The Merchant's Daughter Read online

  ‘A cheese sandwich would be great.’

  ‘They do a wonderful ploughman’s with a local artisan Cheshire from Chorlton’s Cheese.’

  ‘Sounds perfect, what are you having?’

  ‘Another glass of chardonnay. But I’ll watch you eat.’

  While Rachel went to the bar to order, Jayne logged on to the pub’s wi-fi. She then began to slowly trawl through the websites with Rachel looking over her shoulder.

  After forty minutes, two more glasses of lime soda, and having finished her delicious ploughman’s, she stopped.

  ‘Nothing for St Peter’s on the Findmypast, Ancestry or Familysearch websites. The Genealogist has some records, but not for the years we want. There are lots of Cheshire records but not many for St Peter’s.’

  ‘I think the Reverend is quite protective of the church’s records.’

  ‘Not protective enough if he allowed them to be stolen.’ Jayne took a sip of lime soda. ‘There’s just one area left to look.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Perhaps we should have started there first,’ she said as she typed in the web address. ‘The Cheshire Archival and Local Studies office, which is a rather fancy title for a records office.’

  The website appeared on her screen. She checked the pages. ‘Well, it seems they have microfilm of the parish registers for St Peter’s, but I’m not certain if they have the years we need.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Let’s give them a call.’

  Jayne spoke to the duty archivist. ‘Well, it looks like they may have something but they’ll be closed by the time we get there, so I’ve booked an appointment for first thing tomorrow morning. Do you want to come?’

  ‘Try stopping me.’

  Jayne stood up. ‘Great. I’ll take you back to Wickham Hall now, I’d like to get an early night tonight.’

  Rachel drained her glass. ‘Let’s just have one more for the road.’

  ‘One more lime juice and my lips will turn blue.’

  ‘Have a glass of wine then.’

  ‘Not when I’m driving. Seen too many accidents caused by stupid drunken drivers ever to drink and drive myself.’ She sat down again. ‘But you go ahead, there’s one more piece of research we can do while I’ve still got some battery power on the laptop.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This woman, Emily Roylance – there’s something about her that intrigues me. Let’s see if we can find anything.’

  ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘I thought it was “Lay on, Macduff”.’

  Rachel made a moue with her mouth. ‘Respect. How did you know that phrase is from Macbeth?’

  ‘O levels, 1990. I got a B in English even though I hated school. It never leaves you.’

  CHapter ThIRTY

  July 11, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Emily woke up late.

  Her body, her eyes and her head hurt. She had finally stopped writing at two in the morning when the candle had burnt down to its quick and she hadn’t wanted to wake the housekeeper to ask for a new one.

  She checked out of the window. It was a perfect summer’s day; birds were singing and the leaves were gently rustling in the breeze.

  A gentle knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Emily said. As the door opened, she realised she had left her book open on the desk.

  The housekeeper was bustling into the room carrying a tray.

  ‘We’ve got a pot of tea, some soft-boiled eggs, some of Cook’s bread and a pat of freshly churned butter from the dairy.’

  The housekeeper carried the tray over to the bed and laid it on top of the sheets.

  ‘Did you sleep well? By the look of you, you did not. The circles under your eyes are growing darker. The sooner Dr Lansdowne comes to look at you, the better.’

  Emily glanced across at the book. It was still on her dressing table, open for all to see, but apparently Mrs Davies hadn’t noticed it.

  The housekeeper leant over her, tucking in the sheets and adjusting Emily’s nightdress. ‘Now, you eat it all up and I’ll send Prudence up to fetch your tray. We have heard the master will be home tomorrow with Mistress Clara. It will be good to have them both back, don’t you agree? Anyway, I must be away to prepare the house for their return.’ She walked over to the door, stopping with her hand on the handle. ‘Do eat, Miss Emily, we are concerned about how thin you have become in the last few months.’

  And then she was gone.

  Emily heaved a sigh of relief, pushed the tray to one side and leapt out of bed. What had the awful woman said? Henry was returning tomorrow…

  She had to finish her book before then.

  She sat down at the dressing table and took up her pen, dipping it in the ink, and began to write.

  1830 – Liverpool

  The next two months were the worst of my life; I wasn’t allowed to leave the house, my father and brother refused to have any contact with me, my movements were watched day and night by Mrs Trevor and, even worse, I heard nothing from Mr Carruthers. My days were filled with inertia and sadness, my nights with the dreams induced by the liberal doses of laudanum administered by Mrs Trevor.

  At times like these, my thoughts ran amok.

  Had Father scared Mr Carruthers off? Had he abandoned me? Why had he not tried to get in touch?

  I knew nothing other than that which Mrs Trevor deigned to tell me.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear Mr Carruthers has left Liverpool,’ she announced one day. ‘Apparently, you weren’t the only young lady he was courting.’

  ‘That’s a lie, Charles would never behave in such a manner.’

  ‘Your brother has the evidence. Apparently, he proposed marriage to the Danvers girl and some trollop of an actress.’ She sniffed. ‘Your father and brother have been unable to hold their heads up in polite society.’

  I was left alone with my sorrow for the next week. Had Mr Carruthers really behaved so badly? Had he made love to other women besides me? I didn’t know the answer. In fact, I knew nothing any more, except that I was a woman alone in the world. But I resolved to find out the truth, for nothing else but my own peace of mind.

  A week later my father called me into his study.

  ‘You have behaved stupidly, Emily. It doesn’t surprise me, Carruthers took advantage of the frailty of mind of your sex. I shouldn’t be disappointed but I am. The sooner you are married off to a good man, the better.’

  ‘Father,’ I said in my sweetest voice, ‘I realise I have disappointed you and I promise to commit myself to regaining your trust. I hope you will forgive me.’

  He finished his glass of wine. ‘It is to be expected from your sex. I blame your mother, she gave you far too much freedom as a child.’

  At the mention of my dead mother, my eyes naturally filled with tears.

  Father saw this and poured another glass from the decanter, hastily mumbling, ‘You have been chastised enough now, you may eat with the family this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. I have looked forward to this day for so long.’

  ‘Now leave me, I have work to do.’

  I bowed obediently, and tiptoed gracefully to the door, stopping just as I was about to leave. ‘Father, would it be convenient to go to the bookshop? I feel I need to improve my education on the correct way to behave. There is a new edition of the Mirror of Graces by A Lady of Distinction available. I feel it would help me immensely.’

  My father pondered this idea for a moment. ‘I suppose it would be a good idea, as long as Mrs Trevor accompanies you as a chaperone.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ I ran back and kissed him on the head. He reddened, swatting me away playfully and exclaiming, ‘I have work to do, woman.’

  But at least I now had his agreement to leave the house. This I did the following day, accompanied by my shadow, Mrs Trevor.

  But what neither she nor my father knew was that Mr Collins, the bookseller, was an active support
er of the Anti-Slavery League. If I could get a second alone with him, I was certain he would be able to tell me the truth about what had happened.

  As we entered the bookshop on Old Hall Street, a bell above the door rang loudly. Mr Collins ran out from behind the counter. ‘Welcome, ladies, what can I do for you?’

  He was a small, thin man with a pair of pince-nez perched on the end of his large nose like a cow straddling a stile.

  ‘We would like to see some books on the moral education of young women, preferably written by somebody reliable,’ said Mrs Trevor officiously.

  As the bookseller came closer, he peered at me over the top of his glasses. I saw he was about to greet me by name and I raised my finger to my lips, before saying, ‘Something uplifting and Christian, if you have it, Mr…?’

  He nodded at me once. ’My name is Collins and I am at your service, miss. You are in luck, this morning we have received a new consignment of the latest Christian texts from the estimable writer, Mrs Ponsonby.’ He led us towards a table piled high with books.

  While Mrs Trevor buried herself in the prose, looking for something suitable, the bookseller announced, ‘There are some more suitable books over here, miss. Perhaps, you would care to peruse them.’

  I strode over to join him at a bookcase close to the window. ‘Have you heard from Mr Carruthers?’ I asked under my breath.

  He glanced back at Mrs Trevor. ‘He is still in Liverpool. The society is going strong but we have missed you over the last few months.’ Then he corrected himself: ‘Carruthers has missed you.’

  ‘I heard he departed the city, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts.’

  ‘The only broken heart is his own and he has remained here despite the need to work and lecture and organise across the north.’

  My hopes soared at the news. ‘He is still here?’

  The man nodded. ’Come here this time next week and I’ll make sure he will be in the stock room.’ His eyes then glanced across to Mrs Trevor, who was advancing towards us, a book in her hand.

  ’Good lady, Mrs Fazackerley’s Morals for Female Angels, what a fine choice. That is a special reader’s copy provided by the publisher. This week it is only threepence halfpenny.’

  ‘So inexpensive, sir.’

  He leant in towards her. ’A price reserved for ladies of your own elegance and comportment.’

  Mrs Trevor blushed at the compliment, but it meant that every Tuesday we returned to the bookshop to find the latest ‘reader’s editions’.

  Each week, whilst Mr Collins showed these new books to Mrs Trevor, I was left alone in a stock room with Mr Carruthers. We only had ten minutes together but, dear reader, it was time I looked forward to with anticipation every week. We talked of love, life, the movement and our feelings towards each other whilst outside, Mrs Trevor selected her favourite books.

  Even guided by Mr Collins, she had appalling taste in reading matter, but I didn’t care so long as it afforded me time to spend with the man I loved.

  One day, six months after our little subterfuge had been in operation and Mrs Trevor was buried deep in the Christian words of Mrs Tyrack, Mr Carruthers surprised me.

  He knelt down on one knee and said, ‘Dear, dear Emily, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  You can imagine the shock and delight the idea gave me, but I could only think of the obstacles. ‘What about Father? What about my brother?’

  ‘Do not worry. Let us elope to Gretna Green and there we will marry. Once we are legally bound to each other for life, they will then accept us for what we are. Man and wife.’

  So the next week, on a Tuesday, while Mrs Trevor was snoring soundly and my father and brother were both at their clubs, I stole out of the house and took a stage to Lancaster and then to Gretna Green.

  Dear reader, we were married two days later on Thursday, September 23, 1830, over the anvil in the famous blacksmith’s cottage by the Reverend Albert Smith.

  I became Mrs Charles Carruthers.

  I wish I could say we lived happily ever after, but I’m afraid I could not lie to the person reading this, because we did not. My father and brother saw to that.

  Chapter thirty-one

  July 11, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1830 – Liverpool

  The first days after Gretna were filled with both happiness and sadness for my beloved and I.

  Happiness in that we were together, delighting in each other’s company and staying at his rooms in Argyle Street. There were no servants and I busied myself with making breakfast; burnt toast, lukewarm tea and eggs that were still liquid inside. But it somehow didn’t matter. We gorged on our love for each other, food was not important.

  Sadness, though, soon followed. After one week and no communication from my family, I decided to pay them a visit. I knocked on the door and was met by a woman who smiled sourly as I stepped inside. Mrs Trevor had vanished – was that a result of my disappearance?

  I told this new woman that Mrs Carruthers wished to see her father and brother. She kept me in the hall, the hall of my own home, while she went to communicate with my family.

  The answer was not long in coming.

  ‘Mr Jeremiah regrets that he is not aware of any acquaintance by the name of Mrs Carruthers.’

  My face flamed with anger. ‘Will you please tell my father that his daughter is waiting to see him.’

  She smiled again and was joined by a burly footman. ‘Mr Jeremiah anticipated your request. He has told me to tell you he has no daughter.’

  I stood still in the hallway, my father’s portrait staring down at me from the wall. All I could manage was a very weak, ‘Pardon, what was that?’

  The woman opposite me sighed. ‘Mr Jeremiah has no daughter,’ she stated bluntly. ‘He is not receiving visitors today.’

  ‘What about my brother?’ I blurted out. ‘I want to see my brother.’

  ‘Mr Henry also informs me he has no sister.’

  With that, the footman advanced and began to gently push me out of the door.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ I shouted.

  He stepped back.

  The new housekeeper simply said, ‘James has his orders to remove you from the house.’

  ‘Who gave such orders?’ I demanded.

  ‘Mr Jeremiah and Mr Henry agreed. Now, are you going to leave peacefully or do I have to ask James to throw you out?’

  I pulled down the hem of my morning jacket and strode back to the door. Before I left, I turned and said, ‘Please inform my father that I will never grace this house again.’

  ‘You mean to say you will never disgrace this house, or this family, again.’

  I felt my face reddening. ‘I have no family,’ was the only response I could think of before I left, slamming the door behind me.

  A similar misfortune had befallen Charles, but at least his family had agreed to meet with him. Apparently, they had decided that they could not be allied with a slave-trading family such as my own. Charles had argued fiercely that the sins of any family should not be visited on their daughter. However, they remained steadfast. They felt their reputation as Christians was at stake. They would not support or accept me into their household.

  When Charles returned and gave me the news, I cried for a long time, my heart broken by the cruelties that families can inflict on each other.

  Charles comforted me. ’It’s fine, my love, we will be our own family from now on.’

  ‘But what are we to do? What is to become of us?’

  ‘I fear we can no longer stay in Liverpool, my dear. The city is set against us, both traders and abolitionists. We would be shunned in polite society.’

  ‘Damn polite society,’ I shouted, ‘we will be our own society.’

  He sat down beside me and took my hand. ‘And what will we live on, dear? You have no money and my meagre allowance would not keep us in books, let alone food, rent and all the other necessities of life.’

 
I hadn’t thought of money. It had simply never occurred to me.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I have been offered a post in Manchester as secretary of the Anti-Slavery League there. The salary would not be large, but at least it would keep us alive and I would be doing the work I love.’

  ‘But it would mean leaving Liverpool and home.’

  ‘You have no home now, Emily,’ he said gently, ‘your home is with me.’

  I thought about what he had said. It was true, I had no family and no home any more. ‘You are right, Charles, my home is with you, my family is you.’

  ‘We have work to do, Emily. The Reform Act will change the nature of Parliament, it will no longer be controlled by the sugar men and their bought MPs. We have a chance now to free all the slaves in the colonies. Mr Clarkson and Mr Wilberforce are adamant, one more push will finally do it.’

  ‘When do we leave?’ I said as brightly as I could, but inside my heart was shrinking at the thought of living in that dark, dank, dirty town. I would miss my home in Liverpool, with the tang of the sea and the breeze off the shore cleansing the city. Instead, I would get used to the stench of cotton waste and people, always people.

  Chapter thirty-two

  Tuesday, August 20, 2019

  Little Marden, Cheshire

  ‘Give me a second.’ Jayne took out her laptop and logged on to the Ancestry.com website. She quickly found the 1841 census and brought up the page she had saved for Wickham Hall.

  NAME AGE + SEX PROFESSION PLACE BORN

  Henry Marlowe m 37 Independent F

  Clara Marlowe f 35 Independent Cheshire

  Royston Marlowe m 7 Scholar Lancashire

  Emily Roylance f 35 Independent F

  ‘See, there’s Emily Roylance. Who is she and what relation was she to Henry Marlowe? We couldn’t find her birth records in the church.’

  ‘Nor could we find Henry’s. They were probably baptised somewhere else like the reverend said.’

  ‘You could be right. See the last column in this census? It says “Where born, locally or in Scotland, Ireland or Foreign Parts”?’