Lady Savage

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “And we could work on making Tanager run without the need for slave labor!” She gathered her courage like armor. “We could. You could free your slaves, pay them a wage, instead!”

  Somebody gasped and even the ship seemed to quiver with outrage.

  “Savina!” Gaston-Reade shook off her hand. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran in a trickle down the side of his face. “Enough! That was an extremely unladylike speech. We are going back to England, and we’ll be married there in my family’s chapel.”

  She bowed her head, but then lifted it again. One more try. “Then please, can we not . . .” She hesitated and threw a look at the mountains.

  The achingly beautiful Blue Mountains. Once she had gone with Zazu to her family’s village in the mountains. The journey was more than a physical trip to the interior of the island; they traveled back in time, it seemed to Savina. As they sat around a smoky fire the first evening, Zazu’s mother told her, translated by Zazu, about the Maroon people and their revolt many years before from the bondage of Spanish slavery, and their eventual treaty with the British, keeping them free and independent.

  That memory had stayed with her and it urged her to push harder, to make that freedom grace the entire island population. She was not so conceited as to think she could affect the issue of slavery as an institution, but if in some small way she could make a start for some people it would be the proudest moment of her life. She summoned her courage, despite the look of horror on her fiancé’s face. “Perhaps it can’t be done overnight, but please . . . consider it. Let’s work toward making Tanager a free plantation.”

  “Free plantation?” His expression was one of bafflement, as if he had never heard of the concept before.

  “Yes . . . free. A free plantation. No slave labor,” she said impatiently. “You know how I feel about slavery.” She had tried to raise the subject before and he hadn’t been receptive, but she thought it was just a matter of time before she prevailed. Now a niggling doubt wormed into her heart; she had thought that her fiancé, as a reasonable man, would agree that slavery must end, and soon. Had she been blinded by her own beliefs? Had she given Gaston-Reade too much credit? He had made vast changes on his plantation that seemed to be heading in that direction, and that had led her to believe he was sympathetic, even if not quite ready to make the jump and free all of his workers.

  “It’s more than just my personal feeling, you know,” she continued, launching an argument she had been preparing for some time but had never found the opportunity—or the courage—to use. “I read a book—it’s quite old but still important—called The Wealth of Nations, and in it the author stated that slave labor is wasteful, because . . .” All eyes were on her. Lady Venture stared at her in disgust, and Mr. Barker in confusion, while her father appeared anxious, mopping his gray face. Her fiancé’s reaction mirrored his sister’s and added a kind of horror in his grimace. Only Mr. Anthony Heywood’s gaze was unjudging.

  “A book.” Gaston-Reade’s heavy brow was furrowed.

  “Yes, a book,” she said, becoming impatient. “I do read.” This was not going how she would have wanted; she had waited too long and then spoken too precipitately. She must have been mad to leave such an important discussion to this moment. Why had she not spoken earlier?

  “I know the book Miss Roxeter is referring to, by an economist, Mr. Adam Smith,” the earl’s secretary said. “Very well thought of.”

  Mr. Heywood’s support was unexpected but appreciated. She smiled over to him but he only frowned. His employer, though, gazed at him thoughtfully.

  “That’s quite enough, Tony. Miss Roxeter can do without your valuable support.” He looked back to Savina and a smile lightened his features, which had a tendency toward beetling if one looked forward into his later years. “Now, Savina, my dear girl,” he said, tweaking her chin, “you must leave such matters to me. You only show your ignorance when you speak of weighty topics, and I will not have you getting fretful with too much learning.” He patted her cheek.

  Anger filled her, but she was speechless in the face of his condescension. Savina’s father sighed in relief and began a conversation with Mr. Barker about London fashion and the likelihood of getting a new suit before the fall season.

  “I hardly think it is ignorance that would lead Miss Roxeter to a book like The Wealth of Nations, my lord,” Heywood said, diffidence in his tone but not his eyes.

  “She may have read it,” Gaston-Reade said, his voice hard with suppressed anger, “but I’m sure she has misinterpreted the thrust of the fellow’s arguments. How can slavery be economically unsound? Everyone knows you cannot run a sugar plantation without it.”

  “Actually, my lord, Mr. Smith was not alone in thinking that a paid workforce—”

  “Enough, Tony!”

  Anthony Heywood knew by his employer’s tone it was time to shut his mouth or suffer a difficult couple of days. It would do no good to protest further, but he did regret his inability to shake Lord Gaston-Reade until his teeth rattled. Especially did he feel so when he saw the mortified look on Miss Roxeter’s pretty face. He had admired, before, her feminine beauty—as a constant adjunct to his employer he had been witness to some of the courtship and betrothal of the two—but now he wondered if he had been hasty in condemning her as insipid. The assumption of insipidity had been based on his reflection that no woman of spirit and intelligence could voluntarily marry such a prig as his employer. Perhaps, though, he reflected, his lack of experience with the fair sex left him unqualified to judge the persuasion a young woman could be subjected to by family and friends. Lord Gaston-Reade was, in a worldly sense, an exceptionally good match for the daughter of a government official. A young lady of only moderate wealth would consider herself fortunate indeed to marry such a man as the earl, even if she had to endure his sanctimonious twaddle.

  Miss Roxeter had turned back to the railing as the work of loading slowed and stopped. The ship heaved under them like a great lumbering beast of burden preparing for a journey. Anthony watched her, admiring again the dusky curls that fluttered from out of the confines of her bonnet and the pink of her cheek against her pale, lightly freckled skin. Her father had joined her at the railing and taken her arm. Mr. Roxeter was respectable and solid, but not forward-thinking, exactly right by British government standards for work as a colonial official.

  Judging by the pensive expression on her face she had been hurt by her fiancé’s dismissive attitude, but what did she expect? Lord Gaston-Reade, earl and peer of the realm, had been raised to believe whatever he thought was necessarily correct. He was considered comparatively kind to his servants and to the slaves of the plantation, but it didn’t mean he considered them as other than chattel. He thought, and had said many times, that the slaves would not know what to do with freedom. He was not alone in that belief. Heywood despised him for it. If he had taken a moment to actually speak with his property he would have discovered a wealth of soul and intelligence.

  But Miss Roxeter had only known him a few months, and he would not have spoken on such subjects with her. She wouldn’t know his opinions, likely, on such serious matters. Anthony watched her face, and when she turned and gazed at him, was startled by the question in her eyes.

  Why had he come to her support? It was what she wanted to know, perhaps, but dared not ask, hemmed in as she was by her fiancé and her father. He offered a smile and she gave back one in return, before turning her face so her bonnet concealed her eyes.

  But there was something in her eyes . . . something that darted through him like an arrow. He would never again dismiss her as vacant or insipid. Beyond recognizing her intelligence—the fact that she had made it all the way through a dry book on economic theory and had apparently understood it spoke to that—he dared not venture. That she was more than intelligent and beautiful was discomfiting. He was easier in his heart when he could dismiss her as lovely to look at but vapid.

  The vessel groaned as around them the sail
ors bustled. Shuddering, the ship heaved and creaked, moaning about the voyage ahead as much as a camel Tony had once ridden in the Persian desert complained ceaselessly as it made its way to the next oasis. They were about to leave Jamaica forever, he thought with regret, turning his gaze, as Miss Roxeter did, to the far mountains, a misty blue green in color. He had enjoyed his stay; of the many places he had been in his twenty-seven years, Jamaica had suited him most, but he would likely never have the opportunity to come back, unless Lord Gaston-Reade made the journey again to his plantation. He was coming to an age when he must put wandering behind him and settle down. The position with the nobleman was a good one, and well compensated.

  The crew cast off and the ship moved away from the port toward the ocean, attended by two smaller vessels, the navy ship HRH Wessex and a merchant vessel, the Linden, and the island receded in mist. It was the fate of those who served, Tony thought with bitterness, that one was constantly leaving places of which one became fond. Jamaica had filled his heart, and the gallantry of its people, the lushness and vivacity of its climate, the rhythm of life, like a thrumming heartbeat, had entered his soul. Even if he never returned the memories would live within him forever.

  He glanced over at Miss Savina Roxeter as the ship caught wind and picked up speed. She stood rigid at the railing, eschewing even the dubious comfort of her fiancé’s supporting arm. Jamaica, now visible only as a misty blue outline in the distance, was almost gone from sight. One fat tear slid down her fair cheek.

  Two

  When Savina awoke the next morning it was to an empty cabin; Zazu was already out of the room. Arising, performing a brief morning wash and dressing in a day gown with a plain bonnet, Savina reflected on the night before; she had wondered if she would still be a good sailor after more than nine years between voyages. It appeared that she was, for she had slept soundly, even with the unfamiliar night noises of boards creaking and groaning and the strange smells and sensations of a lumpy bed, not her own feather mattress.

  She would fight the melancholy she felt at leaving Jamaica, she thought, with determination. What could not be changed must be borne with courage. She was, in her coming marriage, allying herself with a family that had vast interests in Jamaica, and it was very possible that she would return. After how many years, and perhaps even as a very different person after decades of marriage, she did not want to contemplate.

  Her self-congratulation on being a good sailor could not be applied to her father, she found when she stopped by his cabin, for he was still there, and one of the ship’s staff had brought him tea. His pouchy face was pale and he begged her to go away, for he couldn’t bear to see her cheery face when he felt so dreadful.

  Seeing him well cared for, she obeyed, navigating the narrow halls to the steps that led above deck and climbing up to greet a day that had gray clouds scudding across the sky, racing them, it seemed, across the ocean. She steadied herself, stepped down onto deck and took a deep breath of salty air.

  Zazu was at the railing, but when Savina approached it was to find her maid shivering and clamping down on her lip.

  “Zazu, what’s wrong?”

  The young woman turned to her, an ashen pall over her smooth dark skin, and said, trembling, “It is nothing.”

  “Liar,” Savina said affectionately, then more seriously, for she could see how her maid quivered, added, “What’s wrong, truly? Please tell me; I’m worried about you.”

  Zazu was silent for a long moment, but then said, in a low tone, her grip tight on the worn, polished wood of the railing, “It is so vast. The ocean . . . it stretches forever, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Mountains, fields, meadows, hills, rivers . . . all have an end. Nothing goes forever, but this does. From shore it was different, you know; I had my feet firmly planted in sand, and the horizon was a dream beyond which there was nothing. But now . . . what if we don’t find our way? I dreamt last night that we were lost and we wandered so far, and I was alone, then, and in a small boat in the middle of this vast blue. I kept calling and calling, but no one could hear me.” She bowed her head. “My grandmother would be ashamed to hear me speak like this, for she did not raise me to fear. When she sent me down from our home to find work with you, she told me never to be afraid, for she would always be here,” she said, putting one hand over her heart, “no matter what.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Savina said. She put her arm over the younger girl’s shoulders. “Zazu, I don’t know how they do it, but they find their way across the ocean all the time by the stars and the sun, because those don’t change no matter what. It is we who move, not those fixed immovable bodies in the sky.” She gripped her maid’s shoulder briefly and then released. “Your grandmother would be proud, for you are very brave to come out here and face what you fear. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to face my fear squarely as you have.” She stared out at the heaving gray blue of the ocean, the color darkening to indigo near the horizon. They were out of sight of the other two ships, and it seemed to her that it was getting a little windier and that the waves were larger, but it was likely her imagination. She would not alarm Zazu with her speculation.

  Behind them and around them, sailing men in their tattered clothes scuttled about doing mysterious chores, each with a purpose. They were brown and weathered, men whose lives had been tied to the ocean and the ship Prosperous; they served her like scuttling ants serving the bloated queen ant. It had been nine years since Savina’s trip to Jamaica, but she still remembered much of the crossing. The days had stretched and elongated, each one seeming weeks, each week seeming months. Perhaps with the wisdom of age it would not seem so long.

  “We have each other to rely on,” she said with a smile at her maid. “I hope you don’t regret coming? Even after leaving behind Nelson?”

  The maid took a deep breath and stiffened her back, staring out boldly to the horizon as if daring it to daunt her. “No, I don’t regret it. When I went home just before we left, my grandmother told me that life is very short; I will honor my family by seeing more of the world and carrying my name to faraway lands.”

  “And you will,” Savina said gently. “You’ll meet many people in London, and Gaston-Reade and I may travel after our wedding, you know, to Rome, or Florence, or even Venice. You and I can explore the galleries and see the paintings that we have only seen color plates of in my books. You can write to your grandmama and your mother and tell them all about those places. They’ll be so proud.”

  There were tears in Zazu’s eyes, but Savina knew that they were not tears of fear. She well remembered what it was like to leave her homeland and all that was familiar for unknown destinations. But she . . . she always had her father with her. Zazu was alone but for Savina, alone and missing her mother, grandmother and Nelson.

  “You know I’ll never desert you, Zazu,” she said.

  Zazu nodded, wiped her tears and took in a deep breath.

  From the hatch came Mr. Heywood, and Savina was reminded of the day before and the gallant way he had come to her support in the matter of slavery. Perhaps he was a like-minded soul, and she had met few enough of those in the nine years she had lived in Jamaica that finding one was a novelty. Of the many English she had come into contact with, few understood her revulsion for slavery. There were societies aplenty dedicated to its eradication in England, she had heard, but it seemed that economic necessity would be served despite the occasional protest over the immorality of slave owning. It had been an unpleasant surprise, finding that Gaston-Reade didn’t share her feelings, but she still had the hope of converting him. She had to believe it was possible.

  Her fiancé’s secretary, his aspect solemn, joined them at the railing.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said, including Zazu in his greeting, as he always did.

  Zazu murmured a hello and Savina covered her hand on the railing and squeezed it as she greeted the gentleman. “Good morning, Mr. Heywood.”

  “We appear to be in for a rath
er fierce storm,” he said, eyeing the sky.

  Zazu moaned and wide-eyed, glanced to Savina for confirmation. “I’m sure it won’t be a big one,” Savina said.

  “I hope not, for my employer is not the best of sailors.”

  “Really?” Savina asked. It was something she would not have suspected of her fiancé. “I cannot imagine Gaston-Reade as other than stalwart.”

  “He would be pleased to hear you say that, Miss Roxeter,” Heywood said, with a slight bow to her.

  “But is he frightened? Or incapacitated, as my father is? For you know, it isn’t the same thing. Father is not fearful, but something about the motion of rocking on the waves seems to upset his stomach awfully.” A gust of wind blew her bonnet back off her head and her knot came loose, her dark hair flying in tangled curls around her face. She swept them back impatiently as Mr. Heywood watched her. She had always had the feeling that he watched her to criticize, and he was no doubt thinking what a featherbrain she was that moment.

  His answer was lost on the wind as another sudden gust came up.

  The crew’s pace accelerated and changed, it seemed to Savina, as she turned to watch them at their mysterious tasks. Some were taking down sails, while others worked at fastening the cargo hatches and stowing coils of rope. The captain, a bluff, weathered man who wasted few words, ordered them belowdecks; Savina took Zazu’s arm and bustled to comply. “What do you think will happen, Mr. Heywood?” she asked the secretary above the sound of the wind. “Will the storm blow for a while or settle quickly?”

  He took her free arm and guided her around a coil of rope, the boat’s sway on the heaving swells more pronounced than they had been even minutes before. “I think the crew will handle the ship and we will ride out the weather,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry but his tone calm. “How long it will last is a matter known to God and sailors only. But I trust the crew to do their duty.”

  Zazu, her expression stoic, sighed with some relief as they reached the hatch. Mr. Heywood helped the two belowdecks to the relative serenity of the hall.