Eden

by Janet Mary Tomson

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

'If Esmee Jackson had learned one lesson in life, it was to keep away from men.'

Esmee is beautiful and exotic, the illegitimate daughter of a slave and a slave trader. As she grows into a striking young women, men are haunted by her loveliness.

Her father, Captain Jeremiah Jackson, plans to sell Esmee, just as Esmee's mother was sold. But when Samuel Rushworth glimpses Esmee, it is clear that the course of both their lives will be altered dramatically.

A novel of romance, action and hope, EDEN is Janet Mary Tomson at her very best.

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

If Esmee Jackson had learned one lesson in life, it was to keep away from men. She did not need to think about it. It came as naturally to her as breathing. In her view men were quarrelsome, raucous and totally unpredictable – and she had plenty of experience to go on.

In her fifteen years, Esmee had spent less than one year on dry land. The rest of her life she had passed on board her father’s ships. More often than not she was the only female on a voyage. Oh yes, she knew all about men.

But for tonight she deliberately sought out the company of old Ezra. He was one of the few exceptions, someone she had known ever since she could remember, even-tempered, patient – and apart from her father, the only other person to know the secret of her past.

Ezra had hinted at her story before, when the drink was upon him and her father safely ashore. Tonight was just such a night. Jeronimo Jackson was enjoying a last evening of freedom at Tilbury before the Destiny began her voyage to the Caribbees.

Most of the crew were confined below decks to save them from the temptation to jump ship. In any case, guards patrolled the deck armed with muskets and there was enough gin flowing aboard to paralyse every man’s legs. No one would be going far this evening. Only Esmee and Ezra sat out in the darkening February evening. For their different reasons they were immune to the cold.

Ezra drank deep of the harsh Dutch waters. His skin was leathery, tanned the colour of mahogany by the elements. His expression reminded Esmee of a dried apricot as he screwed up his face, the burning liquid assaulting his throat. Earlier she had tried the brew herself. It took away her voice, leaving her gasping for breath. She shook her head as Ezra pushed the jug towards her. She was on the verge of a discovery. She wanted every sense to be honed razor sharp to capture the moment.

When he did not speak, she silently rehearsed what she had learned so far: I was conceived a few miles out from the Guinea Coast, upon the body of a girl younger than I am now, singled out because my father liked the tilt of her breasts, the curve of her behind.

Esmee faltered. The words were suspended like wood smoke in her head, hanging immobile in the windless, foggy haze. She could feel the cold blanket of their meaning embrace her – silky, enticing as spiders’ webs. In their way they were just as deadly.

For a moment she paused, scratching her armpit. Her cheeks began to burn at the silent use of the phrases. Over the past months she had been secretly weaving her story. The raw materials were as hard to come by as the silk threads used by rich women ashore. Esmee had to wait her chance, be vigilant, store away every scrap of material she might glean.

Ashore, in the mansions where her father’s masters lived, the daughters of the houses embroidered silks on to satins to make gowns, created lace for special collars, stitched tapestries so fine they almost seemed to come alive. Esmee was weaving her own private tapestry – the story of her life.

The words she used were not hers but those she had overheard. She knew that the sailors used them without thought, caring little whether she witnessed their uncouth speculations about her father, Jeronimo Jackson, their captain and master of the Destiny.

Before they sailed she hoped to add more strands of colour to her history. To herself, she continued: I was conceived amid screams, in pain, on the flow of a sailor’s lust and a black girl’s terror. When the sailors were drunk, their language poured forth like poetry. Esmee had to admit that these lines were even better than the shanties that they intoned on many a lonely watch.

She rested her hand delicately in front of her mouth so that Ezra should not see her lips moving. Silently she repeated the words to capture them. Later she would relate them to her invisible friend who lived inside her head. This might be the only time that the truth of her history was revealed. She must memorise it forever.

Reciting the tale by rote, she hoped that one day she would have a real friend who would listen open-mouthed and amazed to the adventures of the beautiful princess, Esmeralda Jackson.

Ezra had fallen silent.

Esmee said: ‘What happened next?’

‘Well …’ The old man took another swig from the jug. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and leaned against the rope coiled next to the capstan.

‘I remember the night you was born.’ He paused, giving emphasis to the event. Esmee tensed to receive his momentous description.

‘What happened?’ It couldn’t have been an ordinary birth. Her mother was surely never like the other ‘dinahs’ that Jeronimo brought to his cabin at night. They were common slaves. At the end of each journey they went ashore, never to be seen again. In one of those moments of insight she realised that her father never knew if his offspring left the ship in their bellies. It was of no interest to him. But surely her mother had been special? Esmee was special. He had kept her alone of all the others. To what purpose? Face to face with the unknown, her thoughts quickly changed course.

Ezra digressed. ‘A seaman knows the safest gal is a virgin. That way there’s no danger of the pox. You learn that lesson young in life. Anyhows, it’s miserable hard to find such a gal ashore, but along the coast of Africky …’

‘What of my mother?’

‘Mmm.’ Ezra took another drink. ‘Pretty she was, for a darky. That much I do remember. The ship was your father’s first command. She was leaky as a bucket but …’

‘My mother?’

Ezra acceded. ‘Even then the Captain knew how to pick the ripest, sweetest fruit for a journey.’

At his words the blackness threatened. Esmee had watched her father often enough. Green eyes glazed with lust, breath fetid with the stink of stale rum, he would survey the new cargo, selecting, choosing … Mercifully, Ezra’s monologue cut into her accelerating fear.

‘It started off like any other voyage. We was carrying mostly bucks, picked up on the Slave Coast. Can’t get enough of them, they can’t. There’s a good market out there in the Indies. Anyhows, the voyage was dogged by unfavourable winds and it took us nigh on six weeks to reach London. Once there we sold off some of the cargo but the majority was bound for the Antilles.’

He drank deep of the strong water. In the damp foggy evening, his grey whiskers glistened like fairy dust. Softly, he said: ‘Such a long time ago.’

‘My mother?’

‘Well, afore we could revictual, the ship was hit by fever. Three weeks we was anchored outside the harbour here at Tilbury and no one allowed ashore. By the time we sailed the slaves had been more’n two months on board.’

The imagined stench offended Esmee’s nostrils. That and the stink of fish had been with her all her life. Ezra shifted his position, slowly, painfully. Esmee thought how thin and shrivelled he had become. Even as a child she had thought of him as old. Now he was really so, sixty at the least. Soon he might die.

This slow unfolding of her history was tantalising. She wanted to shake him, shout at him. It might be the last chance she had to hear the tale, but she was afraid even now that he might change his mind. Her father would not take kindly to his life being discussed in this way, and on board ship nothing was secret for long.

Finding a more comfortable position Ezra at last continued with his tale and Esmee breathed a sigh of relief, letting out her breath gently so as not to distract him.

‘Naturally your pa was anxious to get rid of the slaves as soon as possible, but that voyage was jinxed. When we reached Jamaica the Captain was struck down by fever. He was that sick his skin turned black. Near threw him over the side, we did. Anyhows, after several weeks he pulled through but by then the mate had done the trading and we was back at sea. Somehow yer ma had been overlooked. She was still aboard so she was charged with nursing the Captain back to health.’

Esmee held her breath. Surely there must have been some tenderness? Her mother had nursed her father, cared for him. Had he loved her in return?

‘What was she like?’ She scrabbled through her mind for a mental image, creating a composite picture of the prettiest women she had ever seen, bundled aboard, chained up, looked over by the officers. Her heart fluttered against her ribs, reaching towards the mystery of her life, grasping for the reality of her mother’s experience.

Ezra sighed expansively. ‘Can’t rightly recall. I never spoke to her. She only had her own lingo. She was comely, though. She had spirit too – she needed it with the Captain. Anyways, when we got back to England yer pa kept her as his privilege slave. He would probably have sold her on the next voyage only, somehow, he didn’t. By then her belly was big as a bladder.’

‘That was me?’

‘It was.’ Ezra gave a little chuckle. ‘I was the first to see ye. Little scrap you was. A few days later, yer pa was feeling – well, let’s just say he wanted a bit of company. I said to un: “’Sno good you wanting her, she’s just sprung a tiddler. Looks like you an’ all.” He was flabbergasted. I think the drink made him sentimental. He went down to have a look. When he saw you he said: “Sprog’s got green eyes, same as me – proper Esmeralda.” That’s what he called ye. I reckon if it hadn’t been for your eyes …’ Again Ezra hesitated.

‘You think he’d have sold me?’ Esmee willed him to deny it, to confirm her fragile belief that she was different.

Ezra shrugged. ‘Don’t rightly know. You never know with the Captain. A law unto himself, he is. Anyway, he kept you both, even though he moaned about the cost, but after a while yer ma grew sick and died, then he gave you into the charge of some black mammy until you was big enough to look to yourself.’

Accubah! Esmee had no trouble in remembering Accubah. Closing her eyes she could feel the warm safety of the black woman’s hug, smell her reassuring sweat, hear the infectious laughter that had kept her own childish fears at bay.

Tears prickled for her unknown mother, her substitute mammy. Accubah, big and fleshy, not the sort of woman to inspire lust in Jeronimo. Esmee didn’t even know if she had been his comfort slave, but she had stayed with them until her charge was about seven. Then, at the end of one voyage, Esmee could not find her.

‘Where’s Accubah?’ She hardly ever addressed her father directly but she had searched the ship for so long, stumbling over cargo, wading through the putrid water of the bilges, climbing between stores of sugar and tobacco, peering through the gaps in piles of logwood. ‘Where’s Mammy?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where?’

‘Sold. You’re big enough to look to yourself.’

The pain of loss gnawed at her anew. Everything was outside of her control. It always would be. Although she had been with her father for fifteen years, at any moment he might decide to part with her. He had threatened to do so often enough.

To stifle the thought, she said: ‘What was my mother called?’

Ezra’s eyes jerked open. He had been on the verge of dozing off.

‘Called? I don’t rightly know. Dinah, that’s what we called her. That’s what we called ’em all – the Captain’s dinahs – bit of a joke it was.’

In the darkness Esmee hugged herself, trying to find comfort. The last dinah had left the ship in Hispaniola. Travelling back from the Indies, Esmee had been the only woman aboard.

A frightening knot began to form just below her ribs. Tomorrow some thirty passengers, all male, would be boarding the Destiny – fervent, religious men concerned with the soul’s salvation. There would be no place on this voyage for women of pleasure. Again she would be the only female – and men were always men …

Below them in the hold, the various calls of cows and sheep, chickens and pigs, echoed against the gentle lap of the water. The livestock had been loaded earlier that day. Some would supplement the diet of dried pork and biscuit on the outward journey but the majority were there for a different purpose.

This voyage was one of exploration. Her father had been charged to sail to the Antilles and there seek out an island not already claimed by the Spaniards and suitable for colonisation. When he found it the animals below, plus the passengers and some of the crew, were to be put ashore to claim it. By this time tomorrow night they would be out of sight of land.

Esmee sucked on the knuckle of her index finger. Her reverie was shattered by a sudden crash and the sound of curses. Like lightning she leaped to her feet and old Ezra scrambled up behind her. Tottering up the gangplank, swaying dangerously, was her father.

‘What the …’ He blinked at them both. ‘What in the name of Lucifer are you two doing?’

‘Just taking the air.’ Esmee glanced at Ezra for confirmation. Covertly she studied her father, trying to assess his mood. Dear God, don’t let him be in bad spirits!

Old Ezra stared at the Captain with bleary eyes. ‘Looks like you’ve had a skinful, Captain. D’you need any help?’

Jeronimo shook his head impatiently. To Esmeralda, he said: ‘Get below. I’ve got something for you.’

Quickly she stumbled down the ladder, her heart still beating too fast, her imagination flailing after some safe possibility. The cabin was stacked with bales and boxes, the air rank with rum and stale sweat. Jeronimo’s hammock hung across the width of the room. It cast a dark shadow, menacing as the leathery wings of a bat.

Esmee made a dive for the corner where a pile of covers marked out her own bed. Here she slept each night, except when her father had company. Then she was unceremoniously turfed outside to make the best of it, curling up near the door, or if the elements were too rough, risking the narrow corridor that connected the Captain’s cabin with the quarter deck. She suspected that none of the crew would dare to touch her, and yet …

She noticed that Jeronimo carried a large canvas sack. Swaying dangerously, he began to search about inside it, cursing quietly under his breath. Finally he hauled out what looked like a dark length of cloth.

‘Here.’

Uncertainly Esmee reached forward to take it. The material felt smooth beneath her fingers. Holding it up, she realised that it was a woman’s gown, deep emerald in colour, the bodice picked out in lace, the cuffs trimmed with fur.

She met his eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s time I got some return for keeping you all these years.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Jeronimo tilted back his head. His eyes were bloodshot. For a long time he surveyed her in silence and Esmee froze into herself. She had seen him look at the slave women in the same way: assessing, choosing. Her gaze became riveted to his hands, clenched in front of him. At any moment his right fist might fly out at her, send her head crashing back against the wall. Then he would curse her for her stupidity, for the burden she imposed on him, for having been born.

To her amazement, he said: ‘It’s time we found a man for you.’

‘I am to be married?’ She almost dropped the gown in her surprise.

‘Married?’ He snorted. ‘There’s no gain in marriage, not for the likes of you.’ The candle flickered crazily and he twisted his head aside, avoiding the direct light of the flame. Still he watched her, calculating.

His voice thick from the effect of too much rum, he said: ‘Put it on.’

Turning her back, Esmee struggled into the gown, fumbling with the laces, dismayed by the tight bodice which emphasised the swell of her breasts. In the folds of her canvas shirt, her body was concealed, protected. She felt panic begin to grip her.

Jeronimo clicked his tongue and Esmee moved to left and right, the better for him to see. On land, men clicked so at horses, making them move. The touch of the damask against her skin was smooth as a snake. When she went to take a step, the fabric caught about her ankles, making her stumble. She’d had no idea a gown was so restricting.

‘That’ll do.’ Her father belched and indicated that she should change. With relief she regained the safety of her own clothes, then she folded the gown and placed it in a wooden box beneath the bunk where Jeronimo slept only when he pleasured a woman.

He said: ‘Out there, back in the Caribbees, we’ll be calling at several islands. There’ll be no shortage of opportunities. Every cove, every tavern, is full of lonely men. Rich men. Men with money.’ He began to walk around her as if she were a mare he was thinking of buying, weighing up her worth against the cost. Then he stopped, his lips turned down in the semblance of a jaded, cynical smile.

Grasping her arm, he said: ‘Don’t you fret yourself, Chickadee, I’ll see that you’re well taken care of. But marriage …?’

He laughed.

The next morning, disobeying her father’s instructions to stay inside the cabin, Esmee watched for the arrival of the passengers. By pushing the door open a fraction she had a clear though restricted view of the quayside, still littered with boxes and bales waiting to be loaded. A rickety board was thrown up to act as a gangplank and the crew formed a wavering ribbon as they filed up the incline, backs hunched, struggling under the weight of their burdens.

She was distracted by a sudden squealing. A black piglet which had not been crated up, wriggled free from the seaman who was carrying it aboard. Dropping on to the gangplank it wavered precariously. For a second it seemed certain that it would lose its balance and fall into the narrow strip of water between the Destiny and the harbour wall, but miraculously it found its footing and made a hasty if misguided dash for the deck.

For several minutes members of the crew dived to left and right in their efforts to catch it, just missing an ear, grasping for a leg, holding briefly to a tail, but the creature eluded them all. Esmee felt something of its fear, its need for protection. She wanted to rush out and save it, hold it close and defend it. She had never felt such a strange emotion before, an almost overwhelming need to care for something and keep it safe as once, long ago, Mammy had kept her from danger. But even as the thought claimed her she knew that the crew would take the piglet from her – and if Jeronimo were to see her on deck, he would take his whip to her.

Hardening her heart, she closed the door a fraction to distance herself from the creature’s terror. Finally, driven towards the centre of the ship by a wall of sailors, the piglet made a last-ditch bid to escape, trying to scrabble up the tightly packed bodies that surrounded it. It was forced backwards and dropped heavily into the hold where its squeals took on a distant, echoing resonance.

Her stomach knotting with anxiety, Esmee turned her attention back to the quayside where a subdued group of men were making their way to the water’s edge. These were the passengers. Inconsequentially she remembered her father’s complaint: ‘For every one of these noble saints, I could house ten slaves.’

The group seemed to form a composite whole, their warm, sober clothing of uniform quality, their mute demeanour binding them together. Only unmarried men had been selected for this voyage and mostly men with skills – carpenters, masons, planters and the like.

One or two stood apart in family groups, saying their farewells. Sons, daughters and parents waited in line for a kiss, a final blessing. A few wept. Others looked on awkwardly as if a display of feeling would be viewed as unseemly, the parting something to be got over with as quickly as possible.

Again Esmee was assailed by a concentrated outpouring of emotion. What must it be like to feel another person’s tenderness, that strange, elusive love that the sailors sometimes talked of when they were in their cups and far from home? In her living memory no one had ever kissed her, blessed her with the touch of their lips. The only kindness she could recall was an awkward pat on the shoulder from old Ezra.

A few of the passengers were simply gazing at the ship, their faces tense, perhaps alarmed by what they saw, for the Destiny was not new.

Some two hundred tons burthen, she had been several weeks in dock for refitting. In spite of the work her timbers were still rotting, her hull patched with a criss-cross of planks, glaring as a darned stocking. She would not last forever.

The hire of the vessel by a group of English noblemen had come as a welcome surprise. Known puritans, the new masters were men governed by almost impossibly narrow ideals. Although Esmee’s father had lied a little, pretended to a religious observance he rarely troubled himself with, he had not expected to gain this badly needed appointment. To everyone’s surprise the commission had been granted. Esmee dared not speculate on the grimness of their future had he failed to secure it.

In the past the Destiny had many times made the triangular trip from the Thames to the west coast of Africa, then across the Atlantic. This time the route would be more direct: Plymouth, the Azores, then picking up the trade winds to Barbados. After that – where?

From habit, she tried not to dwell on the future. It was beyond her control. Wherever they went it made little difference to her. She thought with misgivings that the cargo was not particularly to her father’s liking and this would not improve his temper. His preferred voyages involved taking muskets and baubles to trade along the Ivory Coast in return for that most valuable of commodities: slaves. When they reached the New World, no matter that Spain was not a recognised trading partner, the colonists would be avid for this prized source of labour and prices would be high. Once the slaves were unloaded around the islands, the ship would be stocked with dye woods and spices, sugar, tobacco and other valuable cargo to sell in England.

Only then would Jeronimo mellow, show that incongruously sentimental side to his nature which Esmee found even more alarming than his usual, brooding self. Overwhelmed by a vision of him, sated with drink, calling upon her to sing, she began to suck her finger. Come along, Chickadee, a little love song for your father.

She could see him now, standing by the gangplank. A sharp wind blew into the harbour but Jeronimo appeared not to notice it. Esmee could see the golden hairs on his forearms bristling with the chill, still bright against his fading tan. From habit he fingered the tarred pigtail that held his flaxen hair in place, intermittently scratching his scalp. The back of his shirt billowed out and the canvas of his drawers clung damply to his thighs. He stood with legs apart, leaning forward into the wind. As the ship moved beneath him Esmee could see bare toes tense against the wooden deck.

He turned his head towards the horizon and, following his gaze, Esmee knew that soon the wind would change direction. Then they would be ready to sail. At such a moment there was always the same air of expectancy.

She had long since lost count of the number of crossings they had made, yet still each voyage kindled a flicker of excitement, even in her father. The day that feeling stopped, she knew Jeronimo would leave the sea forever.

Meanwhile the passengers were beginning to come aboard, clambering how and where they could to set down their loads.

Esmee’s eye was caught by one man, younger than most, the gold of his hair and beard making him out like a beacon amidst the dark uniformity of his companions. He was taller than average, well-built, and he carried himself in a fine, upright manner that made her forget for the moment where she was. As she watched he took it upon himself to help the heavily laden and the older men to find a comfortable space aboard the ship. For a moment Esmee had the feeling that there was another kind of life away from this cabin, one which she could only imagine, where people were good to each other. She opened the door wider and stepped up on to the deck.

The stranger was back on the quayside picking up goods. He paused to speak to one of the seamen who was on the point of disembarking. The sailor turned and pointed in Jeronimo’s direction and the young passenger bounded back up the gangplank. His actions were nimble, the movement of a healthy man. He hardly seemed to notice the weight of the load he carried. As he reached the Captain, his youth and vigour were clear to see. Esmee moved closer so that she could hear.

‘Captain Jackson?’

‘Who asks?’

‘Samuel Rushworth, sir. I have the honour to be in charge of the passengers on this voyage.’

‘Do you now?’ Jeronimo’s voice could not conceal his resentment. Looking into the visitor’s face Esmee registered the clear, unwavering gaze of an honest man, the eager demeanour of one who is intent on doing a good job. This was not the sort of man with whom her father could strike a bargain – one that would benefit them both and no questions asked. For a moment she felt as if the barren normality of her life was in danger of being swept away. The feeling was exhilarating yet dangerous.

Casually her father asked the stranger: ‘What would you be wanting?’

‘To check that all is well, see the quarters for the planters. I should like to be assured that there are sufficient supplies for us all.’

‘Would you now?’ Jeronimo’s smile concealed an all too familiar contempt. Esmee knew her father’s thoughts. Before him, for all his height and beef, his clear blue eyes and golden beard, stood a man barely past youth – and a landlubber to boot. Five minutes out to sea and he’d be heaving his guts up over the side. She felt the need to put him on his guard.

Rushworth said: ‘May I look around?’

Esmee saw her father’s eyes narrow. He was not used to being questioned. Here, on the deck of his ship, he was God. No man challenged him.

As she watched, he bowed, an exaggerated show of courtesy. Holding the gaze of Samuel Rushworth, he said: ‘Feel at liberty to go where you like, sir.’ He swept out his arm, offering the ship for inspection.

As they both disappeared from view, a picture of the young man’s face – his honesty, his innocence – was imprinted on Esmee’s mind. He could have no idea what her father was like. She felt an overwhelming urge to warn him. Resting her cheek against the wind-worn edifice of the mast, she thought: Do be careful. Once we weigh anchor that will be all the liberty you’ll get.

‘What are you doing?’

Esmee jumped so much that her heart seemed to ricochet against her ribs. She had been so preoccupied with the thought of Samuel Rushworth that she had not heard her father’s approach.

Before she could move, he grabbed her arm.

‘You little fool! D’you want all and sundry to see you?’

Leaning close so that she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, he said: ‘D’you want these holy fathers lusting after you? Stealing your maidenhead?’ He continued in a low, confidential tone: ‘Believe me, Chickadee, your girlhood’s the greatest prize you’ve got. Lose that and I’ll make you regret it.’

Hastily she stumbled back down to the cabin, her father close behind. Relaxing his hold, he seemed to change his mood. Flinging himself on the couch, he said: ‘Go on, speak to me in French. That’s a novelty, that is. And Spanish. Good job we’ve had all these foreign types aboard. They’ve taught ye something useful at least.’

Eyeing her shrewdly, he added: ‘I hope that’s all they taught you. You’ve not let any of them …?’

‘No!’

Like quicksilver his expression changed. He looked her over, suspicious, calculating. For a terrible moment she saw in his eyes the same hunger that enveloped him when a new consignment of slaves came aboard.

Pulling away she began to recite: ‘La mer est belle, comme une dame.’

He grunted in satisfaction. ‘Don’t you let none o’ them puritans see you, you understand?’

Nodding her head, she slipped back into her corner, crouching down, trying to be swallowed up in the shadows.

This voyage was fraught with uncertainty. Esmee was always afraid, always on her guard, but for the first time there was something else. As the thought of Sam Rushworth came into her mind again and again a far more dangerous feeling swept over her. It was called hope.

As Samuel Rushworth boarded the Destiny for the final time, he was plagued by misgivings. He tried to tell himself that anxiety was only natural. In the past he had made several crossings to France and the Low Countries, but never had he undertaken a voyage of this magnitude. What was more, even if they survived the crossing, at the end of it they still faced the unknown. A catalogue of dangers ticked themselves off in his brain: fever, Spaniards, tornadoes, Caribs. His mind reeled with stories of just such disastrous adventures as the one they were about to undertake.

But there was something more. Although his uncle, Lord Craven, was an experienced trader, having many times both bought and commissioned naval craft, Sam feared that this time he had made a grave mistake.

In spite of the Destiny’s less than pristine appearance, as far as Sam could tell the ship was still seaworthy – and certainly Captain Jackson had experience – but it was the character of the man rather than his abilities that disturbed him. Could he be trusted? Would he abandon them along some swamp-infested coast, then return to England to claim his fee? It was entirely possible he already had plans to sel