by Lorri Dudley
Harrison wiped the chalkboard. “I noticed that too.”
“He always comes on his lunch break.”
“He was here yesterday.” Harrison put down the chalk duster and brushed off his hands. “I hope Rousseau didn’t catch him sneaking away. He treats his slaves poorly.”
“I know there’s animosity between you two, but surely Mr. Rousseau wouldn’t hurt a child.”
Harrison didn’t respond.
“Now, we’ll have to carry the food back home. I’d hoped to sit him down and have him eat a meal here. The boy is much too thin.” Georgia glanced out the window. “I hope Booker’s well. What if he’s ill?”
“His aunt will take care of him.” Harrison walked over and wiped a smudge of chalk off her cheek.
“Should we ride to his aunt’s house to check on him?”
Harrison frowned. “Seeing me snooping around the slave quarters will send Rousseau into an apoplectic fit. I don’t want to bring any more trouble upon the boy.”
“There must be something we can do.”
His amber eyes shown golden with gentle compassion. “I’ll see what information I can glean from the servants.”
His smooth, marble-like lips moved so close they beckoned her. Her heartbeat tripled its pace. Would those lips feel warm brushing her own?
“I would appreciate that. Thank you.” Her voice came out breathy, as if she’d exhaled too much.
She didn’t understand the attraction she felt toward Harrison, as if some invisible hand was pulling the strings of a purse, forcing them together. She licked her lips and lifted her eyes to meet his. To her surprise, he’d been studying her. The warm caramel-color of his gaze darkened into deep chocolate pools. Did he feel the attraction as much as she?
His fingers swept along her cheekbone and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear before tracing the outline of her jaw.
Heat swept through her body, and she fought to keep her breathing even. Never had anyone caused her heart to jump with a single look or a mere touch.
Harrison struggled to keep his emotions in check.
God, if this isn’t Your will, then remove these feelings from me.
There was a barrage of reasons why he should distance himself from Georgia, but his heart would no longer listen. She was nothing like Laura. She’d proven to be irresponsible and reckless.
But she deserved better than to spend life in second place to his guilt over falling for someone other than his departed wife. More than that, he’d be a cad to play with her emotions, especially when he’d be leaving with the next ship bound for London.
Those reasons faded as he peered at her ripe lips, sweetly offered like a tender fruit. His control began to slip.
His conversation with Max echoed through his mind.
You have plenty of love for both of them.
He should look away, but instead, he trailed his knuckles down the white expanse of her graceful throat.
You’re lonely, and she’s lonely, Max had said. I think God sent her to us.
God, help me.
Max burst through the schoolhouse door with a bird on his arm. “Look, Papa. Oscar followed me here.”
Georgia jumped back and spun to face the boy.
Harrison cleared his throat. “How splendid. Go get in the wagon. We’ll be right there.”
Through the open doorway, he watched Max trudge back to the wagon, while he focused on all the reasons he couldn’t be with Georgia. Those reasons were more important than his impulsive feelings.
When he’d made his decision, he turned to face her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
The dreamy look in her eyes had cleared, replaced with an ice-blue glare. She raised her chin. “You have nothing for which to be sorry. Despite my lapse in judgment with Julien, I’m not green. I don’t become disillusioned and fall in love with every man who stares into my eyes.”
She’d done it again. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “And here I thought you’d be done bringing up his name, but once again—”
“Oh, why do you have to turn everything into an argument? Do you have to be so disagreeable?” She marched out of the schoolroom.
He followed her. “Me? Disagreeable?” Help me, Lord. This woman is impossible.
“Not a single gentleman in London infuriates me the way you do, and I’ve met the whole lot of them.”
He should be patient with her. Should set an example for how a Christian should act. But he couldn’t seem to hold back his words. “You’re too busy batting your eyelashes, and they’re too busy drooling over you and vying for your attention, hoping to get you out into the arbor for a secret rendezvous.”
She froze and rounded on him, eyes wide. “You think I’m some light skirt?”
“No,” he ground out. “I believe you were so desperate to please your mother and sisters by marrying up that you barely heeded the men you had nipping at your heels.”
Her jaw dropped open, and she stared at him. Harrison reached for her, but she spun on her heel and climbed up into the front seat. “Take me home.” There was a pause before she added, with as much disdain as she could muster, “Harry.”
“Fine.” He climbed up next to her and added with equal venom, “George.” He snapped the reins, and the horses began a fast trot.
“Rawch, George,” squawked Oscar.
Georgia swiveled in her seat and swatted at the bird. “Shoo, you stupid bird.” Oscar flapped his wings and flew to the back of the wagon.
Max rose to his knees. “Don’t get mad at Oscar.”
“You taught him to say that.” She rounded on Harrison. “To get revenge for the time he called you Harry. That’s low, Mr. Wells. Very low.”
“I did no such thing.”
She scowled at him.
Harrison threw up his hands. “It’s a dumb bird.”
“Rawch. Dumb bird,” Oscar mimicked.
Max giggled until Harrison flashed him a weary look. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Even Oscar seemed afraid to speak. As they pulled up in front of Fredrick’s house, guilt ate at Harrison. He’d let his temper get the better of him.
“Georgia.” He glanced at her, but she stared straight ahead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” He tried for a gentler tone. “I know it’s difficult, but you have to choose whom you want to please. Is it going to be God or your mother?”
She turned to face him. Her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes flashing. “Tell me, Harry. Why do you care?”
His ire ignited all over again. The woman was infuriating. Blast it all. He’d been trying to apologize. He peered into her stubborn, presumptuous face and bit out the first words that sprang to mind. “Because Max needs a Mama who puts God above all else.”
Georgia opened her mouth to unleash a retort, but her expression changed from fury to shock to disbelief as his words registered. She turned forward again, staring straight ahead, seemingly frozen.
Harrison blinked, stunned by his own statement. Maybe he’d thought that, but why had he spoken it aloud? A long moment of silence passed. Should he say something? Attempt to take the declaration back?
Suddenly, Georgia hopped from his gig, unaided.
“Wait, Georgia.” Harrison leapt after her.
Max passed Georgia the food basket, and a footman approached to carry it for her.
Georgia strode toward the steps, but Harrison stepped into her path and stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Let me explain.”
Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. “Please go. I need to think, and I can’t do so in your presence.”
Harrison released her arm and stepped aside. Maybe he should make her hear him out, but honestly, he wasn’t sure what to say. So he stood there as she rushed up the steps and entered the house. Then, he turned back to the wagon and climbed in.
Max clambered into the front seat next to him. “Papa.” His voice was tentative, maybe even frightened. “I don’t think that was the best w
ay to ask Miss Georgia to be my mama.”
Harrison peered into his son’s disappointed eyes and couldn’t find his voice.
“Rawch. HarREE,” squawked Oscar.
Harrison waved an arm to shoo the bird, his chastisement duly noted.
Chapter 22
…I assure you the crystallized sugar from sugar beets grown in Europe will not compare to the pure cane sugar of Nevis. Demand will rise once again. The lower price per pound you’ve offered is unacceptable.
—From Edward Rousseau to Alexander Allan, Director of the British East India Company
Georgia paced the length of her room. Did Harrison admit he wanted to marry her? She shook her head. No, she shouldn’t presume. She’d made that mistake before.
Why did the man vex her one moment and make her heart swirl the next? He cast a spell on her like no other man could. Neither Julien nor her other suitors had ever made her palms sweat or her heart race. They’d never made her want to be a better person or even believe she could. When Harrison’s gaze held hers, she felt special. With Harrison, life suddenly held limitless possibilities.
She had to let go of her misgivings. She had to trust him, and more importantly, she had to trust God.
Trust God.
She sank to her knees beside her bed. Oh God, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve made such a muck of my life. Harrison was right. I’ve fought to prove myself worthy of my mother’s affection and sisters’ approval. But I’m tired of clawing my way into their good graces. No matter what I do, it will never be good enough.
Big fat tears dripped onto the wooden floorboards and splashed back up onto her folded hands.
God, forgive me. I just want to be loved.
A calmness spread over her, and though she didn’t hear the words, they filled her heart.
You are My beloved.
Could it be true? Could she be God’s beloved? Not the pretend Georgia, but the real one?
She wept, but these were grateful tears. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. She had no idea how long she sat there. When she finally crawled up onto the bed, her knees ached, but her heart was full.
She reached for the Bible that had thus far sat untouched on the nightstand, and cracked it open. The name Joseph leapt off the page. She read the same story her father had preached several weeks before. This time with new eyes. When she finished, she closed the Bible and prayed.
God, I want to be like Joseph. I want to be confident in how You made me unique and set aside my pride, so I can be open to opportunities where I can serve you. I want to forgive and not hold grudges against my family. Help me to be a part of their healing. Use me to save them as Joseph did.
She rose from her bed. An overwhelming desire to tell someone about what she’d experienced led her to seek out Aunt Tessa. After searching the house and finding no one, she came across Hattie in the kitchen.
“Hattie, have you seen my aunt?”
“The vicar picked her up. Dey went for a shopping trip in town. Dey are quite smitten with each other.”
“What about Papa?”
“Oh, he’s out with Mista Wells and Maxxy. Dey went to go look at some sugar cane fields dat aren’t producin’”
Georgia’s shoulders drooped, and she turned to walk away, but then she paused and looked back. “Hattie, you won’t believe what happened to me.”
Hattie glanced up as she rolled out a pie crust.
“I prayed, and all of a sudden, I was at peace. My heart filled with emotions. I—I can’t even explain. I think God might have spoken to me.”
A big smile broke out across Hattie’s face. “You heard from da Holy Spirit.”
“No, I didn’t see a dove. This was God.”
“Da Holy Spirit isn’t a dove. It appeared like a dove when Jesus was baptized. You’ve heard about da Trinity?”
“Yes, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“Tat’s right. The Holy Spirit is God, but in a form dat comes and lives within you once you ask Jesus into yer heart. Tat’s who you heard from, the Mighty Counselor hisself.”
The Holy Spirit lived in her.
“I’m so happy for you, Miss Georgia. Tat’s a wonderful thing. Praise God.”
Georgia’s eyes fell on the basket of food meant for Booker still sitting on the table. “Hattie, there’s no sense in that food sitting for another day, especially if Booker and his aunt need it now. I’ll ride over there. I know he lives in the slave village closest to the main house. I can’t sit around right now. I’m too happy.”
Hattie handed her the basket of food. “Bring Jenneigh with you. I don’t trust dat Mr. Rousseau. Lot o’ nasty talk about him among my people.”
“Oh, I think I can handle the likes of him.” She flashed Hattie a coy smile, the one she always used on men.
“Aw, now you be careful, Miss Georgia. Dat man is an oily fish. He can cause an uproar for yer papa. Don’t go stepp’n where yer not supposed ta.”
Georgia stopped the wagon near a village of slave huts at the edge of the sugar cane field. She asked Jenneigh to hold the reins and remain with the carriage while she delivered the basket of food.
Most of the villagers could be seen at work in the fields, or their voices drifted from the boiling houses where they made sugar or rum. A plume of smoke on the other side of the field meant they were busy purifying and curing the sugar.
Dogs and chickens milled about, and the faint smell of dysentery occasionally wafted over from the community outhouse when the wind changed direction. The cramped one-room lodgings were in sorry need of repair. Little fingers and eyes peeked over the cut-out windows, and Georgia lowered her eyes so she wouldn’t stare. She couldn’t believe people lived in such abject conditions.
An elderly woman, too old to work, sat on her stoop. Her gnarled hands wrapped around a cane resting in her lap. Georgia stopped and asked her where she could find a young boy named Booker. The woman pointed a bent finger to a thatched roof hut about a hundred yards away. Georgia nodded her appreciation and set off toward the shanty.
“Why, Miss Lennox.”
Georgia turned to find Mr. Rousseau strolling down the path from the main house. He was dressed in top boots, buckskin breeches, and a Benjamin coat. A large hound sniffed the ground in front of him. A high-polished rifle was tucked under his arm, and a man-servant followed with a large sack.
“You should pay your calls up at the main house. This area isn’t suitable for a well-bred woman like yourself. I wouldn’t want you to ruin your gown.”
He patted his rifle. “I was about to do some bird hunting, but I can delay my trip.” He grinned and slipped his hand under her arm before he swung her in the direction of the hotel.
She pulled back. “Actually, Mr. Rousseau, I came here to deliver food to a child whose mother passed not long ago.”
His smile wavered, and a shadow clouded his eyes, but his next words conveyed no such sentiment. “How charitable of you to do God’s work. Your kind heart is destined for sainthood, but I must insist that the conditions of the slave quarters are no place for a proper English woman. There are insects and filth, not to mention the stench. It would be a black mark on my soul if you were to become ill due to my negligence. Come with me. I’ll ring for tea and have a footman deliver your basket.”
The man-servant unhooked the basket from her arm to carry it for her.
Rousseau tugged harder on her other arm, but Georgia dug in her heels. She curved her lips in a slow, sensual manner and swept her long lashes up to peer at him with an expression meant to dazzle. “I beg your pardon, but I have a special fondness for the boy and would like to deliver the basket personally. I would appreciate your escort. I have nothing to fear in your care.” Mr. Rousseau didn’t fall for her charm. His eyes narrowed to slits. “How, might I ask, have you made the acquaintance of one of my slaves? Has he been sneaking off for lessons with that provocative schoolmaster?”
The man’s tone turned condescending. “I warned you not to associate w
ith the likes of Wells. He’ll use a woman’s weak mind to his advantage and cause you to fall for the ridiculous idea that slaves should be educated. A woman can’t understand the complexities of running a plantation, nor a profitable business.”
The man’s insults boiled inside her, and she yanked her arm away. “Excuse me, Mr. Rousseau. I, unfortunately, must decline your offer of tea.” She turned on her heel and marched toward Booker’s dwelling. She almost made it to the door before Rousseau grabbed her wrist.
“Unhand me!” She tried to jerk away, but his grip tightened.
Slaves in the field stopped working to see the commotion.
“Get back to work!” Rousseau yelled. “There’s nothing to see here.” The slave men and women bent their heads and returned to their tasks. One slave woman dared to hold his gaze, her arms full with a bundle of sugarcane. Still gripping Georgia’s arm, he stepped forward and waved his gun at the woman. “I said, get back to work.”
The distraction caused Mr. Rousseau to loosen his hold. Georgia, with a quick twist and an upward yank, broke free and stumbled through the doorway of the hut. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she froze in horror.
Booker lay on the mud floor. A stream of light from the window illuminated his disfigured and bruised face. One eye had swollen completely shut, but the other held a look of sheer terror. She dropped to her knees beside him.
“Booker, who did this to you?” Her hand lifted to stroke his face, but with all the bruising, she stopped herself just in time. The last thing she wanted was to increase his pain.
A crevice of dried blood sealed the split in his lip. His mouth barely moved as he whispered, “My master.”
“I’m going to get help. Stay here and don’t worry—”
Hands clamped her upper arms and yanked her up before she could finish.
“You beat him.” She struggled against Rousseau’s vice-like grip. “He’s a child, a helpless little boy.”