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  Suki

  Beryl Kingston

  About the Author

  Beryl Kingston is the author of 30 novels with over a million copies sold. She has been a writer since she was 7 when she started producing poetry. She was evacuated to Felpham at the start of WWII, igniting an interest in one-time resident poet William Blake which later inspired her novel The Gates of Paradise. She was an English teacher from 1952 until 1985 when she became a full-time writer after her debut novel, Hearts and Farthings, became a bestseller. Kingston continued writing bestsellers for the next 14 years with titles ranging from family sagas to modern stories and historical novels. She currently lives in West Sussex and has three children, five grandchildren, and ten great-grandchild.

  Also By Beryl Kingston

  Historical Fiction

  A Time to Love

  London Pride

  Hearts and Farthings

  Kisses and Ha’pennies

  Two Silver Crosses

  A Stitch in Time

  Avalanche of Daisies

  Suki

  Gates of Paradise

  Girl on the Orlop Deck

  Off the Rails

  Everybody's Somebody

  The Easter Empire Trilogy

  Tuppenny Times

  Fourpenny Flyer

  Sixpenny Stalls

  The Octavia Trilogy

  Octavia

  Octavia’s War

  The Internet Revolutionary

  Fiction

  War Baby

  Maggie’s Boy

  Laura’s Way

  Gemma’s Journey

  Neptune’s Daughter

  Francesca and the Mermaid

  Non-Fiction

  Lifting the Curse

  A Family at War

  Suki

  Beryl Kingston

  This edition published in 2019 by Agora Books

  First published in Great Britain as Only Young and Only Human by Severn House Ltd in 2000 and 2001

  Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS

  Copyright © Beryl Kingston, 2000, 2001

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Chapter 1

  It is chastening to consider how easily fate can change our lives and by what apparently trivial means — a careless remark, a chance meeting, an apple plucked from the tree, a mould grown in a dish, an idea so green as to be little more than a bud.

  In the case of Jack Daventry, who called himself the Captain, it was an expression of private tenderness seen on the face of a woman he neither knew nor cared for; in Miss Ariadne Bradbury’s case it was a moment of idle gossip heard while she was watching the start of a funeral procession; for Suki Brown it was a jugful of hot water.

  The summer of 1755 had been exceptionally warm and on that particular July morning the air in Bath was as soft as a peach. The escarpment of Beechen Height was lush with foliage, the river Avon peacefully blue under a clear sky, and sunlight was reflected so strongly from the new honey-coloured facade of South Parade and the new clean paving stones before it that it looked over bright and theatrical, like a stage set rising dramatically above the untamed, plebeian grasses of the Ham.

  Behind the facade, in the apartments Sir George Bradbury had hired for the season, daily life continued with predictable hubbub, for his was a family that required incessant drama to establish its position and importance. The chair ordered to bear Sir George to the baths had arrived late and been roared at. So breakfast had been delayed and the two young misses had taken such exception to the postponement of their meal that Cook had been forced to prepare a platter of coddled eggs to placate them; and Lady Bradbury had been prostrated with the vapours from the moment she was dressed, because that was the best way she knew to distance herself from the tantrums of her impossible offspring.

  But Suki Brown was immune to all of it. As a wet nurse, her duties were simply to feed the Bradbury infant and keep him clean and comfortable. At that moment she was sitting in the chimney corner suckling her own infant, Jack, which was strictly against the rules, her feet in the warmth of the grate and her neck in the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, languorous with sensuous pleasure and the pride of ownership.

  The baby was nearly three months old but Suki was still amazed by how perfect he was — with those tiny fingers, that soft skin, the extraordinary darkness of those limpid eyes — still stunned by the overpowering love he’d roused in her from the first moment she saw him.

  ‘If you’d have told me, afore he come, how much I’d love him,’ she said to Cook, ‘I’d never have believed you.’

  ‘You know now, though, don’t you gel?’ Cook said. ‘You fed the other poor little mite, have you?’

  ‘Still asleep,’ Suki said. ‘He don’ make demands. Not like you, eh, my ’andsome?’ Jack had lost hold of her nipple and was wobbling his head around furiously, trying to find it again. ‘There ’tis! There ’tis! Don’ go gettin’ out of humour!’

  At that moment, the master’s bell clanged against the wall, ringing so violently that young Barnaby, who was the under-valet and general factotum and much in awe of the man, ran out of the laundry room as if he’d been shot.

  ‘Oh lor’!’ he said. ‘Now I’m for it. He wants his hot water.’

  ‘Aren’t you ready, you great lummock?’ Cook asked.

  ‘No I ain’t,’ Barnaby said, looking round him wildly. There was hot water a-plenty bubbling on the stove, but the towel wasn’t warmed, the shaving soap hadn’t been prepared and he’d been in the laundry room frantically sharpening the master’s cut-throat razor when the bell rang. Nobody offered to help him. Cook and the kitchen maids were too hard at work preparing the dinner which had to be ready for three o’clock that afternoon, Mr Jessup, the butler, was out on an errand, Hepzie, the lady’s maid, was with the young misses, and Mrs Sparepenny, the housekeeper, had been upstairs with the mistress for nearly an hour. Nobody, that is, except for Suki, the kind-heart.

  ‘I could take it,’ she’d offered. ‘I’ll get this baby settled an’ then I’ll go up for you. T’other’s still sound asleep. He’ll wait another minute an’ no harm done. I don’t mind.’

  ‘You ’m a good gel, Suki,’ Cook said. Thank ’ee kindly.’

  There was no false modesty about Suki Brown. Yes, she thought, so I am. And she smiled as she carried the heavy jug up the servant’s stairs and through the open door into the constipated mustiness of the master bedroom.

  Sir George Bradbury was standing by the window gazing down at the neat new paving stones below him, and absent-mindedly gouging his teeth with an ivory toothpick. He’s a hideous old thing and no mistake, Suki thought, as she set the jug down on the washstand. Such a belly on him under that damask dressing gown, such flabby purple jowls, such nasty little piggy eyes. And he smell like a chamber pot, so he do.

  ‘Here’s the hot water for ’ee, sir,’ she said. ‘Barnaby’ll be up directly.’

  ‘Air the bed… um… um…’ he said vaguely, still busy with the toothpick.

  The bed linen was heavy and evil-smelling, and there was a fat brown flea squatting on the top pillow. It jumped and was gone the minute she looked at it. All that work with the turpentine and camphor when we got here, she thought, and they ’m back already. It had been a bad summer for bugs and fleas. As she smoothed out the creases in the bottom sheet, her skin began to prickle. At first she thought it was the flea walking along her arm, but then she realised that it was the knowledge that she was being watched. She glanced up, straight into the full force of her master’s lecherous and calculating stare.

  ‘A fine wench,’ he said, as much to himself as to her. ‘New are yer?’

  ‘No sir,’ she said politely, and she hurried to strip the bed and get away from him as quickly as she could. Unfortunately her speed made her breasts swing provocatively as she leaned forward to plump up the pillows, and the sight of that soft, pliant flesh was enough to lift Sir George from the costive stupor that usually weighed him down after a too hearty breakfast. Not a big lift, to be sure, nor a particularly strong one, but sufficient to lead to pleasure, given the rub. And she was a fine wench, there was no doubt about that. A pretty bosom, clear skin, good teeth, big dark eyes. There’d be time for a little dalliance before the shaving tray arrived.

  ‘Lie back on the bed, me dear,’ he said mildly, unbuttoning his gown.

  ‘I got to be in the kitchen directly, sir,’ Suki said, hoping to discourage him. ‘They ’m a-waiting me. Barnaby’ll be here presently.’

  He was surprised at such effrontery from a servant, but continued in his usual mild manner. ‘Oblige me,’ he said, smiling his amorous intentions at her. But she set the last pillow to rights and made to walk out of the room. What is the matter with the wench? he thought, blocking her way. Is she half-witted? ‘Adjust your petticoat,’ he suggested and he edged her towards the bed with his belly and put down one podgy hand to lift her skirt.

  There was no hope of avoiding his intentions now. ‘No!’ Suki said firmly, twisting her body away from that hand. ‘No I won’t!’ She would have to
push past him and make a bolt for the servant’s door. But his knee was already solidly in her way and now he had his hands on her shoulders and was pressing her down towards the mattress.

  A wench with spirit, Sir George thought. Well, if she wants a struggle, I’m just the one to give it to her. Despite his flabby appearance, he was a powerful man and knew how to use his weight to advantage. Her opposition excited him. This was going to be really pleasurable after all.

  ‘I aren’t willin’, sir,’ Suki said, trying to wrench her shoulders out of his grasp. ‘’Tain’t right.’

  ‘Want a fight, do you, me dear?’ the sweaty face said happily, as it loomed towards her. She swung her head frantically away from the bad cabbage of his breath and her cheek was caught in a kiss at once brutal and wet.

  ‘Aren’t willin’,’ she said again, clawing his hands away from her shoulders. She was panting with anger that he should press on with his assault when she was doing everything she could to get him to stop. But even her anger was against her. It brought a flush to her cheeks, and the sight of heated flesh made him more lustful and determined than ever.

  He was blotting out the world with the pressure of his body. The embroidery on his nightgown was right in front of her eyes, and, somewhere below it, he was pinching her breasts and forcing her legs apart with that gross knee. She was frantic with revulsion and terror and anger. Where was the bedpost? If only she could hold on to something solid, she might be able to kick him away. But her sightless hands were clutching at air.

  He raised his body away from her for just a second to hoist up his nightgown, and, in that eye-blink of time, she caught sight of a weapon. It was the great brass enema syringe that always stood ready for use on the bedside table. She seized it at once and brought it down on his skull with a crack like an axe splitting wood.

  For a second there was an absolute silence, then Sir George sank to his knees beside the bed, groaning and clutching his head, and Suki ran like a rabbit, hurtling down the back stairs so precipitately that she missed more stairs than she trod and it was a wonder she didn’t fall headlong.

  Barnaby, ascending carefully with a warm towel over his shoulder and a tray full of shaving tackle carried in both hands, got an elbow in the ribs as he was hurled against the wall, but before he could think of a suitable rebuke or even catch his breath, Suki had already tumbled into the kitchen and, in any case, the master was making such a dreadful noise above his head that he knew he must attend to him at once. Agog for sensation, he ran to see what had happened.

  The master bedroom was empty, but it was easy enough to see where the master had gone. The enema syringe lay on its side on the carpet beside a glossy little puddle of blood, and a trail of red gouts led away from it across the room and out of the door.

  Sir George was stamping up and down on the landing, dabbing at his temple with a bloody handkerchief, and roaring down the well of the stairs, ‘Hermione! Hermione! ’Od’s bowels, are they all gone deaf? Hermione, have I to bleed to death up here with no one to attend me?’ His turban was over one ear, and, below the stained kerchief, his face was as pale as putty.

  Behind him, the door to Lady Bradbury’s bedroom opened just enough to reveal the housekeeper’s disapproving face.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ she asked Barnaby.

  But for the second time that morning, Barnaby didn’t have time to reply. There was a commotion down at her feet, as the mistress’ horrid little lapdog, Benjy, scrabbled out of the room. He was more than half blind and grossly overweight, but his sense of smell was still acute and there was enough of the hunter left somewhere inside his bloated carcass for the scent of fresh blood to excite him. Before either of them could stop him, he had slavered his way across the polished floor and sunk his teeth into his master’s stamping calf.

  Then all hell was let loose, as the dog growled and Barnaby shouted, and two of the kitchen maids, who’d come up to see what was happening, peered through the servant’s door squealing with excitement, and Sir George bellowed and swore and tried to kick the cur from his leg. But Benjy remembered the training of his youth and hung on grimly to complete his kill.

  ‘Someone pinch his nose!’ Barnaby instructed, but the maids shrank back behind the door as Sir George continued to kick and curse with the dog still firmly embedded. Flecks of blood and foam spattered the banisters and the noise was deafening. Reluctantly, Barnaby fell into the melee and covered the dog’s nostrils with a daring hand — his left, of course, so as to leave his working hand free from certain injury. Rather to everyone’s surprise, Benjy let go and fell heavily to the floor, where he was kicked viciously into the wall for his presumption.

  ‘’Od’s bones!’ the master yelled. ‘Is the whole world gone stark, staring, raving mad?’ And he kicked the squealing animal down half a flight of stairs and lost his blood-soaked bandage in the process.

  At that the maids bolted back to the kitchen before they were kicked too, and Barnaby and Mrs Sparepenny took action quickly before anything else could happen. Between them, they supported their reeling employer into his wife’s boudoir, and set about bandaging his head properly, with the towel, dodging his wrath and enduring his complaints as best as they could.

  Lady Bradbury was not at all pleased to have her vapours so rudely and totally interrupted, and just at the very moment when she was enjoying them.

  She had taken great pains to arrange herself artistically across the sofa, and was gratified by the fashionable image that was now reflecting back at her from her long mirror. Her new silk day gown matched the striped sofa to perfection, and her lace cap was quite excellent. It set everything off so well and was still safe and comfortable even when one was obliged to swoon. Her temples had been rubbed with lavender water and a warm compress applied to both her ankles, so that the day had really begun to feel quite agreeable. And now her great oaf of a husband was blundering about her room, bleeding and swearing and reducing her costly elegance to an undignified shambles.

  ‘Oblige me, my dear,’ she said mildly, maintaining her composure despite the commotion. ‘Pray endeavour not to bleed upon the chair.’

  ‘’Od’s teeth!’ he roared back at her. ‘I will bleed where I please, madam. I paid good money for this apartment, I would have you know. I will bleed where I please.’

  ‘To be sure, my love,’ she agreed, staying calm deliberately, because she knew how much it annoyed him. ‘But ’twill anger you tomorrow, when the stains are dried and the landlord is pressing. I make this observation for your own good, my love.’

  ‘’Od’s teeth!’ he said again. ‘That damned dog of yours has torn me to shreds. I shall take the rabies I shouldn’t wonder. See my pate, madam. I am cut to the brains! To the very brains! ’Od’s bowels, I cannot think what the world is coming to, I really cannot! Have the goodness to assist me, madam.’

  Lady Bradbury rose elegantly from her prostration, wearing the face of a martyr. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such torment,’ she complained mildly and to nobody in particular, ‘but there it is. I can see I am not to be allowed to be unwell this morning or I shall never hear the last of it. Tell Jessup we need a surgeon,’ she said to Mrs Sparepenny. ‘Mr McKinnon, if he is not at the baths, otherwise Wrencher. Send up hot water and clean linen and a good handful of lint. And you,’ turning to Barnaby, ‘see what is become of my poor dear Benjy. I would not have the poor creature miscarry for anything in the world.’

  Her servants went about their errands and Sir George discovered to his discomfiture that he was suddenly alone with a wife who was very far from mild.

  ‘And what were you doing, pray,’ she asked acidly, looking down her long sharp nose at his wounds, ‘to receive such a blow?’

  ‘Your damned dog,’ he tried, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, ‘seized me by the leg. Look ’ee here. Wants destroying, pernicious, snappy creature.’

  But Lady Bradbury wouldn’t be deflected. ‘Oh no, my love,’ she said, sweet as vinegar, and smiling her sour smile directly down upon him. ‘I think not. You were roaring a full five minutes before my Benjy ever came near you, and I’m certain sure he did not bite your head. A nip to the leg is understandable, but the head I do not believe.’