The Merchant's Daughter Page 17

  The old man stroked his beard. ’It’s a pretty sum. A man could do a lot with such a sum.’

  ‘Indeed, Father, we will. After the money is paid, we will quickly put it to use to further grow our business. We will gradually wind down our involvement in the Caribbean, still trading but no longer having the costs of producing sugar or rum. Let others take that risk.’

  ‘And the slaves?’

  ‘They have their freedom, it is enough. A fair bargain.’

  The merchant in Jeremiah saw the trade-off. ‘So that is why you are supporting this bill.’

  ‘Not supporting, no, we could hardly do that given our history. But not opposing either. It will be passed, Father.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when we no longer had estates.’

  ‘We will have land, Father, but not in the Caribbean. Here in England instead.’

  The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’

  ‘I have a plan, Father, which should give our family the future it deserves, positioning it as far as possible from trade and sugar and ships. It concerns a friend of Emily…’

  Chapter foRTY-two

  Wednesday, August 21, 2019

  International Slavery Museum, Liverpool

  On arrival in Liverpool, Jayne parked the BMW and walked with Rachel to the Maritime Museum, an old warehouse next to Albert Dock on the waterfront.

  The archive was on the second floor with the International Slavery Museum on the next floor above it.

  ‘You’ve read the Wikipedia article. It seems the Roylances were one of the Liverpool families involved in the slave trade,’ Jayne said as they waited for the lift.

  ‘My ancestors were involved in the slave trade?’

  ‘That’s what we are going to find out.’

  They took the lift to the second floor and approached the archivist.

  ‘My name is Jayne Sinclair, I booked a table yesterday.’

  ‘I remember the call, Mrs Sinclair. You were interested in the Roylance papers, I believe? There are seventeen boxes in total, but we only allow three boxes for each researcher at any one time.’

  ‘Is there a catalogue of the items in each box?’ asked Jayne.

  The archivist pointed to a computer inside the research room. ‘Please deposit your coat and bags in the lockers and sign in on the book. I’ll call up the catalogue for you. Only pencils and pads are allowed in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can I bring my laptop?’

  The archivist thought for a moment. ‘Yes, but without its bag.’

  Jayne and Rachel placed all their things in a locker and accompanied the archivist to the computer.

  ‘When you’ve decided what you would like to look at, I’ll find the correct boxes for you. One more thing – what is the nature of your research?’

  ‘Family history. I’m a genealogist.’

  The archivist frowned. ‘Funny, you’re the second person this week to look at the Roylance papers.’

  ‘Who was the other person?’

  The archivist smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to say.’

  When she was out of earshot, Rachel leant in close to Jayne and whispered, ‘A bit officious, isn’t she?’

  ‘Just doing her job. Let’s check the catalogue and see if there is anything interesting, shall we?’

  The first three boxes seemed to be account books and details of purchases on behalf of the various estates the Roylances owned in Barbados and Trinidad. The next five boxes were details of the voyages undertaken by the ships of the company from 1787 onwards.

  ‘Most of these seem to concern slave ships, with numbers of slaves bought and sold and the prices obtained,’ said Jayne. ‘Interesting, but not likely to advance our research.’

  ‘A profit and loss of human misery,’ said Rachel. ‘I can’t believe my ancestors were involved in such evil.’

  The next two boxes concerned the company’s expansion after the abolition of the slave trade, including new voyages to India, America, Brazil and China.

  ‘It all seems very businesslike,’ said Rachel as they finished going through the list of letters and books.

  ‘This looks better. One volume on the activities of Mr Henry Roylance in Liverpool. There seems to have been a lot of correspondence with the Merseyside Harbour and Docks Board.’

  ‘Wasn’t he the one who married Clara Marlowe?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Let’s order that box then. There’s only one other left. “Miscellaneous letters and documents.” Should we add that too?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘It could just be a lot of old accounts and invoices, but let’s do it. I’ll fill in the form.’

  Jayne wrote down the numbers on the sheet of paper and handed it to the archivist. ‘Are there any other boxes relating to the Roylance family?’

  ‘Only what’s in the catalogue,’ the other woman announced, without looking up.

  ‘So nothing after 1836?’

  ‘If it’s not in the catalogue, we don’t have it. The company didn’t last long after the death of the founder in 1835. I believe it was wound up in 1838.’

  ‘How did you get the documents?’

  For the first time the archivist looked up. ‘They were found in a large donation of documents on slavery from the Carruthers family, which were given to us in 1903. We only got round to cataloguing the collection in the 1990s.’

  ‘Odd. How did the documents end up with the Carruthers family?’

  The archivist shrugged her shoulders. ‘We’d like to know too. The Carruthers were active in the abolition of slavery movement in the 1820s and 1830s. Strange, though, that they would have papers from one of the leading estate owners and slave merchants of the day. The other researcher was interested in the Carruthers too. I think he looked at box twelve.’ She checked her computer. ‘I was right, he checked out box twelve. Would you like it too?’

  Jayne nodded.

  ‘You’ll have to fill out another form and I’ll bring the boxes to you in about five minutes.’

  Jayne did as she was told and then went back to sit with Rachel.

  ‘This is all a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’ Rachel said.

  Jayne shook her head. ‘It’s research. Going through the remains of the past to discover the truth. Sometimes it throws up nuggets of gold, at other times, handfuls of mud. But no research is wasted, because it helps us eliminate possibilities.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever find the truth. It’s buried too deep in the past. I’ll have to practise my “I haven’t got a clue” face for when the tabloid reporters come knocking on my door on Sunday morning.’

  ‘What will your brother do?’

  Rachel thought for a moment. ’Deny everything, probably. He’s very good at denial, goes with being a politician.’

  Jayne thought it was time to lighten the mood. ‘I always thought denial was a river in Africa.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘That’s one of the worst jokes I’ve ever heard.’

  At that moment, the archivist returned with their boxes. ‘Please don’t mix them up as you are looking at the documents, and I would be grateful if you wore these.’ She placed two pairs of cotton gloves on the table and walked away.

  ‘She frightens me,’ whispered Rachel.

  Jayne glanced across at the large numbers of documents in each box. ‘These frighten me more.’

  Chapter foRTY-three

  Wednesday, August 21, 2019

  International Slavery Museum, Liverpool

  ‘Let’s split the work. You take the first Roylance box and I’ll take the second.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Anything that mentions the Marlowes and the Roylances. The families must be linked somehow.’

  Rachel frowned but opened the box, taking out the first document.

  Jayne did the same. Her first piece of paper was a cargo manifest dated 1812, detailing the storage of rum and sugar in the vessel
Diane on its voyage from the Bahamas to Liverpool. Jayne scanned it. The captain was a Mr Flood and the first officer a Henry Massey. But there was nothing else of interest.

  She looked inside the box. There were many similar-looking documents; checking them all for any mention of the Roylances would take hours.

  Jayne glanced across at Rachel, who was reading her document carefully. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘It’s from 1822. A letter to a Sir Archibald Sutton of the Harbour and Docks Board asking why the wharfage fees have increased threepence for one of their ships. At least, I think that’s what it says, the writing is difficult to read.’

  After one hour they had barely touched the contents of each box.

  ‘This is going to take years, Jayne.’

  ‘I suggest you simply scan the heading of each document rather than read it all. You’ll know fairly quickly whether it covers family or business matters.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  The pace sped up after that, and by 3.30 Jayne had finished her box while Rachel had just twenty documents left in hers.

  Neither of them, however, had discovered any mention of any family or personal matters.

  They both began to feel despondent.

  ‘I don’t know if this is going to work, Jayne. So far there’s been nothing in any of the boxes. If we go through all seventeen, we’ll be here until next year.’

  ‘Let’s take a five-minute break and get some fresh air.’

  They walked downstairs to Albert Dock, an inlet from the Mersey surrounded by old brick-built warehouses that were now home to cafés, tourist shops and restaurants.

  ‘To think, these buildings and this dock used to be heaving with activity; ships thronging the harbour, rigging whistling in the wind, dockers shouting to their mates, sailors preparing for shore leave.’ Jayne stared out into the quiet waters of the dock and its surrounding buildings. ‘Look at it now. Just a restaurant and café area…’

  ‘With some expensive flats in the converted godowns,’ added Rachel.

  ‘How the world has changed.’

  For a moment the quiet of the scene vanished for Jayne and she was transported back to Albert Dock in its heyday. A man in a top hat smoked a long cheroot. A bare-footed sailor knuckled his forehead as he accepted his wages. The soft sound of water lapping against wooden hulls and the caress of the wind across canvas sails. A young man joined the old man smoking the cheroot and showed him a cargo manifest. A young woman holding a parasol to shield herself from the summer sun joined them. A row broke out; what were they saying? She strained to hear…

  ‘Jayne, JAYNE!’

  Rachel was shouting at her.

  Jayne shook her head, trying to dispel the image she had seen of the past.

  ‘You were miles away. Like you weren’t here any more.’

  Jayne couldn’t explain it. Occasionally, she felt such an affinity with a place or a time, that it was like she was swallowed up by it.

  ’It was nothing, Rachel, I was just thinking. When we go back, let’s quickly finish the box you are working on and then jump to the ones from the Carruthers family. I feel they may be more useful to us. We can always go back to the Roylances later.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I’m bored with cargo manifests.’

  On their return to the archive, they scanned the remaining Marlowe box, finding nothing of interest. Jayne returned the finished boxes to the archivist and requested three more of those that remained.

  While they waited, they started on the Carruthers box, taking it in turns to look at the letters and documents.

  It was Rachel who spoke first. ‘These letters are far more interesting. Listen to this, from a Charles Carruthers to the Quaker Meeting House in Manchester:

  “Dear Mr Roughly,

  “Thank you for hosting our meeting of the 23rd at your elegant establishment.

  “The response to my speech was all I could have hoped for and more. Manchester does seem to be welcoming, nay embracing the anti-slavery message with open arms.

  “I was particularly gratified to see the wide range of attendees to my talk. Not only the ladies and gentlemen of your estimable church but a goodly attendance from the men and women of the lower orders who listened attentively and calmly. Would that I could get the same reaction here in Liverpool. Usually, the merchants send parties of rowdy Irish or sailors to break up our meetings. But not in your city. There it seems open to new ideas and new ways of doing things.

  “I thank you also for your tour of your factory and its new machines. To see all their activity and to hear the noise they produced was awe inspiring. Even Blake, I’m sure, would have been impressed.

  “I was disappointed, though, to see so many young boys and girls attending to the machines, some as young as seven years old. Wouldn’t their future needs and those of Manchester be better served with attendance at school?

  “I am sure you, as an enlightened employer, have considered the advantages of some sort of scheme of learning as they work, perhaps in the evening or before work? If we are to eradicate slavery abroad, surely we should also eradicate it at home too? But perhaps that is a discussion for when I return next month.

  “I hope you will be able to organise another meeting with an even bigger crowd for that time.

  “I remain your obedient and faithful servant,

  “Charles Carruthers.”’

  Jayne sat back and thought. ’It does seem the Carruthers family were heavily involved in the anti-slavery movement. I wonder how that went down with the Liverpool merchants and slave owners?’

  ‘Like a cup of cold sick, I imagine,’ answered Rachel.

  Jayne picked up another document from the box. She scanned the first couple of lines and whispered ‘Bingo’ under her breath.

  ‘What was that, Jayne?’

  ‘I think we’ve found it, Rachel. Listen to this.’ And she read the letter out loud.

  Sir,

  I acknowledge your letter of the 16th.

  Please understand that I am no less unhappy with the behaviour of my son, Charles, than you. I fear he has been led astray by your daughter, but eloping to Gretna Green and marrying there without my express permission is both unseemly and ungodly.

  If I had any knowledge of their actions, and I assure you I did not, I would have immediately made sure, with all the force at my disposal, that he would have been unable to commit such a heinous act.

  As for his actions being a slur on the good name of your family, let me remind you, sir, that your family has no good name. You have made your fortune from the enslavement of your fellow man and, as a Christian of many years standing, I cannot abide my family being linked to yours in any way, even through the tenuous links of marriage.

  I have, therefore, disinherited my son from this day forth just as you have disinherited your daughter. Neither he nor his supposed wife will ever cross the threshold of our home, so long as I draw breath.

  I remain your servant, sir,

  James Carruthers.

  ‘But what’s this got to do with me?’ Rachel asked. ‘Emily Roylance ran away to get married to Charles Carruthers in Gretna Green… So what?’

  ‘Give me a second.’ Jayne took out her laptop and clicked on the saved record from the Gretna Green archive.

  Charles Carruthers of the parish of St Nicholas in Liverpool, Lancashire, and Emily Roylance from the parish of St James in Liverpool, Lancashire, were married before these witnesses George McReady and Helen Shipton, this twenty-second day of October, Eight hundred and thirty.

  Jayne thought for a moment, working it all out in her mind.

  ‘Well, we know Henry Marlowe’s name was originally Roylance, and somebody called Emily Roylance was staying with them at Wickham Hall in the 1841 census. A sister perhaps, given her age? We also know that Henry Roylance was living at the same address as the Roylances in Liverpool when he married Clara Marlowe. So it is more than likely that they were the same person.’

  ‘But what
’s the link to my African ancestor?’

  A researcher on the next desk made a loud shushing noise as Rachel spoke a little too loudly.

  Jayne apologised to him and leant in towards Rachel, whispering, ‘I don’t know… yet. But I feel it in my waters, Rachel, there is a link – we just haven’t found it yet. Shall we finish the box? There might be something else inside.’

  Chapter FORTY-four

  July 11, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Emily was tired. Her pen was still in her hand but the words on the page were swimming in and out of focus. She must get this finished, she had so little time left.

  1833 – Manchester

  Charles rushed into the parlour clutching a letter. ‘It is passed, Emily, the bill is passed.’

  I remember looking up from my embroidery. I was feeling slightly nauseous and had been suffering all week. I had not bothered Charles with my illness until I could visit a doctor, and I had done so that morning and received his diagnosis.

  ‘It’s passed, Emily,’ Charles repeated, a look of surprise on his face.

  ’What bill, dear, what are you talking about?’

  ‘A letter from Mr Buxton. Parliament passed the bill on its third reading.’ He scanned the letter. ‘He apologises for taking so long to write to me, but he had a lot of work to do after the passage of the bill. It finally received Royal assent on August twenty-eighth. There have been celebrations in London. The sugar lobby is defeated, and the slaves are to gain their freedom next year, on August first, 1834.’

  He looked up from the letter with tears in his eyes. 'All we have worked for all these years has finally come true.’

  ‘That is wonderful news, Charles. Finally…’

  ‘Mr Buxton writes that some concessions had to be made. The five-year apprenticeship and the payment of twenty million pounds to the slave owners, but the substance of the bill is exactly as it was designed by Mr Wilberforce and Mr Clarkson. The shackles will be broken, the slaves will be free. We should give praise to the Lord.’

  He dropped to his knees and began to pray. ‘Thank you, O Lord, for this gift of your compassion and understanding of your fellow man. Thank you for opening the hearts and minds of those who profit from this pernicious trade to finally accept the error of their ways and free their slaves. It is only through your divine power we have achieved our long-cherished goal. We thank you once again, O Lord, and praise your infinite wisdom and patience for your insignificant subjects here on Earth. Amen.’