“That’s Mr. Harding,” said a quiet voice beside him, and Charles looked to see Jenny standing there, not quite next to him, a little behind, as though she too just happened to be viewing the scene. “The one they’re burning.”
“Mr. Harding?” Charles tried to keep his voice level, as though he weren’t as unsettled by her presence as his eyes were by the flames and his head by the rum. Everything seemed to dance and leap around him, heat prickling his skin.
“You didn’t have Mr. Harding at Peverills?”
“I don’t remember,” Charles confessed, although now that she mentioned it, he thought he remembered seeing something burning. But did he truly remember it, or did he only imagine he did?
He couldn’t be sure. Their own Crop Over had been a muted affair in comparison; he had distributed a ration of sugar to each man and woman on the estate as tradition dictated, and then retreated to allow them to enjoy their own celebrations, without the inhibition of his presence. Or, at least, that was what he had told himself. In truth, it was cowardice, an inability to be among the people whose labor clothed and fed him, knowing how much he owed them and how far he was still from expiating that debt. His brother would think him mad, he knew.
Charles shook his head to clear it. “Who’s Mr. Harding?”
“Hard times,” said Jenny, and then paused for a moment before saying, so quietly he could hardly hear her, “Might I speak with you? Not here.”
“Of course.” Charles tried to ignore the way his palms turned sweaty, the mingled anticipation and fear. It was nothing to do with him, he was sure, at least not like that. Jenny’s eyes were on her father, watching him as one might a snake. “It would be my pleasure. I’m in your debt and would be happy to repay in any way I can.”
Jenny looked at him sideways. “Any way?”
“Within honor.” He looked at her closely, feeling a strong urge to go out and battle dragons on her behalf. Or at least Colonel Lyons. “Is it as bad as that?”
Jenny pressed her lips together and looked away. Speaking rapidly, she said, “Do you know where the Old Mill is?”
“The ruin? When?” The ladies had already retreated to the house, and Colonel Lyons, having disposed of Mr. Harding, was beginning to look about.
Jenny was already beginning to slip away, into the crowd. “When Mr. Harding is ash.”
“It’s done,” said Charles, but she wasn’t there to hear. Colonel Lyons was looking at him, so Charles made a show of locking his hands behind his back and strolling around the mill yard, examining the tubs of blackstrap and molasses, the tables laden with bowls of rice and peas, cassava pone, and salt fish.
“Was that one of the maids with you?” Colonel Lyons strode over to him, his entourage stumbling behind.
Charles schooled himself to indifference. “Yes, I believe so. She wanted to know if I needed more rum.”
“If you have to ask,” said Colonel Lyons, with a glint to his eye, “why then, the answer is yes.”
Behind him, Charles could hear Robert’s drunken laugh. Charles looked up to see his brother with three other men, one of them fondling the breast of the girl who’d led the carts.
Colonel Lyons looked at Charles as though daring him to say something.
“What I really need,” said Charles, biting back the sharp words that rose to his lips, “is the nearest convenience.”
“You can piss anywhere you like. They do.” At the look on Charles’s face he chuckled. “If you must save your modesty, there’s a chamber pot behind a screen next to the arbor.”
“Thank you,” said Charles, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, “That girl . . .”
“What? Do you want her? She’s taken, but I imagine I can find you another to your liking.”
Charles’s stomach turned; he bit back a comment about pimps and panderers, saying instead, “No. No, thank you. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Charles escaped to the chamber pot, grateful for the screen that protected him from the colonel’s watching eyes. Let them mock him for being unable to hold his liquor. It was better than the alternatives. He waited a few moments before slipping carefully away in the other direction, away from the mill, toward Peverills and the Old Mill that once, a very, very long time ago, the two estates had shared, over a century ago when sugar cultivation was in its infancy. The mill was on Beckles land, a bone of contention that had continued long after the mill itself was out of use.
The sun flared out, the sky lighting orange and purple. In the short dusk, Charles covered the last few yards to the Old Mill, blinking at the darkness inside. It was cool in the mill, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth, the sharp sap of the vines that circled through the old stones, and, incongruously, the crispness of sun-dried linen.
“Jenny?” he said softly. The act of saying her name felt like an indiscretion, as though he were taking a liberty.
“Here.” Her voice came from a corner of the wide, conical room. She must have taken off her white smock; her dark dress blended with the shadows, rendering her all but invisible. “Did anyone see you come?”
“The colonel, you mean?” Her silence was answer enough. “No. Was it he—has he done anything to cause you discomfort?”
He felt like an idiot as he said it. Of course he had.
Jenny didn’t respond, not directly. Instead, she said, in a strange, abstracted voice, “Did you mean what you said before? About God’s retribution?”
“Yes. And no. I don’t mean to say that I didn’t mean it. What I mean is, I’ve never believed that the Lord visits vengeance as they have it in the Old Testament.” In the darkness, Charles’s voice sounded unnaturally loud. He tried again, scrounging for sense. “But it was He who made Nature’s laws. When we broke those laws, we set the world out of joint, and nothing will be as it should until we put it right again. If we assume that in the state of nature all men were born equal and that no man can, in logic, contract away his own freedom, then slavery, by its very nature, is an illegitimate institution and an offense to the laws of Nature. That’s the theory, in any event.”
The silence pushed against him like a living thing. Charles began to wish he’d said yes and left it at that.
“I . . . Perhaps our Methodist friends are right and we’re courting brimstone. I’m beginning to see the appeal of that. Theory is all very well, but there are injustices that call for action. Human or divine.”
Charles’s ears strained, attuned to the drip of moisture down the stone, the rustling of leaves outside, and then, finally, the sound of Jenny’s voice. “I wouldn’t share those views if I were you, Master Charles. You won’t make any friends that way.”
“I had gathered that,” said Charles, letting out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “But you—you wanted to speak to me about something. If there is any way in my power to be of service . . .”
“Yes. There is.” She took a step closer and then another, near enough that he could hear the gentle sway of her skirt and make out, in the gloom, the tension of the hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I need you to marry my mistress.”
Chapter Eleven
Christ Church, Barbados
March 1854
“Are you sure this is quite necessary?” Emily looped the skirt of her borrowed habit over her arm and looked at the beast that awaited her in the stable yard.
Horses, she decided, looked a great deal larger when detached from a carriage. Also less friendly.
The creature whiffled in her general direction. Emily took a step back, tripping over the hem of her habit.
“Steady there,” said George Davenant, who seemed, for once, a great deal more confident than she. “She’s only trying to make your acquaintance. Hold out your hand to her.”
“Should I offer her my calling card?” The horse nosed at her fingers, leaving a patch of slime on her kid gloves.
“You can, but she would most likely prefer a carrot,” replied Mr. Davenant mildly.
To Emily’s protests that she could very well read a ledger from a desk chair, Mrs. Davenant turned a deaf ear; one had to know the land to tend it, and to know it, one had to ride it.
Adam’s comments about sedan chairs and bearers were not well received by either lady.
Emily had hoped her lack of a habit might provide a suitable delay, but no sooner had she mentioned it than one appeared, as if by magic, across the foot of her bed, rather disconcertingly tailored to her proportions.
“Well, yes,” Mr. Davenant had said awkwardly, when quizzed. “The maid will have taken one of your dresses to measure for size and the seamstresses will have done the rest.”
And would the cobblers hammer out boots for her too? Emily was afraid to ask lest it happen. She hadn’t quite fully appreciated just how self-sufficient a world Beckles was, every possible need provided within its grounds. When Aunt Millicent wanted a dress made, she had to beg her modiste for the privilege of spending large sums of money. At Beckles, new clothes were run up overnight by elves.
Not elves. Former slaves, Emily reminded herself. Although they were free now, that level of service was still rather disconcerting and she found it innately suspect.
Not to mention that it had ruined her best excuse for avoiding riding lessons.
Mrs. Davenant had caught her at breakfast, bundled her into her habit, and chivvied her out the door, allowing her grandson barely time for a cup of coffee and a hard roll before he too was ruthlessly propelled in the direction of the stables, pursued by directives.
Emily rather suspected that if she looked back at the house she would see the glint of light on a lens, Mrs. Davenant watching to make sure her instructions were being obeyed.
“All right,” said Emily resignedly, retrieving her hand and surreptitiously shaking off the slobber. “We’ve made friends. Now what?”
“Now you mount.”
Emily regarded the saddle, a million miles up on the horse’s back. It was a fearsome thing, studded with two large protrusions. “Have you a winch?”
“No, but we do have a mounting block,” said Mr. Davenant, holding out a hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about riding, er, sidesaddle, but I’ll do my best.”
“Is it your grandmother’s saddle?” Emily asked, stalling for time. Even from the mounting block, the horse’s back seemed very high and the saddle very uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure how one was meant to sit with those hillocks sticking out.
“Grandmama? Heavens, no. She’s very particular about her saddle. No. This was my mother’s. It hasn’t been used for some time. Not since I was a boy. Shall I help you up?”
“You may,” said Emily, resisting the urge to quiz him further. He rarely mentioned his mother. “But I’m not at all sure where I’m meant to go once I get up there.”
A flush rose in Mr. Davenant’s fair cheeks. “I believe you place your, er, nether limb between those two pommels.”
“My leg, do you mean?” Emily laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t worry. I’m not missish. I have it on the best authority that most creatures are in possession of legs, myself included. So I place my right leg between those two bumps?”
“Pommels,” said Mr. Davenant, looking rather bemused. “May I?”
Emily would have liked to say no, particularly as she was conscious that there seemed to be rather a large number of people gathered around the stable yard, ostensibly performing tasks, but really waiting for her to make a fool of herself.
Better to get it over with quickly, she decided, and said, “Yes.”
Remembering what Mr. Davenant had said about the pommels, she vigorously flung her leg up into what she thought was the right spot. It wasn’t. She kicked out with her other leg to try to push herself up and found herself suddenly flung back, her right leg stuck at an odd angle between the pommels, her skirt trailing behind her, and her hands grasping for any purchase at all as the world raced away in a bizarre view of sky and tree branches and the very top of the windmill, all swirling together.
“Wait! Don’t—hold on!” There was a great deal of commotion in the stable yard involving many people shouting and running, most of which Emily missed because she was too busy trying to pull herself upright and thinking distinctly unkind thoughts about horses and people who made other people ride them.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Davenant demanded breathlessly, peering up at her from what seemed like an odd angle until Emily realized it was she who was at the odd angle.
“Yes, quite.” Never mind that her back felt as though she’d just been paid a personal visit by the Inquisition.
Emily clawed at her hat only to realize it had fallen off. Someone very helpfully handed it to her. Emily regarded it with disfavor—it was somewhat the worse for its adventure and looked as though it had been trodden on, most likely because it had been.
Emily jammed the hat back on her head, securing it with the one remaining pin. She didn’t like to think of the whereabouts of the others. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make it run like that.”
“Her,” said Mr. Davenant. “You didn’t mean to make her run like that. She’s a mare.”
“Oh.” Emily had been regarding her mount rather as an extension of a carriage, the bit that made it go. She hadn’t really thought of it—her—as a creature with a personality and, most likely, opinions. The thought was distinctly unsettling. She preferred not to sit on anything sentient.
“Shall we try again? Maybe try not to, er, kick this time.” Just to make sure, Mr. Davenant summoned two grooms, both of whom stood at the horse’s head as Emily maneuvered her nether limbs into the approved position, wincing at what she was quite sure would be a truly spectacular set of bruises in locations that would make Mr. Davenant blush.
Emily looked down. And down. “The ground looks very hard.”
“My grandmother would say, ‘Try not to fall on it, then.’” Mr. Davenant’s imitation was so perfect that Emily was surprised into a grin and had to clutch at the horse’s mane to keep from unseating herself.
“I don’t think I could fall if I wanted to,” complained Emily, shifting uncomfortably. Her right leg was very firmly pinned between the pommels, her left foot wedged in a stirrup that appeared to have been made for someone who took a smaller size of boot.
“That’s good, then, isn’t it?” said Mr. Davenant. “Shall we get started?”
Emily didn’t miss his glance over his shoulder, back at the house. He’d had little breakfast and was wasting the better part of his morning when he doubtless had other obligations to see to. Mrs. Davenant had told her that she didn’t trust hired overseers; she preferred to rely on her grandson and the head drivers. So Emily nodded and let Mr. Davenant lead her twice around the stable yard at a pace best suited to funerals and the conveyance of gouty dowagers.
The mare went docilely enough. Emily suspected her of biding her time.
Once they had safely completed a third circuit without the mare bolting, Emily felt secure enough to say, “I’m terribly sorry to be keeping you from your obligations.”
“Don’t be,” said Mr. Davenant, with one of his disarmingly sweet smiles. “My grandmother is only too glad of the opportunity to seize the reins for a day. Er, don’t seize the reins.”
“Oh, I’m so very sorry.” To the horse, she added, “I do beg your pardon.”
The horse snorted at her. It sounded remarkably like Mrs. Davenant.
Mr. Davenant laughed, looking far more relaxed than Emily had seen him since they arrived. “You needn’t apologize—to me or Petunia. You want her to know that you’re in control.”
“But I’m not,” protested Emily, and was rewarded with another fleeting smile. “Couldn’t I learn to drive i
nstead? I think I should be rather good at driving.”
Adam was always claiming he could drive to an inch, which, translated, meant he spent a great deal of time getting new wheels and axels fitted to his curricles.
“May I?” At Emily’s nod, Mr. Davenant removed his jacket. Stripped to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, he looked very at home in the stable yard. As they made another circuit, he gave thought to her question. “You could learn to drive, but it wouldn’t serve the same purpose. It depends on what you intend. If you wish to engage yourself in the business of the plantation, then a mount is a necessity. If you mean to hire someone to manage for you, then a carriage will serve to carry you to town.”
“Do you mean Bridgetown?” Emily asked, suppressing the sudden yearning to find a carriage, any carriage, and have herself conveyed back to the city forthwith.
It wasn’t that they were unkind at Beckles. On the contrary, she had been offered every luxury. And she could hardly complain of quiet or loneliness when Beckles was a village unto itself, with dozens of servants in the house and hundreds in the fields. The night was busy with the sounds of dogs barking and babies crying and men shouting and the ever-present rustle of the cane. But the sounds weren’t the sounds she was used to.
Most of all, she disliked the sensation of being marooned. All her life, she had been able to go anywhere she needed with a pair of stout shoes and a sturdy umbrella. Now, those stout shoes would take her only so far as the end of the drive, like a medieval ship skirting the edges of the map, with the unknown beyond. Peverills might be as far as the moon, for all that she was able to reach it. She was entirely reliant on the pleasure of others for her transportation, something that made her feel distinctly twitchy.
“Are you ready for a trot?” Mr. Davenant did something to the lead rope and the horse began to jiggle Emily up and down in a most uncomfortable way. “My grandmother prefers to do her marketing in Oistins, but I’m always glad of an excuse to come to Bridgetown. Beckles is very well, but . . . I’m not making a very good job of convincing you to stay, am I?”
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