Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  Served sorrel punch and a nice bottle of Rosé de Saignée, Lieutenant Governor Murray feasted at my house on Robb Street. His advisers, Mr. Van Den Velden and Mr. Brown, came, too. The henchmen smelled of politics—old cigars and rum in black jackets.

  Murray wore a uniform, a showy thing of garnet with gold braiding. It was nothing compared to the prince’s, not as many medals, no sashes. As he drank my champagne, this fellow’s flat chin lifted, offering a subtle sneer that showed command, not competence.

  On my side of the table, I had the finest representatives of the Entertainment Society—Rebecca, my granddaughter Dorothea Coxall, and Elizabeth Ross. Each one well dressing in red, green, and blue, each proudly wearing a bonnet with trim and lace and flowers displaying our positions as freewomen, as businesswomen, as power.

  Murray sat back in his chair, licking his fingers from the ginger biscuits. “Mrs. Thomas, no one does hospitality quite like you. You never disappoint. Still, I didn’t see the tiger.”

  “It’s a lion, and he only resides at my hotel. The ballroom at my hotel is for more formal gatherings. This is my residence. I wanted an honest conversation.”

  He huffed and adjusted his spectacles. “I suspected that was the case.”

  Mr. Van Den Velden leaned over his potbelly and refilled his glass. “Quite a house you have here. You’ve become very wealthy women. All of you ladies are very wealthy. Surprising.”

  Rebecca had that glimmer in her eyes. She’d been itching for a fight since her fellow broke things off with her. “It shouldn’t surprise. We’re enterprising women.”

  Murray wiped his thumbs on my starched white napkin. “Well, I don’t wish to take up more of your time. Let me begin with an apology. My soldiers were very heavy-handed. If I’d known they’d reached the Kensington, I would have stopped them.”

  Dorothea sipped her glass of punch. “I’m sure they knew. Everyone knows Dorothy Thomas’s property.”

  The lieutenant governor had that nervous laugh, the pained mirth of being caught in a lie.

  I smiled instead of poking. A man has to have room for his ego and to hang himself. “It was quite disturbing. Have you found who started the rumors that you disobeyed the king and refused to free the slaves?”

  His eyes exploded, bulging behind his glass lenses. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

  Fine. I poked a little. “Those are the rumors.”

  “Ma’am, a revolt of ten thousand slaves has to be dealt with.”

  “Ten thousand? Are you sure it was so high? There’s barely that many slaves on the estates I know to be vandalized.”

  “Thirty-seven plantations were struck by those vicious slaves,” Mr. Brown said. He had a curved nose like an iguana, like he’d been snooping on the roof and had fallen into a chair for my nuncheon fair.

  Murray waved at Brown as if to settle him down. “We don’t know how many would have joined the cause if the militia hadn’t acted decisively.”

  “I own the most slaves in Demerara or very close to it. The numbers you are quoting are high. Mr. Brown, I don’t think vicious is the right term, either. Angry or cheated is a better way to say it.”

  Murray shook his head. “The rebellion is done. It’s put down. The numbers don’t matter.”

  “Numbers are important, especially when you’re exacting taxes. You’ve levied heavier taxes on huckstering and additional property taxes.”

  Mr. Van Den Velden set down his glass with a thud. “Those fees are needed. We have to rebuild. The slaves did damage.” He leaned farther over the table. “Perhaps if you held a firmer hand on your chattel, rebellions wouldn’t happen.”

  I leaned, too, and caught his small gaze. “If governing bodies were more fair, there would be less reason for rebellion. The governor’s overseer, Lord Bathurst, sent you measures for amelioration. Your delay acting on his orders caused the rebellion. These brutal killings could sow the next one.”

  He sputtered, and I wasn’t sure if that was because I knew about the amelioration plan or because I called Bathurst Murray’s overseer.

  Again Murray wiped his mouth. “The slaves burned government buildings, men were killed. Someone needs to pay for this.”

  Rebecca rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “You’re making only the free colored women of Demerara pay,” she said. “That’s not fair.”

  “You ladies have it good,” the governor said and slurped my champagne. “You have means and respect. We’re just asking you to do a little more to help the colony.”

  “Everyone should be asked to do more, but you’re targeting only us. That isn’t fair. My property was damaged. Thousands of pounds of damage. Will you compensate me, Rebecca, or Dorothea for our losses because of the chaos of the militia?”

  After mangling my linen napkin, Murray tossed it to the table, then stood. “Ladies, thank you for the hospitality. It is very much appreciated, but the council has voted. The taxes are in place.”

  “A new vote can repeal this tax.” Dorothea’s voice sounded even and patient.

  I was never prouder of my granddaughter.

  Murray pointed to the door, his companions hopping up like hounds. “Do you think your lifestyles escape notice? You’ve all grown rich from the kindness of the citizens of Demerara. Be grateful. Be patriotic. Pay your taxes. Good evening.”

  He and his smug associates exited my house.

  I waited until I heard my outer doors close, then counted to ten.

  Rebecca counted as well.

  “Ladies,” I said, “don’t break anything. This is my house.”

  “The arrogance, Grandma,” Dorothea hissed. “They clamor to buy our goods, eat our food, stay at our lodgings. It’s no charity.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Rebecca looked up to the ceiling. “This is their opportunity to hurt us twice.”

  “They could hurt us more,” my granddaughter said. “They could have the militia kill at will. That flamboyant minister John Smith is rotting in jail because he taught the enslaved the Bible. Smith is a white man. Papa used to tell my brothers to be careful, to not provoke the soldiers. He feared the consequences.”

  I rubbed my palms together. The smell of coconut calmed my spirit. “They can never win, and we won’t sit around until they do.”

  “Let’s at least give them a fight.” Rebecca lifted her glass, but I set mine down.

  Like my friend, I wanted to strike the council, but that was hard to do. They had the numbers and the guns. “What do you propose?”

  “This is a job for the Entertainment Society. We’ll get both Ostrehans—Ostrehans and Ostrehan Brett—Miss Ross, Miss Blackman, Miss Delphi, and we will come up with a solution.”

  “Let me get the good champagne.” I motioned to a servant. “Bring up a few bottles of the best. I fear we’ll need them.”

  “I fear you will, Dorothy.” My friend gripped my hand. “You have the most connections to London. Prepare yourself. Part of any plan will involve you going to Lord Bathurst and convincing him to overturn these taxes.”

  “No, Rebecca.”

  “The route to fix this was through overseers. You know this, Dorothy. You must feel it.”

  Part of me did, but I also hoped for another path.

  “Grandma, perhaps Prince William can help. He’s your friend.”

  With Dorothea’s hopeful eyes and Rebecca’s begging ones, I shrugged and tacked on Mamaí’s smooth smile. The last time I saw William, I spoke my mind and damned him for his wrongheadedness.

  How could I turn to him now?

  No, it would be Bathurst who’d fix things.

  Yet how would I get him to listen when men felt not only entitled to the bodies of colored women, their dames de couleur, but our means too?

  London 1824: Kensington House

  A carriage arrives outside. It’s stately and dead black, no shine or flashy crest. It was ever fitting for my damfo and her simple tastes. She came from nothing, but her steady nature has gained her ev
erything.

  I wait to hear the heavy soles of her slippers slapping the floorboards.

  The parlor door opens.

  Elizabeth Penner King, my dear friend, my niece, the woman I’ve been waiting for, has finally arrived.

  I hug her. In her honest brown face, I grasp the painful truth. She’s been unable to gain the meeting. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you, Elizabeth. It’s been three weeks.”

  “Making you wait is a sin, Aunty. I couldn’t come unless I had tried everything. I have been to the War Office in Whitehall many times and have been turned away. I sought old friends of my father-in-law. No luck. Yesterday, I had my husband try. You’d think the secretary would want to know about the uprisings in Demerara.”

  “William King has been rebuffed too?”

  Elizabeth nods, and I lock my arm with hers. “Damfo, we can’t conduct business at the door.”

  I lead her to my tray of tea.

  “Did you bring the candied ginger?”

  My laughter returns and wells in my throat until it explodes. “I did. I left two jars with your husband. Guess they did not make it home.”

  Pacing, I sober. “I wish our visit was social, but I am in trouble. All the colored women are.”

  “Aunt, this is my fault. My husband and I have been active in the abolition movement. He’s been cut off from access. With the exception of my in-laws and old family friends close to you, many King acquaintances blame me and our marriage as having corrupted William. People are resistant to change.”

  “People are people. They’re resistant to losing.”

  “I’m sure if you can get an audience, Lord Bathurst will understand. I’ve seen him speak. He understands fairness.” Elizabeth sinks into the chair, her plain shawl and ivory gown deflating like a closed fan. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

  The door flings open before I can offer comfort.

  My Mary runs in with Miss Smith chasing. “Sorry, Mrs. Thomas. Mary! No running.”

  My granddaughter has a box that’s wrapped in brown paper. She shuffles it between her palms and runs around the table then behind the chairs. “I want to do it. I want to give it to GaMa.”

  I give her the cross look. “Mary, stop running.”

  The little girl freezes. The box in her hand flies.

  Elizabeth picks it up and Mary. She swings the child’s wiggly body from side to side.

  “Aunt, the package has your name on the note.”

  The note has squiggles, but those marks are familiar.

  Miss Smith takes Mary and backs away. “Sorry for disturbing you, ma’am. The package just came. I had it taken out of its crate.”

  Before I settle, the flustered woman and Mary are out of the room.

  Only my grandniece, this box, and me remain.

  The note I rip away and give to Elizabeth. “Tell me what your uncle Cells says. I’ll need you to send him a note of thanks.”

  “He’s still in Barbados. Aunt, I had heard he’d quit Demerara for good.”

  My heart races. It’s been months, almost a year since we last talked. “Does he mention anything? Is he in good health?”

  “It says none of that, but to wear this for your meeting.”

  Even Cells thought me capable of gaining a meeting with Lord Bathurst, the secretary of war and the colonies.

  “And he says, ‘Good luck, my dear Dolly. Love always, Coseveldt.’”

  He sends me his heart though I dismissed his. “He used to bring back the nicest things from Europe.”

  I take my time, using this gift to delay the moment I have to accept my failure. I put the box into my lap and work my thumb under the ribbons until I get the lid free. When I dive in fighting tissue, I find a beautiful turban. It’s white silk and cream satin, each worked together to form stripes. About the banding is an egret feather and pearls. It’s the boldest and prettiest hat I’ve ever seen. It says, Take notice of me.

  My sigh is long and hot on my fingers. “He has good taste.”

  Tears well, but I fight them. Lifting the hat out of the box, I place it on my head.

  “It looks amazing, Aunt, like something for a queen.”

  “A queen, you say?”

  Springing out of the chair, I twirl like Mary and dance to hymns of salvation in my head. “That old man has done it. He’s given me a path, the strategy to get this meeting.”

  “What, Aunt?” Elizabeth stands and clasps my elbows. “Tell me so I can be joyous too.”

  “Damfo, I need to dress like a queen and go down to Whitehall and see if the secretary of the colonies wants to deal with royalty from the territories.”

  My niece’s mouth hangs open. Her arms drop to her side. “You’re going to barge in and get past all the men milling about? The clerks, the military officials?”

  “That’s what my granddaughter just did, and she accomplished her purpose. That’s what I will do in this hat that says look at me. You and my godson can pay my fines at your magistrate if they intend to put an old woman into custody for speaking truth.”

  “Well, if you are going to do this, you should arrive in a Berlin carriage. The biggest that can be found with at least four or six horses charging straight to Bathurst’s doorstep. That will gather everyone’s attention.”

  “Do that, Elizabeth. I didn’t come here to fail. It’s time for me to stop waiting and go to war. To the War Department.”

  “If anyone can do this and not be arrested, it will be you, Aunty.”

  Picking up the hat box, she kisses my cheek and clutches my arm. “Let’s get you ready for your meeting.”

  We head to my room. I’ve brought a number of gowns, and I have enough coins to procure talent from the school and local mantua-makers to make something special, something to match this regal hat.

  With my damfo’s hand in mine, we get to it.

  It’s time to rebel with everything in my soul.

  No giving up.

  No yielding.

  We colored girls, we island girls, have a fight to win.

  London 1824: Whitehall—Destiny

  Elizabeth heads into our carriage, a magnificent jet barouche pulled by six in hand—six equally sized gray horses. The carriage is open. Everyone can see us.

  “This is bigger than a Berlin, Aunt. It will make the grand statement we want.”

  Two drivers on top wear scarlet coats. A lone footman in the rear matches the first two.

  “We’ve done it, Aunt. We’re a spectacle.”

  Elizabeth is blushing. Her tawny skin will soon be cashew cherry red as people along our path stop and stare.

  I wore the cream hat Cells sent. It wasn’t something you’d find in the warehouses of London’s Cheapside. It was custom made from a milliner at Cheapside Street in Bridgetown, Barbados.

  Elizabeth tugs her scarf about her as if that will hide her. She seizes a breath, then lifts her head. “I’m lucky to be with you on this adventure.”

  I clasp her arm to my bosom. The gold doubloons woven into my bodice jingle like medals.

  “You look beautiful, Aunt. Bathurst won’t be able to dismiss an island queen.”

  My Thomas used to call me that. I take him with me on this journey. I always will. I take Cells and Prince William, too. They each shaped and reshaped my heart with fire.

  My children and Mamaí are with me. Kitty’s here at my side, grinning at the ponies. Sally and my sister Ella, my damfo’s mother, too. Everyone who has added to my journey is in my soul.

  I grip my grandniece’s hand. “I don’t know what I will say when I get the meeting.”

  Elizabeth looks at me. The gold pieces are reflecting in her eyes. I hope she notices I look confident from a life well lived, well loved.

  Dark and lovely and not done trying, that’s who I am.

  The horses lead at a merry pace winding through the streets, then everything slows.

  “The words will come,” Elizabeth says and hugs me. We jingle like church bells.

  “T
his is Whitehall, Aunt. That big building that looks like a castle is the War Department.”

  A footman jumps down and marches to the side. He flings open the door and leans inside. White glove, bright red sleeve, I clasp it with my smooth cotton glove and descend. I feel Elizabeth adjusting the train of my dress, yards and yards of silk with deep box pleats at the neckline. This farce might work.

  Head high, I move forward. “Footman, I need you to open the door and announce Mrs. Dorothy Kirwan Thomas is here for Lord Bathurst. Make sure you say all the s’s. They are important.”

  Taking a few coins from my purse, I press them into his palm.

  The man nods with vigor. I follow behind three steps as if he’s a part of my regal court.

  We enter a building made of limestone. The arches remind me of the temples, all the churches I’d visited, even the ones taken by the British. My chin rises a little more.

  Up front, a clerk sits at a desk.

  This could be Mr. Bates’s office.

  The footman clasps the lapel of his thick mantle. “Mrs. Dorothy Kirwan Thomas to see Lord Bathurst.”

  The fellow at the desk rises with eyes wide. “Let me go get his lordship.”

  Time ticks away.

  People stare.

  My footman returns to the carriage that spans the whole street.

  A tall thin man with gray hair comes. His nose is long and sweeping. His tailcoat is ebony. Medals jangle from his pocket over his heart.

  “Ma’am.” He dips his head in a quick snap bow. “I’m Bathurst. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to England. On behalf of the king, it is my honor to make your acquaintance.”

  “God save King George IV. I’ve come on pressing matters. I hope you have time to see me?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  He leads me to his office. “It’s not often foreign dignitaries show up at my office.” To a clerk, he says, “Clear my schedule until this meeting is done.”

  The door to his office—a room the size of my parlor on Robb Street—closes. The curtains are open. My carriage, in all its glory, is still there.

  “So Mrs. Kirwan.”

  “Mrs. Dorothy Kirwan Thomas.”