Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Tea will do well,” Gray said, even as he saw that Captain McKintrick was considering her “something stronger” offer.

  They sat down together on a new settee that had likely come with them on the ship, and each set their hat to the side. McKintrick carried a shallow, elaborately inlaid wooden box, which he placed on the table, but he made no explanation for it.

  Looking around, Gray noticed that the small parlor was stuffed. An old harpsichord sat in the corner, but the island’s humidity had done some damage; here and there the wood was cracked and buckling. Most of the furnishings were new, including a tall standing clock, which seemed to fill the room with its steady ticking. Some floorboards had been replaced, the new wood fairly gleaming next to the old burnished planks. And it was clear that the girls had set to stripping wallpaper on one wall. The untouched portion of faded ivy print was bubbling and peeling. He knew that Ket had spent most of her days in town on the hunt for an overseer, so it had to be Verity and Selah’s task in evidence.

  “This was once a grand room,” Gray said admiringly.

  “With the lasses at work,” the captain said, gesturing to the paper, “’twill soon be set to rights. To my mind ’tis already verra comfortable.”

  “Indeed.” Two big windows were open wide, their shutters neatly folded on the sides. It allowed a pleasant breeze to waft in from the ocean. What would Keturah think of his small cottage? Philip and he had concentrated on the fields, on obtaining new slaves, on planting, with little thought to the house other than new straw ticks to welcome their aching bodies home at the end of each day.

  But being here, in a home, filled with so many things that were so English, Gray felt another pang of longing. As if he wanted to linger here a long while. But was it the things, or the mistress to whom they belonged?

  Grace arrived with a tea tray, and shortly thereafter, so did the women.

  “If it isn’t the three wee water sprites,” Captain McKintrick teased, rising beside Gray as they entered, each with their hair neatly combed back, their bodies covered in light, airy gowns he’d never seen before.

  “And if it isn’t our would-be guardians,” Verity said with a shy grin, pulling her wet hair over her shoulder and idly beginning to braid it.

  “If only I had my chance to beat back some rogue and carry you to safety this evening, Miss Verity,” he said with a slight bow, “well ye’d ken my mettle.”

  “And is it not a rogue, Captain,” Keturah intervened, “who would imagine such a thing?”

  McKintrick flashed her a wide grin and nodded once in acquiescence. Selah went to the table and began pouring them all tea.

  Keturah turned to Gray. “You intimated that something was wrong. Is all well?”

  “Please,” he said, gesturing to the window. “Might I have a word?”

  She nodded and took her dish of tea from Selah, following him there. “What is it, Gray?”

  “Ket, I was in town this evening and I overheard something most distressing.”

  “Oh?”

  “It sounds as if the planters have conspired against you to keep you from ever hiring an overseer. It is their collective thought that it is in your best interest to force you into a union with an established planter—a man who can aid you in running Tabletop.”

  She stilled. “A man who can take over me and mine, you mean.”

  He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “’Tis not my view, Keturah,” he said with a shake of his head. “But the men here … well, they’re a bit of an old guard, I take it. Used to doing things as their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers did before them. The notion of a woman coming in … what you’re trying to do, well, Ket, I fear they’re against it.”

  She huffed a laugh. “That confirms what I suspected.” She sipped from her cup and looked up at him, lifting one brow. “But pay it no heed, Gray. I already knew of their devious plan. And I found my overseer this day,” she said with a smile, leaning toward him.

  “You did? Where? Who?”

  “A man from the other side of the island,” she said, turning toward the window. His breath caught at the sight of her profile, rimmed in the golden light of the setting sun. “He has but a tiny bit of a plantation there. But, Gray, he’s doing a fine job with it. You should see his cane! It’s already as high as my shoulders!”

  “And he’s agreed to come and work for you?”

  “Indeed. He starts on the morrow. So do not worry yourself further, my friend.” She laid a hand on his forearm, and warmth seemed to spread from her hand across his skin. “No matter what the men of this island intended, I have found the solution to my troubles.”

  She looked up to him then, golden eyes warm and hopeful.

  Gray smiled and sipped his tea, pretending he didn’t mind when her long fingers slipped from his arm, but her words agitated him. Did she not know that this island would likely make them face one trouble after another? Was she truly prepared?

  And yet there was something different in her tonight, a peace he hadn’t seen in her for years. Was it merely the fact that she’d finally managed to find an overseer? Or something more? She was more willing to smile, more willing to meet his gaze …

  “Keturah,” he said, “I do believe this island is doing you some good. You are positively glowing.” The last word left his mouth feeling dry. Had he overstepped?

  “Am I?” she asked, lifting a hand to her cheek. “Perhaps.” She leaned forward, studied him a moment, and whispered, “I decided to treat this island as my friend, Gray, rather than my enemy.”

  He blinked, a bit swayed at the feel of her breath on his cheek. “Oh?”

  “Yes. It finally came to me that no fruitful alliance can form between uneasy partners. One must be open, welcoming, trusting if there is fruit to be born.”

  He paused, considering her words. Briefly, he wondered if she truly spoke of more … “And before that, you were treating Nevis as your enemy?”

  “More as a potential enemy. And I decided that was no way to begin relations.” She sobered and studied him again. “I think I must deal with Mitilda in the same manner. I am … I am finding my way with her. It was she who helped me find my overseer, Matthew Rollins.”

  “Mitilda,” he said with a nod, remembering the woman in the mango grove and her son and how Ket had treated them. The awkward exchange … and the revelation.

  “Mitilda,” Ket repeated.

  “That is good, Ket,” he said, nodding slowly. “Better for you both, over the course of time, to find your way forward together.”

  She gave him a rueful smile and then looked out toward the sea again. “That was my thought exactly.”

  Captain McKintrick’s warm laugh brought their heads around. He had been regaling Verity and Selah with a story of a pirate along the Barbary Coast who had nearly slit his throat. Both girls were enthralled.

  “That is why I have brought ye ladies this gift,” he said, leaning toward the wooden box. He pulled it into his lap and lifted its lid. “Ye have embarked on a journey that is rife with dangers. And whilst I wish I might remain nearby in order to save you from any trials”—his eyes slid to Verity and then back to the box—“I fear I must be off. I shall return in a matter of months, but I knew I could not leave ye defenseless, not in good conscience.”

  Inside the box were six small sharp blades, each set in an ornately carved ivory handle. “These are a set of sgian dubh, carried by Highland warriors.” He looked at all three of them, Verity longest of all. “I pray ye shall be treated with utmost respect. But as my seanahmhair would have said, even the lasses must be ready for battle. I beg you to arm yourselves. Truth be told, nine times out of ten, ye shall not need either knife or man to protect ye. But on that tenth day, would it not be wise to have the knife at the ready? I leave it to ye to ponder, and pray ye shall carry one in either sheath or stocking.”

  Verity stared at him, while Keturah found herself startled by his care and concern. It felt … genuine to he
r. Familial in some measure. Helpful rather than possessive.

  “Thank you, Captain McKintrick,” Ket said, moving toward him. “That is most thoughtful of you. We shall look forward to the day you return to Charlestown.”

  “As shall I,” he said, rising and looking Verity’s way again. “As shall I.”

  Gray felt now was the time. He should aid Keturah in separating the captain from Verity. Cecil would wish it as much as Ket. “Yes, well. We bid you ladies good night. Thank you for allowing us to come and call upon you.”

  He half expected an eager reply. Something that indicated Ket’s agitation over their interruption of their dip in the sea, their intrusion upon their household, or his meddling in her affairs. Instead, she said softly, “Thank you for coming, Gray. And Captain McKintrick, blessings on your voyage.”

  “Captain McKintrick!” said the Scotsman. “So formal, lass. So formal. Might ye not all call me Duncan, since I’ve gone as far as to aid ye in arming yourselves?”

  “Thank you for coming, Duncan,” Verity said first, stepping forward. “I, for one, shall look forward to your return.” She lay hold of one of the shining blades and lifted it with a smile.

  The captain paused and stared at the girl intently.

  Inwardly, Gray groaned. So much for aiding Ket in their separation. Clearly the two were avidly drawn to the other. In fact, since they had left the Restoration, their attraction seemed to have grown tenfold. Was this because of the impending separation?

  Captain McKintrick took Verity’s hand and bowed so lowly over it, they might have been in a formal English drawing room. “Miss Verity,” he said, “trust me when I say that my sole goal is to get to the Carolinas, and then back to ye, before winter.”

  “Trust me when I say, Captain,” she returned, looking full upon his face, “that I pray the winds are in your favor.”

  He grinned so widely that Gray took a steep breath. Why could he not be so audacious with Ket? Press her in similar manner? Why not? he asked himself.

  Because she would not welcome it.

  She is not ready.

  And even if she was, I have not the means to court her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Keturah awakened before sunrise to the smell of baking bread and fire in the kitchen, which they all knew by now tended to smoke a great deal. It was something else on her endless list of things needing done—she must either find a chimney sweep or a mason to address the hundred-year-old stone structure’s ailments. From what she had been told, the grand old volcanic chimney stood in what was now the third house built around her.

  “They always said it be a good luck charm,” said Sansa, currently serving as a kitchen maid, running her hand over the black rock when Keturah entered the room, candle in hand. “I thought she jus’ needed to be warmed up again, Lady Ket, since there been no cook fire in here for months.” She waved her hand through the smoke and pinched her nose, squinting her eyes.

  “Yes, well, I think we might need to tear down this good luck charm and begin anew,” Ket said, picking up a wooden paddle to encourage the smoke to waft out the window.

  “Oh, Lady Ket, we cannot do that,” Grace said. “Surviving three houses over a hundred years? ’Tis a bit of your family’s history, it is.”

  “But look at it,” Ket said, gesturing in frustration toward the fireplace. “’Tis liable to ignite and bring down the third with it!”

  “Just a sweep is what she needs,” Grace said, peering up and into the chimney, as if she could see through the billowing smoke. “Surely they have chimney sweeps, even here on Nevis.”

  “I would not be so certain,” Keturah said with a weary sigh. “They have porcelain from the Orient and cattle from the colonies, but they might not have a body dedicated to preserving something like a chimney. No,” she said with a second sigh, hand on hip surveying the stone structure, “this island seems more bent on treating all as they might a new harvest.”

  Would that I had the funds to begin anew. Again it haunted her thoughts. There was much in the house that would be more costly to repair than she liked to think about. The stairs had begun to separate a bit from the wall and seemed to shift with each step one took on them. Selah refused to take to the stairs at the same time as either of her sisters or Grace. The rugs were threadbare, and they needed to peel the rest of the wallpaper. In fact, there was not a room in the house that didn’t need considerable work.

  Truth be told, Keturah had spent hours daydreaming about razing the house and beginning again. But running her hand over the fireplace mantel, thinking of her father before her, her grandfather before him, and other planters too … well, it gave her a sense of permanence, hope in its longevity. She knew that if she had to take down this house and rebuild, she too would do so with this fireplace as the cornerstone, just as her ancestors had before her.

  Yet I would give it a thorough cleaning, she thought.

  “What did my father do?” she asked Bennabe, who had wandered into the kitchen in search of something to break his fast. The two new slaves—named by the others as Hope and Tolmus—timidly peeked in the door behind him. She was glad he had taken them under his wing. Day by day they seemed a bit more settled, a bit more brave in meeting her welcoming smile with one of their own. “Surely Father did not live with such smoke, billowing out each day.”

  “No, mum. They cooked outside,” Bennabe said, “to avoid the smoke and heat. They built up a fire every day in that pit in the far corner. Mitilda could show you. She outside even now, settin’ to fire more pots.”

  Keturah took that in. Mitilda made pots? Perhaps pottery was part of what she used for income, on top of the annual stipend her father had promised her. Ket had seen slaves on Sunday at the market in Charlestown, selling their wares, from pottery to parrot fish to yams. Few of the slaves were Christian, she’d learned, but the plantation owners felt it gave them time to rest and work their own ground, which in turn helped feed them and their families.

  It was through the billowing smoke of the kitchen that Matthew Rollins arrived, coughing into a fist. “Good morning, Lady Ket,” he said, making her and Bennabe jump in surprise. It was as if he’d arrived down the chimney itself!

  She put a hand to her chest. “Ahh, Mr. Rollins. When you said before sunrise, you clearly meant it.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “One thing you may count on, Lady Ket, is me telling you like it is. If I say it so, it so.”

  She nodded. She liked that. She wished everyone was more apt to do so.

  Mr. Rollins reached out to shake Bennabe’s hand. Gideon, Absalom, and Edwin arrived, introductions made. “Where are the rest?” he asked. “Mimba and Sansa? The old slaves are still about, are they not?”

  “I’m here,” Sansa said, emerging again from the smoke, this time armed with a rattan fan.

  “Well, yes,” Ket said, “but I am not quite sure what earthly good they will do us, Mr. Rollins. Mimba has had a cough that seems to stick with him, day and night. Sansa is just regaining her strength—she was terribly thin when we arrived. The others, well, I’d thought we could head to Charlestown today and see about purchasing some new help for Tabletop rather than try to rally the rest. They are in rather poor condition. Perhaps in time …”

  He considered her a moment, twisting his hat in a slow circle between his hands. “That your right, Lady Ket,” he drawled in his relaxed Creole accent, much more pronounced than Mitilda’s, “to do what you think wise. But you see, I brought my own slaves with me today. I can hire them out to you by the day, and since time is of the essence, why don’ we see what we can do with your remaining slaves, plus mine, in the fields? After a day’s work, then we can decide if a trip to Charlestown is the wisest road.”

  It was her turn to consider him. She’d never had a Negro dare to attempt to change her mind. But then this was a man with his manumission papers, a planter in his own right. My new overseer, she reminded herself.

  He was not only demanding her respect,
he deserved it. Just as she sought the same as a planter, did she not?

  “Very well, Mr. Rollins,” she said. “Raise the old slaves from their beds if you can, but please, do not resort to cruelty in order to do so.” It seemed strange to have to warn a former slave of being a harsh master, but she wanted no doubts as to her wishes. “After a bit of a meal,” she rushed on, “I shall join you in the upper field. I presume that is where you wish to begin?”

  He frowned at that, clearly surprised that she knew it was tradition to begin high and work their way down. Or was it that he did not think a white woman’s place was anywhere near the fields?

  As much as she had to learn about Mr. Rollins and his ways, she knew he had an equal amount to learn of her. She remained where she stood, not looking away.

  “Very well, Lady Ket. This is your plantation,” he said.

  “That it is, Mr. Rollins,” she said steadily, willing him to remember that. “I shall follow you all in an hour’s time.”

  ———

  Verity and Selah rose and insisted they accompany her to the upper field. They passed by the trail to the waterfall—which they had yet to explore—and on to the top of the plantation, the butte that had given the place her name.

  Mr. Rollins had roused three of the six other slaves, men named Antony, July, and Meriday, and did indeed have his own already hard at work as well. Keturah drew up on her horse’s reins when she caught sight of Mitilda and the boy Abraham working alongside them. “Well, why would they be here?” she muttered, watching as the line of workers hoed a steady line in the dark soil, the second neat, tidy furrow in the field.

  Following her gaze, Selah said, “Perhaps they merely wish to help,” she tried. “After all, Tabletop is their home too.”

  On the edge, in the far corner, her new overseer was shirtless, his broad black chest already glistening with sweat as he used a machete to chop into an old stand of cane. He bent over to cut each eight-foot stalk into two-foot sections, tossing them in a pile. His nephew, also shirtless, gathered the fragments and carried them over to the furrow, placing them lengthwise in the shallow gulley. It was the child who glimpsed the ladies first. He looked dolefully over at them even as they returned his long look.