Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  “But I could help. It can save you some trouble if the Garraways don’t move quick enough.”

  Thomas drew me into his lap. “I love that you want to help, but I have this well in order.”

  “But I—”

  “Doll. Let me have my plan.”

  I saw something flicker in his eyes, something I hadn’t seen before. He was hurting, frustrated by his lack of success. He never begrudged mine. My business was booming.

  I pulled away and folded my arms about my robe. “Sorry your dreams aren’t going well.”

  He lifted from his chair and pattered his bare feet to mine.

  “You are my dream. Yes, I need my business to be successful, but don’t think for one moment you’re not my dream, too.”

  “Thomas, I don’t—”

  His kiss was savage, raking over my lips. He hoisted me high, putting my legs about his waist, and carried me to the bed I’d made. Curled about this big man, his thick thighs, I was eager, hungry for him to take my cares away, to make me unsee his troubled spirit.

  “I’m in love with you, Doll.” His lips curled into a smile. “Have no doubts about me, about what is most important. Perhaps I might plant a seed or two in your thoughts about expanding our family. I want the biggest family. Like thirty children.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Yes, on everything but being with you.” He had my robe undone and his lips found my curves. Soon, we were a pile of perspiration, hot and tangled limbs.

  I wanted Thomas to be successful, for I knew the lack of it would come between us, as it had with Cells.

  Nothing should be between us, nothing at all.

  I needed his love. The steadiness of his hands, every tickling touch numbed my fears of losing him. Ambition was a potent mistress.

  Slow and steady. Thomas and me. Day became dusk.

  Spent, I fell asleep in his embrace, beneath his beating chest.

  When I awoke, Thomas wasn’t there. He’d returned to his papers.

  How long could he serve two masters? I doubted that I and his unfulfilled dreams would ever coexist.

  Darkness was all around. I didn’t know where I was. Fear had me. It was viscous, clawing at me. I shifted. I fought.

  Was it Nicholas?

  War drums.

  The boat with souls singing to the wind—had I joined them?

  “Breathe, Doll, breathe.”

  Thomas’s voice.

  “Help me.” My voice cracked, broke into stuttered sighs.

  His arms wrapped around me and tugged me onto his warm hairy chest.

  He shifted a little and lit a candle.

  I felt the brightness on my closed lids.

  “Doll, it’s a nightmare. I have you. I do.”

  Still couldn’t lift my lids. Couldn’t take the chance that he wasn’t truly there.

  “You’re safe, Doll. No one will hurt you, not while I’m here.”

  That was the fear, wasn’t it? That the calm and peace we had, our family, would disappear once Thomas stepped aboard his Mary.

  “Doll, talk to me.”

  The sound of rain, rare rain, tapped and danced upon the roof. “Clagarnach is what my pa called these heavy showers. Our hut leaked sometimes. That brought worms. One-leggers. Mossies, too.”

  “You’re not there, Doll.”

  “But I could be. There’s truth in the rain. It says its thoughts. It cries upon the poor and the wealthy. It can cause a harvest or cut through mountains. It’s powerful.”

  “You want to be rain? Water dries. It goes away.”

  “We are all rain, Thomas. ’Cause we all go away. Nothing lasts. Maybe I haven’t cut through enough mountains.”

  He hugged me deeper to his breast. His hands soothed my back like I was a child in want of comfort. “You can do anything.”

  “Can I? There’s more soldiers in Roseau. Sometimes they look at me like I don’t matter.”

  “You can’t control others. Just me, and I’m willing to be at your service.”

  His tone sounded light but there was something else there, hidden like a swallow in the throat.

  “Sorry, Thomas.”

  “No. No, woman. If not for times like this and providing you affordable legal services, I wouldn’t know you needed me. I want you to need me. I need you to. Those rare occasions when you turn to me, you bold, glorious creature, it lets me know I have your trust.”

  Still couldn’t open my eyes.

  Laden with unspent tears, they had to stay shut. This man shared openly his love, but I heard him groaning in his sleep. His own restless dreams demanded his attention. Thomas wanted them as much as I wanted mine. How could I share him with something that would draw him away?

  Something had to bend, had to sway.

  I couldn’t yield. Starting anew was different for women. Why did it feel like time was up, like some hourglass poured out our sand?

  Couldn’t peek at Thomas, or even out my window to seek my stars.

  He tucked one of my curls behind my ear, then decided to yank off my scarf and tugged at the curl papers I’d put in my hair.

  “Stop. It takes too long to put it up. Where’s my scarf?”

  “I have images in my head of you draping me with all your hair loose on my chest. I haven’t had you like that.”

  “You’ve had me plenty. The old cook in Demerara would call us rabbits.”

  He stroked the tender skin under my eyes until I looked.

  And I knew he saw me, curl papers, scared, and all.

  “Then I’m a happy hare. Come here, bunny.”

  Couldn’t fault his logic. Being with him was definitely easier than being chaste and chasing nightmares. I should have more willpower to resist Thomas when I hadn’t been diligent in controlling my menses.

  Yet he found that spot, that vein along my neck. It was sensitive to his kiss, his teeth. He raked my pulse into a frenzy like rebels’ drums.

  Maybe the desire for a big family and a babe of his own would keep him from running after Garraway and everyone who’d use up his kind heart.

  It seemed only right to give Thomas this dream if it meant he’d be with me, keeping me whole through mine.

  Dominica 1787: A Kingdom

  I laid my head on the window and looked out at Mamaí’s garden. Her Bwa Kwaib flowers bloomed, but the peacock flower, the orange and red petals, caught my gaze. They were pretty even if they carried a dark power.

  I was thirty-one. That was a lifetime for some. I wanted this babe, babe number six, until Thomas started traveling.

  “Morning, Doll.”

  He came up behind me and snuggled my neck, that weak spot behind my ear. Three forbidden words burned in my throat, I’m with child.

  “What has you in such deep thoughts? A new business venture and expansion?”

  His fingers slid down my sides heading to my belly, my soon-to-be-expanding belly.

  I turned in his embrace and kissed him. This babe should make him choose us over the Garraways. He said he understood me. Then he should know separating was the worst.

  Haphazard and maybe crazed, I led him back to the bed we’d shared.

  Half undoing my corset, he stopped. “Why do you have to be this delectable when I have to be about business?”

  Business.

  That word held a sense of doom. “Must you leave now?”

  He drew his hand away and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Yes. John Garraway himself is coming. This time with a deal.”

  When he turned back from tying his cravat, his face had a frown. “Don’t look like that.”

  Like what? Thought I was better at lying with my smile.

  He leaned over the mattress and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, and if you’re done with your bookkeeping or training more housekeepers, I promise to remember where we left off. How many do you have now?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  His smile widened as he tugged on his jacket. Happy for me, maybe, but
that was his way of reminding me that I worked on my business all the time, that he should be allowed to do so, too, without complaint.

  Garraway didn’t care about him bedding me and playing father to brown children. He’d say anything to get Thomas doing his bidding.

  My head knew the future. My man would be gone. My luck of children with no fathers would continue and he wouldn’t be here to help me brave my storms.

  The strain of my last birth pulled me into pieces. I feared for me, but what type of woman was I if I held on to Thomas too tightly? “Bye.”

  “Now, Doll. Don’t be like that. You’ve won enough.”

  “What?”

  “We’re here together in Dominica. The lucrative activities are in Grenada. It’s a difficulty to my partners to come here to meet.”

  “And I serve them, on silver with the finest wines. I support you. You’re not happy?”

  “Doll, it’s not a question of happy. It’s about my livelihood.”

  He knew a lot of big words but he was using those singular ones—my: my activities, my partners, my livelihood.

  Pulling my knees to the belly that hid ours inside, I folded my arms about my legs. My nightgown with tiny embroidered roses draped me, covering toes that had grown cold. “When will you be traveling, Thomas?”

  His eyes veiled. He tied his loose locks with a ribbon, making a great show of the knot. “I must leave to go see Garraway at Mr. Bates’s.”

  He grasped the brass door pull. “Doll, I have to try one last time. I can partner with Garraway directly, importing goods from India, the East India Company. It’ll be lucrative.”

  “Mercantilism. That’s huckstering for men.”

  “It’s not a competition. I’m going beyond Dominica. There’s Jamaica, Barbados, Nevis, Trinidad, even Demerara. Garraway has a plan to trade in these colonies. I can be a part of it.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? This is for us, Doll, for our family. I want to leave something with my name to not only Charlotte and Edward and Frances but to any sons that bear my name. If you don’t have any faith in me now, then you never will.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t. Or you’d see how badly I need to win this.”

  He clasped the door’s edge. “I’ll be back tonight. Will you be here waiting for me?”

  “Guess you’ll have to come and see.”

  A smirk briefly settled on his face, but he still left.

  I lay back among our pillows smelling his sage soap. I needed to gird my strength. If this babe breathed air and I survived, I needed to prepare to be strong and alone.

  London 1824: Kensington House

  A carriage slows in front of Kensington. From the parlor window, I watch the horse’s legs powering near, the driver with his greatcoat and red cap, the sleek black box.

  My heart pounds. I grip the sill, begging it to be damfo coming with the day and time of my appointment.

  Though I still have to rehearse what to say, I’m ready to see Lord Bathurst. I will practice, for it’s the hardest thing to speak of hope and justice when your heart is alone and grieved.

  Another glance out the window reveals a carriage. It’s small. Only one horse, like Pa’s dray, like Cells’s carriages in Demerara. I thought my damfo would have more.

  The last time we met, there were at least four.

  The footman holds the door for Henrietta Sala.

  My granddaughter has come to visit. With a satin bonnet that points like a ship’s bow, tall and pretty, Henny comes through the parlor doors. She wraps her arms about me.

  “Grandmama.”

  She says the endearment pretty, like it’s a song.

  “Child, come sit. It’s good to see you.” I wave her to the lovely tray of tea and sweets Miss Smith has left to make my waiting easier.

  A blush hits her cheeks, but she walks around the room looking at the shelves, the stylish curtains and paper treatment on the pink walls.

  “This place has only become better.”

  Her back is straight, her chin is high. I see Cells. Well, I should see him. He’s as much of Henny’s grandpa as I am her grandma.

  “You look good, Grandmama. Was the trip unsettling?”

  “No. It was fine.” I’m afraid to ask why she’d think so. The rumors must be rampant.

  I grab her hand, light and dark, soft and wrinkled. “How is Mr. Sala treating you? You two have been married twelve years now.”

  “Twelve years and many children. I’m a good mother. That’s how often it’s said.”

  The edge in her words are biting and admirable. I like a woman who’s bold. But Henny is hurting. Like her grandpa, she keeps secrets.

  I pour her tea and then my own. “Tell me the truth, Henny.”

  “My husband’s income and the dowry you provided have given us a comfortable house on New Street, around the corner from his mother’s school.”

  “Yes, the Marylebone on Lissom Street. I recall.”

  “You remember?”

  I want to say I know where all my checks are written, but that will make Henny stop talking. She needs to tell me her heart. Then, I can be a rock for her, a safe place to gather and restore her strength. Women need to do that for other women, not torment them for mistakes. “I do remember the school. But are you telling me you are unhappy?”

  “I want to sing. Tramezzani and D’Egville of the King’s Theatre, they think I have true talent. They want me, little old me to share the stage with them.”

  “Then why not? Why aren’t you following your dream? Singing is why I put you in Marylebone.”

  “My Augustus thinks I should be at home with the children and give up all my lessons. He used to perform. He doesn’t want that life for me.”

  Henny picks up her teacup, but I hear the echoes of what she doesn’t say. That Augustus Sala doesn’t want her to have applause. He can’t understand her having her own dreams. He does not love her, not as she needs.

  My sighing is loud and long. “Henny, I recall so fondly how you loved to exhibit.”

  She settles her cup. “My husband only talks of his plays. His words, him. He forgets that music drew us together. Now it seems it will draw us apart.”

  “What a horrible thing for song to do.” I sip my tea and wait to see my blood stir in her, that she can’t blame others for what she hasn’t done for herself.

  She unpins her beautiful bonnet and sets it aside. Her dark brown curls hide her delicate ears. Henny looks of money and comfort. Cells would be proud of how she fits into this world.

  But that’s looks.

  Looks won’t be deceiving me anymore.

  I set my cup down and stretch in my sleek slippers adorned in emerald ribbon. I love green and gold.

  “Are you here to ask me to pay for lessons?”

  Henny’s eyes blink wildly. I thought they’d pop. “No, ma’am. You’ve done enough. I need help sorting things out, that’s all.”

  “Good.” I nod and feel that invisible hand on my purse ease. “You’re smart. Surely London has ways for an industrious girl to make money.”

  “How have you done it? You had a lot of children but you still made your fortune.”

  “Children never blocked my path, just adjusted it a little. I had help and I figured out the best way for them and me. It wasn’t always an easy road.”

  Henny’s light eyes squint and she can’t know my meaning. This was best. The past, the missteps, the victories—they are all mine and I wear them like an easy heel or ribbons that slacken from use.

  I lean forward, stretching, and spoon a lump of sugar into her cup. “The sweetness of winning, my dear. Don’t lose you. Do all for your children, but birth your dreams, too.”

  As if no one has encouraged her in a long while, Henny grins. Her face becomes joyous and young as she blows bubbles in her tea.

  “I always imagined you, girl, performing for kings and queens, singing such tunes. You’ll make the papers for the right reasons.”<
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  “What if all the trouble is to make something happen that’s not meant to be? Augustus was mad when I had a little part. The Duke of Clarence has attended.”

  “Duke of Clairborne?”

  “The Duke of Clarence, Prince William Henry, Grandmama. Your old friend.”

  I had heard Henny the first time, but I liked the way she arches her voice to say the prince’s title. My lips lift like I’m responding to a kiss.

  “Then it’s true.”

  “What is true?”

  “This woman, she came around this week asking questions, insinuating . . .” Henny scrapes her index fingers at me. “Naughty, Grandmama. You and the prince? Naughty. I thought you knew him because of Mr. King and that evening at Bushy House.”

  My face feels hot and warm. The memories flow.

  Henny stands and paces. Again, I see Cells in her steps, fretting about the governor or the financiers or a prince.

  “I lived a life. What did this woman accuse me of?”

  “Miss Van Den Velden showed me a news clipping from Rambler Magazine. Was that you? Were you caught with Prince William Henry? An affair, Grandmama?”

  Can she see my thoughts? Oh, how the legend of my daring has grown. “I believe the sketch ran again in the papers, too.”

  “Grandmama? You—”

  A patchwork of images dances between me and Henny. She’s sitting too far to whisper my truth. But will this truth steal my chance to right the scales for the women of Demerara? No one will listen to anyone made a harlot in the papers. Scandal is no woman’s friend.

  “Did this woman say why she’s chasing ghosts?”

  “Grandmama, did you love him?”

  “That was a long time ago. Henny, I wonder why it is of such interest now. Who does she intend to tell once her curiosity is satisfied?”

  “She didn’t say, Grandmama. She tried to pretend she was inquiring for Kensington School, even teased of a job. But I sense she’s vicious. She has a personal grievance against you, doesn’t she?”

  I knot and unknot my scarf, wearing it like the young spirit in me, right across the shoulders above my womanly charms. “A great many things happen when you live long, dearie.” Too many to number.

  Henny’s smart, and I sense she wants to hear someone else’s problems to make her troubles seem lighter.