by Smith, Skye
Peter saw Britta's hand on the table and stealthfully pushed his card underneath it. "Do you drink coffee?" he asked.
Britta froze. What did he know. She felt sick to her stomach. Did Peter know that she ran the Anchor Coffee Shoppe? Did he then know of her connections to the Caucus Club? She looked around the table nervously, wondering if she should feign sickness and get back to Daniel and the shay.
"Perhaps we can meet this week for an afternoon coffee, just to chat," offered Peter. "I usually take coffee at the British Coffee House. It is a fine establishment."
"I thought that women were not allowed in the gentlemen's salon there," she replied, suddenly interested. Perhaps this was how she could scout her competitors.
"Ah, but they have private rooms upstairs with a separate entrance. I could arrange a room where we could take our coffee in peace and quiet and beyond the view of the gentlemen customers."
The hand was on her knee again, but Britta's attention was now elsewhere. Two of the slave women were signing to each other, using the secret Hoodoo sign language of Black healers and midwives. Britta had learned to sign while she was helping the midwife on Lydia's farm.
She tried to read the signs, but it was taking all of her attention because she hadn't used them for months. She missed some of the message when Peter moved his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh. There was more signing between the women serving, who had now moved further around the table. She had to twist around to read the signs, and with the twist her legs spread a little and Peter took full advantage.
She was trying to figure out the message and trying to fend off Peter's hand, which was difficult without actually making a scene for his hand was now solidly in place between her legs. A serving woman reached in front of her to fill her plate with soup, and thankfully, Peter snatched his hand back. The soup smelled divine, and was a lovely deep amber color, and was very pleasing to the eye once the coriander leaves were sprinkled on top.
The soup, the soup. That was the sign she had missed. There was something in the soup. She looked towards the surprisingly old-looking governor at the head of the table and remembered that this was the man who had twice now crushed the petitions for the rights of slaves in Massachusetts. She wondered what was in the soup, and became fearful. Meanwhile, as the server had now moved on, Peter again dropped his hand into her lap and began burrowing down between her legs.
She stood in a hurry clutching one hand under her breast so firmly that the breast was almost pushed out of her bodice. The women and men were all reaching for soup spoons at the time and they all gave her a look of either interest or lust. The men were all fumbling about in their attempts to rise, since a woman had risen.
"Oh," she said in a surprised voice, "Please stay seated. Some hooks have come loose in my bodice and I must retire to fix it." A slave man stepped behind her to pull the heavy maple chair out her way, and she was quickly standing and moving down the table. "Lydia, could I ask you to help me?" Lydia was already rising at the time.
On their way to the ladies' retirement room Lydia snickered. "What really happened? Did that pig goose you?"
"Yes," Britta answered. "But there is more. Wait until we are beyond ears." Once the door of the retirement room was closed, Britta released her breast. There was nothing wrong with the bodice. "It's the soup. I, ugh," How could she tell Lydia what she knew without mentioning the slaves or the signing. "I had a very real premonition. There is something wrong with the soup. I don't know what, and I don't know if all the soup is wrong or just some portions, but I did not want to risk eating it, and I did not want you to eat it either. "
"Darling, you are being silly."
"Trust me. In any case, neither of us need the soup on our hips. Just trust me. Wait with me here until the others are finished this course."
Lydia nodded, then sat at the dresser and checked her hair. She had lived with this lass and trusted her intuition, or her extra sense, or what ever it was that made her a healer. It would be foolish to question her instincts. On the dresser were stationary and ink bottles. She prepared a plume and then took out a paper from within her bodice and flattened the folds and started to write.
"What are you writing?" asked Britta, while she kept a slow count of the amount of time that was passing.
"I am writing out my recipe for nut loaf for you."
"Nut loaf!" scoffed Britta. "Your nut loaf! You got that recipe from me. The only change you ever made to it was to add the candied ginger that I could never afford in England."
"Fool," Lydia said kindly, and then flipped over the paper she was writing on. It was Red's guest list. "How will you explain having this in your bodice if you don't need a recipe for nut loaf?"
Britta's eyes grew wide. "How did you know?"
"Why else would Samuel Adams have allowed you to come here? They need information. It was not a great leap in thinking to offer you this list." She finished writing the recipe and then refolded the paper and handed it to Britta. She held it tight so Britta could not pull it out of her fingers. "Tell Samuel that I will spy for him on one condition."
"Spy? Who said anything about spying?" asked Britta, but Lydia gave her such a cold stare that she felt foolish having said it. Lydia knew all of the Caucus, had sat with them, had talked with them, and had listened in at their meetings. "What is the condition?"
"That whatever happens, my family will be safe." Lydia stared at the lass. "I am pressing Red to leave, soon, but he has greed in his eyes. Meanwhile, this town is like a keg of gunpowder looking for a spark. I want no part of it. I will spy for them, but our lives must never be put at risk."
"Do you trust the Caucus?"
"I know too much about them. I have no choice but to spy for them, and they have no choice but to protect me. The only trust I need is to trust that there will be no treachery."
Britta leaned back against the wall and thought. Was this the real reason why she was allowed to come? Not to be the spy herself, but to recruit Lydia. She felt so naive, so used. She reached her count. "Come, they will have finished their soup and will be looking for us."
* * * * *
The gracious evening of dining and visiting was ruined. It started during dessert with some ripe-smelling wind, and then by a few men holding their stomachs and running to their rooms. The men seemed to be more affected than the women, probably because none of the women needed that rich soup added to their hips and so had taken the merest tastes out of politeness. Britta and Lydia were unaffected but feigned the same distress as other lightly-affected women.
Neither knew for sure that it was the soup. They had both eaten very lightly of everything else, and had not touched anything with heavy sauces. There was good news with the bad. Peter had pigged his food, and was the first man to leave the table. Red also rushed to his room, feeling very unsexual.
Lydia sighed, "Typical, now we don't have my room to retire to for our visit." She grabbed Britta and led her through the house to a small den near the back. When they got there they found a couple had already claimed it. "Are you not ill?" she asked. When the man turned to her to answer she said, "Oh, of course not. You wouldn't have eaten the soup, Mr. Lopez."
"We also think it was the soup," said his wife, "and you, Lydia, you missed the soup while you were helping this young woman." She gave Britta an appraising look. "Here child. Sit beside me. Benedict likely has business to discuss with Lydia."
Britta had no choice. Lydia had already sat very close to Benedict. Whatever business they were whispering about included him putting his hand on her knee. Britta arranged her gown and then sat. The wife leaned close. She was in her early forties perhaps. Her husband perhaps a few years older. Of all the women at the banquet, her gown was the plainest. Now seeing it up close, Britta could see that it was plain, yes, but well made from costly fabrics.
"You are very lovely, my child," the wife began. "Oh, excuse me. I am Maria Lopez of the Newport Lopez’s." She held out her hand, and when the girl clasped it, she held on. "You
must be the young woman who took over Lydia's shop. I did not realize how young you were. No older than my daughter. Eighteen perhaps?"
"Just eighteen," Britta replied. "Last year I was a redemptioner and Lydia's bond servant, but now my brother and I run the shop." She did not name the shop or its business, for that information could cause problems in this house. The son of the governor must know of the Anchor's clientele.
"And you are not married?"
"I am engaged, but the marriage is delayed until my Jim graduates from Harvard," Britta answered. "His mother demanded it."
"Ah, say no more. A Puritan family, no doubt. His mother thinks that you are not good enough for him because your people did not arrive on the Mayflower, and because you were a bond servant and therefore immoral."
Britta did not like this talk so she tried to change subjects. "Doesn't it bother you that you husband is so, er, comfortable with Lydia?"
"Why would it? She is respectably married and has already given her husband an heir. If this were Paris or London, or even Newport, she would be the favorite of many a man. No, he is quite safe with her. Besides, the attentions of such a pretty woman will keep him feeling young. Feeling young and being young are almost the same thing. Now if he had his hand on your knee I would worry. Unwed, childless women are a dire threat to old wives like me."
"So you are not feeling jealousy or rejection?" asked Britta skeptically.
"When we were in Jamaica, I chose his mistress. A bond girl a bit older than you, and not nearly so comely. If he hid his little dalliances, then I would be upset, but how can I be upset when he asks my help in choosing his women?" Maria looked into Britta's eyes and got lost in them. She wished there was more light in this room, for they seemed to be changing colors. "If I ordered tea would you share it with me?"
Maria did not wait for an answer but motioned to the maid, her own maid, and sent her to find tea. She then reached into her husband's breast pocket and pulled a small card from it. "You must visit me at my Boston house," she said as she handed it to Britta.
"I thought you were from Newport?" asked Britta.
"Our family is based in Newport, but we must live in Boston until my husband achieves citizenship. Rhode Island refused it to him. Besides, the family needed someone trustworthy here so we could expand our business interests into Boston."
"Do I need to achieve citizenship?" Britta asked suddenly worried that she had neglected a duty.
"Not if you came here from England. We came from Portugal by way of Jamaica."
"Ahh," said Britta, "That explains your dark complexions. Is that why Lydia said that you didn't eat the soup. Do Portugal people not eat soup?"
Maria held her hand in front of her chuckle so as not to offend the young thing. "The Portuguese make the finest of soups. No, it was because tonight's soup contained bacon, and pork is one of the foods that we do not eat."
"Oh, like the Mussulmen." Britta put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, are you Mussulmen?"
"No child, we are Marranos."
"Same God, different Bible?" Britta asked.
"Well put. Yes, very well put." Maria was enjoying the simple charm of this woman. "I would like you to visit our house and meet my son and my daughter. And soon, because Benedict's papers will be ready soon, and then we will all visit England. Do you know Bristol?"
"I lived near to Bristol before we came here. It is much bigger than Boston but more similar than different. It is a city of ships and ship owners and merchants." Britta thought about Ruth's ambition that Jim marry into titled people. "Are you taking your son there to have him marry into a title?"
"My daughter, yes. A son cannot marry a title. The titles follow the male heirs."
"But my Jim's mother is hoping we break up so that he is free to marry into nobility."
"She is a fool then, and you are a fool to believe her. She is certainly a fool for not grabbing hold of you as another daughter. I would joyfully have you marry my son and join our household. Yes, come to my house and meet him. If you marry him quickly you can travel to Bristol with us."
"How can you say these things?" complained Britta. "We have just met."
"Just met, and I have been holding your hand the whole time. Your hand tells me everything I need to know. You are a useful woman, not just a decoration to adorn a man's arm. My son will not see past your beauty until he is older, but I see past it, here and now, through your hand."
"But I know nothing of you either," whispered Britta. "Your family is from Newport and obviously wealthy. I don't know if I would like Newport. It must be a strange place with all those slave pens."
"Slave pens?" Maria replied, "there are no slave pens. There are no slave markets in Newport. They are in Guinea and in Jamaica. Newport is where we live. A wise bird does not foul his own nest."
"But there must be many slaves in Newport."
"If there are more slaves in Newport than Boston it is because there are so many physicians," Maria said
"Physicians, ah, of course. The opium trade."
Maria changed her grip on the girl's hand. She had the touch, she was sure of it. She felt a warmth, a goodness from her hand that was not just of blood and skin. "Our physicians are not like Harvard physicians. Their knowledge is much older, much wiser, and they do not abuse the usefulness of opium. It is against their oath to do harm. Why, they do not even set the cost of a consultation. It is the patient who must decide the worth."
"I also took an oath to do no harm," said Britta. She could tell that Maria was going to interrupt her with the obvious question so she did not take a breath before she asked, "Then how do they make their living?"
Maria didn't know whether to answer the question or to ask her about her oath. She rubbed the girl's hand and decided she did not need to ask. Of course she was a healer. "There are slaves that remain unsold because of sickness or injury. Our ships bring them to Newport and sell them very cheaply to our physicians. The physicians cure them if they can, and then put them up for sale at a good profit."
There was no response from the girl so she continued. "If you marry my son, I will arrange for our physician to explain our method of healing to you. It will keep you busy while you carry his first child."
Britta's mind was thinking many things at once and it was confusing her. She sat and retreated into silence. Physicians who bought and sold slaves. Wouldn't that be against their oath? Maria, how could she be so nice and yet talk of slaves as if they were animals? Why did she keep pressing the idea of marriage to her son? A slave-trading family. Could she become part of a slave-trading family? Benedict's words brought her back to the lavish sitting room.
"Come, my dear," he said to Maria after kissing Lydia's hand. "We should go home. It seems that no other men will be talking business with me tonight."
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA'S AURA - Destroy the Tea Party by Skye Smith
Chapter 19 - The Marranos
Britta was quite impressed with the older banking couple from Newport. After Benedict and Maria had left, she had many questions about them and Lydia seemed to know all the answers. "They are still using their Papist names. They will start using their Hebrew names with their citizenship papers. Of course, neither sets of names inure them to the Anglicans or the Puritans, so they keep to themselves except for business."
"So where is the kingdom of Marrano? Is it near to Spain?" asked Britta.
Lydia choked on her sip of tea. "You didn't call Maria that, did you? It would be like calling her a shylock."
"She used it, not me. I just assumed it was the country they came from."
"Marranos are Spanish or Portuguese Jews who were forced to pretend to be good Papists to save their lives. Eventually they fled those countries and a lot of them ended up in Jamaica, and then in Newport. There are other Jewish people in New York, but they came from Holland."
"How do you know all this?" Britta asked "How do you know the Lopez’s?"
"Love, one ca
nnot be a slaver in New England without knowing about Newport and the Lopez family and Marranos. Without them the English sugar islands and these English provinces would be much poorer places. It was their knowledge of growing sugar, and distilling rum, and maps, and winds, and currents, and the slave markets of Africa, that built the Empire's sugar industry. They are owed many favors by many wealthy Brits."
Britta went thoughtful as she poured more tea for Lydia. They sat very close so they could whisper if need be, and they took advantage of their time together to talk of everything from the farm and the Blacks and the Eagle Valley, to the shop and the correspondence committees and the demonstrations in the streets of Boston.
"The soup. Who and why?" Lydia asked Britta, after they had caught up on news and gossip.
"I can only guess that some of the slaves were angry with the governor and decided to ruin his victory celebration for his big win with the Company. He has refused the slaves of this province the protection of basic human rights. It is a good guess, but there is no way of knowing for sure."
"What do you think they used?" Lydia asked, more for future reference than curiosity. "I suppose it didn't have to be the soup to spare the women. The women do not usually eat venison or other game meat, while men rarely choose poultry if there is venison on the table."
"Pig shit perhaps," Britta said. "One should never anger the person who is serving your food. It is so easy to tamper with food, especially sauces with strong flavors," and then she laughed. "No, it could not be pig shit, else that pig Peter would not have been affected." She calmed her laughter and then asked, "So, what is Red's business with these men."
"There is a massive transfer of wealth underway in this province. From workers to moneylenders, from professions to bankers, from smugglers to the Company's shippers, from the smuggler's merchants to the Company's consignee merchants," explained Lydia. "Red wants to become more than a moneylender. He wants to become a banker to the new rich.
The consignees need money, a lot of money, and soon, to get ready for the first of the Company's first consignments. He wants to be the banker for at least one of them. A silent partner if you will. He believes that if he can make a big win from the consignees now, then when all the smuggler merchants are forced to sell their assets at low prices, he will increase his new wealth tenfold. Tenfold. He will be wealthy beyond avarice. Of course, if the Company cancels their new consignees, then he will lose everything."