by Laura Frantz
“I . . .” She paused, not wanting to offend him. “I am—”
He silenced her with a kiss and slid a cold hand around her neck so that her face was tilted up to his. She tasted cider. Smoke. Safety. Security. All at once she was cast back to her first kiss in a sea cave and a captain who’d tried to claim her. She’d not responded then, nor did she now. Neither did she draw back, so stunned was she by Trevor’s unexpected move. But he didn’t seem to mind, nor even notice so passionless a kiss.
“Consider it, Lark. I shall court you. And if we wed, all your worries about Granger and his schemes, the babe, and the onerous contract you hold with Osbourne will blow away like chaff in the wind.”
Kwasi sat on his horse like a prince, the sun shining off his composed, deeply etched features glistening with sweat, his regal bearing stoking Magnus’s curiosity.
“Tell me of yer former life. In Africa,” Magnus said by way of Rojay as the three of them looked out on sugarcane thrusting green shoots above the soil of hundreds of acres.
If the Ashanti seemed surprised by Magnus’s query, he did not show it. “You are the first white man to ask that of me,” he replied in his melodic cadence, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
Thoughtful seconds passed. The emotion the question wrought was felt in the silence, broken by a raucous parrot from a near palm.
“It was like this,” Kwasi finally said. “I was a boy, out planting yams with my father not far from our village. I had seen white men seeking gold on our shores and had been warned to stay away from them. That final day, slave traders with dogs came upon us and seized us. They tied our hands with willow twigs and took us aboard a ship. We sailed to a place where men are sold. But first we were cleaned and rubbed with palm oil. The captain of a ship bought me, but my father was deemed unfit because he had a limp. More of my people were taken and we set sail.”
“How long have ye been in captivity?” Magnus asked.
“I have lived longer here than in Africa. But it does not lessen my desire to return there.”
“I wish that I could give ye yer freedom. The most I can do is make ye a manager of yer people here. But one day I believe ye will be free.”
Kwasi’s smile was bittersweet. “Ebi Akyi wɔ bi. Success follows patience.”
Magnus repeated the Ashanti Twi slowly, capturing the pronunciation. He was learning the language rather quickly but not quickly enough to carry a conversation and dismiss a translator.
From their vantage point atop the hill where the largest mill was situated, the cane harvest had begun. Cutting and bundling in the fields was first, and then the cane was carted to the mill to be crushed, the work done by field gangs of both men and women. Each gang had a name, the youngest children and the sick and elderly given the lighter tasks of weeding and caring for livestock.
“More work is being done now. You should see a better harvest than ever before, now that the people are better fed,” Kwasi said. “There is not so much sickness, not so much running away to join the maroons in the mountains.”
“The poor yield of before was due mainly to slave exhaustion, not soil exhaustion,” Magnus replied. “That and the overseers’ refusal to rely on yer and other workers’ judgment and knowledge in cane cultivation, always insisting on their own ineffective methods. Now we must find a better way to transport the hogsheads of sugar to the ships. And earlier too. The first sugar fetches the best prices.”
The droghers, small boats used to carry the sugar, were haphazard at best. Recently a large quantity of cane had been lost when a boat capsized and two men drowned. But these were but a drop in the ongoing onslaught of sugarcane preoccupations and troubles. What with the weather, the pests, the diseases to the crops, the quality and quantity of sugar, the state of the sugar-making equipment, the fluctuating sugar market, and Osbourne’s debts to merchants who sold their sugar, any profit was hard-won and oftentimes impossible to come by.
Was growing tobacco at Royal Hundred half as onerous?
Magnus’s aim was to return to Virginia. Osbourne’s recent letter had asked that of him, if only temporarily. Magnus was to leave Jamaica for the colony in spring, to give a report to Osbourne on the state of Trelawny Hall and sugar production so that Osbourne would not have to venture down to the plantation himself.
Spring was months away. In Magnus’s absence, Kwasi would be in charge, a risk both to Trelawny Hall and to Kwasi himself. Magnus had sent the other overseers to manage outlying fields of cocoa and coffee.
For now, he parted with Kwasi and Rojay and went on to the nearest village of wattle huts with their wood rafters, each surrounded by colorful, sweet-smelling gardens. There he met with a surgeon to examine the bairns. Of late, the dreaded kissing bugs were a bane, as were yaws and worms. If they were caught early, the prognosis was good. But someone akin to Lark was needed to distill and dispense the required tonics, always in short shrift here.
Gently, working alongside the physic, he sat each child upon his lap, all tugging his heart back to the time when Larkin had reached out his arms before Magnus had ridden away.
Little carried the ache of that fore or since.
38
Never marry for money, ye’ll borrow it cheaper.
Scottish proverb
She had only to say aye and end the matter. Here they sat again with the churchwarden, listening to new particulars in her and Larkin’s case. And she need only tell Trevor Ramsay she would wed him and the whole matter would end. Or so it seemed. Was he waiting on Richard Osbourne’s reply and approval by post? If it was slowed by a sea voyage, they might not hear for another two months or more. Perhaps Osbourne would even wait till he came to Royal Hundred as planned to give them his aye or nay.
Bethankit for the delay.
She doubted Osbourne would care about Trevor’s request to court her and mayhap marry her other than to give his blessing. Could anyone truly say nay to a Ramsay?
Could she?
She’d left Larkin with Theodosia at Ramsay House till the meeting at Bruton Parish was done. Yet it seemed to drag on, mired down by the ill health of Granger, who must appear to help resolve the matter. And he was too ill yet to join them.
The holidays had passed, and a new year had begun. Another spate of bad weather had kept them at Royal Hundred since Christmas. She’d not seen Trevor since their caroling and bonfire till today. Given that, he was in no mood to return her to the plantation in haste.
“Come with me to South England Street,” he said when the futile meeting was over.
She obliged, her curiosity over the building of his new home stretched to the limits of her imagination. Kerrera Castle it was not, but the late winter sunlight revealed a sprawling, ambitious foundation, sure to become one of the finest homes in Williamsburg.
They walked across the acreage beyond the house’s beginnings, the ground beneath her slippers hard and damp but holding the promise of spring. Here in Virginia even the weeds seemed to flourish in winter, warmth never far away. Williamsburg’s riotous, colorful gardens had completely won her over.
“I’d not thought to see anything prettier than my island, but yer property holds great promise,” she told him in the fragile winter’s sunlight, burying her hands deeper in her fur muff.
He looked down at her with a smile. “Your Scottish climate is home to the hardiest of plants but lacks many of the fairest. I want these Virginia gardens to be yours as well, Lark. You know where I stand regarding our future.”
“And I beg ye to reconsider,” she said quietly, eyes on a barren dogwood tree. “Would it not be more advantageous for ye to marry a woman of standing? Of connections? With a dowry, at least? What will yer friends and acquaintances say of ye when word of yer suit is made known?”
“I care very little for the opinions of others and, being a Ramsay, have no need of the things you mention. Your beauty and character are enough. And I’m baffled by the fact that you tread so cautiously, especially given the case against you. Has it
something to do with my person? Some trait or attribute you find disagreeable?”
Pity lanced her. Here was the catch of Virginia Colony looking as crestfallen as if she’d been the belle of Williamsburg and refused him. Yet she would be honest to the heart. “There’s a Scots proverb my granny oft said: ‘Fanned fires and forced love ne’er did weel.’”
He chuckled good-naturedly. “But love is as warm among cottars as courtiers, aye?”
She sighed, looking at the untilled ground before her and trying to imagine orchards, flowers, an orangery. “Ye have become a dear friend, Trevor.”
He touched her cold cheek. “Perhaps friendship is the best foundation for marriage.”
“If so, ye would make a bonny husband.” Always Larkin leapt to mind. “And father.”
“I would be both to you and the lad. Once I receive word from Osbourne, I would urge marrying without hesitation. The house won’t be finished for a time, but my brother and Thea assure us we’d have a home with them until our own is done.”
“’Tis very gracious.” Yet even as she pondered it, she did so for all the wrong reasons, large and small. A full table. The warming machine. Theodosia’s friendship. Larkin’s future.
And she hid the true reason for her ongoing reluctance.
“Mercy!” Sally said as she sampled a wooden spoonful from a black kettle over the hearth’s fire. “Better eat up all this right fast lest you be put in charge of the kitchen house too.”
At this Lark laughed and sneezed at once. “I misdoubt ye’ll be replaced as cook. Yer Southern fare is a feast, even the simplest dishes.”
Lark had taught her to make black bun and now Cullen skink, both Scottish favorites. Homesick, chilled by another snow, and nursing a cold, she dreamed of Granny’s croft and the tiny window overlooking the sea. But ’twas futile to look back. Days past meant a time without Larkin. Without Sally and Cleve and Mistress Flowerdew. The Ramsays. The garden of her dreams. With effort, she turned her heart to spring.
“I sense you is pinin’ for home,” Sally said in her shrewdly observant way. “Yo’ granny.”
Lark nodded and dried her hands on her apron, looking toward Larkin as he played with Cleve. “I wrote Granny another letter, but she has to seek out the minister so that he might read it to her.”
“So, she can’t write back,” Sally said. “Tell you how she is and the like.”
“For all I ken, she’s gone . . .” She couldn’t say dead. Or even with the Lord in heaven. She let the excruciating thought go.
“What you doin’ now?” Sally asked as Lark donned a cape, tying the chin ribbons of her bonnet securely.
“I’m off to the quarters to deliver some needed tonics.”
“Best look behind you while you is doin’ it,” Sally cautioned, her own eyes wandering to the window. “Any more word of Granger? He ain’t been nosin’ ’round here o’ late.”
“Glad I am of that. Word is he’s ill again and keeping to his lodgings.” She started for the door, basket in hand, and bent and kissed Larkin’s brow. “I’ll not be long.”
He continued to play contentedly with some jelly molds Sally had lent him. Lark let herself out and walked through the service yard, bypassing the many dependencies, their respective sounds and smells comingling.
The gardens were already showing signs of life at the coaxing of Mr. Munro, who was a wonder with spade and shovel. New beds were in place, and piles of fertilizer awaited dispensing along with new shell walkways and botanicals. Of all the tasks that awaited her, she was most enthused about her bee garden, itching to turn over the loamy Virginia soil.
Before her the river spread a pearly blue-gray. She cut left through a copse of bare-branched trees she now knew as chestnut and oak. Smoke from a great many chimneys layered the chilly February air as she neared the quarters. In the distance, voices of children playing, punctuated with their laughter, lifted her spirits.
She preferred to come at dusk, an almost hallowed time when she heard the singing. Never had she experienced such music. Heaven seemed to come down when the slaves sang. There was no accounting for such beauty in a people so repressed. Mayhap God had gifted them with music to weather such a time well.
Now, in the forenoon, there was little music as field hands labored at plowing the distant fields for maize, or Indian corn, in former tobacco fields. Trevor had told her Virginia shipped large quantities of corn to the Caribbean for the workers there. She’d come to be nearly as fond of the grain as oats or even wheat, finding the pone, grits, hominy, and mush fine fare. Larkin clearly agreed.
“Mornin’, Mistress MacDougall,” the greeting rang out from all sides as she walked the rutted way between dwellings.
Her smile was warm, for she was glad to see them. Children came from all directions to tug at her skirts. She tried to remember them when she visited, packing her pockets with some sort of treat. Last time it was sugar-coated nuts. Today it was tiny cinnamon and candied orange comfits. Sally had made a batch for Larkin to give to him over the long winter. Why not share the bounty with the quarters’ children too?
“You be good now—and proper,” one apron-waisted granny scolded as Lark handed out the comfits. Childish faces shone with delight. Pleasure welled up inside her, banishing her low mood of before. Surely giving was good medicine, as was a merry heart.
Pockets empty of all but a few treats, she moved in the direction of the blacksmith’s dwelling. Josiah’s wife, Nelly, was in need of one of her tonics for a complaint in her chest. No doubt the dismal living conditions worsened her cough. Lark could hear the familiar hacking the closer she drew. Their youngest child was in the doorway, about Larkin’s age but already standing on bare feet.
Her heart squeezed. His clothing was wanting, though he did drag a blanket after him. Was he not cold? One thumb was hooked in his mouth. She dug in her pocket, wishing for far more to give. Kneeling in the cracked doorway, Lark lay the comfit in her palm and offered it to him.
Across the room, Nelly watched her son’s quiet delight, pleasure on her own face. “What you got today, Miss Lark?”
“A tonic for yer cough.” She smiled as she came into the cabin, wanting to curl her nose at the smell of fatback and boiled turnips.
They visited awhile, Nelly’s leanness necessitating an inquiry about what she was eating, if they had enough provisions. Lark learned much about the plantation from those who knew it best.
She moved on to a few more cabins, emptying her basket and assessing needs, before turning toward the mansion again. A sharp wind picked up from the river, ruffling the blue water till it frothed like fluted lace.
She mulled what remained to be done this day. Decocting a face wash for Mistress Flowerdew. Counting stores and taking inventory of the stillroom. Examining the bee skeps. Meanwhile, Royal Hundred was abuzz with new arrivals, mostly house servants and indentures, ahead of the Osbournes. Shipments of goods were arriving almost daily from England, including livery suits and silver-laced hats from London for the postilions and coachmen, as well as new garments for the housemaids and waiting men.
She shifted her basket to her other arm, eyes on the rocky path before her. Royal Hundred was no longer the sleepy plantation with an echoing mansion house. Spring was at hand, and with it a great many changes. Just that morning Sally had told her of the hiring of a French cook, not to displace her or Cleve but to help manage the Osbournes’ future guests at table.
Her steps slowed as she mulled the many changes, and then a high whinny cut short her musings. There, blocking her meandering path, sat Granger atop his fine sorrel horse. She stopped. Wished him away. His eyes bore into her unblinkingly, his expression sullen. In one gloved hand was a whip. His other clutched the reins.
Wary to the bone, she waited, but he did not move. He bristled with ill will. It roiled between them in the damp air.
“You’ve been to the quarters again,” he said, eyeing her empty basket.
She nodded. “So long as there is a nee
d I shall go.”
He pushed his horse forward till he was within spitting distance. Truly, he looked capable of spitting, so strong was his ill will. She itched to take a step back, but cowardice was not to be borne.
“You look at me as if you’ve done nothing wrong,” he said in a voice that raised gooseflesh on her arms. “Like the tart you are.”
He slumped a bit in the saddle, pride and sheer will keeping him upright. He was a gravely ill man. His distorted face, struck with paralysis on the left side, made his words a bit slurred. A spasm of pity hit her before fury rushed in.
“I’ll have you know that the ship’s captain—the runaway of your acquaintance—has been caught and hung deservedly.”
The captain killed? Shock cut through her, so swift it nearly sent her to her knees.
Oh, Rory. Though I didna agree with ye leaving, I kenned yer longing for a better life.
“I won’t rest till I see you answer for your part in his fleeing.” Granger shifted in the saddle, smug despite his infirmity. “Not only that, I have written Osbourne and met again with the churchwardens. Soon you’ll be removed to another plantation, separated from your illegitimate son, incapable of meddling and squandering Osbourne’s precious supplies—”
“A liar should have a good memory,” she returned hotly, all sympathy fleeing. “Ye told the churchwardens my son is illegitimate, then turned round and said he was born of a prostitute, when in truth he was given me by his aunt out of desperation as she lay dying. I help the slaves here at Royal Hundred when the call and need arise, mainly because ye fail to supply them as a proper manager should. And now ye have the gall to waylay me on a wooded path like no proper gentleman would—”
“How dare ye!” He raised his whip with surprising ease, so quick she could not step back or even flinch. The leather descended with a painful snap, the tail end biting into her jaw like a stream of boiling water.
She stumbled backwards as he raised the whip again, nudging his nervy horse nearer. Would he beat her like she’d heard he whipped field hands accused of some oversight? Her hand went to her burning jaw and came away crimson.