‘Delivery for Missy Royal and Missy Atkins!’ announced the porter at the door. He was weighed down by an enormous bunch of exotic blooms. I rushed to relieve him of it, but he held me back.
‘No, Missy, dese be for dat one.’ He gestured to Georgie, unburdening himself into her arms.
Georgie fished out a card. ‘To the enchanting Celia, from Captain Bonaventure.’ She waved it around. ‘Who’s that?’
I shook my head. ‘You really don’t want to know.’
‘A friend of yours?’
‘An acquaintance. A French pirate if ever there was one.’
Georgie’s eyes sparkled with interest.
‘Don’t even think it,’ I warned her. ‘You’ve been reading too many romances – he is not a dashing, heroic fellow. Well, I suppose he is a bit dashing, but definitely not heroic. Mercenary is the right word.’
Georgie grimaced. ‘Lovely flowers though.’
The porter was still waiting to give me his second gift. My experience of presents being so limited, I couldn’t help a rush of excitement as I held out my hand for the small box. No card.
‘Who gave it to you?’ I asked.
‘De young massa out dere.’ The porter pointed to the stage door.
A gentleman? I had an inkling who might be the sender. Not putting it past Billy to send me a scorpion, I gingerly opened the box.
‘Oh my word!’ exclaimed Georgie. ‘Someone really likes you, Cat.’
Nestled on a white satin bed was a gold chain with a cat-shaped pendant. If I was not mistaken, the eyes were little emeralds – the genuine article.
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I think he must’ve gone mad. He never gives anything to anyone.’
‘Then maybe you’re not just anyone. Put it on, put it on!’ urged Georgie, getting very excited on my behalf.
I lifted up the chain and let it ripple through my fingers. Oh so tempting. I’d never owned a piece of jewellery and it was unquestionably of the highest quality, but to put it on would seem to allow Billy some claim over me.
‘No, I can’t,’ I said, putting it back in the box with great reluctance. ‘I can’t accept a present – it’s not decent.’
Georgie snapped her fingers. ‘Decent fiddlesticks! What about our vow to confront the forces of dullness and decorum? It’s anonymous – you don’t have to acknowledge the giver. You’re in debt to no one. If you don’t put it on, I’ll beat you over the head with my flowers.’
I held out my hands to restrain her. ‘No, don’t do that. That prickly one looks quite vicious.’ I caressed the necklace again. ‘Oh, all right. It is too lovely to waste.’
Smiling knowingly at my short-lived resistance, Georgie lifted my hair up at the back and fastened the clasp.
‘See? It wouldn’t suit anyone else.’ She rested her hands on my shoulders, admiring our reflections in the mirror. ‘Now are you going to tell me about your admirer?’
‘I think . . . not.’
She swatted me playfully. ‘Tease! I’ll get it out of you, never you fear. Come, let’s go home.’ And with our shawls wrapped over our street clothes, we said our goodbyes and made our way to the stage door.
As soon as we emerged, Captain Bonaventure stepped out of the shadows.
‘Mademoiselle Royal, would you do me the very great honour of introducing your lovely companion to me?’
I wanted to tell him to take a long walk off a short plank, but Georgie did seem to want to meet him so I completed the formalities.
‘May I have the pleasure of escorting you to your door?’ the captain continued smoothly, holding out an arm.
Georgie cast a look at me over her shoulder as if for permission. I shrugged.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I muttered.
She took his arm.
‘Cat?’ I was not surprised to find Billy at my side, offering me his arm.
Deciding it was best not to make a fuss about walking two hundred yards with him, I took up the offer.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’ I asked, preferring to set the tone if we were to be forced into conversation.
‘Yes – though I thought the first Rosalind easier on the eye than the funny little thing they brought on as an understudy. She looked as if she was wearing her older sister’s togs.’
Trust Billy to make fun of my big moment. ‘I don’t think she had much say in the matter,’ I said primly.
‘I s’pose not.’ Then he squeezed my arm in an almost companionable gesture. ‘Seriously, Cat, you did well.’
I could feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle. ‘This isn’t right, Billy. Why are you being so kind to me?’
He chuckled. ‘Makes a change, don’t it? I think we’ve reached somethink of a truce, ’aven’t we? And I’m relieved to find you alive and flourishin’ at what you do best. Some’ow that makes the world feel right – everythink in its proper place.’
This philosophical mood was so out of character. My instinct was to be very wary.
‘You’ve never taken much interest in my comfort before, Billy. I seem to recall that most of our acquaintance has been a decidedly unpleasant experience for me – perhaps for us both. Even when we were little, you bullied me something terrible.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ He seemed almost proud of the memories. ‘You see, no one gave me as much amusement. Bullyin’ you was like a high yield investment, bound to pay out more than I ’ad to put in.’
I fingered the pendant surreptitiously. No, I wasn’t going to mention it, I decided. Thankfully, Mrs Edwards’ lodging house was in sight.
‘Then truce it is, Billy. Thank you for your escort.’
‘Anythink to keep you safe, Cat.’
‘I only start worrying for my safety when I don’t know what you’re up to.’ Like now.
He paused at the threshold and held my gaze for a moment. His eyes dipped to my neck and his smile broadened when he caught a glimpse of the gold chain. ‘’Ow about a ride in the country with me? Tomorrow’s an ’oliday for you, ain’t it?’
‘I . . . er . . .’ It would be pleasant to see a bit more of the island but could I trust him?
‘Miss Atkins can come too, of course.’
‘In that case –’
‘Good. I’ll fetch you at ten.’ He bent over my hand. ‘Goodnight. You did Drury Lane proud, Cat.’
Perhaps Billy Shepherd wasn’t all bad, I thought as he walked away.
ACT II
SCENE 1 – SUGAR CANE
Billy Shepherd is without a shadow of a doubt the worst, the foulest, the most evil person currently blighting the world with his presence.
What has caused this sudden change of heart, you ask, Reader? You sensed that for a brief moment I was indulging in warmer sentiments towards him, inspired by kind words and beautiful presents? Well, you would be right – but they did not last very long. To be precise, they lasted only until we reached our destination on our little sightseeing excursion.
‘What do you think, ladies?’ Billy asked Georgie and me as we gazed at the stunning scenery from the front seat of his curricle. I was squeezed rather uncomfortably close in the middle but still could relish the exuberant green of the cane fields sweeping down to a white sand bay, the turquoise waters beyond. It was very warm in the morning sun, but a sea breeze made it a comfortable sort of heat.
‘Very pleasant, sir,’ replied Georgie politely. ‘Whose penn is it?’
‘Penn?’ I queried.
‘Estate,’ Georgie explained.
Billy tapped his lovely pair of brown-sugar pacers into line with the end of his long whip. Then he flicked the reins, making the curricle jerk into motion.
‘Shall we see the house?’ he asked.
‘If the owners do not mind,’ said Georgie, thoroughly enjoying our adventure.
I kept quiet, employed in chewing my lip thoughtfully. I didn’t like being out here with Billy, even with Georgie as a chaperone. He was up to something.
The house came into view around the ne
xt bend: a single-storey wooden building erected on a foundation of stubby raised pillars. Venetian blinds barred all the windows, giving the house a secretive appearance. The gardens looked well tended, despite there being no one in sight. Some distance away over to our left, I could see a cluster of buildings. Billy pointed towards them.
‘That’s where the workers live – and the sugar mill, boiling house and distillery. Not good to have it too close to home, eh, Miss Atkins?’
I noticed Billy was making an effort to sound more refined for my friend’s benefit.
‘No, I suppose not,’ she replied, smiling prettily at him over my head.
‘By workers, you mean slaves,’ I muttered mutinously. ‘Oh yes, keep the ugliness of forced labour out of sight, then the planter can forget his fortune is built on the blood of others. How very civilized. Who owns this place?’
Billy cracked his whip. ‘I do – as of last Thursday.’
‘You – a planter! A slave-owner!’ I was so shocked by this revelation, words failed me.
Billy smiled at my gaping expression. ‘Catching flies, Cat?’
I clamped my lips together, curling them in disgust. ‘I thought you’d stooped low in your career, Billy, but this is the very bottom of the barrel! What was it you said once? “I don’t hold with no slavery?” I remember as if it were yesterday.’
He laughed. ‘You’re so naïve, Cat. Ain’t she, Miss Atkins?’
Georgie squirmed in her seat, knowing she should be loyal to me, but clearly agreeing with Billy.
‘I think it’s just that she has been brought up somewhere where freedom is taken for granted,’ she replied, trying to be diplomatic.
‘It doesn’t matter where I was raised: slavery is wrong and no sugar-coating of that pill can take away the bitterness!’
‘But, Cat, it’s how things are done here,’ Georgie continued patiently. ‘I wish it were otherwise, but these farms could not be profitable without the slaves.’
‘So? I won’t cry if a few heartless businessmen like Mr Shepherd here can’t make money.’
‘But the slaves would be destitute. At least now they are housed, clothed and fed.’
‘And beaten – and separated from family – and abused by their masters!’ Everything that Pedro had ever told me about the horrors of slavery bubbled up in my hot outrage. I felt close to exploding.
‘Calm down, Cat,’ Billy said patronizingly. ‘Save it for your abolition friends. Your words are wasted out here.’
‘Not if San Domingo is anything to go by. It could happen here too!’
‘All the more reason to shut up. You’ll make no friends if you go shouting out things like that in Kingston.’
‘As if I care.’ I folded my arms across my chest, ignoring them both.
We drew up at the front steps. Billy applied the carriage brake, leapt down and offered his hand to Georgie. I slithered down on the other side. Calls were heard inside the house.
‘It’s de Massa. De Massa he come!’
Two blinds rattled open and the front door was thrown wide. A grey-haired house slave stood in the entrance.
‘Refreshments for the ladies, Thomas,’ said Billy, handing him his hat and gloves.
‘Yessir,’ the butler responded eagerly. Relieving us of our parasols, he darted away to execute his orders.
Accepting Billy’s arm, Georgie stepped inside. I trailed reluctantly behind. It was beautifully cool in the house. We entered a long room that ran all the way down the front of the building. Instead of carpets, the floor was an expanse of polished mahogany wood. The slats on the blinds were angled to allow the breeze to pass through but keeping the glare of the sun out. Potted plants added a touch of lushness in the corners. Several clusters of chairs and sofas gathered around little tables signalled that this was a place for entertaining. Against my inclination, I had to admit it was a lovely room, decorated with more taste than I associated with Billy.
Then again, he’d only owned it since Thursday so had not had time to spoil it.
‘So, Billy, you’ve turned slave-owner.’ I ran my finger lightly over a windowsill and came away with a layer of fine dust blown in from the cane fields. ‘At least that has the merit of keeping you out of London. Perhaps it’s time I returned after all.’
He sat in a chair, balancing one booted foot on his knee, completely at ease in his new domain.
‘No, I won’t be staying. Few gentlemen do.’
‘Gentlemen!’ I snorted.
‘My agent will run things from here.’
Thomas returned with a tray of iced lemon water. Georgie took the glass from him with thanks.
‘Who will you be using?’ she asked Billy.
‘Mr Wynter, an attorney in Kingston. He comes highly recommended by the Middletons.’
Georgie nodded as if this was all perfectly clear to her.
I leaned back on the sill and sipped my drink. ‘So let me get this straight, Billy. You take on an estate with scores of slaves –’
‘One hundred and nineteen field slaves,’ Billy supplied.
‘Quite. You loll about pretending to be a planter for a few weeks then sail off back to England leaving it all in the hands of someone else – not even a farmer by the sounds of it but a penpushing lawyer.’
‘That’s right.’ His eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched me battle with my indignation.
‘So how will you know if this Wynter person is treating your slaves well?’
‘I won’t. What I’ll know is the yield and turnover. If we’re getting through too many slaves, I’ll come back and sort it out.’ He was so calm; I felt like wringing his neck.
‘Did I hear you correctly? You’ll only worry when slaves dropping dead from exhaustion and ill treatment begin to affect profits?’
‘Yes. They’re damned expensive – about sixty pounds for a healthy man and you can only expect seven years’ good service from him.’
I ignored the exorbitant price for the moment. ‘Why seven years?’
Billy shrugged. ‘They get worn out. Cultivating cane is a hard business. Why else would we use slaves?’
I thumped my fist to my forehead. ‘I can’t believe it! You talk about them as if they are machines for the scrap heap or horses for the knacker’s yard.’
‘You’re wrong, Cat. They’re an investment. I’ll leave instructions for them to be treated well.’
‘Oh, well done you.’
‘After all, a happy worker produces more than a sullen, ill-fed one.’
I couldn’t bear it any longer. I thumped my drink down on a side table and strode out of the door.
‘Where are you going?’ called Georgie.
‘For a walk. Alone. You two can sit cosy and discuss yield and profits and sugar cane.’
Billy chuckled. ‘Jealous, Cat?’
‘No, furious.’
Stamping down the steps, I marched out into the sunshine, heading for the buildings that housed the slaves. It was a hot walk and I had foolishly abandoned my parasol, but righteous anger propelled me onwards. I found a cart track running between cane fields leading in the right direction. Either side of the road the sugar plots were protected by raised boundaries planted with prickly penguin shrub. Sweat ran down my nose and between my shoulder blades.
Just think what it is like to work all day in these fields, I told myself, not allowing any self-pity for my discomfort.
As I approached the settlement, the sound of singing reached my ears. A deep bass rolled across the countryside, with a resonance that made my spine tingle.
If me want for go in a Congo,
Me can’t go there!
Since dem take me from my tatta,
Me can’t go there!
Intrigued as to who could possess such an astoundingly rich voice, I slowed down for the last hundred yards, looking for the source. I spotted my singer working on a little garden out the back of one of the slave huts: a big man of forty or so, he had a swirl of tribal marking on his cheek
s and arms like bird tracks on a sooty windowsill. Unaware that he was being watched, he continued with his song, chuckling with self-deprecating humour as he listed all the places he could not go. A girl of about my age with braided hair emerged from the hut and leaned against the post to watch. I noticed that she held herself gracefully, somewhat like the ballerinas I knew. Before I could duck out of sight, she spotted me.
‘Tatta!’ she exclaimed, pointing in my direction.
‘Blast!’ I muttered under my breath as my free concert ended abruptly.
The man stood up straight, a silent reproof to my spying.
‘Er, sorry. I was only enjoying your singing.’
‘De Massa send you?’ the man asked stiffly.
‘Definitely not.’ I tried a friendly smile. ‘You’ve a lovely voice, did you know?’
He ignored my flattery. ‘What you be doin’ here, missy? You be lost?’ Even if my new acquaintance wasn’t being overly welcoming, I couldn’t help but like the way he spoke and sang English. He made the language feel somehow more generous, stretching the sounds and sprinkling in unfamiliar words, transforming it into his own. Even the irregular grammar he used seemed like a refusal to submit to the shackles of an imposed tongue.
‘No, I’m not lost, just walking.’
He shook his head as if the idea of a white lady wandering through his village was too much to believe. He picked up his spade again, deciding it was best to pretend I wasn’t there. The girl watched me warily.
Trying to appear unthreatening, I leant on the fence. ‘Tell me about your song.’
He paused and raised an eyebrow.
‘Please. I’m interested – I’m a singer too. I came here with the Peabody Theatrical Ensemble but we don’t have anyone with such a fine voice.’
He grunted. ‘Noting special ’bout dis voice of mine.’ He turned over a spadeful of soil.
‘It sent tingles down my spine, I can tell you. My friend, Pedro, would love to hear you but they wouldn’t let him land.’
That piqued his interest. ‘Mulatto boy?’
Black Heart of Jamaica Page 6