The netting did more than repel insects; it also excluded anything short of a gale, and the tropical night which began hot, and cooled somewhat after midnight, was by dawn again close and warm. By then the sheets had been rolled back by their sleepily kicking feet, and they were uncovered.
Yet always intertwined, a leg across a leg, an arm across a chest, strands of her fine golden hair tickling his nose. If during the day she imposed upon all around her the imperious hauteur of that steady stare and determined arrogance, at night she dissolved into a delight whose only joy was passion, and who was knowing it, with him, for the first time in her existence.
But the first intimation of dawn was not yet time for movement. He loved to watch her awake, and was content to wait for it to happen naturally. He also loved to listen to the sounds of the awaking plantation, the stealthy whisper from downstairs as the servants began their mammoth task of sweeping and dusting and expelling ants and spiders, the neighing of the horses as they were taken from the stable for exercise, the incessant tolling of the bell from the slave compound, summoning the unfortunate blacks to another day of endless, unrewarded labour.
His own part in this was as yet small. In the two months they had lived here they had unashamedly honeymooned. Besides, it was the slackest time of the year. Grinding had been completed but ten weeks earlier, and the field hands were concerned solely with preserving the young shoots from the attacks of weeds. As the plants grew stronger, and able to defend themselves, the field work would diminish for a spell, and then the business of maintaining and improving the plantation would commence. Roads would be re-surfaced, houses would be re-roofed. Honeymooning or not, Sue was already making notes of where she wanted paint renewed, and what changes she would have made in the furnishings of the house. She pursued her course as chatelaine of Green Grove with the careless energy of a woman who had been born simply to perform this duty; nor had she been disturbed. Predictably, no one had come to call on the runaway Hilton sinners, and they had not as yet ventured into St. John's.
His daily task consisted of no more than a leisurely ride through the fields, before the sun grew too hot, and the obligatory daily inspection of the dispensary, to chat with the sick and receive William Arthur's report on which were likely to survive. It had been Lander's idea that he should immediately commence taking the chair at the morning punishment sessions, but this he had declined, for the time being; Green Grove appeared to run smoothly, and the blacks appeared to be happy, if blacks ever were happy. He wished to get to know them all again before he stepped in as their immediate master. For the time being he was content to be a remote figure with eventual power over them all, and for that reason, he reminded himself, the more formidable, from their point of view.
Which was specious enough. If he ever had the courage to admit the truth to himself, it would have to be that he feared them. Not physically, but for the memories they threatened to recreate for him, memories which always hovered on the brink of his consciousness, which he knew but waited on his own conscience, his own determination, whether to allow them to overwhelm him altogether, or whether the planter in him would in time submerge them. Memories which for the moment could only certainly be lost in Sue's arms.
She sighed, and eyes still shut, blew a strand of hair from its resting place on her mouth. But she was awake. Matt reached down, rested the curled fingers of his right hand behind her left knee, which lay across both his legs, and slowly stroked the nails up, along the back of the thigh, over the gentle curve of the buttock, into the pit of the back and up to the smooth shoulders. As he did so her entire body undulated, like a cat's. And she smiled, and discovered one eye to be open.
His fingers crossed her shoulders and commenced the descent, pausing at the soft swell of her breast, hovering to finger her nipple into erectness, sliding past her rib cage and navel to arrive at her groin and gently scratch the curly mat. This she enjoyed more than orgasm itself, and her tongue came out from between her teeth - strangely reminiscent of Georgiana, this - to touch his own, as she pushed her body closer to his to force his fingers deeper, and then, quite without warning, rolled away from him, sitting up in the same movement, thrusting the netting aside with her toes.
'Sue?' He caught her wrist, gently pulled her back.
She rested her head on his shoulder. 'You cannot enter me, Matt. I'm pregnant.'
He twisted to see into her face. 'You cannot know.'
'I am sure enough. I have been becoming sure, over the past week. I am now on my third month.' She smiled, that slow, lazy smile he liked so much, and kissed him on the chin. 'It must have happened on our first night in Jamaica, after the Saintes. The first time for over a year. We were both uncommonly anxious.'
'We must get you to a surgeon.'
'What nonsense. I would but ask you to forgive me. You must make a choice from amongst the mulatto girls on the plantation, for the time. Unless a Negress will do.'
'Neither will do.'
Her smile had faded, and her gaze seemed to be searching for his heart. 'Aye,' she said at last. 'I sometimes wish you had bedded the girl, Matt. Then perhaps she'd be easier to forget.'
'And now you must forgive me. Perhaps I wish no woman but you.'
'That would be a strange man indeed. Then I must service you with my hands and my mouth. If that will satisfy you.'
He kissed her on the nose. 'Just to lie here with you satisfies me, sweetheart.' But he got out of the bed, pulled on his clothes. 'A son, do you think?'
'Does it matter so much?'
'No. Not the sex. The fact of it. Surely now...'
She shrugged. 'He is a man of strong passions.'
They had heard nothing from Dirk, or of Dirk, had assumed this was because the French had taken St. Eustatia back, and even if the Hollanders were officially their allies, were retaining it for the duration of the war. But hostilities had entirely ceased, except for privateering; peace was expected every day.
Her hand squeezed his. 'But I agree, if he is at all human, he must now understand that it can never again be him and me.'
Matt nodded, sat down to lace his boots. Suddenly he was afraid to look at her, the naked beauty of her, standing in front of him. Damask.
'Do you fear him, Matt?'
Never before had she risked such a question. But then, perhaps never before had the answer been so important.
'I don't think I am afraid of him,' he said, carefully. 'I know I will be defeated should I have to face him, weapon in hand. This is a certainty, like the knowledge that I could not jump from this window without at least breaking my leg. Yet, supposing the house were on fire, I would jump from this window and hope that I might not break my leg. I do not know what that makes me.'
She was smiling again. 'An optimist, certainly. I like optimists. And I promise you this, Matt, that should Dirk elect to fight you, then must he also fight me.'
'You did not have to say that. I was already sure of it.'
She nodded. 'You must ride aback alone, from now on. I wish to take no risks.'
He nodded, picked up his hat and whip, went down the stairs, drank the huge mug of sweetened coffee which was waiting for him. He wished no more in the early mornings, looked forward to the breakfast he would enjoy, with Sue, when he returned from the morning ride.
Ian Lander also waited, his face even grimmer than usual this morning. 'Bobman is here.'
Matt adjusted his hat. 'Who would Bobman be?'
'You've not forgotten Bobman? The jumper from St. John's.'
'I remember the jumper,' Matt said. 'What can he want?' 'We've four for punishment.'
Matt frowned at him. 'There's been no one in the stocks.'
' 'Tis a system of my own, Matthew. It seems a terrible waste of labour, to lock a man in the stocks for upwards of a month. Bobman is not a regular visitor. So those I have condemned work in the fields until he comes. I have kept them back this morning.'
'You should have informed me of this before,' Matt said.
His coffee seemed to have solidified into lead in his belly.
'You did not ask, and I forgot. But there are only four. It will take but a few minutes. Yet must you be there, as you are here.'
Matt walked down the steps, stared down the drive, at the triangles. They were already filled, three men and a girl, stripped naked and suspended by their wrists.
Lander was at his side. 'Robert Peter, guilty of insubordination,' he said. 'Three dozen. Robert William, guilty of insubordination, three dozen. Petronella Petronella, guilty of stealing, six dozen.'
'Six dozen?' Matt halted. 'For the girl?'
'Well, Matthew, stealing is something I am determined to stamp out. Petronella Petronella was a house girl, and she took a silver spoon and tried to sell it in the market in St. John's.'
'When was this?'
'About a week before you arrived.'
'She has been confined since then?'
'No. I told you, I consider that sort of action a total waste. I told her to expect punishment, and then removed her from the house and placed her in the fields.'
'And since then she has been waiting,' Matt said thoughtfully. 'And the fourth?'
'His name is Ulysses Edward, and he is guilty of making a sacrifice to a voodoo god, and incidentally of stealing one chicken. I have decided twelve dozen lashes for him.'
'Twelve dozen lashes?' Matt asked incredulously. 'For stealing a chicken?'
'That were the least of his offences,' Lander insisted. 'You have been in England too long, Matt, away from the superstitions and cruelties of these people. Voodoo is a serious matter.'
'God give me patience,' Matt cried. 'It is their religion, is it not? You may call it a superstition, Ian, but no doubt they would call Christianity a superstition.'
'Now really, Matthew, there is no necessity to be blasphemous.'
'As Rousseau would no doubt call all religion a superstition,' Matt insisted.
'I have never read Master Rousseau,' Lander remarked. 'I do not believe in obscene literature.'
'Aye,' Matt said. 'It is all a matter of obscenity, to you.'
Lander walked ahead, down the drive, to where the cluster of overseers was waiting with the huge black man known as Bobman. 'We'll begin with this one,' he said, jerking his chin at Ulysses Edward. 'He's a recent purchase, Bobman, from somewhere in the recesses of the Congo, and filled with blasphemous ideas. Take the skin from his back. Twelve dozen lashes.'
The Negro's head jerked, to suggest that he understood English, but his expression, composed and almost withdrawn, did not change.
'Oh, aye, Mr. Lander,' agreed Bobman. 'And what he done?'
'He has prayed to Damballah Oueddo,' said one of the overseers.
'I have yet to be taught where is the crime in praying to one's own version of God,' Matt said, having reached the party.
Lander exchanged glances with his overseers, and drew a long breath. 'It is not as simple a matter as you think, Matthew. This god to whom they pray, this Damballah, the mighty serpent, is dedicated to the destruction of the white people in the West Indies, to the murder of us all, to the murder of you, Matthew. And Mistress Huys.'
'Something to think about,' Matt said. 'Especially when you remember the Romans no doubt considered that the preaching of Jesus Christ was devoted entirely to the murder of all Roman non-believers and the destruction of their property.'
'Aye,' Lander said. 'And this fellow should count himself lucky that we do not treat him as the Romans treated the early Christians.'
'Oh, indeed,' Matt agreed. 'The point I am arguing, however, is whether you consider yourself a Christian, Ian, or an early Roman.'
Lander stared at him.
'I flogging this man or not?' Bobman demanded, of the attorney.
'Get to it,' the Scot growled.
And suddenly Matt was angry, as he had been angry on board the Formidable, as he had been angry in his bedroom when facing Georgiana. Suddenly he knew how much of a specious coward he had been over the months which had passed since Gislane had been swept from his life. His cowardice had cost him her, forever, and in its place, mysteriously and magnificently, had brought him Sue. But he knew now that he could no longer be a coward, and expect even her constant love. And now he was about to be a father.
'You'll address yourself to me, God damn you,' he shouted, and their heads jerked in surprise. 'You're flogging no one here today, Bobman. Take your leave.'
Bobman's astonished gaze turned towards Lander; he rolled his eyes. 'But what is this, man, Mr. Lander?'
‘Your cousin put me in charge of this plantation, Matthew,' protested the manager.
'Until he sent me here as its owner, Ian. You'll not forget that.'
Lander changed his tactics. 'And if we send Bobman away, who's to carry out the flogging? I've no wish to harm the blacks.'
'You've no wish to harm them, Ian. I'm glad to hear you say that. Neither have I, save where it is absolutely necessary. There'll be no flogging here. Munroe, cut them down.'
The head overseer hesitated, watching Lander, and received a quick nod.
'And bring them here,' Matt said.
The four slaves were brought before him, faces bemused with their rapid change of fortune. 'You,' Matt said. 'Ulysses Edward. I'll punish no man for believing in a god, whoever he may be. Get back to your field gang.'
'But...' Lander began, and stopped. Ulysses Edward was already jog-trotting his way up the drive.
'Petronella Petronella,' Matt said. 'You stole a spoon from the house, and sold it in the market. Who to?'
Her head swung to and fro. ‘I didn't sell it, massa. I didn't have the time.'
'We got the spoon back, Matthew,' Lander said. 'It is the deed I proposed to punish.'
'As indeed it should be,' Matt agreed. 'You have spent six weeks in the field, Petronella Petronella. Yet I do not think you have been punished enough. For the next four weeks you'll lose your day off. Now get back up to the house and tell Mistress Huys what I have decreed.'
The girl scuttled away, while Lander scratched his head.
'No doubt you'll pat these two fellows on the head, for insubordination.'
'By no means,' Matt said. 'They sought to prove themselves men, difficult enough in the circumstances in which they must live. You'd quarrel with me, would you, Robert William?' He addressed the larger of the two Negroes.
'Oh, no, massa. Not with you, massa.' His eyes rolled towards Munroe.
'To quarrel with one of my overseers is to quarrel with me,' Matt insisted. 'You'd best think on that. From this moment, any quarrel on this plantation is a quarrel with me. I'll not flog you, Robert William. I'll not flog any man. But by heaven I'll break your jaw, and that's a sight more painful. You understand me?'
'Oh, yes, massa.' Robert William grinned, as he looked down on his master, several inches the shorter.
'You're mad,' Lander declared. 'Clear out of your senses.'
Matt watched the slave. 'You're amused,' he said. 'I like my people to laugh. But I like them to understand me, too. You'd be free, Robert William, to insult who you please. Tell the truth.'
Robert William shifted his feet in the dust. 'Well, massa, we all must want to be free.'
'Only men can be free,' Matt said. 'You can have your freedom this minute, if you're man enough. I say so, before witnesses. Bobman, you're my witness too. I give Robert William his freedom. He has but to walk off the plantation. But to do that he must walk past me. Can you do that, Robert William?'
The Negro stared at him. 'You meaning that, massa?'
'Mad,' Lander groaned. 'Munroe, fetch me a pistol.'
'You'll not move, Munroe,' Matt said, never taking his gaze from Robert William's face. 'Yes, I mean it. I have said it, before witnesses. Have you ever known my father to break his word? I say you shall not leave here, Robert William. But if you do, you are free. And there are no weapons ranged against you.'
Robert William hesitated; sweat globules were forming on his forehead and shoulder
s. Then he lowered his head and ran for the drive. Matt caught his shoulder and spun him round. Robert William's arms came up in gigantic, bearlike swings, which Matt avoided with the greatest of ease. He stepped inside the Negro's fist, his own arms pumping straight from the shoulder as Jack Broughton had taught him. And as Jack Broughton had also taught him, he made no move for the head, which could only bruise his hands, but instead struck deep for the pit of the belly, hurling all his weight into each blow, and then jumping backwards before the milling black arms could encompass him. But they had in any event lost their power. Robert William's legs had been robbed of all strength by the hammer blows into his solar plexus, and now they gave way, leaving him kneeling and gasping, his head lolling, his arms useless at his side.
HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness Page 30