The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  Ryder wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. It was obvious that Grayson felt strongly about this voodoo nonsense. And Grayson was right about one thing: a white man couldn’t accept such things as being real, particularly not if he’d lived his entire life in England. He said, “We will see soon enough, I imagine. Ah, I didn’t know you had a son.”

  Grayson puffed up like a proud rooster then he fidgeted with his light gray gloves. “He is a good boy, sir, and he does a lot for me—for the Sherbrookes—now that I am getting on in years. He is waiting for us at Kimberly Hall. He didn’t wish to leave the plantation house unprotected.”

  They passed dozens more children, all of them ragged, all of them black, children of the slaves working in the fields, but these children were silent at the sight of the two white men riding in their midst.

  Grayson said, pointing to the right and to the left of the narrow rutted road, “We are in the mangrove swamps now. Take care whenever you ride this way for crocodiles come out of the swamps and many times appear like fat logs lying across the road. They will normally eschew the presence of humans, but there have been stories where they didn’t, very unpleasant stories.”

  Crocodiles! Ryder shook his head, but he kept one eye on the sides of the road. The smell of the fetid swamp water was nearly overpowering. He urged his horse forward. There came a flat stretch, the Caribbean on their left and field after field of sugarcane on their right, even climbing the hills that lay in the distance. And there were goats everywhere, sitting on low stone fences, chewing at flowers left on graves in the church cemeteries. There were egrets sitting on the backs of cattle, cleaning them of ticks, Ryder knew. And there were black men, tall, their bare upper bodies oily with sweat, working in the sugar fields, wearing only coarse trousers made of stout osnaburg. They didn’t seem to notice the heat, their rhythm steady, as they plowed or pulled weeds or dug deeper trenches between the sugar plant rows. And there were women as well, their heads covered with bright bandannas, bending and straightening like the men in a steady rhythm. Not far away sat a white man on a horse, an overseer, sitting under a lone poinciana tree, its feathery, fernlike leaves shimmering in the sunlight, to see they didn’t slack off. The whip in his left hand ensured their continued work.

  It was utterly foreign to Ryder. It was exotic, too, with the thick, sweet smell of the frangipani trees that were thick alongside the dirt road, and the startling blue of the water coming into sight at unexpected moments. He was pleased he’d done reading on the voyage here. He wasn’t completely ignorant of the local flora and fauna. But he hadn’t read about any damned crocodiles.

  “We are nearing Camille Hall,” Grayson said suddenly, his voice falling nearly to a whisper.

  Ryder raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s her home, sir. Sophia Stanton-Greville’s home. She lives there with her uncle and her younger brother. There is one plantation between Camille Hall and Kimberly Hall, but as I understand it, her uncle is soon to buy it and thus add substantially to his holdings.”

  “Who is the owner?”

  “Charles Grammond. Some say he wishes to move to Virginia—’tis one of the colonial states to the north—but it is a lame reason, one with little credence, for he knows nothing of the colonies or their customs and manners. He has four children who haven’t become a father’s pride, all of them sons, none of them ambitious or willing to work. His wife is difficult, I’ve heard it said. It’s a pity, yes, a pity.”

  Ryder was certain he’d heard the man’s name in the tavern. He said slowly, “I understand that this woman, this Sophia Stanton-Greville, has three men currently in her bed. I seem to recall that one of them is this Charles Grammond.”

  Grayson flushed to the roots of his gray hair. “You have but just arrived, sir!”

  “It is the first topic of conversation I heard at the coffeehouse, the Gold Doubloon, I believe the name is. And I heard it spoken of in great detail.”

  “No, no, sir, she is a goddess. She is good and pure. It is all a lie. There are many men here who are not gentlemen.”

  “But it is the gossip, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is, but you mustn’t believe it, Ryder. No, it’s a vicious lie. Don’t mistake me. Customs, the local mores, if you will, are different here. All white men have black mistresses. They’re called housekeepers here and it is considered a respectable position. I have seen men come from England, some to work on the plantations as bookkeepers, some to earn their fortune, and most change. They take wives and they take mistresses. Their thinking changes. But a lady remains a lady.”

  “Has your life changed, Grayson?”

  “Yes, for a while it certainly did. I was my father’s son, after all, but my wife was French and I loved her dearly. Only after her death did I succumb to local custom and take a mistress or a housekeeper. Life here is different, Ryder, very different.”

  Ryder subsided, letting his body relax and roll gently in the comfortable Spanish saddle. He closed his eyes a moment, breathing in the salty fresh smell of the sea, the coastline no longer obscured by thick clumps of mangrove. “Why is Grammond selling out then, in your opinion?”

  “I’m not completely certain, but there are, of course, rumors. It was a sudden decision, that I do know. He and his family are leaving next week, I have heard it said. The plantation is quite profitable. It is said he lost a lot of money to Lord David Lochridge, a young wastrel with whom you must avoid gambling, sir, at all costs. It is said he has sold his soul to the devil, and thus his incredible luck.”

  Ryder turned to face Samuel Grayson, saying in a meditative voice, “There is every bit as much talk here as there is in England. I had believed to be bored. Perhaps we will have some mysterious manifestations this very night, to welcome me here. Yes, I should enjoy even a ghostly spectacle, if it is possible. Isn’t this young Lord David reputed also to be one of her lovers?”

  Ryder wondered if Grayson would have an apoplectic attack. He opened his mouth, realized that his employer was seated next to him and closed it. He managed to say in a fairly calm way, “I repeat, Ryder, all of it is nonsense. Her uncle, Theodore Burgess, is a solid man, as we say here in Jamaica. His reputation is good. He is amiable, his business dealings honorable. He loves his niece and nephew very much. I imagine that the vicious rumors of Miss Stanton-Greville’s reputation hurt him very much. He never speaks of it, of course, for he is a gentleman. His overseer, however, is another matter. His name is Eli Thomas and he is a rotten fellow, overly cruel to the slaves.”

  “If Uncle Burgess is such a fine man, why does he have this crooked stick as his overseer?”

  “I don’t know. Some say he must have Thomas else the plantation wouldn’t make any money. Burgess is too easy on the slaves, you see.”

  “And this Charles Grammond is selling out to the woman’s uncle? This Theodore Burgess?”

  “Yes. Perhaps Burgess feels pity for Grammond and is simply buying the plantation to assist him and his family. Burgess is the younger brother of Miss Sophia and Master Jeremy’s mother.”

  “How do the girl and boy happen to be here on Jamaica?”

  “Their parents were drowned some five years ago. The children were made wards of their uncle.”

  “I haven’t heard the name Stanton-Greville. Are they English?”

  “Yes. They lived in Fowey, in Cornwall. The house and grounds are in a caretaker’s hands until the boy is old enough to manage for himself.”

  Ryder was silent, chewing over all the facts. So the girl had been raised in Cornwall. And now she was here and she was a tart. His thinking turned back to the problem that had brought him here. Ryder strongly doubted the supernatural had anything to do with the problems occurring at Kimberly Hall. Oh no, greed was the same all over the world. Gaining one’s greedy ends evidently conformed to local custom. He said, “Did Mr. Grammond have any problems before he agreed to sell to this Burgess?”

  “Not that I know of. Oh, I see the direction of your thoughts, Ryder, but I can
not credit them. Burgess, as I said, has a fine reputation; he is honest; he gives to local charities. No, if Grammond were having financial problems or if he were being besieged as we are at Kimberly, Burgess certainly wouldn’t be behind it.”

  Ryder wondered if Grayson spoke so positively about the Sherbrookes. He’d never met a man before in his life who deserved such accolades. Well, he would soon see. The island was small; society intermingled continuously and he would meet this Mr. Burgess and his niece soon enough.

  Grayson directed them inland, away from the blessed breeze from the water. The air was heavy with dirt and the sickly sweet smell of the sugarcane. They came shortly to the top of a rise and he looked back at the Caribbean, stretched as far as the eye could see, brilliant blue, topaz in shallower water, silver-capped waves rolling onto the white beaches. He wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and swim in the Caribbean until he sank like a stone.

  “All this is Sherbrooke land, sir. Ah, look upward at the top of the rise, in amongst the pink cassias.” He heard Ryder suck in his breath and smiled. “They’re also called pink shower trees. They’re at their most beautiful right now. And there are golden shower trees, and mango trees and the ever-present palm trees. There, sir, just beyond is the great house. You cannot see it from here, but the coastline curves quite sharply just yon and is quite close to the back of the house.”

  Ryder drew in his breath yet again.

  “Most of the great plantation houses here on Jamaica are built in the traditional manner of three stories and huge Doric columns, only here we have verandas and balconies off nearly every room, for fresh air, you understand. You will see that all the bedchambers are at the back of the house and all have balconies that face the water. The back lawn slopes down to the beach and is always well tended. You will be able to sleep, even in the deepest part of the summer, though I think you’re doubting that right now.”

  “You’re right about that,” Ryder said, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

  It was nearly midnight. Ryder had thoroughly enjoyed himself in the warm water of the Caribbean for the past hour. There was a half-moon that lit his way. It glittered starkly off the waves. He felt for the first time as if he really were in paradise. He chose to forget the awful heat of the afternoon. It was so beautiful, the black vault of the sky overhead with the studding of stars, so calm, so silent, that he felt peace flow through him.

  He wasn’t a peaceful man. Thus, it was an odd feeling, but he didn’t dislike it. He stretched out naked on his back, knowing full well the sand would likely find its way into parts of his body that he wouldn’t like, but for now, it didn’t matter. He stretched, feeling himself relax completely. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds he hadn’t heard before. He’d read about the coqui or the tree frog, and thought he heard some chirping into the soft darkness.

  He also knew a turtledove when he heard it and sighed as the sounds became more distinct, each adding to his relaxation, his sense of well-being.

  It was just so damned exotic here, he thought, stretching yet again, only to have the sand make him itch madly. He jumped to his feet, ran splashing through the surf then flattened into a dive into the next good-sized wave. He swam until he was exhausted, then walked slowly back to the beach. He realized he was ravenous. He’d been too hot to eat much at dinner and the strangeness of the food hadn’t added to his appetite.

  There were coconut trees lining the perimeter of the beach and he grinned. He’d seen a black man shinny up a coconut tree earlier. His mouth was already watering. But it wasn’t as easy as it looked and Ryder ended up standing on the beach, rubbing a scraped thigh, staring with malignant hatred at the coconuts just beyond his reach.

  There were other ways for the son of an English earl to get at a damned coconut. He found a rock and aimed it carefully at the coconut he’d selected. He was on the point of throwing it when he heard something.

  It wasn’t a coqui nor was it a turtledove. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever heard in his life. He held himself perfectly still, lowering the rock slowly, silently. He listened hard. There it was again, that strange sort of low moaning sound that didn’t sound remotely human.

  His feet were tender, for he was an Englishman after all, but he managed to move silently enough through the trees that lined the beach. The sound became louder the closer he got to the great house. He ran lightly up the grassy slope toward the back of the house. He eased around the side so he could see onto the front lawn. He stopped behind a bread-fruit tree and looked out onto the beautifully tended grounds. The sound came again and then he saw a strange light welling up from the ground itself. It was a narrow, thready light, blue, and it smelled of sulfur, as if it were coming up directly from hell and the moans were of the souls entrapped there. He felt gooseflesh rise on his body; he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then he shook his head. This was beyond absurd. He’d said with absolute certainty to Grayson that it was naught but a mixture of chemicals. It was true, it had to be.

  He saw candlelight flicker in one of the rooms on the second floor of the house. Probably Grayson and he was most likely scared silly. Then he heard a hiss from behind him and turned very slowly, the rock ready now, his body poised.

  It was Emile Grayson.

  Ryder smiled. He liked Emile. He was about Ryder’s own age, intelligent and ambitious. He, like Ryder, wasn’t the least bit superstitious, though he hadn’t once disagreed with his father during dinner or their talk afterward.

  “What is it?” Ryder said behind his hand in a deep whisper.

  “I don’t know but I do want to find out. Now you’re here to help me. I’ve tried to make some of the male slaves keep watch with me but they roll their eyes back in their heads and moan.” Emile paused just a moment, then added, “One slave did help me. Josh was his name. We kept watch several nights together. Then one morning he was found dead, his throat cut. I’ve had no more volunteers.”

  “Very well,” said Ryder. “Go around to the other side of that damned light and I’ll ease closer from this way.”

  Emile slithered like a thin shadow from tree to tree to work his way to the other side of the thready light. A neat trap, Ryder thought, pleased. Blood pumped wildly through him. He hadn’t realized really how very bored he’d been during the voyage because he’d bedded two ladies, both of them charming, and from long experience, time passed more smoothly if one made love during the day and if one slept with a woman cuddled against one’s chest during the night.

  When Emile was in position, Ryder simply straightened, the rock still held in his right hand, and walked directly toward the light. He heard an unearthly shriek.

  The light became a thin smoke trail, bluer now, the odor foul as the air of hell itself. A few chemicals, he thought, that’s all, nothing more. But who was doing the moaning?

  He heard a shout. It was Emile. He began to run. He saw the figure then; white flowing robes covered it, but there was a very human hand showing and that hand held a gun. Ah, was that a pillow slip over the man’s head? The hand came up and the gun exploded toward Emile. Ryder yelled at him. “You bastard! Who the hell are you!”

  Then the figure turned and fired at him. Ryder felt the bullet pass not three inches from his head. Good God, he thought, and ran straight for the figure. The man was tall and fit, but Ryder was the stronger and the more athletic. He was gaining on him. Any moment now he would have him. He sliced his foot on a rock and cursed, but it didn’t slow him.

  Then suddenly, without warning, he felt a shaft of pain sear through his upper arm. He stopped cold in his tracks, staring down at the feathered arrow tip that was sticking obscenely out of his flesh.

  Damnation, the man was escaping. Emile, shouting hoarsely, was at his side in another moment.

  He said blankly, “Where the hell did that bloody arrow come from? The man had an accomplice, damn him!”

  “It’s nothing! Get him, Emile!”

  “No,”
Emile said very calmly. “He will come back.”

  With no more words, Emile ripped off the white sleeve of his shirt, then turned to Ryder, and without pause, without speech, he grasped the arrow firmly and pulled it out.

  “There,” he said, and began to wrap the shirtsleeve around the small hole that was oozing blood.

  Ryder felt momentarily dizzy but he was pleased that Emile had acted swiftly.

  “Yes,” he said. “There.” He looked up. “The bastard got away, curse him. Both of them.” He looked back down at his arm. “When you’ve got me wrapped up, let’s go examine the light and smoke, or whatever it is.”

  But there was no more smoke, no more thin thready blue light. There was, however, a faint sulfurous odor and the grass was scorched.

  “Now,” Ryder said grimly, “there are two of us. We’ll catch the bastards who are doing this.” He paused, feeling a burning sensation in his upper arm. “Why? Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Emile said. “I’ve thought and thought and I just don’t know. No one has approached my father about selling the plantation, not a soul, nor is there any gossip, just that some voodoo priests or priestesses are displeased with us for some unknown reason. Please, Mr. Sherbrooke, come into the house because I want to clean the wound. We’ve got a good store of medicines and basilicum powder is just what we need.”

  “My name is Ryder.”

  Emile grinned. “Given the circumstances, all right, Ryder.”

  Ryder suddenly laughed. “Some guard I am,” he said and laughed more. “I probably astonished our villain more than I frightened him. Jesus, I’m stark naked.”

  “Yes, you are, but I hesitated to point it out, particularly when the bastard was so close.”

  “I know. It’s also difficult to call a man Mr. Sherbrooke when he’s wearing naught but his hide.”