Judging by his expectant expression, he was clearly trying to impart a message beyond his appalling slave tactics, but for the life of her, Jo couldn’t decipher what it was.
Trying to guide the conversation to information she needed, she asked, “And do they assimilate with your current slaves right away?”
“I say, do they what?”
“Do they simply go into the slave population right away or must you train them somewhere else?”
“Train them? Well, yes, I suppose you could say I train them. You see those huts up on that hill?”
She followed his pointing finger and saw three or four tiny, windowless structures.
“I put the new men in there until they’re trained. Sometimes it’s just a few days. The buggers in there now may take a week, but with little food or water until they break, my success rate is near perfect.”
“What do you do with the men you can’t train?” she asked, trying to mentally will her gorge down. It did not take much imagination to imagine what his answer would be.
“Bury them. They’ve died, you see.” Ramsey burst into laughter as if he’d told the funniest joke.
Jo cast a glance back at Odysseus who looked like he wanted to throttle the oblivious Englishman. Pallet elbowed the Russian in the ribs and shot a warning glance at Jo. She gave the tiniest nod and forced herself to make a mindless comment about the weather despite the clammy film covering her skin. Though it was hot and humid, the clamminess she felt had more to do with her nausea. Bright sparks of light flashed before her eyes and she clung tightly to the only thing supporting her.
This, unfortunately, was Ramsey’s arm. He chuckled and drew her closer still, saying, “Now who’s being forward?”
Jo ignored him, instead saying, “And how do you keep the other slaves here? Are there fences or do you keep them in chains?”
Ramsey chuckled again, a sound that was beginning to grate on her nerves.
“My, my. You do have a cunning mind. I find threat of punishment to be the greatest deterrent to a recalcitrant slave after my initial ‘training,’” he said. “Also, I pay several bush captains to patrol the perimeters of my property.”
“Bush captains?”
“Men who track down and return runaway slaves. They are far less gentle than I am, so knowing they are out there keeps my slaves well in hand.”
“Do these bush captains patrol non-stop?”
“What an inquisitive bird you are!”
“It is only that I want to see everything so that our own plantation is running smoothly , er, by the time my brother comes.”
“The viscount is coming here?” Ramsey asked, his eyes narrowing speculatively.
“I am sure he will once he receives word of my fiancee’s death. And he will wish to visit those Englishmen who live here, no doubt.”
“Might he be implored to handle a bit of legal business for me back in London? It’s nothing, really, just a bit of a misunderstanding with the family of my late wife.”
“I’m certain my brother will be as helpful to you as you have been to me, Mr. Ramsey,” Jo answered. She felt absolutely no compunction about lying to the man at this point.
“Now these bush captains you mentioned, how often do they patrol the perimeter?”
An hour later they were back in Ramsey’s house, resting in preparation for dinner. Jo had accepted the man’s invitation to spend the night as he worried the roads were not safe for a lone woman in a carriage. Jo lifted her eyebrows as she glanced at Odysseus and Pallet who were scowling from their places near the door. She was anything but alone on this trip, but it occurred to her that they would have their best chance of freeing Ford and Bussa if they had free range of the estate, especially after nightfall.
“You are too kind, Mr. Ramsey. I can’t thank you enough.
Now, as she lay resting on the white coverlet of the guest room bed, she closed her eyes and tried to feel Ford’s presence, tried to will a message to him, to let him know he would soon be free. All she got for her efforts was a headache and a stiff neck from clenching her jaw so tightly.
A maid entered the room without so much as a knock. Jo saw it was the same young woman who had answered the door several hours earlier.
“Mr. Ramsey sent me to help you dress for dinner.”
“Oh!” Jo exclaimed, sitting up and throwing her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, I haven’t anything to change into. I hadn’t planned to stay more than a few hours.”
She stood and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her gown. Without asking, the maid spun her around and began unbuttoning her gown.
“I’m sorry, did you not understand? I haven’t anything to change into.”
“I press dis dress while you soak in bathtub. Make you look good as new. Tended Missus when she was alive, I did.”
“Oh!” Jo exclaimed as the maid efficiently stripped the gown from her body. Her stays quickly followed and she was herded into a separate bathing room. The water in the enameled tub was tepid, but served to cool Jo sufficiently that by the time the maid returned, she was glad to wrap up in a length of toweling.
The maid laced her back into her stays and gown—the former still uncomfortably damp from the day’s exertions—and pushed Jo to sit at the dressing table.
“I usually just wear my hair—”
“It look better if I do it,” the maid said, snatching the hairbrush off the table.
“Yes, but I—” Jo began futilely, before giving up and allowing the young woman her way.
“What is your name,” she asked.
“Dominique,” the maid answered around a mouthful of hairpins.
“That’s a French name,” Jo said.
“My first master, when I was born, he French. Like your man.”
Jo frowned, thinking of Ford but immediately realized Dominique meant Monsieur Pallet. “Do you speak French as well, then?”
The maid nodded, her fingers nimbly twisting and pinning. “And Portugues, and a few words of Swahili. That from where my people come.”
Jo blinked, impressed. “Will you—would you say a few words? I’ve never heard Swahili before.”
Dominique obliged and Jo repeated the words under her breath, her tongue clumsy in the effort. “What does that mean?”
“It mean, ‘master, he a nasty weasel-man.’”
Jo burst out laughing, then covered her mouth. In the mirror, her gaze met Dominique’s and though the young woman’s expression was placid, her eyes sparkled with humor.
“Dere, miss. You all done.”
Jo inspected her coiffure which, while more elaborate than she’d ever managed, was elegant and completely appropriate for dinner.
“You are a skilled hairdresser, Dominique.”
“Aye. And I tend clothes real good. I can sew and embroider too.”
Jo smiled at her.
“You need lady maid here. The ladies in the city watch if you not turned out jes so. Shun you if you don’ look your best.”
“Oh!” Jo said, remembering her ruse of being a landowner. “Yes, of course.”
“You ask right nice, Mistah Ramsey sell me to you.”
So focused on rescuing Ford and Bussa was she that Jo hadn’t even considered the possibility of freeing others. The thought of Appleton’s remaining money flitted through her head. Still, what would they do with the young woman? Clearly she couldn’t be left in Brazil, but Jo didn’t know if Ford would have her aboard ship indefinitely.
“Do you want to be a ladies’ maid, Dominique?” she asked, turning in her chair.
Dominique gazed steadily at her in return and said evenly, “Ain’t nobody want this life, miss. But you a sight better than Mistah Ramsey.” Her voice lowered and she said, matter of factly, “Leastwise you won’t get me with a babe.”
Jo sucked in a breath. “Are you—”
“Not yet, merci Dieu, but ain’t for lack of tryin’ on weasel man’s part.”
Jo placed her hand over Dominique�
�s. “We will not leave you here with him,” she vowed.
Dominique nodded shortly and said, “Oh, yer men wan’ talk with you afore supper. They in the sitting room but best you go outside to talk private. Too many ears indoors.”
“Thank you,” Jo said. She made her way from the back of the sprawling house to the sitting room where they’d first met Ramsey.
Pallet was pacing the length of the room while Odysseus stood, immobile as a statue. Their attention snapped to her as soon as she entered the room.
“It is too close in here for comfort,” she said. “I need a cooler breath of air before I faint. The maid laced me so tightly.”
Once outside, Odysseus and Pallet quickly laid out their plan to free Ford and Bussa. It sounded dangerous and risky to both men.
“Perhaps I should simply implore Mr. Ramsey to sell them to me.”
“But madame, if he refuses and then they disappear, you will be the first person he suspects.”
Jo didn’t see how that would matter when they would board the Nightingale and leave Brazil, never to return, but Odysseus and Pallet seemed intent on their plan. In the sitting room behind them, she heard Ramsey bellowing for more brandy.
“What do you need me to do?” she whispered quickly.
“Nothing—” Odysseus began, but Pallet cut him off. “Keep acting as you have been. Keep him in bon humor. Encourage him to drink.”
Jo nodded and slipped back inside.
“My dear Miss Howard,” Ramsey said expansively.
Jo pasted a vapid smile on her face and allowed him to bow over her hand, where he kissed it a bit more effusively than proper.
At dinner, Ramsey plied her with wine as he boasted about the numerous successful endeavors he’d instituted across the plantation. To hear him speak, Jo thought, one would assume he’d personally broken the ground and cleared trees from a thousand acres.
“One doesn’t put all one’s investment in sugar cane, though, my dear Miss Howard,” he said, gesturing with his glass and slopping the liquid over the brim. Dominique crossed behind him carrying a platter and rolled her eyes. Jo bit her lower lip to keep the bubble of hysterical laughter inside.
Toward the end of the meal, Ramsey took a fortifying slug of his brandy and plunked the glass down on the table. He leaned forward and placed a clammy hand over Jo’s. She drew it back, but forced herself not to wipe it on her napkin.
“Forgive me, my dear,” Ramsey chuckled. “I realize I am acting in a most forward manner. However, life here in Brazil moves quickly. Life is transient, what with all the man, many dangers—” his brows lowered ominously—“surrounding us: fevers, agues, venomous snakes, slave revolts.”
Jo glanced at Dominique and the young footman who were serving a selection of fruits and cakes as the final course.
“Oh I’ve got it well in hand, mind you,” he continued. “But you, as a lone, fragile woman, well, they would no doubt cause you no end of grief and tribulation.” He sat straighter, leaning only a bit to the side, and tugged down his waistcoat. “That is why I have come up with a solution that will benefit us both.”
“Oh?” Jo said faintly, setting her hands on the table, preparing to stand.
He reached forward again and took one of them.
“Miss Howard, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“What?!” Jo sputtered, trying to tug her hand from his damp but surprisingly firm grip.
“It is a perfect solution to both of our problems.”
“I haven’t a problem!” she said, her voice several octaves higher than normal.
“Oh my dear, you have a host of them. No one will wish to do business with a young, inexperienced woman.”
“I—I have my men of business,” she said, scrambling to think of how to extricate herself from this awkward situation.
“Yes, but who knows how reliable they are. A Frenchman and a Russian?” He tsked censoriously. “No my dear, you need a stalwart Englishman at your side.”
She frowned as a thought occurred to her. “You speak fluent Portuguese then?”
“Certainly not!” he said vehemently, but then laughed uproariously. “Never could remember any of my Latin when I was a boy in school either. My tongue wasn’t made for a language other than the King’s English.”
“Queen’s,” she corrected absently, wondering if he’d meant to put a lascivious emphasis on the word “tongue,” and deciding distastefully that he had.
He plunked his empty wineglass down. Dominique hurried to fill it.
“Come now, my dear. You won’t find a better match than me in all of Brazil. The other Englishmen here are all either married, in their dotage, or unwhiskered.”
“I’ll need to consult with my brother,” she prevaricated.
Ramsey laughed around a mouthful of meat. “A letter will take months back and forth across the sea. You’ll be ruined by then.”
Jo felt her stomach clench in fear.
“What do you mean, ‘ruined?’”
He raised his eyebrows innocently.
“Why, financially, of course,” he said, but the hair on the back of Jo’s neck prickled and she was reminded of how it felt to hear Thomas Kent’s quiet footsteps as he entered her room.
“Unless your brother’s pockets are so deep as to allow you and your men to live idly for a year while waiting for his direction? But then, if he was so wealthy, why would he need to send his young sister to build a sugar plantation?”
Jo flicked a glance to the door. She knew Odysseus and Pallet were just on the other side, but the tone of Ramsey’s voice had changed. It was less cajoling and more…threatening. She moved her napkin from her lap to the table and prepared to push her chair back.
Dominique caught her eye and shook her head, making a “wait” gesture before moving forward to top off Ramsey’s wine glass.
“Ooh, Mista Ramsey, wait ‘til you see what cook made for pudding. It’s your favorite!”
Ramsey set his glass down, sloshing wine over the rim despite having drained half of it immediately.
“Silly gel, all puddings are my favorite,” he said, then chuckled at his poor jest.
Dominique giggled like a school girl and looked pointedly at Jo, who quickly manufactured a weak laugh.
When Ramsey glanced back at her, the threatening glint had left his bleary eyes and he spent the remainder of dinner telling Jo what she assumed he thought were amusing stories of recalcitrant slaves and his exaggerated successes as a landowner.
By the time the last course was served, Jo’s cheeks hurt from forcing a smile to her lips and her head pounded from the strain of fending off Ramsey’s proposal, which he referred to several more times.
The man had switched from wine to brandy with the arrival of the dessert course and he frowned heavily when Jo excused herself from the table.
“But it’s early yet!” he protested at her stated intention to retire.
“Yes, but I’ll need to depart first thing in the morning. My, er, hosts will be concerned if I do not.”
“Hosts? Though you said you were in a hotel.”
Had she said that? Jo thought frantically and decided he was inebriated enough not to worry if her story had changed. “Oh no, goodness me. Staying with dear old family friends. Quite protective of me, they are. I’m surprised they haven’t sent men out to find me yet.”
Ramsey grumbled a bit, but Dominique distracted him with another helping of pudding and Jo shot her a grateful glance as she made her escape.
Two hours later, she lay on her bed, still fully clothed despite the heat of the heavy night air. She strained to hear any sound from outside. From her corner window she could just see the top of the shed Ramsey had indicated on their tour.
She knew Odysseus and Pallet meant to free Ford and Bussa, concealing them beneath the benches of their rented coach and her mind raced with a hundred things that could go wrong. From the lot of them being captured at the shed to the bench cavities not being big
enough to conceal the two men, to the axle on the carriage breaking as they tore back to the city.
She squinted to see the face of the clock perched on a table in the corner, but its face was in shadow. She flopped back down, wishing she’d removed her stays after all for they dug into one part of her or another, no matter which way she turned.
Thomas Kent’s heavy, measured tread grew louder as he reached the landing and approached her door. She lay frozen in bed, strangely unable to move even a finger, unable to flee, though there was nowhere she could go if she could move. None of the servants were brave enough to help her.
The bruises on her upper arms throbbed with her pulse as she waited for him to deliver his punishment for her evening’s transgressions. She’d disappeared with Viscountess Howard to remove a stain from her gloves, and while her husband wanted to ingratiate himself with the Howards, he also forbade her from going anywhere without him.
The creak of the door presaged the feel of him in her chamber: an evil miasma that made her skin crawl. She could sense him at her bedside and willed herself to lay as still as the dead in hopes he would allow her to sleep, though he never had before.
A large belch startled her awake, and in the disorientation of her post-dream state, she wondered what Kent had eaten to cause him to belch, for she’d never heard him do so before.
The edge of the mattress depressed, and stale alcoholic fumes wafted over her as a groping hand fumbled over her bodice. Kent was never inebriated--he was always coldly in control.
Fully awake now, Jo cried out as she batted away Ramsey’s hand and tried to rise. He was sitting on a fold of her skirts and she frantically pulled at them as his hands settled on her shoulders, pressing her back into the mattress. The same paralysis that had gripped her in her dream froze her in place as Ramsey’s clumsy hands fumbled to tug on her bodice.
“Strangest bedclothes,” he slurred, the mumbled words so unlike Kent’s silent punishment that fear and anger surged through her limbs and with a strength she didn’t know she had, she threw off his hands and leapt from the bed to the sound of tearing fabric and her own frantic breath.
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