Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  “What?” I covered my mouth and wiped platters.

  Waving her spoon at him, Mrs. Randolph had a big frown. “He can’t be a hermit forever. No matter what he says. Men of his stature have two families, one in Europe and one here.”

  Polk swatted at nothing, but it made the smell of honey reach me. “Well, he likes playing family with you, Miss Dolly.”

  I shook my head like it would fall off. “Hush, Polk.”

  The crazy man tapped my shoulder. “Maybe you can convince him otherwise. That princessy woman gets in here and the place will be like everything else they touch.”

  “I’m here to work. I’m going to check the dining room. I’ll take the soup tureen.”

  Grabbing up the fine white pot, I repeated that lie and walked down the hall filled with paintings of Cells’s ancestors, pale white faces that surely didn’t want the likes of dark me having thoughts about him. I stopped at the one I always did, the only portrait of a woman. Her features were unremarkable, but her happy eyes and the fine hat she sported told me she was somebody.

  I wanted to be her. She looked as if she had power.

  Hastening my steps, I went into the dining room.

  The big, magical place made me gleeful. I had worked hard this week polishing the silver, positioning it perfectly around the blue plates. I set the soup in the middle for servers to reach and fill the bowls with ease.

  The windows and double doors were open, allowing the cooler evening air inside. The bright white tablecloths lay on the three long tables, each sitting twelve. Many important people from across the colony would attend the Hermitage tonight.

  Along with the planter woman who could change everything.

  Was I ungrateful not wanting things to change or to hope no one could claim the most-sought-after bachelor in Demerara?

  I went back to the kitchen two more times and carried the other tureens, placing them on the remaining tables.

  Perfect.

  Music. Music found me. It came from the adjacent drawing room.

  I peeked through the open door. From this angle, I saw a man with fine sable skin plucking a bow across the fiddle.

  Getting a little bolder, I stepped more into the entrance.

  My eyes went to the lit candles and the large vases of pink and white lilies and cream-colored lotus flowers. The scent of flowers fought the fishy tallow smell of the burning wax.

  The sweet fragrance might not be from the plants. It might be from the ladies.

  I hadn’t seen this many women, well-to-do stylish women, anywhere, all wearing bonnets or headpieces. One had a pile of straw . . . fake hair, powdered and curled.

  I stepped back, again hiding myself in the dining room.

  That was Cells’s world in that room. His was fancy people, people with money.

  My friend was seated in the last row of chairs.

  A young blond woman, the planter’s widow, slipped her arm about the massa of Hermitage. She was bold, sitting close to him, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Her head bobbled with a pouf on top. The hat was made of satin with three swan feathers curled around it. Her big tresses might have powder too. There was no shine like when coconut oil dressed the hair.

  I liked shiny, but those big curls might do well on my limp locks.

  The widow’s face was young with red dots on her cheek, but the white stuff in her hair made her look older. Was that what he wanted? Someone more mature and settled?

  She leaned a little more toward him. She laughed at something. Probably one of his jokes.

  Cells. Handsome, all in white.

  A white frock jacket and long cream-colored waistcoat with silver and pearl buttons fell past his hips, covering his loose breeches. Only the onyx embroidery of spirals running down the length of his jacket held contrast. Mrs. Randolph complained something awful cleaning his white. Rich folk white she called it.

  Cells led his guest through one of the massive doors out to his garden.

  The woman on his arm stayed close as they walked. Would her hair powder leave a stain?

  Probably.

  She shouldn’t be with him. She shouldn’t.

  I backed up, forcing myself not to run.

  This was Cells’s world, his night. I couldn’t let my jealous thoughts ruin things.

  Demerara 1772: New Money

  Three months of the Hermitage hosting parties every week made me bone tired. Tonight’s ball was no exception—demanding and tense, but I learned so much. My first moment to rest, I went to the porch. I breathed the cooler midnight air. Standing still after serving for hours, after watching Cells be attentive to the widow woman and toasting her, I felt numb.

  Two men approached.

  A young fellow slapped the other, the older one, on the back. “Foden, you all right? You need to get all the air you can.”

  “It’s that perfume. Has my nose itching.” He coughed and stood beside me near the railing and posts that framed the porch.

  He looked to be choking.

  “Sir, would you like me to get some water?”

  The older man, the one with white hair who dragged a cane, craned his neck to me. “Yes, miss. And if you put some of Cells’s rum in it, I’d be happier.”

  “You don’t need rum,” the younger man, a blond one, said.

  “Thank you for your concern but this is between me and the young woman. Now, miss, please keep to your mission. Pay Captain Owen no mind. Half water, half rum.”

  I found a glass on the dining room table that looked untouched but saw no water. Thinking the man might choke while I dawdled, I went to Cells’s study and got the bottle he kept behind his desk and poured half a glass. Not running, but definitely not shuffling, I returned to the gentleman.

  None too soon. The old man shook his cane at Captain Owen, who I decided was handsome with his blondish-brown hair and scarlet jacket. “Sit, boy. Tell me about your latest scheme.”

  “No scheme, Mr. Foden, pure profit.”

  His voice was low and meant for Foden, but this captain’s eyes were on me, following me as I brought the rum.

  “See, this is what I call service. She knew I didn’t really want the water.”

  The captain shook his head. “Do you remember what the physician said?”

  “You mean the one I outlived? No. Miss, go get him a glass, too. Might make him settle and tell me his latest plan to use my money.”

  Owen’s gaze stayed on my face like he knew me.

  Fearing he recognized me from dancing at the shore, I looked to the floorboards. That was long ago. Please don’t know me from my sins. “Did you want some, Mr. Captain? Rum?”

  “My, you are beautiful. Your face has perfect symmetry. Those eyes are like painted glass.”

  My cheeks warmed not from embarrassment but joy. He liked the look of me. The old cistern song about not loving tar left my head, maybe for good. “Thank you. Is there anything I can get you, Captain?”

  “Captain John Owen. And no, Miss . . .”

  “Miss Dolly.”

  Owen hooked a hand to his lapel, fluttering his burgundy-cloth-covered buttons, and stepped forward. “Miss Dolly, maybe can you answer a question? Cells advises the council on the running of the colony. Has he mentioned a blockade?”

  A blockade, one of those things Pa fretted. I shrugged then shook my head.

  “See? No risk, Foden. The British won’t cut the transport again. Everyone lost too much with embargoes during those last seven years of war.”

  From his emerald jacket with onyx threads anchoring bright silver buttons, the old man whipped a cigar, a fine roll of tobacco, then with the end cut and it stuck in his mouth, he patted his pockets. “Owen, your plan seems risky. You have a light, sir?”

  The dinner was finished. Those candles on the table were wasting. “I’ll get one and bring it to you.”

  Walking past Cells’s study, I saw the door ajar. I heard voices, Cells and one, two other men buzzing.

  “Mr. Va
n Den Velden,” Cells said, “I’m simply making an observation or using common sense, as the American Thomas Paine might say. ‘A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right.’”

  “You sound as if you oppose slavery, Cells.”

  This voice sounded more nasal than his other guest.

  “I think it interesting that the Americans go to war for freedom. The Catholics want freedom from the restrictions the Anglicans have placed on their services and worship. They serve the same God but differ merely on administration.”

  “It’s more than that. That pope can’t be trusted.”

  “The Americans would say that about King George.” Cells pointed his fingers. “Yes, where was I. Neither religions want to be enslaved themselves or to allow slaves to have autonomy over their bodies. Did you know what they call manumission? A ransom. You pay a ransom to free something captive, imprisoned.”

  Peeking, I saw Cells offering a brandy to Van Den Velden, a man with a rough iguana’s nose.

  Leaning forward and wearing a high powdered wig that surely itched, Van Den Velden took the glass. “Thank you. That seems a might pompous for a man whose numbers of enslaved are as many as mine. You’re going to free them all right now to prove your point?”

  Cells sat against his desk. He’d powdered his hair this evening too. It looked stiff and frizzy, like the others. Yet the embroidery on his waistcoat, down the length of his jacket, made him appear princely and handsome.

  “Why would I do that when you two will just buy them up and use their talents to outproduce me? My rum is king, gentlemen. I want to keep it that way.”

  A second man, the nasal speaker, poked at the bookcase. “Then why talk of these radical things?”

  This one wasn’t Dutch or even Irish. It had to be one of the British men Cells sought to influence.

  He tapped his writing blotter. “Just thinking out loud with two of the brightest men of my acquaintance. You both know I’m always looking for a way to increase efficiency. I think if we paid workers for their labor, that would bring more value as opposed to enslaved men slacking in their tasks to lower their ransom.”

  Van Den Velden finished his drink and stretched with his short arms to put the empty glass on the desk. “That’s a radical idea, Cells. You sure you’re not trying to get us to endorse upending our way of life?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I believe in adhering to principles and good sense. I know things can become difficult for planters that rebel. I’ve watched the difficulties a few of the free colored planters have had when they resist becoming slaveholders.”

  The man at the bookcase blew smoke rings. “Cells, everyone knows you’re liberal, but you take your questions too far.”

  They were making threats, but my friend was too kind to know it. I had to help him and burst into the room.

  All the men stared.

  Frowning, Cells waved me forward. “Yes, Miss Dolly, is there something you want?”

  “Ummm. One of your guests, sir, needs a light for his cigar. I was going to get matches from the kitchen and wanted to know if there is anything you gentlemen needed.”

  “Well, look at the efficiency of this one,” the bookshelf man said. “Maybe you have a point, sir.”

  With his sly half smile showing for a second, Cells reached into his desk and pulled out his silver box of matches. “Here you go. Return it and bring a service of tea. Does anyone need anything else from Miss Dolly? I employ her.”

  “She does seem efficient,” Mr. Van Den Velden said rubbing his chin.

  When no one responded, I curtsied like Mrs. Randolph taught me and backed into the hall and kept going until I was with the men on the porch. I took a match and struck it along the rail until the flame ignited. “Here, sir.”

  “Thank you again, Miss Dolly.” Foden puffed on his cigar. “No wonder Cells is such a settled man. A housekeeper who can anticipate his needs before he asks. Delightful.”

  “I’m not the housekeeper, but a helper.”

  “Oh. Seems you’ve been trained well. I wish Cells hired out his Negroes. I’d have you at my estate in a second.”

  “Cells doesn’t own me. I’m . . . employed. I can hire myself out.”

  Foden’s bushy brows shot up. “Then name your price.”

  “Wait,” the captain said. “I don’t want Cells upset. He’ll be my next investor after you.”

  The old man held his hand out to me. “When you get a chance, Miss Dolly, come to parcel 18, the Anna Catharina. Pass the Hobabo Creek’s bend. If you hit the canal, you went too far.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s fine with Mr. Cells. Don’t want you to be one of his enemies. I’m loyal to him.”

  Captain Owen came a little closer. Tall, assured in his stride, he stretched and folded his arms. “Cells has a loyal helper?”

  “Don’t all rich men?”

  Owen started laughing. “Should’ve known you’d be smart. Everyone knows Cells has exquisite taste.”

  The smile the captain offered gave away everything; he thought I did more than housekeeping for Cells. He almost seemed jealous.

  “Housekeeping. That’s what I do. That’s all, Captain.”

  “Easy, Owen,” Foden said, still puffing away like a chimney or a volcano cone. “This young woman does her job. A good one from how Cells brags. I’m glad to have met Miss Dolly.”

  Music started up inside.

  Foden rubbed his skull. “Oh, Lord. That Haskel woman is going to sing.”

  “No, she won’t,” the captain said. “She’s trying to catch Cells, not chase him off.”

  The widow woman.

  I couldn’t stand here and let these men talk about Cells marrying. Yet maybe it was a godsend. No wife was going to let me stay while I made eyes at her husband.

  “I’ve thought about it. I’ll be at Anna Catharina estate on Saturday. I’ll work the whole day. We’ll discuss wages then. I must go get Mr. Cells’s tea.”

  The older man nodded. “Oh, capital. A good housekeeper or helper is hard to find.”

  I curtsied and went inside. When I carried the tea past the drawing room, I saw Cells dancing with the widow in the center of the room, the only two dancing.

  I wanted to be her. I wanted Cells to look at me like that.

  But he wouldn’t, not to an enslaved woman with no power or money.

  Cells would marry again and that would be the end to my second family. I resolved to start building my fhortún faster. It was the only way to ensure that me and my girls would be fine.

  Demerara 1773: New Spark

  Walls of water fell.

  From the porch, the Hermitage must look like a castle set in a moat. The Demerari River might flood. Last year, Cells’s Barbados was hit bad by the rainy season. Nevis, too.

  He left several times to check on his property, but he came back hungry to see me. Well, it seemed that way with each lingering look.

  He hadn’t married that widow, but I needed to stop hoping to see love in his eyes.

  Footfalls fell behind me. Cells. Had I dreamed him here?

  The massa of the Hermitage came with a lantern onto the porch. “I thought you were here.”

  He was in his nightshirt. Long and flowing in the breeze. He looked tense, maybe flustered, with his face pink like he had a fever.

  I held my breath and waited for him to tell me news of his engagement.

  “Did you get Charlotte to settle, Dolly? She doesn’t like storms.”

  My two-year-old ran through the halls like she owned them, like she was Cells’s daughter. If I could build my coins, the child might never know she was born enslaved.

  “Dolly, did she settle?”

  “Sorry. Yes. She and Kitty are snuggled into my bed all covered up.”

  He set down his lantern and rubbed at his chin. His perfect mustache had curled, but his chin had bumps from his close shave. I noticed those now and again.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Mr.
Cells? You probably have a lot to do in the coming days.”

  He looked out in the night toward the river. “If it weren’t raining, you’d see the fireflies dancing, flickering their lights about the far cannonball trees.”

  Those trees had pretty pink flowers and big bunches of brown fruits that grew like cannonballs, cannonballs caught in nets aboard the frigates. “Fireflies? Must look like embers from a blast. I remember those big ships near Montserrat shooting in the distance.”

  “You miss home, Dolly?”

  Clasping my elbows, I nodded. “Mamaí and Lizzy.”

  “It’s better that you’re here. Safer. More fireflies, too. Their glow reminds me of your eyes, bright, buzzing.”

  The restless energy between Cells and me was as thick as the steam in the air.

  I pulled my heavy apron off. I needed something to do with my hands, something other than reaching for his collar and shaking him. Why was he destroying our family?

  “Dolly, I have something to tell you.”

  Twisting my apron almost to breaking, I dropped it. “Don’t fret about me. I’ve been working for Mr. Foden. He says he’ll let me and Kitty and Charlotte live with him.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll still work for you if the new Mrs. allows.”

  The thunder in his face cleared. “I’m not marrying again. The first was disastrous.”

  “Does the widow know?”

  “She knows now.”

  I stared at the lantern he’d set by his bare feet. “But she’s been attached to you for over a year.”

  “She was attached, but I wasn’t.”

  “Seems a little cruel, Cells, to lead her on.”

  “Really. You truly think this? You’re not happy with me either. Or has old Mr. Foden finally persuaded you with his money to be his?”

  My head spun like he’d twirled me in the allemande. “He’s a kindly employer like you, nothing more.”

  “That’s the problem, Dolly.” Cells put a palm to my cheeks. “I want more. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of more. You’re always on my mind.”

  I know I moved first. I reached for his shoulders. On tiptoes, I pressed my mouth to his. He held me, sculpting me to him. The chest that always offered comfort, offered heat. He kissed me slow, tasting my lips.