The Widow’s Secret, page 17
“Fancy a coffee?” Jane texted back, and Rachel’s eyes stung. She was so kind, and Rachel knew she needed a friend right now, more than ever.
“That would be lovely.”
Just over an hour later she was sitting in the local archives centre, asking the kindly archivist to pull up anything that mentioned the Fentons, and make photocopies. She’d also sent an email to her friend Soha at the British Library, asking her to photocopy the Fenton Collection and send her the pdfs – a huge favour but one she hoped Soha would agree to.
It felt good to focus on something other than her mother and the half-formed questions that kept flitting vaguely through her mind. Much better, much easier, to think about James Fenton, slave trader, ship’s captain, and try to figure out how his pocket watch had ended up at the bottom of the Irish Sea. If there was a mystery there, Rachel was determined to unravel it.
The local archives didn’t have very much on the Fentons, but it was enough to pique Rachel’s interest yet again: their address – a house on Queen Street that was still standing; Abigail’s presence at a meeting at the assembly rooms on Howgill Street; and Abigail’s attendance and membership at the Methodist chapel on Michael Street.
“That wasn’t built until 1761,” the archivist explained. “So it would have been quite new, and as it is not noted that James Fenton or his wife’s family were Methodists, I imagine it was something of a dissension. Most of the prominent merchant families of that time would have been staunchly Church of England.”
“Interesting,” Rachel murmured. She hadn’t learned anything, not really, but she still felt as if she had. She’d been given a glimpse into this other world, and she wanted to see more.
She had twenty minutes before she was due to meet Jane, so she decided to walk down Queen Street and take a look at the Fentons’ former house.
When she reached it, however, it proved to be a disappointment; it had been made into flats with a modern façade years ago, and now looked sadly worse for wear, with barely a hint of the fine townhouse with warehouse attached, according to the records, that it once must have been.
Rachel stood in front of it for several minutes, trying to imagine what it must have been like once upon a time. Her eyes fluttered closed as she pictured the scene – the horse-drawn carriages, the maids hurrying on errands for their mistresses, the smell of coal smoke and manure in the air, both a hallmark of eighteenth-century life.
She pictured the house – not with its soulless boxy exterior, but having an elegant Georgian façade with large, sash windows and a brass knocker on the smartly painted door.
And then she tried to picture the Fentons, although she’d never seen portraits of them. James, Abigail, and their daughter Adelaide. What had they looked like? What had they been like? And how had James Fenton, captain of his own ship, The Fair Lady, on a voyage from the Caribbean with a cargo of sugar and rum, foundered off the coast of Cumbria, so close to home?
Rachel’s phone pinged with another text from Jane: “At the café now! Can I order you a latte?”
“Yes, thanks,” Rachel texted back. “I’ll be there in 5.”
She glanced back up at the house, its mirror-like windows giving nothing away, the door a modern, metal one with a silver handle, a row of buzzers next to it. All so different from what it once was. What it should still have been.
As she was turning away, someone left the house, wheeling a bike out, a woman in Lycra with braided hair and multiple piercings in both ears. She glanced indifferently at Rachel before looking away, and with her heart strangely heavy, almost as if she were grieving the house along with so many other things, Rachel started walking towards the café.
Jane had ordered them both lattes and had nabbed the best table at the back, with deep, squashy armchairs and a low coffee table between them.
“What kind of emergency?” she asked as she handed Rachel her latte. “You poor thing. No emergency is actually small, is it?”
“Well, some are bigger than others.” Rachel took a sip of her coffee as her mother and her diagnosis, the hospital – all of it – came rushing back to her. For a few blissful hours she’d been able not to think of it. It had almost felt like forgetting, except of course she hadn’t. It was her mother who was forgetting – or perhaps remembering. He knows why. What decades-old conversation had she been having with her father? Rachel was afraid to ask. To know.
“Is your mum all right?” Jane asked, blowing on her coffee, her kindly face wreathed with concern.
“Yes and no. She had a fall and was taken to hospital, and that’s all mostly fine, but…” Rachel hesitated. “They’ve diagnosed her with vascular dementia.”
“Oh, Rachel!” Jane reached over to squeeze her hand. “How terribly difficult. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Me too.” Rachel managed a small smile. “We’ve never had the best relationship, and I have a feeling this is going to make it worse.”
“That really is so hard.” Jane shook her head slowly. “But why haven’t you had a good relationship with her?”
“Oh…” Rachel felt her throat thicken and she strived to keep her tone even, if not quite light. “I don’t know, actually.” She never talked about her mother to anyone. She’d tried once or twice with Anthony, but he hadn’t understood it. What do you mean? She’s a bit British, but she seems nice enough. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to understand. Or maybe Rachel hadn’t been able to explain properly. She wasn’t sure she could now.
“You don’t know?” Jane frowned. “So nothing happened, precisely? I mean, you know, like an event?”
“No, no event, unless you count my father dying.”
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Rachel waved her apologies aside. “We drifted further apart after he died, but even before that…” She shrugged. “She was never very maternal, I suppose.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel suddenly felt defensive, although she couldn’t say why. “She wasn’t the type of mum to give hugs or kisses, or ask how your day at school was.” She pictured coming home from school, the house cold and dark, her mother sitting alone in the living room with a glass of sherry, seeming to ignore Rachel along with the rest of the world. “I can’t really explain it better than that. She just never seemed particularly interested in me.” And I wasn’t interested in her. Uncomfortably Rachel recalled her mother’s weary words: You left me alone for thirty-seven years. How could her mother see it that way? She’d been the child; she’d been the one who had been left alone. Hadn’t she?
“I suppose some women aren’t maternal,” Jane said with a little grimace. “And they have children anyway, especially ones of your mother’s generation. It was the thing to do.”
“Was it? I was born in the 1980s. Plenty of women were having careers, putting off having children to pursue their jobs.” But not her mother. She’d never had a career, as far as Rachel knew, although she’d done some secretarial work for the BBC before meeting Will Barnaby. He’d breezed into the office one day, as buoyant and charming as always, and swept her right off her feet to Cumbria. At least, that had been her father’s story. Rachel had never asked her mother.
“True, I suppose. In any case, I’m sorry. It sounds like a difficult situation. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so. She’s going home tomorrow, and then I suppose I’ll return to Bristol once I feel she’s settled in all right.”
“Oh, really?” Jane looked disappointed. “I thought you were staying around here, you know, because of the shipwreck.”
“I’m afraid the shipwreck is going to stay wrecked,” Rachel said with a small smile. “Copeland Mining Company has moved on, and no one has the funds or interest to excavate it further.”
“But it all sounded so interesting.”
“It was. Actually, I’m still looking into it on my own a bit.” Afraid she was boring her with too many details, Rachel gave her the potted version of The Fair Lady, the Fentons, and the pocket watch at the bottom of the sea.
“That is so intriguing,” Jane exclaimed, which gratified Rachel. “Why would it have been reported that the ship sank in the Caribbean when it obviously didn’t?”
“Perhaps they were just guessing, or someone reported it wrongly. It was so long ago. Although I must admit my mind jumps to all sorts of conspiracy theories.”
“Such as?” Jane asked, leaning forward, her eyes alight.
“Oh, I don’t even know. He sank the ship for the insurance? That was known to be done at the time, especially if too many slaves had been lost during the middle passage. There was a landmark case in the 1780s that ruled against claiming slaves as lost cargo, but The Fair Lady sank well before that, in 1767, right before the slave trade ended, in Whitehaven at least – although that was for an economic rather than a moral reason. They lost out to Liverpool.”
“But if it was for the insurance, why wouldn’t he sink it in the Caribbean, far from any investigations?” Jane asked. “And how did he die with it, assuming he did? Surely he wouldn’t have been on the ship when it sank?”
“I honestly don’t know, and I’m not sure if I ever will. I’ve asked a friend to send me photocopies of the letters he sent his wife while on that voyage, but I doubt I’ll find anything some other able historian wasn’t able to.”
“Oh, but it really is so interesting. You’ll keep me posted, won’t you? And you’ll stay in touch?”
“Yes, of course.” Rachel felt a pang of loss at leaving Jane; she was the first proper non-work friend she’d made in ages.
A few minutes later they hugged goodbye; Jane had to pick up Ben from football practice, and Rachel needed to head back to the house. She was exhausted, even as she was dreading being alone in its empty rooms.
She’d spend the evening tucked up in bed, she decided, with the photocopies of the archived materials about the Fentons. Perhaps there was something she’d missed.
The night was calm and clear as Rachel drove back through the lonely sweep of sheep-dotted fells, struggling not to keep asking questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.
As she turned into the gravel drive, her heart froze and then turned over; there was another car in the drive, an olive-green Mini she knew well. And then, as she pulled up next to it, a man stepped out of the car, far too big and shambling for such a small car, a slightly cautious smile on his creased and weary face.
Anthony.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Abigail
Whitehaven, 1766
The morning after Adelaide’s arrival, Abigail woke early, even before Jensen had come in to light the morning fires, and crept downstairs, through James’s study, to the door leading to his warehouse. All had been silent from within since late last evening, when James had taken Adelaide an evening meal of bread and water, and left it on the floor.
“Shouldn’t she have something more?” Abigail had asked, and James had shaken his head.
“Her stomach wouldn’t be used to it, and she’d just be sick.”
Abigail thought of the chocolate, and flushed. “Still – she must be hungry.”
“She’ll do.” James had patted her shoulder. “Really, you must not fret yourself over her, my dear. She’s meant to help and amuse you, not be a source of worry or concern. She’s being treated better here than she ever was before.”
Abigail thought of the stripes on the girl’s back, and did not think such a sentiment counted for very much. “I know,” she said, trying to smile. “And she does… amuse me. She’s a lovely gift, thank you, James.” James beamed his gratified delight even as something in Abigail cringed and curdled at her own words. Adelaide did not amuse her at all.
Now she unlocked the warehouse door with the key she’d found on top of James’s bureau, her heart thumping as if she were doing something wrong. Perhaps she was.
It was dark in the windowless warehouse, the smell both stale and sweet. It was also completely silent, and Abigail’s thumping heart seemed to still.
What if…
She didn’t even want to think it.
“Adelaide?” she whispered, and there was no response. “Adedayo?” Still nothing.
Leaving the door ajar, Abigail went to the kitchen in search of a candle, returning to the warehouse with it lifted above her head. She swept it around the warehouse, now piled with barrels of sugar and casks of rum, the smell sickly sweet. James must have had the cargo unloaded yesterday, while she’d been with Adelaide. Looking at it now, Abigail didn’t think it was as much as there usually was after a ship came into port; the warehouse was barely half filled.
“Adedayo,” she called again, and then she saw her, curled up against a barrel of sugar, her face streaked with tears, her eyes open and yet blank. “Adedayo!” Abigail dropped to her knees on the hard floor, putting one hand on the girl’s shoulder.
She stirred, flinching under Abigail’s touch before she burrowed against the barrel of sugar, away from her.
“Oh, Adedayo,” Abigail murmured as she took in the girl’s wretched state. She hated to imagine her alone in this horrible, dark place all night, terrified and having no idea what had happened to her or why. “Come with me,” she murmured, and reached for the girl’s hand.
She came docilely, as if all the fight had gone out of her, and that made Abigail even sadder. Not wanting to disturb, or rather alert, James, Abigail took her to the upstairs parlour. From the second floor she heard Jensen stirring, and hoped she’d light the fires soon. Although sunlight was streaming through the windows, the air held a decided chill.
Abigail wrapped Adedayo in a blanket and dabbed ointment on her wrists, which looked even more sore and red than they had last night. The manacles, she decided, had to come off. Today.
A few minutes later, Jensen came in with a scuttle of coal, nearly dropping it on the carpet when she caught sight of them.
“I thought she was staying in the warehouse.”
“No, that is no place for a child,” Abigail said crisply, although in truth she didn’t know where the girl would sleep. “Please make the fire, Jensen. It’s very cold.”
Jensen was stiff and silent as she went about her tasks while both Abigail and Adedayo watched quietly.
“And please bring us a pot of tea and some bread and butter,” Abigail commanded once she was finished, and Jensen gave her a sullen look.
“No more chocolate, then?” she asked, and Abigail lifted her chin.
“Not today.”
James came in as Abigail was breaking off bits of bread to feed Adedayo, as if she were a little bird, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. She ate slowly, chewing and swallowing with effort, making Abigail’s heart ache.
“My goodness.” He stopped in the doorway, smelling of his bergamot pomade, dressed for the day. “What have we here?”
“The warehouse was cold and dark.” Abigail tried not to sound accusing. “And she’s clearly hungry.”
“I see.” She could not tell anything from his tone.
“James…” Abigail twisted around to face him. “Please, can you take her manacles off? Look at her poor wrists. They are so raw and sore looking.”
James’s frown, no more than a faint crease between his brows, deepened into a furrow. “Abigail, my dear, I fear you are being too trusting.”
“What could she do? She is but a child. I doubt she has passed her sixth birthday.”
“Even so.”
“Please, James. It seems so cruel.” As soon as she said the words, she knew they were the wrong ones. Her husband would only say she was being too tender, too sensitive. They don’t feel as we do, my dear. And, she realized, he would not like her implying he was cruel – which he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. But perhaps he was mistaken, at least in this. He had to be.
“Abigail, my dear.” He took a step into the room. “I confess she does seem so small and innocent, and heaven knows I would not bring any person or thing into this house that could be a danger to you, but –” he spread his hands – “you hear such stories. Whole plantations in the Caribbean burned to the ground. Masters poisoned. I have even heard such dreadful tales of slaves practising unfathomable dark arts. Voodoo, it is called.”
Abigail resisted the urge to shiver. Surely James was trying to scare her. “But she’s just a child,” she said again. “She could not burn or poison anyone, and as for dark arts…” She gestured helplessly. “Surely not?”
“You cannot imagine, Abigail.”
Nor can you, Abigail thought, feeling both uncharitable and treacherous for it. She sensed James becoming intractable in a way he so rarely was, settling into a slightly pompous but well-meaning authority she chafed against, just as Adedayo chafed against her iron bands.
The little girl had gone still when James entered the room, eyeing them both warily, her bound hands resting on her lap. Abigail realized she needed to take a different tack with her husband; she needed to play to his vanity – a thought that made her cringe. Never before had she had to use such artful manipulation, and it felt wrong. He was not that kind of man, he never had been, and yet in this it seemed as if he was.
“Of course, it must be as you say,” she said demurely, hating herself for the deceit. “And if you do in fact fear she is capable of some terrible act of violence…” She paused, waiting for the inevitable retraction of such an obviously overblown statement.
“Not as such, of course,” he said hastily. “Not as such.”
“It is only,” Abigail continued, her gaze lowered, “that I cannot possibly begin to train her with her hands bound. It is quite impossible, which makes her rather useless.” Abigail gave a pretty little shrug of her shoulders, half amazed that James did not seem to see through her little charade. When had she ever acted like this? When had it ever needed to be like this between them?
