Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

“They’re coming for my baby. They murdered—”

  Mamaí clapped her hands. “Hush. You need something of your lover to survive? You have his son. That’s all you get tonight.”

  Her words hung in the air, cold and true.

  Cells had warned me. If only . . . If he had told me the whole of it, I could’ve gotten Mamaí and Kitty to his boat. I wouldn’t be afraid now. Maybe he’d let me work every day to earn the money to be free, not just after chores or Saturdays.

  “They’re not done,” Kitty said. Her whisper, shaky and low, reached my ear. “Maybe they want us all to be Cudjoe, the girls, too.”

  The door flung open.

  My lungs stuttered then stopped.

  It wasn’t Pa. Nicholas stumbled inside. Brandishing Pa’s long gun, he aimed at my heart.

  London 1824: Kensington House

  I stand in the gardens of Kensington House. The students, I’m told, often come outside and sit on the stone benches. Some study the flora. Others disturb the natural surroundings to make arrangements for vases and whatnots.

  There should be a cistern right here. Something sturdy and bold like a Grecian or Egyptian work of art.

  I chuckle at the notion but it’s a distraction. I’m alone, tiring of two days of chatter and pleasantries. Still no word of a meeting, but my damfo is faithful and resourceful. I’m convinced that whatever problems there have been, they will be overcome. Godspeed to finding new ways.

  The air is light. It’s not fresh or washed in the sea’s salt. The chill gives me shivers. Miss Smith showed me the purple saxifrage petals creeping at the edges of the emerald hedgerow and the yellow bulbs of the gorse to impress me. These vibrant colors do, and they make me think of home.

  My eyes gaze again at the sowed beds. I’m searching for the yellow and red flowers of the peacock plants. The cure for a woman’s ills if she’s been abused.

  I didn’t understand much when I was young.

  “GaMa?”

  Mary has followed me outside. I school my face, hiding my tears. “Yes, dear.”

  “Why are you sad? I never see you sad. You are light, GaMa.”

  “Light?” I smooth my long skirts. It’s been many years since I’ve been skin and bones. “I have a great deal on my mind, angel.”

  She dimples and clasps my hand.

  We twirl arm in arm. Mary was born free, but I keep her papers with me when we travel. You never know when one will need to prove their rights.

  “Are you enjoying your visit, Mary?”

  “Oh, yes, GaMa. You take us in carriages with the softest seats. You rent fine houses in London, but I like it here, too.”

  Yes, we stay in comfort with servants trained in all the ways to treat elegant guests. I ensure all my grands dine on superb food, the best fish and beefsteak.

  I can’t let the world I’m showing Mary disappear. Not when this beautiful five-year-old girl needs to be a child for as long as she can. She must remember these moments when she’s older. She’ll know her worth.

  We spin faster and faster.

  “Cyclone Game.” The words fling out of her all breathy and with a squeal.

  Her legs lift from the ground.

  She’s a swallow taking flight. Her pristine white gown billows better than a ship’s sail.

  “Ma’am.”

  The headmistress stands at the garden’s entrance. Her face is half shadowed by Kensington House’s roofline.

  Letting my swallow ease to the ground, I catch my breath. My eyes search Miss Smith’s hands for a note.

  Empty.

  No word has come. No meeting with Lord Bathurst, yet.

  I haven’t found the way to win.

  The woman jitters, her gray skirts flutter like butterfly wings. Seems she remains on edge, expecting airs from me.

  Perhaps I should expend a little.

  “Miss Smith. I need a scribe. I feel like dictating a letter. Can you send one of your girls to take notes?”

  A young woman of good height and nimble limbs, someone who’d be sought after at the mulatto balls, steps into the garden and stands beside the headmistress. “I can take the correspondence for Miss Kirwan.”

  “It’s Mrs. Thomas, Miss Van Den Velden.” Miss Smith looks like she wants to swat the girl. Instead, she stoops to Mary. “It’s time for lessons. Come along, little Miss Fullarton. You’ll make a great student for Kensington House someday.”

  Mary pokes out her lips but scoots to the headmistress when my lips offer a scold. My frowns, I’ve been told, can freeze the air. Cold was something I didn’t quite understand until my first boat trip to England.

  The headmistress offers another polite scowl. “Miss Van Den Velden, I expect you to show the true Kensington spirit to our wonderful benefactor.”

  The young woman nods. “I will, ma’am.”

  I stretch my arms and prepare for this battle. “Miss Van Den Velden, shouldn’t you get some paper and a pen?”

  “My memory is quite good. I’m sure that I can do an adequate service.”

  “It seems you don’t want to take direction. I suspect you wish to give it.” I sit on the stone bench close to the tea roses. “Why don’t I get comfortable? Then tell me all you wish to say.”

  Her eyes widen. My frankness has caught her off guard. I want to chuckle, but she needs to choose her path, to be a friend or a nuisance.

  “My father says you are here to cause trouble.”

  Ah, she chose nuisance, like one of the chigger bugs of Grenada or the ruinous ants of Barbados. A lot of cattle were killed by those ants.

  But a lot of ants died too.

  “Your father?” I say. “Are you sure you know who he is?”

  Her eyes blink rapidly. I can see her wondering if I know something of her birth records. She huffs. “You know my father. He’s on the colony council of Demerara.”

  “Yes, one of Lieutenant Governor Murray’s henchmen, I know him well. I hosted a reception for him and the governor of Barbados. He found my chef’s gelatin molds delightful.”

  Her mouth drops open, wide enough for those ants to hop in, but then she says, “I look forward to having my own private chef, too, when my fortune comes in. My father will make it happen sooner if I can make you stop this folly and go home.”

  The refined, almost delicate, girl clasps her elbows. Her long, lithe fingers bear no scars or roughness, nothing to show a life of working in the fields or hardship or survival.

  In her smirk, I see my past, dancing in the hotels, smiling pretty for the soldiers wearing their best regimentals, touching the gold dripping from the braiding at their shoulders. They sneered, too, thinking the singers and dancers were pawns in the games they played for entertainment.

  I remember myself, a girl who had to relearn her worth when everything was made bad. Then made worse.

  “What are you thinking, Miss—”

  “Mrs. Thomas.”

  “Miss Doll Kirwan. My father calls you Dolly. He says that’s the name you used when you were a prostitute, when you seduced your own brother and had his baby.”

  The white man wants to blame his sins on colored women. His depravity is our fault. If we take the abuse just to live another day, they say we are the seducers. They write the history.

  “It’s Thomas, you fool. Mrs. Dorothy Thomas. In Demerara, they know my name. You haven’t lived long enough to know better.”

  Miss Van Den Velden sputters. Spittle froths at her mouth. “I was just trying—”

  “Yes, you’re trying.”

  “My father told me who you are! He knows all about you. He’s written me quite a lot, since he found out you were coming to London. I know about the old days, about you. That’s the message I’m here to deliver. Stop your noise and pay the taxes. Your ruckus is just as bad as another slave rebellion.”

  The girl knew nothing of the pain of rebellions or the power of men to humble a woman. Can’t she see that submission makes it easier for men to make new demands? Submit once and they�
�ll only invent worse laws to keep us under their thumb?

  With poise, Lucy struts to the door. “Go back to where you come from.”

  “Next time you see me, have paper and a pen. And keep those pouty lips shut tight.”

  “I’m speaking the truth. You’re a harlot ball girl. An old Black woman who’s let a little money go to her head. Even if you did dance with a prince, you’re tired and used up now.”

  “If you cross my path tomorrow, call me Mrs. Thomas. Unlike you, my money has already come. I’ve paid for my respect. You shall show it.”

  I stare her down as I had the empty street behind Kensington House and all those who brought hate into my life. “I fight for my grands, for me, even you, you fool.”

  Lucy stops at the threshold. “I don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do. Women need women willing to fight for all our rights.”

  I ease back onto the bench, flattening my bottom on the cold stone. “Remember, it’s Mrsss. Thomassss. And next time bring paper.”

  Shaking her head, Lucy goes inside, muttering she’ll show me.

  The door closes with a shake. Then it hushes.

  I look over the fence like it’s a window to count stars. I’m still hoping, but I’m not sure my patience will win.

  Montserrat 1770: Forging Ahead

  My little squiggle lay in her cradle. Little Lizzy, my daughter, a year old this month.

  She was pretty and healthy and weaned. She’d started crawling. She might start walking any day.

  If I could bear to leave her, I’d return to huckstering in town. Just cleaning Cells’s house, keeping his books free of the green dust wasn’t enough to free four.

  Kitty leaned on me and looked over my shoulder. “She’s small, Dolly. Like a doll.”

  “But she’s getting bigger. I’ll need you to watch her while I go clean for Mr. Cells.”

  Kitty’s eyes popped wide like they might burst. “Lizzy might cry. What am I going to do if she cries?”

  “Lizzy will cry, but you are capable of handling this.”

  Fear fled her eyes, and a toothy smile bloomed in its place. “You believe in me, Dolly?”

  “Always.”

  I kissed her cheek and then touched Lizzy’s brow. My daughter had my fine hair, but brown eyes with bits of green—the slightest bits of Nicholas.

  This baby I loved with my whole heart. I didn’t think I could. Not after what Nicholas did to me. But maybe the Holy Father had a plan for my life that I couldn’t see?

  All while I’d carried her in my gut, I spent time in the woods listening to the priest, looking for answers.

  Still hadn’t found them.

  With another kiss to Lizzy’s cheek, I lifted from my knees and started to the door.

  “Dolly, you be careful. I don’t want you sad anymore.”

  My sister and I walked arm in arm into the main room. I spun her fast until she dropped to the floor, dizzy and laughing.

  Extending my arm, I helped her up. Then I handed her the scythe. “You go finish up in the garden like Mamaí asked. She’ll be back from doing the wash soon. Lizzy should be asleep for an hour, but listen for her.”

  Kitty clasped the tool in her palms and twirled it when she popped out the door.

  “Be careful. The toe of the blade is sharp.”

  “Hurry back, Dolly.”

  I walked into the warm air and glanced at Mamaí coming from the owl house. What was she doing?

  My mother lifted her basket onto her head and hurried to me.

  It took everything in me to school my face to not show betrayal.

  “Dolly, we need to talk.”

  My forehead sprouted with moisture. “What have you done?”

  She put down her woven basket filled with clean clothes. “I went to see Nicholas. He needs to have Lizzy’s birth records righted. He needs to put his name to it.”

  My chest sputtered. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to claim any part of Lizzy. Wasn’t that the same as me claiming him?

  “Aren’t I enough for Lizzy? He hasn’t even come to see her. It’s been a year. The owl house is close, and he never thought to see about her.”

  “His name has to be on her records. It’s the only way to ensure that your pa frees her, too. You’re working hard to earn our ransoms. You don’t want that baby to grow up left on this plantation.”

  I didn’t, but I wanted nothing from Nicholas.

  “Dolly, he says he will do it if you ask him.”

  It was a trap.

  My brother was ready to begin his terror all over again. “No. No!”

  Before she could catch me, I ran. I needed to be as far away from everyone as possible.

  When would things work the way I wanted?

  Being enslaved to my brother’s lust wasn’t going to happen. I wouldn’t submit to stop his bruises and kicks. This time I’d kill him before he tried.

  Heaving, I stood at the cottonwood tree at Cells’s fence. Every time I passed it, I remembered the horrible St. Patrick’s Day rebellion and Cudjoe’s body dangling from a branch. It was Nicholas’s idea to put him here, just so he could show me the depths of his evil.

  Dusty naked toes swung back and forth.

  The rope about Cudjoe’s neck made him look like one of Pa’s strung-up boars that he’d hung in the smokehouse to cure.

  With his tongue half ripped from his mouth, I knew the man had suffered. His dark face contrasted with the white bark of the tree like Nicholas’s pale fingers wrapping about mine.

  I don’t know how much time passed as we stood hand in hand looking at the tree, the feet, Cudjoe’s death mask, but it wasn’t enough to numb me for the terror to come.

  Never did I want to think of it, that night and every time after.

  My nightmare wasn’t over. Nicholas would start on me again.

  Wanting to scream, to flee, to cry, I eased from the tree.

  Cells’s dray, I saw it in the drive.

  He was back. A hundred thoughts flooded me, but I centered on one. He said he owed me. Now was his time to pay.

  No servant came to his door. I pulled the bronze key he’d given me from my pocket and clicked it into the lock. I pushed inside; how beautiful this grand house was, the moldings, the crystal sconces.

  Yet the house was almost empty. Cells had taken more furnishings. He’d be gone soon. This time for good. He needed to take us with him, like he’d offered once before.

  Something shuffled and made the floorboards creak. Was he in his study?

  I wiped my face on my sleeve, then smoothed the blue checks of the fabric. Lifting my head, I walked down the hall into his study.

  My heart lifted. He was here, sitting at his desk with his feet up.

  “Dolly. You’re a diligent creature. My house is dust free.”

  “Your house is almost empty, Mr. Cells.”

  “Yes. The Hermitage is ready.”

  “The Hermitage?”

  “Well, I’m a bit of a hermit except for a few servants and you of course. Doesn’t it sound weighty, the Hermitage?”

  “Don’t know about that.” I took a rag from my pocket and started dusting the books on the low shelf. “I rather like the Cells’s Plantation. Or Dolly’s Plantation. That’s what I call this house when you aren’t here.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. Then I pretend it’s all mine.”

  He started to chuckle. “Do you put your feet up on my desk?”

  “No, then I’ll have to dust it again.” My throat clogged. This easy banter felt wrong with Nicholas’s terror looming.

  My tears fell.

  “Dolly?” He leapt out of his chair. His boots clacked with every step. And Cells was Cells, white breeches, black waistcoat, blue coat with buttons and pleats. “Dolly, what has happened?”

  “My brother.”

  Cells clasped on my shoulders. “Did he hurt you? I talked to your father. He was supposed to warn him. He’s coming back soon.”

  “He’
s not here. His version of soon will have me bearing that bastard another babe. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

  Cells put my head to his chest. His heart drummed. I liked the rhythm, it sounded safe and respectful and tender. “Dolly, he’s not going to hurt you, again.”

  How would he know this? How could my friend look so confident and be so wrong. “Nicholas will. If he doesn’t hurt me, he’ll hurt the people I care about.”

  “You’re giving the fool too much credit. He’s not that smart.”

  “And you’re not listening. He wants to humble me. And now there’s Lizzy. She’s a beautiful baby, another toy for him to twist me up until I break.”

  Cells took my hand in his, light and dark again, strong and weak. I craved his strength.

  “Does she look like you?”

  “She looks like Lizzy. She’s beautiful.”

  “But a dark beauty or a white one? One light enough that she’ll be called a quadroon or mustee?”

  I squinted at him, not believing he’d voice such a question. “She’s white as a ghost. Does that suit your curiosity, knowing her coloring?” I moved to the looming bookshelves. “Shouldn’t you care if she’s fed and healthy?”

  “I do, Dolly.” He pushed at his hair and retied the ribbon holding his jet locks. “I’m working on some projects with the governing council about damming a section of the Demerari River. The negotiations have my thoughts scattered.”

  “Your la-di-da work is important.” My voice sounded bitter, but I didn’t see the friend who cared. Cells was a man focused on his dreams.

  His didn’t include mine.

  He leaned on the shelf near the one I polished. “I was hoping you’d bring Lizzy here.”

  “That’d be convenient for you, to bring an enslaved baby across the property line.” I beat my fists on the shelf. A book toppled over.

  “Dolly, I didn’t—”

  “Nicholas will take her. He’ll punish me a thousand different ways. And I’ll do anything just to get to see her. That’s no life, Cells, not for me.”

  “What are you saying, Dolly?” He clasped my elbows and shook me. “You’ll not do something stupid.”

  “What’s stupid about wanting to end my waiting for the worst?”