Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  Such a big house but scarcely any servants. Lizzy’s smaller house had more.

  Looking for people, I stopped at a room that had a tile floor. A square or two in the center had been removed. The spot held white sand like that of Barbados. Above this hung four brass chandeliers, each shiny and polished.

  The windows of this room were arched like the ones I saw on the pink building, the Barbados temple.

  “Twenty-four candles, ma’am, can be suspended above.” D.P. Simon stood at my side, tall and thin with dimples and long sideburns. Well dressed in a tan satin waistcoat topping a linen shirt, he looked more a man of business than a planter. “This room mirrors a temple in Bridgetown, the Nidhe Israel Synagogue.”

  “In Barbados, I’d heard singing one Friday night but didn’t see the temple clearly until the next morning. Is it a pink building with rounded corners?”

  “Yes. You know it?”

  I answered with a nod. “Must be special, since this is such a good room for sun. It would make an excellent parlor.”

  “It’s for my faith, ma’am. Many of my community come and worship here. When the Dutch controlled, they were good to us, but the British are harsh. We have to hide. I hope the oppression never gets so bad we must be expelled like my forefathers from Spain.”

  “Expelled? Is that like running away?”

  He chuckled. “A little, only you’re forced to go.”

  His God didn’t need the woods to meet him but a nice room with outdoor sand. “Simon, I know about hiding and faith. English rule is everywhere. They’re powerful.”

  “It’s hard, ma’am. I’ve made a point to practice my faith even in business.” He stared at me. “I don’t do like the rest, their slaveholdings. I don’t do as well as the rest.”

  “You must hold to what you believe.”

  “I wish Catharina understood. I’ll give her anything, but not my faith. My ancestors are in my bones. I wait for her to go to town with her sister for the zeved habat. On the first Shabbat when I knew she’d be away, the men of my faith blessed Henrietta. I hate hiding.”

  He was still the sweet young man I’d known, but him and my daughter? “For a righteous man, you’ve come under some dark influences.”

  “I didn’t know! She seemed sophisticated . . . worldly.” He blushed. “She told me she was older and I believed her until it was too late. My fault, but Catharina mesmerizes me. She took a broken grieving man and gave him hope. I asked Mr. Cells’s forgiveness. He never gave it, but at least he didn’t shoot me.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable. You don’t know what’s in my reticule. Now that you know she’s mine, not white but a mix, do you feel cheated?”

  “Never. Aren’t we all a mix of something?” The tension in his face eased. “She’s beautiful and spirited. I envy Catharina sometimes, knowing what she wants. Since we aren’t promised our days, maybe her ways are best.”

  The grief in his tone fell on me. I wasn’t happy but I understood a little better. “Take me to your family, Simon.”

  We walked down a long hall. Pictures of family, of men and women, hung on the wall like in Cells’s Hermitage. At the end, surrounded in gold framing, was a sole woman, a portrait of Catharina.

  I put my palm on Simon’s. “Wait for a moment.”

  The set in her deep hazel-green eyes looked brave, even regal. The light cleft of her chin, noble. “Lovely, Simon.”

  As if he’d relearned to breathe, he smiled, a toothy out-of-kilter one, then led me to a parlor.

  In a silvery gown that looked like the painting, Catharina lounged on a pale green sofa in a grand room with milk-white walls. Her dress reached the floor even with the lace tucked up about her ankles.

  That was Scotland’s influence. Maybe even London’s.

  “Mama Thomas, you are here. My chef has prepared fine treats.”

  The low table separating us held gold platters of little round brown cakes that smelled of ginger and molasses.

  Elegant treats.

  Catharina wanted to impress me. I oohed and ahhed to show appreciation. “You needn’t have gone to such lengths.”

  “It’s no trouble. My father said you were used to such and have dined with royalty.”

  “Cells tends to run on.”

  Her nose, with my pa’s hook, wrinkled. The movement shifted shadows upon her chin. “He always tells me the truth. Almost always.”

  The tension in her voice couldn’t be masked. How had she grappled with the truth, the Black mama she didn’t know, the white one she did?

  Did one just blurt out sorry?

  Sorry I let you go?

  Sorry you’re not white?

  Sorry you don’t know the struggle and beauty of Black—of being and living it?

  Her smile returned. “Papa says you’ve become quite well off with your business. The hat on your head alone with all those feathers is very expensive. Looks like something from Will Clarke’s on Wigmore Street in London.”

  It could be.

  Thomas King still supplied my needs for bonnets.

  D.P. bent down and made faces at his daughter, reminding me of Thomas with Frances, Eliza, even Ann. “This is Henrietta, Mrs. Dolly. Our first.”

  “I’m four, ma’am.” The voice was bright, even polished, for a child. “Papa calls me Henny.”

  Catching D.P.’s eye, I saw the same pride when my pa called me Dolly. I almost . . . wept. Never saw him again, not after Dominica. Heard he died in his beloved Ireland years ago. Never made a go of Montserrat, the left and right sides of the plantation were gone.

  Funny how simple things bring the past back. Patting my damp cheek, I cleared my throat. “Call me Grandmother, if that’s fine with you, Simon, Catharina.”

  My daughter’s frown had grown but she nodded. “I guess I wondered why I felt different sometimes. Now I know. You’re my mother, the one who bore me.”

  Her tone sounded like an indictment. It was soft, but it pierced like I’d stepped on slivers of glass.

  “Papa said it was his doing that he took me away, but I’m sure you had your reasons for letting me go.” Her tight words pulsed with anger. I felt myself bleed onto the floor. The strongest peppermint oil wouldn’t cleanse the carpet.

  To explain that I was enslaved and weak with birthing sadness didn’t make much sense given that I stood in front of her in my lovely hat and expensive silk gown with silver buttons down my front. Instead, I moved around the room with more oohs and ahhs. “You keep a fine house.”

  The stiffness in her cheeks eased a little. Catharina arose and scooped up the pretty little girl in the yellow dress. Paper-white skin with her curly hair tied up with a pink ribbon, they could walk those streets of London. They’d pass for white like not a drop of my shed blood was in them.

  The haunted look in Catharina’s gaze told me she wished there was none.

  I ached from her pain. I only breathed again when she put Henrietta into my arms. “I hope we become the best of friends, all of us.”

  My daughter moved to D.P. and straightened her husband’s cravat. “To start, let my husband help with your business dealings. He’s better than Coxall.”

  Triumphant and grinning, she linked her hand with D.P.’s as if she’d won something, except there wasn’t a competition.

  Focusing on this little one, I kept my mouth shut, for Catharina was a child who went to bed in London looking for answers as much as stars. Despite the past, I needed to help the little girl in her, in Henny and me, to see we could win just as we were.

  Demerara 1802: The Route

  Another no. Another fair offer for a vacant piece of property had been rejected by a planter who had no plans to develop it himself.

  Thomas King stood at my side near the plot of land I’d picked by the shore. “I hate to keep giving you bad news, first from London, now this. I’m sorry, Miss Dolly.”

  A breeze stirred the beach, lifting the creamy grains and tossing them. Loss and losing whirled, digging deeper into m
y chest. This had to stop. I needed to win again.

  “Fullarton looks to be entertaining Miss Charlotte. And you thought she’d be bored.”

  King possessed a large sense of humor, but I was pleased that his local merchant, John Fullarton, caught my daughter’s eye. They walked down the beach. She shimmered in the sun in a lovely gown of light yellow and green. My girl smiled again.

  “Beach property in Demerara is very expensive. Close to the equator, hurricanes are rare. Things built here last.”

  “That’s why I wanted it.” I gripped my arms, holding in my grieving breath. “I wanted to start building a hotel before the rainy season.”

  King wiped his brass-rimmed spectacles. They’d gotten thicker over the years. “Have you thought about land closer to the capital? Stabroek is lovely and not far from where you live.”

  “That area has mills and government buildings, not travelers, not frigates.”

  “Mrs. Dolly, the landowner is being particular.”

  I stared at him as if my glance could burst his lenses. “I’m not trying to open up a brothel.”

  He lifted his hands. “I know. I know.”

  “And I want to be called Mrs. Thomas.” Almost three years had passed since my husband died. I needed to hear his name said aloud, not just in dreams. Then maybe I’d feel his encouragement again.

  Lowering my lids, I relaxed my lonely stiff shoulders. “It’s important what you’re called and what you answer to.”

  King chucked a rock into the sea. “Mrs. Thomas it is.”

  His little boy, my godson William, ran up and down the shore gathering seashells. That little fellow was wild, not minding the heat.

  Watching someone without a care lifted my spirits. Yet how could I build a hotel to honor my stars if no one would sell to me?

  I wanted to build here. Here where I could imagine Edward and Thomas in his beloved Mary sailing to me. Frances sent me a piece of that blue post of the mainsail that washed up on shore. I put it with my other treasures in my closet near my hats. “Mr. King, I have the money. How do we do this?”

  “Maybe you need to be patient a little longer, Mrs. Thomas. That is, if you want here.”

  Wait? Never. I saw how the British planters made D.P.’s business hard. Because of their distrust of his faith, good ole Anglicans and some Catholics limited his opportunities, charged him more for everything. They’d bankrupt him.

  Not me. I wanted my way at a fair price.

  Shaking my fists, I jangled my reticule. The ting-tang sound of my coin purse made a rhythm that should make the Demerara planters take notice. “King, I pay three times more than any to lease rooms off America Street. My housekeeping services are run out of my parlor. I want a shop again. I want to be the source of artisans’ goods for this colony. That’s how my businesses operate in Dominica and Grenada.”

  He shook his head, then his bald head offered his blank banker’s look. “You’re doing some business here. That’s good.”

  “Folks don’t need to see how I live. It gives them ideas. Are you telling me to give up?”

  “Not you, Mrs. Thomas.” He pulled his hands together, not in a prayer, but like he plotted something wonderful. “Perhaps we should be more strategic. Look for allies.”

  “Strategic? That sounds sneaky or costly. I don’t want men dipping into my money.”

  King shrugged. “Men weren’t what I had in mind. Follow me. Fullarton, watch my boy.”

  The fellow nodded, but with Charlotte’s arm entwined with the merchant’s, I wondered if either would pay attention to little William.

  Mr. King took a route close to the shore to one of the existing hotels. The water lapped the sand, pushing shells and jade flotsam. That feeling of moving sideways against the water pressed.

  I trusted that the financier who found ways to evade the British blockades had a plan. He’d been a friend and partner through the years. It meant something for him to make me godmother to his son. A reformed slaver now investor from London wouldn’t lead me astray, not when I had helped him find his path.

  When we stopped at a brothel, I began to question my judgment. “Why are we here, King? I didn’t think you were the type—”

  “No. No.” He tugged on his jacket lapels. “I’m a reformed man now, but I want you to meet some people who might help. I’ve arranged for you to have lunch with the Entertainment Society.”

  He opened the door. “Go on inside. Listen with an open mind. They may have a different approach for us to take.”

  It took every inch of my willpower to put my boots inside this place, a brothel like the one I’d danced and whored at upon first coming to Demerara.

  “Everyone needs a little nuncheon,” he said from the doorway. “I won’t be joining you. Send for me if you have a new strategy. I’ll make sure Fullarton returns Miss Charlotte home.”

  Farther down the hall, a servant, a young boy in a turban and a blue jacket and matching breeches, waved me to a room.

  At the threshold, I viewed a group of women in marvelous hats, free colored and Black women. And they’d saved a seat for me.

  Demerara 1802: The Rivals

  A white tablecloth with the corners starched and squared lay before me. With the looks these women passed each other, I could’ve been right back at Pa’s cistern. The gossips in Montserrat looked down on me because of my dark skin.

  A fashionable woman holding a glass of wine extended her free hand to me. “Miss Dolly Kirwan, please join us.”

  “Mrs. Dorothy Thomas—is my name.”

  The head woman, a lovely brown-skinned lady, pointed to the open chair. “But you have family here. They claim you as Kirwan.”

  Full raked back, the chair was spindled but had strong-looking legs—it would hold me, even if I fidgeted. I sat and tried hard not to let the feet squeak on the bare floor. “It’s Thomas. Ladies, you invited me.”

  “Consider us the welcoming committee of Demerara. Some call us the Entertainment Society. I’m Rebecca Ritchie. This is Elizabeth Ross and Mary Ostrehan Brett.”

  This head woman seemed younger than me and wore her hair in pinned curls like I had long ago. Miss Ross was older, olive in complexion with dark topaz eyes. She dressed well and wore a dazzling sea-blue turban covering her fine graying hair.

  Miss Brett, I’d seen in Stabroek. Another freewoman, very light in coloring like Catharina and Lizzy.

  Silent, not paying attention to anything but the lace shawl that hung about her shoulders, she seemed annoyed to be here.

  Freewomen, all lighter than me. Funny. No matter how old you were, there was something about rejection that slipped past everything and etched hate on your insides.

  After a sip of the flat champagne, I put down my goblet. “We now know each other’s names. Now what?”

  Miss Ritchie wiped at crumbs settling into the embroidered satin of her bodice. Her lean fingers tapped the sides of her crystal. “I’m very curious about you. You’re trying to set up businesses here in the colony?”

  “I’m already in business. I want to expand but keep running into trouble.”

  Miss Ross giggled, shimmying her smooth silk jacket with its innocent ribbon bow tied about her sly neck. Then she sobered.

  My troubles must have been done on purpose. Trying not to stab the fruit, I picked at sliced mangoes and yellow governor’s plums on the platter near me. “Tell me, what would make my path easier?”

  After clearing her throat, Miss Ross said, “Demerara is like Jamaica and Barbados. We have enough hotels to cater to sailors. They pay for entertainment. We don’t need anyone else in that line of work.”

  The math of competition was not hard to understand, but they didn’t know me, didn’t know my strength or the size of my dreams. These were the cistern women, merely clothed in better fabrics. “I’m not trying to build a brothel. I’m building a legacy, a luxury hotel, fine enough for a prince. More visitors, important ones, will come. That’s the business I want.”

  M
iss Ritchie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  I adjusted the brim of my fine bisque bonnet, delaying just a bit to whet their appetite. “I’ve seen the boom in Roseau and St. George’s. I understand what visitors need. They will spend money and tell their friends.”

  “No mulatto balls for you?”

  “I’m more interested in accommodations than entertainment.”

  Miss Ross shook her head and frowned like she’d bitten three lemons. “Is that a no?”

  “I make my money huckstering the finest goods and offering the finest housekeeping, all on par of what is expected in England. I do not peddle flesh, but I know flesh gets peddled.”

  Convincing people with their minds made up against me was useless. I took a sip from my glass. The flat champagne puckered my lips. Prince William would never approve. Barely any bubbles kissed the glass. “Remind me to get you better champagne the next time we talk.”

  “A bribe? How fun.” Miss Ritchie laughed.

  Then I did too. My problems weren’t solved, but I’d found my humor.

  Miss Ross refilled her plate with mangoes. “Mrs. Thomas, I know you’ve met with resistance. The sooner you become established, the better. We need the men in government to see us freewomen as a part of the community, not as threats or exotic fantasies they can’t speak about to their European mamas. Demerara can’t become Grenada, where they use laws to terrorize us.”

  No, it couldn’t. “The abuses against the free coloreds led to rebellion. I’ve seen enough of those. I’ll do anything in my power to prevent that. And I assume you want to help me since you sent for me, unless this champagne is punishment for dreamers.”

  “It’s good champagne.” The previously silent Miss Brett sounded angered, her tone firm and blunt. “You don’t know of what you speak.”

  “If this were Sourire de Reims Rosé and left long enough in the barrel before bottling, it would have bubbles, lots of bubbles. You’d smell the berries before you drank. Champagne is a celebration of music and the tongue. You’re poorly served, Miss Brett.”

  Sopping up her grins, the laughing Miss Ross popped bread in her mouth. “I like her, Rebecca. Mary, let’s give her a chance.”