by Karleen Koen
“Don’t speak anymore. I can see it hurts you to talk,” said Barbara.
“No, I want to say this. I was sentenced to the pillory, led there in the night and locked in. In the morning, I watched more than one man recognize me and look away. By noon, I doubt my own mother could have known me. I might have died. All day, the crowd threw things. The sign telling my crime, someone read it to them, and once they began throwing, they did not stop. For a time, I quite lost my reason. ‘Am I not one of God’s creatures,’ I screamed, ‘the same as you?’”
Carlyle ground his teeth. “Robin has paid me back ten times over for my talk against him. I should have known he would. The justice is a particular henchman of his.”
“Surely, Walpole did not do this,” said Pendarves.
They heard the sound of another carriage. Tim had time only to walk in the kitchen door and say, “The Duke of Tamworth,” before Tony strode in. He barely glanced at Carlyle.
“Did it not occur to you to wait for me?” He spoke only to Barbara. “The magistrate was not at home. I ended by going to Chelsea and seeing Walpole. I have in my pocket his paper freeing Carlyle.”
“Who did you think ordered this in the first place?” she said to him.
“Nonsense.”
“Your own man says so. Tell him, Carlyle.”
Carlyle began to speak, but Tony cut him short.
“Walpole sends his express regards to Carlyle. He could not sign the paper to free him quickly enough; he even offered to come with me to see it done. Do not tell me he is the villain in this. Barbara, you must think about your position now. What if the watch had caught you?”
“Old men, easily outrun.”
“Don’t be flippant. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I didn’t think he would survive, Tony. He told me he was dying. You weren’t there.”
“You are too impetuous and headstrong.”
“Why are you so angry at me?”
“My brother-in-law is in the Tower for treason, my candidate for Tamworth has been pilloried for sodomy, and my cousin, whose reputation is shaky at best, cannot even allow me to handle the matter but must make a rescue reminiscent of a highwayman. I thought you were ill. Your mother told everyone you were ill. And yet you act as if you had the strength of ten men.”
“Tony, you have the paper from Robin. There can be no scandal now. He is freed. I simply freed him a little early. Is that it? Are you angry because you weren’t a part of it? But you are. I knew you would see that there was no trouble. I knew you would make it right. And you have.”
“I don’t want to always be making things right for you—”
“Your Grace,” said Pendarves, “Mr. Carlyle is bleeding very badly.”
“I want to talk with you about Gussy,” said Barbara.
“Not now.”
“When? He is your man, too, just as Tommy is. You have a duty to them, Tony.”
“Don’t talk to me of duty, Barbara. I know my duty.”
Outside, as they helped Carlyle into the carriage, Pendarves assured Tony he would see to Barbara.
“Try to keep her from making any scandals until she begins her duties as lady-in-waiting,” Tony said to him.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll do that, Your Grace.”
In the carriage, Tony pulled off his jacket, wadded it into a ball, and put it against the cut in Carlyle’s head. It was, as Pendarves had said, bleeding far too much.
I wish she were gone from here, he thought. I wish I did not love her. Your man, she lectured him, as if he did not know duty. Robin betrayed me, she said, this when he was now married into a family allied with Walpole’s. Walpole had been patient when Tony had approached him about the fine yet again. I am like a lovesick fool, thought Tony in the carriage, shaking his head at the thought of that scene. I did what I could, Walpole said. I always do what I can.
Sodomy, Walpole had said tonight. Carlyle’s been openly punished for it now. You might think about finding a new ally, Your Grace. This one will no longer be received in certain drawing rooms. I tell you this as a favor to you. Poor Tommy, he and I were great friends once. Even though we are no longer friends, I regret that this has happened to him. Here, take this paper and release him. Tell him I am thinking of him.
Barbara should have heard Walpole. He did do his duty. God, my heart hurts, he thought. She didn’t care a flip for him. He was simply, as always, her cousin Tony. The turmoil in his heart was unbearable. He almost hated her.
IN THE carriage, Barbara said to Pendarves, “Thank you for helping me.”
Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep at night, she roamed her mother’s townhouse, her mind full of all she wished to do, and there he would be, too, roaming the house. Sometimes they played cards. It was almost as if her stepfather feared to go to his bed. It was how they had come to know each other, those nightly roamings.
“I’ve decided I’m going to live in a townhouse,” she said. “In fact, the one we were just in. I had a note from Sir Gideon. He wishes to talk to me about Devane Square.”
“He is making his move to try to get the land from you,” said Pendarves. “Don’t let him frighten you. I’ve an interest in this square myself. Others do, too. The Oxfords, to the west of you, are granting building leases, though there is no rush to buy. Caution is the word these days, what with the arrests and fret over the invasion. It is a good thing for your land that the Oxfords plan to build. In twenty or thirty years, this quiet spot will be as bustling as Covent Garden or Pall Mall. You remember that when Sir Gideon comes to call. Do not sell him the land in exchange for the notes he holds.”
As the carriage stopped, and a footman came to open the door, Barbara said, “I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell my mother of this.”
“Good God, no,” said Pendarves.
BARBARA OPENED the window, walked to the bed, left a candle burning. Robin is dangerous, she thought. I underestimate his ruthlessness. Do I want to continue this? He will hurt me as surely as he hurt Carlyle if he thinks I threaten him, and now I am head over heels into treason. He would see my head chopped off, if he had to; he’d weep copiously but see it chopped off. But then Slane was there, walking in through one of the windows, pulling off his clothes as he walked into the room, and thoughts of treason went out of her mind as she admired his body.
“Where is your dog?”
Barbara pointed toward a cupboard. Slane opened the door, picked up Harry, scratched his head.
“Behave,” he said, “and you may stay.”
“Am I to behave, too?” Barbara said, a shiver moving up and down her as Slane lay down beside her, took her in his arms.
“No.”
“A good thing.”
He was kissing a breast. “Why is that?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I am a most fortunate man.”
Later, Slane felt tears on her face. At once, he untangled himself and set her on her back, sprawling atop her, putting his cheek against hers.
“What is it?” He felt fierce, protective, angry with himself. “Have I hurt you? I will never forgive myself if I have hurt you in my lovemaking.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, only rubbed a foot against his leg. Then she told him about Tommy Carlyle.
“My King is the better man, Barbara. You ought to convert to him.”
“King George is a worthy man.”
“Think back about what Walpole did to Carlyle. A man’s disciples reflect the man.”
“And if James were king, there would be no bloodshed, no betrayals, no treacheries?”
Rochester was under strictest guard, allowed to see no one, yet he had found a way to get a note out. “I do not betray,” he wrote. “I think Charles, Lord Russel, does.”
How much time do I have? thought Slane. Am I selfish to continue to make love to this woman when I do not know what my next moment holds? I won’t let them have Gussy, he thought. If there’s any way to save Gussy, I intend t
o find it. He won’t be scapegoat for Walpole’s ambition.
“Touch me, Barbara—yes, just like that, just there. How clever you are,” he mocked, until she kissed the mockery away, and all he felt was desire.
IN THE dawn, Barbara moved from his side, found his coat, put it on, and sat in the window. Palest quartz and rose, faint azure marked the dawn. Marks from his mouth were on her legs, and she touched them one by one, thinking of how they’d been made. This, or this? he’d asked her. Here, or here? Delicious questions. Clever man. I am yours, she thought. And what are we going to do about it? She saw that he was awake, watching.
“You slept well,” she said.
“Did we sleep? When? That is not what I remember. Come here, Barbara.”
She dropped the coat and walked naked, surefooted and graceful, to him.
THE SUN was rising. A boatman called up to those on the ship that he’d take passengers to the quays now. Colonel Perry looked around for his small valise, and finding it, took it in hand to walk toward the rope ladder. Dawn showed the Tower of London and London Bridge and many church steeples. It was a thrilling sight after the weeks of sailing. Sailor after sailor called farewell to him. He had shared his treasured peach brandy with them on the crossing as well as listened to the tales of their lives. He knew the sorrows and joys of their hearts now, prayed sincerely for each and every one of them, as they also knew.
“You’ll come to dinner and allow me to introduce my wife?” said the captain of the ship. “You’ll send a note to let me know where you are settled?”
Colonel Perry agreed.
“You beware London,” said the captain. “It can be a cruel place.”
Colonel Perry filled his mind with prayers, with God, as the boatman rowed them toward the quays. Once there, with the bustle of London around him, he thought: I am as excited as a boy.
BARBARA RETURNED from Devane Square, where she’d walked to look at the Oxford land. Pendarves said he had word that the Earl of Scarborough was going to begin building again on Hanover Square, to the south of her. He said the Earl of Burlington was going to break up the farmland behind his house on Piccadilly and put in streets, a certain sign there would be building. She’d also walked in Soho Square, a fashionable older square in the area. The Duke of Monmouth, a bastard son of Charles II, had lived there. He had rebelled against his uncle, James II, and been beheaded. Slane had spoken of it this morning, telling her the story: The ax was dull, and after the first blow to his neck Monmouth had stood and rebuked the executioner before laying his head upon the block again. Extraordinary courage, Slane had said. What you and I must have. You must let no one, not even your maidservant, know of me. I can stand my own head falling to the ax, but not yours, Barbara. I will ask no treason from you—he stroked her face—except to have your love. You have my word on that. Be kinder to your cousin Tony, Barbara. He loves you. How long did they have, she and Slane?
An old man sat before the gate of her mother’s townhouse, atop one of the bags and valises around him. Even before he stood and took off his hat, Barbara knew who it was. Colonel Perry. She smiled. He must have come to keep charge over her. He could not have chosen a better time. How delightful, how wonderful, how right.
IN THE Tower of London, in the Lion’s Tower, Charles spoke impatiently to the one-eyed servant who brought in his food. He’d been promised by Walpole that he should have the best of treatment. It was a fair trade, considering what he knew.
“Damn your eyes, if that broth is cold, I will send you back for more.”
Slane took off the wig he wore, pulled away the eye patch, and knocked Charles to the floor. When Charles struggled to rise, Slane put his knee in his back, an arm around his throat. The other hand held a knife.
“Give me one good reason,” he said, “why I should not slit your throat and leave you for dead where you lie.”
Chapter Fifty-one
THE PRIEST CAME TO BLESS THE SUGAR POTS, TO CELEBRATE THAT harvest was done. He smiled at Hyacinthe, nodded his head. They had a secret. Hyacinthe knew enough Latin to intrigue, to piece together his story. Madame will pay for my freedom twice over, he had told the priest at the end of it, painting a grand and wonderful picture of her beauty, her fame, her generosity. I am her favorite servant. Write a letter to Lady Devane, First Curle, Virginia.
The blessing done, slaves gathered in groups, and began their walk to the sea, half an hour from here. They were to spend the night, dance, drink rum, roast a pig, their reward for the sugar boiled and cooling in its clay pots. The first sight of the sea, its blue-green majesty, waves cresting white foam, was beautiful from the top of a hill. Like everyone else, Hyacinthe felt a shout come up from inside himself, and in another moment, he was running among the rest of them, determined to be the first to feel the delicious, salty freshness spreading out in frothy ripples. The day was heaven. They swam, caught fish, built a fire, opened the rum, began, once night came, to dance around the fire, singing the songs of their memories, of the life where their hearts still were, far across the water they’d enjoyed today.
Hyacinthe sat with the priest.
“I have written your letter,” the priest spoke in Latin, tapping a pocket of his long gown.
Hyacinthe heard the paper rustle. Hope was suddenly so large inside him that he thought he would choke on it.
“You will be made a bishop,” he said, with boy’s enthusiasm, boy’s certainty. “She will reward you greatly. May I see it?”
The priest, glancing around for the overseers, gave him the letter, but Hyacinthe did not know the words. They were not French or English. They were Spanish.
How would she know them? He could survive this, if it was not to be forever; but if it was, he would do as some of the fresh slaves did, the ones brought new from across the water. He would lie down and simply die.
“Someone will tell her,” the priest soothed him. “See your name written there?”
He saw it.
“Well, she will see it, too, and will she not do everything she can to learn what it is the letter says about you?”
Yes, yes, she would. She loved him.
“We will put it into God’s hands, my son.”
God’s hands, yes.
He went to sleep to the sweet sound of the sea, dreamed of the sugar harvest, dreamed he was cutting cane, running beside the wagon that brought it to the mill, then standing in the boiling house. Everyone was moving, the pace set by the overseers. The boiling house was a hell, the heat unmerciful, the fires under the copper kettles terrible beasts to be fed constantly, the sugar constantly stirred and ladled, slaves moving at all times to the shouts and blows of overseers—feed the fires, turn the stone wheel that crushed the cane, ladle sugar from pot to pot. Everywhere he looked slaves were stirring, muscles in their arms bunched, perspiration pouring from them; they were witches, he dreamed, demons sentenced to die over caldrons. The treasure, thick, ropy, dark brown sugar, lapped in its great pots, hissed warningly at him. Scalded sugar stuck to skin, ate it away in a matter of moments; in his dream, slave after slave fell into the caldrons, became one with the sugar. You! shouted an overseer. Into the pot, too. And then he was in the chamber in which the sugar was cooling in hundreds of clay pots. Madame sat upon a stone mill wheel.
Come home, she said to him, eyebrows drawn together, impatient. I need you.
Hyacinthe woke to see several men standing in the surf, pointing. The clear of yesterday was heavier, as if a weight lay upon it. It was hot, still. Hyacinthe waded out to them, his dream heavy like the day.
“Trouble,” one of them said, “a storm is coming. Go and wake the brothers and sisters.”
The men went to the overseers, told them what they saw. Back in the village, everyone worked to move the sugar pots to better shelter. Only when that was done were they allowed to go to their houses, to look to their roofs, to bring in cattle, to tie up dogs.
“WE MUST leave here. The sea is angry.”
Hyacinthe stood nea
r the men chosen to speak to the overseers after the first day of rain. Wind had begun, strong wind. The overseers, drinking rum, sated by their favorite slave women, shook their heads.
The rain did not stop. Hyacinthe watched as turtles, snakes, deer moved among the huts, unafraid of people, moving inland in the face of the driving rain, the hard wind. Village dogs had begun to howl. The overseers came, shouted. Everyone had to leave, but they must take the sugar.
They labored to load the wagons in wind fiercer than they were. The rain fell in such driving sheets it hurt. The donkeys snorted and kicked at harnesses and would not be buckled to wagons. Water lapped above their ankles. A huge gust of wind picked up a wagon and turned it over, spilling clay pots everywhere, crushing slaves nearby. The rain fell and the wind rose and water from the sea and sky came, inching higher and higher, after a time, rising so fast that everywhere one looked there was only it.
There was nowhere to run.
The water was too high, the wind too strong. Hyacinthe saw dear friends die, drown before his eyes. He saw everything around him, the mill house, the boiling house, the huts, the cabins of the overseers, destroyed. There was a lull, in which those remaining thought it was over, but then, like some dreadful jest, it began again, even fiercer. Monstrous circles of dark devoured whatever was in their path. Overseers died. And the priest.
He survived, how he did not know, for the storm, he would learn, was called a hurricane, and there was nothing more feared in all the Caribbean. Belonging to no one now, his own again, he determined to journey to the port, a wild port, he’d heard, a nest for pirates. A port meant ships, and ships meant passage, and passage meant a way to Madame and Thérèse, guardians of his heart.