Alley Urchin (18 page)

I pray to the Lord that I am wrong in the terrible notions that have haunted me since. And, if I am
not
wrong, then I pray to the Lord for his forgiveness, in being too cowardly to speak up. Yet always in my heart is Emma, and the fear of what such knowledge might do to her. As you know, she idolised her papa, and still deeply grieves for him. So I ask you to be very careful with this information; none of which can be proved, I think.

Yet, if you ever find an opportunity to use it in order to protect Emma from her appointed guardian, do not hesitate. I have a feeling that Caleb Crowther will try to rob Emma of everything her papa left to her. I pray you do all you can to prevent that.

A kindly warden has promised to deliver this letter to you. I trust you will get it. Goodbye and God bless,

Your friend,
Mrs Manfred.

The moment her eyes had read the last word and it was etched into her mind, Cook meticulously folded the letter, put it back into the envelope and carefully replaced the awful but precious thing into the silk lining of her portmanteau. On her round, shocked face there crept a look of cunning, as she raised her small pink eyes to look in the direction of her master’s quarters. ‘Them’s terrible words in that there letter!’ she murmured, as though addressing someone in person. ‘Words as say that
you
. . . a fine upstanding Justice . . . are a thief and a murderer.’ Her mouth closed tight and the flabby jowls began working until they actually trembled. Then, lowering her head but keeping her accusing gaze fixed to the ceiling, she said in a grim voice, ‘Aye!
Terrible
words. But told by a poor woman who faces the gallows. An’ terrible they may be, Caleb Crowther . . . but I believe every last one to be the truth.’

Returning to her work, Cook began muttering to herself. ‘I shall guard that letter with me life. It’s me insurance against a sorry old age. But you’d best watch your step, else I might be tempted to use the letter afore I intended, Mr fine an’ mighty bloody Crowther!’ As she whisked the eggs around in the mixing bowl, she chuckled to herself, knowing that she had in her possession the means by which the wind might be taken out of the devil’s sails.

Chapter Six

The long harsh winter of 1873 had come and gone. The summer which followed was glorious and, on a day in September 1874, Caleb Crowther received his son-in-law, Silas Trent, into the library. His mood was brighter than usual, believing that this pre-arranged meeting would prove beneficial to himself and improve his finances considerably. The thought appealed to him, and when both he and his son-in-law were seated, he bestowed a rare smile upon his visitor. ‘Your business, then?’ he asked in a genial voice, and settled back in his chair while his son-in-law, somewhat encouraged by Caleb Crowther’s friendly disposition, eagerly outlined the reason for his visit.

Before he had even finished however, Caleb Crowther had sprung to his feet and gone to the fireplace, where he stood with his legs wide apart and his fists clenched by his side. The smile had gone from his face and in its place was a look like thunder. ‘You want me to throw good money after bad!’ he roared, afterwards storming towards the library door and flinging it wide open. ‘I’m surprised that you even had the gall to put such a proposition to me! Good-day to you, sir!’ He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Silas Trent to rise from the leather armchair, then, when the tall, well-built man with brown hair and military moustache approached him, he added sneeringly, ‘Your father left you a thriving shipping line, Mr Trent . . . and in only a few years you have seen fine ships slip through your incompetent fingers, until there is just one vessel left. One, Mr Trent . . . and the
bank
half-owner of it! I trust you have more sense than to let your marriage go the same way, because, to be quite frank . . . I am wearying of supporting your family while you travel the seven seas. If you’re not man enough to keep a shipping line successful, then your father should have had more sense than to leave it to you in the first place.’

Silas Trent stood only the smallest distance away from his father-in-law, so close in fact that he could see the delicate criss-cross pattern of purple veins which marbled the whites of the other man’s eyes. For a long moment he met Caleb Crowther’s vicious stare with steady, unswerving brown eyes, and it ran through his mind what a fool he had been to let Martha persuade him into approaching her father. He felt humiliated and, in the wake of Caleb Crowther’s cruel, unjust accusations, he felt a tide of dark anger rising in him. Yes, it was true that he had been left a fleet of proud ships, and that, sadly, that same fleet was now reduced to the
Stirling
, which he himself captained. But what the arrogant Caleb Crowther refused to acknowledge was the colossal cost of running and maintaining a large fleet of ships. While the contracts were plentiful, and there was money enough to take on the crews, there were no problems. But in recent years it was proving more and more difficult to secure good lucrative contracts. There were too many shipping lines chasing too few cargoes which, since the closure of many cotton mills and the stopping of convict transportation, had become more scarce. Indeed, if anything, Silas Trent was proud of the fact that he still ran the
Stirling
at a profit when so many other shipping merchants had lost everything. Then there was the growing threat from faster, iron-built steamers. Recently though, he had heard that a firm in Australia had invited tenders for the shipping of sandalwood to Singapore. There were also opportunities to get in on the expanding wool trade out there. In fact, Australia had become increasingly important for merchant trade, and Silas Trent regretted the fact that he had concentrated on other markets and routes these many years, since losing the government contracts to carry convicts. He had made his one big mistake there, and he was the first to admit it. However, the opportunity to make amends had presented itself. He knew he could make the most favourable tender for the sandalwood route from Australia to Singapore, and with careful planning secure the shipments of wool and other cargoes which would bring him back to England and his family. But he needed capital to get him started. He had been to the banks and other lenders without success. Caleb Crowther had been his last hope. Silas had stressed that he would win the contracts to carry goods to and from Australia, if only he could get the financial backing.

He had voiced these convictions to his father-in-law, who had rejected them out of hand. Now, he replied in a firm but cutting voice, ‘As for my marriage, don’t let it concern you, Mr Crowther, sir. Your daughter and I may have our difficulties like any other couple, but they are not insurmountable. ‘Then, being fully aware of the frostiness between Caleb Crowther and his own wife, Agnes, he quietly added, ‘When we have a problem, sir, we discuss it. I fully recommend that course of action: you will find that it works wonders.’ Before Caleb Crowther could recover from such insolence, Silas Trent gave a courteous nod, bade him good-day, and in a moment had departed from the room, left the house and climbed into the waiting carriage, which went sedately down the drive and out on to the street.

Seated in the ornately furnished drawing-room busy with her tapestry, Agnes Crowther had heard the conversation which had taken place between her son-in-law and her husband. The outcome had been exactly as she had warned her daughter Martha. Yet that foolish woman had insisted on harbouring false hopes and sending Silas on a fool’s errand. Silas Trent was a good man and had been a good husband to Martha. He was a wonderful father to the boy, Edward, and if there was a way by which he might recover from his present financial predicament, Agnes Crowther felt confident that he would do it. He must do it, for the sake of Martha and the boy, because it was a certainty that, should the worst happen and Silas Trent lose everything, neither he nor his family would be made welcome in this house. Martha’s father had made that very clear on several occasions, when he had stated, ‘I believe a man should be responsible for his own family. Martha has passed from my care into that of her husband’s, and she must stand or fall with him!’ The boy, Edward, however was a different matter: Caleb Crowther saw him as the son he had never had.

Sighing wearily, Agnes Crowther sank her needle into the tapestry and gave it her full attention. But not before murmuring, ‘You will find a way, Silas . . . I know you will.’ Just as
she
would, she thought. In the past she had done much to be ashamed of, and she had come to dislike her own husband because of it. Yet even now, if the opportunity came when she might make amends, she wondered whether she would be capable of doing so.

‘Sell the
Stirling
! There are other ways to earn a living!’ Martha Trent was in a fury when she realized that her husband had borrowed money on their home in order to finance his journey to Australia, where he intended to secure his future prospects. ‘You’ll see us without a roof over our heads,’ she accused him now. ‘Is that what you want? . . . To see us wandering the streets like beggars?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Martha. It will never come to that, and you know it . . . even if I have to buy a barge and fight for a cargo up and down the Leeds and Liverpool Canal!’ Silas shook his head and came to where his wife was petulantly beating the top of the piano with one hand, and dabbing a delicate handkerchief to her eyes with the other. Taking her by the shoulders, he would have held her close, but she tore away from him, crying, ‘Go on then! . . . Go to your precious ship, and sail to the ends of the earth for all
I
care! You don’t want me and you don’t want the boy . . . or you would not be so heartless as to put up our home for security! You’ll never be the successful man of business that my
father
is, and you could do no better than to listen to his advice. Isn’t it enough to know that he will not invest in you?’

‘You know why he won’t invest in me, Martha,’ protested Silas, growing impatient at Martha’s hostile attitude. Like father like daughter, he thought. ‘Caleb Crowther won’t back me, because he has already backed one of my competitors. If I’d known at the time that he was hand in glove with Lassater Shipping I would never have been persuaded to approach him in the first place. I’ve also recently learned that not only do Lassater Shipping hold long-term contracts to carry cotton from your father’s mill and that he is a large shareholder in that shipping-line, but he has passed on confidential information which I confided to him during our conversation. The result being that Lassater Shipping is now a major contender for the sandalwood cargoes from Australia to Singapore. He betrayed us. Do you hear what I’m saying, Martha? . . . Your father who, in your eyes, can do no wrong . . .
betrayed
us!’

‘Liar!’ In a swift and unexpected movement, Martha Trent swung round, taking the silver candlestick from the piano top and, with a scream of ‘Get out!’ sent the object flying. Silas Trent was caught unawares, saw the heavy candlestick at the last minute and ducked quickly sideways, but not in time to avoid a glancing blow to the side of his head. When he put his hand up to touch his temple, the blood ran through his fingers and a small pool of crimson dripped on to his jacket.

Martha showed no sign of regret. Instead, she stood stiff and unyielding with bright angry eyes which continued to stare at her husband unflinchingly. He also showed no remorse for the heated argument which had raged between them, nor did he make any move towards her.

In the hallway outside the room the boy, Edward, sat on the stairs, quietly crying as his parents ranted and raged at each other. Now he got to his feet as his father came from the drawing-room, a look of utter desolation on his face when he saw the boy there. ‘Oh, Edward! Edward!’ he moaned, quickly covering the boy’s head with his two hands and pulling him tight into his body. ‘What must you think of us?’ he asked in a voice which betrayed his shame. When he received no answer, he went down on his knees and looked into his son’s face, seeing the terrible anguish in those dark green eyes, knowing that he had caused it. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said with a sad apologetic smile. ‘I’d rather you had not heard all that. But she’s wrong, you know . . . your mother. I won’t let you down, I promise.’ Still there came no acknowledgement from the boy, who had lowered his gaze and seemed unwilling or unable to raise it to Silas Trent’s concerned face. After a while Silas released the boy and got to his feet. For a moment longer he looked down at his son’s bowed head, then, ruffling the dark hair with the tips of his fingers, he said with a small laugh, ‘I’m off to turn our fortunes round.’ When there was still no response, he said in a quieter voice, ‘Take care of your mother.’ In another moment he was gone. Still the boy did not move, his dark head bent to the rich, floral-patterned carpet with the tears falling down his face.

When he sensed a movement close by, Edward lifted his eyes to see his mother standing in the door of the drawing-room. Her face was smudged with tears and there was a look of bitterness in her brown speckly eyes, as she told him through gritted teeth, ‘Get upstairs to your room, and don’t come down until I send for you!’ With a heavy heart he did as he was told. Behind him Martha Trent angrily issued instructions to their one and only servant, a young woman of stocky build whose blue eyes showed no surprise. ‘Master Trent and I will be leaving for Breckleton House straightaway. I dare say we shall be away for several weeks,’ adding in a tone too low for the servant to hear, ‘and probably for good!’

The maid gave a hurried little curtsy. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she acknowledged, thinking as she went about the business of packing how she wouldn’t mind being left alone in the house for weeks on end; indeed, if anything, taking into account her mistress’s dreadful disposition, she much preferred it. But her heart went out to that poor little lad, dragged from pillar to post and never a friend to call his own. And that tutor who came in of an afternoon to teach him his lessons, well, he were a miserable old bugger an’ all. On top of which, the lad were expected to work twice as hard when he got back from these frequent trips to Breckleton House. It were no wonder the poor little blighter looked like he’d got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Still, the lad seemed to have a right fondness for his grandad, Caleb Crowther, and by all accounts that surly-faced fellow had an unusually soft spot for his only grandson, so that was one blessing, thank the Lord.