The Summer Country

by Lauren Willig

  It was so tempting to imagine she might drift into the crowd, drift and keep drifting until she was well away, with money in her hand, enough to buy her a new name, a new life.

  She might set herself up as a seamstress or a milliner, away, far away from Beckles and all the misery in that cursed house. She could sew a fine seam, none better. Mary Anne would feel betrayed, she might even genuinely miss her—at least, for a time. But Mary Anne would survive. She could look out for herself. And if she couldn’t—hadn’t Jenny paid her debt? Weren’t they long since quits?

  It would never serve.

  She knew that. She’d known that even before Mr. Davenant had called her name, bringing her back, painfully, to herself. Barbados was a small island. Her father would find her. Even if he didn’t, Jenny knew what became of a woman alone, especially a woman of her complexion. She’d seen the houses on Canary Street, which catered to the sailors just in port, the soldiers in the garrison, the planters come to town. Mulatto girls, that was their specialty. They were supposed, her father claimed, to have licentiousness bred in their blood, mongrels, purpose-made for a man’s pleasure, borne of sin for the furtherance of sin. The closer to white, the higher the price, rented out as a temporary wife or just for the night.

  She wouldn’t be whored out. Or worse, caught. There was a cage where they kept runaway slaves, not five minutes’ walk down Broad Street. The smells emanating from it were so dreadful that the merchants of Broad Street had complained. Apparently, the stench of rotting flesh was bad for business. Jenny’s stomach clenched. No. Her best chance, slim as it was, was with her mistress.

  If her father didn’t have his way first.

  Jenny found herself recalled to the present by Master Charles. “Is it very out of your way? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  He had to know she had no choice in the matter. “It’s no bother, Master Charles. It’s just down Broad Street. You’ll know where you are soon enough.”

  “Did you finish your business?”

  “What? Yes. It was only a small errand.” She could feel the coins tied in a handkerchief burning a hole in her bodice, more money than she had ever had in her possession before. “Are you feeling better, Master Charles?”

  “Yes, thank you. You would think I would be used to the heat by now.” They walked in silence for a time. They garnered the occasional knowing glance; it was a common enough sight, a man with his mistress. Master Charles didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t notice anything. They were just shy of the Cage when he burst out, “My father set them up in a house. Here in Bridgetown.”

  “Is it the cost?” If Mary Anne was correct, the Davenants were in dreadful debt, a step away from losing everything.

  “The cost?” Master Charles blinked at her as though she were speaking a different language. “The moral cost, perhaps. My father broke his vows. He betrayed my mother, he betrayed his conscience. . . . What price can one put on that?”

  His voice cracked as he said it. Jenny looked at him curiously, torn between pity and disbelief. “Is it so different in England, then? Are all men noble and all women pure and virtuous?”

  “No. To be sure. But— My father was different. I believed he was different. When I saw that Father freed Nan, I was proud of him. Proud.”

  “He freed her?”

  “And her child. Their child.”

  Jenny felt a stab of raw envy. To be that child. The girl who would never have to live on a cousin’s mercy, a father’s whim. “There’s many as wouldn’t do as much.”

  “But he shouldn’t have debauched her in the first place! He always claimed— It’s no matter now what he claimed, is it? It was all a lie.”

  Jenny could hear the moans from the Cage. She turned her face away, toward Mr. Davenant. “People have their reasons. You don’t know what happened between them.”

  “My mother was sick for many years. But does that excuse him? Breaking his vows, taking advantage of a woman in his household. Unless . . . Unless he loved her. Nan. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

  “Does it make a difference?” Jenny couldn’t see that it much mattered one way or the other; it was what it was. But her companion seemed to care deeply.

  He looked at her with clouded blue eyes, and Jenny knew he wasn’t really seeing her, or anything else for that matter, too lost in the turmoil of his own thoughts. “She was Mother’s maid. Mother relied on her utterly. Trusted her.”

  “She might not have had much choice in it.” A room with a bed in it, mosquito netting around the sides. The light of a single candle casting grotesque shadows along the walls. A hand at the small of her back, shoving her forward. “Unless you think she tempted him to it.”

  “No! I didn’t mean . . . I don’t know what I meant. I want each of them to be at fault so the other won’t be. I want them both blameless.”

  There was something strangely endearing about his naivete. Endearing and exasperating. “You’re not talking about people, Master Charles. You’re talking about saints.”

  “But shouldn’t we aspire to better?” The sun touched his face, lighting it like a beacon. “My father always said that the institution of slavery is a disease that sickens owner and owned alike—but so much worse for the owner, who has choice in the matter. To own another person corrupts one. I knew that. I know that.” He gestured helplessly in the direction of the wharves. “I look at those ships in the harbor and all I want to do is board any one of them bound back to England.”

  Jenny looked at the masts in the distance, the ships bobbing at anchor in the bay. Just a launch out to the ship, then . . . the promise of a new life, in England, where they said the very air made men free. She could have wept for the thought of it. “Why don’t you, then? There’s no one to stop you.”

  He looked wistfully out to sea, then shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I wish I might. But there are people who rely on me. My bookkeeper—my brother would have him out on his ear in a moment. If I might fall, what of Robert? He has no interest in my father’s plans. He thinks it’s all nonsense, that it’s our right . . .” He glanced down at her, as though remembering, belatedly, to whom he was speaking. “Well.”

  It didn’t take much imagination to guess what he might have said.

  “And what do you think?” Jenny asked, even though she knew she shouldn’t, that it was folly to engage in conversation.

  She was meant to be seen and not heard. No, not even seen. Invisible in the background.

  But there was something very disarming about Mr. Davenant. Perhaps it was that he spoke to her as though she were anyone else, as though she were Mary Anne and free.

  Mr. Davenant paced forward, his eyes on the ground, working out his thoughts as he went. “Just because my father failed doesn’t mean he was wrong. He was—he had a quicksilver temperament. He was charming and clever and mercurial. What it needs is someone willing to labor over the details. I’ve looked at the accounts for his model farm, and I think I see where he went wrong. If one divided the sugar fields into sections and granted each family an acre in copyhold . . .”

  It was, thought Jenny, like looking through a glass: he made no effort to hide any of his thoughts or feelings.

  What would it be to be free to be so guileless? It was both attractive and alarming. The world was full of opportunists. One might as well dangle meat in front of dogs.

  And yet . . . there was something about the way he spoke, the way he stood taller as he voiced his plans, his hands moving in illustration, that made her almost believe she could see what he saw, a world made new and good.

  “. . . freehold. Not right away, but by and by.” He came to a stop in the shadow of the tower of St. Michael’s, looking at her almost bashfully. “Thank you.”

  Something about the way he was looking at her, the warmth in his eyes, made her look away. “I told you it wasn’t far.”

  “Not just for leading the way—although I owe you thanks for that as well. Tha
nk you for letting me talk like that.”

  As if she’d had a choice. “I didn’t do anything.”

  He didn’t allow himself to be deterred. “You gave me my father back. The better part of him, in any event.” She had thought he would leave it at that, but he paused, looking at her as though trying to make out a puzzle. “Colonel Lyons—he’s your father, isn’t he?”

  Jenny felt the air go out of her chest, as though she’d been struck. “So some say.”

  Mr. Davenant looked at her very seriously. “How do you bear it?”

  For a moment, she suspected him of mocking her. But there was no guile in his face. He meant it, she realized, and something twisted in her chest, something bittersweet and painful.

  “You bear what you have to bear.” He looked at her, as though expecting something more. Jenny’s nails bit into her palms. “Your father did a good thing when he freed his daughter. When you think of him, think of that.”

  She thought he might say something more, but instead he held out an arm. It took her a moment to realize he meant her to take it. “May I offer you a ride back to Beckles? I have my chariot.”

  As if she were a lady. “It’s not a long walk.”

  “The sun is hot and the road is rough.”

  It was tempting, so tempting. It was a weary walk back, three hours on foot. But what if her father saw them? What then? She might be able to convince him that she was working in his interest, but one could never be sure with her father.

  Reluctantly, Jenny shook her head. “It wouldn’t be seemly.”

  Mr. Davenant dropped his arm as though struck. “I hadn’t thought. . . . I ought, oughtn’t I?”

  He smiled at her, and it was a smile of such self-deprecating humor that Jenny began to think the greatest danger might not be her father; it might be Mr. Davenant himself.

  “Godspeed, sir,” she said, and escaped while she could. He might seem kind, but he was still trouble. They were all trouble.

  Best to remember that a serpent was still a serpent. No matter how it held its bite, bite it would, sooner or later.

  Chapter Nine

  Bridgetown, Barbados

  March 1854

  A serpent coiled around a staff on Dr. Braithwaite’s cravat pin. It was, Emily knew, the symbol of the Greek god of healing, but it looked remarkably unfriendly.

  So, for that matter, did the doctor.

  “I do hope I’m not disturbing,” said Emily brightly.

  Coming to the hospital had seemed a good idea back at Miss Lee’s hotel, with Adam off engaged in unspecified business activities and Laura resting. But the reaction of the nurses and the staff when she appeared attended by only one of the maids from the inn had made her realize that the Barbados General Hospital might not be the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Truth be told, even the Bristol Royal Infirmary wasn’t the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Emily had been permitted on the wards only at specific times on specific days, and never ever during the admission of outpatients, an exercise that was viewed as unseemly for a young lady.

  “Oh no,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “I only have fifty patients to see to.”

  “Never mind that, Braithwaite,” called out one of his colleagues, who had been observing with unconcealed amusement. “I’ll see to your breakdowns for you. Ma’am,” he said to Emily.

  “Thank you,” said Emily. “I was told your hospital was one of the sights of the town, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so grand.”

  A pillared portico led into the hospital, set into a building graced with Georgian symmetry, marred only by the additional wings splitting off from one side.

  “It was once a gentleman’s residence,” said Dr. Braithwaite, leading her inside with the air of a man making the best of a bad job. “When it was purchased for a hospital, extra wings were built. It was easier, I am told, than building new. Just through here, mind your step. You might want this,” he added, digging out a handkerchief soaked in scent as they passed from the main block into one of the wards.

  “No, no. I’m quite all . . . right.” Emily breathed in deeply through her mouth, concentrating on not gagging. “Is that . . . waste?”

  “Of the human variety.” He didn’t look at her, but Emily suspected she was being tested all the same. “We employ an earth system, but there is too much liquid in the soil to eliminate the stench.”

  On her mettle, Emily took another deep breath and said cheerfully, “Is that all? It’s nothing to the Frome on a summer’s day. In the winter, the cold blunts the smell, but as soon as there’s a thaw, it becomes nearly unbearable for those who aren’t accustomed to it.”

  “I would think that those who could afford it would leave town.”

  “Oh, they do,” said Emily. She well remembered the hustle and bustle as Aunt Millicent packed up her household, transferring children, linens, and servants to a hired house in the country. “Did you think I . . . ? Oh, I stayed in town. My father would never leave his flock. He’s a minister. He has a calling. Our Lord served the poor and so does he. As do I—as did I. Although I’m much better with bodies than souls. I clean sores and deliver beef tea. All the practical bits.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Braithwaite, looking rather bemused. “A calling, is it?”

  “I like to be useful. I’m not sure there’s anything the least bit holy about it. But I am rather inured to stench. See? It’s hardly noticeable now. You can put your handkerchief away,” she added kindly.

  “Oh.” He looked at it as though he had forgotten he was holding it. “If you’re quite certain?”

  “Perhaps that poor man might like it instead?” One of the other doctors was breathing deeply into his handkerchief, looking distinctly green.

  “He’s just come from Edinburgh,” said Dr. Braithwaite, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “It takes a bit for the new arrivals to grow accustomed.”

  Emily nodded understandingly. “There was a missionary visited us once who came with my father on his pastoral calls. He fainted and had to be carried back to the rectory. He was terribly apologetic, poor man. If you put a drop of oil of peppermint under your nose, it works wonders,” she said to the Scottish doctor.

  “Miss Dawson is visiting the hospital,” explained Dr. Braithwaite. And then, after a moment, “You aren’t what I expected of Jonathan Fenty’s granddaughter.”

  “My aunt Millicent feels much the same way,” said Emily, then caught herself and shook her head. “I shouldn’t be unkind about Aunt Millicent. She means well. I’m a great trial to her. My mother always believed that it was more important to do good works in the world than be a lady of quality.”

  Her throat stuck. Even now, after all these years, she could hear her mother’s voice, with that peculiar husky quality so her own, saying, “Sensibility? I trust I am more sensible of the suffering of others than my own.”

  She and Aunt Millicent had cordially despised each other, although Emily had always rather suspected that each enjoyed their loathing.

  “I see,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “Was it your mother who started you nursing?”

  “My mother? Oh no, she was too busy fighting for emancipation, always writing letters and holding meetings.”

  “The Bristol and Clifton Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, I take it?” said Dr. Braithwaite, and the irony in his voice was unmistakable.

  Emily felt her cheeks color. “One does what one can. Even if it’s only in a small way. My mother’s great friend Mrs. More always said, ‘Activity may lead to evil, but inactivity cannot lead to good.’ One must try.”

  Dr. Braithwaite was unimpressed. “They also serve who only write letters?”

  “If enough letters are written, people take notice.”

  “Do they? Or is it merely that circumstances change? Sugar grows less profitable; slavery becomes less attractive.”

  “That’s very cynical. Surely moral sentiment has something to do with it.”

  “Do you also write letters, Miss Dawson?”

 
“I?” Emily felt herself floundering. It wasn’t that she had expected plaudits, but people were usually impressed by her mother’s principles, or at least pretended to be. “I would if—”

  “If you thought it would do any good?”

  Emily frowned at him. “If I had my mother’s eloquence. As it is, I do what I can in a more practical way. We can’t all be Marys; the world needs Marthas too.” That was what her father had always said, placing a hand on her hair in thanks as she set a hot cup of tea in front of him or restored his lost glasses.

  “Didn’t the Lord say that Mary had chosen the better?”

  Emily folded her arms across her chest. “In that case, oughtn’t you to be a minister rather than a doctor?”

  Instead of being put off by her rudeness, Dr. Braithwaite surprised her by smiling. “We’re as bad as each other. I lived with a minister’s family when I first came to England. I much prefer dealing with wounds one can lance and wrap.”

  “How old were you when you came to England?”

  “Young.” Dr. Braithwaite walked her at a fast clip down the ward. “I’m meant to be showing you the hospital, aren’t I? We have seventy-five beds, all of which are presently filled. We interview patients every Monday at noon for indoor and outdoor relief. The majority are admitted for indoor relief.”

  Emily hurried to catch up. “I’m surprised. I should have thought it would have been the other way around.”

  “Many of the men here are suffering from little more than malnutrition and exhaustion.”

  “You sound as though you don’t approve.”

  “They take room that could be devoted to the genuinely ill. This is a hospital, not a poorhouse.”

  “Poverty is an illness,” said Emily seriously, walking with him down the ward. The majority of the patients were dark-complexioned, but there were a few fairer-skinned sufferers, their faces a sickly hue beneath the rash of old sunburns, red and yellow hair faded to straw by the sun. “I had thought the hospital was for the benefit of the formerly enslaved.”