Black Gold (4 page)

Chapter 4

Family Problems

Monday, March 26

“Bath ahead,” the coachman shouted. Anne felt a tingle of apprehension. Her meeting with the wealthy Rogers family drew near. She stirred nervously, wondering how she would be received. Differences of social rank mattered less in Bath than in London, she had heard. That was encouraging. She glanced out the carriage window at newly green fields, hedge rows blossoming, swallows swooping among the cottages along the road. The weather had been overcast and warm all day but now a cool westerly wind cleared the sky. As the carriage entered the city on London Road, it passed by serried ranks of gracious honey-colored terrace houses. Anne gasped with pleasure. Her anxiety ebbed away.

Her travelling companion, Mrs. Mowbray, a wealthy widow from Hampstead and frequent visitor to Bath, had also been gazing out the window. Now she turned toward Anne and exclaimed, “The city is at its best this evening. The wind's blown away the haze and smoke that gathers in the river valley.” As an afterthought, she added, “Shall we make a slight detour? I could show you some of Bath's marvels.”

Anne gladly agreed. Once she had assumed her duties at Combe Park, she might not be as free as she'd like for sight-seeing.

At her companion's instruction, the driver turned off London Road and drove to a large two-story stone building between Bennett and Alfred Streets. “The Upper Assembly Rooms,” she pointed out. “Grand place, isn't it!” Low, slanting rays of the sun bathed the building's surface, turning its honey color into gold. Monumental, nobly proportioned, it occupied an entire city block. Did even London have such a fine building? Anne wondered.

“In an hour,” her companion continued, “the cream of society will come here to gossip, drink tea, dance, gamble. For myself, I prefer private parties where I can find smaller, more agreeable company, chat freely, and win a penny or two at whist.”

They drove on through a large circle of handsome identical attached houses crowned with balustrades of giant stone acorns. “The Circus,” Mrs. Mowbray remarked. “Only the very rich can afford to live here.”

“Have you heard of Combe Park?” asked Anne, recalling the wealth attributed to Sir Harry Rogers. She was eager to learn how her future employer was regarded.

“Yes, indeed,” the widow replied. “Bath's pride. I've been there on a few occasions. Sir Harry's a splendid host—select company, good food and music.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “And gambling for high stakes. Too high for me.”

How high will the stakes be for me? wondered Anne to herself, aware that her sojourn at Combe Park would truly be a gamble. “A hornet's nest,” Mary Campbell had said.

By the time they left the Circus, the sun had set; street lamps were lighted. Elegant men and women appeared on the wide sidewalks. Finally, Anne alighted at the York, Bath's most comfortable inn, and bid good-bye to her companion.

As the carriage drove off, Anne felt charmed by the appearance of the city in which she would spend the next several weeks. But, what manner of mischief, she wondered, went on behind its beautiful facades?

***

The morning after Anne arrived, she was awakened by a maid entering her room with a large tray. Behind her came Anne's friend, Harriet Ware, her large brown eyes sparkling with delight. “Sorry, Annie. I couldn't meet you here last night. On Monday evenings I dance at the Bath Theatre. But I've ordered breakfast for the two of us. Hope you don't mind. Your room's really the best place to talk. Afterwards, I'll take you to Combe Park.”

Anne roused herself, threw on a robe, and embraced her friend. Then, holding her at arm's length, Anne glanced at her fine yellow woolen gown and its intricate brown embroidery. A costume rather beyond a dancer's means. “Bath's been remarkably good to you, Harriet!” They had last seen one another a year and a half ago. Anne took stock of her friend. She had grown into a self-assured young woman at ease in the world.

“Thank you,” she replied, flushing slightly. “Now, tell me exactly why you're here. You wrote earlier about working at Combe Park.”

Anne sat facing Harriet at the breakfast table over coffee, warm rolls, sweet butter, and ginger marmalade. “I've agreed to tutor the Rogers' eleven-year-old deaf boy.” She went on to speak about the death of Charlie Roger's young tutor, Mary Campbell, and the boy's painful inability to communicate with his family, and they with him. “This turn of events distressed Mr. Braidwood, and he asked me to step in. I really wanted to return to Paris, but I couldn't turn him down.” Anne hesitated, then added, “You know why, Harriet.”

“I was there. The market place in Islington. Last year. It's etched in my memory. Mr. Braidwood helped save you from Tom Hammer, Jack Roach, and his cronies.”

“So, here I am,” Anne said. “What can you tell me about Mary Campbell and her accident?”

Harriet finished a bite of her roll and sipped her coffee. Her face took on a somber cast. “I knew her well. She was a lively, pretty girl with a willowy figure. I gave her dancing lessons, showed her the Pump Room and Spring Gardens. At first, she seemed happy at Combe Park, caring for Charlie, going to parties. Lately, she appeared troubled but she didn't want to complain. Said she'd work things out.”

“Did she have any friends?”

“Captain Fitzroy took a liking to her. I saw them together in the ballroom and in the garden.”

“Captain who?”

“Fitzroy. Irish. Handsome gentleman. Lives at Combe Park. You'll meet him today.”

“Do you have any idea what Mary's troubles were?”

Harriet shrugged. “Perhaps Fitzroy became too ardent. Once she told me, he's best kept at arm's length. After she died, a rumor in the town claimed she had stolen silver spoons from the Rogers' cabinets. I'd say someone was maligning her.”

Anne started at Harriet's reference to the spoons, the first she'd heard of them. A dubious rumor. Stealing seemed out of character, to judge by what Braidwood had said about the girl.

Harriet detected Anne's surprise and wagged a finger. “Bath loves gossip; rumors are its common currency. We hardly believe a particle of what we hear, but we repeat it anyway.”

“How did the accident happen? Braidwood would like to know for her parents' sake.”

“She fell down the servants' stairway in the middle of the night and broke her neck. A footman found her dead. I'll show you the spot.”

“Yes, I'd like to see it.” Anne reflected for a moment. “Poor Mary! What a pity! And what a loss for little Charlie.” She leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers at her lips. “Tell me what you know about his family.”

“I often meet his parents—Sir Harry more than Lady Margaret.”

A certain overtone in her voice aroused Anne's curiosity. “What sort of man is he?”

A blush spread over Harriet's smooth creamy skin. “About fifty. Tall and strong. Barrel-chested. Square ruddy face. Women find him handsome, charming in a rough way.” She paused, gazing inward at her image of the man. An uneasy, enigmatic smile played on her lips. She took off her bonnet and released a cascade of dark brown wavy hair on to her shoulders. “He's full of energy and ideas. Things happen when he's around.”

An uneasy look in her friend's eye alerted Anne. “Do you know him well?” She felt the need for caution. Her friend was a dancer and singer, very beautiful, still young and a little foolish.

Harriet appeared only slightly embarrassed. “He comes to the dressing room after performances and speaks to me as well as to the other girls. I'm one of his favorites, I suppose. He invites me to sing and dance at Combe Park. Pays well. Most evenings, it's the liveliest place in Bath. The best food, drink, and music. Guests can flirt on the dance floor, or in the garden if the weather's fair. There's gambling, for those who want it. Much more fun than the stuffy Assembly Rooms where dull, respectable people gather to gawk at one another.”

Anne smiled in tentative agreement. She too might prefer the parties at Combe Park. “Sir Harry seems to enjoy playing the generous host,” she remarked. “I've heard his fortune comes from West Indian trade. How did he manage? Slaves and sugar are risky business.”

Harriet spread marmalade on a bun, bit into it, then laid it down. “Harry's the son of a shipwright,” she explained. “Went to sea as a boy, worked up to captain of a Bristol slave ship, then charmed and married the owner, a wealthy widow. With her money he expanded his trade in slaves and West Indian goods, especially sugar. His wife died after six years, and he inherited her wealth.”

Harriet's familiarity with the life of Harry Rogers intrigued Anne. “Did Harry and the widow have any children?”

“No,” Harriet replied. “But he took in his nephew, William Rogers. Sent him off to school. His manners need polish, so he's spending the spring season in Bath.” Harriet grimaced. “You'll meet him today. A big fifteen-year lad. Resembles his uncle but lacks his charm and energy.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I'd better warn you, don't trust him. A cheat and a bully. I've heard he annoys the servant girls and teases poor little Charlie.”

“Who is in charge of William while he's here?” Anne asked.

“Harry's hired a tutor, Mr. Edward Critchley, who arrived a couple of months ago. Watch out for him too. They say he's learned, reads Greek and Latin, French, and Italian, and studies the stars with a telescope. But I think he's odd. Makes my skin creep. He looks down his long skinny nose and sniffs at me as if I smell bad.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said Anne. “But I'm more concerned about Sir Harry at the moment.”

“He's rich!” said Harriet with a touch of awe. “During the American war he made a small fortune financing privateers. His shipping business still turns handsome profits, and so do his investments. He invites wealthy people to his parties and makes deals with them. They think he has a nose for money.”

Anne's curiosity grew livelier. “The son of a shipwright! How did he get the ‘sir' in front of his name?”

“He bought it! I don't know how. Then he married Lady Margaret, an Irish baron's young widowed daughter. In a way, Harry bought her too, paid off her father's debts.” Harriet's eyes sparkled with irritation. “Lady Margaret indeed! Holds her nose up in the air. Doesn't see me or the other girls when we come to the house.” Harriet mimicked the woman, pursing her lips in distaste.

“You are to the manner born,” Anne chuckled.

Harriet rose from her chair, glided back and forth across the floor, primping, issuing orders to imaginary servants. Arms akimbo, she turned to her friend. “No need to be born to the manner, Annie. With enough money and the right connections, any actress could play the baroness.”

“True.” Anne smiled patiently.

Harriet returned to her chair. “Lady Margaret soon gave birth to Charlie, heir to Sir Harry's fortune. At first, he doted on the boy and set great hopes on his future.” She frowned. Her voice darkened. “When Charlie became deaf, Harry began to dislike him. That's what I'm told. The situation has grown much worse since Captain Fitzroy arrived here late last month with Lady Margaret. He's her cousin, they say.”

Anne sat up, puzzled. “What does the captain have to do with Charlie?”

“I'd rather you see for yourself,” replied Harriet, shaking her head and sighing. “Harry turns away from Charlie as if he can't stand the sight of him. It's sad.”

***

“Combe Park,” shouted the coachman from the driver's seat as he brought the carriage through the entrance. They passed between a large outbuilding on the left and the retaining wall of a grassy upward slope on the right. Ahead stood the rectangular block of a great house, built of the same honey-colored stone found in Bath's finest buildings. As the carriage neared the house, the road offered Anne and Harriet a brief northward view over Bath and the River Avon under a thin veil of midafternoon mist. The carriage continued on to the house's south side and its main entrance.

A tall footman approached, lowered the carriage step, opened the door, and extended his arm to help her descend. Anne gasped, then immediately recovered her composure. He was a black man in crimson livery trimmed with silver. A silver band circled his neck.

“Lord Jeff,” whispered Harriet in Anne's ear.

While the women walked to the door, the black servant lifted Anne's trunk from the rack on the back of the carriage and pointed the coachman toward the stables where he could water his horses.

Harriet leaned toward Anne. “Sir Harry's probably in his study, watching us.” With a tilt of her head she led Anne's gaze to a window to the right of the entrance where a figure dimly appeared. “He really enjoys showing off his slave.”

Anne stopped in her tracks, as if shot. She glanced over her shoulder at the footman a few paces away, her trunk resting lightly on his hip. She stared incredulously at Harriet. “A slave? Here in England?”

“Where've you been, Annie!” whispered Harriet in mock amazement. “There are thousands in London, Bristol, and Liverpool. And many in Bath too. Mostly domestic servants. They come with the West Indian trade.”

The black man showed the two women into the study, a large well-lighted room facing south. A beautiful Turkish carpet covered the floor. Sir Harry rose from behind a mahogany desk and strode toward Anne, took her hand, and kissed it. “Welcome, Miss Cartier!” He stepped back, head canted, inspecting her. “I'm happy to see that Mr. Braidwood has sent us a woman this time rather than a girl. He has assured me of your competence as a tutor. And Harriet has mentioned some of your other talents.” He threw a mischievous glance at Anne's friend, who had begun to blush. His gaze shifted back to Anne. “Singing, dancing, and tumbling. We shall put you to good use at Combe Park.”