“I must protest, my lady!” the unnamed man replied. “I did not intend to insult your mother, and I apologise for that. But if we return to our original conversation, we were discussing the negro. After all, the Highlanders are European, and white. The African is a very different sort of creature from us. They do not think the same way, cannot reason as we do. Left to themselves they are lazy and indolent, lacking in motivation. They do not feel emotions as we do. They are human, yes, but a far more inferior human. To expose them to civilisation, and to Christ, can only be a good thing!”
“But what sort of civilisation are you exposing them to, sir?” Beth retorted, silencing the murmurs of approval that the man’s comment had aroused. “A civilisation that says people can be bought and sold like cattle, can be forced to labour twenty hours a day in the most appalling conditions without pay, and can be whipped and mutilated, even murdered at the whim of their owner, with no right to seek justice, no rights at all. A civilisation that allows babies to be torn from their mother’s breast and sold, husbands and wives to be separated. It is wrong.
“Maybe I feel this because the attitude towards the negroes and my mother’s family is the same. Maybe it is because I was sent here by the British government to be sold into slavery for life, and would, were it not for Captain Marsal and Monsieur le Marquis, be living in the same way as your slaves, with no choice, no rights and no recourse to law. I think you see things differently when, but for the toss of a dice, you would be suffering the same fate. But at least in the eyes of my government I had committed an offence and was being punished for it. The negroes have done nothing wrong except to be African and black, which makes their treatment even worse.”
The silence which now descended on the company was even more profound and uncomfortable. Beth looked around at the uncomprehending expressions on people’s faces, and sighed.
I might as well have been speaking in Gaelic for all they understand, she thought sadly. They did not want to understand, because if they did then they might have to act on it, and then their way of life would collapse. It’s pointless, she thought. Everything is pointless. A great wave of despair washed over her.
“I am sorry, Pierre, Antoinette,” she said, “I did not wish to spoil your evening. If you will excuse me, I think I must be a little unwell after all. I will retire to bed, with your permission?”
“Of course, my dear!” Pierre said, his expression one of mixed concern and relief. She had given him an excuse for her behaviour. She is a woman, new to our ways, and unwell. She did not mean what she said.
Beth said her goodnights and left the room. Suddenly she felt unutterably weary. I cannot go on like this, she thought. I cannot become accustomed to this way of life. I do not want to become accustomed to such a way of life.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard her name called, very softly. She looked over the banister to see Raymond in the hall, his face lifted to hers. Quickly he ran up the stairs, stopping two steps below her.
“Madame Beth, may I ask, did you mean what you said just now, in the salon?” he asked.
“Yes. I rarely say what I do not mean,” she replied.
He smiled.
“You are a good person, my lady,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for what you are doing for Rosalie. She is very excited to be learning to read. She loves you very much.”
“It is nothing, Raymond,” Beth said. “She learns very quickly and it helps me to pass the time as well. I would teach you too, all of you, if it were possible.”
He nodded.
“Even so, you are different. You see us as people, I think,” he said.
“You are people, Raymond. How could I not see you as such?”
“Madame, I wanted to give you a present. But I am worried that you will be offended if I do,” he said.
“Why would I be offended by a present? I would be honoured, but really, you do not need to give me anything. I’m happy to teach Rosalie.”
“It is not for that.” He held out his hand to her, and she took the object from him. It was a small triangular stone, intricately carved. In the dim light from the candle she carried she could see that one edge of the triangle had been carved in the shape of a human profile, and there were what seemed to be Celtic knotwork carvings on the face of the stone. A small hole had been drilled through the top and threaded with a thin leather lace.
“This is beautiful,” she said. “Did you carve this? You are very talented. What kind of stone is it?”
“It is not stone, but wood, a very hard wood. It is very old. I did not carve it. It gives protection.”
“I think you need protection more than I do, Raymond,” Beth said. “You should keep it for yourself.”
“No. It is for you. It will give you protection against disease, madame, and against…other things.”
“What other things?”
His eyes slid away from hers and then back again, his expression earnest.
“You must promise me, please, madame, that if anything ever happens, anything bad, you will wear it around your neck or on your wrist. If it is seen, you will not be harmed.”
“Is something going to happen?” she asked, alarmed now.
“I don’t know of anything, no,” he said. “But if it does, this will keep you safe. You will make me very happy if you accept it.”
“Then I will, and thank you,” she said.
He smiled broadly, and then, before she could ask any more questions, he turned and ran lightly back down the stairs.
In her room, she sat on the bed looking at the wooden amulet more closely. Each side of the triangle was no more than an inch long, but the carvings were very fine. Angus would love this, she thought. After a while Rosalie came in.
“Oh, Madame Beth! I didn’t know you had left the party! You should have called me,” she said.
“Do you know what this is, Rosalie?” Beth asked, still looking at the object in her hand. Rosalie came across and bent over.
“Ah, so he gave it to you. He said he wanted to, but was afraid you would be angry,” she said.
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because you worship the Christ god.”
“You do as well, don’t you?” Beth said.
“Yes, madame, I do. But this, this is another god, very old. A god of the ancestors of the people who lived here before the French came. His name is Yúcahu, and he will protect you. My father likes you very much and is afraid for you, and for what will happen to me if anything happens to you. He said that you protect me, and so if he gave this to you, by protecting you it will protect both of us!” She smiled, then seeing Beth’s expression, her brow creased. “Are you angry, Madame Beth?” she asked nervously.
Beth looked up into her maid’s eyes.
“No, I’m not angry, of course not. It’s a very kind gesture. Rosalie, are the slaves planning to revolt?”
“No, madame!” Rosalie replied immediately. “No, it is to protect you against illness, snakebites and bad luck. I have heard nothing of a revolt. Did my father say that?”
“No. It was just my imagination. Come, help me undress, and then you can sleep. You look tired,” Beth said.
Later she lay in the dark listening to the muted sounds of music and laughter from below, running her fingers over the amulet, and thinking.
Rosalie had been telling the truth when she said she knew nothing of a revolt, Beth was sure of that. She was not so sure of Raymond, because she didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he was lying. She could not blame them if they were planning a rising. She had lived here long enough to know that slaves were whipped and beaten for nothing. She had heard their screams carrying across to the house as they were flogged at the whipping post, had had to resist running across the fields to stop it. She could not stop it. She had no authority over the drivers and overseers who meted out discipline.
The planters were terrified of a slave revolt. The whites were outnumbered by slaves by over five t
o one, and the whole island was like a barrel of gunpowder waiting for the fuse to be lit. If she told Pierre what Raymond had said to her, he would be arrested, questioned, certainly tortured, and probably killed.
She could not do that to a man, one who was trying to protect her, based only on her own vague suspicions. If she had any proof it might be different.
Might.
Her father had been English and Hanoverian, her mother a Highlander and Jacobite. She had grown up hearing both sides of the story and had finally, after much thought and reading, chosen to take the side of the Stuarts. It had been a reasoned decision, not based purely on instinct and emotion.
She had spoken the truth tonight. She was of noble birth, that was true; but she was also a Highlander, partly by birth and partly by marriage. And the Highlanders were being treated in the same way as the negroes. The difference was only a matter of degree. She felt an obligation to the Delisles, liked many of the planters she had met, even if she held little in common with them; and she felt a great sense of injustice at the treatment of the slaves, but had not lived here for long enough to come down firmly on one side.
I don’t want to live here long enough for that, she thought. But I have to. I must stop thinking about home and the people I miss there. I cannot go back. If I do I will put my friends and myself in danger. And if I go to France or Italy I will just be another Jacobite among the many that King James and Prince Charles now have to support. As a woman I cannot fight, and I would not wish to be a burden.
At least here she could do something. As far as the possibility of a slave revolt went, for now she would do nothing, but she would pay attention. If she heard something more definite, then she would find a way to alert Pierre to the possibility of a revolt without implicating Raymond or anyone else.
She could teach Rosalie to read and write, albeit in secret, maybe find a way to teach others too, in time. It was better to help at least one person to maybe have a better life. And if she could, when she knew more, persuade some of the planters to treat their slaves more sympathetically, then her life would be worth living.
Small victories.
During the days when Antoinette did not need her, and as the temperature rose as July gave way to August, Beth spent more and more time in her room, ostensibly ‘resting’, a pastime eminently fitting for a delicate young aristocratic lady in such weather. Of course she needed her maid to fan her, and pour glasses of lime or tamarind water for her.
And so Rosalie’s education continued apace.
CHAPTER TEN
London, August 1747
After his meeting with Caroline and Edwin, the first thing Alex had done was to return to the field near Manchester where the chest of gold was buried, to retrieve more money. The last time, when accompanied by Graeme, he had taken enough to pay for a stay in London, the adoption of another couple of disguises if necessary, and for generous bribes to prison keepers. He had, however, not taken enough to pay for a trip to France, then to Martinique, followed by a possibly lengthy stay there while he searched for Beth.
This time he made sure that he had more than enough to fund whatever might need to be done. He could hardly return from the West Indies if he were to discover a need for even more money. He could always replace some if necessary; although he doubted that Beth would complain about the amount he had spent, if it meant they were reunited.
Reunited.
He still had to pinch himself on a regular basis to make sure that this was not some dream from which he would awaken to find that she had, after all, died at Culloden. He had a second chance of life with the only woman he had ever loved, the only woman he would ever love, and he was ready to do anything, anything at all to find her and bring her home.
He had spent the evening in an inn in Lancashire, where he demanded a private room, then sat up into the night sewing the considerable amount of gold coinage he now possessed into his clothing, ensuring that if he was robbed (unlikely as that was, considering his height, build and, when he wished to display it, air of menace) he would only lose the small amount of money he carried in his purse.
The next day he set off for London, where he rented a room near to the Royal Exchange, within reasonable distance of the coffee house at which he hoped to receive news of Beth’s whereabouts. He used the name of Sarah’s fictitious cousin, Adam Featherstone, although he abandoned the country bumpkin persona he’d adopted for Lydia’s benefit on the spur of the moment; it was not wise to appear to be innocent of the ways of the town, if you wished to remain unmolested. Particularly if you were carrying a small fortune on your person. The amended Adam Featherstone was from Cheshire, and was a man of small means but large ambition, who hoped to learn more of the stock market in the hopes of investing a little money and making a lot.
Mr Featherstone had, in the recent past, he made it known in the taverns and coffee shops he frequented whilst staying in London, been a pugilist of some renown in his native Cheshire, and also enjoyed hunting when he got the opportunity. Having established himself as a man not to be messed with, and openly wearing a small sword, he wandered the streets around his lodgings unmolested.
His lodgings were within walking distance of St Paul’s and Paternoster Row, where he could often be found perusing the bookstalls, from which he frequently chose a volume to while away the lonely nights in his room. They were also close to Newgate Prison, which he studiously avoided, knowing that were he to come across the keeper Jones he would be sorely tempted to exercise his pugilistic skills, to say nothing of his expertise with the dirk (which he also wore, though not openly). He did for a time contemplate actually looking the keeper up; it was never difficult to lure a greedy man to a dark and quiet place. But then he reasoned that he must take no unnecessary chances. He had to keep his mind on the main reason for being here, and keep a low profile while doing it.
Nevertheless the temptation to be where Beth had been, however silly and sentimental that might seem, was overwhelming, particularly as the days passed with no word of the disposal of the Veteran’s prisoners. To that end he took a trip to the Tower, along with a number of other tourists, where he visited the menagerie, paying his sixpence rather than looking for a dead dog or cat to be fed to the animals, which could be presented in lieu of an entrance fee. In keeping with the other visitors, he expressed wonder at the ferocity of the lions and tigers, and joy at the grace of the cheetahs which were led about the grounds of the Tower on leashes for exercise and the wonderment of the spectators. Meanwhile he wondered where Beth had been kept whilst imprisoned here, what her thoughts had been, and how hope must have changed to despair as the weeks and then months had passed without him coming for her as he had promised to.
I am coming soon, mo chridhe, I swear it on my life, he vowed, willing the thought to somehow cross the oceans and reach her, wherever she was.
Later, back in his room he paced up and down, looking not unlike the unfortunate and bored lion in its cage at the menagerie. Four weeks had passed since his meeting with Caroline and Edwin, and still no letter had arrived at Sam’s Coffeehouse for Mr Featherstone. He dared not make enquiries about travelling to France at the moment; France and Britain were at war.
France had, only a few weeks ago, achieved a resounding victory at Lauffeldt in which Cumberland’s reputation as Commander-in-Chief of the British Army had been badly tarnished, due to him losing his nerve at a decisive moment in the battle and withdrawing his forces. Unfortunately for the podgy duke, at the same time Sir John Ligonier had successfully launched a cavalry attack on the French, which he was then unable to follow up on due to Cumberland’s withdrawal.
It was very heartening to Alex to hear that Butcher Cumberland’s laurels were being trampled in the mud, but it also meant that any attempt to seek a passage to the enemy country would have to be made discreetly and then followed through quickly in order to avoid arrest as a possible spy or Jacobite. As eager as he was to be reunited with Beth, it would be idiotic after years of
evading capture as Sir Anthony, to risk it now due to impatience and a wish to be active.
Instead he went to visit Sarah, partly because he liked her, and anyone who knew Mr Featherstone to be her cousin would expect him to, partly to see his beautiful little niece, even though her resemblance to his dead brother tore at his heart, and partly to obtain reassurance that Edwin and Caroline hadn’t changed their minds about contacting him when they had information.
“No, they wouldn’t do that,” Sarah said as they tucked into a hot steak pie and some boiled potatoes that Alex had purchased from a local cookshop on his way to see her. They were sitting in her little living room around the table. As soon as Màiri saw Alex she made a beeline for him, reaching her arms up to him. She had not lost physical contact with him since, with the result that he was now attempting to eat one-handed, the other being employed in supporting the little girl who was sitting on his knee. Sarah watched him struggling to cut his way through the pastry for a few moments, then pulled his plate across and deftly hacked her way through the crust before pushing it back to him.
“She’s completely different with you,” Sarah observed, watching as her daughter leaned comfortably back against Alex’s chest. He mashed half a potato against the plate, then lifted a forkful to his lips, blowing on it gently until it was cool enough before feeding it to his charge. “She’s shy with strangers normally.”
“Aye, but I’m no’ a stranger,” Alex said, lapsing into Scots now they were alone. “She kens we’re related.”
“You are, really?” Sarah asked softly. He paused with a forkful of steaming meat halfway to his mouth, and looked at her.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 23
