The Merchant's Daughter Read online

  ‘It’s mostly crafted in the Perpendicular tradition, but the north transept is in the Decorated style, giving the whole interior a slightly quirky but original effect.’ Reverend Arbuthnot was now in full lecture mode. ‘It’s built from red sandstone and was mostly constructed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but one part – the Marlowe Chapel – was probably built as early as the fourteenth century.’ He pointed to a small family chapel off to the left, with five old wooden pews and a picture of some long-lost ancestor of Rachel’s.

  ‘Look, there’s the font you nearly drowned me in.’

  ‘I didn’t nearly drown you, Rachel, my hand slipped and you became wetter than usual. The whole point of a baptism is to get wet.’

  For an instant, Jayne saw a tougher side to this old cleric, one that had scared many children in the past she was sure.

  For the next thirty minutes, Reverend Arbuthnot guided them around the old church, his voice betraying pride at the beauty of his domain.

  Eventually, Rachel spoke up. ‘Thank you, Reverend, but we have another appointment with my father at one o’clock for lunch. Could we see the parish registers now?’

  Again, Jayne saw a brief flare of anger in the eyes of the old vicar. ‘Well, we mustn’t keep Sir Harold waiting. Follow me. Some of the registers were stolen three years ago, but you can certainly look at the rest.’

  The vicar led them to a small vestry behind a large oak door. He produced a large brass key and unlocked it.

  ‘Was the door locked when the registers were stolen?’ asked Jayne.

  ‘That was what was so strange. I’m sure I locked it that day, but I must have forgotten. Old age creeping on me, no doubt.’

  They walked into a large stone room with rows of books on shelves locked behind a long, barred bookcase.

  ‘We added the security measures afterwards.’ He pointed to the new bars and to a camera mounted in the ceiling. ‘A bit like barring the gate after the horse has bolted, I thought, but the insurance people insisted on it.’

  He walked over to the middle of the bookcase and produced a key from a bunch jangling at his belt. He unlocked the bars, opening them wide to reveal rows of thin old registers, each with a date in faded gold on its spine. ‘Which year would you like to see? The earliest we have is 1723.’

  ‘There are two registers I’d like to look at. The first is 1804,’ said Jayne.

  The reverend reached up and selected a thin, battered register. ‘Here we are, 1804 to 1807. What’s the record you want to see?’

  ‘The birth of one of Rachel’s ancestors, Henry Marlowe.’

  ‘As one of the Marlowes, such a birth would have a unique page at the front.’

  He leafed through the pages, but there was no special entry, and the births for that year covered just twelve pages of flowing copperplate writing.

  ‘Can I look?’ Jayne asked.

  He handed over the book. ‘You’ll find the writing difficult to decipher.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, I’m used to this kind of script.’

  She checked all twelve pages of entries. Nothing for any of the Marlowes.

  ‘Are you sure you have the right year?’

  ‘The census ages for Henry Marlowe were thirty-seven in 1841, and forty-seven in 1851. I suppose he should have been born in 1804. Can I check other years?’

  The vicar handed her the book for 1807 to 1810, taking the 1801 to 1804 volume for himself.

  They both pored over the registers, turning the pages slowly and carefully.

  Finally the vicar shouted, ‘Here’s one.’

  Jayne stood beside him, peering down at the wrinkled finger pointing at an entry written in an almost illegible script.

  ‘Clare, is it?’ he said. ‘Or Dara? But it’s definitely a female not a male, the big F is very clear.’

  Jayne bent closer. ‘Could it be Clara?’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed the vicar, ‘but I thought you were looking for a Henry.’

  ‘We are. But I seem to remember Henry’s wife was called Clara.’

  ‘A coincidence. Common enough name in those times. Shall we keep looking for a son and heir?’

  Jayne nodded and returned to her ledger, but there was no mention of any more Marlowe births, either male or female, for the period.

  ‘Can somebody tell me what’s going on?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘I just thought I’d check one of your ancestors, Henry. According to the census, and the family tree, he was born in 1804 but doesn’t seem to have been registered. He had a sister, Emily Roylance, who was born in 1806 and appears in the census but not in the family tree. She also has a different surname, so perhaps she was a widow using her husband’s name. Anyway, they were both living at Wickham Hall in the 1841 census. What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Never heard of her before.’

  ‘It’s a mystery we should solve.’

  ‘Perhaps the births were registered in a different parish,’ suggested Reverend Arbuthnot.

  ‘But the Marlowe births and baptisms have always been celebrated at St Peter’s. It’s a family tradition,’ said Rachel.

  The vicar just shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Jayne. ‘The second area I’d like to research would be the period from 1830 to 1841, and we’re looking for the birth of Royston Marlowe. According to the census, he was born in 1834. There was no registration of births until 1837, so the only way to trace the birth is through the parish registers.’

  The vicar’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any registers for the period from 1827 right through to 1842. They were stolen three years ago.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. All the birth and marriage registers.’

  ‘So there’s no record of Henry Marlowe’s marriage either?’

  The vicar shook his head.

  ‘Was anything else taken?’

  ‘It was very strange, nothing else vanished except the registers. You see, we keep the gold crucifixes, plate and chalices locked away in a safe – even the chasubles are kept in a locked wardrobe, but I never thought anybody would steal some old books.’

  Jayne noticed the vicar’s eyes drift down to the ground for a second, and his feet shuffled nervously.

  ‘That’s a shame. Jayne, what are we going to do?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Mr Arbuthnot, were the registers transcribed before they were stolen?’

  ‘I can’t remember. They may have been.’

  ‘What does that mean, Jayne?’

  ‘The Church of the Latter Day Saints, the Mormons to you and me, have been transcribing old registers for years. They may have the information we’re looking for on microfilm.’

  ‘Where can we see it?’

  ‘Back in Manchester. There’s a research centre in Wythenshawe.’

  ‘All roads lead to Manchester. Can you visit them today?’

  ‘I’ll need to call first and check if they have a copy of the registers for the church.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘We’ll need to order one, but that could take time – up to two weeks.’

  ‘We don’t have that long. The programme goes out on Saturday and it’s Tuesday already.’

  ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’

  Rachel leant in and whispered so the old vicar couldn’t hear. ’If you’ve finished here, we can call them from the pub. I’m dying for a glass of wine.’

  Jayne nodded. ‘There’s nothing more here.’

  Rachel strode over to the vicar and hugged him again. ‘It’s time to go, Reverend.’

  The old man smiled. ‘You must come again soon, when we get the clock fixed.’

  ‘I will, I promise. You know I always love to see you.’

  Rachel took Jayne by the arm and led her out of the vestry. Just then, an idea struck the genealogist. She stopped and turned back.

  ‘Reverend Arbuthnot, did David Marlowe see the registers before they were stolen?�
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  The vicar hesitated for a second before answering. ‘I… I think he did. He was going through the records at roughly the same time, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend.’

  Jayne and Rachel walked down the nave and out of the old church, hearing the vicar calling to them as they left: ‘Please give my regards to Sir Harold, won’t you?’

  Chapter TWENTY-seven

  July 10, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1827-30 – Liverpool

  Over the next three years I disobeyed my father regularly, much to his unhappiness.

  After that fateful first argument, I was sent down to Wickham Hall to spend time with Clara, my friend from school, and her father.

  I must say she had changed in the intervening years, becoming bitter and old before her time. Her father was no better; a perverted man constantly railing at the imprecations of the modern world and the rudeness of his servants. He tried to importune me at every opportunity and I always had to be careful never to be alone with him, a task I accomplished by taking long walks or rides with Clara, and locking my door at night.

  After a month or so, Father relented and I was allowed to return to Liverpool. I think he missed me even though I had sorely disappointed him.

  I resolved on my return to play the dutiful daughter but, secretly and without his knowledge, began to work for the anti-slavery movement. I managed this for almost two years; attending meetings, talking with sympathisers, arranging Mr Carruthers’ diary and being the unofficial secretary of the movement. I was helped in all this by Rosie, who covered up my doings, and by the use of a subterfuge which had worked for me before; the creation of an afternoon book club.

  Myself and the sisters in the movement were able to meet and work out our plans without being disturbed. Indeed, the book club and its activities became so successful that we managed to recruit most of the eligible daughters of the merchants of Liverpool.

  We were a trojan horse at the centre of polite society.

  Mr Carruthers was able to attend meetings when he was in Liverpool. Unfortunately, his lecturing took him across the north as far as Manchester, Leeds, Hull and Lancaster. We kept up a lively correspondence in his absences, the letters sent in care of Rosie in case my father ever asked who was sending me mail.

  In two years, the movement became stronger and stronger. We kept moving motions in Parliament, sending petitions and encouraging the people to make their views known.

  Mr Carruthers was certain of our success, as was I. Together, we would win the day and help free our fellow man from enslavement.

  All was going well, and I had managed to keep my subterfuge secret until one day my brother saw me in the company of Mr Carruthers after a meeting of the ‘book club’. What he was doing in that area, God only knows. I hate to think he was tipped off by one of my fellow society members.

  He accosted us at the entrance to the Philosophical Society, where we had been holding our afternoon meetings.

  ‘Sir,’ my brother asked Charles, ’what are your intentions towards my sister?’

  Mr Carruthers glanced across at me. ‘Sir,’ he answered in return, ‘I have no intentions towards your sister but, if she will consent, I would be the happiest man on earth if she agreed to be my wife.’

  Well, reader, my heart soared when I heard these words. I had dreamt of such an outcome but never imagined it could actually occur. As a lady, I would have hoped the proposal had been made in more romantic circumstances but I had, at last, heard the words from his own fair lips.

  ‘Emily,’ my brother spoke to me, ‘you are to return home with me immediately.’

  ‘Henry,’ I replied, ‘I will not. You have no right to order me to do anything.’

  I felt Mr Carruthers’ hand on my bare arm. The touch produced a tingling sensation, the like of which I had never experienced before. ‘Emily, you should return home with your brother. I will visit your house this evening and speak to your father.’

  My first reaction was to say no and stand my ground beside the man I loved. But he spoke again. ‘You must consider your reputation, it is better to return home.’

  In the face of his words, my resolve disappeared like water off a hot stove. I nodded my head and walked back home with my brother.

  Oh reader, I wish I had stayed by my true love’s side.

  Chapter TWENTY-eight

  July 10, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Emily was feeling tired, her back stiff from the effort of bending over the desk to write. She had not realised that putting pen to paper was such hard work. Either that or living at Wickham Hall had softened both her muscles and her wits.

  She stood up and stretched. Outside the weather was perfect, the light still shining as the swifts soared over the formal garden, their curved wings slicing through the air, each one calling shrilly to the other.

  She checked outside the door. A tray of food had been placed there with some tea. She ate it ravenously even though the meat and the dumplings were cold, as was the tea.

  She thought about ordering some fresh tea to be brewed but decided against it. The book would not write itself and she had such a lot to do before Henry returned.

  She had to get her story finished before then.

  1830 – Liverpool

  The evening did not go well for me. As soon as I arrived home, I was sent to my room and told to wait.

  I sat there alone for a long while, staring at the wall, hearing voices downstairs but unable to comprehend the words, until the housekeeper, Mrs Trevor, came into the room.

  ‘Where is Rosie?’ I asked.

  ‘Rose has lost her position. She is no longer employed by this household.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was caught stealing and has been reported to the police.’

  ‘Rosie? Stealing? Rosie would never steal from this family.’

  ‘Your brother caught her with a pair of candlesticks in her bag.’ The housekeeper smiled malevolently. ‘That is the last we will be seeing of Rose McPartlan.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

  ‘She’ll be tried and sentenced as usual. Transported for life, I should imagine.’

  ‘What is to happen to her family?’

  ‘She should have thought about that before she stole.’ Another smile crept across Mrs Trevor’s face. ‘You may be interested to hear that Mr Carruthers has just arrived. He’s waiting in the ante-room for your father and brother.’

  ‘I must go and see him,’ I cried, rising from my seat in front of the dressing table. I rushed for the door only to find the route blocked by the housekeeper.

  ‘You shouldn’t go down. These things are best left to the men.’

  ‘But I must see him.’

  ‘Your brother has ordered me to keep you inside here, miss.’ The housekeeper locked the door, placing the key in her pocket.

  I lunged forward, trying to get at the key, but suddenly found myself in Mrs Trevor’s ice-cold grip.

  ‘You should do as you are told, miss, like a properly brought-up girl.’

  I was pushed back roughly towards the bed.

  ‘You will stay here, until the men have finished.’

  As the housekeeper finished her sentence, I heard shouting from down below, followed by the slamming of a door and more shouts.

  ‘It sounds like the men have finished their discussions. I will go down and see if the master requires a glass of wine.’ She unlocked the door and went out.

  I rushed after her, desperate to run downstairs and see Mr Carruthers, but I heard the key turning in the lock behind her.

  I banged on the door and rattled the handle but to no avail. The housekeeper had locked me in: a prisoner in my own home.

  What had happened downstairs?

  The raised voices had not sounded good. Had Mr Carruthers already departed? Had Father sent him away, never to return? Would I never see him again? Never gaze upon that radiant face or his soft
brown eyes? Would I never hear his voice again?

  And poor Rosie, she would never steal from the family. Her one crime was loyalty to me.

  For the first time in my short life, I felt totally alone.

  What would become of me?

  Chapter TWENTY-nine

  Tuesday, August 20, 2019

  Little Marden, Cheshire

  Jayne and Rachel sat in one of the small snug rooms of the village pub, the King’s Arms.

  ‘I had my first drink in here when I was fifteen,’ said Rachel, sipping her glass of Chilean chardonnay. ‘This place always brings back memories for me.’

  ‘I think I had my first drink around that age too. A glass of snakebite, vicious stuff.’

  ‘Half bitter, half cider?’

  Jayne nodded.

  ‘Been there, drunk that. Cheers.’ Rachel clinked her glass against Jayne’s lime soda. ‘What are the next steps? I think we’re running out of time.’

  ‘Give me a second and let me call the family research centre.’ Jayne picked up her mobile and scrolled through her contacts, hoping the number would be there. Luckily it was. Her call was answered on the third ring by a friendly voice.

  After a short conversation, the man confirmed they didn’t have the parish registers for St Peter’s on microfilm and they hadn’t yet been digitised.’

  ‘When will the digital versions be available?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know, but all our records should be fully digital by the end of 2020.’

  ‘I need the information earlier, I’m afraid. Thank you for your trouble and sorry for bothering you.’

  Jayne looked across at Rachel, who was on her second glass of chardonnay, as she hung up. ‘No luck, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  Jayne pulled out her laptop. ‘We try online. There are a few sites which might have the records.’

  ‘Do you want something to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘I thought you said you were meeting your father?’

  ‘Oh, that was just a little fib for the reverend, otherwise he would have been lecturing on his flying buttresses and his architraves for the next year. So, what would you like?’