The Merchant's Daughter Read online

  This man had perfected the Hugh Grant approach to English charm down to a fine art. ’No apology is necessary, Mr— David.’

  ‘Do have another scone…’

  She was about to reach for another delicious morsel when she stopped herself. She wasn’t born yesterday. All this charm and hospitality were being lavished on her by David Marlowe not because she was a lovely person, but because she had been appointed by his sister to investigate the family history.

  She placed her china cup, its Darjeeling White tea still radiating good health, back on the saucer. There was a faint ring as the two pieces of china touched each other. ‘Thank you for the excellent scones, but I didn’t come all this way to drink tea nor to take up too much of your precious day. It’s time to work. You were going to show me the family tree you compiled, I believe?’

  David’s face went through three emotions in the space of two seconds. Shock. Irritation. Annoyance.

  ‘You can be very blunt, Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘Do call me Jayne. I suppose I can, but I’ve only been given a week to solve this puzzle by your sister and today is already the second day.’

  The schoolboy charm appeared again. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to change your mind?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Working for my sister. Frankly, she’s a wonderful actress but a bit of a diva. She was always indulged by our mother. She should have settled down long ago, in my opinion.’

  Jayne couldn’t stand this any longer. ‘By settled down, you mean found a man, had children and ran the home like a dutiful wife?’

  ‘There are worse things to do.’

  ‘And there are better. But I think we shall have to disagree on women’s role in society. You were going to show me your family research,’ she said, standing up and smoothing down her dress, ‘but if it’s not convenient then I’ll start the long drive back to Manchester.’

  He stood up too, the mask of civility slipping. ‘You are an impatient woman, Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘And a bloody difficult one. Or so my ex-husband says. But I’m rather proud of that. It’s always funny how a woman becomes “difficult” the moment she is seen to be good at what she does.’

  David rolled his eyes at her little speech. ‘The chart is rolled out in the anteroom. Follow me.’

  He strode off without touching her elbow this time. She knew she had been rude but it was quite deliberate. She could never play these people’s games. She had to be herself; a blunt northern ex-copper who got the job done. And she only had five days left to do it.

  David Marlowe opened a concealed door in one of the bookcases and stepped through into a long room with a central oak table that took up most of the space. On the table, a parchment scroll was unrolled and weighted down with glass paperweights in each corner.

  ‘I commissioned this from Debrett’s in London. Of course, my research was only on the most recent members of the family. The original research was completed by a famous herald from the 1850s, a Mr Fairbairn, during the lifetime of Henry Marlowe, my great-great-grandfather – the man in the portrait,’ he added, by way of explanation.

  ‘Why did he commission the research?’

  David Marlowe shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. As far as I can work out, it was actually commissioned by Henry’s wife, not himself. Henry was a busy man. One of the bloody railways he built still runs across my land.’

  Jayne listened attentively. She would have to look into this Mr Fairbairn and check out his work.

  David sniffed. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an estate to run. You can call Mrs Davies if you require anything.’

  ‘Thank you, I won’t be long. You also said you had a set of your own DNA results?’

  ‘They are in the drawer.’ He pulled out a printed set of results from Ancestry.com, passing the pages across to Jayne. ‘As you can see, no African ancestry.’

  Jayne quickly scanned the printout. Irish, Welsh, English and a touch of Viking, but definitely no African. ‘Thank you, Mr Marlowe.’

  ‘But I already knew I had no Ghanaian ancestry.’

  ‘How could you be so sure?’

  He tapped the stiff parchment that was unrolled on the table. ‘Because this family tree tells me I don’t.’

  He stared at her for a moment before turning to leave. As he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to her. ‘My family and its reputation are very important to me, Mrs Sinclair. I will stop at nothing to ensure they are not sullied in any way.’

  Chapter sevenTEEN

  July 09, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1819 – Liverpool

  I started at Miss Fanshawe’s Academy for Young Ladies two weeks after my meeting with Sir Archibald and his wandering fingers.

  It was not far from my house on Hope Street, just opposite the Cathedral. On the first morning, Rosie dressed me in a simple calico shift and soft canvas boots. She sat me down at my dressing table and proceeded to arrange my hair in ringlets.

  ‘You must be so excited, milady, going to school and all that.’

  ‘Why? All they will teach me is how to make small talk, embroider, manage a home, serve my husband and hang on his every word.’

  ‘And so you should, milady. How else do you expect to find a good husband unless you can do those things?’

  ‘You can’t do those things...’

  ‘And I don’t have a husband.’

  ‘But you have me.’ I turned round and gave Rosie a hug. In the short time I had known her, Rosie had already formed an unbreakable bond with me and, even though she was only six years older, the maid had become a replacement for my mother; somebody to whom I could tell everything.

  ‘Now, you come along, milady, school and Miss Fanshawe are waiting. We will walk there together.’

  ‘Don’t bother, I know the way.’

  ‘Oh, milady, a young woman cannot walk the streets on her own. Whatever would the men think?’

  ‘They can think what they want.’

  ‘No, they can’t. I will accompany you to school every day, milady.’

  ‘Please call me Emily.’

  ‘Oooh, I couldn’t do that, milady. You father would have my ears for purses if I did that. Better I call you milady, pretend it’s your name. So let’s be off, we can’t keep Miss Fanshawe waiting.’

  The Academy, as it was known locally, was a townhouse that had been converted into a school by Miss Fanshawe’s brother. There were nineteen other girls in attendance on the morning I stepped inside, all tutored in the Madras system of education. That is to say, the girls were broken up into four groups of five, each headed by a senior girl who was the class monitor, teacher, disciplinarian and general factotum. All four groups were supervised by Miss Fanshawe, a stout, overdressed woman with a large bosom and a tendency to overheat even in the coldest weather. This could be attributed to her desire to have roaring fires in each room, fed by a relay of servants.

  ‘Girls,’ she used to intone regularly, ‘it is a well-known fact that the human brain needs warmth in order to function. At Miss Fanshawe’s Academy, we ensure the brain is kept in a snug, warm and nurturing environment.’

  Unfortunately, the teaching didn’t stoke much warmth amongst the pupils, all of whom were the daughters of the merchants of Liverpool and the surrounding districts. These modern men, determined to educate their daughters in order that they procure satisfactory marriages, filled up the places at the school as soon as they became available. This was despite the manifest evidence from bishops and members of parliament that educating women merely served to give them ideas above their station. It was with these warnings in mind that Miss Fanshawe had designed the curriculum.

  Mornings were given over to the arts of sewing, embroidery and polite conversation. The afternoons were for dancing, general deportment and managing a household. Monday and Wednesday mornings were spent on religious education, whilst Tuesdays and Fridays were allocated to reading and writing. Arithmetic
was taught as and when it became necessary, for example, when a butcher’s bill was presented to the household accounts. Or when a servant’s wages were divided into quarters from a yearly sum.

  It soon became apparent that I knew how to read far better than my teacher, the class monitor – a girl of seventeen, Clarice Gladstone. She was the granddaughter of one of Liverpool’s most famous merchants, but unfortunately the brains of the rest of the family had been omitted for her generation. She was, however, a particularly fine embroiderer, and we soon became firm friends.

  ‘Emily, you take the class for reading. It tires me so.’

  The book in question, The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Mrs Hannah Glasse, had been assigned by Miss Fanshawe. While it may have been a fine book for a cook, it wasn’t the best reading for a group of young girls.

  I had in my bag a copy of Mrs Stanhope’s Madalina. I took it out and began reading. These words were much appreciated by the other girls, so much so that we were joined by two other classes as I read them aloud. We soon formed our afternoon reading group unknown to Miss Fanshawe, who spent the time from two to four in the afternoon in her bedroom on the second floor, supposedly preparing the next day’s lessons but in actuality taking a post-luncheon nap. None of the class monitors minded this arrangement, as it meant they could do what they wanted rather than waste time looking after a gaggle of young girls.

  Over the next year, books were brought in by everyone and we took it in turns to read. Mrs Edgeworth’s tales were appreciated for their morality and Mr Scott’s Rob Roy was shocking in its physicality. Indeed, the reader, a young girl of fourteen, blushed and stammered so much during the telling of the tale I had to take over from her.

  In March 1820, I took Miss Austen’s latest to our reading club; Northanger Abbey and Persuasion, both published after her death. We were all particularly taken by the story of the heroine, Catherine Morland, a young and naïve girl who entertains the reader in her journey to a better understanding of the world and those around her. In the course of the novel, she discovers that she differs from those other women who crave wealth or social acceptance, as instead she wishes only to have happiness supported by genuine morality.

  This led to many a spirited discussion amongst the girls about love. I was one of those who advocated the importance of happiness in marriage rather than an adherence to duty. I was shocked by how many of the girls disagreed with me. Clara, one of my best friends at the time, was a particularly fervent supporter of the duty faction.

  One day, we were discovered by Miss Fanshawe as we debated the morality of the slave trade after reading some of Mr Wilberforce’s pamphlets from earlier in the century. Again, I found myself in a minority of one as most of the girls argued that the benefits of being a slave far outweighed the disadvantages of a lack of freedom.

  The memory of King Wiltshire lying in the shed with blood oozing out of his leg wound fortified my will to argue against my fellows, and I must admit to raising my voice at their lack of humanity. Unfortunately, my shouts must have awakened Miss Fanshawe because she came down to the drawing room and discovered us in mid-discussion.

  ‘What is going on here?’ she asked from the door, adjusting her linen sleep cap.

  We all stayed quiet.

  ‘What is going on here?’ she repeated.

  Of course it was me who answered. ‘We are reading, Miss Fanshawe.’

  ‘Reading...’ she bellowed. ‘Reading is bad for young girls. It is a well-known fact that the brain is stunted by reading and, even worse, the eyes grow milky and unfocussed from staring at the words on the page.’

  ‘But, Miss Fanshawe—’

  ‘But me no buts, Miss Roylance. Reading is henceforth banned from this establishment. We will have no more truck with books.’

  ‘But, Miss Fanshawe, how are we to learn anything?’ Again, I was the only one who spoke. The other girls just sat there with their mouths open.

  ‘Do you need books to embroider?’ she asked everyone.

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Do you need books to sew?’

  Again, they shook their heads.

  ‘Do you need books to be a good wife?’

  The other girls hesitated.

  ‘Well, do you?’ Miss Fanshawe shouted.

  All the girls shook their heads in unison.

  ‘There you have your answer, Miss Roylance. There will be no more books at this Academy.’

  ‘What about the Bible?’ I asked. ‘That is a book.’

  Miss Fanshawe frowned at me and then pronounced, ‘The Bible is not a book, Miss Roylance, it is the word of God. Remember that and you will go far in life.’ She then flounced out, slamming the door behind her.

  For the next five years at Miss Fanshawe’s Academy for Young Ladies, we never saw another book. Everything was demonstrated first by the class monitors and we merely copied it. That’s not to say we didn’t read – we were not going to give up one of the pleasures of life. However, it wasn’t allowed at school, so we did it in the evenings at my house while Father and my brother were still at the office or entertaining in their Club.

  I left Miss Fanshawe’s at the tender age of nineteen with an ability to sew, dance, make small talk and balance a book on my head, but with little other knowledge.

  No wonder then that, when I met a well-read man, I embraced him with both arms.

  Emily put down her pen and rubbed her eyes. There had been a knock on the door an hour ago, which she had ignored. Perhaps it was the servants leaving food for her?

  For the first time in many months she actually felt hungry. She checked outside the door. A plate of cheese, pickle and bread lay on a tray accompanied by a small carafe of wine.

  She took the tray inside her bedroom and devoured the food, finishing the carafe too.

  That night she had the best sleep she could ever remember.

  Chapter eighTEEN

  Sunday, August 18, 2019

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  On the drive back to Manchester, Jayne decided a little Elbow was needed. She put The Best Of CD in the player and chose Lippy Kids, skipping over the first track, Grounds for Divorce, for obvious reasons. The velvety strings kicked in, followed by Guy Garvey’s lush voice. After a few moments she found herself singing along to the chorus; ‘build a rocket, boys’.

  One day she would build her own rocket and soar. Until then, the DNA problem presented by Rachel was becoming more and more complicated.

  After David Marlowe had issued his threat, Jayne had knuckled down to comparing the scroll with the family tree sent by Rachel. Both matched exactly, with every family member tracking back to the time of William the Conqueror.

  She had only been working for fifteen minutes before there was a tap on the door. An older man entered, looking like an older version of David, wearing a similar jacket and having the same blue eyes. He had advanced towards her with his hand held out. ‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m Sir Harold Marlowe.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Jayne Sinclair.’

  ‘You’re the genealogist my daughter hired?’

  Jayne nodded.

  ‘How is the research going? Not my field at all, more my son’s hobby, I’m afraid. Give me a company spreadsheet any time.’

  Jayne pointed to the unfurled scroll. ‘You have illustrious ancestors. Not many families can trace their lineage all the way back to a vassal of William the Conqueror.’

  Sir Harold sniffed. ‘I suppose so. Doesn’t interest me, I’m afraid. I find all the family history stuff a little oppressive. Nothing can be gained from staring into the past. Look to the future, I always say. That’s where we should be heading, not glancing over our shoulder at the past.’

  ‘Not a common view. Without the past, would you have all this?’ Jayne gestured to the house and its contents.

  ‘I find it all a bit of a burden, actually. Since my wife died, I moved out to a dower house on the estate. I found living here so uncomfortab
le. My father loved it, of course, and so does my son. The love of the place seems to have jumped a generation with me. Oh well, I’ll leave you to your papers. If you need anything, just ask Mrs Davies.’

  He then left the room, vanishing as quietly as he had entered.

  As she drove down the M56, Jayne replayed the conversation in her head. A man with a long family history who seemed to hate the past. Why was that? Was there more to the family than she knew? She had quite liked the old man, though. He had a shyness, a diffidence that was missing in his son.

  Automatically, she signalled right to overtake a lorry pulling out in front of her. The family tree on its parchment scroll seemed to state conclusively that there was an unbroken line back to 1066, but was that true? How had the family survived for so long? And what about David and Rachel – why were the two sets of DNA results so different? Had the Ancestry.com labs made a mistake? Or had they simply missed the African element when they had tested David Marlowe?

  She yawned. It was always so boring driving on motorways. Next time, she would take the A56. It was a slower road but at least there was more to see. Until then, Guy Garvey’s voice would comfort her like a velvet blanket, singing, ‘It looks like a beautiful day’.

  And she realised that it was indeed a beautiful day because, despite Paul and the divorce, despite the Marlowes and their threats, and despite the problems of Rachel’s ancestry, Jayne loved every moment of this. Research energised her.

  She was good at her job. Scratch that, she was great at her job.

  She was going to solve the riddle of Rachel’s past.

  Who was the Ghanaian ancestor?

  Chapter nineteen

  Monday, August 19, 2019

  Manchester Museum, Oxford Road, Manchester

  Jayne stood outside the doors of Manchester Museum. In her left hand she felt the weight of Rachel’s necklace in its box. She had rung the museum yesterday, asking to meet with a specialist in antique jewellery.

  ‘You’d want to speak with Mr Livesey. What he doesn’t know about jewellery isn’t worth knowing,’ they had told her.