The Summer Country Page 24

  Charles froze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No? If her maid was there, I’ve a pretty good idea my wife was there too. And do you know who else someone saw going in? You, brother. You.”

  “Of course I was there,” Charles said, trying to keep his voice level. “The new overseer arrives in two weeks. There were repairs to be seen to. . . .”

  “And precisely where were you placing the screw, brother?”

  “Stop embarrassing yourself and me,” said Mary Anne sharply. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about. When was this supposed tryst?”

  “Tuesday afternoon,” Robert shot back.

  “Tuesday afternoon,” spat Mary Anne, glaring at her husband, “I was asleep in my bed, alone. Queenie was sitting with me. You can ask her.”

  “And how would I know she wouldn’t lie for you?”

  “Would she risk disobliging her master?”

  “Oh, am I master here? I thought you’d forgot.” Robert folded his arms across his chest, swaying slightly on his feet. “If you were here, then what was your maid doing at Peverills?”

  “Whoever told you that was mistaken,” said Charles, moving to stand between Robert and Mary Anne. “It was one of the maids from Peverills your friend saw. I had her in to clean for the new man.”

  Robert regarded him suspiciously. “They said it was Mary Anne’s girl.”

  “One woman in an apron and cap looks much like another,” Charles said lightly, the words like glass on his tongue. He was all too aware of Jenny behind him, half-hidden by bed curtains.

  Robert looked narrowly at Charles, or as narrowly as he could with his eyes half-crossed. “He said he heard . . . you know.”

  “Is that so unusual? You’ve said it yourself, a man would have to be a saint not to take what’s offered. I’m no saint, Robin.”

  That was almost enough to appease Robert. Almost. For a moment, his face lit. “My high-and-mighty brother, sampling dark fruit! The colonel always said you would sooner or later.”

  Charles resisted the urge to plant a leveler on his brother’s chin. “As you see,” he said tightly, “your suspicions are unfounded.”

  It was a mistake to remind him. His expression darkening, Robert turned to his wife. “Whatever it was, I don’t like that maid of yours.”

  Mary Anne’s color was high in her cheeks. “Jenny didn’t do anything. Didn’t you hear Charles? It was a mistake. You’re making a fool of yourself and me.”

  Robert swayed on his feet, his eyes on Jenny. “You’re too thick. It isn’t right. Someone’s got to remember who’s master here. Don’t like it.”

  “Oh no.” Mary Anne stepped in front of Jenny, facing her husband down. “Jenny is mine. She’s mine and you won’t take her from me.”

  “She’s mine to sell if I please,” retorted Robert belligerently.

  This wasn’t how they’d planned it, but he’d take what he could. Charles clasped his hands behind his back, trying to hide the sudden racing of his heart. “I’ll buy her off you. If you’re selling.”

  “We’re not,” said Mary Anne fiercely, just as Robert said, “Oh?”

  “We could use a new housekeeper at Peverills,” Charles said rapidly. “Old Doll is getting on. . . .”

  “Not Jenny.” Mary Anne clutched at Robert’s arm, forcing him to look down at her. “I won’t give up my Jenny.”

  For a moment, no one spoke, all eyes fixed on Robert.

  “Please, Robert,” said Mary Anne, her voice breaking. Her bosom pressed against his arm; her face was lifted to his in supplication. “You wouldn’t.”

  Robert’s lip curled and Charles thought . . . he hoped . . .

  Robert shrugged, wrapping an arm around Mary Anne’s waist, although whether for affection or to keep from falling, Charles wasn’t quite sure. “My wife has spoken. I wouldn’t want to upset her while she’s with child.”

  Robert’s hand rose, pointedly, to her breast. Mary Anne glanced up at him with slitted eyes, and something crackled between them that was both anger and desire.

  Charles looked away, sickened by it all, not sure whether to charge to the rescue or beat a tactful retreat. “If you ever change your mind . . .”

  “You couldn’t afford the fee. Brother.” Robert gave Mary Anne a light shove on the small of her back. “Shall we go down?”

  “Yes, of course.” Mary Anne looked back over her shoulder. “Jenny . . .”

  “Leave her,” said Robert sharply, and Mary Anne had no choice but to accompany him, head down, eyes mutinous.

  Charles waited until they had gone, and then, softly, closed the door.

  They didn’t need words; they came together as one, holding each other like mariners in a high wind clinging to a spar, as though that was all that stood between them and oblivion. It was torture to be so close after so long apart, and to know that it was only a moment, that Charles would have to go downstairs and be charming to the Bolands, and Jenny would have to smooth her hair and stand behind her mistress, and neither could give any sign of what they meant to each other.

  “We have to be more careful,” murmured Charles into Jenny’s hair.

  “I know. We shouldn’t be here together now.” Jenny lifted her head, looking at him with a dazed expression that tore his heart to shreds. “Oh, Charles. I had thought, earlier today, that she might mean to free me. But she doesn’t, does she? She doesn’t mean to give me up. Not now. Not ever.”

  Charles held her all the tighter. This wouldn’t be forever, he promised himself. He’d see this sorted. Somehow. “Not now, no. But we can keep trying.” Half-jokingly, he said, “Maybe we can make Robert angry enough to sell you against her wishes. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “What if we haven’t time?”

  She seemed so defeated, so unlike herself, that Charles grasped her shoulders with alarm, holding her away from him. “What is it? What’s wrong? Has he hurt you? Are you ill?”

  “No.” Jenny’s mouth worked as though she was trying not to cry. “I’m with child.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Christ Church, Barbados

  May 1854

  “With child?” Emily looked at Dr. Braithwaite in surprise. “No, that’s—”

  Retching. Lethargy. Yes, Laura liked to read novels and daydream, but not like this. So many times, Emily had come upon her with her book fallen facedown on her lap, her eyes closed and head thrown back, as if simply being was eating up all of her resources.

  Not being. A being. A baby.

  “Yes?” prompted Dr. Braithwaite.

  “That’s entirely possible,” Emily finished weakly. “But why wouldn’t she have told me?”

  “Natural delicacy?” suggested Dr. Braithwaite. “Or she might not know herself.”

  Emily remembered the way Adam had shut the door, the way he had told her not to fuss. No, they knew, she was sure. They had simply chosen not to share the news with her, and the realization burned like the handle of a hot kettle, too quickly grasped in a bare palm.

  “Maybe,” said Emily unhappily.

  She was spared further comment by George’s appearance. Jonah carried two buckets of water.

  “There,” directed George, pointing to the hearth. “Is there any other task we might perform?”

  “That should be sufficient,” said Dr. Braithwaite, politely enough, but there was an edge to it, a tension that crackled between the two men.

  Emily had no patience for either of them. “Don’t you have patients to see?” she said to Dr. Braithwaite.

  “I thought you’d scared them away,” said Dr. Braithwaite mildly. He poured more water into the kettle. He nodded to George. “Thank you for the water.”

  “You’re welcome,” said George gruffly, and Emily thought she would never understand men. “There was still a patient or two about. I’ll send them in, shall I?”

  As George poked his head around the door, Dr. Braithwaite said quietly to Emily, “I wouldn’t worry too much abo
ut your friend. Everything you mentioned is quite common. It won’t do her or the baby any harm.”

  “Yes, I know.” Emily’s throat felt very tight. Belatedly, she added, “Thank you.”

  Dr. Braithwaite set down the water bucket. “You never told me: Am I to be tossed out on my ear?”

  It felt strange to have such power. Emily wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. “Not on my account. I might want the house to use. . . . But I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  “Financial?”

  “Do you charge your patients? I didn’t think so.” There was a movement at the door. Emily waved a hand. “We can discuss it some other time. At the moment, feel free to carry on.”

  “Thank you,” said Dr. Braithwaite drily. To Katy, who had come in with the little girl, he said, “What seems to be the trouble?”

  Not looking at Emily, Katy nudged the little girl forward. After some chivvying, the little girl said, “My throat hurts.”

  “Open up and let me have a look, then.”

  Katy murmured something in the child’s ear, and the little girl obediently opened her mouth for the doctor.

  George shifted uncomfortably. “We should be going. . . .”

  “Just a moment. Have you tried a gargle of salt and vinegar with a dash of pepper?” suggested Emily, attempting to peer over Dr. Braithwaite’s shoulder. She was rewarded largely with a view of black broadcloth. She moved up on her tiptoes. “Or perhaps a solution of brewer’s yeast and honey?”

  Dr. Braithwaite stepped back and turned to look at Emily. “Would you like to take over?” His eyes crinkled and the corners of his mustache lifted. “I shouldn’t ask that, should I? You would.”

  Disarmed by that smile, Emily demurred, “I’m not a physician. Or a surgeon either.”

  “No, but you’ve certainly done your apprenticeship. Salt and vinegar,” he said to Katy. “Come back next week if the throat doesn’t improve or if she develops a fever.”

  He looked at Emily as though challenging her to contradict him. Emily nodded. She was, it seemed, committed to running a free clinic on her plantation.

  They left Dr. Braithwaite to his practice. His patients had returned, threefold, the word having spread that the surgery was open. Emily recognized only one or two faces, but she could tell that George knew most. Some greeted him; others developed an interest in the rutted dirt of the yard.

  As for George, Emily couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “It’s good work he’s doing,” she said tentatively, as they mounted their horses. After two months of George’s tutelage, she was now competent, if not comfortable. She wasn’t sure she would ever be entirely comfortable on horseback.

  “Oh yes, excellent work,” said George. There was a bitter edge to his voice. “Charity work.”

  You wouldn’t need his charity if you had a better surgeon on hand, Emily wanted to say, but couldn’t. She felt a wave of pity for her companion, who had all the cares of trusteeship but none of the powers. That the people of Beckles needed better medical attention was plain; that George couldn’t outwardly sanction Dr. Braithwaite’s work equally clear. His grandmother would never stand for it, and she was still the real power at Beckles.

  Had that been the compromise, then? To know but ignore?

  Emily squinted under the brim of her bonnet at George’s profile. “Is that why you didn’t want me coming to Peverills? Because of Dr. Braithwaite?”

  “No one is trying to keep you from Peverills.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t looked away as he said it.

  “No?” They had passed the Old Mill. If she wanted to know anything, she needed to ask now, before they were back inside the stultifying atmosphere of the house.

  “Peverills is a sore subject. My grandmother . . .”

  “Minds that it was sold. Yes, I know.” That was beginning to sound thinner and thinner, especially as Peverills had never been hers to begin with. “Those ledgers your grandmother had from Peverills. Do you think you could get them for me?”

  “Surely that’s a matter for my grandmother?”

  “She said I could have them.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. She had certainly implied Emily could have them. Emily had accepted the invitation to Beckles on the strength of that offer. “You know how busy she is. She just hasn’t got around to it yet.”

  George looked unconvinced.

  Through the trees, Emily could see the glint of sun on glass. “You’ve been lovely showing me about Beckles, but that only goes so far. I won’t know what the scope of Peverills should be—could be—until I see what Peverills once was.”

  “There’s truth in that,” admitted George reluctantly. “Although I’m not sure how much you’ll benefit from that. According to my grandmother, my uncle made a hash of running the place. He had unusual notions.”

  “Unusual notions?”

  “Er, tenant farms and that sort of thing.”

  “That hardly sounds unusual to me,” said Emily.

  “Perhaps not in England. But in Barbados, fifty years ago . . . that sort of thing wasn’t done. And for a reason. It was a financial disaster.”

  “It wouldn’t need to be, would it?” asked Emily. “Managed properly, there are all sorts of possibilities. Have you heard of Brook Farm?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. What do they grow?”

  “Hearts and souls, primarily,” said Emily cheerfully. “It’s a community in Massachusetts of thinkers and farmers.” Or had been. Belatedly, she remembered it had failed a few years before. Her father, who had correspondents there, had been terribly disappointed.

  “Well . . . Americans,” said George, as though that explained that. “The conditions in the northern parts of the United States are quite different, as I understand it. Sugar isn’t the sort of crop that responds well to smallholding.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about breaking up the estate. But if everyone who worked the estate had shares in it, and received back commensurate with what they put in . . .” George was trying to behave himself but looked deeply skeptical. “You see why I need the ledgers? I don’t know the slightest thing about the exigencies of sugar production. Perhaps seeing it all in ink, as it were, will cure me of utopian notions.”

  “I should think living with Grandmother would do that,” said George. They trotted sedately into the stable yard. George dismounted, then held out a hand to help Emily. “All right. I’ll see what I can do about those ledgers.”

  When Emily went upstairs, there was hot water waiting for her, but no Katy. She had, she realized uncomfortably, become accustomed to the strange alchemy by which water was available for washing, food for eating, clothes for wearing, ink for writing, before she ever knew she needed it. Over two months at Beckles, she had grown to take these things for granted, and the people who provided them.

  In the place of Katy was Mrs. Davenant’s own maid Queenie, the lace on her cap a sign of her elevated office. If her pride was hurt at being sent to see to a guest, she didn’t show it, only undid the buttons of Emily’s habit, helping her out of the damp and clinging wool.

  “Does Katy have a daughter?” Emily asked, emerging gasping from a faceful of hot water.

  Queenie efficiently stripped Emily of her soiled shift. “Katy has four children.” She produced a clean chemise, smelling of sunshine and soap. “Three girls, one boy.”

  “Oh,” said Emily. She stood still as Queenie tied the tapes of her petticoat around her waist, raising her arms as an apple-green cotton day dress was lowered over her head. “Four children.”

  She thought of the late nights Katy waited to undress her for bed, the early mornings when Katy was there to direct her toilette.

  Queenie sat Emily down, brushing out Emily’s sweat-damp hair with smooth, even strokes. “My grandbabies,” she said.

  “You’re Katy’s mother?” Emily turned her head to look and found her head being gently but firmly pushed back into place.

  “Grandmother,”
Queenie corrected her. “My daughter was maid to Miss Julia, Master Edward’s wife. Someday Katy will be maid to Mr. George’s wife.”

  With neat movements, she sleeked Emily’s hair into two loops, one on either side of her head.

  “I see. How nice. You don’t look much like Katy,” she said, in an attempt to exonerate herself and to avoid thinking of what it meant that she’d been given the maid designated for Mr. George’s future wife.

  “She takes after her father,” said Queenie, securing an enamel comb over each loop. “He’s head joiner.”

  Aristocracy of sorts, Emily gathered. She felt like the lowest sort of crawling creature for never having realized the family relationships inside the house. No fraternizing with the servants, that was Aunt Millicent’s rule, but Emily had always prided herself on asking anyway, being aware of who had a sister in service or a cousin in the poorhouse or a little brother in want of a trade.

  She ought to have asked. Why hadn’t she asked?

  It was Beckles, she decided. Her mother had written about the moral rot of slavery, sinking into the soul one luxury at a time, and Emily could feel her own soul in the balance, a decaying thing tricked out in lace and gold bangles.

  Yes, she knew what Dr. Braithwaite had said about Bridgetown in the hot season, but it was hot here as well, as far as she could tell. The sooner they left, the better. Surely Adam and Laura must be bored by now?

  “Thank you,” she called after Queenie, then lifted her beribboned skirts and went to find Laura.

  Laura wasn’t in her room or lying on the veranda. Emily finally found her in the garden, in a shaded bower where bright-petaled flowers grew and vines had been trained over a trellis overhead, creating a fragrant canopy.

  George sat at her feet, still in his riding things, a book in his hand, his hat discarded beside him.

  “I love thee to the level of every day’s / Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. / I love thee freely, as men strive for right.”