From the reports he’d heard in the two weeks since dismissing Horace Braithwaite, Philip had gathered that the former overseer had been generally feared and resented. Dr. Bevan had told him lashings were a routine occurrence and described other, more brutal punishments that turned Philip’s stomach. He had no idea such things were taking place on the plantation. Or anywhere for that matter. With no one to regulate the man’s behavior, the slaves were deprived while Horace’s pockets grew fatter as he appropriated the funds he should have used for their rations.
Philip didn’t know where the man had gone after being dismissed, and truthfully, he didn’t care one whit. He was glad to be rid of such a despicable person.
Philip gazed at the view of the ocean. The prospect was breathtaking. The water was so clear that even from this distance he could see the sandy bottom, colorful fish, and ragged coral. The shoreline was occasionally occupied by enormous sea turtles laying eggs or basking in the warm sun. White-crested waves crashed into the rocky shore and pulled back in a mesmerizing presentation. He closed his eyes for a moment just to listen to the relaxing sound.
He’d accompanied Tom this afternoon on an excursion to a part of his property the new overseer thought would be suitable for a coffee farm. Philip was skeptical. He didn’t believe coffee could ever be as profitable as sugar. But he wanted to inspect every bit of his holdings and had agreed to accompany Tom. In order to reach the location, they followed the island road along the margins of the sea. The route led along the beach in order to skirt around the borders of another plantation.
Philip glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearly three o’clock, and the sun was blasted hot. He looked to where Tom was picking his way through the rocks and rolled his eyes to the heavens. Moving to the shade next to Tom’s horse, he dismounted, giving the animal a respite as he started to pick his way through stalky grass to the beach.
“I think it is a person, my lord,” Tom called over his shoulder.
Philip grimaced at the unexpected nuisance. If a body was discovered on his property, he should undoubtedly investigate. They would need to alert the constable as well. Mr. Norton’s curiosity was going to prove a disruption to their schedule.
Philip stepped over the sand and jagged rocks, wondering if salt water would permanently damage his Hessian boots. He reached Tom and could see that the bundle was indeed a person, a person with a mass of blonde hair and—a gown. A woman. He squatted down, and the two of them carefully turned her over.
His stomach twisted when he saw her face.
The woman’s head lolled to the side. Her hair was matted with blood. The skin of her face and arms were a deep red, swollen and covered in blisters. Her lips were cracked.
The sight made him ill, and he breathed heavily. Aside from his grandfather’s wake, he’d never seen a corpse. He could not for the life of him judge her age, not in her disturbing condition. He noted her gown was not one of a servant.
Tom pressed his fingers beneath her jaw.
“You don’t think she could possibly be alive, do you?” Philip asked. “Not looking like . . .”
“I do not feel a pulse, my lord.”
For some reason the declaration brought a weight to Philip’s throat. “From where did she come?” he murmured. It didn’t seem respectful to speak loudly.
“I do not know.” Tom stood and scanned the beach. “I assume by the severity of her burns, she has been exposed to the sun for quite some time.” His gaze moved out over the water. “Perhaps she was shipwrecked?”
Philip looked back at the woman, trying to imagine how she’d possibly gotten to his beach. Had she indeed been shipwrecked? Were there others? The fear of his ship sinking had plagued him during the entire passage from England. He could not imagine the horror of floating in the massive waves of the sea and wondered at what this woman must have endured.
“My lord.” Tom carried a wooden oar toward him. Ribbons and bindings of the same color as the woman’s gown were wrapped around it. “I think this is how she came ashore. She must have tied herself to the oar to keep from drowning.”
Philip leaned his head to see the back of the woman’s dress. He did not want to touch the body again. The laces were indeed missing from her stays. A pity that she’d gone to such effort only to . . .
“And look at her hands.” Tom lifted one of her red arms, pointing to a scraped palm. “She must have made it to shore, only to fall. Or a wave could have dashed her into the rocks.”
Philip considered the scenario. Tom’s deduction seemed realistic. And tragic. She had come so far. Survived the sea only to die when she was so close to safety. “So what do we do now, Mr. Norton?”
“Well, I suppose we—” Tom’s head snapped around as the woman emitted a soft moan.
She was alive! The men stared at each other for an instant before they jerked into action.
“I’ll fetch some water.” Tom scrambled over the rocks to his horse.
Philip removed his jacket and used it to cover the woman’s burned arms. He pulled her completely from the water and off the rocks, moving her into what he thought to be a more comfortable position on the sand. All feelings of revulsion were replaced by a frantic need to save her—and the frustration that he had no idea what to do. “Madam, can you hear me?” He reached to pat her face but thought better of it when he saw the swollen red skin and blisters. He clasped her shoulder instead and shook her gently. “Madam?”
Tom returned with his water skin and poured a trickle between her lips.
Philip lifted her head to help her swallow.
The woman didn’t respond, and the water flowed from the corners of her mouth over her chin.
“She needs medical care immediately,” Philip said. “Help me to get her onto my horse, then you must ride ahead to alert the doctor.” He reached beneath her knees, lifting her easily, and walked up the beach toward the road.
“My lord, I will carry her.”
Philip shook his head. “My horse is the stronger mount.” He lifted the woman onto his saddle. Tom kept her in place while Philip climbed on behind.
Tom handed him the reins, mounted his own horse, and galloped off ahead.
Philip set a quick pace toward the Great House. He figured speed to be more beneficial than comfort to the poor woman. He held onto her as tightly as he dared to prevent her from slipping off. She was utterly limp. Philip couldn’t help but notice how small and frail she was in his arms. Her head bounced with the horse’s movements, and he carefully held it against his chest to keep her still. He glanced down at her mess of bloodied curls and was reminded again how far he was from London in this wild place.
When he rode up the lane to the Great House an hour later, he saw Dr. Bevan, Tom, Betty, and Ezekiel assembled on the front steps. He brought the horse to a halt and handed the reins to Ezekiel then climbed down as carefully as possible, keeping hold of the poor woman. Once he stepped to the ground, he slid her off the saddle and into his arms.
Dr. Bevan raised his brows when he saw the wound on her head.
“Shall I carry her, my lord?” Tom asked.
Philip shook his head, not wanting to jostle her more than necessary by shifting her to Tom.
“Bring her to de guest chamber,” Betty said. She walked up the stairs with her typical regal grace. Philip wondered how she maintained her calm when there was a dying woman in his arms.
Philip and the doctor followed Betty through the house and up the stairs to a guest chamber a few doors away from the master’s rooms. Philip laid the woman on the bed. When he pulled his arm from beneath her shoulders, something metallic caught his eye. He untangled it from her hair and stepped back to study it. A gold chain with a pendant. Tipping it toward to the window, he read the engraving on the disc. “Anna,” he murmured. For some reason it was disconcerting for such a wretched-looking person to have such a pleasant name.
Dr. Bevan pinched her wrist between his fingers to feel for a pulse. He lifted her hair, studying the gash on her head
. “She’s lucky you found her,” he muttered. He didn’t look up but continued speaking calmly as he pulled up the woman’s eyelids. “Betty, I shall require bandages from my bag.” He waved his hand toward the black satchel on the floor behind him.
Betty retrieved the items. She glanced at Philip then raised her chin toward the door.
Philip knew a dismissive gesture when he saw one. He took a step backward, his gaze still on the woman lying on the bed.
“Dis is no de place for you. De doctor and I will help her.” Betty glanced over his clothing and pursed her lips. “And you change and wash befo’ dinner wit’ de Stapletons.” She shooed him out of the room and closed the door.
Philip looked down at his clothing, surprised to see his cravat, waistcoat, and jacket soiled with blood, salt, and sand. He lifted his gaze to the closed door in front of him then turned toward his bedchamber, wondering if he would ever feel like the master of this house.
Philip washed, taking extra time to scrub the dried blood from beneath his fingernails. It was sobering to see another person’s blood covering his clothing. His stomach tightened as he pictured the wound on her—Anna’s—head and her dark swollen lips.
He stepped out of his dressing room and was buttoning his shirt when the sound of a voice in his bedchamber caused him to start.
“Would you like me to tie yo’ cravat, my lord?” Ezekiel said.
Philip closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the burst of alarm to subside. He turned and found the boy holding out a wrinkled pair of trousers and a lint-covered jacket. Philip was suddenly exhausted. The troubles of managing a plantation and the discovery of a nearly dead woman had strained his nerves to the breaking point, and now he would attend his first social engagement since he’d arrived on the island looking disheveled and inelegant. He definitely needed a proper valet.
“Thank you, Ezekiel.” Philip tried to keep his irritation from showing on his face. “I will dress myself this evening.”
“Very well, my lord.” Ezekiel dropped the clothing into a pile on the bed. “I will ready yo’ horse, my lord.” He flashed his teeth in a cheerful smile and hurried out the door.
Philip lifted his crumpled trousers. If it were not for the boy’s merry grin, he’d have relieved him of his valet duties the first day, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Perhaps it was because the boy tried so hard. He looked at his ruined boots and blew out a breath. The hopeful glow in Ezekiel’s eyes reminded him of himself as a child, seeking but rarely finding approval from his father. The disappointment when the marquess had been too occupied or unimpressed with Philip’s efforts still stung.
It would not for long, and his dinner appointment was the next step in achieving the esteem he’d searched for his entire life.
A few moments later, after surrendering the fight to form a fashionable knot out of a limp cravat, Lord Philip strode down the stairs.
Tom stood in the main hall. When Philip arrived, he stepped closer and handed him a wooden case. “You’ll be needing this, my lord.”
Philip took the heavy box and lifted the lid. “A pistol?” He raised his gaze to the overseer.
“You’ve not traveled alone at night. Crocodiles, highwaymen . . .” His voice tapered off. “You could take a servant.”
“Kensington Estate is only a little over a mile away.” He was not a child and, come to think of it, his only domestic manservant was a child. He was definitely not going to ask for an escort to ride such a short distance down the road.
Tom shrugged. “Night comes fast in the tropics as I’m sure you’ve noticed. And it’s best to be prepared in any case.”
Philip thanked the overseer and bid him farewell. He removed the weapon from its box. It was not a gentleman’s weapon—not a well-designed blunderbuss with silver fittings on polished walnut—but a sturdy, long-barreled, battered horse pistol. He measured the weight in his hand. The bulky firearm would not fit into his pocket, and he didn’t want to stuff it into his waistband and ruin the effect of his tailored jacket. In the end, he decided to hold it in one hand and guide the horse with the other.
He glanced back up at the window to his guest chamber, wondering if Anna would still be alive when he returned.
As the horse made its way toward the main road, Philip was struck by the absurdity of his day. If someone had told him three months earlier that he would be riding through a tropical jungle in disheveled clothing with a cumbersome weapon after pulling a mortally wounded woman out of the sea, he would have thought them destined for Bedlam.
Chapter 4
Within an hour, Philip sat at a polished mahogany table in the Stapletons’ dining room, eating a meal of stewed fish, sea turtle, and fruit. The house was decorated much like Oakely Park, with bare wooden floors and high ceilings. In the corners of the room, slave children waved large fans to move the warm air. They seemed much too small for the duty. Philip wondered how long they would be able to perform the task before their arms tired.
To his left, at the head of the table, sat John Stapleton, a large mustachioed man with straw-colored hair. John’s daughter, Clarissa, was seated directly across from Philip.
Clarissa’s face was round, her eyes large. Dark ringlets bounced around her head when she moved. Her appearance reminded Philip of a porcelain doll. “How do you like Jamaica, Lord Philip?” she asked.
Philip pressed his napkin to his lips and considered her for a moment. What kind of answer did her question warrant? Did she want to hear his true opinion? That the two weeks he’d spent as master of Oakely Park made him feel both overwhelmed and immensely contented? That he’d never been so lonely without his friends and family, and yet a hard day’s work on the plantation brought satisfaction of which he’d never dreamed? He did not think she sought to understand his inner emotions, and instead he settled for a trite reply. “I have never seen a more beautiful land. The deep blue of the sea, bright flowers in every color—I should be happy to remain at Oakely Park forever.” His response was truthful but vastly incomplete. How did one describe the conflicting emotions that every moment in this strange land produced?
The answer seemed to please her. Clarissa nodded, and her curls bounced as if they had a mind of their own. “I am happy to hear that, my lord. And do you know the society is very pleasant as well? We regularly travel to Port Antonio to attend balls and assemblies. There is no theater, but we do dine with the officers and their wives from time to time. Perhaps you would join us?” She puckered her lips and blinked her eyes while she watched him.
“I should be delighted to.” Her wide eyes were slightly unnerving, and Philip dropped his gaze to his plate. “I thank you for the invitation.” He took a drink of fruit juice and turned to her father. “From what I saw as I arrived, Kensington Estate seems a splendid plantation.”
“You’ll not find any better—the largest and most prosperous on this side of the island.” John’s voice boomed through the room. He puffed out his chest. “I’m even looking to expand, and at this very moment, my agent is very near to coming to an agreement about purchasing Landon Grove—the property next to yours. It’s mostly jungle and mountains, but there’s some good cane land, and the river runs right through. The absentee owner’s run the place into the ground, and my man tells me he believes we shall secure the plantation for a song.” He lifted his chin, obviously believing this to be an accomplishment Philip should appreciate. “And with her mother buried these five years, my Clarissa is to inherit the entirety of my holdings. Lucky is the man who marries her. He’ll be rich as Croesus.” John caught Philip’s eye and raised his brow, nodding his head forward.
Philip didn’t need to be hit over the head to take the man’s insinuation, though it was extremely vulgar to discuss in front of Miss Stapleton. He felt a flush creep over the back of his neck and decided to change the subject—again.
He placed his fork and knife on his plate. “There was a strange occurrence at Oakely Park today, and I would ask your a
dvice on how to handle the matter.”
“Didn’t fire another overseer, did ya?” John chuckled. He stabbed his fork into a piece of meat. “Heard you had a bit of a weak stomach for corporal punishment.” He bit into the meat and kept speaking as he chewed. “Yer a little green yet. I shouldn’t imagine it’ll take ya long to learn the way of things.” He grinned, showing bits of food in his teeth.
The heat did not disperse but flared from Philip’s neck onto his face. The suggestion that he was inadequate for the job, that he refused to beat his slaves because he was too fainthearted, both humiliated and angered him. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Mr. Braithwaite was completely out of line, sir. The woman—the young woman—he was flogging was injured, and—”
“Now, now, my lord, no need to get yer hackles raised. Like I said, yer soft yet, and ’twill take a bit of time before you come to realize how things are done.” John motioned to a footman to clear his plate and pointed toward one of the children, clearing his throat and glaring.
The child had slowed in his task, but at the look, he widened his eyes and pumped the large fan more quickly.
“It’s true, my lord,” Clarissa said, as if they were simply discussing the weather. “Negroes need to be kept in line, or they become lazy and . . . well, where would we be then? A flogging isn’t pleasant to watch—it can even be tedious at times—but we’re their superiors, and we can’t allow them to forget it.” She nodded her head and picked up her knife and fork. “They aren’t civilized like the servants in England. These are Africans.” She looked at him directly, as if making sure he understood her point, and then proceeded to saw at the slice of pork on her plate.
John turned back to Philip. “Now tell me what happened today that’s got ya worried.”
Philip’s stomach turned at the casual way the Stapletons spoke about beating their workers, as if it were more unpleasant for them than the slaves. He had never believed himself to be a proponent for the rights of servants. He’d hardly given the lower class a thought in England unless one was negligent in his duty, but the idea of using a weapon to inflict bodily harm on someone . . . He shook himself out of his contemplations. It would not do to criticize his hosts or delve into a debate about the treatment of slaves. Mustering a polite tone and casual smile, he continued. “Not so much worried, sir. I only seek your advice.”
Simply Anna Page 4