Max would rather avoid seeing the boy punished, but everyone was required to attend. If they didn’t, they’d get a flogging as well, not something that anyone wanted to risk. Max straightened as he heard the gong summoning them to their meal. Greene was a stingy bastard, but he realized a simple truth; well-fed slaves had more energy and therefore did better work, so he fed them almost adequately, at least during the day. Supper was never plentiful, and as Johansson was fond of reminding them, it was healthier not to sleep on a full stomach. He roared with laughter every time he imparted this bit of wisdom. Max was fairly sure that going to bed on a full stomach never did Johansson any harm. The man was strong as an ox.
Max wiped his glistening forehead with a kerchief, splashed some warm water from a barrel on his face, and hastily washed his hands before being shoved out of the way by the next man. Max took his seat on a long bench next to John and closed his eyes before opening them to Dido, the kitchen slave, who was doling out a thin stew, followed by a young, frightened girl who handed out chunks of day-old brown bread. The men mutely held out their bowls and accepted the bread, tucking in as soon as they were served.
Dido was about the only thing on the godforsaken plantation that made Max smile. She was about twenty-five, with skin the color of molasses and light green eyes fringed by ridiculously long lashes. Dido always wore a colorful turban on her head, but strands of dark hair escaped the tightly wound cloth, its texture not like the rest of the Negro slaves. She has to be a mulatto, Max thought as he accepted his bowl of food. Most likely she’d had a white father and a black mother, and had been taken away by her mother’s owner and sold on. She was truly beautiful, inside and out, and Max wished that he could express to her the gratitude he felt for the occasional smile or kind word that she bestowed on him, but Max didn’t dare to even look at her for more than a second.
Johansson had a fondness for the girl, and would punish Max for ogling her. Max often wondered if Dido was Johansson’s mistress, but couldn’t be sure. The overseer had a young, pretty wife, who looked almost as frightened as the slaves. She was hardly older than eighteen and seemed to speak only Dutch. Someone had said that Elsa had been sent to Barbados to marry Erik Johansson without ever meeting him, and Max thought that had a ring of truth to it. He might have felt sorry for the girl had he any energy left to care.
Dido poured a cup of ale for Max and gave him one of her heart-stopping smiles. “Thank you,” he breathed before she moved on to John, but he knew she’d heard him. Strangely, there was something about Dido that reminded Max of Neve. Of course, they were as physically different as two women could be, but there was a vulnerability and gentleness that brought Neve to mind. If only Neve had never found the passage, he thought for the thousandth time; how different his life would be. He would be back in his own time, preparing his campaign for an upcoming seat in Parliament, enjoying various pursuits, and playing lord of the manor. Instead, he was here, in Barbados, a virtual slave with no avenue of escape, and it was all Neve’s fault.
Chapter 6
Max tried to remain on the fringes of the crowd as the unfortunate boy was tied to a stake in the ground by his hands. He was shaking with fear, his eyes huge and pleading as he tried to swivel around to get a look at Johansson. “Please, sir,” he begged. “I was ill. I wasn’t trying to get out of working. Please. It won’t happen again.”
Johansson remained deaf to the boy’s pleas, slapping the whip against his thigh as he allowed tension to build among the gathered slaves. The group was huddled together and completely silent, their fear palpable as they tensely waited for Johansson to begin. Max stared straight ahead but forced his mind to roam free; removing himself from the horrible screams that pierced the air as the overseer began to mete out the punishment. Max heard sharp intakes of breath, his nostrils burning with the acrid smell of the spectator’s terror. A woman wept quietly at the back, but otherwise all was quiet.
The whip whistled through the air and made contact with the boy’s back with a sickening crack, bits of flesh flying in all directions and rivulets of blood trickling down the boy’s back and into his waistband. Max tried not to look, but he felt a gaze on his face that drew his eyes like a magnet. Dido was on the other side of the clearing, her turban rising above the heads of the other women. Her green eyes bore into him with an expression he couldn’t quite make out. Her usual soft manner was gone, and there was an intensity in her gaze that sent shivers down his spine. Her eyes were sending him a message, but he couldn’t decipher the code. Dido’s shoulders were squared, and her mouth pressed into a thin line; she seemed to be challenging him to do something, but he wasn’t sure what.
Max’s attention strayed from Dido when the boy lost consciousness and hung suspended by his wrists from the pole, his cheek scraping against the wood. The crowd let out a collective gasp, which was quickly silenced by Johansson’s snort of disgust. “Take him down,” he barked and strode off toward his quarters. The boy’s mother began to wail. Someone put their arms around her and steadied her as the boy was taken down and carried away. Dido hadn’t moved, but her posture had relaxed somewhat, and she leaned into a big man who was standing just behind her. He was at least two heads taller, but he had the same mocha skin and green eyes. The man put his hands on Dido’s shoulders and leaned down to say something in her ear. She stirred to life and hurried away toward the kitchens. The man met Max’s gaze above the heads of the crowd. His expression was hard to read. There was no open challenge, as there had been in Dido’s eyes, more an appraisal.
Max had noticed the man several times before although they never worked in the same area of the field or sat on the same side during meals. The black and the white workers were separated at all times, so very little contact was made. Max had, however, noticed that most Negro slaves seemed to show him deference, and he carried himself like a leader despite his slave status. Perhaps he was one of their priests. Max had heard rumors about what went on during the night. The white indentures whispered among themselves of demonic rituals that took place at midnight, with the Negro slaves communing with the devil and casting evil spells.
“If they can cast evil spells, why don’t they cast one on Johansson?” Max asked John as they lay side by side in their sweltering hut. “Surely they can turn him into a toad or better yet have him eaten by a crocodile.” Max was being sarcastic, but John took him at his word, seriously considering such an act.
“Do you really think their black magic can accomplish such a feat?” he asked. “Maybe they just haven’t thought of it yet. I do know that Johansson seems to be indisposed every time they have one of their ritual gatherings, so he’s never caught them in the act. Mayhap they put some curse on him.” He scratched his beard, making a rasping noise as nails met skin. “They summon the devil, I tell you. They dance around the fire and make incantations until they are not human anymore. They become his vessels of sin; that’s why they are so black.”
“Is that so?” Max asked, annoyed by the man’s ignorance. If these people could summon the devil, surely they could do something to help themselves, rather than be enslaved by the thousands and brought over from Africa to be abused by their white masters.
“But they go to Sunday service,” Max remarked, more to continue the conversation than because he was really interested.
“Oh, aye, they do. They’ve been baptized into the Church of England, but it’s their own gods they worship,” John explained, his voice harsh with emotion. “They worship Vodun and are guided by the Loa.”
“And how do you come to know all this?”
“I hear them talking,” John replied vaguely.
“Do they not speak in their own language?” Max asked, surprised. Most of the black slaves spoke some English, but they conversed between themselves in whatever dialect they’d spoken in their native land.
“Believe me or not, but that’s the truth of it. You can see for yourself if you like. They’ll be at it come the full moon, and mark my words,
Johansson will be ill that night.”
“But they are locked in for the night, how can they perform their rituals?” Max asked, still clinging to practical details and refusing to credit what John was telling him. John just snorted in the darkness, letting Max know that he was an ignoramus who failed to acknowledge the powers of the devil and the dark magic that summoned him.
Max turned over on his side and pondered this information. He had noticed that Johansson was ill from time to time, and left several of his deputies to oversee the slaves while he retreated to his house to recover. Max just assumed that the man had some kind of recurring gastric trouble, since he tended to turn white and clammy and ran for the privy clutching his stomach, but he hadn’t noticed that his bouts of illness corresponded to the cycles of the moon. Max snorted with disgust. Why was he even thinking about this? What difference did it make? If Johansson managed to shit himself senseless, he would only rejoice, as would the rest of the population of the plantation.
Max rolled back onto his back annoyed with himself for even entertaining such thoughts. Perhaps he was just searching for something to focus on to take his mind off the unbearable and relentless drudgery his life had become. He’d been at the plantation for less than two months, but already he felt his body wasting away as he toiled in the fields with insufficient food and rest, and not enough water. His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and whatever little body fat he’d once had had melted away, leaving him thin as a whippet, his forearms bulging with ropey muscle. Perhaps people in the twenty-first century should go work on sugar plantations instead of going to fat farms or gyms to lose weight, he thought grimly — results guaranteed. Max gritted his teeth as he acknowledged to himself that which he could never say out loud. The veneer of civilization had been stripped from him, slowly robbing him of his humanity, and he didn’t much like the person that was left behind.
February 14th, 1686
Paris
Chapter 7
I stood back and surveyed Frances as she turned this way and that, displaying her new gown. It was made of pale blue damask threaded with silver, and worn over a cream-colored underskirt with matching lace frothing at the cuffs and decorating the top of the bodice. Frances had matching blue slippers and silk hose that tied mid-thigh with pale blue ribbons. Her golden curls had been swept up with a few ringlets left loose to artfully frame her face. She was a picture of teenage loveliness as she smiled at me shyly in search of approval.
“You look beautiful, Frances,” I gushed, eager to make her happy.
“I’ve never owned anything so fine.”
Hugo made sure that Frances had several gowns suitable for attending social functions, such as the one that was being held tonight at Luke Marsden’s residence. Luke decided to commemorate Valentine’s Day with a musical soiree, promising a singer of unparalleled talent to entertain his guests. Hugo considered refusing the invitation, but I implored him to go, if only for Frances’s sake. The girl needed a reason to get dressed up and leave the house, and bringing her into Luke’s orbit could only be beneficial under the circumstances. I’d had my reservations at first, but having had the opportunity to get to know Luke better over the past two months, had to admit that Hugo knew what he was about. Luke seemed like a genuinely decent man, one who would make a good husband and father. Hugo hadn’t told him much of what happened to Frances back in England, but just enough to make him understand that she was fragile and in need of tenderness and understanding. I had a sneaking suspicion that Luke was the type of person who liked to mend broken things, and when the thing in question was a beautiful young girl who craved love and attention, it was a match made in Heaven.
Frances blushed furiously as Archie poked his head into the room and froze at the sight of her, his mouth opening in appreciation. Frances averted her eyes, but continued to gaze at Archie from beneath her lashes, making the young man momentarily forget what he’d come for.
“Eh, his lordship requires your presence, my lady,” he finally uttered before hastily leaving the room. I turned to go, but not before I saw a secret smile that lit up Frances’s face. She clapped her hands as she twirled once more before the cheval glass and gingerly touched a crescent-shaped patch on her cheekbone. I had never thought patches to be anything other than silly, but I had to admit that the crescent made Frances look charmingly whimsical rather than foolish.
Hugo was already dressed, but not preening quite as much as Frances. He frowned at the mirror as he adjusted his new coat, which was splendid, and gently pulled on the lacy cuffs of his shirt, which intentionally protruded from the turned back sleeves.
“Will you help me?” he asked shyly.
“Have a seat.” Hugo hated this part with a passion, but he couldn’t show his face in polite society without first being properly made up. I dusted his face with rice powder until it resembled a pale moon, then touched a sachet filled with rouge to Hugo’s lips and cheeks, tinting them just enough to appear rosy. A beauty patch completed the transformation. I laughed as Hugo scowled at himself in the mirror while I adorned his head with his new periwig, which was longer and curlier than the one he’d had in England.
“I can’t bear to look at myself,” Hugo spat out and turned from the looking glass. “I shudder to think what people of the future will make of these fashions.”
“They will find them utterly ridiculous and effeminate, but you must look like a proper seventeenth-century fop if you expect to enter French society. One more patch?” I asked innocently as he growled at me. “You are very pretty, mon amour,” I said sweetly and jumped out of the way as Hugo tried to catch me. Jumping was a bit of an overstatement since I was so unwieldy I could barely shift my bulk, but I eventually let him catch me and give me a kiss.
“I’ve never kissed a man wearing rouge before,” I mused as I wiped my lips. “Have a good time, you two. And keep an eye on Frances,” I admonished. “Perhaps Luke’s intentions are not as honorable as you think.”
“Luke Marsden will only lay a finger on Frances if he wishes to be gelded,” Hugo replied. He was in a foul mood indeed, so perhaps an outing would do him good. He’d been brooding since we moved into the house, a fact he tried to hide from me, but I noticed nonetheless. I was sure that Hugo wasn’t telling me the whole truth of our situation, but I made a conscious decision to put off all heavy conversations and life-changing decisions until after the birth. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, and although I was feeling far from blissful, I was more at peace than I had been in months.
“Are you sure you will be all right on your own?” Hugo asked yet again.
“I will be just fine. Besides, I won’t be alone; Archie will be here, and so will the servants.” Hugo rolled his eyes at the mention of the servants, but he knew I would be safe with Archie. During the long winter evenings, we discovered that we shared a love of chess, so Archie and I were looking forward to a game with no interruptions, and maybe a couple of snacks pilfered from the kitchen. I found that I got awfully hungry at bedtime, and Archie had a sweet tooth that I liked to tease him about. He was as bad as Jem, who would sell his soul for a sweetie.
I watched through the window as Hugo escorted Frances to the waiting carriage sent around by Luke. The snow of a few days ago had melted, but it was still slushy and wet, so Frances wore wooden pattens over her slippers to keep them from getting wet, and a fur-lined cloak with a trimmed hood. She looked a picture. Hugo handed her into the carriage and looked up at the window, blowing me a kiss before following Frances into the vehicle.
I’d put on a brave face, but secretly, I would have given anything to attend this musical evening. I was so tired of being cooped up in the house, hidden from view. I hadn’t heard music since a few sailors played some old French songs aboard the ship and danced on deck. What I wouldn’t give for an iPod or even an old-fashioned record player. I longed to hear something besides the howling of the wind or the crackling of the fire. Archie had a lovely baritone, but he wouldn’t sing if I asked him.
I’d heard him singing once in the stables, and it had been beautiful. He sang some haunting old folk song about love and loss, but had clammed up as soon as he realized I’d been listening. Archie was not one to appreciate an audience.
There were so many things I missed about the modern world, especially now that my due date was almost upon me. Had we been back in the twenty-first century, we would be picking out a layette and decorating a nursery. Countless little outfits would fill the dresser drawers; a shiny new pram would be standing in the corridor, and there would be toys, and books on the shelf. I would have weekly appointments to monitor the baby’s and my health before delivery, safe in the hands of trained professionals who would do everything in their power to save us should anything go wrong. And I missed food. I had such cravings. I would give anything for some fish and chips, or Indian takeaway.
I tried not to dwell on what could never be, knowing it to be pointless, but there were moments when I felt as if I would burst if I didn’t go for a walk, or do something to get out of my own head for a few hours. I drew the curtains and turned from the window, determined to make the most of my evening. I set up the chess set and sat in my favorite armchair by the fire waiting for Archie.
“Can I watch you play?” Jem asked as he sauntered into the parlor and perched on the other chair. “I wish I could go to a musical evening as well,” he complained.
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