Forgotten Destiny

by Forgotten Destiny (retail) (epub)

  Forgotten Destiny

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  1807

  Copyright

  Beneath lowering grey skies, the ship, towed by barges, came slowly up the narrow Avon Gorge on the morning tide. Above her, seagulls wheeled and mewed, beneath her bows the water, salt merging into fresh, became steadily more greasy and rubbish-strewn as she neared the wharf where the man stood watching.

  In his fine coat, buckskin breeches and leather jackboots, he cut a handsome figure; to the casual observer, he might have been one of the Merchant Venturers, the elite society of rich Bristol traders, watching his vessel come in with her valuable cargo. But unlike most of them, he wore no powdered wig – his natural hair was braided into a pigtail beneath his Holland hat, and instead of an expression of satisfaction or pleasure, his features were set in grim, hard lines.

  Soon the ship would dock, the grating to the hold would be lifted, and the hell beneath the creaking decks would be revealed to an uncaring world. The evil stench of sweat and fear, filth and disease would float up to mingle with the sickly sweet smell of sugar and alcohol, and the pervasive stink of an industrial port where, at low tide, the mud and sewage of the channel was exposed, bank on reeking bank with barely an eggcupful of brown water here and there to cover it. And from that hellhole the slaves would be dragged in chains – those who had survived the long and tortuous voyage from Africa.

  They had been seized, those poor souls, by the slavers. They had been torn from their homeland and the arms of those they loved, herded with less care than would be afforded to valuable cattle, starved, beaten, made to dance barefoot for the amusement of the sailors, then thrown back into the prison that was foul with their own vomit and excrement. They had seen some of their number exchanged for sugar in the great plantations of the West Indies, where they would be worked until they dropped like flies in the cruel conditions. And then it had been back to sea, shivering whilst the weather grew steadily colder, grieving for their friends who were dumped overboard when they succumbed to hunger and pestilence, terrified, hopeless. Now they would be sold for whatever the ship’s owner and his partners could get for them, subjected to humiliations beyond imagination, whipped into submission. All resistance and hope would be beaten from them, their freedom lost for ever.

  It had to be stopped, this barbaric trade in human life. The man was determined on it. Somehow it had to be stopped, and he would do everything in his power to see that it was. But the odds were stacked high against him and those who thought as he did. The trade was too profitable, those who benefited from it too powerful. They held Parliament in their pocket, and here, in a port such as Bristol, a man could be lynched for airing such revolutionary beliefs, let alone acting upon them. Going against those who grew fat on the evil trade was a dangerous business. Already his convictions had cost him that which he had held dearest in all the world, but still he refused to allow himself to be deterred. If anything he was the more determined – Rowan’s life must not have been lost in vain. And besides, to fail to do what he could would be to betray his principles, make him no better than those who made fortunes from the degradation and suffering of others.

  The commotion on the dockside grew; men shouted, chains rattled, the ship’s prow ground noisily against the quay. He turned away, sickened, and the resolve hardened in him, rocky and unmoving as the deep lines in his face.

  He would see an end to this barbarity, one way or another. And if the men who dealt in it were ruined, so much the better. But the task that lay before him was monumental. He raised his eyes to the heavy grey skies and prayed that he was equal to it.

  One

  It is one of the great mysteries of life to me that sometimes one has a premonition before a momentous event occurs – a dream, perhaps, only half-remembered, that leaves one with a pervasive feeling of sadness or great joy, or simply a sense of fate unfolding – whilst sometimes one’s world as one knows it can change in a twinkling and one is given no warning at all.

  That was the way it was for me that spring afternoon in the year of 1786 when my grandfather called me to his study. I had spent the day thus far as I had spent every day since I had recovered from the terrible accident which had, so my grandparents told me, claimed the life of my mother, and so very nearly claimed my own life too. I had helped my grandmother with the household tasks which, in grander establishments than ours, are taken care of by an army of servants, but which, in a country rectory, fall to the rector’s wife, no matter that she is no longer a young woman. And when the noonday meal was over and the dishes cleared away, I had taken off my apron and repaired to the parlour with a pile of darning which my grandmother’s failing sight no longer allowed her to do in the neat, precise way she would have wished.

  I was there, sewing diligently, when the carriage drew up at the front door, and I heard voices in the hallway before the door of my grandfather’s study was firmly closed, cutting them off, but I thought nothing of it. Visitors frequently called at the rectory, both the poor and devout, and the great and the good of the parish and beyond. Often the latter came by carriage, for my grandfather’s living covered a sprawling area of rural Gloucestershire, in a fold of the Cotswold Hills. It simply did not cross my mind that this particular visitor had anything whatever to do with me, much less that he held my entire future in his hands. And so I simply went on with my sewing, giving no thought at all to what might be taking place behind the closed door of my grandfather’s study.

  I was startled, and puzzled, therefore, when a half an hour or so later the parlour door opened and my grandfather put his head round to ask me if I would join him in the study.

  ‘There is someone I wish you to meet, Davina,’ he said in his precise tones, overlaid with just the faintest burr of a Gloucestershire accent. ‘Someone who has a most important proposition to put to you.’

  I frowned. ‘What sort of proposition?’

  My grandfather smiled thinly. ‘It would be wrong of me to discuss it with you until he has had the opportunity of meeting you,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say I think it will provide the answer to all our problems.’

  ‘A position,’ I said, my hands very still suddenly on the piece of linen I was darning. ‘He is going to offer me a position.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to him to tell you himself,’ my grandfather said. ‘But, Davina, your hair is coming loose from its pins. I suggest you tidy it before you join us. It is important you create the right impression of a well-brought-up young lady, not some wild ragamuffin.’

  The censure was there in his tone, just as it always was when he made oblique reference to the life I had led before being taken in by him and my grandmother, and I felt my cheeks grow hot as the familiar defensiveness flooded through me. Whatever my grandfather might think, I felt sure my mother had raised me properly, and it was no one’s fault but the good Lord who made me that my hair was wild and unruly, refusing to be restrained no matter how many combs and pins I put into it, and falling into long, curling tendrils on my neck and about my face.

  But although I wished my grandfather would not cast aspersions on my poor dead mother, at the same time I knew he only said the things he did for what he considered my own good. My mothe
r had caused him and my grandmother such shame and heartache with her wild ways, and they lived in fear, both of them, that I might take after her and follow in her footsteps.

  It was one of the reasons, I know, why Grandfather had recently been making enquiries with a view to securing me a position as a governess with some respectable and well-set-up family. That, and the fact that having to keep me was a constant drain on their meagre finances.

  I was not, I must admit, overly keen on the prospect. I had heard that governesses often had a hard time of it. Not quite a servant, nor one of the family either, they were isolated and looked down upon, overworked and lonely. Often the children made things difficult for them, behaving in a fashion they would never dare to with their parents, and knowing that they could get away with impertinence and sometimes outright disobedience because the governess was, in so many ways, inferior to them.

  But I could not remain dependent on my grandparents forever. They were growing older; one day soon my grandfather’s health would force him into retirement, and their income would be depleted still further. Already they had done far more for me than I had any right to expect. Now it was time for me to make my own way in the world. And, it seemed, the moment had come.

  Obediently, I tucked the offending curls back into their pins, though I had little hope of them obliging me for long, and followed my grandfather across the hall, where the afternoon sunlight lay in golden bars on the flagged floor, and into the study.

  A man was there – a gentleman, I should say, for his standing in society was immediately apparent. From the top of his powdered wig to the toes of his buckled shoes, everything about his attire spoke of quality. His face was a little red-veined, as if he partook regularly of spirits rather than porter, and a concertina of chins and a rounded stomach beneath the tight-fitting silk of his breeches suggested that he kept a good table and did not stint himself of the pleasures it afforded.

  ‘Mr Paterson.’ My grandfather came close to genuflecting before him. ‘May I present my granddaughter, Davina. Davina, this is Mr John Paterson of Bristol. A member of the City Corporation, and also of the Association of Merchant Venturers. You know what the association is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I could hardly live within twenty miles of the City and Port of Bristol and not know of the existence of the Association of Merchant Venturers, the elite band of businessmen who held the trade, and the city itself, in the palm of their hand. I did not know exactly what they did, of course, only that they were both wealthy and powerful.

  So, I thought, if this Mr Paterson were indeed to offer me a position, I would have to leave the beautiful Cotswold countryside and move to the city. But at least, judging by his appearance, the house I would live in would be a fine one, and perhaps the children would not be so bad. I could not imagine this Mr Paterson allowing them to run wild. In fact, I could scarcely imagine Mr Paterson with children at all – or certainly not ones young enough to be in need of a governess. He must, I thought, be forty-five or so if he was a day; for one thing he looked it; for another I felt sure that it took time to reach the kind of station in life he had clearly achieved. But then, perhaps he had married late, to a much younger wife…

  As I tried to avoid staring at him, I suddenly became aware that he was equally fixated on me. He was, in fact, looking me up and down with a frankness that surprised me, his eyes narrowed and speculative, his full lips half-smiling.

  ‘Miss Grimes,’ he said. His voice was rich and rolling. ‘I am indeed honoured to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard so much about you from your Cousin Theo.’

  Cousin Theo. Son of my grandfather’s older brother, Charles, who was himself a merchant in Bristol, though not quite of the standing of this gentleman, I thought. Theo had followed his father into the trade, and was now managing all his affairs. It must be he who had put my name forward for this position.

  ‘Mr Paterson,’ I responded, hoping that the colour that had risen in my cheeks under his scrutiny was not too plainly obvious. ‘The honour is mine.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ For another long moment his eyes dwelt on my face, then the half-smile broadened into a full smile of apparent satisfaction, and he turned to my grandfather. ‘A charming young lady indeed. Yes, I am well satisfied.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ My grandfather was smiling too, the benign expression I had seen him turn on rich parishioners after an Easter Sunday service, at once gracious and ingratiating. ‘Davina is a beauty, is she not?’

  My colour heightened; this time I felt sure it must be noticeable. But what, I wondered, had beauty to do with anything, even given that it were true? Personally, I always thought that my mouth was too wide for beauty, my nose too short and tip-tilted, my eyes too slanting. But whatever, I could not see that such things were of any importance in the order of attributes that were necessary, or even desirable, in a governess. I had expected questions as to my suitability to teach children to read, write and do sums, and perhaps even some discussion as to the values I would try to instil in them, but not an assessment of my physical appearance.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Paterson said, playing with his malacca cane. ‘Yes, I think we shall get along very well. And what are your feelings on the matter. Miss Grimes?’

  ‘I have scarcely had time to form any,’ I replied frankly. ‘I have to admit to a lack of experience, but I am more than willing to apply myself to learning the skills required of me.’

  I saw my grandfather’s jaw drop. Surely he had not expected me to pass myself off as an experienced governess? I thought. In my opinion, honesty was the best policy by far.

  ‘A forthright woman!’ Mr Paterson said. ‘Admirable! It certainly makes a pleasant change from some of the simpering females of my acquaintance, who would sooner die than call a spade a spade. The girl is a credit to you, Reverend. You have done a fine job with her.’

  ‘I think Davina’s demeanour is more the result of her mother’s influence than mine,’ Grandfather said stiffly. ‘She has been with us a mere two years, and was already nineteen years old when she came into the care of her grandmother and me.’

  ‘Well, whatever.’ Mr Paterson mopped his face with his lace-edged handkerchief; above it, his eyes were still focused on my face. ‘So, my dear Miss Grimes, I take it that you are happy with the arrangement?’

  I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze levelly. ‘You are offering me the position, then?’

  He frowned slightly. ‘Position…?’

  ‘Of governess,’ I said.

  His frown deepened, then, to my utter bewilderment, he threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Grimes! We seem to be talking at cross purposes here! I thought it was unusual, to say the least of it, for a lady, however liberated, to answer me in the vein you did! You are under the impression that I am interviewing you with a view to taking up a post as governess?’

  ‘Well yes, certainly…’ So confused was I, I did not know what to say.

  ‘Oh no. I’m afraid you are much mistaken! The late Mrs Paterson and I were, unfortunately, never blessed with children. She was never strong. No, I am not looking for an employee, my dear. I am seeking a wife. It’s not a job I am offering. It is a proposal of marriage.’

  * * *

  In all my life, as far as I can recall – though, heaven knows, that is not far – I have never swooned. But in that moment I believe I came close to it. The blood rushed to my face and drained away again; the familiar study, lined with shelves of theological books, seemed to swim before my eyes. One hand went to my throat, with the other I steadied myself against my grandfather’s desk, scattering the pile of papers that comprised, I think, an unfinished sermon.

  The shock was enormous, and yet, foolishly, uppermost in my mind was the shame at having made an utter fool of myself. The bald statement I had made, about being inexperienced but willing to learn, echoed in my ears, and I wished the floor would open up and swallow me.

  No wonder Grandfat
her had looked so horrified! No wonder Mr Paterson had laughed! Though what there was to laugh at in a young woman apparently behaving in a quite shameless manner, I could not imagine! The blood ebbed and flowed in my face, though my legs felt as cold as ice. I felt sick, and weak with horror.

  ‘Davina? Are you ill? Perhaps you had better sit down…’ My grandfather’s voice seemed to come from beyond the roaring tide, very faint.

  ‘Well, well!’ That was Mr Paterson. ‘I don’t believe I have ever had such an effect on a young woman before!’ And then, as my grandfather eased me into the visitor’s chair, which occupied the opposite side of the desk to his own: ‘Is it as a result of her accident? Does she suffer these turns often?’

  ‘Oh no, no! I have never seen her like this before. Her recovery seems complete, I assure you!’ my grandfather said hastily. He seemed anxious to reassure Mr Paterson as regarded the state of my health, I thought, as if some defect had been uncovered in a brood mare he was selling at market. To my embarrassment was added a sense of outrage that they could discuss me thus, just as if I were not here at all.

  And clearly this was not the first time that I had been under discussion! Without my knowledge or consent, marriage had been talked about – marriage between me and this stranger! First, presumably, with Cousin Theo and perhaps Great-Uncle Charles too, and then with my grandfather. I had been brought to the study for this Mr Paterson to look me over, and all without a word of explanation! In order to save my feelings, presumably, had I failed to pass muster! Oh, the indignity of it!

  Somehow, the rush of pure anger at the position in which I had been placed brought me to my senses. I jumped to my feet, scattering the pages of Grandfather’s sermon.

  ‘Really, Grandfather, I do think you could have acquainted me with the true purpose of Mr Paterson’s visit!’ I cried passionately. ‘Your reticence has placed me in an intolerable position! I know that women are regarded as no better than chattels, but even so, I do think you could have been honest with me. As for you, Mr Paterson…’ My eyes flared green fire at him. ‘If you think it is amusing to allow me to think I was being interviewed as a prospective governess when in fact you were measuring whether I was good enough to become your wife… well, I think it quite despicable! And I should tell you that, when I marry, it will be to a man I love, not someone old enough to be my father, however rich and influential he may be.’