Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  She sighed. “True, we must welcome others into our lives. Make friends. People we can trust. But that soiree was full of men not seeking friends, but rather people who might help them to get ahead. I cannot abide such a thing, not for long anyway.” She knew she would need to negotiate future gatherings on occasion, but she did not wish to encourage suitors.

  “Speaking of friends, I had expected Gray would be there,” Verity said carefully. By her tone, she was clearly fishing for a response from Ket.

  “Did you?” she returned dryly. “He’s likely lit a lamp to work his fields even now alongside Philip.” What was she doing at a soiree when there was so much to do at Tabletop?

  They had a full day ahead on the morrow, with more work than any of them could imagine. They had to begin to remake Tabletop into a success, and quickly.

  Could she manage it? she wondered as the carriage bounced along Lower Round Road and her sisters gave in to her desired silence. Could they truly turn Tabletop into what her father had imagined—one of the finest, most fruitful plantations on Nevis? She’d learned much over the course of the evening, surrounded by men. In between flirtatious comments and social niceties, the men had shared vital knowledge amongst themselves, some of which Keturah overheard. And as the rum punch did its soothing work, more and more shared what they might have kept close to the vest in the sober light of day.

  Once, the island had produced more sugar per acre than any other in the Leeward or Windward Isles. Today Nevis had fallen behind Jamaica, Antigua, and even—and this produced much consternation among the Nevisians—St. Kitts. Clearly, there was a good measure of competition between the sister islands. But many believed the Nevisian soil to be exhausted, with erosion half the battle, constant planting and harvest the other half. The planters were importing barges full of manure—manure, of all things—and they constantly needed more to feed the tender plantings. Cane stalks had once survived for three seasons. Now the cane had to be replanted every year.

  And Keturah was not the only planter in search of a new overseer. The best were in high demand and frequently wooed away by the promise of higher pay. The worst … well, from what she could gather, there were more of them than she cared to think about. She thought of Angus Shubert, the ruthless man with square jaw and wide-set eyes. Even though he had treated her and her sisters politely, she saw the way Mitilda glanced back at him when they’d first arrived, her expression marked by wariness.

  Keturah looked up to see the intertwined flowering branches as black silhouettes, stars twinkling in the sky above. She thought about the straggling remnants of cane in her fields, like the last soldiers standing among a fallen army, and her father’s madcap idea to terrace acres of land. Perhaps … just perhaps it hadn’t been as mad as it first seemed. Now that those acres were finally flat and the soil had rested for a couple of years, could she not plant her crop late and still bring in a harvest?

  She hoped so. The thought strengthened her. Because she did not intend to marry in order to make Tabletop a success, nor give over any portion that rightfully belonged to her to another man. Ever. Even if her sisters married. Even if she spent her life as a lonely spinster.

  Because Ket knew from experience that it was vastly better to choose to be alone than to utter vows and yet feel more lonely than ever before.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She went to sleep that night feeling resolved, her sisters on either side of her once again. While they now each had established bedrooms, they chose to do this each night their first week on-island, finding comfort in silent proximity. Verity was the first to move to her own room, and Selah left her alone a couple of nights later. By that time, Keturah was so mindlessly weary she only briefly recognized the fact before she fell fast asleep.

  Mornings came too early most days, the roosters cackling their welcome to the dawn. Each day, Keturah had three of the men saddle horses and set off with her for Charlestown, intent on greeting each ship that had docked, seeking an overseer. A burly man was what she had in mind, as broad-shouldered as Mr. Shubert, one with keen intelligence as well as an abiding kindness. Ket knew that managing a hundred slaves would require an overseer with a firm hand, but she had little tolerance for the sort of abuse she’d witnessed on the auction platforms every time she passed through town.

  Nevis was fortunate to get some of the first picks among slaves. Many slaver ships stopped here first for water and supplies, and while the island was falling behind in production compared to others, it was still admired for its plantations. And every Nevisian planter remained hungry for more slaves to work their fields. Planting continued, even this late in the season, which comforted Ket. But with each passing day that she did not find the right man to hire, she grew more anxious about Tabletop’s delays.

  Most prospective overseers dismissed her as soon as she approached them, seeming to believe it beneath them to work for a woman—that or doubting her odds at lasting for long on-island. Worse were those who looked her up and down as if she herself might be a part of their weekly pay. Facing such outrage, she simply turned and walked away each time it occurred.

  She followed each disappointing visit to Charlestown with a trip to see one of the men Lord Shantall had recommended—Lord Wilson, Mr. Green, and Mr. Barnes—hopeful that they might assist her, since they’d been friends of her father.

  Lord Wilson had sailed for the Carolinas and wasn’t due back for a year. Mr. Green had taken ill with the ague and was unable to receive visitors. And Mr. Barnes’s plantation had suffered a devastating fire, so the family returned to England.

  Each discovery was disappointing, and the evaporating promise of aid left Keturah feeling abandoned, desolate. On the fourth morning, she rose and dressed, but found herself dreading another trip to town. What if she never found an overseer? The thought of it made her breath come in shallow pants, and she hurriedly slipped from the big house and took the path down to the beach, knowing she needed some air, a fresh view, in order to regain her perspective.

  What can you accomplish by wallowing here all day? she silently chided herself as she took to the trail. You must go to town. You must try again. Her sisters, their servants, the remaining slaves—even Mitilda and Abraham, she added darkly—were all relying on her to bring this plantation back.

  But how on earth can I do that if I cannot even begin? she argued with herself, wiping away tears.

  She walked, faster and faster, until she was almost running. Finally, she broke through the last of the coco plum shrubs, sending a pair of birds feasting on the fruit to the sky in alarm, and her feet sank into golden sand. The sound of the gentle waves washing along the shore, combined with the heat of the sun on her head and face as she lifted it, helped her take her first full breath all morning. She removed her slippers and set them beneath the dense branches of a nearby bush.

  Lifting her skirts, she moved to wet sand and let the warm tropical waters dance around her feet. It made her smile, the sensation. How much colder was the Irish Sea as compared to this! This, why, this felt like tepid bathwater. Ket began walking through the waves, letting them douse her feet and ankles and even the bottoms of her skirts, admiring the swaying palms that lined the beach. Up ahead there even appeared to be a mango grove. She decided she must bring her sisters down here for a swim—it would do them all a world of good. And there was no one about the beach in either direction, so it would likely be relatively private. No need for a bathing machine here, she thought with delight.

  Every year, the girls had traveled to the English coast to take their annual restorative summer dip in the ocean. Their favorite resort had ten machines—huts on wagons that were lowered by horse and driver into the water, shielding bathers from viewers on the beach—and it was so delightful they had always been reluctant to leave, despite the fierce chill of the water. They’d followed it by a visit to a hot springs, and all agreed that it was a most sensible health regimen. In fact, many in their set had taken to following them to both locati
ons, making it a rather festive weekend.

  Before Edward, she thought as she began walking southward down the beach. After marrying Edward, he’d refused her request to join her sisters for the annual excursion to the coast. “Allow my wife to be ogled in her bathing smock on some godforsaken beach?” he’d huffed. “I think not.”

  It mattered not to him that the bathers were always shielded by wagons and awnings, nor that they were attended only by female dippers, nor that the smocks were made of a stiff fabric with weights to prevent them from rising in the waves. He heard none of that—nor did he consider allowing her to do something else together. He only wanted her home. “Here, as the lady of the house. Doing as you ought. Cease your girlish daydreaming, Keturah, and do what your lord and husband require.”

  Require, she thought, musing again over his word as she continued her walk. How he’d said it. She’d never been able to do all that he required. Never hit every mark he wished her to hit. She’d never even come close, because every time she improved, hoping for his approval—and peace in their union—he would move the target. She’d arrange for his favorite meal, with every course just as he’d liked it the last time, and then he mused over a neighbor’s new soup or dessert he favored more, wishing she would stay ahead of the culinary passions of the day. She’d completed a needlepoint picture—a pastime she loathed—because he’d gone on and on about how he found women with needle and thread in their hands most genteel and comely. Once it was finished, he’d taken but one cursory look at her project and asked her if she might seek out Lady Wimble’s advice on detailed shading techniques.

  No, she thought gleefully, she was glad to be free of her husband and all he required. And she would bring her sisters down to bathe in the ocean this very night, without fretting if anyone saw them in their stiff fabric bathing smocks. Why, they were as modest, if not more, than many of the gowns they wore to soirees. No, here on Nevis she would claim her independence in more ways than one. Deciding when and where they would swim would be but one.

  Heartened by the idea, she was about to turn back when she heard a child laughing and a man joining in.

  She knew that laugh.

  Gray, she thought, her heart beginning to pound. Could it be?

  Looking around, she saw that she’d nearly reached the southern border of her property. Up ahead loomed that massive grove of mango trees, which extended over the ridge toward Gray’s plantation.

  Again she heard a child shout and the man laugh. Curious, she began picking her way up a path toward the grove, wincing as sticks and rocks poked her feet.

  It was Gray.

  She smiled and was about to call out to him when she spotted Mitilda. On her arm hung a basketful of mangoes, another basket by her feet. Then Ket saw Gray backing up to catch a piece of fruit that fell from the tree. “Well done!” he called up. “This would have been a monkey’s dinner for certain had you not harvested it yourself! Look at the rosy hue!” he said admiringly, lifting the fruit. “Are there others like that?”

  One more step and she could see the boy—Abraham—twenty feet up on a large mango branch, reaching precariously for another.

  Another piece of my fruit, Keturah thought angrily. Fruit that could feed us all! What were they doing here? Worse, what were they doing together?

  Rage began to make her heart pound. And even as she told herself she was overreacting, that they weren’t doing anything that warranted such a response, it made her feel like she was spinning into an even darker realm. “What right have you?” she cried. Loudly. Accusingly. Her tone more shriek than question.

  Mitilda, who was facing away from Ket, looked back over her shoulder, obviously startled.

  “And what are you doing here with them?” Ket said to Gray, stepping forward. Her rage twined with hurt, betrayal. How could he? How could he? He’d not found the time to come and call upon her, but—

  “Keturah!” he said, stepping forward, looking half pleased to see her, half alarmed and baffled by her greeting. His dark blue eyes darted down to Ket’s trembling hands, which she’d set to wringing, then over to Mitilda—clearly wondering why she was acting in such a manner, which only served to fuel her rage.

  “Abraham!” Mitilda called. “C’mon down, child. This instant.”

  “Yes, mum,” said the boy, obediently setting to scramble down the tree.

  Keturah stepped past Gray as he reached her side, intent only on the woman. “You may take a few mangoes, but I expect you to leave the rest behind. I shall distribute them among the hungry people of Tabletop, not see you selling Tabletop bounty at market on the morrow.”

  “Keturah!” Gray exclaimed, aghast.

  Ket ignored him, still focused on Mitilda. “You may not take what is not yours!” she shouted, stepping toward her. “Do you hear me? Nothing! Have you not already taken more than you deserve?”

  Even as she said it, she felt a pang of regret. But she could do little but give way to the bubbling, swirling anger inside her.

  Gray tried to intervene, subtly shifting between them, raising a hand partially up in both directions as if he expected this to dissolve into a common brawl. Truth be told, there was a part of Ket that itched to do just that.

  Had not this woman been here at Tabletop … and lain with her father, might he have come home? Might he be alive today? Even as she thought it, she knew it to be partial madness. Misguided hope. Mislaid blame.

  Mitilda’s wide steady eyes remained on hers. Slowly, chin still high, she slipped the basket from her arm and handed it over to Ket. “’Tis yours, Lady Ket. As it was your father’s.” She nodded, lifting her light-palmed, elegant hands in a way that reminded Keturah of Verity with an alarmed Brutus. “Just as when your father was here,” she went on, “we were harvesting for the good of all on Tabletop. Not to use the fruit for our own gain.”

  Abraham had reached her side and looked from his mother to Ket and back again, concern and confusion etching lines in his handsome young face.

  Keturah faltered. Was it true? Was this something the woman and her child did every week? Part of what had sustained the slaves left at Tabletop when there was no one else to see to them?

  “I—uh,” she began, a far more sensible mood beginning to settle her racing heart.

  But then the woman raised her chin higher, looking down her nose at Ket, and the anger quickly returned. Keturah squared her shoulders and took a firmer hold of the basket. “Be on your way, Mitilda. Abraham. I shall see this fruit back to the big house and properly distributed.”

  The woman left then, all elegance and grace, the boy silently glancing over his shoulder at Ket again, eyebrows knit.

  Keturah hurriedly looked back to the massive tree, the sprawling limbs—one of twenty or more in this grove but clearly one of the better producers. Belatedly she remembered she was not alone.

  “What are you doing here, Gray?” she asked wearily, lifting a hand to massage her forehead.

  “Pay me no heed!” he said in a growl. “What has come over you, Ket?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you behave so rudely before. Ever! Even as children.”

  She let out a humorless laugh. “You think I am rude? I?” She leaned toward him, feeling the blush color her cheeks. “That woman,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder to where Mitilda and the boy had disappeared, “was my father’s mistress! His mistress! Can you imagine? And that boy? Why, Abraham is my half brother.” She felt an odd victory in seeing Gray pull back in consternation and shock. So, he hadn’t known.

  “They were living here in the big house when I arrived, she pretending to be mistress of Tabletop! Can you believe it?”

  Gray took a deep breath and studied her. “Keturah, you are positively ashen,” he said, taking the basket and setting it aside, then grabbing hold of her waist. “Come.”

  As she felt his firm, familiar strong hand take hold of her, Ket finally understood that her vision was swirling, her stomach turning. Oh, I do not wish to faint … Please, God, I k
now I have no right to ask it of you …

  He led her over to a rock, eased her down and, once seated, took hold of her shoulders. “Lean forward, Ket. Breathe. Nice and slowly.”

  With her head down between her knees, she breathed deeply in and out, fighting not to faint or vomit. He left her as she did so, then returned a moment later and knelt beside her. “When you do not think you shall be sick or faint, sit up again,” he said. “Slowly.”

  Keturah took a few more breaths, thought she had a hold of herself, and then straightened and blinked.

  He uncorked a hollowed-out gourd that had a shoulder strap attached and extended it toward her. “Here. Drink.”

  She did so, finding her mouth surprisingly dry. Then she dripped more into her hand and washed it over her hot forehead and cheeks, the back of her neck. Feeling a bit more restored, even as remorse washed through her, she leveled a gaze at him. “Oh, Gray. Was I … was I quite ghastly?”

  “Quite,” he said lightly.

  She heaved a long, heavy sigh.

  He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, then pulled his hand back and took a few steps away, crossed his arms and looked at her. “So … I had been coming to call on you. Tell me here, Ket. Tell me of Tabletop. I take it that meeting Mitilda and Abraham is not the sole reason for your apparent … exhaustion.”

  Keturah let out a scoffing laugh, even as she inwardly recognized how good it felt to be understood. To be seen. Then she told him of her utter failure in town to find an overseer. That no one would give her the time of day as a woman, and how anxious it made her that they were not yet planting. On and on she went, about her ragged group of slaves, of how she couldn’t see herself finding the courage to purchase more … even of how she was dismayed by how her fine furnishings brought from England looked so out of place inside the dilapidated house.