Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “That’s right kind of you, Lady Ket.” She gave her a single, graceful nod, her eyes meeting Ket’s in gentle understanding.

  Ket nodded in return, and the woman left, quietly closing the door behind her. Ket sighed. “We’ve just given the neighbors a whole new reason to talk about us and our ways.”

  “Once they’re your guests and have tasted Mitilda’s cooking,” Gray said, lifting a glass in toast, “they shall curse themselves for not hiring her first.”

  This last decision had seemed to sap what little strength she had regained as the stew hit her belly. She reached up and rubbed her forehead.

  “Shall I carry you up to your room?” Gray asked, reaching over to cover her hand with his.

  “No. I shall get Primus to do so. You must be on your way. You can return, on the morrow?”

  “I shall return at sunup,” he promised. Then he rose, bent to kiss her hand, gave an encouraging smile to both the girls, and left.

  The fever reached its apex the next day and then began to recede. In the end, they lost seven slaves and saw them buried together on a small rocky plot near the road that had served such purpose for generations.

  Seeing each of their burial mounds made Ket cry anew, as did Verity and Selah. Meriday. Mack. Ruth. Two she had not even met—Jonathan and Delia. And then Bennabe and Grace. Dear, dear Grace, she thought as tears streamed down her face, remembering her in England and here. Bennabe, helping her so much during those first days on-island. So faithful. So true. I am sorry, dear ones. I am sorry I could not save you.

  When the others from Tabletop and Teller’s Landing had gathered around, Selah prayed sweetly for each of them, and Matthew spoke of their long journey now done and how they were across the great river now. Hope and Sansa had collected buckets of white seashells. Together they spread a line of them down the length of each mound of dirt. Mimba began singing a haunting, mournful song in an African tongue while Antony kept time, striking a stick against a rock. Ket didn’t know if any of the others knew what the words of that song meant, but it was clear enough to all of them. They were saying a sad farewell.

  July and Sansa and Mitilda brought forth pots and utensils that each of the dead had used, now broken, and laid a few on each grave. Looking around the cemetery, Ket could see it was another custom, for the entire plot was scattered with shards of pottery. Two even had broken chairs atop theirs.

  “What is this?” she whispered to Matthew. “Why do they do this?”

  “It is a symbol,” he said, blinking slowly as if trying to remember the reason for a custom he’d seen all his life. “The spirit, now free from its earthly vessel.”

  “Ahh,” Ket said. She liked that. And for the first time she knew she was ready to go to her father’s gravesite over at the parish cemetery. Before now, she had not been. Now she wanted to find something of her father’s, break it, and lay it upon his grave, whispering prayers of hope that he was free and at rest after a lifetime of toil.

  He had done his best. Failed, in obvious ways, but he had loved her and her sisters, loved her mother. Deep down she knew that to be true. And life was so short … did she not wish peace for everyone in her path? Everyone who had crossed it? Everyone who would? Was that not the way of Christ?

  Was it not far less wearisome than carrying resentment and hate and anger and frustration? To wish peace upon them all?

  “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone… .”

  Ket’s eyes moved to Mitilda. Peace, I wish you peace, she thought. As the words moved through her mind, she felt her heart lift, lighten.

  And then she thought of Edward. You never gave me peace. Not a day of it. But I wish you peace, Edward.

  Then of Angus Shubert. You seem intent on disturbing our peace. But I wish you peace, Mr. Shubert.

  Lastly of her father. Rest, Father. Rest in peace. And please … would you greet sweet Grace for us?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “You are practically giddy,” Philip chided Gray as they drove over to Tabletop to escort the women to Nisbet Plantation for their grand island-wide party.

  “I am not,” Gray said. “If there is anything to describe a gentleman, it is never giddy.”

  Philip laughed beneath his breath.

  “Well, all right,” Gray admitted. “Perhaps I am a tad giddy. But can you blame me, man? Our crops are coming along well, and we get to escort the three most beautiful women on-island to this party, one of whom appears to be rather fond of me.”

  “I think they’re all fond of you,” Philip said with a grin. “But yes, one in particular.”

  They rode on in silence for a while, bumping and bouncing over the road.

  “Let this party not end like the one two months ago,” Gray said. Thoughts of that night—how close he had been to losing Ket—still made him shudder.

  “No, no,” Philip said. “That is behind us. Tonight there isn’t a whisper of a storm, only the promise of a big, fat moon reflecting in the sea. It may prove the perfect setting to steal a kiss,” he said, nudging Gray.

  “Why, Philip, I’d never allow you such an intimacy,” Gray said with mock outrage. Philip let out a guffaw and shook his head.

  They’d reached Tabletop and turned down the lane. The slaves came to their cabin doors, eager to see the men in their finery, and Gray nodded or waved to each. He knew they’d come out again when they drove out with the women.

  But when they drove past again, he couldn’t remember seeing them. All he could concentrate on was the thought of Keturah, directly behind him, in a deep-green gown that had the barest hold of each shoulder before plunging in a U-shaped neckline. The skirts of each of their dresses were so wide they could barely fit on the bench side by side. Even so, they had made do, giggling together.

  He was in a new jacket and wig himself, the last one lost in the mudslide. And he’d splurged on new stockings and buckled shoes when in Charlestown, intent on cutting a fine figure if he was to meet all those who held any measure of power on Nevis. The memory of Ket’s expression of admiration when she came to the door battled to win sway over the look of her from head to foot … every inch a lady. And since she was at last free of her splint, he hoped he could convince her to try at least one dance.

  Yes, indeed, I have reason to be giddy this night.

  ———

  Keturah was introduced to Lord and Lady Nisbet, who both greeted her with looks of honest welcome and curiosity. They had been away in England until now. “But we always return in time for the Harvest Moon feast,” Lady Nisbet said. “’Tis a tradition.”

  “A tradition in which we are blessed to take part,” Keturah said, curtsying.

  “Please,” Lord Nisbet said, “the dancing shall begin shortly. Will you be so kind as to escort these ladies down to the beach?” he asked Gray and Philip.

  “Of course,” Gray said.

  “What would the man think if he knew Philip was your servant in England?” Ket whispered to him.

  “It matters not what we were in England,” Gray said. “Any of us. All that matters is what we are here.”

  His words resonated with her. It mattered little that she had once been Edward’s wife, mistress of Clymore Castle. It was true—most were curious about who she was as mistress of Tabletop, and who she intended to be. Other than those who suspected she had a fat inheritance after Edward’s death. If only it had been fatter …

  Ket shoved away her financial worries. She would have been better served not going through the ledgers that morning before preparing for the party. If there was anything that killed a festive spirit, it was thoughts of money and the clarity on how quickly it was being spent.

  Before they reached the sand, they were stopped by a servant who was taking every person’s boots or slippers.

  “How perfectly scandalous,” Verity said.

  “Indeed it is, lass,” said a voice behind them. “But I rather like it.”

  They all turned to greet Captain Dunc
an McKintrick.

  “Why, Captain!” Verity said, bringing a hand to her heart. “You have returned!”

  “Indeed I have,” he said, bowing low over her other hand. “For a precious few nights before I set sail again for England. What good fortune for me to find I was in time for the Nisbet party, knowing you would be in attendance.”

  “Oh,” she said, mouth rounding prettily. “Me?”

  “You and your beautiful sisters,” he added smoothly, finally looking to Ket and Selah. “Do tell me,” he said, settling Verity’s hand through the crook of his arm, “of how things have transpired at Tabletop since we parted company.”

  Keturah and Gray shared a knowing look, and Philip offered Selah a brotherly arm. The men—aside from Captain McKintrick—elected to keep their boots, but as appeared customary, every woman shed her slippers. Perhaps it was because they knew they would soon be full of sand, or perhaps it was that each longed to feel as though a barefoot girl again, carefree. Ket herself relished the cool, damp sand seeping between her toes. It was far better this way. And she had to smile when she glimpsed Captain McKintrick’s bare white feet and calves, skin that had not seen the sun in some time. But the man was smiling too much at Ver to notice how the men—and some of the women—stared and hid grins behind fans.

  Down at the beach, thirty tents had been erected to provide shelter should it rain. It was a rare evening, however, as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Servants in livery rotated among the small gatherings clustered together, offering glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Oysters on the shell, sliced beef tongue, bits of cheese, a square of roasted veal wrapped in pastry …

  “Heavens,” Keturah said, a hand to her belly, “if they keep up with such offerings I shall be quite sated before supper!”

  “Never fear,” Gray said with a smile. “Now with your leg at last healed, I mean to escort you through many dances. I shall do my best to make certain you recover your appetite.”

  She smiled back at him. “Why, thank you, Gray. That is most kind, looking after my needs.”

  “This night my sole hope in the world, m’lady,” he said with a gallant bow and sweep of his hand, “is to dance with you.”

  “I do hope that does not preclude me from a few dances myself,” said a voice behind them.

  Ket turned. It was Jeffrey Weland and his brother, each eyeing her expectantly.

  “Oh, good evening, Mr. Weland,” she said and slipped a hand through the crook of Gray’s arm. “I wish I could accept such a fine invitation, but you see, I have been recently convalescing with a broken leg, so I fear that any of the few dances I can accept this night have been claimed by Mr. Covington alone. I am certain you understand.” She then gave a curtsy and bow of her head.

  “Oh. Of course,” he said with obvious disappointment. “’Tis true, then? Are you two … engaged?”

  Ket glanced at Gray, a hand flying to her cheek. “Oh no, we are not engaged.”

  “I have not yet claimed the lady’s hand,” Gray added swiftly, “but I believe I have done a somewhat admirable job in winning her heart.” He looked to Ket, one brow raised.

  “Somewhat,” she repeated with a teasing grin.

  Gray turned back to the Welands. “It appears I must endeavor to change the lady’s ‘somewhat’ into a fervent ‘completely.’ Good eve, gentlemen,” he finished, leading her away. They angled down the beach to where a platform had been erected, which held an ensemble of musicians. A few couples were already dancing.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing since we departed for Nevis, Gray?” she whispered. “Winning my heart?”

  “I suppose that is a question best answered by you,” he said.

  But as he took her in his arms and they entered the lines of men and women for a folie à huit, as they separated, turned, and came together again and again, the look in her eyes told him what he most needed to know.

  He was not simply in the process of winning her heart. Perhaps, perhaps, he had already won it.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Gray found her a seat when her leg began aching. “Forgive me,” she said. “Standing on tiptoe and hopping is perhaps not the best choice for me. Yet it did feel so grand to dance with you, Gray.”

  “Thank you.” He handed her a glass of champagne. “But I am certain that I am the honored partner. In fact,” he said, leaning closer to her ear, “I believe I am the most admired man here.”

  “Because of your new coat?” she asked, laughing lightly.

  He shook his head. “Because of whom I am honored to escort.”

  They partook of more food—bits of cheese imported from France—and chatted with neighbors from around the island. Apparently many had heard of them, with more than one daring to ask probing questions.

  “I hear tell you created a partnership, sharing labor between your plantations?” asked a gentleman.

  “Some say you decided to plant again, after the mudslide?” asked an imperious Mr. Noland, peering down his long nose at them. “Why not wait until next spring?”

  “Because every month counts,” Keturah replied. “Best to risk it and potentially win than to hold back and count the entire year as a loss, no?”

  “Yes, well, we shall see,” the man sniffed, dismissing her as if she was already bankrupt and on her way back to England.

  “I for one applaud you,” said the handsome Mr. Fredrickson, raising a goblet in her honor. “’Tis always best to gamble on potential rather than bet on failure.”

  Ket smiled at him, and he gave her a sad smile in return. He was the widower she’d met at the Welands’ soiree when she first arrived. Was it her imagination or did their warm exchange agitate Gray? Was he … could he be … jealous?

  “The servants are inviting us to the fires,” Gray said, offering his hand.

  She took it, and together they strode down the beach to a huge bonfire, crackling and sending sparks dancing into the night sky. Servants were roasting filleted fish on long iron stakes. Others soon removed them, cut them into portions, and slid the fish onto the guests’ plates that included small dishes of melted butter. They ate the luscious chunks with their hands and shared looks of delight as they licked their fingers.

  “It is an utterly unorthodox means of eating,” she said.

  “Well, I could become well accustomed to this particular unorthodox method,” he laughed.

  “As could I.”

  Before long, they continued their stroll along the beach, arm in arm. Others were gathering on the far end, away from the fire, awaiting the rising moon. They could see it illuminating Nevis Peak, a warm glow behind its conical silhouette. Servants circulated, pouring champagne. And when the moon finally emerged, the guests cheered. Raucous toasts to the moon, to the island, and to the Nisbets were offered. But as the crowd continued to imbibe, Gray and Keturah set down their goblets and headed back toward the house. It was time to find her sisters and Philip and return home.

  Because tomorrow was a new day, and whilst many of these planters had few cares that had to be addressed before noon, that was not the case for Gray and Keturah.

  They found Verity in earnest conversation with Captain McKintrick and two other men, debating the future of the American colonies’ favor with Britain. “They’d be foolish to stand against the mother country,” Verity was saying. “To whom would they look if France moved against them? Or Spain?”

  “The Americans are gaining strength and numbers year by year,” argued a middle-aged planter. “Who is to say they need the mother country? Perhaps they could defend themselves.”

  “Pshaw,” Verity said. “They are far too young to stand on their own two feet.”

  “Some would say, Miss Verity,” the captain said, “that you and your sisters were too young to do the same. And look at how you have all flourished here!”

  She half scowled, half smiled at him.

  “Speaking of standing on our own two feet,” Ket interjected smoothly, looping her arm through Ve
rity’s, “I think mine are about worn out. Shall we?”

  Captain McKintrick stood slowly as if reluctant to let her go. “May I come and call on ye, lass, on the morrow? Perhaps we can take a stroll, even if your infernal falcon need keep us company?”

  “I would welcome that, Captain.”

  “Good,” he said, bending to kiss her hand. He rose, still holding it, and covered it with his other hand. “I shall look most forward to it.”

  “Until the morrow, then, Captain,” Ket said, taking her sister’s hand from his and leading her away. “I’ll be certain to have a suitable human companion, as well as Brutus, available to chaperone you and my sister.”

  He nodded, giving her a sly smile.

  Now where was Selah? They had not seen her since before they took to the dance floor. Nor Philip. Keturah felt a pang of guilt. What sort of guardian was she? Allowing her youngest sister to flit about a party of this size? She scanned the figures about her, then those in deeper shadow beyond them.

  “Gray, do you see Selah?”

  “No. But do not worry. I asked Philip to keep watch over her.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The girl was probably down at the platform, dancing. Or on the beach and eating fish. They had merely missed her in the crowd.

  But that was before Philip staggered into view, his eye swollen and his nose bleeding.

  “Philip!” Gray cried, rushing to him.

  “They have her, Gray,” the man gasped. “Out by the stables.”

  He didn’t need to say more. She knew whom he meant. So did Gray.

  Angus Shubert had Selah.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  They set off at a run. Fredrickson and McKintrick with Gray. Ket and Verity right behind them.

  They could hear her screaming, crying, before they got close, and the sound of it made Keturah want to scream too. If he had dared to harm Selah, her precious, perfect Selah … well, she would kill the man herself. The girl’s cry was muffled. Men laughed. Then she cried out again.

  Finally, they were there.