A Respectable Trade. Philippa Gregory
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had walked the length of the room. They paused before the fountain of the spa. Josiah paid for a glass of water and the woman pocketed the coin and poured a small glass for Frances. It was light-coloured and cloudy, sparkling with little bubbles.
‘My friends are working traders, not pleasure-seekers,’ Josiah said. ‘They will be at their warehouses at this time in the afternoon, not dancing and walking and drinking water. How does it taste?’
Frances took an experimental sip. ‘Quite nice,’ she said cautiously. ‘Bland, a little like milk. And quite hot!’
‘Very strengthening!’ the woman at the fountain asserted. ‘Especially for ladies. Very effective for skin complaints, stomach complaints and the lungs.’
Frances blushed at the frankness of the woman’s language, and forced the rest of the glass down. ‘I would not care to drink it every day.’
‘Many people do,’ Josiah replied. ‘Some of them are prescribed a glass every couple of hours. Think of the profit for the tenant in that! Many come and stay for weeks at a time to drink it. And it is cried all around the city and sold like milk at the back doors. And bottled and sent all around the country. A very good business if one could afford to buy in.’ He took her arm and walked her back down the length of the Pump Room. ‘How does it compare to the Pump Room at Bath, in your opinion?’ he asked. ‘I have a reason for my interest.’
Frances thought for a way to tell him that would not seem offensive. ‘Of course it is smaller,’ she began carefully. ‘And very much prettier. The scenery is wonderful, much better than Bath. But Bath has more … Bath is more … established.’
‘Only a little place but I think it will grow,’ Josiah said as they left the Room. ‘But I am glad you like it. I am glad you like the rocks of the Avon gorge even if you do not like the taste of the water.’
‘One could not help but admire it,’ Frances said. The carriage had followed them down to the Pump Room; she took the driver’s hand and stepped in. ‘I am a great admirer of fine landscape.’
‘Do you draw or paint?’ Josiah asked her.
‘A little,’ Frances said. ‘I should like to come to try my hand at drawing this scene.’
‘So you shall,’ Josiah said. ‘You shall hire the carriage whenever you wish and my sister will drive with you. You shall teach us how to enjoy leisure, Mrs Cole. And we will teach you about business!’
‘I shall be happy to learn,’ Frances said. The carriage turned back towards the city and to the dark little house by the noisy quay filled with the stink of the harbour. ‘I shall be happy,’ she repeated firmly.
Josiah’s attempts to buy the house at 29 Queens Square were not at first successful. The building was owned by Mr Stephen Waring, a Merchant Venturer and a member of the Corporation of the city. He was building a grand new house halfway up Park Street in a new road to be called Great George Street. Josiah approached him as he sat in the coffee house with his brother-in-law – another Merchant Venturer – on one hand and his cousin standing behind him.
‘Good day,’ Josiah said. He tried not to sound deferential but he could hear the hint of inferiority in his voice – a tinge of Somerset, a trace of servility. He sounded like a man who had been born on the floor of a warehouse. ‘Good day, Mr Waring.’
The man looked up. ‘Cole?’
‘I wonder if I might speak with you on a matter of business?’ Josiah’s plain three-cornered hat was in his hand. He felt himself turn it, and tap the points, like a servant fidgeting before a master.
‘Yes?’
Josiah glanced at the other men. They were staring at him with open curiosity. No-one made any movement away from the table, they did not even trouble themselves to turn aside. His business would have to be done before them all.
‘I am interested in your house in Queens Square,’ he said. ‘I understand that you may be selling it? I am newly married and my wife …’
The man laughed gently. ‘I do not think you would like it, Cole,’ he said. ‘It is the wrong side of the river for your little warehouse, and you would find my neighbours very poor company.’ He smiled at his brother-in-law and turned his back on Josiah. The meeting was concluded.
Josiah flushed with embarrassment. There was nothing he could do but sketch a bow and go back to the table where he usually did his business, with the smaller traders and the unemployed captains. They had been watching him; everyone in the coffee shop had seen him rebuffed. Josiah pulled out a chair and seated himself, trying to look jaunty and hide his mortification. ‘I have mentioned my interest in the house at Queens Square to Mr Waring,’ he said to the table generally. ‘I shall write him a letter with my offer.’
‘He’s a warm man,’ Captain Legge warned. ‘I’ve heard that he paid more than two thousand pounds for his new house off Park Street.’
Josiah blinked. ‘That is a new house though,’ he objected. ‘New built and according to his specifications. The house in Queens Square must be nearly seventy years old!’
‘And his father and the rest of the landlords made profits enough in the first year!’ a small merchant commented. ‘The leases on those houses were an extortion. Many a tenant was ruined in the first year if he was not a member of the Merchant Venturers, who had insiders’ terms.’
Another trader nodded. ‘How convenient it was that the Corporation chose to build in brick when the Waring family owned the brickyard,’ he remarked slyly.
‘That’ll do,’ Josiah said swiftly, glancing towards the top table where Mr Waring had summoned one of the masters of his ship and was examining a cargo manifest. ‘The Corporation of Bristol and the Merchant Venturers have together brought this city to the highest prosperity. We all know that.’
‘It’s joining them that’s the challenge, eh, Josiah?’
Josiah Cole flushed. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My future plans are my own concern, I think. Now, I heard that you were interested in my sugar, Mr Williams. Shall I send you a sample?’
Frances was seated at the parlour table, the ledgers of the company spread before her. Sarah was teaching her the business, showing her the books of the ship Daisy due home in December.
‘This page shows the cost of fitting out a ship,’ Sarah explained patiently. ‘See, here is every item, and along the line,’ her finger traced the row of ink dots, ‘here is what it cost. At the foot of the page is the total cost.’
‘I see,’ said Frances wearily. Outside the window the Rose was being fitted with new ropes and newly mended sails. There was a continual bellow of orders and screams of quayside sellers. They had a pulley rigged on the mast which screeched every time it took the weight of a load, and then the crew started a chant to help them pull the ropes together. The sun burned in at the parlour window and the reflected light on the ceiling danced a dizzying ballet. The tide was coming in and the filth and sewage which had been draining downriver was now washing up and down the quayside wall. The wind blowing up the gorge brought the acrid stink of burning lime from the Clifton woods to mingle with the pervasive smell of Bristol: boiling fat for soap, smoke from the furnaces. The window was tightly shut as usual. The parlour was hot and stuffy, the sun beating in through the glass of the panes. Frances had a headache; she sat very still and straight and did not complain.
‘So the total cost of repairing and fitting out the ship was £907. 2S.’
Sarah Cole nodded. ‘Correct. On the next page we show the trade goods supplied.’
Frances passed her cool fingers over her eyelids. ‘What are all these names?’
‘These are our four partners. Merchants and tradesmen who joined with us