Respectable Trade

by Philippa Gregory

  His three companions were asleep: Kbara, the youth who had named himself Accursed, and the boy called Sad. The two little pickaninnies were next door with the women and the girls. Mehuru called to Snake to give him sight for the future and tell him what would become of them all.

  Nothing came. Mehuru thought that the coldness of the air had entered his body and the dark mornings and gray afternoons had bleached the colors from his imagination and would bleach the pigment from his very skin. Every day Snake slid farther away from him, until one day he feared he would be an Englishman, as dull and as slow as any of them, and not an African at all.

  He thought of his house in Oyo: its coolness in the morning and the way the sun gilded the walls and the paving stones of the street, the scarlet-and-black Barbary shrikes gathered around the well, waiting for Siko to spill water for them to bathe and drink. He thought of the cool interior of his home, shadowy and restful even when the sun outside was burning hot, and the comfortable warmth of the outside stones when he came home from a journey and leaned back against them. He thought of his wardrobe of clothes, the intricately embroidered court robes of billowing bright silk, the smooth cotton house robes, the softness of the pure wool traveling capes. He went over every stone in the door lintel in his mind, counting each one with a passionate homesickness. He reviewed the skyline of Oyo, the high walls of the palace, the imposing towers, the great sweep of the city wall that guarded every citizen and encircled a city that a man could be proud of.

  He turned it all over in his mind, loving every stone, every corner. He thought of it as a man will think of the woman he adores, every little detail of her. And he fixed his gaze on the distant star he could see through the skylight and wished that this new life were a dream and that he could wake at home and find himself in his own bed, and Siko coming in with a brass cup of mint tea, and everything in the world to look forward to.

  INSURED, AND WITH HER FULL complement of partners, Daisy was at last ready to sail. Josiah went to see her off on the twentieth day of February. Captain Lisle was on board, going downriver with the ship.

  “I will bring you back another two dozen slaves for your wife to train,” he promised. “Are you sure you don’t want more?”

  Josiah shook his head and laughed. “This is a little venture, not my whole business,” he said. “Sell the slaves and bring me good sugar!”

  “I will,” Captain Lisle promised. Josiah shook his hand and stepped down the gangplank.

  They ran it ashore and cast the ropes off as the rowboats took the strain. Josiah raised his hand to his departing ship. She had brought him in a profit of a thousand pounds on her last voyage, and she was likely to do as well again. He owed more money than his father had earned in all his lifetime, but he was confident. He was investing large sums and he was earning large sums.

  “Godspeed!” Josiah called over the widening gray water.

  Daisy dipped as the rowboats pulled her away from the quayside, as if she were saying farewell. Josiah watched the wedge-shaped stern of his ship move slowly away from him. Above her a flock of seagulls wheeled, hoping for scraps from the galley. Josiah’s last sight of her as she went around the curve of the river was a silhouette of clean rigging, the strong workmanlike shape in the water, and the cloud of seagulls wheeling and calling like mourning angels around her.

  IN THE HANDSOME TOWN house, the slaves were working as domestic servants. There was much for them to do. Every day the big rooms needed sweeping, the large windows needed dusting, the panes of glass had to be washed to rid them of the grease and grit of the constant Bristol smog. Curtains, carpets, all the linen of the house had to be continually laundered against the filth of the uncontrolled industries.

  Every room was heated by an open coal fire, and every morning Kbara and Mehuru heaved full scuttles of coal from the cellar at the back of the house to each room, where the women, under the scullery maid’s nervous supervision, cleaned the grates, laid the fires, and struggled with a tinderbox to light them. Frances liked to have a fire lit in her bedroom before she woke, and the fires were lit in all the downstairs rooms by midmorning. The slaves swept the floors and scrubbed them with buckets of cold water and thick slabs of soap. They got down on their hands and knees and scattered used tea leaves and brushed the carpets clean. Kbara and Mehuru carried Frances’s handsome Turkish rugs into the yard and beat them with cane sticks. Mehuru looked carefully at the quality of the weave. They were vastly inferior to the carpets on the stone floors and walls of his home. He guessed they had been bought from Arab traders, and in his opinion the white people had been robbed.

  Mehuru took to domestic work like a thoroughbred horse harnessed to a cart. He could manage it with ease, but he felt himself ground down by the dirt and the drudgery of labor. He had to take out the kitchen garbage and burn it in the backyard. He had to pour the slops from the chamber pots into the night-soil cart when it came to the backs of the houses every morning. He did tasks that his own slave Siko would not have done. He felt his hands harden and grow callused, and his fingernails, which had once been so carefully manicured, split and broke down to workmanlike stubs rimmed with grime.

  His English improved daily. He learned a dozen curses from John Bates, he learned streams of scolding from the cook. He even learned to distinguish one English accent from another: the affected gentility of Brown’s parlor voice and the Somerset burr of the kitchen and at the back door.

  Lessons with Frances were resumed. Morning and afternoon the slaves were summoned to the dining room and seated around the large table under the ornate ceiling. All the slaves could now name things and understand short clear sentences. In one lesson Frances surrendered to Sarah’s demand and all of them were given new names, English names. Frances chose them without any care, almost at random, from Bible stories. She started with the children. The two smallest boys she called James and John, the three girls were named Susan, Ruth, and Naomi. The two young boys were Matthew and Mark. The three women were Mary, Martha, and Elizabeth. Kbara she called Julius. Then she looked at Mehuru.

  “I shall call you Cicero.” She smiled. She reminded him of a little girl naming her dolls.

  Mehuru felt a slow burn of anger, an unusual emotion for him in these days of servitude and endurance.

  “My name is Mehuru, I come from Africa,” he said, reminding her of the lesson she had taught him. He would not take a strange name. It was as if she was robbing him of the last thing he had been able to bring from his home, his name, his identity.

  Frances nodded. “That’s very good,” she said. She was still lighthearted, she did not realize the depth of his opposition. “Very good indeed. But all of you are to have new names, English names. That will be nice for you. And you and Julius have special, classical names. It is the fashion. Kbara will be Julius, and you will be Cicero.”

  Mehuru shook his head. “My name is Mehuru,” he repeated. His voice was soft, but there was a warning note to it. Frances’s smile died. She turned to the others. “You can go,” she said. She nodded to John Bates. “Take them to the kitchen and see what work Cook has for them,” she ordered.

  “I should perhaps stay with you here, ma’am,” Bates said. “If he gets cheeky, I could whip him.”

  Mehuru looked at Bates, his face like stone.

  “Just because he can speak proper doesn’t mean he can’t be whipped,” Bates said, aiming the words at Mehuru. “There’s no law that says he can’t be whipped even if he can speak Chinese!”

  “I know,” Frances said. “But I don’t need you, Bates. Take the others downstairs.”

  The slaves shuffled out, leaving the two of them alone, still seated side by side at the dining table.

  “I want you to be called Cicero,” Frances told him quietly.

  Mehuru measured her determination. “Not my name,” he said. “I have a name. I will not take other.”

  “English people do not like African names,” Frances said.

  “Then they should not
. . . take African slaves.”

  She gave a little sigh of impatience. “Slaves have to do as they are ordered.”

  Mehuru said nothing.

  “I want to call you Cicero,” she continued. “He was an admirable man, a very fine Roman. It is a compliment to you to name you after him.”

  She had spoken too fast for him to follow, and he did not understand what she meant by “admirable,” “Roman,” or “compliment.” But her meaning was clear.

  “My name is Mehuru,” he repeated.

  Frances reached out and slapped his hand as it rested on the polished table, an impetuous, playful gesture. “Cicero! I want to call you Cicero!”

  He caught her hand the moment she struck at him, snatched at it in the air, and she gasped in shock. The very room seemed to freeze, and she was suddenly still, her lips slightly parted, her eyes alert.

  He thought she would scream, but she was frozen. He did not move, he did not release her. His face was close to hers, his eyes black with anger. They were as close as lovers, caught in a lovers’ quarrel. Her eyes were dilated. When she breathed out, he could feel the warm sigh on his cheek. Slowly, slowly, Mehuru exhaled, and the tension left his face and his neck and his shoulders. His fingers uncurled, and he let go.

  Frances sprang to her feet and fled to the closed door, but she did not fling it open and call for John Bates. She stood before it, her face turned from him, her hand wrapped around her wrist where he had held her.

  “Please,” he said, as humbly as she could wish. “You steal all. Leave my name.”

  Frances turned slowly and met his eyes. He did not look suppliant, he looked very grave. She went back to the table where he was still seated and put her hand gently on his shoulder. He looked up at her, but still there was no pleading in his face nor in the tilt of his head. He looked steadily at her, without fear or tenderness.

  “You are my slave,” Frances said, as if to remind them both. “I can call you what I wish.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I shall call you Cicero. It is a lovely name.”

  Mehuru rose to his feet and Frances took an involuntary step backward.

  “Very well.”

  He waited before her, his hands by his sides, his eyes on her face. The plain dark green livery that Frances had chosen enhanced the darkness of his skin and the blue tattoos around his mouth and eyes.

  Frances’s color flowed into her cheeks and drained away again. She put her hand out to him.

  “I shall call you Cicero,” she repeated. It was as if she were asking some kind of permission from him.

  Her finger touched the inside of his palm. He did not respond at all. Frances looked down and saw the contrast of her white hand against the smooth darkness of his skin.

  “Cicero,” she whispered.

  His hand did not clasp hers, he moved no closer. He stood like a rock before her, and though she took a step, a tiny half step, toward him, he did not respond at all. He did not even look at her but stared over her head at the blankness of the wall, as if he were trying to see the open, free plains of his home in the silk wall covering.

  Frances turned away from him and went to the window. “You can go, Cicero,” she said abruptly.

  He went toward the door without looking back.

  “We will have another lesson tomorrow,” Frances continued, trying to make him acknowledge her. “Cicero? You will come to another lesson tomorrow.”

  Mehuru bowed his head and went silently from the room.

  CHAPTER

  18

  JOSIAH TOOK THE FERRY back to the north bank after he had seen his ship slip away downriver, but he did not go home for breakfast. Instead he went to the coffeehouse where the traders met. Although it was early, the place was already crowded. Josiah glanced around for a friendly face and started to make his way to his usual table.

  “Josiah Cole! Hey! Josiah!”

  He turned. At the top table, Stephen Waring nodded to him and George Woolwick beckoned him. “There’s a place for you here!” he called.

  Josiah, his heart swelling, nodded casually to his friends at his old table and strolled as nonchalantly as he could manage through the busy room to the best table in the coffee shop: the table laid with white linen, the table served first and served with the very best of things.

  “Cousin, this is Josiah Cole,” George Woolwick said to his neighbor. “Josiah, this is my cousin, John Shore. You met his wife at your wife’s tea table the other day.”

  “Of course.” Josiah nodded to the man, who moved his chair over to make space for Josiah.

  “Mrs. Shore told me all about it,” John Shore said. “She had her eye on that house—I have not heard the last of it I know. She said that your wife had some very fine furniture and would I ask you where she got it.”

  “The Chinese pieces?”

  John Shore frowned slightly. “No, she didn’t mention Chinese. I thought she said old stuff. But I wasn’t properly listening.”

  “Oh.” Josiah thought fondly of Frances’s resistance to Chinese. “I think the best pieces come from Whiteleaze. My wife was a Miss Scott of Whiteleaze, and she has some pretty things.”

  “No chance of buying them, then?” John asked gloomily.

  Josiah shook his head. “They’re heirlooms,” he said. “Priceless, I should think. You know what these old families are like, priceless heirlooms with the Scott crest on them.”

  “Well, I shall tell Mrs. Shore that we can’t buy that,” John Shore said with finality. “But she won’t thank me for it!”

  Josiah managed a commiserating smile. “The ladies like to have things just so,” he said. “Mrs. Cole would have the ordering of her house whatever I might say to her.”

  “And it’s a devil of a house to run,” Stephen Waring interrupted. “Have you had to take on many new servants?”

  “Not a one,” Josiah said smugly. “I imported some niggers for domestic work a little while ago, and my wife has been training them. They are doing the work to perfection.”

  “By jove, that’s a good idea!” Stephen Waring exclaimed. “But I thought your maid was English?”

  “Oh, I have kept her on for now,” Josiah said airily. “But if my wife has her way, we will employ none but slaves. They are quick and obedient, and if they are well trained, they are better than English girls.”

  “What race are they?” George Woolwick asked. “I always think that men from Dahomey are very unruly.”

  “Bonny slaves will kill themselves,” Stephen Waring said. “They get melancholy and just die, just lie down and die.”

  “These are handpicked, mostly Yoruban, two Fulani women, a Mandinko, and a Wolof,” Josiah said. “But the skill is in their education. They are not melancholy, and they are not suicidal because they have been continually trained in England by my wife. They’ve never seen a plantation; they’ve no idea of anything but the way we do things here. These plantation house servants are spoiled by the time they come to England. But my slaves are fresh from the coast; they have been broken as I want them.”

  “And you say your wife trains them?” Stephen Waring confirmed.

  Josiah hesitated. Frances had coached him in what he had to say until he was able to sound convincing. She had warned him never to mention her period of work as a governess. “She has had the ordering of very large houses,” he explained easily. “At Whiteleaze, and at her father’s rectory. She is experienced in handling a large number of servants. A dozen slaves are no difficulty at all to her.”

  Stephen Waring nodded, and the other men looked impressed. Josiah glanced around and signaled to the waiter to bring him a pint of small beer and a plate of bread, ham, and beef for his breakfast.

  “And will you keep these slaves for your personal use?” George Woolwick asked.

  “I shall sell most of them,” Josiah said. “When we are established in the new house, and when they are completely trained, I shall sell them as English servants. The men will be footmen, or even
butlers. The women can serve as upper servants or ladies’ maids.”

  “Mrs. Shore would want one,” John Shore said hastily. “Please reserve your best manservant for her. I know that she would want one.”

  Josiah nodded. “I will make a note of it,” he said. “The best one is to be called Cicero, I think. I will reserve him for you.”

  “Any children?” Stephen Waring asked.

  “Two little boys, two youths of about seven and fifteen, and three girls,” Josiah replied.

  “I’ll take one of the little boys,” Stephen Waring said. “My wife wants a little playmate for our children, and when he grows, he can be a page boy.”

  “One of them is a very pretty child,” Josiah said.

  “No diseases?”

  Josiah shook his head. “They have been in my house for more than a quarter,” he said. “By the time they are ready for sale, they will be as fit as English children. As I say, bringing them from the coast and training them in my house, I can vet them before I sell them on.”

  “By God! It’s a pretty piece of business,” John Shore said enthusiastically. “How much are you charging, Cole? I did not think to ask.”

  “One hundred and ten each.” Josiah named Frances’s astronomic price.

  There was a stunned silence. “Good God,” said Stephen Waring. “Where did you get that price from, man?”

  “From my wife,” Josiah confessed simply. “She tells me that is what Lady Scott expects to pay for the slave we are training for her. These are the best prices for the very best slaves.” He hesitated, measuring their eagerness. “Each is, in every respect, an English servant; but one which never asks for wages, or time off, or can move to another employer. Think what you pay in wages to your servants—and how they behave! Then think what value a slave is!” He paused and shrugged lightly. “But if you wish to cancel your orders, gentlemen, there will be no hard feelings. I can sell them over and over again, as you will imagine. The London ladies are wild for them.”