by Debra Dunbar
His pale eyes moved to Lady Margaret’s stoical maid, whose own eyes were modestly cast down. “Charles and your maid can follow on the wagon when he has your other requirements in hand. And the workers can walk, naturally,” he concluded.
“The deputy governor has a fine carriage,” Charles said hastily. “It may take some time to arrange.” He clapped his hands together. “I will organize a guard on your baggage while I request the loan of the carriage, and assemble your workers and supplies.”
It seemed, fortunately, that her ladyship was not interested in a ride with George on his rattling volante. A good thing; it was a notorious device of his.
“Splendid,” Lady Margaret said to Charles. “Where should we wait, Mr. Tynes?”
“I’m sure that the Reverend Birkett would welcome you to the Sunday service,” he replied. Drakeston had few public places suitable for a lady to wait. “I could escort you to the church. It’s near the top of the street.”
He saw George’s pale eyes flicker to Agnes again. Neither of them said it, but Lady Margaret would presumably know that her African maid would not be quite so welcome, however demure she appeared.
But the lady herself did not look at all eager at the mention of a church service.
Perhaps it was the thought of the climb up Grande Street.
Before Charles could name an alternative, George cleared his throat and spoke. “At the risk of going from one extreme to the other,” he said apologetically, and gestured in the other direction from the town. “There’s an inn hard by that has rooms set aside for visitors. It won’t be rowdy, at least until this evening.”
“That will suffice,” Lady Margaret said, clearly ending this conversation. “If you would be so kind as to escort me there, Mr. Devieux. Agnes and I will attend to our Sunday devotions in the quiet of a private room, while we wait for Mr. Tynes to arrange the loan of the deputy governor’s carriage and the provisions I require.”
They began to move, somewhat awkwardly, hampered by the large parasol that Agnes insisted on keeping above Margaret’s head, as if she would melt in direct sunlight.
Lady Margaret paused.
“Mr. Tynes. A word further.”
He removed his fedora and lowered his head under the parasol.
“I thank you for your continuing discretion in introducing me.” She spoke quietly, for his ears only. “I am aware of your proposals, in all details.”
He blushed. No one had made him do that in twenty years.
“I am here,” she said, “as my own woman, to take my own decisions, all of them, in my business and my personal life.”
“Oh.” Charles’ mouth worked without being able to actually say anything meaningful.
What am I to make of that?
What is the earl doing?
How on earth am I supposed to explain the sugar industry to a young woman?
A young woman who was regarding him seriously with those beguiling eyes.
“My lady,” he finally managed as he bowed deeply, both to hide his confusion and get his head clear of the edge of that damned parasol.
She and the rest of the group resumed their walk to the Harbour Inn, leaving Charles to his tasks and thoughts.
He waved over one of the junior officers from the fort who’d been distracted on his way to church. A sum of money exchanged hands and the baggage was safe for the time it would take to organize the transport.
The earl would not sent Lady Margaret here on a whimsy.
That did not necessarily mean that the earl had decided to join him in his venture. But it must mean he was very seriously considering it—the whole proposal.
His heart thudded uncomfortably against his ribs.
If she was here to make decisions, well then, he would have to explain things to her. A man who prided himself on his clear thinking and speaking, could he not convince a well-educated woman of the soundness of his plans, without being so overbearing as to ruin his chances of a more romantic engagement?
Yes.
All of a sudden—with that image in his mind—he could taste success, sweet as cane juice. The fetters that had bound him this morning, all his fears about the promissory note from the traders’ guild, were vanishing like smoke in the sea breeze.
And even if marriage to the earl’s daughter turned out to be an unfulfilled dream, it was a most pleasant one in the meantime. Really, only his invention truly mattered; all else would follow or it was as nothing, of no consequence.
None of which was going to get all the lady’s requests arranged in a timely fashion on a Sunday morning. He ordered his thoughts and stared down at the pile on the dockside.
The coffin—coffins, he corrected himself, two of them—would need a separate wagon; it was clear that Lady Margaret had wanted them handled most carefully, and they seemed extremely heavy.
He pushed against one, testing the weight, and shuddered. They were surely not actual coffins, were they? No, that was ridiculous; they were far too big. They were plainly just large wooden chests, of slightly…unusual design. He had to put aside this superstitious nonsense. It did not fit with the rational, enlightened appearance he needed to project.
To work. There’s much to do.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
To Charles’ relief, George did not accompany them on the journey when everything was finally in place, citing the need for urgent attention to his estate business. It was late afternoon by the time the convoy of the deputy governor’s carriage and two wagons finally pulled in through the gates of Caerdrys Park, the Great House of the Nightwood Estate.
“Goodness.” It was the first word Lady Margaret had uttered for some time.
Charles had been inhibited from speaking by the presence of the maid in the carriage. Lady Margaret had, in any event, appeared more inclined to rest, barely even glancing at the passing landscape.
The earl’s late father had designed Caerdrys Park himself, and the man had had an eye for the dramatic. Even with minimal upkeep, the house achieved a look at once startling and harmonious.
It was built at the top of a steep ascending series of arcs cut into the hill, like some giant’s huge green ballroom staircase.
The two wings stood foursquare, like white cliffs, surmounted by brick-red roofs. Their edging stones were bare in the Basque style, the yellow stone looking for all the world like gold braiding on a military uniform.
Between the wings, the central section was a level lower. It was set back and more welcoming, with airy balconies running the length of the upper floors, behind graceful Spanish arches. Semicircular stone steps ran up to the front door, a human-sized echo of the steep, terraced landscaping of the grounds.
They got out of the carriage, stepping into the shade cast where the central section and the inner facing walls of the wings made a courtyard. Here, scarlet bougainvillea and hibiscus, threaded through with pale clematis, reached up the walls and softened the hard edges of the building. The clematis gave off the light, clean fragrance of almonds.
All the windows were tightly shuttered in dark, ship-varnished wood, which gave the house a waiting, melancholic air.
Lady Margaret was silent as she slowly climbed the steps up to the entrance.
Charles winced when he noticed rust on some of the black metalwork, but this house wasn’t his priority. Or rather, it hadn’t been his priority.
He ran lightly ahead with a key. The door lock opened stiffly, and with a slightly rueful flourish, he ushered them into a dim ghost house full of shrouded furniture and dust.
He was busy with the overseeing of both Nightwood and the neighboring estate, Gilbee’s. He’d had no warning of Lady Margaret’s arrival; hopefully she wouldn’t hold the state of the house against him. At least he’d dutifully checked it for major problems.
“The building is entirely sound, of course,” he said. “Though I regret the current appearance. Perhaps the inn would be more comfortable while I get the Park ready for you?”
“No,
thank you. Mr. Tynes, you have accomplished your duties today remarkably well, and the house has clearly been cared for while empty. Agnes and I will remain here, and manage the workers to restore it to its best.”
She’d looked so pale, when he’d seen her across the dock in the bright morning light. Now, circling in the gloom of the echoing hall, she was nebulous as a phantom, neither pale nor dark, taking on the muted colors of the shrouds and walls as if she’d somehow always been part of the house. As if she’d been waiting here for him to discover her.
He suppressed a slight shiver. She was so beautiful, it was obviously affecting his mind. It was making him think stupid, irrational thoughts.
“I will need to get the workers to make a start on one room for tonight, my lady.”
Charles jumped at the sudden sound behind him. He’d forgotten about Lady Margaret’s maid, quiet as she was, with her dark skin rendering her invisible.
“Yes, please do, Agnes,” Lady Margaret said. “Well, night comes quickly in these latitudes, and we must let you go, Mr. Tynes, with our unreserved thanks for all your efforts today.”
“Honored, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “When would be an opportune time for us to discuss business matters? Perhaps there are documents that I should peruse before such a meeting?”
It would be so much easier to talk to a man, even one as famously acerbic as the earl.
But if Lady Margaret felt the conversation was awkward, she did not show any sign of it. Quite the contrary.
“In the short term, of course I shall require you to continue with the everyday management of the plantation. All further discussions will have to wait until I am settled, but you are right, we have much to discuss regarding your proposals and the future of the Nightwood and Gilbee estates.”
He swallowed. That had been a bit fiercer than he’d expected. ‘In the short term’—what did that mean?
“Thank you,” he said, his heart racing. I must remember—my project is the most important thing. “I will await your convenience then, and I’m eager to answer any questions you may have. Indeed, I could—”
“As for documents,” she said, “yes, please see that the Nightwood ledgers are delivered here for me to review.”
That requirement was standard, if somewhat unexpected from a lady. Owners frequently assumed that their managers were less than honest, or less than competent. They had reason to, in some cases. He was both honest and competent. In fact, putting modesty aside, his accounting was meticulous and exemplary. It wasn’t as if she were going to understand it all either. It would just be another thing he would prepare himself to explain to her.
Yet the whole conversation left him off balance, and all while he’d been adroitly ushered back to the entrance.
“Forgive my abruptness,” Lady Margaret said, as Agnes held the door for him. “I estimate that I will require a fortnight to put things in order here; then I will be most pleased to meet with you to discuss our business. At that stage, I also intend to host a dinner for the notables of St. Mark’s, to which you are, of course, invited. I shall present more appropriate invitations nearer the time.”
The door closed.
Charles walked the road back through the gathering twilight.
Crickets and tree frogs had begun the assault that was their nightly singing, but that noise seemed distant beside the cacophony of his own thoughts.
A most confusing and unsettling day.
It was clear to him that the earl was serious about his proposals. Lady Margaret would never have been sent out other than to be the capstone of an arrangement between him and the earl. The negotiations would have been entrusted to whatever companion the earl had assigned to this mission, and curse the luck that had prevented him from arriving with Lady Margaret.
Then again, had Lady Margaret waited for her companion, perhaps their arrival would have been too late, and the guild would have already demanded the settling of his promissory note.
So, was this actually good fortune?
He could not assume Lady Margaret’s companion would make good time in reaching the island. Charles realized he must, perforce, engage in discussions with the lady herself. She had seemed to indicate that. Indeed, she seemed somewhat forceful.
Pray God, whatever misfortune had fallen on her companion, that she had sufficient of the earl’s correspondence and a grasp of his instructions in this matter.
It would not be a true negotiation, of course, nothing so taxing for a lady. More a mutual discovery of what was possible: the extent of the earl’s willingness to support; his own willingness to share rights.
And surely Lady Margaret would not presume to argue against his plans?
Would she take his advice and simply sign an agreement?
And if she did, would the deputy governor accept it?
Any other woman, maybe not, but the deputy governor would hardly feel able to ignore the wishes of a member of the aristocracy, who was also the daughter of the man who quite possibly held the key to the entire Caribbean trade in his hand.
For the ‘negotiation’, there were good signs. Her being here for one, and she’d specifically said she wanted to talk of the future of both estates.
A dinner for the notables...most pleased…much to discuss...your proposals.
As her voice seemed to have taken possession of his ears, so he found the image of her face had seared itself into his eyes. He could see her right in front of him, even in the darkness. Even with his eyes closed.
Some foolish superstition of the slaves drifted through his mind. Enzili will come to you, they were always saying. The Goddess of Love will visit the love-struck fool in his dreams.
He pushed the thoughts away. That was not for him. He needed to ensure the future of his project. It was not over-dramatic to say his life depended on it.
Instead of thinking about her looks, he tried instead to concentrate again on picking apart everything she’d said during the day.
And...notables, he thought, as he stumbled his way home. I have become one of the notables of St. Mark’s.
Chapter 4
Enzili
It is night at last.
It is my time.
Hear me, my people.
Let the fires die to embers.
Let the darkness drift in, quiet as the wings of bats.
Let the benediction of night steal over you, comforting as a mother’s love, cool as the gentle rain.
I have lived in the patchwork of your dreams, my people.
You have called and I have come.
Call out my name: Enzili, Enzili.
Call me in the sorrow of the night.
Call me under the burden of the day.
For I am your goddess of love.
I will give you pleasure beyond your dreams.
I will wake you to my worship of love and I will heal you in the darkness, even as you offer me your blood.
From the venom of the snake, my bite will protect you.
From the fever of the night, my kisses will heal you.
And from the sting of the whip, my hands will deliver you.
Hear me and bear your burden with patience, for change is coming.
And heed well, my people...
I am slow to anger, but I will anoint myself in the blood of our enemies.
Sing my name.
Sing it in the huts, sing it in the fields.
Sing it in the dark, sing it in the light: Enzili, Enzili.
I have come.
I have come.
Chapter 5
Charles
Charles’ stomach was churning with stress when he arrived on horseback at Caerdrys Park, two weeks later.
He’d duly delivered the Nightwood ledgers the day after Lady Margaret’s request, and had several times called in ‘on the off-chance her ladyship was available’.
Her ladyship had not been available. Not to anyone, from what he’d heard. A man might have started to wonder whether he’d escorted
a ghost from the harbor up to the estate.
It had been a difficult fortnight. After months waiting for the earl to respond, to now have his daughter at Nightwood and not be able to speak to her had been torture.
But this evening, he was expected, and his invitation had been explicit: he was to arrive at eight o’clock, well in advance of the dinner guests. Lady Margaret held to timings that were fashionable in London; they would have an hour to speak before other guests arrived at nine o’clock. The evening would proceed after that with dancing, then dinner.
Still, not enough time for a full meeting. And not an appropriate time for a meeting. Not even an indication of the topics to discuss.
Once again, Charles wished the earl had come himself. He would have known where he stood, and how to move forward with his project.
Agnes met him at the door and welcomed him formally to the house, which was utterly transformed: clean and brightly lit with dozens of oil lamps and chandeliers heavy with candles.
He’d heard Lady Margaret had taken on servants. Suitable unemployed domestics, mainly escapees from Saint Domingue, were plentiful in Drakeston, and eager for the opportunity. They had obviously been busy, as had the manual workers he’d organized.
It was still a work in progress—he could detect the tang of fresh paint in the air, and the west wing of the building remained in darkness, but Caerdrys Park was clearly once again the social summit of St. Mark’s, exactly as the earl’s father had intended it to be.
Lady Margaret was a remarkable woman. He needed to be careful not to underestimate her.
Yet what a prize, should I succeed in all my plans!
Agnes escorted him to the drawing room in the east wing to wait.
Another few minutes waiting would be nothing.
He paced to and fro. He could not stop himself being eager to meet her again socially, however much he tried to force his thoughts back to the commercial situation.