Life in the Watson household was less relaxed than the Harris home in Jamaica, but as maid to the young mistress, Adia had some status and a tiny room in the attic in whichever house the family occupied. Her position was a comfortable one, and she liked the bustle and variety of Charleston. Though Miss Sophie would never claim a slave as a friend, in the early months she spent a good deal of time in her room with Adia, the only familiar face.
When the family moved to the plantation, Adia found that Magnolia Manor was much the same as Harris Hill, but the working conditions were not quite so bad as Jamaica. The crops were less demanding than sugar cane, and slaves did not die so young. Soon she made new friends. And very quietly, in the slave quarters, she began to teach reading and writing to a few people who could be trusted to stay silent.
Life settled into a comfortable rhythm of city and country. Sophie bore a healthy son, named Joseph for his father and called Joey. Two years later, she had another son. Adia enjoyed the children and spent a fair amount of time with them, but, in quiet times, she grew restless. Was this all that her life held?
Patience, child. Patience.
Her fifth year in America brought change. When the household moved to the plantation, Adia found rot in one of Miss Sophie's windowsills, so she asked that the plantation carpenter be called. There was a delay because the old carpenter had died, and it took time to find a new carpenter who had an owner willing to sell.
The summer was half over when the new carpenter arrived to repair the window frame. He was a tall, handsome young fellow called Daniel, with broad shoulders and a ready smile. Adia showed him the rotted sill. "You see how the water came in."
"Water, then insects," the carpenter murmured. "Before I be done, I will have replaced every window in this house twice." While he prodded at the sill to see how deep the rot extended, Adia studied him, nagged by a sense of familiarity.
"Mazi!" she exclaimed. "Aren't you the man called Mazi who helped me with my little brother during the march through the jungle after we were captured by slavers?"
He looked startled. Then a smile like sunrise lit up his face. "Adia! You were such a little thing then. Chike was even smaller. Did he..."
She shook her head so he wouldn't have to complete the question. "He joined the ancestors. But I was grateful for your kindness. It helped me carry on."
"You've grown into a fine young lady," he said.
Wanting to see more than friendliness in his face, Adia tugged off the charmed bracelet she wore to deter male interest. No matter what Grandmother said, this was a man whose admiration she craved. She thought she heard her grandmother chuckle as the bracelet was set aside, and the carpenter's expression changed from friendly to rapt.
The windowsill was ignored while they exchanged the stories of their lives. His group of slaves had ended up on a different ship that took its cargo to Charleston. He had started as a field hand on one plantation, then learned carpentry on another. Mazi had been baptized Daniel when he became a Christian, and he liked the name.
Adia had thought him a grown man when they had marched together in chains, but he must have been only fourteen or fifteen, she realized. Only a few years older than she. He had grown up well. She found herself laughing as she hadn't since childhood. Grandmother, must I refuse Daniel entry to my heart?
Not this one, child. Daniel is part of your destiny.
A carpenter might be wary of making an advance to one of the family's personal servants, so it was up to Adia to let him know she was willing. After he had taken window measurements and was preparing to leave, she took his hand. "I am so happy to see you again, Daniel."
His gaze holding hers, he raised her hand and kissed it.
As quickly as that, she fell in love.
By the end of the summer, they had jumped the broomstick. Watson slaves were not allowed to marry in the Christian church, but no matter. Adia and Daniel were wed as truly as man and woman could be.
As she packed Miss Sophie's belongings for the return to Charleston, Adia rehearsed her request. When her mistress came into the room, she looked up from the trunkful of garments and said, "Miss Sophie, the carpenter, Daniel, and I have taken each other as husband and wife. Is it possible...could you ask Mr. Watson if Daniel can work in Charleston during the winter so we can be together?"
Miss Sophie bit her lip. She had never become comfortable with her formidable father-in-law, but she promised to try. That night, after dinner, she said, "I'm sorry, Addie. I asked Mr. Watson, and he said that Daniel is needed on the plantation. He can't come to Charleston."
Adia bowed her head, crushed by disappointment. She was barely wed, and now she must leave her husband for months. Her banked hatred of slavery flared into fierce fire. It was a dozen heartbeats before she managed to say, "Thank you for asking, Miss Sophie."
Promise me I will die free, Grandmother!
I promise that, child. But there is still a long road ahead of you.
For now, the hope of future freedom must be enough.
Chapter
TWELVE
As Nikolai dressed for dinner, he wondered why he had impulsively asked Jean Macrae to join him. Probably because he liked disturbing her. Despite her best efforts to appear calm, she had been upset by the events of the day. But he had to admit that she was coping better than most women of her class. The average well-bred female who bought gifts at the Fontaine emporium would be gibbering hysterically in her cabin after a day like this one.
The average well-bred female had not been to war, nor carried a sword in battle. The little wench was…intriguing.
The door opened, and the wench walked in. She was wearing her green calico dress, and her hair was swept up in a formal style. He studied her critically, as he hadn't really done in their previous encounters. She was slender and delicate, though her shape was most excellently female. Her simple gown was tailored by a master hand to make her appear demure and ladylike.
Reminding himself that this porcelain princess was forged from pure steel, he asked, "Did you use magic to make your gown look like new?"
She nodded. "I have a knack for domestic spells like cleaning fabric and removing wrinkles." Her gaze swept over the room and halted at the wide bookcase, where volumes were held in place by bars to protect them from tumultuous seas.
Drawn by the books, she stepped around the cannon that shared Nikolai's quarters. Her sleekly styled hair blazed like raw fire when she moved through a shaft of sunlight. No wonder her hair had been powdered when he met her in Marseilles. No one with that shade of red hair could ever look convincingly demure.
"Your library is impressive." Her fingertips skimmed the bindings reverently. "I've never seen so many languages in one place. How many do you know?"
"Many." He'd found he had a gift for learning languages, and that skill had proved invaluable. "Would you care for a glass of wine?"
She turned from the books. "Yes, please. What is the purpose of this meeting? Are you going to reveal my fate?" She shivered slightly. "I hope it's different from that of the corsairs whom you tried and condemned today."
"Unless you have tormented people to the point that they wish to tear you limb from limb, you should be spared that." He poured two goblets of claret and handed her one. "As to your fate—I have not yet decided."
She turned the glass in her hand, her gaze on the ruby depths. "I'm grateful that you eschew rape, but that still leaves slavery, murder, or ransom."
"You will not be enslaved," he said sharply. "But I may set you to scrubbing decks to earn your keep."
Her brows arched. They were thick and a darker red than her hair. "If I am held prisoner and forced to work, how is that not slavery?"
Her question caused fury to flash through him. How dare she accuse him of enslaving her! The notion was obscene.
But—what was the difference? He drew a slow breath. "You are not a slave, but a prisoner being punished for your crimes."
"My crimes." She sipped delicately
at her wine. "I did cut you a bit with that sword, but I was already a prisoner and was careful to do no real damage. Explain to me what my crimes are. Since I don't believe that the sins of the fathers should be visited on the daughters, I can't help but feel like a slave rather than a justly punished criminal."
"Our ancestors are part of us. We are spun of their lives, and their crimes weigh us down," he said harshly. "Now sit."
"How convenient to have a philosophy that allows you to do what you cannot justify by logic." She settled gracefully in the chair on the opposite side of the small dining table, her eyes glittering. "Tell me about Santola, Captain. The rowers seemed to recognize the name."
"Santola is an island not far from here. My island. I'm told that it has become something of a legend among Barbary slaves," he replied. "It is a place of sanctuary where slaves can live free, safe from slave catchers. We hunt and fish and trade, and all who have escaped slavery are welcome."
She frowned. "I studied the maps on the Mercury but don't recall seeing Santola in the Mediterranean. Does it have another name?"
"I doubt it. Santola is invisible. If it appears on anyone's map, it would only be as a rock or shoal to be avoided."
Not at all confused by his cryptic comment, she said, "You conceal it by magic?"
"Among other things."
"The ability to hide your lair is most useful to a pirate," she said thoughtfully.
Thinking she had a unique ability to get under his skin, he snapped, "I am no pirate. I do not attack other ships for plunder."
Her gaze was direct as a rapier. "Then what are you, Captain Gregorio?"
"A man who has dedicated his life to ending slavery," he said flatly.
She sucked in her breath. "That's absurd! Slavery is too huge, too integral a part of the world, for one man to bring it down. The West Indies sugar trade alone is a vital part of the world's commerce, and it uses countless slaves. There are galley slaves, slaves in the Americas, in Asia, in Africa. Everywhere. Where would you begin to end an institution that involves so many people?"
His eyes narrowed. "Do you believe that slavery is the natural order of life?"
Her eyes narrowed to match. "I'm a Scot—I don't believe that any man has the right to own another. Or to own any woman. But slavery has been with us for as long as history has been recorded, and surely before that. A thousand men couldn't make a difference. Is it worthwhile to devote your life to such an impossible goal?"
"I didn't say I would succeed. Does that mean I shouldn't try?"
"From the point of view of morality, of course it is noble to fight such a great evil," she said slowly. "But even if you spend a long life freeing galley slaves, you will affect only a relative handful of people. You will not make any real difference."
"You saw the men freed today. Did I make a difference to them?"
She bit her lip. "You made a great difference."
He made a gesture encompassing the ship. "All of my crew were slaves. Though they are free to go anywhere, they choose to sail with me to rescue others. This is dangerous work, but satisfying." He didn't try to keep contempt from his voice. "Are your balls and picnics satisfying, Jean Macrae? You don't even have a husband, much less children. Tell me how your life has more meaning than mine."
She jerked as if she'd been slapped. After a long silence, she said, "You're right. Though you can't eliminate slavery as an institution, what you do has meaning."
"Don't be too sure that there is no way to eliminate slavery. It wouldn't be quick, and certainly not easy, but if there is a way, I shall find it," he said, his voice burning. "I pray to the ancestors to help me."
"You pray to your ancestors?" she said thoughtfully. "So you are not entirely free of religion."
"The ancestors are not gods. They are ancestors." In the corner was a small altar modeled after his grandmother's. He wished he'd learned more of her magic before she died. Sometimes when he tried to invoke the ancestral spirits, he had a fleeting sense that there was more he could do to fight slavery, but he couldn't grasp what it might be.
His frustration was familiar. He had learned a little about magic from Macrae and Polmarric, and discovered more on his own. Then he entered manhood, and self-preservation forced him to suppress most of his power. The warning he'd received from the Guardians was that, if left unchecked, his magic might tear him apart. He'd done such a good job suppressing his power that it barely existed anymore. Likely most of his magic had withered away from lack of use.
As a result, he had a little power, enough to help in some difficult situations. Enough to conceal Santola from passing ships. But he was a crude amateur, not a true mage. Among Macrae's chief sins had been to show young Nikolai breathtaking possibilities that would never be realized.
The Scottish witch had surely had the best magical training available, yet she had nothing like her father's power. What a waste of tutoring. He would have sucked up training like the desert sucked up water.
The conversation was interrupted by his steward, who entered carrying a large tray with their dinner. Nikolai took the chair opposite his guest. The cabin was small and the table smaller yet, which put him much too close to his disturbing guest. He despised her, he wanted her, he couldn't take her. Such circumstances were not conducive to a pleasant dinner.
As the steward set platters on the sideboard, the Scottish witch smiled with appreciation. "Dinner smells delicious. Sea battles work up one's appetite."
He almost laughed at the incongruity of her words. "They do, indeed."
The steward served them—chicken stewed in red wine was the main course—and left. When they were in private again, he asked, "Why were you in Marseilles? I'm grateful that the ancestors put you into my hands, but it was most unexpected."
"I was attending two weddings." She tasted the chicken. "Lovely! Do you have a French chef?"
"Yes. Pierre spent eight years as a kitchen slave of the Dey of Algiers. The dey had him castrated, thinking that would make Pierre content to stay a slave. It didn't."
She put down her fork, unnerved. "No doubt every man on this ship has a tale equally horrific."
"Some not quite so bad, some worse." He swallowed a bite of rice pilaf. "You've never really thought much about slavery, have you?"
"No, I haven't," she admitted. "I've seen a few black slaves in London, but in the distance, dressed in their master's livery. Not so very different from an English footman apart from the color of their skin." She began to eat again.
"You never thought about how the sugar in your tea comes at the price of women working in the sugar fields until they drop, or men scalded to death in the refining sheds." He finished his claret with one gulp and poured more. "The sugar plantations need endless supplies of slaves because so many die there. Even more die before they reach the sugar islands.
"The most dangerous part of the journey into slavery is the march through African jungles, prey to disease and hunger and the lash. When the captives reach the slave ports, they are sold to captains who pack them into ships as tight as herring in a barrel. The slave traders assume a certain number will die and figure that into their profits."
"You are determined to tell me of the horrors." She carefully set her fork down on her plate. "You are right that I have not thought deeply about slavery. So tell me now, so I can never claim ignorance again."
He did exactly as she requested, spitting the words out like a curse as he gave her the ugliest tales of slavery he knew. He spared nothing in telling of the brutality of life on the Indies plantations that produced the sugar Europeans loved so much. Though he'd not seen that himself, he'd spoken to those who had. He spoke of the Barbary slavers whose viciousness was written on his flesh. He told stories of children being wrenched from their mothers' arms, of husbands and wives being torn apart, of sadistic slave masters who raped female slaves, and worse.
Throughout his raging dissertation, Jean Macrae simply watched him, her eyes huge and her face pale as chalk. He'
d never seen anyone listen with such intensity. When he ran out of words, she said quietly, "Enough. You have convinced me that slavery is one of the greatest evils that humankind has ever inflicted on itself. Now if you will excuse me..."
She pushed away from the table and stood, took two steps toward the door—then fell to her knees and became violently ill. She had so little in her stomach that she couldn't vomit much, but her outraged body continued its wrenching convulsions.
Swearing, he pulled two towels from under his washstand. One he tossed to her. The other he moistened in the water pitcher first. She gasped her thanks before blotting her face and mouth with the damp towel.
He knelt beside her, torn between satisfaction and self-disgust. He'd wanted to shock her into thinking about the unthinkable, but he hadn't expected the violence of her reaction. Even though she was a Macrae, he found he couldn't enjoy her wretchedness.
She pushed herself up and sat back on her heels, then mopped up the mess on the floor with the dry towel. "You have a talent for swearing."
Diverted, he asked, "I was speaking Malti. How did you know I was cursing?"
"Your voice. Even if you were saying 'sweet white lilacs' in Persian, it came out as profanity because of what you felt."
He frowned. "I do not like you to read my mind."
"Then you should be less easy to read." Using the water-dampened towel, she wiped her face again. "You can't blame me for being ill. You wanted me to be shocked and appalled. I am. You spoke most eloquently. I congratulate you on your success."
The ship rolled as she tried to get to her feet. He caught her wrist to steady her. For an instant they were connected by a jolt of scathing awareness.
She yanked her arm away and scrambled up. As she reached for the doorknob, he said, "I'll tell the steward to prepare broth and bread for you. You need something in your stomach or you'll be ill."
"I must be grateful that you treat your slaves better than most owners do." There was a glint of malicious humor in her eyes as she left the cabin.
A Distant Magic Page 9