Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

Mrs. Randolph poked her head in. “Sir, what’s all the fuss?”

  “Send notes of apologies, I’m canceling tonight’s party. We have a very sick girl here.”

  He put his hands to his hip, his emerald waistcoat shimmering with gold threads. More extravagance from across the sea.

  “I’ll be up. You don’t—”

  My chest erupted in coughs.

  “The young ones can’t get sick. Coughs are dangerous.” He bent and scooped me up, along with the sheets, all the bedclothes.

  Charlotte tumbled and rolled but didn’t awaken.

  “Put me down.”

  “No. You will sleep elsewhere.”

  “I can walk, Cells.”

  The world swirled as he moved out of the room with me bobbling in his arms. “You’ll not fall and add a bump to that stubborn head.”

  He carried me to one of the guest rooms that never had guests.

  “Mrs. Randolph, open this one. The bedchamber near mine.”

  Cells laid me on sheets that were cool on a big bed that was empty.

  “Mrs. Randolph, get her something to drink. Her throat must be dry. You shouldn’t talk, Dolly. Save your strength.”

  I shut my lids and waited for the world to stop moving. I needed off the dray.

  When I opened my eyes again, I had a window. It was open and I could see the night sky. My stars. Oh, I missed a window with stars.

  I blinked again at Mrs. Randolph, who sat in a chair by the bed. She mopped my forehead with a wet cloth. “Looks like your fever broke.”

  My mouth was dry. “The party, I should—”

  “Girlie, that was two days ago.”

  Two days? “Kitty, Charlotte?”

  “They’re fine. Mr. Cells has been entertaining them. In between checking in on you.”

  I rubbed my face. “I never get sick.”

  “You’ve been working too hard. Something like a cold can get much worse if you’re too tired to fight.”

  My nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell?”

  “Mustard plaster. To break up the cold, he said, to help you breathe better.”

  “You had a doctor out here?”

  “Mr. Cells called a physician, but he wasn’t satisfied and came up with an idea from an old woman close to his family.”

  “Mrs. Ben? Nice woman.”

  She dabbed at my cheeks. “You knew her?”

  A knock on the door drew my eyes. Cells stood there with Charlotte in his arms.

  “Mrs. Randolph, is she better?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s awake.”

  He came inside and made Charlotte fly like a bird. “See, my dear, Mama is better.”

  She clapped and hugged his neck. “You said you’d make her better. I’m glad you’re back, Papa Cells.”

  “Me too. Miss Dolly, you keep listening to Mrs. Randolph and get better. Charlotte, let’s go get Kitty and read. Dolly, I’m going to hire a tutor. Charlotte will learn. Education is important.”

  If I started to cry, he’d know how this touched me.

  So I couldn’t.

  I clutched the bedclothes, tugging the mustard smells and the sheet to me. “Cells, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just get better. I have the family.”

  He walked away with Charlotte giggling like she hadn’t in a long time. For a moment, I was five and that was Pa bringing a treat from his travels.

  A tear leaked and I turned my face from Mrs. Randolph. Charlotte claimed a papa. How could I leave and deny her, when I would’ve done anything to have my pa make me fly like a bird, to give me a spot in the owl house?

  Mrs. Randolph washed my face. “Listen, girlie. Planters have two families—one here, one away. Seems as if your little girl has helped Cells make up his mind.”

  “I don’t know what . . . I thought you didn’t want me for him.”

  “No, Dolly. I didn’t want you hurt. A lot of women have tried to catch Massa Cells, but seems he’s caught you. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Like I said, nothing. I’ll still work for him and Mr. Foden.”

  “You keep your butt here. Cells is happy with you. Then he won’t be courting no widows or anything else. Nothing at the Hermitage will change.”

  Craning my head, I squinted at her. “What?”

  “Girlie. If the widow or one of those planters’ daughters gets a hold of him, do you think there will be dancing out back of the kitchen? Or cotton not just osnaburg for the folks in the field? One of those society women will take him and make him cruel. They care nothing for us. Black and brown bodies are nothing but to be broken for profits.”

  She wanted me to go after Cells, to be a whore or a concubine wife. I rubbed my head. “I need you to be clear.”

  “If Cells chose you, girlie, let him choose you. I’ve seen how you looked at him before he left. Now he’s playing papa to your baby. Accept him. Then we’re all saved.”

  “What I do affects everyone else? That’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. You know that. But this is something you can do to keep things good for everyone just a little longer. Think about it. You were burning for him before. This can’t be too bad.”

  That was the most elegant argument for lust I’d ever heard. Mrs. Randolph was crazy, and I wouldn’t sacrifice my peace for things that didn’t last.

  Demerara 1774: New Choices

  I sat up in my bed, the one in my old room. I couldn’t sleep. It seemed staying by myself was something a body could get used to. My bones did, stretching out fully on a wide mattress.

  Easing away from Charlotte’s kicking foot, I lit a candle and moved into the hall but stopped at the line of portraits. With my finger, I swiped at dust on the gilded frame of the lady. In the paintings of the males, the eyes of noble-looking men looked down on me, but the lone woman’s gaze demanded I stand up straight, smooth my chemise of wrinkles.

  And own what I wanted.

  The knot in my stomach had a name; just couldn’t say it aloud.

  Bumping into the polished table in the dining room, I caught the edge, but my hip moved backward like I danced. Setting down my candle, I admired the mahogany grains I buffed yesterday. The orange oil I’d rubbed into the wood smelled sweet and made a shine, almost like glass, like twinkling stars.

  Circling it, pushing chairs in, pulling them out, sliding them left, then right, I made a turn about the room.

  The rhythm in me needed movement. I twirled. My braids slipped down my neck. Freshly washed, the springy curls feathered between my fingers. They wanted to be free. They wanted me to be bold and wild.

  Imagining Polk’s fiddle, I hummed and opened the doors to the drawing room. My single candle shed light for my feet. Heel to heel, swaying with my hands, I twirled and did the steps of the minuet.

  Clapping. The sound made my heart slam against my chest.

  “Your allemande needs a partner.”

  Cells.

  I wished I had imagined him. My arms floated down to my sides. My chemise of fine cotton slowly lost its air and fell to my hips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be loud.”

  “No, don’t stop,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and spry.”

  The man was at the door. He looked casual, his black jacket gone, his cravat missing. “Yes, I think you’ll do nicely with a partner.”

  “Don’t need one.” I pulled at my sleeves, the soft satin ribbon threading my cuff. “Have fun at your friend’s party?”

  “None. Kept wishing to be here.” His gaze sank upon me and lowered to the floor, my bare feet.

  Self-conscious, I ducked one behind the other.

  He laughed. “Your feet are fine, as is the rest of you.”

  It was silly trying to hide. “You make me want to check to see if everything is perfect.”

  He stepped closer. “You are perfect, Dolly, as you are.”

  He cupped my elbow, then slid his palm to my shoulder. “Amazing. Fine and fit.”

  My skin could feel the
heat of his touch through the fabric.

  “Did you see Van den Heuvel, the duchy commander tonight or was it Van Den Velden?”

  “Van Den Velden is a fool. But Van den Heuvel, the old commander, is no longer in charge; Van Schuylenburgh is the commander of the colony, but the Dutch are too distracted. This colony will go to the British.”

  “Was that one of the things you checked on when you left me?”

  His lips thinned, then he bit the lower. “One of many. I must know the way the wind blows.”

  “Doesn’t blow enough here. The air’s too dry.”

  He fingered one of my curls. “You should wear your curls free close to your face. It will make your eyes stand out even more.”

  He claimed both of my hands and we twirled together. His allemande had me spinning.

  “We are alike, Dolly.”

  “That mirror, Cells?”

  “Yes, but you are on the true side of the glass, the clear face. I’m hiding along the silvered back.”

  “That makes us both shiny.”

  Cells turned me fast, and I fell against him. “Don’t make me noble. I’m not. I’ve been known to do what’s in my best interest.”

  “You’re a man, it’s expected.”

  “Merr Merr Ben did not expect it. She always wanted me to be a better man.”

  His friendship with my old damfo sounded as strong as mine, maybe more. Maybe he missed his encourager.

  “You’re the best man I know.”

  “You don’t know enough people.” He sighed and righted me but bent to keep our faces near.

  I saw flames charring his hazel eyes, those heavenly lashes.

  “Dolly, I owe you an explanation. I owe you an apology.”

  “Thank you for caring for me while I was sick.”

  He bit his lip again. The pressure made the crinkles a brighter, tastier pink. “Since I’m forgiven, I shouldn’t tempt fate. I should send you back to your room. But that would leave you untouched, unspoiled by my desire.”

  It was now or never to stake my claim on Cells, or be damned to my fears and those of all who worked at the Hermitage.

  I put his hand to my bosom, letting him cup the fullness that the years and motherhood had wrought.

  “Now, I’m touched. What should we do about it?”

  His laugh was low and easy, but he didn’t take his fingers away. The pressure increased. His pinkie slipped the button placard and searched my skin like I was a bundled gift.

  That caress called to my restless soul. His stroke to my flesh was gentle, making me like the bud of a lotus flower ready to open.

  He kept undoing layers and sliding away buttons until he had me panting.

  His head dipped and he pressed demanding lips to mine. The wine of his vintner was on his tongue, berry and tangy. I could become drunk in his kisses.

  “More, Coseveldt. More.”

  He angled his face, the half smirk broadening. “Only Merr Merr called me that.”

  “Maybe ’cause you let her see the true you.”

  He closed his eyes, for a moment, a second. Then he drew me fully into his arms.

  “No, she knew who and what I am.”

  “I think I know my worth. To be with a man who’s gentle, who cares for me. You do care for me?”

  He kissed me. It was soft, then fevered.

  In a blink, he carried me to his bedchamber. Cells draped me on his bed, like one of his fine coats.

  When the heat of his body left, I sat up with such a disappointment it hurt, but he lit candles then went to open the window, adjusting the louvers to let in stars.

  Then his waistcoat and shirt fell to the floor.

  Nothing compared to Cells. Lean and muscled and drawing near, he was a thing of beauty.

  He held me. His kisses went to my ear, then down my neck. It took a slight chill to notice the circles he wrought on my spine made my nightgown and corset disappear.

  There was no going back to mere friends, to hero and the lass he rescued, not even mentor and student, unless you counted this lesson in love.

  His mouth drew down on me slow. Again, building those knots, making me ache, making me arch to him.

  “We end up here? Dorothy, this was nothing I planned.”

  He said my birth name. I liked how it sounded, tasted on his tongue. “Not planning is a first for a man like you.”

  “I’m not as calculating as you think, but some things seem to add up to right.”

  The man who hurried for nothing devoured my kiss.

  With my palms to his back, holding him, I closed my eyes and waited for this tightness to find release.

  His bed was smooth, his sheets cool to my skin, but he lifted from me and rolled to my side. “This is a choice. Not for a moment, and we can’t change back.”

  I opened my eyes and found his face a mash of contrasts. Half smirk, half frown, his long lashes, lazy and shadowing cracked lids. “You’re stopping?”

  “Perhaps. You’re my choice, you know, mine to concubine as wife here in Demerara. I’ll work harder to have my power and you. You ready for the sacrifices, the parties and politicking?” He fingered his mouth, then rested a pinkie on mine. “Forever, for us, is a long time for someone still so young.”

  Eighteen years living mostly enslaved wasn’t young and that was an attitude to take with me naked in his bed. “Make me ready unless you have something better to do. Or I could just sleep here. Charlotte kicks my knee. I don’t suppose you will.”

  A full smile beamed. He reached for me and took his time, kissing and touching. I looped my arms about his neck. I wanted to rush, but bit back my begging.

  Cells, typical frustrating man, made time go slow.

  He kissed me, working my body into a fever.

  I was slick and wet and waiting for the answers to the desire echoing in me. End the knot, break it, split it wide.

  He hovered above. His beautiful mouth held chuckles. “I think you need more kisses than anything else. Seems you’ve yet to learn how to do it right.”

  I lifted up and took his lips, trying to gain his world—all his secrets, his scent, his whispers of hymns.

  “Not sure what you mean, but you’ll teach me. I’m confident you can.”

  “Dolly, I’ll teach you everything. We choose each other.”

  I didn’t know what he meant, but I wanted this, him and me and fire.

  My friend touched me where I hated until I didn’t hate it. I let him take his time sending me, spiraling like I could fly. When I didn’t think I could take more, he showed me there was. His hands covered mine, stretching me when I wanted to shrink, sinking me when I wanted to stay afloat, not drown in his rhythm, his song.

  We were entwined, fitting together like missing pieces of a puzzle. I cried out in Irish, maológ, for I was full, overflowing in love.

  I burst.

  I melted.

  In this heat of ours, I needed him to take me again before reason or rules ruined us.

  And he did.

  This act of him possessing me and me him, I knew would leave us broken for anyone else.

  Demerara 1780: New Loss

  I stood in front of Cells’s dressing mirror, measuring how my waist had begun to disappear. Being Cells’s concubine wife these past six years, I should’ve guessed that the regulation of my menses would eventually fail. How could tea keep at bay all the love we shared?

  Mrs. Randolph came into his bedchamber with the linens. She glanced at me. She didn’t have her practiced scowl. Her face held questions.

  She put down the bundle. “You going to tell him?”

  Of course she would know. She and Kitty laundered the linens.

  “Today.”

  She put his shirts away into his dresser. “It changes things, you know? You’ve been good about not changing things.”

  I know it did. The Hermitage had been a happy place. Cells had nine-year-old Charlotte reading. Still very shy around everyone, Kitty had become quite an artisa
n. My dear Cells shipped twice the number of barrels of rum than he’d done two years ago.

  And I had the money for manumission for all of mine, including this babe in my womb. I wasn’t free. I hadn’t pushed for it. Slave ships still came monthly to our shores. The crime of aiding runaways was subject to severe fines. I feared that my circumstance would reflect badly on Cells and his drive to influence the colony.

  Mrs. Randolph lifted my chin. “The way he loves Charlotte, how could he not love this one?”

  I clasped her hand. I thought she didn’t like me, that she was like the women at Pa’s cistern, or the women I’d met at the markets along the riverfront. Many thought I lied about being a mulatto because of the darkness of my supple skin. Others thought I should be content living off Cells’s means. Their lovers’ dreams meant more than theirs.

  Both his and mine were important.

  She gave me a hug. “He will love the baby, Dolly.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do.”

  Bolstered, I went out of our bedchamber and moved down the hall. I straightened my shoulders and went into Cells’s study, but he wasn’t alone. Commander Van Schuylenburgh, the leader of the colony, was in my chair.

  Mine. Where I sat listening to my dearest talk of his plans, cheering him on when things didn’t go as planned, yet both men looked as if I didn’t belong.

  “Yes, Dolly,” Cells said.

  “I didn’t know you were busy . . . entertaining.”

  Van Schuylenburgh had a hook nose like my pa and he looked me up and down, then dismissed me. “Je chattel is knap.”

  He laughed and Cells did too.

  I’d picked up some Dutch from the market and from the planters at Cells’s dinners. Handsome chattel or slave . . . I should take that as a compliment, along with the leer that reduced what Cells and I had to something dirty. I wasn’t Bilhah, a concubine wife to Jacob. Something much less.

  Cells’s smirk faded. “Miss Dolly, is there something urgent I must attend to?”

  “No.”

  Van Schuylenburgh gawked like my shoulders were bared. I dressed as a woman of leisure, something befitting Cells’s stature. My embroidered gown was a pretty dress of olive satin that shrouded white linen skirts.