‘I have other business to see to. People to see. Slaves to buy.’
‘I see no reason why I should not accompany you.’
‘So be it.’
He looked away, dismissing her, losing interest in her. She felt irritated and had a compulsion to force his attention back to her again but managed to control it. After all, she had got what she wanted. Or at least she soon would when they attended the horse fair. Every time she thought of the visit it gave her a secret shiver of pleasure.
Williamsburg was teeming with people, and so noisy that they heard the place long before they passed the Capital Building and cantered into Duke of Gloucester Street.
Impeding the movement of carriages and horses and sedan chairs were bearded trappers dressed in buckskins and fur hats, servant women in white mob caps and scarlet cloaks, gentlemen in smart coats and waistcoats and buckled shoes and masked ladies in a rainbow of panniered gowns and capes. Tinkers astride ponies carried moulds and soldering irons in their saddlebags and travelling shoemakers bore the tools of their trade on their backs.
Harding said:
‘It’s hardly worthwhile washing and changing our linen. In this dust we’ll be filthy again in a matter of minutes.’
Nevertheless, Regina ordered water to be brought to her room and she felt much refreshed after washing away the sweat and grime of the journey and changing into a cream coloured silk gown with a blue quilted petticoat. Then they both enjoyed a hash of lamb and a bottle of claret in the Apollo Room sitting at its long, highly polished table. Eventually they sauntered out and along the leafy tree-lined street in the direction of the Market Square. The horses for sale were being led around a roped-off section at the far end of the Square. Harding pushed his way towards it and she followed, glad of his big body protecting her from the crush of people. All around, peddlers were eagerly offering kerchiefs, laces, finger and earrings, blue, crimson and yellow beads, buckles, buttons and bodkins. Farmers’ wives had spread vegetables and eggs and home-made cider and peach brandy on stalls.
Reaching the roped-off area, Harding said,
‘How about one of those stallions?’
She eyed the stallions being paraded, and said,
‘No, thank you.’
A white man who was obviously the owner of the horses kept signalling the Negroes who were leading them round to stop so that he could go over each animal with his hands and explain its fine points.
Harding bid for one of the stallions and eventually succeeded in buying a powerful beast with a black satiny coat. It secretly frightened Regina. It seemed to have too much uncontrolled and uncontrollable energy. The Negro had a terrible struggle to hold its head and, as he hung grimly on to the bridle, the horse’s mane flew about and its tail lifted like a banner and it swung round on its hindquarters, whinnying loudly.
Regina chose a chestnut gelding. It was a beautiful yet gentle animal and seemed to take to her right away, nuzzling its head against her, its muscles rippling with pleasure under her hand.
She was more happy and relaxed than she had ever been before in her life. The happiness warmed inside her, melting the hardness and creating an area of dangerous vulnerability in the armour of her cool.
She left Harding to complete the rest of his business on his own and began pushing her way through the crowd towards Duke of Gloucester Street. Dust scraped underfoot and puffed up with waves of heat to parch her throat and nostrils. Suddenly she felt nauseated and her struggles to free herself from the crowd increased. For several days now she had been plagued with bouts of sickness and dizziness and this discomposure frightened her. Not being in control of herself meant being at someone else’s mercy. She fought to banish this terror from her mind. All she needed was rest. After she had relaxed in bed for an hour, she would be perfectly all right. However, she had only taken a few steps inside the entrance of the Raleigh Tavern when she crumpled into a heap on the floor.
When she regained consciousness she was sprawled on top of the bed with a Negro servant in a white bib apron fussing around and a man in a long curly wig staring severely down at her. He introduced himself as Doctor Simmonds and, after questioning her in detail, he announced that she was pregnant, adding:
‘I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring, mistress. I must report this sinfulness to the church.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, sir,’ she managed coldly. ‘I have every intention of getting married. What is your fee?’
He told her the amount in tobacco but she said,
‘I prefer to pay in coin.’ Then, reaching for her purse, she opened it, handed him a generous sum and making the words sound like a curt dismissal, said:
‘Thank you for your services.’
She dismissed the servant too and lay for a long time alone in the room without moving.
‘If only Mistress Kitty would die,’ she kept thinking. The woman would be better dead. What sort of life had she with an ugly, twisted body that was no use to herself or her husband. If only Mistress Kitty would die, Harding would marry her to give his unborn child a name. He wanted a proper legal heir, not a bastard. If only Mistress Kitty would die, everything would be all right. She would be safe as the mistress of Forest Hall with her fruitfulness as an extra hold over Harding. If she could have one child, she could have others.
Lying watching the white curtains puffing playfully at the open window, her hair like burnished copper against the snowy pillows of the bed, she wondered if she ought to tell Harding about the baby. She decided against it. Instinct cautioned her to wait.
The rest in bed refreshed her and she was able to get up and, after brushing her hair and tidying the creamy silk folds of her gown over her blue petticoat, she went downstairs to join Harding in the dining-room. They shared a meal of green pea soup, a leg of mutton and a codling tart with cream. Then she returned upstairs to read a novel while Harding went for an evening’s carousal with friends.
The next day they returned home. When they arrived, Regina, followed by Harding, climbed the outside stairs and entered through the pillared doorway. The glass chandelier in the hall tinkled lightly in the breeze until Old Abe shut the door.
Regina addressed Harding:
‘I’ll go upstairs straight away and see that Mistress Kitty is all right.’
Mistress Kitty was propped up in bed in her scarlet robe and powdered wig, and she had an open book on her lap.
Jenny was sitting on a chair close to the bed and she rose when Regina entered.
‘Light the candles,’ Regina told her. ‘It is too shadowy in here for Mistress Kitty to read in comfort. See that they are lit in my room too and hot water ready in my jug.’
The slave left the room and Regina stood at the foot of the bed.
‘You have been well, I hope?’
For a minute or two the older woman couldn’t speak. It was as if her last dregs of energy had trickled away and she had not even the strength to bring a light of welcome to her eyes.
‘Oh, Regina, Regina. I have missed you. I have felt so ill and weak.’ She paused, labouring desperately for enough breath. ‘I’m so glad, so glad you’re back.’
Then, slowly, she managed a monstrous smile. Regina shrank inside at the ugliness of it, but she betrayed no hint of her revulsion. The smile clung on, screwing up one side of the death-coloured face and bulging one eye.
Kitty put out a hand to Regina, but she ignored it and walked over to the window. She gazed down at the thinned out area of trees in front of the house. Black stumps and patches of grass alternated with the trees and a ribbon of brown earth snaked around them and away into the black wall of the forest. How cut off this house was. It could be the only house in the world. Mistress Kitty and Harding and herself could be the only people in the world.
Her hands strayed to the front of her waist and suddenly the reality of her situation gripped her like a pain. She could not bring herself to turn from the window and face Mistress Kitty. It was as if she was immobilised forev
er in the middle of the wilderness with the deformed woman. Horror entangled them like the forest undergrowth.
‘I must go and wash and change my clothes.’ Her voice was tight and cautious and she walked towards the door without allowing her eyes to stray anywhere near the other woman. ‘I’ll return at teatime.’
Mistress Kitty loved to have afternoon tea in the drawing-room. Three o’clock had become the focus of her life. She watched the clock, counting the minutes until it came.
It was a ritual. Regina arrived in the bedroom at exactly three o’clock each day and called for Westminster or Joseph to carry her downstairs. Wrapped snugly in a blanket, she would be whisked along the corridor with its panelled walls and silver wall brackets holding individual candles. Then down the wide curve of the stairs, across the bare wooden-floored hall and into the drawing-room. There, Regina made sure that she was comfortably settled in her chair and she, Robert and Regina sat together sipping tea from delicate china cups.
On the afternoon after they returned from Williamsburg, Regina poured tea from a silver pot. She placed Harding’s conveniently near to him, then she held a cup close to Mistress Kitty and helped her to sip from it. Every now and again she dabbed at the older woman’s face with a napkin to mop up the rivulets of liquid that overflowed from the loose, contorted mouth.
‘Would you like a sugar biscuit?’ Regina asked.
Kitty darted her husband a furtive, apprehensive look. She longed for a biscuit but knew she wasn’t yet clever enough at eating. If crumbs of half-chewed pieces of food tumbled from her mouth, would Robert be upset, she wondered.
Regina saw the look and was irritated by it.
‘Here, take one.’ She could not conceal her impatience. ‘Hold it in your good hand. You can do it perfectly well.’
Kitty concentrated fearfully on bringing her trembling leaf of a hand to her mouth. Then, managing it, she gave a moan of distress when the biscuit broke against her lips and crumbled down her neck and down onto the floor.
Harding’s anger immediately erupted towards Regina.
‘For God’s sake. Look after her properly. This daily farce will have to stop. My wife would be far better served in the privacy of her bedroom.’
Regina’s mouth twisted with bitterness.
‘Better for you, you mean.’
‘Watch your tone of voice, mistress. Don’t you ever imagine that you are safe from a whipping, because you are not. When I say that my wife would be better served in the privacy of her bedroom, that is what I mean.’
‘It does her good to come downstairs.’
‘Does her good?’ Harding’s lip drew back in a sneer. ‘Look at her!’
Kitty’s crumb-speckled mouth contorted in its efforts to form speech, but failed.
‘She can hardly breathe.’
Regina was prevented from retorting by the high-pitched moan of panic that Mistress Kitty managed to squeeze out.
‘Keep calm.’ She addressed the older woman sharply. Then hastening over to the door, she called for Westminster who immediately came running. ‘Carry Mistress Kitty upstairs to bed,’ she ordered him.
The Negro servant snatched up the woman as effortlessly as if she’d been a scrap of gauze and hurried upstairs with long strides, taking them two and three at a time.
Regina followed him at a slower, more dignified pace, daintily holding up her skirts to prevent them from brushing against the stairs.
Once in the bedroom, she dismissed Westminster, propped Kitty up in the bed with plenty of pillows and tucked the bed covers around her. This done, she proceeded to administer Peruvian bark and camphor. Then, as usual, she stood back and waited for the cure to take effect.
She was as sick of the daily farce as Harding was. She didn’t enjoy watching the revolting spectacle of Kitty drinking tea and making a disgusting mess with food any more than he did. But Harding was to blame for upsetting her. He would be the death of his wife one of these days with his brutish and insensitive manner.
It was then it occurred to her that this might be the best thing that could happen. Why was she fighting all the time like this to protect and help Mistress Kitty? Why was she so meticulous in her efforts to look after this useless wreck of a woman? She was keeping her alive, yet knew she had to die. She must die.
Regina stared at the tiny face, the wisp of body. This was all that was preventing her from being safely married to Harding and mistress of this house. Conscious of the child ever growing inside her, a panic of desperation nearly overcame her. All she needed was to crush a pillow over that face to close those tragic staring eyes for ever. Then they would all be free. She had actually taken a step towards the bed when Mistress Kitty quavered out,
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Regina.’
‘I’ll go and make you a strengthening gruel,’ she managed in her icy, distant voice.
Outside on the landing, she had to lean on the banisters for a few minutes before she felt able to return downstairs and face Harding again. She felt waves of nausea engulf her. The blood sucked from her veins leaving her weak and her skin prickling. Willing herself not to faint, her knuckles whitened over the banister and she took big, slow breaths.
When she eventually reached the drawing-room, she was relieved to find Harding gone. The dishes had slops of tea left in them. Saucers and plates and table and carpet were all spotted with crumbs. Cushions were dented. The logs in the fire had collapsed and spewed out ash. The air was stale with pipe smoke. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt tears shimmering across her eyes. Dabbing at them, she fought to breathe deeply and calmly again. Being with child, she decided, had a most disturbing effect on the whole constitution. She hated Harding for being the cause of her vulnerable and therefore dangerous condition. She had a curious fenced-in feeling that made her restless. Yet, at the same time, she experienced an urgent need for absolute security. Her life was now continuously torn by conflicting emotions. Her hatred of Harding was no less real because of the physical passion she felt for him. She tried to stifle the passion, to freeze it away, even to reason with it. She would stare at him coldly and tell herself, ‘He is ugly. It is not logical to feel attracted by him.’ Often she convinced herself and an icy distance stretched between them across which he made no attempt to reach her.
Now, standing alone in the drawing-room, she covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t go on like this. Each day she was becoming more uncertain and afraid of what tomorrow might bring. She was not sure what Harding’s reaction would be when he found out about her pregnancy, and she felt ill with indecision and distress. She kept asking herself what he would do; what could he do? He couldn’t marry her as long as Mistress Kitty was alive. If only Mistress Kitty would die. She was half-dead as it was. What perverse fate was keeping her clinging on to her futile mockery of a life? If Mistress Kitty stayed alive for much longer and the pregnancy became obvious, Harding, or for that matter his wife, could throw her out to starve, the terrible fate of so many other servants from other houses in the colony. She would be up before the church session. She would have to suffer all sorts of punishments, deprivations and humiliations. Her only hope was if Harding was free and then learned of the pregnancy. That way he had the chance of acquiring a legal heir by marrying her. He might not take that chance but she felt almost certain that he would. She knew how much he had always wanted a son and how bitterly disappointed he was that Mistress Kitty had never provided him with one.
Regina poured herself a glass of whisky in the hope that it would give her strength. She was drinking it when she heard the familiar sound of Mistress Kitty’s bell. Automatically she hastened from the room and upstairs in answer to it.
Mistress Kitty looked like a piece of melted wax stuck to the pillow. The bell lay on its side on the coverlet where it had fallen from her hand. At first it seemed as if she was too feeble to talk, but then she managed to whisper:
‘Did you forget, my dear?’
‘Forget?’
‘Th
e gruel. I feel so weak.’
‘Of course. I don’t know why it went out of my mind. I’ll see to it immediately.’
Regina called Jenny and told her to fetch a bowl of gruel. She had never seen Mistress Kitty look so weak. Even after being fed the gruel she did not rally as much as she usually did, although the hot sweet liquid helped. But by the time she was settled down to sleep for the night she seemed tolerably comfortable and content.
Regina had moved to a bedroom of her own, and in its welcome privacy she undressed slowly, then before slipping into bed, examined her body in the pier glass. Already her abdomen looked swollen. She felt like sobbing with fear and apprehension, but no tears came. She lay stiffly, dry-eyed under the coverlets with the candle flickering on the table beside the bed. To relax into sleep was impossible and she was still awake when Mistress Kitty’s bell began its hollow chime.
Regina could imagine the feeble hand struggling to jerk the bell first one way, then the other. She tossed aside the bed covers, grabbed the candle holder and without stopping to don a robe, she hastened along the corridor and entered Mistress Kitty’s room, the door of which always lay open at night. The bell had fallen on to the floor, and Kitty was gasping for breath. Regina lit the candle by the bed so that she could prepare her potion and give her relief. It was while she was doing this that she noticed Mistress Kitty’s eyes, bulging with distress, fix on her abdomen. Then their eyes met. The older woman was still fighting desperately to breathe and her eyes pulled away and sought the potion on the bedside table. But Regina continued to stare at her as if frozen; as if incapable of ever moving again. Then suddenly she lifted the candle and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Jenny, who slept in the cupboard under the stairs, had just reached the landing when Regina said,
‘I have seen to Mistress Kitty. Go back to bed.’
Then she waited at the top of the stairs holding the candle high until the servant disappeared.
Back in her own room she climbed into bed and covered her head with the blankets; She waited in an agony of apprehension and suspense to see what the morning would bring. As she half-hoped, half-dreaded, it brought screams of grief from Jenny and shouts of,
The Tobacco Lords Trilogy Page 59