Her blush deepened.
“When will they be here?”
“Any moment, Mama.”
Charlotte started to spin. Her cream-colored gown with prints of purple vines about the overdress looked festive.
Mamaí, who didn’t seem to like hats, had a turban of rust and gold on her head, just a hint of her thick curls falling by her ears. She was beautiful. Her pink-striped skirt and lemon-yellow tunic were perfect.
Me? I did well enough not to be in a nightgown.
“Kitty picked this up in the Old Market, Mama.” She offered me the mesh cloth. “It’s Laghetto bark. It’s a tradition of the West African moors. Mr. Fédon says it’s important to be proud of our history.”
Mamaí stitched her bits of cloth. “If she’s to wear a veil for her wedding clothes, it should be made of fine cotton and lace, not a tree.”
My mother didn’t see how happy this lace bark made Charlotte.
“Grama, it will make a proper veil,” Charlotte said, in a hummingbird-like voice, one battling the senior higher-pitched hen. “I’m proud of our people’s heritage. We’ve overcome the challenges of the spirit.”
“Spirits and overcoming, you don’t say.” Mamaí glanced at me, and then smirked at her pins and needles. “She and this Fédon went for walks while they were supposed to be in church. Chatting about history and things . . . and Obeah too.”
Those apple cheeks of Charlotte’s were brighter than the blood-red Montserrat maiden berries. “Grama?”
I put my hands on my daughter’s shoulder. “Charlotte, I haven’t made an agreement with the Fédons. Take care.”
Her face pinched up. “Then I shouldn’t have written Papa Cells.”
“What?”
“I wrote Papa Cells.” She lowered her gaze. “I know he’s not my father, but he means so much. With Mr. Thomas gone, someone will have to give me away.”
Mamaí looked at me, but I didn’t know what to say. This was my fault, all this planning and life going on while I couldn’t.
Light-headed, I sank onto the sofa.
“Mama, are you feeling poorly?”
“Some tea, Charlotte. That would be nice.”
“Yes, Mama. Oh, I forgot.” She moved as if she would go to the kitchen but stopped. “Papa Cells sent another letter for you.”
I had conveniently burned the last two, but now that Charlotte had told him of Fédon, I had to look at his tidy script.
The letter was bright white parchment, very stark and proper, very much like the man I remembered. “Why don’t you tell me what it says?”
“My darling Dolly.” Charlotte’s face was ablaze.
“Keep reading.”
“My darling Dolly, it’s good to hear that you are a success in Dominica. Mr. King informed me of how well your business is doing. I am very proud of you.”
I groaned at the condescension. Like I needed his approval. I waved my hand. “Continue.”
She cleared her throat. “If our dear Charlotte will have a late spring wedding in eighty-nine, I’ll be there. I have plans to visit Demerara then and would love to visit you.
“I look forward to seeing you, dearest Dolly. J. Coseveldt Cells.”
She offered me the letter. I examined the squiggles and traced my finger over his name. Seeing that man, if I still didn’t feel like myself, would be a torture.
So I had to be me again.
Charlotte’s eyes looked hopeful. The poor dear held her breath waiting for my agreement.
“Yes.” I folded the letter. “Spring is enough time to negotiate a contract. When . . . if I start negotiations with the Fédons, you’ll write Cells and invite him.”
My daughter wrapped her arms about me. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Let me go get your tea.”
She skipped to the kitchen.
Mamaí began to chuckle. “The old neighbor’s coming for a visit.”
“Yes.”
“And you have two children by him?”
“No birth records say that.”
“And stupid Thomas is away?”
“He’s not stupid. He’s working on his business. That’s never stupid.”
“Oh, yes it is. Leaving an unhappy, wealthy Dolly alone is stupid. Very stupid.”
Mamaí stood and smoothed her sleeves. Then she stretched. “I should go check on Frances. She’s napping.” She moved a foot or two, but then started to laugh. “Dolly, I’m glad to be here. You can depend on me, and I can depend on you to entertain my soul.”
Would he bring Catharina? He didn’t mention her in that letter. “Where’s Edward?”
“He’s feeling good this morning and went to help Kitty and Polk in the Old Market.
“Dolly, I see that head spinning,” my mother said. “You’re good. The birthing sadness won’t last. You don’t need any of them.”
Frances. Could Cells take her, if he thought me ill?
“You’re fretting. Remember, the girls and Edward have a future because of your sacrifices, your strength. If a man can’t accept you as you are or not let you be who want to become, you’re better off free. You’re free, Dolly.”
Mamaí talked about someone who wasn’t there. “Am I? You had me in the fields, the bad fields of the plantation. Mrs. Ben said you took me and your harvest basket to the sick house. I’m not you, Mamaí. Wish I was.”
She took my hands and gave me a hug then a shake. “Push through the darkness and see the light. I know how you feel. No mother who survived enslaved can help it. Dread about our babies—will they live, will they be free, how much will they suffer. That’s why the peacock flower is our flower.”
My mother kissed my forehead. “The shackles stay on our soul. The dread is passed through the blood. I pray to God it doesn’t linger through the generations.”
I clutched Mamaí to my bosom. Just an ounce, a bit, of her peace was all I needed.
“Let me go check on the girls. Get them settled before our guests arrive.” She held me for a moment longer then went to the upper rooms.
I clutched Cells’s letter. I could picture him sitting at his walnut desk writing this. Maybe there was a reason he’d come now. He was a friend before things changed.
The question was would he take one look at me and decide it was best to steal Frances, too.
Dominica 1789: Lost Anger
I sat in my parlor on my new blue sofa having tea with Jean-Joseph Fédon and his older brother, Julien.
Good Catholic boys, free mulattoes from Grenada, they made it a point to attend Notre Dame du Bon Port anytime they came to Roseau.
Beautiful men with rich brown skin. They wore their curly hair full and shiny with a section tied back. Their waistcoat was plain, but the cut of their jacket was short in the front, longer in the back. The shimmer on their brass and silver buttons blinded, definitely well-to-do men. Fashionable planters but with a little mix of pirate in their brash spirits.
Mamaí, with little Frances in tow, came from the kitchen with a tray of refreshments, hot tea and biscuits and was that cassava meal made into bread?
My Charlotte was eager to embrace culture she’d never lived; I waved the trays to the zebrawood table, a gift from Mr. Bates to celebrate Eliza’s birth. My housekeeping services increased my coffers and his firm’s, too.
My angel napped peaceful and safe. I checked her often. My fear-filled state had started to ease.
Charlotte smiled at the brothers. “My grandmother helped me bake these. I hope they are to your liking.”
Jean-Joseph Fédon dimpled big, like his lips would burst if he didn’t. “Anything you make, I’m sure is wonderful, Miss Kirwan.”
My mother led Frances to seats by the window. Far enough to not be required to be a part of the conversation, but close enough to not miss a word. So Mamaí.
I poured the younger fellow a cup of tea from old Foden’s silver pot. “Where do you live in Grenada?”
“My brother and I have farms outside of the capital in Belvedere Esta
te. That’s near the Parish of St. John.”
I nodded but I knew nothing of Grenada except that Thomas was from there and he lived near the capital of St. George’s.
The older Fédon, Julien, stood at my bookcase. There was tension in his stance, a restlessness in his posture as he poked bindings on my dust-free shelves.
Did he admire Kitty’s latest vase, a rose-shaped calabash with ebony women holding hands and dancing? One of her best.
“Books from the British, madame?”
“A little. I have friends in London who generously send me things.”
Julien frowned. I felt judged by his onyx eyes.
Jean-Joseph, the younger brother, beamed with a happy rust-colored gaze. The simple gold cross about his neck showed me the strength of his faith or at least the pretense of it.
“Are you devout, Mr. Jean-Joseph?”
“Yes. Our father raised us Catholic. He didn’t much have a choice, being French.” He said it as if it were a joke, but it wasn’t funny, as much as I’d seen planters change religions to better their standings.
He wiped his mouth. “Our father taught us the importance of the sacraments, ma’am.”
“Don’t say that too loud, brother, we might be among enemies.”
A hush fell on the room. Julien’s tone sounded bold. Then he chuckled, a harsh throaty noise.
Jean-Joseph frowned in his brother’s direction, then set down his cup. “Ma’am, I’d like very much to marry Charlotte. If she’ll have me, I’ll treasure her. J’adore her.”
He wiped his sweating palms on his tight indigo breeches. “My brother and I are to return to Grenada at month’s end. I’d like Charlotte to come as my wife.”
The two would make a handsome couple and could marry in my church, blessed by a priest. There were no laws in our faith to prevent two coloreds from marrying.
Thomas had said he wanted to wed, but his Anglican faith and my Catholic one made it impossible. Then his business intervened, and we didn’t have a concubine contract.
Eliza was four months old, and her father didn’t know she lived. It had been more than eight months since I’d last seen his face. Just a few short notes sent to Mr. Bates told me he was alive, alive and not here.
All for the best. Thomas was free and so was I.
“Ma’am? Mrs. Kirwan.”
“It’s Miss Kirwan. A month is too soon. We have relatives who will come in another month. A delay is better. It will allow our solicitors to draw up a proper contract.”
His face fell until Charlotte cast him a smile.
“I’ll wait for her. Ma’am, may I escort Miss Kirwan for a walk to the market?”
“I heard you two like to do that. Yes. Her aunt Kitty will follow.” I called to her and Edward, and they came down. “Looks like you’ll have the best guardians. Son, you feeling better?”
“Yes, Mama,” Edward said with a salute. If he grew to be healthier, he might have a career in the colored militias.
I glanced again at the frowning brother. “Elder Fédon, will you sit with me while the others enjoy Roseau?”
Kitty shifted her face between the young man and me and shook her head.
Edward, lovely Edward waggled his finger. “Someone’s on punishment. He must’ve done wrong to Mama.”
“Out, Edward,” I said, biting my cheeks.
Kitty took my son’s arm and set off behind the lovebirds.
The door closed.
The competition to see who’d make their complaints known first began with silence.
I was never good at waiting. “Mr. Fédon, what are your objections to the marriage?”
“You think I object, ma’am?”
“Your face is twisted like raisins. Tell me now. Don’t waste my time.”
“Charlotte is a lovely girl. A free mulatto woman, but has she been in your employ?”
“My employ? My daughter does bookkeeping.”
“I mean your employ. Everyone knows Dolly Kirwan hires out the best housekeepers. Housekeepers and prostitutes.”
I didn’t blink, though I wanted to slap him. “I provide a service. Military men and new colonists need cooks, washerwomen, and housekeeping. I sell furnishings, nothing else.”
“Not the fleshly congress? I’ve heard a number of your women housekeep and work the brothels.”
“I take no commission on that business. I don’t stop consenting adults. Consenting. You know who I am. You know my fees.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“My daughter has never been a housekeeper. She’s not been carnally touched by a man. And is your brother a virgin?”
“What? Of course n—”
“Then this interview is done. He should be pure to be worthy of my Charlotte. Good day, sir.”
No man, white or colored, would ever set my standards. That job was for me alone.
Dominica 1789: Lost Patience
Panic lit up Julien Fédon’s arrogant face, his cheeks twitching, his lips tightening. If he thought he could convict me in my house with twisted beliefs, he was wrong. “Good day, sir.”
He popped up from my chair. “Non. S’il vous plaît ne faites pas ça. Please, Jean-Joseph truly loves her.”
“Let him down easy,” I said with a merciless chuckle. “I’ll not tolerate false piety. Thank you for showing me what Fédon men are about.”
He even looked at Mamaí as if she would help him.
My mama offered a smirk, nothing more. Little Frances tilted her head with her tongue poked out. My four-year-old would learn how fierce I was at protecting my girls.
In this moment, I felt like me. I might roar.
He folded his arms. “I’m surprised you considered this union at all. My brother’s not a white man. With the atrocities the blancs do, how do you debase yourself in congress with them? Do you enjoy bedding them before or after they taunt you as their N’gga wench.”
In a blink, I was on Pa’s dray with Nicholas calling me N’girl. He’d done so out of hate and fear of me. This fool called me low in my house.
“Mr. Fédon, are you afraid of white planters?”
“No, but they think us beneath them. I know women like you hitch yourselves to white stars and prostitute your souls to gain a sky of freedom, crowing as if their pasty hides mean status. Hell, you might just be at it for money. What’s a few shillings for an honest hour of work?”
“Well, well, Fédon. It’s not often I’m called a prostitute to my face.”
“Someone needs to enlighten you. White men are not prizes, they’re scourges. They rape our women. They steal from our continents then mock our treasures and identity. Why do you wish to deal with the swine and take it to your bed?”
My grip tightened on my cup, but I’d not break my treasure for a fool. “So you’re a product of rape, Fédon?”
“Of course not.”
“Then one white man thought your mother his equal. Did she feel the same or did she accept your father for his status? Merely marrying him to make you legitimate for inherited money?”
Fédon clasped his hands. The press of his fingers turned pink, then reddish. “My father wed my mother for love. I take it none of your men, your white men, felt the same for you, Miss Kirwan. I’d say that shows poor choices.”
“I own my choices, Mr. Fédon, and unlike you I’ve recovered from being a tarn fool.”
“I’m the fool? I think—”
“You’re a self-righteous fool. You’re a planter who owns slaves. You participate in their same system, the system that steals our ancestry, that forces those with my skin to do anything to gain manumission. Two of us in this room know enslavement—the hardships and terror of being chattel. The desperation to escape from its smothering boot still awakens me. The nightmares choke.”
He looked down, but I wanted his eyes on me. I did a fast clap. “I fault no one for doing what they must to survive. Now that I have money, I choose my company. I’ve always thought of myself as equal to any man, white or
Black, never lesser.”
I stood with hands to my hips. “My choices are mine, not Charlotte’s. She’s a treasure to be loved beyond measure. I won’t place her where she’ll be judged by standards you men can’t uphold.”
“Standards you can’t.”
“True. I lived a hard life, full of mistakes. I’m still clawing my way out of some, but this is my daughter. I died that she might live. Now go. Take your tarn butt and go.”
Mamaí lifted her head. With Frances on her lap, she clapped. “You heard my gracious daughter, be gone.”
Frances slapped her little palms. “Go. Mama say go.”
The man went to the door, but he didn’t trudge through. “Jean-Joseph is in love. They are truly in love. You’d punish them both because of me?”
I nodded. “Yes. You’re the older brother, head of the Fédons. That position demands responsibility. When I paid manumissions for my blood, I became the head of the Kirwans in Dominica. I’ll not risk any of them with fools.”
“We are not fools, Miss Kirwan.”
“Yes, you are if you think I’ll let Charlotte be disrespected. You need to protect her as a sister and honor their marriage. Nothing else will do.”
He moved in front of me and knelt as if he were a military officer. “I promise, ma’am, to do so. I’ll protect Charlotte Kirwan as if she were one of my beloved sisters.”
Before I could stop him, he lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles, offering his respect as if I was a queen.
Well, maybe I was. I crowned my head by standing up for me, for raising up my family.
“Forgive me,” he said in a strong voice. “On behalf of the Fédons, forgive me.”
Headstrong and young were sins to be excused. “Oh, get up.” I took my seat and patted the sofa cushion. “Have some tea.”
Fédon plopped beside me. “They say you’re a fierce negotiator. I should’ve understood that.”
“You’re guilty of pride and loving your brother. The latter cancels the debt of the former.”
“Miss Kirwan, may I tell my brother you consent to his marriage to your daughter?”
Island Queen Page 24