But by and by the sherry takes the edge away from Mrs Hucker’s awkwardness, and chases off Nell Grey’s doubts about my advancement, and they begin to speculate about my life as housekeeper, the pleasant small room I shall call my own, how it will have a mantelshelf and a feather bed, and a chair and table and a sideboard with plates and cups for my own use, and they agree that if they butter me up I will be sure to invite them in to share a dish of tea and a baked apple now and then.
‘She’ll be good to us, Cook,’ says Nell Grey, taking a sip of her sherry wine. ‘She’ll remember who her best friends were when she first came into Mr Tuffnell’s service.’
They run on until I decide it is time to rein them in. ‘I confess that whatever Mr Tuffnell believes, I may not remain in his employ long enough to be his housekeeper. But I enjoin you two to keep that to yourselves.’
Mrs Hucker shakes her head. ‘Not another surprise. I doubt my old heart can stand any more shocks tonight. Don’t say you’re about to run away to sea. Or is Mr Tuffnell sending you to Africa to barter for some slaves? Or maybe you’re going back to Wiltshire to marry your childhood sweetheart?’
Nell Grey watches me closely. ‘Come on, Corrie. Tell us.’
I shan’t tell them everything, of course. But they are my nearest thing to friends in Bristol.
‘When I have enough saved, I intend to buy my passage to the West Indies. I may stay there or I may come back. But there’s someone in Jamaica I must find again before I die.’
Mrs Hucker is at a loss for once, and looks at me round-eyed. The kitchen is quiet save for the puttering of the fire. Then Nell Grey speaks.
‘Go, Corrie. Follow your heart.’
Another silence, more solemn than the first, then Nell Grey grins. ‘Promise you’ll remember us, when you’re mistress of a hundred acres. Send us a letter now and then, a parcel of sugar at Christmas-time, and a cask of rum.’
She is unfathomably generous to speak in this merry way when her own lover is cold and dead. I could retort that I would never wish to be mistress of a plantation were I to live a thousand years, but instead I rise and kiss her.
Then, when the fire is banked, we retire to our garret, leaving Mr Tuffnell in his parlour to weigh Mr Osmund’s offer and reflect more generally on partners and their usefulness.
Time enough to reveal who it is I seek. That is a story for another night.
***
Thursday, April 3rd 1704
One morning Mr Tuffnell is working at his writing table and I am dusting the ledgers when a sound of hooves draws both of us to the window that overlooks the drive. Mr Wharton and Mr Espinosa are come from Bristol on a pair of hired horses.
Having had a proposal of marriage from my master I find I cannot linger unnoticed as I used to do when visitors arrive. Mr Tuffnell dismisses me when Nell Grey shows the gentlemen in so I take care to leave the door open a crack, and station myself directly outside, broom in hand lest anyone suspect me of that well-worn servant’s trick of eavesdropping.
‘The news is grave, James,’ Mr Wharton begins. ‘The sailor with the information is one of Captain Stiles’s most trusted able seamen. Wilks provided a detailed account, plausible in all respects. The Prudence ran aground just past the 38th degree, precisely where it should have been when the storm struck on December 6th. There were two survivors, the other man died a few days later. Wilks stayed in Lisbon until a Bristol skipper took him on.’
‘Sunk without trace? The crew lost, including William Stiles? I apologise, gentlemen.’ There is a pause; Mr Tuffnell’s voice is strained, and I hear a chink as Mr Wharton pours his employer a glass of sherry.
‘James,’ says the agent after a moment, ‘matters could be worse. You recollect the letter I sent Captain Stiles before the ship set sail? His answer never reached you, but I alluded to the original document when we spoke at the All Hallows feast.’
Mr Tuffnell clears his throat. ‘Spare me the memory, please.’
A moment’s silence; I picture Mr Wharton gripping Mr Tuffnell’s arm in sympathy. ‘Mrs Tuffnell, God rest her soul, never set out to deceive you about the Prudence. She was only concerned you might discover that her claims of owning property in Jamaica were—shall we say—exaggerated.’ A further tactful pause, and Mr Wharton continues. ‘The point is this. When Captain Stiles set sail without replying to my letter regarding Cheatley’s altered terms I took it in my own hands to ensure your share in the expedition was adequately underwritten.’
A rustle of papers, and Mr Espinosa, who has been silent until now, presents Mr Tuffnell with a sheaf of papers.
He riffles through them, bewildered. ‘But how did you pay for this additional insurance?’
Mr Wharton’s voice betrays a certain wry amusement. ‘Since you ask, I borrowed from Mr Josiah Cheatley. We shall have to reimburse Cheatley, and pay his terms of interest, but the policy has paid out, so we have the capital. In fact, I’ve paid off Cheatley already, just this morning. I thought it wise to pre-empt any situation where Cheatley might seek to revise his terms, given his record in such matters.’
Through the chink between the door and the jamb I glimpse Mr Tuffnell’s baffled face. ‘Let me get this straight. You come to tell me that the ship on which my security depends has sunk with virtually no survivors. Then you tell me that thanks to your offices I am better off than I would have been if the ship was now in Guinea bartering for slaves with iron bought at prices which rendered success at best unlikely?’
‘That is the sum of it,’ Mr Wharton admits. ‘Aaron has a draft for you, signed and sealed by Mr Sampson. When you subtract the value of the ship and its cargo, the notional value of the slaves it would have carried, and the value of the sugar and tobacco you would have imported when the Prudence docked in Bristol, you have made a profit clear of eleven hundred pounds.’
A sound of racing footsteps, astonished laughter, and I peep in to see Mr Tuffnell seize Mr Wharton by the waist and spin him round and round in giddy delight. All three gentlemen are grinning, even Mr Espinosa, who surely feels some pity for poor Mr Sampson.
‘Christ’s blood, gentlemen, this calls for more than a thimbleful of sherry. Let me find Cook, and order us a celebratory dinner.’
Mr Tuffnell strides across the parlour, and I am just in time to whisk behind the door before he discovers me and subjects me to a grope and a fumble in his joy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Thursday, May 1st 1704
After the flurry of Mr Wharton’s announcement about the Prudence, life in Clifton returns to the dull quiet that followed the hangings. I am given extra duties, less to prepare me for my future role than because we are short of hands. For Cook and Nell Grey and me the days are a round of chores, preparing meals, tending fires and managing the household in the absence of a scullery maid. So when, this morning, Mr Tuffnell needs a letter taking to his foreman in Queen-square, I jump at the chance of a walk to Bristol. The day is bright and fresh, and I am glad to escape the house and take the air.
With instructions from Mrs Hucker to visit the butcher in Corne-street on my way home, I walk briskly down the hill to the Hot-well, past Jacob’s-wells and over College-green, light of heart to be in the busy streets again and thinking over the day I first set foot in Bristol.
At Queen-square I deliver my letter to a foreman who stands ankle-deep in mud as he and Mr Wharton puzzle over a set of plans. I am told there will be no reply for me to wait on, and it being not yet noon I cannot resist a glimpse of the quays before my journey back to Clifton.
***
As usual, the noise of a dozen ships loading and unloading deafens me, what with the groaning of winches, cries of workmen, and the thunder of wheels on the cobbles as cart after cart arrives, delivers or collects its load, and rattles off towards the city. Wooden crates and hogsheads are stacked along each wharf, and seabirds perch on every ledge and roof, splitting the air with shrieks as they take flight. There are tobacco-chewing sailors, wiry turbaned lascars, shi
p’s dogs of every mongrel breed, shipwrights wielding hammers and carriers smoking pipes, greasy-faced dockers and frowning clerks and black-suited agents, and draymen in smocks, and sweating farriers. I see precious few women besides a fruit-seller in a striped Welsh dress stationed with her basket on a wall below the bridge, and a couple of fancy-dressed girls who loll, legs apart and winking, outside the Sign of the Hope and Anchor. Holding my head high at the catcalls from a pair of grimy-handed colliers, I pick my way to Mr Tuffnell’s warehouse, where I stop and gaze across the river towards the Bristol Channel.
Behind me lies the city, its church towers, spires and chimneys rising through the brown smoke haze; ahead the mist is pierced by masts and cranes. Nearby a skipper with a dinghy laden with water casks sets off towards a Guineaman just visible through the fog, sails furled as it waits in the harbour mouth for the east wind.
‘Miss Amesbury, I hope you don’t plan to act the part of stowaway?’
A slight, dark figure with a familiar dog-eared notebook tucked under his arm appears from Mr Tuffnell’s warehouse. When he doffs his hat, his long black locks fall down, and I smile as he tucks them back under his brim.
‘Good day, Mr Espinosa. If you’re wanting Mr Wharton he’s at Queen-square, speaking with the architect.’
‘I’ve just come from Queen-square. Henry said he’d seen you.’
An awkward pause, while I consider the possibility Mr Espinosa has come to the quays to look for me. ‘I was sorry to learn of your master’s losses from the Prudence, Mr Espinosa. Please give Mr Sampson my regards.’
The clerk smiles wryly. ‘I suspected you’d find out the news one way or another, Miss Amesbury. Where were you hid at our meeting up in Clifton? Behind the panelling in Mr Tuffnell’s study?’
I give him what Liz would call my pert face. ‘I’m heartily sorry Mr Sampson had to pay out such a sum. Is he ruined?’
Mr Espinosa laughs. It is an unusual sound with him, and I like the way his face brightens and loses its usual watchfulness. ‘Dismiss your concerns, Miss Amesbury. Mr Sampson is only a small broker. He sold the risk on before the Prudence left the English Channel.’
‘Sold the risk on?’
‘To a bigger insurance company that can ably afford to compensate Mr Tuffnell and his partners. Henry Wharton, for one, is a hundred pounds richer than if the ship had come home full of rum and sugar.’
I am at a loss for words.
‘The Merchant Venturers and their friends can be depended upon to win out, one way or another,’ Mr Espinosa observes. As if to prove him right a porter staggers past us carrying a sumptuous Turkish carpet, herded by a footman towards a sledge already laden with plump bales of silk.
‘You must be bitter, Mr Espinosa. As the only one who hasn’t come out of it with something.’ I furrow my brow, for even I have my prize money.
‘Mr Sampson is an honourable man and a generous employer. There was no slave rebellion on the Middle Passage such as Henry feared, because the ship never got that far, but Mr Sampson is thankful I alerted him to the possibility.’ Mr Espinosa coughs modestly. ‘He awarded me a small token of his gratitude. Not so small if I compare it with my regular salary. I hope presently to move to better lodgings. There is,’ he hesitates, ‘a good chance I shall be made partner before long.’
‘Sampson and Espinosa. It has a ring to it.’
He cocks an eyebrow, blushing a little.
I turn from Mr Espinosa to gaze at the crowded river. ‘I wonder which of these vessels will make their passage safely home. A ship is lost at sea, and all concerned have profited. The poor mariners on the Prudence paid the highest price.’
‘True, but it is the way of things, Miss Amesbury. At least some three hundred Africans were spared the Middle Passage. Bristol sailors know what they’re in for when they go to sea.’
‘Unless they’re simple country lads pressed by the likes of Mr Roach.’ My eyes follow the plodding steps of a dray-horse as it hauls a sledge towards the back, and I think for a moment of my father, who worked with horses all his life and barely travelled beyond his parish.
‘You miss your home and your family, Miss Amesbury.’ Mr Espinosa never fails to surprise me with his understanding. ‘Bristol must seem harsh to someone who spent her childhood in a Wiltshire village.’
‘Not at all, Sir. Life is as hard and unjust in the country as it is in the city, let me assure you.’
‘Of course.’ Those dark and sympathetic eyes of his. ‘I don’t forget your infant brother, Mistress.’
His kindness softens me. ‘Nor I your sister, Sir. Perhaps your bonus will pay for a trip to London in the spring, so you can visit Miss Hannah Espinosa.’
‘I hope it shall. By the by, you may smile when you hear that among the underwriters forced to pay out to Mr Tuffnell was a certain planter from Spanish Town who owns shares in an insurance company here in Bristol.’
‘Mr Osmund!’
‘Indeed. So you see, Miss Amesbury, Bristol is not entirely inimical to justice, despite appearances.’ He sees me grimace at the long words, and adds, ‘Bluntly, some do indeed get what they deserve.’
‘Yet why not all? Why do those with the most get most? And what of the murderer of those other lads, who got away scot-free?’ I feel an urge to tell the clerk how Davy Roxall died, but dare not implicate my sister. In any case the rumble of a passing waggon makes further speech impossible, and Mr Espinosa, startled by a church clock ringing out the hour, lifts his hat. ‘I’m sure Mr Sampson would understand if I took an hour to accompany you back to Clifton, Miss Amesbury. I don’t like to leave you here alone.’ He looks frowningly at a group of bricklayers, who roll from the alehouse and begin a raucous song for the benefit of the gaudy women waiting at the entry.
‘I like to be alone, Sir. Thank you, but I will stay a little longer. The comings and goings down here interest me.’ The wind is rising, and I turn back to the river, where the pilots in their twin tug-boats slowly spin the Guineaman round to face the Channel. A cry goes up as the boatswain weighs the anchor and the mariners high in the rigging let out the shrouds.
Mr Espinosa begins to protest, but I shake my head. ‘I am a servant, Sir. I can watch, and listen, and think, and no one notices.’ I can tell it crosses his mind to say that he notices me and always has, but after another moment he bows, and straightening his notebook beneath his arm, takes the footpath to the back, leaving me to watch the Guineaman as the wind fills the sails and it begins its journey out to sea.
Acknowledgments
My first thanks are to writer and artist S.E. Crowder, whose marvelous editing and all-round brilliance make a world of difference to my writing life.
The debt I owe to David and Lucy Armstrong is immeasurable.
Deep thanks are due to Clare Brant, who first led me into the eighteenth century, and whose love, encouragement and passion for words have been an inspiration ever since.
Thank you to the members of the Brereton Novel Group: Claire Connolly, Joanna Crowley, Jess Davies, Katie Pierce, Barbara Smith and Kate Taylor. Your dedication was awesome.
To the students who joined my writing class in Sandbach, Cheshire, thank you for ten years’ commitment and creativity. Special thanks to Niki Dalton, Jo Davies, Barbara Jelf, Heather and Paul Savvides, and Val West. Thank you, Lisa Oliver and Liz Middleton, for talking shop, swapping work, and drinking tea.
The writers who welcomed me to their group when I moved to Essex were especially generous with their time in the autumn of 2017. Thank you, Bev Morris, Judi Sissons, Louise Taylor, and Sarah Wragg.
I owe a huge debt to the tutors on the courses I attended, in particular Stephen Booth, Joanna Courtney, Livi Michael, and my supervisor at the Centre for New Writing at the University of Manchester, Ian McGuire. Thanks to Roz Watkins and Sophie Draper for timely advice as I took my first steps into crime.
My friends have been indispensable on the path to publication. The love and support of Marg Bolton, Catherine Anderson, Heathe
r Gage, Sheila Dillon, Joan Bartholomew, Di Sutton, Nicola Swinnerton, Ruth Price and especially Susan Watkins kept me going when publishing a novel seemed an unlikely dream. All writers need friends and readers like Diana Dunn, Jo Pryke and Pauline Rollins, who gave up their time to read my work and offer feedback.
Wendy Graham shared her expertise in publishing and sales, and I am most grateful to her.
To my fabulous editor Yvonne Barlow I owe everything. Thank you, Yvonne, and Claire Bell, my copy-editor, for your sharp eyes.
To Bill, Eleanor and Tom Armstrong-Mortlock, thank you for reminding me (frequently!) that people matter more than writing books.
Lastly, and most of all, I thank Andrew Mortlock.
Kat Armstrong grew up in Bristol, and became an English lecturer after writing a doctoral thesis on eighteenth-century fiction at the University of Oxford. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Manchester, and has written articles for The Guardian as well as a scholarly study of Daniel Defoe.
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