘I am always well when I am in your company,’ he whispered to Charlotte, his eyes on her smooth neck and shoulders. Her blue silk dress clung to the tops of her arms, yet managed to show an expanse of pale smooth skin from her neck to the tops of her perfectly shaped breasts. The dress allowed just a hint of décolletage before it cascaded down her body to emphasise her narrow waist, and finally covered her small feet encased in dark blue silk shoes.
‘I heard you ask father for some time later this evening.’
‘Yes,’ he said, and withdrew his arm from her light touch.
‘May I ask if it is a subject I should know about?’ said Charlotte, flicking open her fan.
‘I would prefer to meet with your father before I tell you what it is about.’
She pouted and sharply snapped her fan closed and gazed into George’s eyes. ‘I didn’t know we kept secrets from each other,’ she said, allowing her gaze to fall from George’s face. Her top lip gave a slight quiver as if she was on the brink of tears.
‘It is about my feelings for you, Charlotte dear.’
Her quivering lips stopped and her mouth turned into a small smile. She gazed up at George. ‘Feelings, Mr King, what feelings?’ she stressed the last word and re-placed her hand on his arm.
‘Erm!’ said George, as if about to make a speech.
Charlotte allowed her gaze to focus on him as she waited for a few romantic words from her George. She had never told anyone she considered George to be hers. She knew he was a successful businessman and quite rich, and he would be able to maintain her level of comfort. She doubted if the young men of her own age would be able to offer her the same niceties. She was unwilling to waste her youth waiting for success. She wanted success now.
Her mother annoyed her by inviting suitable young men for approval. Charlotte’s one thought was that when she married, she would not have to see any more young men or listen to chatter about their backgrounds.
‘Yes, George?’ she prompted.
‘Well…’
‘Mr King, when will you introduce me to your young friend?’
George jumped as if stung. He whirled around to see the dowager.
‘Erm, yes, Mrs Johnston, may I ask how you are?’
‘You have asked me already, Mr King. I want to know who this young lady is and why you have kept her all to yourself?’
‘Mrs Johnston, allow me to introduce Miss Nicholson, Donald Nicholson’s daughter.’
‘Does she have to be identified as Donald Nicholson’s daughter, or does she have a Christian name?’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. It’s Charlotte, Mrs Johnston, her name is Charlotte.’
‘How do you do, my dear, I know your dear mother,’ said Mrs Johnston, and held Charlotte’s hands while she peered at her. ‘My, my, you are a lovely young thing.’
‘Mrs Johnston,’ said Charlotte, and dropped a small curtsey while bowing her head, her face hot.
‘Come over here, my dear, and tell me all about yourself. Obviously George does not wish to share you with anyone else.’
Mrs Johnston propelled Charlotte towards a group of women who were ensconced on a row of chairs from where they could watch the other guests and gossip the time away until dinner. One of the women in the group was Charlotte’s mother.
‘Not as young as I used to be, my dear,’ said the dowager, and used Charlotte to lean on in place of her walking stick.
Charlotte smiled politely, while busily working out how she could escape the clutches of her mother’s group.
‘I want you to meet my nephew, Charlotte dear,’ the Dowager added. ‘He has been speaking about you
all evening.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlotte, and looked more closely at the old Dowager’s friends.
The group made room for Charlotte to sit next to the Dowager. Mrs Johnston said to Charlotte’s mother, ‘Would you mind, Sarah, my dear, finding my nephew, Owen. Please tell him I wish to speak to him.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Johnston,’ said Sarah, and stood to peer around the room for the missing nephew.
Her temper rising, Charlotte sat next to the dowager. She wanted to know what George meant earlier when he spoke of ‘feelings’.
When I rule this house, she thought, this old crow will no longer be welcome. She flicked open her fan and waved it to cool herself. Then she saw her mother accompanied by a small man. She supposed he must be the elusive nephew. He walked in an agitated manner that caused his arms to flap backwards and forwards in a jerky motion.
Please Lord, she thought, not him. I couldn’t bear to spend time talking to a pixie.
‘I found him, Mrs Johnston,’ called her mother in triumph.
‘Ah! Yes, so I see. Thank you, Mrs Nicholson. Owen, I wish to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Nicholson. I believe you wish to speak with her?’
The young man wrung his hands in embarrassment and muttered in anguish, ‘Aunt, please.’
‘Never mind all that, Owen. Miss Nicholson,’ she called, ‘my nephew, Owen Johnston,’ and waved her hand as if she had produced him from thin air.
Charlotte extended her hand. ‘Mr Johnston.’
‘Miss Nicholson,’ replied Owen. He bowed and raised her hand to his lips. Charlotte could see he suffered from extreme shyness.
He released her hand and raised his head to speak. At that moment, the double doors at the end of the entertaining room opened and the butler entered and struck a gong.
‘Ladies and Gen’lemen,’ he said, ‘please take your partner for dinner.’
The sound of the gong brought silence to the room. A great bustling occurred as men crossed the floor to their ladies.
Charlotte stood and bent a little to brush her dress and free it from any creases. Owen Johnston was shuffling from one foot to the other. He suddenly stopped moving, stood erect and offered his arm to Charlotte. The difference in height between her and Owen became obvious. At his full height he was just short of her shoulder. He tried to look at her face but shyness caused him to drop his eyes, which then focused on the gap between her breasts. He blushed, and that caused his face to turn deep red.
Donald Nicholson sauntered across the floor and smiled as he offered his arm to his wife. ‘Shall we go, my dear?’ He then noticed Owen with his arm out for Charlotte.
Sarah watched her husband’s face change from that of a smiling, dutiful man to an angry one, as he saw in which direction Owen’s eyes were focused.
Charlotte saw the change in her father. He was about to give this little upstart a verbal thrashing. Fortunately, George King suddenly appeared before her and bowed. He offered his arm and murmured loud enough for Owen to hear, ‘You promised to allow me to escort you to dinner, Charlotte. Would you honour me, and take my arm so that we may join the others?’
Charlotte smiled politely at Owen and, on George’s arm, glided across the now empty floor to enter the large dining room. ‘Well timed, Mr King,’ she whispered. ‘Who is that dreadful little man?’
‘You looked like you required a little help before you either fainted or your father hit poor Owen. He is part of the Johnston family. They supply us with trade goods. He is the only son of the family, but I think his father despairs of him. I have heard that Owen is strongly against the African trade, but while his father makes money from selling us trade goods, he will be kept in line.’
George stopped behind his chair at the top of the table and offered Charlotte the chair on his right. While a waiter drew back the chair and helped her to sit, George surveyed the scene. This had the promise of a very pleasant convivial evening.
George had come a long way from that initial meeting with Donald Nicholson at the Athenaeum Club. He had met Donald’s family and, in particular, he had met Charlotte.
She was a pleasant girl, only sixteen at their first meeting. He had not spent much time talking with her, as he was usually locked away with her father developing their buying and selling opportunities.
As time passed, the two partners became close friends. George received a number of social invitations to join the Nicholsons at various functions around Liverpool. Sometimes Charlotte would attend but on other occasions it was just George and Donald.
Usually the two men met at the club or with the merchandise sellers from Manchester or Leeds. Occasionally Henry would join them, if he were home from one of his trips.
A few months ago George and Charlotte were alone for the first time. He and Donald had visited the Margaret Rose to discuss the forthcoming voyage with Captain Parker. At the end of their meeting, George wanted to stay on a little longer to discuss with his captain further detail of the ship’s management. Donald excused himself to attend a meeting in town. Shortly after Donald departed, Charlotte had arrived looking for him.
Charlotte wore a cream-coloured dress and a matching hat, which sat daintily on her head. A small silk parasol, which kept the sun off her face, complemented the whole effect. She ordered her coachman to wait while she went to find her father. She stepped lightly across the dock to the Margaret Rose, and walked up the small gangway to the main deck. One of the crew, realising she was a lady and not a shore-side doxy, rightly assumed she would be looking for either the captain or one of the two visitors. He removed his cap as he approached her respectfully.
‘I am Mr Nicholson’s daughter. Can you tell me where I may find him?’
‘Yes Ma’am, he be below with the cap’n. I’ll show you the way, if you’d like to follow me.’ He turned to make his way to the companionway that lead to the captain’s quarters.
‘No need, thank you, I will find him. Down here?’
The crewman stopped and stepped aside. ‘Yes Ma’am, but mind your head. The deckhead is low at the bottom of the stair.’
‘Thank you, I will be fine.’
The crewman turned to resume his duties and Charlotte collapsed her parasol. She stepped cautiously down the steep stairs until she reached the bottom, where she bent her head slightly as advised.
As she groped her way along the companionway, her body blocked the sunlight and she totally forgot about the low deckhead beam. She felt it when her head made contact. The pain caused her to scream as she recoiled and collapsed on the deck, sobbing from pain. The captain’s door burst open and George appeared. Now that she was sitting, sunlight lit the passageway and she saw him coming towards her, angry at being disturbed.
George first assumed she was one of the dockside women who had taken a wrong turn, wandering aft instead of going forward to the crew’s accommodation. He was about to remonstrate with the woman when he recognised her. His anger evaporated as he dropped to one knee beside her.
‘Charlotte,’ he exclaimed in surprise, ‘are you hurt, did you fall? What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’
‘So many questions, Mr King, I can hardly think which one to answer first.’
‘Are you well enough to stand?’
‘Oh, I think so. Just a sore head when I hit the ceiling.’
George’s head turned to follow her finger as she pointed to the wooden beam. ‘Deckhead,’ he said unthinkingly.
‘Whatever it is called, I hit it,’ said Charlotte, and rubbed her head.
‘If you are well enough, allow me to help you up.’
The narrow passageway brought them into close contact. She felt a shiver when his left hand pushed against the side of her breast. They were so close she could smell the cigar he had smoked. She could smell something else as well. He did not smell like her father and certainly not like her female friends. She could only think it must be the smell of a man who is not a relation. It awakened something in her. She enjoyed, yet feared
the feeling. It confused her. She felt excited to be so close to a mature man. George was not at all like the men Mother invited home.
‘Mind your head, my dear,’ said George as he guided her towards the captain’s cabin.
‘Captain Parker, the use of your cabin, if you please.’
The captain removed charts from his favourite chair and made room for George to help Charlotte sit down.
‘Captain, would you get some water and a clean cloth so that I can bathe Miss Nicholson’s injury?’
‘Aye,’ answered the captain promptly.
On Parker’s return, George gently washed the bruised area of Charlotte’s head. ‘I think you’ll live,’ he smiled as he gently dried the skin around the bruised lump. ‘The skin isn’t broken, but you’ll have a bump and a sore head for a day or so.’
Charlotte started to smile but suddenly fainted, and she slowly began to slide off the chair.
George shouted, ‘Charlotte, look at me! Brandy, captain!’
Captain Parker quickly grabbed one of the glasses of brandy on the table and handed it to George.
With his right arm around Charlotte’s shoulder to stop her slipping to the deck, George handed the glass to Charlotte. ‘Here, drink this, it’ll make you feel better.’
Charlotte took a mouthful. The liquid must have burned for it caused her to have a fit of coughing, but it brought the blood back into her face.
‘Have some more, Charlotte, but don’t gulp it, sip it,’ advised George gently.
She drank half of the measure before he took the glass from her hand and said in a mock stern tone, ‘I think that will be enough, young lady, or else you’ll not be able to walk off this ship. Do you have a carriage?’
‘It’s waiting on the dock.’
‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so.’ Charlotte rose and held onto George’s arm. ‘If you’d be so kind as to help me to my carriage, I will be fine,’ she said.
‘Meeting is over, Captain, thank you for your help. I will take Miss Nicholson home. You and I can continue tomorrow, if that’s agreeable with you.’
‘Aye. Sir, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Triangle Trade Page 6