The Summer Country

by Lauren Willig

  “Laura?”

  George stumbled to his feet, stepping on his own hat in the process. “Oh, hullo. We were just reading.”

  Laura sat in the shade of the bower, one hand, Emily noticed, lying lightly on her stomach. “It’s a book called Sonnets from the Portuguese. By a lady,” she added.

  “Why from the Portuguese?” asked Emily.

  George looked to Laura. “I’m not sure, really. Do you know?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped up his maltreated hat and set the small volume reverently beside Laura on the bench. “I’ll leave you. I’ve a dozen tasks left undone.”

  “You’ll find me those ledgers?” Emily prompted.

  “The . . . ? Oh yes, certainly.” George took himself off in a flurry.

  Laura, without comment, scooted her skirts closer to her, making room for Emily on the bench.

  Emily settled herself beside her, disconcerted by the familiarity of it all. How often had they sat together like this, Laura with a volume of poetry in her hand, closed over one finger, as Emily held forth about this and that? But now Emily found the words stunted on her lips; she felt strangely uneasy in the company of her best and oldest friend.

  “Did you have a good ride?” Laura asked as the silence lengthened.

  “It was very hot,” said Emily. “Dr. Braithwaite is running a surgery from Peverills.”

  “I should think you would enjoy that,” said Laura, looking at Emily tolerantly, and, for a brief moment, everything was as it had been again.

  Emily twisted the locket on its ribbon around her throat. “Well, yes. But I’d rather thought we might stay in the bookkeeper’s house while I dealt with putting the plantation back into order, and if Dr. Braithwaite has his surgery there . . .”

  Two fine lines appeared between Laura’s brows. “Stay at the bookkeeper’s house?”

  It wasn’t how she’d intended to broach the topic. “We’ve rather overstayed our welcome at Beckles, haven’t we?”

  Laura sat upright, the poetry book forgotten. “Has Mrs. Davenant asked us to go?”

  “No! Quite the contrary. She seems perfectly happy to have us cluttering up her drawing room until the sound of the last trump. But you know what Grandfather always said, ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be. . . .’”

  “That was Polonius,” said Laura flatly. “In Hamlet. Your grandfather’s whole business was built on borrowing and lending.”

  “Not his whole business. . . .” Emily shoved her carefully arranged hair back behind her ears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.”

  “I’m not distressed,” said Laura, in a voice that, to Emily, gave the lie to the statement. Others might see Laura as reserved, but Emily knew all the little tricks of her tone, the silences that spoke louder than words. Laura was very distressed, indeed.

  “It was just a thought. I—I’ve been worried about you. You haven’t been yourself.” Emily looked hopefully at Laura, willing her to say something. “Are you sure you’re quite all right?”

  “Quite.” Laura stood, putting out a hand against the trellis to steady herself. A few petals drifted down about their heads. “Shall we go in? I should like to rest.”

  As far as Emily could see, Laura’s day was one continuous rest, but it was clear that the topic was closed. “Do you know when Adam will be back from Bridgetown?”

  “Adam will return when he sees fit to return.” Laura’s hands tightened on the volume of poetry. “Why?”

  “No reason. I had something I wanted to ask him. It’s not important.”

  And it wasn’t, she told herself. The words George had been reading weren’t his; they were a lady’s, possibly translated from the Portuguese. Adam and Laura had passage booked back to England in June. They would leave and their stay at Beckles would become nothing but a memory, a story to be told of their tropical sojourn in chill drawing rooms in Bristol.

  Emily retreated to her room, where she found, to her surprise, that the desk of the escritoire in the corner of her room had been lowered and an untidy stack of clothbound ledgers dropped on it, spilling one over the other.

  Laura’s delicate condition could wait. Emily seated herself eagerly at the table, set out some blank paper, dipped her nib in ink, and began.

  Men and women, horses and oxen, bushels of feed and bolts of cloth. The Peverills that had been unfurled across the page in her grandfather’s strong hand. The land that she had only seen laid waste came back to life, a busy, bustling place, with carpenters and seamstresses, cooks and housemaids, wheelwrights and joiners, and everything else one could imagine. It was all there, down to the tiniest detail.

  Some made Emily squirm uncomfortably in her seat.

  The slave trade had been long since abolished by the time her grandfather had taken over his wife’s shipping company. He had traded in sugar, rum, and molasses; in cloth and tools and timber. Never in flesh. But here. This. This was how the sugar his ships had carried had been planted and harvested, with the sweat of men and women whose lives were not their own. And her grandfather, as bookkeeper, had noted it, without criticism or comment, bonuses for the women who bore children, the value assigned to each man, woman, and child.

  Thank goodness for people like her mother, then, Emily told herself determinedly, and forced herself to concentrate on the practical aspects, the numbers of barrels required, the repairs to machinery.

  The numbers involved seemed very large to her, but she could tell why Mrs. Davenant had shaken her head over the management of Peverills; however large the revenue, the outgoing receipts were nearly as great, leaving little in the way of profit. She could see where economies began to be made, household stuffs cut down, the number of candles and amount of tea queried and then reduced.

  Her grandfather’s salary was in there with the rest, and then—Emily blinked, thinking she must be misreading. No. Her grandfather’s hand was remarkably clear. Payments to a Rachel Fenty, for fine sewing.

  There were no fewer than eight seamstresses on the plantation.

  Rachel Fenty . . . Vaguely, Emily remembered her grandfather speaking of his sisters. He’d been youngest of six, six who lived, that was. It was a story he loved to tell, the poverty and loss in sharp contrast to the well-lit room with its polished brass fire irons and Axminster carpet. Yes, he’d mentioned his sister Rachel, closest to him in age and temperament.

  It wasn’t surprising that he might have found her employment on the plantation. What was surprising was the sum. Emily flipped forward, her pen resting forgotten against the blotter. There it was, once a month, starting in July of 1813. Rachel Fenty: fine sewing, two dollars.

  A special project of some sort? Needlepoint chair covers or brocade drapes? It would have to be very fine, indeed, to merit the sum.

  The payments stopped, abruptly, in January of 1815.

  Emily set aside the 1813 and 1814 ledgers, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. There were other payments to tradesmen outside the plantation. But nothing like that, nothing so regular.

  Her grandfather thought the Peverills owed them, Adam had said. It would be like her grandfather to settle the score by any means possible. If he believed he was owed the money . . . it wouldn’t be stealing.

  She was, she realized, chewing the end of her pen and staining her fingers with ink. Emily hastily set down the pen. She was being fanciful. It was that ridiculous Mrs. Poole, that was all, going on about Redlegs and sabotage and goodness only knew what. The payments to Rachel Fenty for fine sewing were probably just that, payments for fine sewing.

  Emily returned to the 1815 ledger, forcing herself to concentrate. She was beginning to note the patterns in the ledgers now, the regular rhythms of the plantation year. Her grandfather had separate sections in the book for agrarian and household expenses, although the two sometimes blurred, as her eyes were beginning to do. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she’d had only a hasty bite to eat before riding out to Peverills that morning.

  She glanced at
the clock and was amazed to realize that she’d missed luncheon; she’d been bent over the ledgers for hours. Emily hunched her shoulders, stretching as much as the closely stitched fabric of her bodice would allow.

  She was ready to close the 1815 book when a new entry caught her eye.

  Cot for Carlota.

  There was also an order of law to make Carlota underthings, leather to be given to the cobbler to make her shoes, muslin for her dresses, and ribbons for her hair.

  He had a ward, George had said. A Portuguese ward, without a name, without a grave.

  But here she was. Here was her name. Carlota. Carlota in a sprig muslin dress with blue ribbons for her plaits, put to bed in a cot made for her by the most senior of the plantation carpenters, a cot with carved finials, and a small rocking chair made to match.

  Another page in, her name came up again.

  One doll (Paris).

  Wooden ark and animals (Dresden).

  The estate carpenter must have been capable of making playthings. These were the very cream of their kind, imported from England and France, Italy and the German states.

  One gold bracelet, for Lottie. She was Lottie now, Emily noticed, with an ache in her chest for this little girl in her ruffled lace pantalets and sprig muslin dress, her hair tied back with silk ribbons, Italian leather slippers on her little feet, kneeling by her German Noah’s ark, her French doll in her arms, a gold bracelet from the finest goldsmith in London on her wrist.

  That poor, poor child. Whoever she was, wherever she had come from, she had settled in to Peverills, been loved, cherished. She could feel it even in the ledger, the extra care her grandfather had taken with the entries for Lottie, the writing careful and clear, the letters just a bit larger than usual. There was a doll’s house made for her in March of 1816, and then, just one month later, nothing. All entries ended, the pages blank.

  Can you imagine that? To have made it through a war safely and then to die like this? George’s words echoed through Emily’s mind.

  Emily shivered and started to shut the ledger—when something struck her, forcibly.

  Eighteen sixteen. Peverills had burned in 1816. Poor little Lottie, Carlota, whatever her name was, had died in 1816. Everything had ended in 1816, including her grandfather’s entries in this, the very last ledger for the accounts for Peverills Plantation.

  She had been so caught up in the pathos of the little lost girl that it had taken her a moment to realize the oddity of it all, these entries in her grandfather’s unmistakable hand.

  Her grandfather had left Barbados when he married and never come back, that was what Emily had always been told. By April of 1816, her grandparents were two years married, her mother over one year old, and Uncle Archibald on the way, or nearly.

  What, then, was her grandfather doing keeping accounts for Peverills in 1816?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Christ Church, Barbados

  December 1812

  “Are you certain? I thought you said . . .”

  “That I couldn’t bear children. That’s what Nanny Bell told me.” Jenny took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself. “I could be wrong. It might be nothing.”

  “Or Nanny Bell might be wrong.” An ebullient grin spread across Charles’s face as he swept Jenny into an exuberant embrace. “Just think of it. Our child. Our child.”

  His joy was infectious. But only for a moment. Jenny wiggled to be set down. “Not just our child. Your brother’s chattel.”

  “No.” She’d never seen Charles’s face look so hard. “I won’t allow it.”

  “How? It doesn’t matter if the child is yours or not. If it’s mine, it’s his.” She had lain awake night after night, uneasily feeling the tenderness in her breasts, telling herself it must be something else, that her courses might be late for any number of reasons. Not Charles’s baby.

  Their baby.

  Charles’s lips set in a determined line. “If I told Robert—”

  “That it’s yours?” Jenny stared at him. “Do you really think that would help?”

  “No. You’re right,” Charles said slowly. “Of course.”

  He was staring at her, and Jenny realized she’d wrapped her arms around her stomach, as though already protecting the child within.

  Flushing, she dropped her arms and made a flapping gesture at Charles. “Go. You’ll be missed. We don’t want anyone asking questions.”

  “No. Not now.” Resting his hands on her shoulders, Charles kissed her as carefully as if she were made of fine porcelain. “We’ll speak of this more later. Is there anything that you need?”

  “Nothing you can give me.” Too late, Jenny realized how it sounded. Rising on her toes, she pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his lips. “If there’s anything, I’ll tell you. You know that.”

  “Do I?” said Charles. He looked at her very seriously. “We’ll find a way to see you free before the child is born, I promise.”

  Don’t, Jenny wanted to say. Don’t promise what you can’t achieve. It was almost worse to have the hope of something knowing it could never be. But she couldn’t say that to Charles, not when she knew that he meant it truly, that he would do anything in his control to make it happen.

  It was just a pity there wasn’t terribly much within his control.

  “I know,” she said instead. “Go.”

  It was only when he had gone that she allowed herself the luxury of sinking down on Mary Anne’s chaise longue, pulling up her legs until her forehead touched her knees. She would have cried, but what good would tears do? She had learned that all those long years ago on the ship from Jamaica, when she had cried for her mother, and her tears had brought her nothing but threats.

  “You won’t have to cry for me,” she promised her baby, and felt ridiculous for speaking to someone who couldn’t hear.

  Mary Anne wasn’t Jenny’s father. She wasn’t cruel, at least, not intentionally. But Master Robert? That was another story entirely. He had the viciousness of the weak, flaring out in temper, hurting for the sake of hurting. It was, in its way, almost more alarming than the calculated cruelties of Jenny’s father. One could predict those.

  Jenny didn’t think Mary Anne would sell her child away from her—but Master Robert might. Especially if he knew or suspected it was his brother’s child.

  There was the oil of oleander. She’d thought of that when she’d first missed her time, when she’d begun to feel the fullness in her chest, the weariness in her bones.

  But then she’d thought of Charles and known she couldn’t. Last time, she’d had no qualms, but this child, their child . . .

  Fool, she told herself. Sentimental fool.

  But she couldn’t help picturing the child all the same. A little boy with her face and Charles’s mop of curls, holding a hoop and stick. She thought of that day in Bridgetown, the house Charles’s father had bought his lover, the little girl learning to play the pianoforte.

  He’d find a way, he promised, and she believed he meant it. Her Charles, with his lawyer’s brain and his belief in the fundamental goodness of man. Jenny lifted her head, rubbing her aching temples. Well, she was cynic enough for both of them. Together . . . together they’d think of something, she promised the unknown creature in her stomach.

  But when she met with Charles the following week, in the shadows behind the icehouse, his face told its own story.

  “I spoke to Robert after the militia meeting,” he said, without preamble. “Don’t worry—I didn’t mention you by name. I just asked again whether there were any upper servants at Beckles who might make a likely housekeeper for Peverills.”

  “And?” asked Jenny, although she already knew the answer.

  Charles shook his head.

  Jenny swallowed her disappointment, amazed at how much it hurt, this loss of something she’d never expected to have. “You knew he wouldn’t sell you a cat you wanted,” she said, trying to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “Not now.”

  She co
uld have cried for their own foolishness, for that ill-fated tryst where she’d been seen. But for that . . . No, she couldn’t think that way. There was no point in looking back, only forward.

  In a low voice, Charles asked, “Was it selfish of me to refuse to wed Mary Anne? If I had . . . I might have freed you. You might be free now.”

  “And chained yourself?” Jenny shook her head reluctantly. She knew him now, knew the workings of his conscience, so different from her own. He would torture himself over a scruple, break over the loss of an ideal. “You couldn’t have done so in honor. And—”

  “Yes?” Charles’s feelings were written all over his face.

  Jenny turned her own away, unable to bear it, to be so bare. What could she say? That if he’d married Mary Anne, they would never have had this? It scared her how much these moments meant to her, how she craved his company, his touch.

  “There’s no point in sighing over what might have been. There’s only the road ahead.”

  “So there is.” Charles squared his shoulders. “What about the Bolands? Robert doesn’t want to offend Boland. If Boland were to buy you for his wife . . . Perhaps she needs a maid.”

  “She has one,” said Jenny, remembering Nanny Grigg, with her borrowed spool of thread and her English papers. She had liked Nanny Grigg, liked her instinctively.

  “I could ask Boland to buy you as a favor. If I explained the situation . . .”

  Jenny stiffened. “And if he told the master?”

  “He seems like a good-hearted man.”

  Jenny squeezed his hand, as if she could squeeze some sense into him. “He didn’t build up a shipping business by being good-hearted! Are you willing to stake our child’s well-being on seeming?”

  “No.” Charles lifted her hand absently to his lips, toying with her fingers as he thought. He looked up, his eyes very blue. “We could go away together. You’d be free in London.”

  “How?” asked Jenny skeptically. “If I were still your brother’s property . . .”

  “That doesn’t matter. Lord Mansfield declared it years ago, in Somersett’s case. The air of England is too pure for a slave to breathe in.” Charles’s shoulders straightened, his chin lifted; Jenny could almost hear the trumpets playing. Sheepishly, Charles dropped his chin. “Well, Mansfield himself didn’t say it—the man who spoke for Somersett did—but it’s accepted as dictum all the same. And Mansfield himself decided it. As soon as Somersett set foot on English soil, he was set free, and not another enslaved man has remained in chains in England since.”