Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  But the commander’s sneer exposed the enslaved osnaburg wrapping my soul.

  And my Cells let him.

  Careful not to slam the door, I backed out and returned to my old room.

  Kitty was at a table, pressing her thumbs into clay.

  “Where’s Charlotte, sis?”

  “With Mrs. Randolph, learning cooking.”

  “Oh.”

  She swiveled and gaped at me. “Look.” Kitty lifted the vase she created—smooth walls, a big curled lip. Sketches in charcoal lay at her feet of how she’d paint the finished creation. Dancing women celebrating music like they did at Pa’s cistern.

  “Are you all right, Dolly?”

  Used to lying to myself—like how my feelings mattered less, how I drank tea to control my menses for me and not the fear that being with child would make me lose Cells; and how in small ways I’d made his dreams more important than mine—I nodded to my sister. “All is good.”

  “Mr. Cells can solve problems, but you can too.”

  My sister turned back to her vase. I wished I could talk to her and make her understand how fragile our position was.

  I couldn’t.

  Kitty’s soul was trapped, still young, nothing of the nineteen years she’d lived.

  Yet this was my promise. She didn’t have to be grown like me. I came behind her and hugged. I might’ve cried into her braids.

  Kitty kept making her vase. It would be another treasure when she was done.

  I nursed my little Edward as I sat in the rocking chair. Solid spindles, chiseled curves of mahogany, and a caned seat that offered gentle padding. Rocking in it was perfect. Cells sent it to me.

  He had left on urgent business a month after I started to show, first to Barbados, then to Europe. Though he sent letters that Foden read to me and said he missed me, it didn’t take away the hurt. Like my pa, maybe this coming and going was the way for men, especially those who lived pieces of their lives across the sea. What was it about the waters, the distant shores that drew them? I’d have to find out. I promised myself I would.

  Tears streamed down my face. I don’t know why. I was mad at Cells, but this feeling, this darkness was different.

  Edward’s birth had been difficult. Mrs. Randolph, thank goodness Mrs. Randolph was here. The cord . . .

  Doing too much. Fretting too much. Waiting too much on Cells. My body was different. That’s all. Mamaí used to help women with the birthing lows. I wish I remembered how.

  My boy’s head of dark hair bobbed on my bosom. His skin was warm and smelled of lavender and coconut. This baby was born of love not hate. Remember that, Dolly.

  I tucked Edward into the cradle and left the loneliness of Cells’s room to peek on my girls. Kitty hogged pillows in the big poster bed and Charlotte sprawled into the space that once held us both.

  I started weeping again and pushed from the bedroom unnoticed.

  Mixed up, spinning like a top, the scent of fresh baked oattie bread hooked my nose and led me to the kitchen door. Cracking it, I saw Polk stuffing slices of the loaf into his mouth. “What you think Massa Cells is going to say about that boy?”

  Mrs. Randolph wiped her hands on her pressed white apron. “Nothing, that baby is beautiful.”

  “Mighty dark, this one.”

  “Her skin is dark. What do you expect, Polk?”

  “Her pa is white. I hear her other daughter is like lil’ Charlotte, white as a ghost.”

  “Polk, you’re talking foolish. You trying to say that baby isn’t his?”

  “Well, no. Not—”

  “They’re rabbits. Always in each other’s company. The only time they aren’t is when she’s working for Foden. That boy ain’t no old Foden’s.”

  Polk cut another slice of the bread. “Then maybe the old rumors are true. Barbados Creole skin my eye. Cells was a slave baby taken and raised for a stillborn.”

  Mrs. Randolph picked up her butcher knife and swung at him. “Boy, don’t let none of that come out of that mouth again. You hear me?”

  I backed away. Merr Merr . . . Merr Merr Ben . . . Grand Mama Ben. Was that why he’d helped Mrs. Ben long ago?

  Passing as white?

  Polk’s story of an enslaved baby being taken by massa wasn’t unheard of. When island heat made white women so delicate and surviving childbirth so hard, things happened to keep inheritances in families.

  Was that why Cells pushed himself so hard? Why gaining power was everything?

  Nooo. Maybe?

  It would explain why weighing consequences was his first notion, not right or wrong.

  I ran back to my precious Edward, peaceful sleeping in skin a little lighter than mine. I was jet, he was deep, deep topaz.

  If being colored, a mulatto like me, was Cells’s secret, why didn’t he tell me? I’d be proud of how clever he’d been conquering the white world, commanding their influence. He was the equal of any man.

  Easing to the bed we shared, all I proved was I was a rabbit to match his lust. This rabbit bore children to men who didn’t want them.

  Nicholas’s laugh, death masks, every bad thought I’d ever had flooded my head. Humming my mother’s hymn stopped the room’s spin.

  Cells was my concubine husband. He loved me. He said he chose me. How could he look on this boy, his boy, and not want him?

  I glanced at the mirror.

  My thin hair curled from sweat. My cheeks puffed and reddened. My perfectly round face was fevered and tired and wet.

  My strength had to recover. I had another babe who might only receive one parent’s love.

  Demerara 1781: New Way

  The fiddler played a jaunty tune. It was the first party at the Hermitage in over a year. I dressed in my best gown, a linen overskirt of sky blue and a gown and bodice of fine muslin striped in red and cream.

  Cutting two of my tendrils closest to my face, I let the short curls show.

  My straight hair was one of the first thing Cells and other men noticed about me.

  I wanted Cells to notice me.

  He’d been back for a month, and other than pleasantries and a short peek at Edward, there wasn’t much else.

  None of the passion we had before.

  Nothing.

  I slept in the bedchamber next door last night. He didn’t seem to care, almost relieved as if some measure of guilt had been removed.

  Near the dining room, I bumped into Captain Owen. I hadn’t seen him in ages, not since he’d left for an adventure in Barbados. I heard he was from there.

  The look on his face—pleased and smiling—said exactly what I’d hoped. That even with a little more weight about my middle and thighs, I could catch a man’s attention.

  “Miss Dolly, you’re always a vision.” He kissed my hand. “Do you know where a man might find a good housekeeper? I see how satisfied you keep Cells. His house and his parties are quite immaculate.”

  “Yes, she does quite well.” Cells came from his study. The stare he offered the captain chipped away the fellow’s cheeky smile.

  Then Owen laughed. “Cells, everyone knows Dolly’s taken. But there has to be more Dollys around. You can’t always be the lucky one.”

  Cells nodded, but he drew me away. We stood close to the portraits of his ancestors, to the lone woman who’d make him confess here and now.

  “Dolly, I didn’t think you felt well enough to join us.”

  “I feel quite well, John Coseveldt Cells. I can still run your house, like always.”

  “You should be with our son. You’re nursing him. He should be your priority, not business ventures with Owen.”

  What was this? Jealousy over the captain or my thoughts of starting a business again? Or was this something worse, a rejection of our dark-skinned son. My heart hurt. “Who is this portrait of, Cells? Who is this woman who seems in control? I’ve always wanted to know.”

  “An aunt. Carolyn Cells. And yes, she always made her opinion known.”

  “A woman with opinions
is not horrible to you?”

  His lips pressed tight, so I poked more. “Carolyn Cells is on your father’s side, not your mother’s people. She doesn’t look as if she’s accustomed to working . . . managing the fields.”

  His gaze burned. He tugged hard on his white dinner gloves. “Dolly.”

  Foden entered the Hermitage with his black-and-white coat and pantaloons, cane bopping on the floor. “Cells. Dolly. Oh, my angel is back on her feet.”

  “I am, Mr. Foden. Thank you. I’ll be back at work soon.”

  “Oh, good.” Foden clapped. “How’s the boy? What did you call him? William, I hope.”

  The old man laughed, but Cells’s brow raised and that look he’d given the captain returned. “Yes. William is an excellent name.”

  Breathe, Dolly, I said to myself. “The boy is Edward. Excuse me, I need to go to the kitchen.”

  Mr. Foden wrapped a palm about my arm. “Can’t this angel take part in the dinner? She can be my partner.”

  “Seems you get to be elevated, Dolly, courtesy of Foden.”

  Cells spun and walked into the dining room.

  Oh, Bilhah gained a seat at the table, begrudgingly. The man whose son I’d borne, the beautiful brown boy I gave my concubine husband, he wanted to be someone else’s.

  Cells brought a new dance from Europe, the contredanse. Couples in sets of four formed lines in his ballroom. It had movement and twirling, lots of hand holding. Polk could definitely master these fast-paced tunes.

  The rhythm, which had always been my friend, seemed far away. I needed it to pour into me, to make me feel normal. Dinner was stiff and formal, but I’d learned my forks and my water glasses long ago.

  I forced myself to appear at ease and offered polite conversation, things I’d learned from Foden and Cells, but I stayed at the table. Bilhah was lost, not stupid.

  “Miss Dolly”—Mr. Foden had his pipe in his mouth—“I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve missed you. Mr. Foden, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything for you.”

  I raised my gaze to his fatherly eyes. “I need you to—”

  He eased from the table. “Go on a walk with me.”

  We went arm in arm to the porch. The torches lit the lawn. I could see down to the river. The rosy scent of the cannonball tree blooms filled each breath.

  “My dear, you don’t look happy. You don’t look confident. That’s not my Dolly.”

  “Mr. Foden, I never told you something. I’m not free.”

  He laughed. “Of course. You’re with Cells.”

  “No. Well, yes.” I claimed a breath, drawing the strength to say the next part. “I need you to find my father, Andrew Kirwan. I have the money for manumission, for my mother, my sister, my daughters, and my son. Help negotiate our ransoms.”

  Eye wide and alert, he stepped back. “No wonder you stay with Cells. You’re trapped.”

  Stunned. Slack jawed. Silent. Foden laid my life, my heart, bare.

  He took my hand, my dark jet one, into his palm. His gloves were in his pocket. I felt his strength.

  “Is he hurting you, Dolly?”

  “No, but nothing lasts, Mr. Foden.”

  “Dolly, my house is open to you.”

  “I’m grateful for that, but I have to be in a position to take care of my family. Tell Owen I’ll find him a housekeeper for a fee. If I’ve trained her, he’ll not be disappointed.”

  “A finder’s fee? Capital. A new businesswoman in my midst. Capital. Good evening, Miss Dolly.”

  After helping Mr. Foden into his carriage, I watched it journey down the drive, then I returned to the Hermitage.

  Cells stood in the hall, almost like he waited for me. “You see Mr. Foden off?”

  What had I missed? Why was he jealous? I folded my arms and glared at him. “Yes.”

  “Have you two become closer in my absence? Or has the captain—”

  I reached and straightened his ebony cravat; I fingered his sensitive Adam’s apple. “I have secrets too.”

  My faithfulness shouldn’t be in question, though I wondered about his. I walked away with his gaze on me, but I didn’t care.

  “Dolly, wait.”

  Cells came to me. “Go to Edward and retire for the night. He needs you. Charlotte, Kitty. Me. We all need you. You don’t need to be thinking of business. It’s not necessary.”

  “I should’ve kept the man who believes I can do anything and be anything.”

  His face tensed, reddening. “I’ve advanced you as much as I can. But these are places of negotiation sometimes. Investors are here, bankers from London. Thomas King is the most influential. I might be their agent in Demerara.”

  “Thought you wanted to run the colony?”

  “I did, but as long as it remains Dutch, control will stay in Dutch leaders. I calculated the British would take it by now. Thus, I have a new goal to be the wealthiest man in Demerara.”

  “You can just switch a dream? And you still need their goodwill.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I’m one of them. Perhaps a bit too liberal.”

  Lies. He wasn’t a liberal, but he was passing for admission to their parties and politics. “If you say so.”

  “Dolly, keep your opinions to yourself. There are people I must impress tonight.”

  “Yes, Cells, you must keep your chattel, Je knap chattel, in line.”

  His breath steamed over his lip. “This night can’t be ruined.”

  “I’m not going to ruin a thing. You should know me better than to think I’d cause you trouble. I’m a better keeper of your secrets than you know.”

  Darting, blinking eyes, he clasped my elbow. “What do you mean?”

  “I figured out why it benefited you to help Mrs. Ben, Merr Merr Ben. We are a mirror, Cells, two people who want the world, but I live in the truth. I live in my skin. My black skin.”

  I knew Coseveldt. I knew when he was pleased; I knew when he was so full of emotion he’d burst. I’d come to even appreciate the tight control he put on his life.

  Now I knew I had to leave him. Mirrors exposed my soul and all my fears. I wasn’t convinced that he’d resist using my weaknesses against me.

  He caught my palm, and my fingers curled with his. It was awful to be furious at him and still respond to his touch. “Dolly—”

  “Cells, there you are.”

  Coseveldt dropped my jet hand as if it was a sin to hold. Maybe for a man wanting to be white, wanting to impress people, it was.

  “Yes, Mr. King,” Cells said. “The Hermitage is a success.”

  A tall, stocky fellow with a receding hairline came toward us. Elegantly dressed in a black jacket similar to Cells’s—a high collar, but no pleating about the waist, very short and smooth in front—he stopped and stared at the paintings. “The Hermitage is everything you said it was. Your tastes are exquisite.”

  The man glanced at me, a little too long.

  Not feeling flattered, I curtsied. “Well, King. I hope you like your colony.”

  “Oh, she’s funny, Cells. Where did you transport her from, one of the islands or Africa?”

  “He didn’t buy me. I hired myself out. Excuse me, sirs. I’ll retire now.” I did a half curtsy and went down the hall to my room. The temptation to slam the door almost overcame me.

  But I wouldn’t be spiteful and hurt Cells’s new idea. He needed his dreams, not me.

  I’d never leave Cells in a bad way.

  This woman, the mother, this abandoned Bilhah, would just leave.

  Demerara 1782: Family

  I counted my coins as I walked back to the Hermitage. The sun lowered on the horizon. The temptation to dance at the harbor was great, but the brothel owners were wary of me. I’d taken six girls out of that life and trained them in housekeeping. My business was growing. Even Thomas King employed one of my protégées for his estate, the Friendship.

  “Mrs. Dolly, might I walk you partway to the Hermitage?”

  �
�Yes.”

  D.P. Simon lived on a plantation close to Cells’s. He was a nice Creole boy, a pretty mix of Sephardic Jew, Spanish, and a little Black. The swarthy young man was from a good family and seemed to have fallen for my daughter the moment he met her.

  “Is Miss Charlotte well?”

  “She is, D.P. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

  The boy ran down the lane. Charlotte was too young, barely eleven. I doubt he’d stay in love with her eight more years.

  Hearts were fickle things. Such hope one had to have on things lasting. I quickened my steps, determined to talk with Cells. We needed to settle our future.

  A French officer who I’d hired a girl out to last week passed me, tipping his tricorn. His long blue jacket over bright red breeches looked smart. He headed toward the market. The French now controlled Demerara, wresting it from the Dutch. Governor Kingston, who took over from Van Schuylenburgh, had surrendered.

  Salut to the French.

  My Catholic faith didn’t have to hide any longer. I would celebrate, but poor Cells, he’d cast his lot with the Dutch, and he’d lost. He no longer had influence. He’d chosen the wrong side. Watching his politicking crumble stung.

  He took it hard and became more withdrawn, a hermit to the outside world. This was the Hermitage’s gain. The past three months, he was Papa Cells loving on Charlotte and caring for Edward. It started slow, but there was no doubt in me. He loved our son.

  Polk met me on the porch. “Miss Dolly, you’re back. We’ve been in a state.”

  The drooping frown on the big man’s face frightened my soul. “The doctor just left. Massa has lil Edward.”

  My heart stopped then jolted out of my chest. I ran through the hall to my bedchamber. “Cells!”

  He put his finger to his lips. “He struggled to breathe, Dolly. I didn’t know what to do.”

  In my rocking chair with Edward in his arms, he focused on our baby as if he could will the boy’s lungs to work right. “We almost lost . . . I prayed. God answered with a miracle.”

  I fell at my husband’s lap. My son, my babe, was alive. His little chest pumped so hard, but air was going in and out. His little snore sounded like a harsh whistle.