She laughs. ‘You speak as I would have done when I was young. How old are you, may I ask?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘And I am twenty-three, and must seem old to you.’
I begin to feel uncomfortable with this lady’s frank way of speaking. Her loneliness must be deep indeed.
‘No indeed, Madam. I have a sister of twenty-four in Wiltshire, and my Bristol sister is twenty-two. They are not old and nor are you.’
‘Well, thank you.’
Master Harry, having finished his milk and made a thorough job of transferring his milk moustache to his smock, decides to have his share of the conversation.
‘Do you know my father?’ he asks, resting his head on the table so that I am obliged to bend my neck sideways to meet his gaze.
‘I have met him. Briefly, that is.’
Next Harry, having slid the length of the table at the risk of grazing his ear, tumbles to the floor.
‘My father is important, is he not?’ He stands up and turns a circle, arms outstretched. ‘He is a shipping agent, the best in the whole of Bristol.’ The thought makes him spin again, and once again he lands in a heap. I wait for Mrs Wharton to chide him for risking his clothes, but she merely sighs as if to say boys will be boys.
‘I’m sure your father is an excellent agent,’ I say, remembering Mr Wharton’s authority in speaking to the luckless carter.
‘My father works for Mr Tuffnell, one of Bristol’s richest gentlemen. Do you know him?’
My heart jolts, but I glance down at my calico petticoat with its mud-stained hems, and laugh. ‘If Mr Tuffnell is rich I am hardly likely to know him.’
‘You might have carried a letter to him before the one you brought Mother. Ha!’ the little fellow exclaims, triumphantly snatching up the paper where Mrs Wharton dropped it in her agitation.
‘Harry.’ She sends him a reproving look and, chastened, her son hands the letter back.
‘Time you went outside and helped yourself to fresh air, young man.’
I take the hint, and rise to my feet.
‘Mr Tuffnell is a famous merchant with a great house in Wine-street,’ Harry says, rushing his words before his mother can stop him, ‘and last year he wed a beautiful lady with hair down to her waist. It is a great sadness they have no children,’ he concludes solemnly, reminding me of the way my brother liked to repeat his elders’ gossip even when he scarcely understood it.
It is Mrs Wharton’s turn to blush. ‘Enough. Out in the yard now, find your hobby-horse. Leave the door open so I can see you.’ When he is out of hearing she turns to me. ‘I should be grateful if you forget Harry’s thoughtless words, Mistress. Bristol is small and it doesn’t become us to tittle-tattle about those we depend on for our livelihoods.’
‘Of course, Madam. Thank you kindly for the milk.’
‘My husband is always in need of young people willing to carry letters and messages, so we may see you again.’
‘Yes. Though I hope in time to find a place.’
‘I’m sure you shall. There are plenty of openings in Bristol. One thing …’ She stops.
‘What, Ma’am?’
‘Be cautious. Don’t feel obliged to take the first place offered to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not all masters and mistresses treat their servants well. In Bristol especially, where profit is king and some servants are worked almost as hard as slaves in Jamaica and Barbados. Try to judge the household before you join it.’
‘Thank you, Madam, I will.’
Out in the yard Mrs Wharton watches from the doorway as I rumple Harry’s curls and offer his hobby-horse a make-believe apple and tell him what a clever brother he is.
‘Your father will be proud, Harry, when he learns how you raised the alarm and tried to free Baby Emma. You helped to save her life.’
‘Will you tell him so?’
‘You will want to tell the story yourself, when he returns this evening.’
‘Sometimes Mr Tuffnell keeps Father on business far into the night, and then he is only home when I am fast asleep, and gone again next morning. I do not like Mr Tuffnell, even if he is the richest merchant in all of Bristol. Indeed, I hate him.’
‘Ssh, Master Harry, your mother will not want to hear you say such things.’
‘Why? She hates him too, though she pretends to like him.’
‘I’m sure she does not. Hatred is a wicked thing, and your mother is a good lady.’
‘Ha! You are wrong,’ says the boy, and I leave him whipping his hobby-horse instead of whipping Mr Tuffnell.
I think over our exchange as I make my way towards the city gates. Mrs Wharton looked uncomfortable when she offered her advice. I wonder which households she has in mind, and how she comes by her information, living far from the city and unlikely, I would say, to have friends among its servants.
As for young Harry’s judgment of Mr Tuffnell, I cannot think that gentleman as severe an employer as the boy says, else surely Mr Wharton would seek employment elsewhere. Of Mrs Tuffnell all I know is that she is comely and has amazing long hair and wishes to bear a child, none of which suggests a lady who ill-uses those who work for her, though I suppose if she is unhappy she might be bad-tempered and her moods hard to fathom.
I smile to myself for running on this way. When I have done inventing Mrs Tuffnell, beautiful, barren and forlorn, I shall put her in league with Mr Sampson, who has not paid his clerk for twice twelve months, and feeds him on nought but ships’ biscuits bought at cost from Mr Tuffnell’s hard-nosed agent Mr Wharton.
Now I pick up speed, for Mr Wharton will be questioning what has taken me so long. I hope he is less tight-fisted than I fancy him to be, and pays me promptly, and in full.
Chapter Ten
Mr Wharton is busy with another delivery when I return. The sweet fragrance of sugar hangs in the air. I can taste it as I breathe and wonder how Mr Wharton resists sampling the contents of a hogshead once it is open for inspection.
I curtsey. ‘Here is your receipt Sir, from Mrs Wharton.’ From your wife who is kinder than I thought she’d be, having met you, Sir.
‘Thank you.’ He examines the paper and returns to his work.
I cough as discreetly as I can. ‘We agreed a penny, Sir.’
He pauses, chisel in hand, then reaches slowly into his pocket and passes me a coin. ‘Come back quicker next time.’
My spirits leap. ‘Next time?’
‘I’ll have another letter to despatch by three o’clock.’
‘Certainly, Sir.’ And I speed away before he thinks of some reason why he will not need me after all.
When I have eaten my fill of warm wheaten bread while sitting on a garden wall near Baldwin-street, shooing off the sparrows who would like to share my feast, I walk back to Mr Wharton’s warehouse and find the agent where I left him, stooped over his desk with his pointer sleeping on his feet. He folds his letter and raises a finger to bid me wait. Then he holds a length of sealing-wax above the flame of his rush-light, and drips wax upon the paper before impressing it with the brass seal hanging at his waist.
Once I watched a person dear to me seal a letter with red wax. The memory causes a pain within me, and my hand steals to my heart. Fortunately, Mr Wharton is too business-like to notice.
‘This way,’ he says, marching me to the wharf. His dog, displaced from its warm resting-place, slinks between two hogsheads to escape the bitter wind. Mr Wharton points across the river. ‘Over that bridge, then follow the quays to the Sign of the Hope and Anchor. That brick and timber house next those cranes, d’you see? Ask for Mr Cheatley’s man, Harry Dunmore. Tell Mr Dunmore you’ll wait until he has been to his master and brought back the papers we require Mr Cheatley to sign.’
So close to the river the Hope and Anchor cannot be respectable. ‘I am willing, Sir, except I don’t care to set foot in a harbour alehouse.’ His face darkens and I add quickly, ‘But perhaps someone can ask Mr Dunmore to step outside on my beha
lf?’
‘How you go about it does not concern me. I pay for the result.’ His tone is somewhat kinder than his words, and he softens the blow when he shows me two pennies. ‘These will be your reward. Only if he gives you the documents of course.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Sir.’
‘John! Good day to you!’
A figure salutes Mr Wharton as he hurries down the quays. A slight young man with long dark locks of hair beneath his hat, and a notebook in his hand. A moment later Mr Espinosa’s face mirrors the astonishment writ on mine.
Recovering himself, Mr Espinosa removes his hat. ‘Miss Amesbury!’ In contrast to his manner at our last encounter, his voice is warm and open. Mr Wharton looks amazed between us.
‘Good day, Mr Espinosa,’ I say.
Mr Espinosa laughs at Mr Wharton’s puzzlement. ‘Henry, this young lady was a fellow passenger when I came down from London.’ He points at the letter in my hand. ‘I see you’ve found employment, Miss Amesbury, if not the domestic situation you were hoping for?’
It is my heart-felt wish that Mr Espinosa had not discovered me about to scurry off on the orders of his friend.
‘A stop-gap measure, Sir. I have tried a great many households to no avail.’
Mr Espinosa’s reply is as kind as ever. ‘It may be difficult to obtain a place between quarter-days.’
Mr Wharton nods as earnestly if the question relates not to some rag-tag errand-girl, but to a mutual acquaintance.
‘Indeed … I would add that at this time of year some vacancies are in households where conditions for the servants are worse than they ought to be.’
He and Mr Espinosa seem to avoid each other’s eye. I begin to wonder what monsters there are in Bristol if servants are treated so unfairly.
Then Mr Wharton recollects himself, gesturing at my letter. ‘Forgive me, Aaron, Miss Amesbury was about to take a message for me.’
‘And I came to ask if Esther had any message for my sister.’
Esther! I had guessed Elizabeth or Eleanor.
‘Only that she is thankful for your sister’s letter, and will write to her before the week is out.’
Mr Espinosa nods and settles his hat on his head as if to leave, and Mr Wharton turns to me, though I see him trying to contain his impatience for Mr Espinosa’s sake.
‘Shall I take the letter for you now, Sir?’
‘Miss Amesbury. Your servant.’ He bows as gravely as if I am a lady, not a ragamuffin errand-girl.
I had thought Mr Espinosa about to depart, but I reach the bridge and glance back to find the gentlemen’s heads bowed in discussion.
My mother often used to say The world doesn’t only spin round you, Corrie. For all I know, Mr Wharton and Mr Espinosa are not agreeing over Miss Amesbury’s failure to find respectable work but forgot me before my back was turned. Indeed, the more times I look back to see the gentlemen still conversing, the more I believe Mr Espinosa’s query about his sister was a ruse, and that he and Mr Wharton have some business matter to debate.
***
Picturing a tavern crammed with roistering sailors, I wonder what Liz would think if she could see me. But to my good fortune I find a man seated on a bench outside the Hope and Anchor, and when I say I am seeking Mr Dunmore he pulls his pipe from his mouth and says deliberately: ‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear you’ve found him.’
I explain my commission and Mr Dunmore, a stocky, short-necked man whose wig is too small for his great, shining crown, listens with a mocking look, then takes a long draught from his tankard and wipes his mouth. ‘Return to your master and tell him Mr Cheatley has no intention of signing, it having been a gentleman’s agreement between himself and Mr Tuffnell, and signing therefore sup-er-flu-ous to the business.’
‘But why won’t he sign?’ The thought of the tuppence I stand to lose spurs me on to embroider what the agent said. ‘Mr Wharton wishes me to remind you, Sir, that it is usual practice.’
‘Like I said, it’s superfluous. Which is as much as to say, Mr Cheatley don’t need to, he don’t wish to and he won’t.’
His stubbornness is most provoking. ‘Excuse me, Sir, have you asked Mr Cheatley?’
Mr Dunmore holds his pipe at arm’s length and lifts his eyebrows so high I think that paltry wig of his might tumble off his head.
‘You brought me a message, girl; I have a message you may give to Mr Wharton, namely next time he has a request he should step across here and deliver it in person. Mr Cheatley deals with the master, not his whelp.’
I shan’t let a low, crooked, ill-looking fellow such as this speak as if I were no better than the jackdaw that listens to our conversation from the chimney pot.
‘Mr Wharton will be very disappointed, Sir.’ Hoping that Mr Tuffnell’s name will carry more weight than his agent’s, I add boldly, ‘and so will Mr Tuffnell, for Mr Tuffnell takes a particular interest in this matter.’
‘Do he? And what say we to that? We’re not surprised.’ Mr Dunmore bellows with laughter and knocks back the last of his ale, setting down the tankard on the ground and folding his arms. Then he draws a deep breath and closes his eyes as if to take a nap.
I wish I could think of some rejoinder to quash Mr Dunmore, but none presents itself, so I turn and begin my journey back. I have no idea what I might say to Mr Wharton. I rehearse several fine phrases, such as ‘Mr Dunmore is a very rude, obstinate fellow, Sir,’ and ‘I much regret to say that Mr Dunmore is the kind of man who brings disgrace upon his master with the manner in which he conducts his business.’ I settle on, ‘Mr Dunmore refuses to do business with us Sir, and I am sorry but I tried my best.’ It is more civil than declaring that Mr Dunmore is a scoundrel, and his master Mr Cheatley as dishonest as his name implies.
The warehouse, however, is locked on my return, and Mr Wharton nowhere to be seen. The tears I was too proud to shed when Mr Dunmore mocked me threaten to overspill when I reflect I have missed my chance of earning more this afternoon; and with that thought I make my tired way back to All-Saints’-yard, readying myself for Liz’s disappointment at my paltry wage, and the insults I am likely to endure on the subject from Brother Bill.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 29th October, 1703
‘Is the mistress of the house in need of any servant?’
The plain-faced maid at the yard door twists her mouth into a sneer. I should have thought twice before trying for a place in Queen-square, but I dreamt last night of Miss Bridget Lamborne, and woke to the thought that I am good as she. I am certainly better than this buck-toothed baggage, who only shifted to answer the door when I had knocked three times.
‘If my lady were in need of a servant she wouldn’t wait for ‘em to come calling like a tinker. I’m forbid to speak to any who take the liberty of importuning, so if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ She tosses the dirty contents of a bucket into the street, narrowly missing my skirts, and bangs the door in my face.
Telling myself that Queen-square is sure to harbour more than its share of the exacting unkind masters and mistresses I have heard so much about, I walk back to the harbour. I do not have far to go before I encounter Mr Wharton striding down the quay.
I hasten to explain myself.
‘I came to find you after speaking with Mr Dunmore, Sir, but you was gone. Mr Dunmore refused to speak to his master. He took your letter but said plainly that Mr Cheatley would never sign any agreement. I did try to alter Mr Dunmore’s opinion, Sir, but he forbore to listen.’
Mr Wharton shakes his head impatiently. ‘Why are you late this morning? You must take a message to the master of the Prudence immediately. The ship is due to sail tomorrow at first light.’ He hurries me along the quay. ‘See the Guineaman?’ Mr Wharton points at the mouth of the river where among half-a-dozen smaller sailing vessels lies a three-mast cargo ship, its sails neatly furled. ‘That’s the Prudence. Follow the bank until you reach her long-boat—the skipper is a Mr Gip. You’ll know him by his linen waistcoat and
long brown coat. He’s on lookout today for final messages and supplies. Tell him I sent you and he’ll row you to the ship. There, ask for the master himself, Captain Stiles.’
‘But Sir, I can’t go on board a ship.’ For the first time it strikes me how reckless I have been, undertaking work no respectable person would consider.
Mr Wharton gestures at the quays. The only people in sight are labouring men and carters. ‘A fortune hangs in the balance—the whole purpose of the voyage is in peril. I’d go myself if I weren’t due to meet with Mr Tuffnell. Great heavens, girl, Aaron told me you had enterprise and spirit. You will be there and back in two hours.’
My pride is piqued. ‘Thank you, Sir, I have crossed the Avon by ferry-boat without ill effect.’ Then I falter. ‘Though ferry-boats don’t serve as home to a crew of sailors who know they won’t see land for weeks. Why can’t Mr Gip deliver the letter?’
‘Because Mr Gip is a law unto himself and I don’t trust him.’ Seeing my face, Mr Wharton regrets his candour. ‘I mean of course that he is a very sound long-boat captain with an unsurpassed knowledge of the river, but he is not the kind of man I wish to place in charge of a document vital to the successful prosecution of a yearlong voyage. My apologies, I confuse you. I mean that Mr Gip is like many seamen, fond of his rum, and might not scruple to throw my letter to the winds.’
‘And what of me, Sir? What if he decides to throw me to the winds? Or leaves me aboard and rows away before the ship sets sail?’
Mr Wharton grinds his teeth. ‘Very well, here’s sixpence—a whole sixpence, mind—which I will give you now, if you do as I ask. Another thing I will say, if you are still reluctant. Mr Espinosa stands to lose if this affair is not resolved. I know you respect Mr Espinosa, and he helped you in your hour of need. I’m sure you would be pleased to repay the debt and help him in your turn.’
I cannot really hold out any longer under this barrage of ready coin and urgent persuasion, and besides, I have yearned to be on the water ever since I came to Bristol. Although Mr Wharton is blunt and short-tempered, I do not really imagine he would put me in danger, especially when Mr Espinosa would hear of any evil that befalls me.
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 9