Respectable Trade

by Philippa Gregory

  They became a new kind of family, an invention all of their own: an African family that mostly spoke English, a black family clothed in cotton and heavy serge, a community with two men but headed unquestionably by the women. And—less comfortably—a family that snatched at a little space and a little time and could be torn apart and sold away from each other at any moment.

  They never forgot that they were slaves and that their happiness and security depended completely on the slender thread of their owner’s whim. In the evening, when they sat around the kitchen table, the boys and girls painstakingly reading or the girls sewing while the boys played jacks, the adults would talk softly about what they could do to secure their freedom, how they could gain their liberty and stay together.

  Dr. Hadley came and said that Frances was suffering from an inflammation of the lungs brought on by the chill. He prescribed rest and warmth. Mehuru waited outside the house and held the horse to create an opportunity to speak to him.

  “She’s not desperately ill,” Hadley said cheerfully. “But she’s not strong. She’s one of these delicate, highly strung women. She cannot bear much anxiety and anger, and there are weak hearts in her family. Her mother died when her heart failed, and Mrs. Cole has that pale, dark-eyed look. She needs a calm life. She should be living in the country. She has delicate lungs, and the air here is poison.”

  “Would she be well in the country?” Mehuru asked. He had a sudden vision of Frances seated at her leisure on the terrace of a little farmhouse in the hot, reliable sunshine of his home. He imagined a parasol of silk shading her from the sun and her skin flushed with heat and health.

  “She’d be better,” Hadley said. “Will we see you on Tuesday night? We are hoping for news of the abolition debate. Wilberforce will speak on Monday night to the house. Caesar has promised to send us a messenger.”

  “I would not miss it for anything,” Mehuru declared. He glanced at the windows of the house. “But I had better go now.”

  Hadley pressed a coin into his hand. Mehuru instantly recoiled. “I don’t want this!”

  “For holding my horse,” Hadley said patiently. “I would give it to anyone who held my horse for me.”

  Pride and necessity fought across Mehuru’s face. “Very well,” he agreed unwillingly. “I thank you.”

  Stuart gave him a quick, boyish grin. “Well, I thank you for taking it. I thought you were about to throw it back at me.”

  Mehuru smiled reluctantly. “I am not used to being in service,” he said. “I do not wish to become used to it either.”

  “Have you had a chance to read those pamphlets?” Dr. Hadley asked, climbing into the driving seat.

  Mehuru released the horse and stood back. “I have read them. And I am reading them aloud to my friends. We talk in the kitchen at night.”

  “Excellent,” Hadley said. “The more who understand, the better! These are times of great change, and you and I can play our part.”

  Mehuru nodded. “I am a radical,” he observed, experimenting with a new word.

  Stuart shot a nervous look up and down the street. “Well, for pity’s sake keep it to yourself,” he warned. “Or you will be a dead radical and I will be blacklisted among the Bristol merchants.”

  Mehuru grinned. “Being black is not such a bad thing.”

  “And when you start punning in English, you have learned too much,” Stuart said. He waved his whip. “Good day!”

  Scott House.

  9th May 1789

  Dear Niece,

  I Enclose the lease for Sir Charles’s Signature. It is a handsome Property, and I have sold it to him at a Fair price. You will note that I have Not sold him the Mineral rights to the land. He did not Ask for these, and I would rather they Remained in my Keeping. You will Oblige Me if you do not draw his attention to this slight Omission.

  In reply to Josiah’s question about the Agitation for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, I am assured that Wilberforce has only Pitt’s support and Few others’. But Outside the House there is a Rising mood of Radicalism in the Country which can only Dismay all men of True patriotism.

  As I Understand it—and this News is for you and Josiah Alone—the plan is to Affect to go along with Wilberforce and to Adjourn the debate, Forever. I am assured that No Slave Trader need fear for his Income during the life of this Parliament. Liverpool, Bristol, and the London merchants are Pouring money into the pockets of their Placemen to Stall the Debate, and there can be No Doubt that the Abolitionists are A Small minority in the Commons. In the House of Lords of course, There are None, and Never Will be. Every Lord and most gentlemen have Some part of their Fortune invested in slavery, be it Sugar, Rum, Cotton, or Tobacco—or Even Shipping, Canals, and House Building—all of Which Depend on general Prosperity.

  There is a Powerful Unity among the Workingmen and the Free Negroes in London. They see their Cause as One and the Same. Our Interest, as Employers of the One and Owners of the Other, must be to Separate them. If we can Persuade white Workingmen that Negroes are an Inferior Animal, then we will Sever this Inconvenient unity. For the meantime—do not Fear. Negroes and Workingmen will always have one thing in common: They Lack All power. They have neither Money nor the Ear of the country nor a Vote to change their Masters. We are Secure.

  I have a very Pretty investment in Mind at the moment, and if your Holdings for Sir Charles could Advance one thousand pounds, I could buy him a share. Let me know by Return of post. It is a proposed Colliery in Kent.

  Family news is that Lady Scott is expecting Another child, and she is Confident that this time she will bear me an Heir. You can imagine how Dearly I hope that she is right. She will Remain in her Lodgings at the Sea until Autumn, and then I shall Expect her to stay Quietly at Whiteleaze until my Son is born.

  As to your question about your Acquaintance who finds herself attracted to A Nobleman. I will speak frankly to You, my dear. I do not like these mixed marriages between the Ranks of Society. A Lady cannot be Satisfied with a man who is in every way, except Financial, her Inferior. She is bound to meet a man of her own Rank whose company she Prefers. However, she has Married into a class which does not tolerate Freedom in these matters, and an Indiscretion would be fatal. A Lady has to put Aside her own Inclinations and remain Faithful to her husband. Any other Choice is Disaster for her and for her Family. Her Dishonor Shames all—Family and friends. I heartily Pity the woman who finds herself in this Plight, but there is no way Open to her. She has made her Choice, and she has to endure it. Please make this Clear to Your Friend. She has No Choice. She must Forget the gentleman she loves and follow her Duty and her Marriage Vows. She has No other Choice.

  I am Very, Very sorry my dear.

  I look forward to receiving your Speedy Reply about the Business matters. I remain your Loving uncle,

  Scott.

  Frances slipped the letter into the drawer of the little writing table that was balanced on the covers of her bed. She felt too exhausted to reply at once, and his advice confirmed what she already knew. She had allowed herself to dream, for a moment only, that he might have written telling her that if a person is lucky enough to find a love that transforms the world around her, then nothing should stand in her way. She smiled wearily. Her uncle was hardly likely to advise her to defy the conventions, and her own life had taught her nothing but caution and fear.

  ALL DAY TUESDAY, MEHURU haunted Josiah’s study, hoping for news of the abolition debate. Josiah also was restless. For half of the morning, he waited for news from London, and then he could bear it no longer and went out to prowl around the quayside.

  All along the quays, there were knots of men discussing the situation. All sorts of rumors were starting: Wilberforce had been shouted down and left the House of Commons in tears. No! Not at all! Wilberforce had been acclaimed and had wept with joy. The trade was to be banned outright, as of tomorrow. Josiah and the other men, buoyed up by hope and then flung into despair, spent an uneasy and unhappy day.

&nbs
p; They collected in the evening in the coffeehouse. Stephen Waring was there.

  “Cole!” he called pleasantly. “Come and have a bowl of punch with me! I am awaiting my messenger from London with the news of the debate.”

  Josiah wound his way through the gossiping men to the top table. “I shall be glad to take a glass,” he admitted. “This is an anxious day.”

  “I am confident,” Stephen said easily. He squeezed an extra lemon into the bowl of punch, tasted it, and poured Josiah a glass.

  “Yes, but you have investments all over the country,” Josiah growled irritably. “I have three ships at sea even as I speak. What happens to men like me if they abolish overnight?”

  Stephen Waring gave Josiah a long, slow smile. “They abolish!” he snorted contemptuously. “Do cats abolish cream? Do pigs abolish the trough? The government will never abolish slavery until they cease making money from it. They are milkmaids, and Africa is their cow. Slavery will flourish until it ceases to make money, Josiah. You know that.”

  Josiah was warmed by the punch, and by Stephen’s arrogant certainty. “You sound very sure indeed.”

  “Take another glass,” Stephen said genially. “Business brings risk, Josiah. Who should know better than you and I? And tell me, are you determined to have the Hot Well?”

  Josiah accepted the glass and took another fortifying gulp. He was diverted to his plans for the Hot Well; his fears slid away. Outside, over the Redclift and Bristol quays, the sun was slowly going down. Coming up the channel on the evening tide was a Bristol slaver, her decks burnished gold, her rigging like threads of brass. Seagulls whirled away from her masts like flying pennants, crying and crying. The wind blew to port the smell of death and despair. It had been an average voyage: four hundred men, women, and children stacked on shelves for six months while loading and then a three-month voyage of terror, sickness, and torment. Some had gone mad, some had killed themselves, many had died of disease. Eighty had died on the voyage and been dropped overboard as carelessly as garbage from the galley. Nearly all of them sold at a profit in Jamaica would be dead within four years.

  “That’s a grand sight,” Josiah said, catching a glimpse of the ship from the windows of the coffeehouse and thinking fondly of Rose and Lily and Daisy, loading off Africa.

  “Beautiful,” Stephen Waring agreed.

  MEHURU SLIPPED OUT THE back door at nine o’clock. With Frances ill in her room, Josiah waiting for news from London at the quayside, and Sarah reading sermons in the parlor, he would not be missed. He ran through the darkening streets to the coffeehouse and arrived there as Stuart Hadley’s phaeton drew up outside.

  “Any news?” Mehuru demanded.

  “None yet,” Stuart said. He looked grave and excited, like a man who cannot believe that his battle has been won. “Caesar promised to send word as soon as he knew which way the debate is going. He will not fail us.”

  They went in together, ordered ale, and sat in the corner. Edgar Long drifted over to join them, and a couple of other men. Another freed black man came over to meet Mehuru. He was a Zulu, from the far south of Africa. To their mutual amusement, they found that their easiest shared language was English.

  “I am getting a white tongue,” Mehuru remarked with distaste. “Soon I will forget everything I ever knew.”

  The atmosphere was edgy and nervous. Edgar Long had some predictions as to the way that the MPs would vote. He was certain that the abolition of the trade would be handsomely and rapidly passed. “And then the banning of slavery altogether,” he said hungrily.

  The evening dragged on. At midnight many men muttered that they had to be at work in less than six hours and left. Stuart, Edgar, and Mehuru clung on. “Caesar said he would send me news as soon as he could see which way it was going,” Stuart said. “Surely there cannot be a difficulty. They all know where they stand. There has been discussion enough, God knows.”

  “Unless the trade has bought more men than we knew,” Edgar suggested.

  “It cannot be,” Stuart protested. “It cannot possibly fail.”

  At two in the morning, a travel-stained man came into the coffeehouse and glanced around. “Over here!” Stuart shouted. The man came to their table, and they pulled him down into a seat. Other men gathered around, waiting.

  “What news?”

  “Nothing,” he said bitterly.

  “What?”

  “There is no news worth the bringing,” he said savagely. “I waited till the debate was adjourned, I slept for six hours, and then I rode down to tell you, as I promised to do. I have ridden all day to bring you the news—there is no news.”

  “Here,” Mehuru said hastily, and pushed a mug of ale toward the man.

  He drained it and set it down on the table. “Wilberforce started speaking in the afternoon,” he told them. “He was simple and clear. He said that they were all guilty, himself as well, and that they should put the matter right.”

  There was a murmur from the listening men. “He had twelve resolutions to end the trade,” the messenger said. “And he was ready to put it to the vote.”

  “And?” Stuart demanded, anguished.

  “And nothing,” the man said.

  “Then what?” Stuart shouted with impatience.

  “Nothing,” the man said stubbornly. “They refused to put it to the vote, and half a dozen of them leaped up to speak. They never debate after midnight—you can be sure that they’ll none of them lose sleep for the likes of him.” He jerked his thumb at Mehuru’s scowling face. “All of the placemen of the trade were there in their fine coats and gold watches. All waiting to speak. They’re going to drag it on, they’re going to drag it out.”

  “It will be adjourned?”

  “They chattered on like fat starlings till eleven o’clock, and then they adjourned it for ten days.”

  “They will vote then?”

  “You may think that,” the man replied scathingly. “But I wager that they chatter and chatter until the cause is lost and Wilberforce defeated, and this country as far from freedom and justice as ever, as it ever will be.”

  Stuart slumped into his chair, put his head in his hands, and groaned.

  The men exchanged shocked looks. Mehuru felt sick.

  “We fight on,” Stuart said, muffled. “But I am going to bed now.” He looked up. “I thank you for bringing us the news, however bad. Shall you stay the night at my house?”

  “I’d be grateful,” the man said. “I am as tired as a dog.”

  “So what happens now?” Mehuru demanded.

  Stuart gave him a crooked smile. “We fight on. Next week, ten days’ time, next month, next year. Shall I give you a lift to your door?”

  “I’ll walk,” Mehuru said miserably. “I’m in no hurry to get back there.”

  “See you next Monday,” Stuart said. “We’ll have more news then.”

  Mehuru nodded and stepped out into the darkness of the May night.

  IN THE NEXT WEEK, Frances did not recover. The inflammation of the lungs brought on by the chill she had caught at the Hot Well had left her feeling weak and tired, and she seemed unable to throw off her fatigue. She had been convalescing for a fortnight in her room. For the first week, she had seen no one but the maids and the doctor. Now she was a little better, and Josiah would sometimes sit with her after dinner, and he had agreed that Mehuru could come into her bedroom for reading lessons in the afternoon.

  Frances wore her prettiest cap for his lesson, and her white embroidered robe. Elizabeth was ordered to sit in the window and darn table linen, acting as chaperone. Mehuru had a seat at the foot of Frances’s bed, and now and then she would lean forward and point to a passage in his book that he should read, and under cover of the book Mehuru could touch her finger with his.

  It was not much of a courtship, but for Frances it was restful. She liked having Mehuru near at hand without his sudden, unpredictable flashes of temper. She loved him being close to her.

  Mehuru found the inti
macy deeply disturbing. When his finger brushed against her hand, he could hardly stop himself from seizing it and kissing her palm. When she leaned forward, she was close enough for him to smell the light lavender scent of her linen. When she said, “Catalogue,” that word is “catalogue”; it means a list of things,” he watched her lips and listened to the cadences of her voice and hardly heard the meaning of her words at all.

  The afternoon was hazy with unfulfilled desire. Even Elizabeth, stitching slowly in the window seat, was affected by the atmosphere. She rested her hands in her lap and gazed out the window at the square, where the trees were in full green leaf and the birds were crisscrossing the sky with their beaks full of food for nestlings.

  Frances leaned back against her pillows and listened to Mehuru reading. She had set him a passage from the London Magazine about the prevalence of circulating libraries. Mehuru read fluently and easily, stumbling only once or twice over unknown words.

  “How ever have you learned so quickly?” she interrupted.

  He looked up, and their eyes met for long, wordless moments. They were drenched in desire for each other; there was nothing to say. Elizabeth, daydreaming in the window seat, was blind to their silent communication.

  “I like different languages,” Mehuru explained slowly, the words forming and shaping in his mind while he watched Frances’s face, scanning her dark eyes and her soft mouth. He thought she looked quite different from the woman he had seen in the cellar of the warehouse all those months ago. She was alive now in a way she had never been before. Her pulse was more rapid, her skin as clear and light as a girl’s. He thought that she had been half dead when he first met her and that his desire for her, and her passion for him, had brought her back, back from the very brink of coldness and a death-in-life where all these Englishwomen seemed to live.