Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Jeffrey Weland appeared before them, escorting his sister, Esmerelda. “Lady Tomlinson,” he said, bowing before her. “I am glad to see you again. You have been frightfully absent of late from our gatherings.”

  She considered him. His tone held a measure of both chastisement and hurt. “I fear I have been most taxed of late, Mr. Weland, with the running of my estate. Have you been introduced to my friend and partner, Mr. Gray Covington?”

  The two men greeted each other, and by their paltry exchange, she quickly saw that they had met before—and both thought the other somehow lacking. Or was it a measure of competition she sensed between them?

  Her scalp tingled. She chastised herself for feeling some pleasure over it. You need not men to be vying for you, Ket. You need no man!

  And yet her eyes moved to Gray as he turned to speak to Esmerelda Weland. The thoughtful question he asked her, the teasing quirk of his lips. Clearly the girl was flirting, but he seamlessly drew Selah into conversation with her and smoothly turned back to Ket and Jeffrey Weland, as if she were his first priority.

  “I hear tell you purchased a fair number of new slaves,” Jeffrey said. “How are you finding it, keeping them all fed? ’Tis a challenge for most new planters.” There was something smug in the way he said it. Did he assume she would fail in her endeavor?

  “Actually, Mr. Covington and I are sharing our field hands,” she said. “So together we have found our way through. That said—to assist with our needs—I am considering planting an acre of corn, each stalk with a fish and squash seed too. I’ve heard tell that is how the Indians of the Americas do it. Considering the cost of corn and grain, I have a difficult time believing it would not pay off well, in time.”

  Jeffrey scoffed at this, but Gray turned toward her. “Why, Ket, that’s brilliant!” Clearly he had learned of the method too—a stalk of corn, surrounded by a squash vine, and the whole mound fertilized with a big, fat fish.

  “Don’t you agree?” she asked, flashing him a grin. “What might it cost us? Seed corn, squash seed … we have plenty of fish on-island.”

  “Cost you?” Jeffrey guffawed. “It would cost you the bounty that acre of land would produce in sugar! Perhaps you don’t have a head for numbers.”

  Ket stiffened. “I do have a head for numbers.”

  “And far more,” Gray put in approvingly. “I believe that Teller’s Landing shall do as Tabletop does and try this method of planting food crops. Surely it cannot hurt. Now if you will excuse us, Mr. Weland,” he said smoothly, taking her arm again with some gentle sense of claim, a claim to which Keturah found she did not wish to object, “it appears Lady Reynolds would like for us to take our seats now.”

  The guests were led to long tables that extended from the dining room through the Reynolds’ front parlor, covered in white linen and lined with fifty finely crafted chairs. Ket shared a glance with Verity and Selah, having not seen such a finely set table since they had left Rivenshire. There was silver cutlery beside china plates, crystal goblets, candles and flower arrangements placed between every four settings. The room was filled with the heavenly fragrance of orange blossoms and hyacinth, magnolia and jasmine, all carried on a heady scent of beeswax.

  Beeswax candles, Keturah thought, instantly transported by a different scent that was purely home. The far more common oily tallow candle was what most Nevisian homes used—certainly at Tabletop where every penny was counted. But as they were seated and the wine began to flow and platter after platter of food was served, she could see that pennies were not counted in this house, only social cachet.

  Do they know how their overseer is undermining them? Or is Shubert just what they want? she wondered, glancing over to where Lord and Lady Reynolds were seated. Was he a carefully selected part of their orchestra, directed by them? Left to guard how things were done on Nevis and make certain it remained the same in their absence? Or were they blissfully unaware of his brutish ways? Was it more his cause than theirs to keep things as they had always been on-island?

  Conversation came faster as the evening wore on, laughter more boisterous. Through it all, Ket became more and more aware of Gray, observing it all as he was, as if cataloguing it for future reference. He made polite conversation with the lady at his right—an older widow who giggled like a schoolgirl whenever he made a clever comment—and engaged Mr. and Mrs. Malone, a planter and his wife from the southern part of the island, with conversation about their crops. They had dared to plant a portion of indigo this year, rather than all sugar, as the majority of planters favored. Even with declining profits, sugar was still the best bet, and yet fortunately demand for indigo was high with a blight rampant in India causing a shortage, which gave Malone hopes of a fine return.

  Gray grew animated with such talk as they moved on to the island’s history with cotton, ginger, and tobacco, none of which had ever been particularly successful, at least as compared with the Carolinas and elsewhere. There were some who had tried wheat, given the expense of importing it from America. But again, acre for acre, sugar ruled. Ket thought this reassuring, especially as she remembered her work-roughened hands hidden beneath her gloves. After all their work planting, she prayed it would pay, and pay well. But she knew they had months now to wait and see.

  They were halfway through their dessert—something called a “Lemon Cloud”—when the first gusts of wind began blowing through the open dining room. Most of the candles were snuffed out, immediately plunging the room into relative darkness. The guests seemed to collectively hold their breath, hoping as one that it was an anomaly, a memory of some distant storm finally making its way to shore. But another gust blew through then that extinguished the remaining candles. Servants rushed in with lamps, covered by glass, but everyone was on their feet at once. Keturah felt their alarm, but why? What was it? Surely storms were common on Nevis. It rained practically every night as they slept.

  But women were calling to servants to fetch wraps and their husbands’ coats. Everyone seemed to be in motion at once, hurriedly exchanging their farewells. Keturah blinked, surprised that the Reynolds did not seem offended by their guests’ hasty preparations to abandon what had been one of the most elaborate dinner parties of her life. Yet men were laughing and talking about the “storm of sixty-four,” others grumbling that it “best not be a hurricane.”

  A hurricane? Memories of her father’s journal, his reports of all but half the house destroyed, sent a chill down her spine. Oh no. Not now, Lord. Not ever. Please …

  Gray ushered her out to the front of the manor, where servants had already lined up carriages and wagons and horses, clearly noting the storm before the guests inside recognized one was brewing. The first carriage was quickly loaded and moving, flicking whips over horses’ backs, urging them to pick up their pace. Some of the guests were staying over, Ket realized, perhaps too far from home—like the Malones—to safely return without the light of the moon to guide them.

  Their own wagon was in the middle of the pack, and the first heavy drops of rain had begun to fall when the girls climbed in with Ket. Philip threw a canvas tarp across their shoulders, and the sisters pulled it over their heads, vainly hoping to save their best dresses from the downpour to come. Gray turned as the wagon lurched forward and handed his powdered wig to her. “Here,” he said with a grin, “keep that under wraps too, would you?”

  “Yes,” she said, placing the perfect white mound of curls on her lap while sneaking a look at his slicked-back dark waves. As dashing as he appeared in his wig, she preferred him this way—the way she saw him in the field or lounging on her front porch after a long day. It was more Gray, somehow. More of her Gray, rather than some version of the quintessential British gentleman she’d seen this night. She wanted to see more of who Gray was now, not more of who her countrymen wanted him to be or what she remembered. It made her feel closer to him.

  She caught herself with the embarrassing thought and was glad for the cover of the canvas and darkness and rain that
might have betrayed her blush. She needed to stop her silly infatuation, once and for all, because where could it possibly lead? Her arrangement with Gray—their steadfast friendship, their partnership as neighboring planters—why, it was as ideal and chaste as she could hope for. To consider anything else was to invite trouble.

  Still … she reluctantly admitted to herself that she had been disappointed the party had come to such an abrupt end before the promised dancing had begun. Because she had wondered what it would be like to dance with Gray.

  Not as a new debutante, anxiously awaiting her old friend to look her way. Not as another’s bride, anxious her husband would see. But here. After all they had been through together, from the moment they had embarked upon the Restoration to becoming neighbors and fellow planters on Nevis. She’d like to experience Gray bowing, taking her hand, leading her to the dance floor and then into his arms … What would it have been like to have him look down at her in all her finery for once, rather than in her sweat-soaked day dress?

  Memory of him calling her captivating warmed her cheeks.

  Stop, Keturah. Stop. He was a friend, nothing more. He could not be anything more. Even if he did have different intentions, it wasn’t seemly, proper to be imagining such things.

  Still, her thoughts strayed to Gray’s finances. Was he even in a position to offer for a wife? She thought not. He’d poured his all into Teller’s Landing. His past. His future.

  Such idle imaginings! she reprimanded herself. Haven’t you declared that you shall be no one’s wife ever again? Haven’t you sworn that no man shall ever lord over you?

  The rain was pounding down now, but she peeked out to see Philip say something to Gray, and Gray laugh heartily. Primus lifted a rod with a covered lantern high and far ahead of them, doing his best to give Philip light for the road. They had slowed down to a lazy walk, fearing a hole in the road that might cost them a wheel.

  Rivulets of water formed along the road, which soon created gullies. Another gust of wind came through—so mighty that it ripped the girls’ tarp from their hands. Selah screamed, and Keturah groaned as it went sailing into the dark sheets of rain, knowing her beautiful bronze dress would be ruined in moments.

  But she could not help herself. She laughed and looked up to the sky, feeling the rain drench her face and hair and shoulders. There was something exhilarating about it all, wild, as if beckoning her. Despite the wind and water, it was still warm.

  Her sisters continued to try to vainly cover themselves with their hands—a patently hopeless endeavor—and Gray gallantly shrugged out of his soaked coat and offered it to them. He looked at Keturah, and even though his face was in too-deep a shadow to make out, she could feel his warm gaze on her. Again, she could not help it—she grinned as she remembered him admiring her smile and wanting to encourage that admiration further.

  Perhaps I am going mad, she thought.

  But she didn’t feel like she was going mad. She felt curious, more hopeful, more alive than ever. And as long as this was merely a tropical storm and not a hurricane, she believed all would be well enough come morn.

  That was her thought, right before lightning cracked, thunder rolled, and then a most terrible, foreign, mucky sound filled her ears.

  “What is that?” she cried, glancing up the mountain. As lightning flashed again, a horrible sight filled her vision. The trees and rocks were … moving.

  “Mudslide!” Gray called. “Hold on!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Gray seized the whip and reins from Philip. He’d read of mudslides in the tropics, which could bury houses and fields and carry bodies miles to the sea. If he was to save them all, as well as the horses, they had no choice but to ignore caution and hasten up the road as fast as they could. What did he have? A minute? Seconds?

  They bounced and whipped back and forth, Selah and Verity yelping and crying out. Keturah remained so silent he feared she’d fallen off, but he dared not look. She was there. She had to be! He fought to see anything he could in the torrent of rain but with little success. They struggled to climb the hill in time, nearly reaching its apex before the mud swept past and caught them, sucking in their rear wheels, pulling them backward.

  “Jump!” he cried to those behind him. “Get off the wagon! Past the flow of the mud!” He hoped they all could hear him over the buffeting wind.

  He dived forward, astride one of the horses, reaching to release buckles and ties that kept them secured to the wagon. He’d spent hundreds of pounds to buy four for the estate—he couldn’t see two taken from him this night. The team tried to hold the wagon in place, digging in when they felt it slipping. But then the mud was gathering around their legs. Theo, the stallion beneath him, faltered, nearly lost his footing, but then Gray finally had him free.

  Palms rustled and rattled in the fierce wind, and rain splattered against their broad leaves. But louder was the terrifying sound of earth moving and sliding and sloshing past. Never had he heard anything so ghastly.

  Gray turned to the mare Gussy, panicked now, as she fought the awkward twisting of the wagon behind her—the slow, terrible slide. He climbed astride her and forced himself to do what he had done with the first, reaching for straps and belts he could feel but not see. In another few seconds, the mare was free, and he rode her to safety. A flash of lightning allowed him to see the wagon rise five feet on a mound of mud, then ten, before disappearing in the darkness. Gussy heaved, stumbled, regained her feet, then heaved again, struggling to make her way through the swiftly moving muddy water.

  Then the earth abruptly came to a slurping, slow stop. All around him the storm still raged, but with each lightning strike he became more convinced the worst was over.

  If his companions had made it to safety …

  He urged the mare higher, back to the road, hoping he would find the girls where he’d shouted at them to jump. But no one awaited him. “Keturah!” he yelled. “Verity! Selah! Philip! Primus!”

  But the only response was the keening cry of the wind.

  Gray tried to remain calm as he set about searching the hill at the edge of the slide in a methodical manner. Not wanting to risk Gussy breaking a leg, he left her tethered to a tree and walked it himself. A few minutes later, the storm finally passed, and the moon illuminated the soaked forest about him. He called for one after another of his companions, his heart in his throat. Was he the only survivor? Please, God, no. Over and over he shouted their names.

  “Over here!” Philip called out at last, sounding weak. Gray slogged his way toward the man—frustratingly slow through calf-deep slippery mud—and found him stuck against the base of a banyan tree.

  “Are you all right, man?” Gray said, digging madly at the mud to try to free his friend. One of Philip’s arms was completely buried, as were his legs.

  “Better in a moment when you get me loose of this muck,” he said.

  Gray frowned as he dug and flung the mud away, realizing how perilously close it came to completely drowning Philip. “Keturah!” he shouted. “Verity! Selah!”

  But the forest remained eerily silent. Even the crickets seemed to have taken cover.

  Gray’s heart thundered—half from physical effort, half from fear. If the mud had so nearly swallowed Philip, what of the women? And where was Primus? The stallion? As if he’d sensed his thoughts, the stallion whinnied. He was somewhat near.

  He got Philip mostly uncovered and grabbed hold of his hand. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” he responded, understanding that he aimed to pry him the rest of the way out. Over the weeks of working together at Teller’s Landing, they’d become accustomed to communicating in shorthand.

  Gray rose, settled his boots against the roots of the banyan, took a firmer grip on his friend’s hands and pulled. The mud held, as if jealously guarding its prize, but then seconds later relinquished him. He slid to the surface, panting. If he alone was in danger, Gray would have laughed. But the mud seemed to become more compact, more den
se with every moment that passed. What if the others were similarly trapped?

  “Keturah!” bellowed Gray. “Verity! Primus! Selah!”

  “Over here!” called a feminine voice. Selah, he thought.

  “I’ll go to her,” Philip said. “You keep looking for the others.”

  He knew whose voice Gray most wanted to hear. He shoved away a sense of guilt at the thought. But he called for the others first. “Verity! Primus! Keturah!”

  A man yelled from what seemed an impossible distance. Could they have possibly been carried that far?

  “Primus?”

  “Over here! I am all right!” the man called, his voice seeming to grow stronger.

  Gray said a brief prayer of thanks. He slipped, found new footing among a pair of boulders, and climbed atop them. “Verity! Keturah!”

  “Gray!” called a voice, again from a good distance toward the sea. “Gray, I’m here!”

  Verity.

  “Verity! Is Keturah with you?” he yelled.

  “No! Gray!” Terror now laced her tone too. “I do not know where she is! What of Selah?”

  “We found her! Can you make your way back to us?”

  “I … I think not!”

  “Stay where you are. I’m coming!” he called. It was just as well; if he found Ver, perhaps Keturah was somewhere nearby. But why was she not responding? Panic made his mouth dry even as sweat ran down his face. He pulled off his torn and mud-caked jacket and tossed it aside. It would not matter if even a skilled washerwoman took it repeatedly between board and paddle, there would be no way to make it suitable again.

  The monkeys, birds, and cicadas were beginning to find their voices. High above and in the trees that divided Red Rock from Tabletop, chirps and whistles began to sound. “Keturah!” he shouted, still making his way toward Verity. He feared that if the jungle’s chorus reached its nightly zenith, he might not hear her if she was injured or faint. “Keturah!”