CHAPTER 2
Camille Hall
HE STRUCK HER ribs with his fist just below her right breast, hard enough to slam her against the wall. Her head snapped back and hit the top edge of the thick oak wainscoting.
Slowly, stunned, she slid down to the floor.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, you stupid little fool?”
Sophie shook her head to clear it. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips against the back of her head. A dizzying shaft of pain brought bile to her throat.
“Don’t you dare tell me I hurt you. If it is so, it is your own fault.”
It would naturally be her own fault. He was always careful never to strike her where it would show. Never. She moved her hand to her ribs. The pain made her suck in her breath, but that made it hurt even more. She took short, very shallow breaths and waited, praying that her ribs weren’t broken, praying the nausea would subside. If he had broken some ribs she wondered how he would explain it. But he could come up with some plausible explanation. He always had in the past.
He was standing over her now, his hands on his hips. He was pale, his eyes narrowed with fury. “I asked you a question. Why didn’t you tell me that Ryder Sherbrooke had arrived in Montego Bay?”
She opened her mouth to lie, but he forestalled her. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know. You were in town today, I saw you go myself. I gave you permission to go, damn you.”
“I tell you I didn’t—” She stopped, hating her cowardice, hating her voice that sounded thin as the batiste of her nightgown. She was silent a moment, feeding the rage that was bubbling up inside her. She looked at him squarely in his hated face. “I wanted him to be here, to catch you. I prayed he would come. He wouldn’t believe any of that voodoo nonsense. I knew he could stop you.”
He raised his fist. Then slowly, he lowered it.
He actually grinned at her and for a moment she saw what other people saw—a man with humor and wit, a gentle man, a somewhat diffident man of breeding and unquestioned gentility. In the next instant it was gone and he was back as she knew him to be. “If Thomas hadn’t shot him with the arrow he might have. I was totally taken off guard. Certainly Grayson’s son, Emile, has been something of a thorn in my flesh, but this young man, naked as a satyr, running at me yelling at the top of his lungs, came as quite a shock. Then Thomas got him.”
Sophie paled. “You killed him? You killed the owner?”
“Oh no, Thomas shot him through his upper arm. Thomas is always careful. Strange thing, really, the fact that Sherbrooke was naked and carrying a rock, howling at me just like a damned Carib. Thomas says he was probably plowing one of the slaves when he came out to investigate the sulfur and the smoke and all those hideous moans we’ve perfected. I was relieved that Emile Grayson stopped and saw to Sherbrooke.”
She said nothing. By keeping the information to herself, she had endangered a man’s life. It hadn’t occurred to her that he could be in any real danger. She’d been a fool and he’d been the one to pay for it. She’d paid too, but that was nothing new. At least he would be all right and she would be as well, eventually. She slowly deepened her breathing as the pain in her ribs eased a bit.
Uncle Theo moved away from her now. He pulled the chair away from his small writing desk and sat down in it, crossing his legs at the ankles and looking at her, his arms settled on his lean belly. “Stupidity doesn’t suit you, Sophia,” he said finally, shaking his head. “How many times do I have to tell you that obedience is the only choice you have? Loyalty to me is your only choice. You just might ask yourself what would happen to you and your precious Jeremy if I had been caught. You’re underage; you’re the whore of the island; you would have no money, no place to live; you would end up selling your body on the streets and Jeremy would end up in some workhouse. Perhaps he could be someone’s apprentice bookkeeper and spend all his time in the trashhouse. No, miss, you will not try to do me in again or I swear to you—” He paused, rose quickly, and strode back over to her. She shrank back against the wall, she couldn’t help it, as he came down on his haunches beside her. He grabbed her chin in his palm and jerked her head toward him. “I swear to you, Sophia, I will kill you if you try such a thing again. Do you understand me?”
She said nothing. He saw the hatred in her eyes and said more softly now, “No, I won’t kill you, I’ll kill that pathetic brother of yours. Oh yes, that’s what I’ll do. Now do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, I understand you well enough.”
“Good.” He rose then offered her a hand. She stared at his slender long fingers, the well-buffed nails, then looked him in the face. Very slowly, she pushed herself upright. He lowered his hand.
“You’re stubborn but I don’t dislike it in a woman. You hate me as well, and that is amusing. Now, if you were my mistress I would enjoy whipping that insolent look out of your eyes. Take yourself back to bed. I have plans to make. Ryder Sherbrooke is here finally. God, I waited a long time for Grayson to act, for the Earl of Northcliffe to react and send someone out here. And he sent his brother, just as I’d hoped. Now it is time to put my plan into motion.
“Ah, yes, my dear, since you have seen a frankly impressive number of naked men, let me tell you that this young man is built very well. He’s an athlete and his body is lean and strong. Aye, you’ll find that Sherbrooke is a fine specimen.” He paused again, looking off into nothing in particular. “I think this will work quite nicely, but I must think about it in more detail. The man is not a fool. I was, I suppose, expecting another Lord David, but Sherbrooke isn’t at all like that young wastrel. I will tell you in the morning what you will do.”
At eight o’clock the following morning, Sophie was trying to fasten the front buttons of her gown. Every movement hurt. The flesh over her ribs had turned a fierce yellow and purple during the night. As she worked another button into its hole, she felt the pain so deeply she doubted it would ever ease. She stopped, bending over like an old woman. She’d sent her maid away; she couldn’t allow Millie to see her, for it would start gossip and she couldn’t allow that.
She couldn’t allow that because of Jeremy.
When there came a light knock on her door, followed by her young brother’s head coming around, she smiled despite the pulling pain. Jeremy came into the bedchamber. “Don’t you want breakfast? It’s growing cold and you know how Uncle Theo is. You won’t get a bite to eat until luncheon.”
“Yes, I know. Let me finish with these buttons.”
Jeremy prowled around her room, forever curious, filled with a nine-year-old’s energy. Always on the move, always restless, always ready to work as hard as any slave, only he couldn’t.
She finally finished with the buttons. She happened to glance in the mirror and saw that she hadn’t brushed out her hair. She looked pale and frowzy and about as seductive as a broken conch shell. Some whore she was. There were dark circles under her eyes. Ah, but it hurt to pull the brush through the tangles. Every stroke sent waves of pain through her chest.
“Jeremy, would you brush my hair for me?”
He looked startled and cocked his head to one side in silent question. When she merely shook her head, he came to her, frowning. “Are you tired or something, Sophie?”
“Yes, I’m something.” She handed him the brush and sat down. He did a poor job of it but it was sufficient. She managed to pull back the mass of chestnut hair and tie it at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon.
“Now, Master Jeremy, onward to breakfast.”
“You’re ill, aren’t you, Sophie.”
It wasn’t a question. She touched her fingers to his cheek for she saw the worry in his eyes, and the fear that something was seriously wrong. “I’m all right. Just a touch of a stomachache, I swear to you. Some of Tilda’s wonderful muffins and I’ll be right as rain.”
Jeremy, reassured, skipped ahead of her. It was, at least, skipping to her. Perhaps to others it looked like cl
umsy ill-coordinated movements, but not to her. No, he was a happy little boy and he was doing marvelously well. She loved him more than anyone in the world. He was hers, her responsibility. He was the only person in the world who loved her, without question, without reservation.
Uncle Theo was in the breakfast room. The veranda doors, green-slatted, as were all the floor-to-ceiling doors in the house, were open and a slight breeze stirred the still air. In the distance the sea glittered beneath a blazing early morning sun. Just outside the open doors, the air was thick with the overripe summer scent of roses, jasmine, hibiscus, bougainvillea, cassia, frangipani, and rhododendron. During the hottest part of the day, the scent was nearly overpowering. But now, early in the morning, it was a paradise of smells and it stirred the senses. However, Sophie felt no stirring inside her this morning at the beauty of it. There was very little of anything that held beauty for her now. There had been very little of beauty for the past year. No, now it was closer to thirteen months.
Thirteen months since she’d become a whore. Thirteen months since other plantation owners’ wives cut her directly whenever she chanced to see them shopping in Montego Bay. They didn’t cut her here at Camille Hall; they admired her dear uncle much too much to hurt him like that. No, they were coldly polite to her here.
“There aren’t any muffins, Sophie,” Jeremy said. “Do you want me to ask Tilda?”
“No, no, love. I’ll have some fresh bread. It’s fine. Sit down now and eat your breakfast.”
Jeremy did, with his usual enthusiasm.
Theodore Burgess looked up from his newspaper, the imported London Gazette, only seven weeks old, for English ships were regular in their arrivals.
He studied her face for a long moment, was content at the lingering pain he saw in her eyes, and said, “You and I will meet after you’ve eaten, my dear. There are things to discuss, and I know you always wish to accommodate yourself to my wishes. Ah, do eat a bit more. I know the heat is enervating, but you are growing too thin.”
Jeremy continued oblivious, content to smear more butter on his roasted yam.
“Yes, Uncle,” Sophie said. “In your study then. After breakfast.”
“Yes, my dear, that is exactly what I wish. As for you, my fine lad, you will accompany me to the stillhouse today. There are some processes I wish you to learn. It will be hot as the fires of hell itself but we shan’t stay long. Just long enough for you to learn something of the rum-making process and the steps Mr. Thomas takes to prevent the slaves from stealing and drinking all our profits.”
The pleasure in Jeremy’s eyes made her ribs hurt all the more.
Samuel Grayson had seen Ryder come back into the house, his thick pale brown hair dark with sweat, his white shirt stuck to his back, his face flushed red from the sun. He’d ridden over the plantation the entire morning with Emile, and now, at midday, he imagined Ryder was holed up someplace cool. He found him sitting on the veranda that gave off the billiard room. He was in the deepest shade, the one place where the breezes flowed continuously. He said quietly, seeing that Ryder’s eyes were closed, “It’s an invitation, Ryder, from Theodore Burgess of Camille Hall. There is to be a ball this Friday and you are to be the honored guest.”
“A ball,” Ryder said, opening his eyes. “Jesus, Samuel, I can’t imagine trying to dance in this infernal heat. Surely this Burgess fellow isn’t serious.”
“There will be slaves waving woven palm fronds about to keep the air stirred up. Also the Camille Hall ballroom, like this one, is lined with slatted doors, all opening up from ceiling to floor. It will be quite pleasant, I promise you.”
Ryder was silent for a moment. He was thinking about the woman who was sleeping with three men. He wanted to meet her.
“There’s a boy waiting for your response, sir.”
Ryder gave him a languorous smile. “We’ll go, naturally.”
Grayson left to write an acceptance and Ryder closed his eyes again. He didn’t move much; it was too hot. He knew he couldn’t go swimming just yet else he’d be baked within ten minutes by that inferno of a sun and his face and arms were already a bit burned. Thus, he sat there quietly and soon he slept.
When he awoke, afternoon shadows were lengthening and Emile was sitting beside him, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“Your father says I will become accustomed,” Ryder said. “I think he’s lying to me.”
Emile grunted. “A bit, but the summers are particularly brutal.”
“Is it ever too hot to make love, I wonder?”
Emile laughed. “Yes, it is. I hear we are to go to a ball at Camille Hall this Friday night.”
“Yes, I am to be honored. I think, however, that I would prefer swimming, perhaps even trying to shinny up a coconut tree again or even chase a villain who is wearing a sheet.”
Emile grinned. “It should be amusing, Ryder. You will meet all the planters and merchants from Montego Bay and their wives. You will hear so much gossip your ears will ache. There is little else to do here, you see, except drink rum, which most do to excess, unfortunately. Also, Father is much taken with Sophia Stanton-Greville, and she is Burgess’s niece and hostess. I don’t doubt he would challenge any man to a duel if he dared say something insulting about Father’s goddess.”
“I also understand that she is a whore.”
“Yes,” Emile said, not looking at Ryder, “that’s what is understood.”
“This displeases you. You’ve known her a long time?”
“Her parents were drowned in a storm four years ago on a return voyage from England. Sophie and her brother, Jeremy, were given into the guardianship of Theodore Burgess, her mother’s younger brother. She has lived here since she was fifteen. She is now nineteen, nearly twenty, and her exploits with men and thus her reputation began over a year ago. You are right, it displeases me and disappoints me even more. I had quite liked her. She was a spirited girl, fun and without guile or vanity. Indeed, I once thought that we might—but that’s not important now.”
“You know it as a fact then?”
“She meets her lovers at this small cottage that fronts the beach. I chanced to visit the cottage following a night she spent with Lord David Lochridge. David was still there, naked, and drinking a rum punch. The place reeked of sex. He seemed quite pleased with himself. He was rather drunk, which surprised me because it was only about nine o’clock in the morning. He spoke of her freely, her attributes, her skills at pleasing a man, her daring at flaunting convention.”
“This woman wasn’t there?”
“No. Evidently she leaves her men to wake up by themselves, that’s what David said. However, there are slaves there to tend to them. None of the men seem to mind her habits.”
“You believed this Lochridge?”
Emile’s voice was emotionless, but still he didn’t look at Ryder. “As I said, the place reeked of sex. Also, he was too drunk to make up something that hadn’t happened. I don’t like him particularly, but there was no reason for him to lie. The cottage is on Burgess land.”
Ryder swatted a mosquito. He said, his voice meditative, “So she turns eighteen and decides to flout convention. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, Emile. Surely no man would wed her now. Why do you think she started making herself available in the first place?”
“I don’t know. She was always a strong-willed girl, spirited, as I told you, and very protective of her little brother. One of the planters called her a hellion because once she was angry at his overseer for calling her brother names and she smashed him on the head with a coconut. The man was in bed for a week. That was about two years ago. She could have wed any gentleman on the island for it is known that she is handsomely dowered. I have always been given to understand that females don’t wish to have sex as much as men do. Thus, why would she want it so badly to give up everything that women are raised, even expected, to want?”
“There is always a reason for everything,” Ryder said. He rose and stretched. “Tha
nk God, I do believe it’s cooling off, just a bit.”
Emile grinned up at him. “I heard Father order Cook to make you something cool for dinner, a bowl of fresh fruit, perhaps, and some iced-down shrimp. No baked yams or hot clam chowder. He doesn’t want you to shrink away for lack of sustenance.”
Ryder swatted another mosquito. He looked off over the sugarcane fields shimmering beneath the sun, to the endless stretch of blue sea beyond. So beautiful it was, yet so alien. “As I said, there is always something that drives men and women to behave as they do. There are three different men involved, I understand, and there were probably others before these three. There is of course a motive, and you know something, Emile? I rather fancy that I will amuse myself and just find out what it is that makes this hellion part her legs for so many men.”
“It is depressing,” Emile said, and he sighed.
By Friday night, Ryder was actually beginning to believe that he could endure the heavy still heat, even though he was sometimes so hot it hurt to breathe. He had even swum that afternoon, but not long, for he didn’t want to burn too badly. To his disappointment, after the incident his first night, there had been no other strange occurrences. No burning sulfur; no sheeted man; no moans or groans; no guns or bows and arrows.
Nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred. He had met Samuel Grayson’s “housekeeper,” a young brown woman with merry eyes, a compact body, and a ready smile. She lived in Grayson’s room and worked in the house during the day. Her name was Mary. As for Emile, he also had a “housekeeper,” a thin slip of a girl who answered to Coco. Her eyes were always downcast in Ryder’s presence, and she never uttered a word that Ryder heard. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Emile paid her no attention whatsoever, except, Ryder assumed, at night, when he took her to his bed. She cared for his clothing, kept his room straight and clean, and was utterly docile. Ryder was amused and put off by this custom, one considered quite respectable on Jamaica by all parties concerned.
The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 Page 36