“Wouldn’t that be somewhat unorthodox?” Alex asked. “The daughter of a slave to wed a slave owner?”
Matthew hitched his shoulders. The lass was exquisite, and any red-blooded male would not see much beyond that.
“No, of course not,” Alex agreed a bit too sharply. “Men are ruled by their cocks, not their brains, right?”
“Oh aye,” Matthew said, “had I been thinking when I met you—” The rest of what he planned to say was lost in a squawk when she walloped him over the head with one of the pillows.
*
“How long will it take?” Matthew asked next day. He was restless, had been up since before dawn, and now it was well after eight, and they should make haste.
“A day and a half,” Mr Hendrijks said, “on foot, that is. Riding will be somewhat quicker – you can easily cover the distance within a day.”
He helped them rent a couple of mounts and wished them a hasty Godspeed before hurrying back to the harbour. Two new Dutch slavers, he threw over his shoulder, and then there was the English ship, arrived with merchandise of all kinds: wines, tea, silks and linens, furniture and books. Alex waved to him and went back to inspecting the horse she was supposed to ride.
“I don’t like her,” she said, “and look at how she rolls her eyes. She doesn’t like me either.”
“I can take you on a leading rein,” Matthew suggested, irritated by this unnecessary delay.
Alex gave him a glacial look. “That won’t be necessary,” she told him, and swung unaided into the saddle.
For the first few miles, they rode through smallholdings, dusty little places where former bond servants and indentures attempted to scrape a living out of soil that stood like red clouds around them when they worked the ground. Small neat gardens, scraggly fields of barley and tobacco, here and there a rose that wilted in the fierce heat…houses that reminded Matthew of Scottish crofts – small, dark and probably insufferably hot in the tropical heat. Most of the little farms seemed to be populated by the sum total of one very lonely white male, and Matthew made sure his pistol was on prominent display as they passed man after man that devoured Alex with their eyes.
Since some hours, the small farms had been left behind. They seemed to be in some sort of forest, with far too many tall trees and too much exuberant greenery around them. Matthew’s skin itched. The path twisted and turned, and he couldn’t see much more than a couple of yards ahead. Even here, in the shade, the heat was such it plastered his shirt to his skin. The bark of the trees bristled with evil-looking thorns, creepers hung like giant cobwebs over the path, and only in glimpses could he see the sky.
“I don’t like this. What if a giant python just drops off a tree to strangle us to death? Or a panther.” Alex threw a nervous look at their surroundings.
“They don’t have snakes here, as I hear it, and as to big cats, I find it most unlikely. Too swampy.” The air reeked of stagnant water and dark mud.
“Crocodiles?” Alex said.
“Alex,” Matthew sighed, exasperated. “You worry—” He never got to finish, wheeling towards the sound of breaking branches. Something the size of a small catamount rushed across the road. Alex’s horse decided this was quite enough and bucked one, twice, thrice. Alex landed with a grunt on the ground, and the skittish mare took off, back the way they’d come. By the time Matthew had verified Alex was alright, the horse was long gone, forcing them to share a mount for the rest of the way.
Chapter 28
“In all probability, a feral pig,” Mr Sassafras Brown said once they had made it up his lane – a beautiful lane bordered on the one side by cedars, as yet very young, and on the other by sunflowers, their yellow heads dipping under their weight. “The half-grown pigs escape now and then – quite the nuisance they are.”
He regarded them with open curiosity, eyes resting for a bit too long on Alex’s chest. “I hope you weren’t seriously hurt, ma’am,” he said, motioning at the dirt stains on Alex’s skirts. For a few seconds, his eyes lingered on Matthew’s sword, his pistol.
“No,” Alex said with a stiff smile. Her hip was hurting like hell, and she longed for hot water and soap, but for now it could wait. When he inquired if he could perhaps offer them a cool drink, something to calm Mrs Graham’s ruffled nerves, she smiled her acceptance and followed him as he led the way to the veranda.
Alex sipped at what she took to be guava juice, liberally spiked with cane liquor, and smiled yet again in the direction of Mr Brown. She wasn’t quite sure how to behave around this exceedingly polite young man with his elegant clothes and inquisitive eyes. It was obvious he was waiting for them to explain the reason for their visit, equally apparent that Matthew was uncertain how to broach the subject, choosing instead to submit Mr Brown to a series of questions about his plantation and its yield, every now and then making adequately impressed noises.
The subject broached itself when the slaves returned from the field, just as dusk was gathering along the fringe of untamed jungle that bordered the further end of the yard. Alex’s gaze flew to the men, and unerringly locked on the tallest of them, undeniably white despite the dark tone of his skin. She couldn’t rightly make out either hair or eyes, but she could see her own sons, her man, in the set of the shoulders, and was convinced this was him: this was Charlie Graham. Beside her, she heard Matthew’s indrawn breath, near on a moan, and in his chair Mr Brown tensed, dark eyes boring into Matthew before flying over to the slaves.
Alex held the subject at bay for some further minutes, inquiring how Mr Brown had come to have such an unusual name. Not that she was at all interested, but she wanted to give Matthew some minutes to collect himself, and also it seemed polite to show some interest in their host.
“My father,” Mr Brown said with something of a pout on his well-formed lips. “He was very fond of trees – and anything that grew.” He waved his hand in the direction of the sunflowers – a product of his father’s eager plant collecting, he explained.
“Like mine.” Alex nodded sympathetically. “I was dragged off to look at flowers far more often than I wanted to.”
Mr Brown smiled at her, and used one finger to loosen his cravat from his skin. Quite dirty skin, and despite a pervasive scent of lavender, the ripe undertones of sweat, urine and sheer grime wafted in drifting waves from the planter, making Alex suppress an urge to wrinkle her nose.
“But he didn’t name you for his darling plants. While I am Sassafras, my brother is Cedar and my sister was Magnolia.”
A heavy silence fell. Alex finished her drink and massaged her swollen ankle. She had landed awkwardly with her foot beneath her, and she worried it might be sprained. With a mumbled excuse she stood, making for their satchel that Matthew had left at the doorway to the veranda.
*
Matthew noted Alex’s slight limp as she crossed the few yards, and even more he registered Mr Brown’s near on rude inspection of his wife’s posterior as she bent over. He was on the verge of reprimanding their young host when Mr Brown abruptly turned to face him.
“It’s not that I wish to seem inhospitable, but rarely do I have people riding up from Bridgetown to see me, and even more rarely people I don’t know. So, if you don’t mind me asking, sir, what exactly is your business?”
Matthew took a big breath and downed the last of his drink. “It’s a matter concerning one of your indentures.” Matthew spoke at length, ensuring he underlined repeatedly how young Charlie was, a lad no more. From Mr Brown’s bored expression, this made no major impression, and once Matthew was done, Mr Brown sat back, spending several minutes rearranging the folds of lace that flowed down the front of his brocade waistcoat, fiddling further with his lavish cuffs. He gave Alex a fleeting smile when she rejoined them before returning his attention to Matthew.
“I’m not sure I want to sell him. I’ll get a couple of years of work out of him before he sickens and dies. Nor am I sure I should sell him – at least not to you. You’re his uncle.”
&nb
sp; Matthew nodded that aye, he was.
“He’s here on account of being a traitor to his king. His sentence was one of servitude until death. To allow you to buy him is to subvert the course of justice.”
“I told you, he’s a lad,” Matthew said, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. “A youngster led astray by his seniors.”
“Ah.” The planter looked him up and down, let his eyes drop over to Alex, shifted them back to Matthew, and there was a gleam in them, a lurking amusement. “Besides, it’ll make Big George unhappy to have him go.”
“George?” Matthew wasn’t quite sure he had heard correctly.
The planter nodded in the direction of a large, solidly built black man, well over six feet four and with hands the size of frying pans presently crossing the yard.
“My best slave; enjoys having his personal servant – and white at that.” Mr Brown chuckled and waggled his brows.
Matthew clenched his hands around the need to hurt the popinjay before him.
Mr Brown got to his feet and edged away, as if aware of the explosive anger surging through Matthew. “Let us repair inside,” he said, “before we’re eaten alive by the mosquitoes.”
He led them into a library that made Alex exclaim. Matthew was not quite as impressed, for all that there were more books here than he had ever seen before. No, instead he smelled mildew and dust, and he suspected most of the tomes would be filmed by a green fuzz should he take them down from their shelves. In pride of place stood a small gaming table on which stood a chessboard.
“I’ll play you for him,” Mr Brown said, a strong square nail tapping at the chessboard.
“You’ll play me?” Matthew echoed.
The planter scratched himself on his chest and nodded, yawning hugely. “Hot, isn’t it,” he commented, “and hotter it will be before the summer is done.” He twisted a pawn in his hand. “So what say you?”
“What are the stakes?” Matthew asked, not at all liking the way those dark eyes lingered on Alex.
“What? Oh yes, well, I suppose there must be an element of risk in it.” Mr Brown grinned and jerked his head at Alex. “If you lose, she stays here overnight.” He scratched himself again and tilted his head, waiting.
“She stays here overnight?” Matthew felt the weight of his sword against his leg, and calculated how many strokes it would take to lop Mr Brown’s head from his neck.
The planter nodded and threw a speculative look at Matthew. “It all depends on how you rate your nephew’s life. If you win, he is free. If you lose, she stays the night, and we play yet another game tomorrow.” He grinned like a jack-o’-lantern and sat back.
Matthew threw a desperate look at Alex. “How do I know it is truly him? I but glimpsed the man.”
Mr Brown nodded sagely. “A good question, Mr Graham, a very good question.” He beckoned them to follow him out on the veranda and called for the overseer to come over, conferring in whispers with him for some minutes.
The overseer muttered something, threw a guarded look in the direction of Matthew, but inclined his head before striding off.
There was a yelp, a scuffling sound, and a man was hauled to stand on the opposite side of the yard. A tall, skeletal man, red hair standing like a fiery fuzz around his head, his normal long stride hampered by the fetters round his legs. The man blinked in the light of the lantern held above his head, and even if Matthew couldn’t make out if his eyes were green, he recognised the features – his own features – almost caricatured in his gaunt face. Then he saw the brand, and his fingers stiffened with a violent need to hurt this cultured, oh so elegant bastard of a man.
“You’ve branded him?”
“I brand all my blacks – and the whites when they try to escape. It has a very deterring effect.” Brown nodded to the overseer who barked something to Charlie which made him cringe and bow before he hurried off as fast as he could.
“I’ll pay you double for him,” Matthew tried again. Lord! It was like seeing an image of what he himself would have become had not Alex found him all those years ago.
“I think not. I’ll have you play for him or I keep him.” Mr Brown rubbed at his nose and called for more drink, a shadow of a girl appearing immediately with a brimming pitcher.
“Do it,” Alex whispered to Matthew.
“I can’t risk you!”
“You have to! He’ll be dead within weeks if we don’t get him out of here! Besides, you’ll win,” she whispered, “and if you don’t…” Quickly, she pulled his hand to rest against the concealed handle of her knife.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Mr Brown said and moved his knight. “Check, I fear.” He peered down at the board. “Mate,” he added with a smirk. Matthew was unable to meet Alex’s eyes. He had great respect for her capacity to defend herself, but to leave her alone here… No, he wouldn’t do it, he decided, squaring his shoulders, and his fingers crept down to rest on the hilt of his sword.
“So, Mrs Graham, I shall have you escorted to your room. Supper is promptly at eight.” Mr Brown clapped his hands together in a gesture of delight. “It’s a long time since I had the pleasure of a female guest, and, if I may say so, one as ravishing as yourself.”
Matthew flew to his feet. Mr Brown backed away.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Alex snapped, and Mr Brown gurgled with amusement.
“The bed I hope will be to your liking. It is newly acquired and is comfortably wide – wide enough to accommodate both yourself and your husband.” Brown laughed at their confusion. “Really, Mr Graham! What can you think of me?” He looked Alex up and down and smiled at Matthew. “You have an attractive wife, but my preferences are for women younger than myself, not old enough to be my mother.”
“Bastard!” Alex exclaimed.
Mr Brown laughed again. “Come, come, Mrs Graham. Tonight you are my guest, and I hope we’ll pass a most entertaining evening together.”
It was an indication of how upset Alex was that she threw but a cursory look at the hot water and expensive French soap waiting for them in their room. Instead, she crawled into Matthew’s arms, and Matthew wasn’t quite sure who was comforting who, but supposed they needed it both, this proximity to one another.
“What an absolute creep,” Alex said, drenching one of the towels to wipe at the dirt stains on her skirts.
“Aye,” Matthew agreed. The man behaved most erratically, shifting from conscientious host to cold-hearted slave owner in the blink of an eye, and this whole charade with the chess game… No, he did not intend to remain here longer than necessary, and in his head he was busy reviewing the lost game, trying to find the draw that had shifted the board in Mr Brown’s favour. An excellent utilisation of his rooks, and then the way he had used his knight… Matthew shook his head at how easily he had fallen into that trap.
*
Alex would have preferred a tray in their room, but things being as they were, Matthew and she were summoned at eight. The dining room was as opulent as the library, the lit beeswax candles making the room stifling. Once again that lingering smell of damp and rot, and that in combination with the red walls and dark floors gave Alex the impression of a carefully maintained mausoleum – nothing in this room seemed to have been changed since the death of the older Mr Brown.
“Did your father come here as a bond servant?” Alex asked, sipping at the spicy soup.
Mr Brown gave her an insulted look. “Certainly not! He was a gentleman through and through – well educated as well.” He threw a dark glare at the serving girl, indicating with his head that she had forgotten to replenish their glasses. The girl looked distressed, whispered a “Sorry, massa” and topped them up too high, which made Mr Brown’s brows lower threateningly.
“Oh,” Alex replied, “our nephew is also a gentleman and even has a degree from Oxford. It hasn’t saved him from ending up here.” That struck home, she could see, concentrating on blowing on her soup.
Mr Brown made a dismissive sound. “Those fanciful
stories you sometimes hear about men overcoming their dismal servitude are mostly lies. Indentures rarely live through their sentence, and if they do, they rarely become men of property. We make sure they don’t,” he smirked. He changed the subject to the wine, and went on to describe his recent trip to Paris, entirely oblivious to the silence of his guests.
“Do you speak or read French?” he asked Alex, having given up on drawing a stony Matthew into the conversation.
“No,” Alex said. She wasn’t about to share with him the single French phrase she could remember – Voulez-vous coucher avec moi seemed very inappropriate given the recent chess game.
“Ah,” Mr Brown replied, and it was clear this was a major drawback in his opinion.
Matthew shoved his plate away from him and glared at their host. “It sticks in my craw that we sit here, partaking of good wines and food, while only a stone’s throw away my nephew is lying in filth.”
“You lost,” Brown reminded him, “and until you win that’s where he stays.” He smiled broadly. “It’s such an unusual pleasure to have guests – I hope your stay will be a long one.”
Alex clamped a hand on Matthew’s thigh. Killing Brown would not help.
*
Sassafras Brown was a man clearly starved for company – even unrequested company. Over the coming days, he talked incessantly, a verbal flow that leapt from the political situation in England, through long ruminating reminiscences of his long dead mother – French, of course – to an attempted discussion on a play he had seen by Racine. He waited eagerly for their reaction. There was none, and with a condescending little sigh, Brown left the subject of French playwrights, and instead shifted to describe the crops grown on his plantation.
“Very profitable,” he said, after having shown them the hogheads packed full of sugar. He waved his hands at the tobacco fields, commented that the quality here was never as good as in Virginia, but good enough nonetheless, and then slyly added that both these crops depended on heavy labour, so it was fortunate, was it not, that he had slaves of all colours at his disposal? He grinned at the deep red that suffused Matthew’s face and after tipping his hat, sauntered off to discuss something with his overseer.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 24