In an instant, I dropped my sack. “No. I decided to stay. What’s the next port of call?”
His brow lifted, like I’d helped a pirate find treasure. “The next stop will be Jamaica. The governor’s a friend. I’ve promised to throw him a ball.”
Men and their politicking. That should be as much fun as digging up yams. “Of course you will. I’ve never been to Jamaica. Never been that far north.”
My friend fastened his palms to the thick rail. “We’ll be there a few days then again return to Dominica. I think that’s a final test of our compatibility. A last chance to leave me before all opportunities slim to swimming.”
He chuckled, but I knew his happy laugh. This was hollow.
“Your letter will be here when we return. It will, William.”
His lips hissed, bowing with sadness. “It’s not a letter. It’s orders. My father’s very ill. He may die or worse.”
What was worse than death?
Did this man believe in Obeah, the evil that haunted trees? Did jumbies torment the British too? Did death masks like that of Mrs. Ben and Cudjoe and the others that stayed with me live in his shadow?
He picked up my sack. “My father’s the king, and I must wait for another to decide if I am to attend his bedside.”
“It’s odd thinking of you as someone’s chattel.”
Both thick brows raised, then he turned from me to the sea. “No more of me. You’ve decided to stay. Tonight, you’ll taste champagne. I’ll show you the difference between a flat still wine and one properly fermented to exhibit the bubbles.”
“Wine with bubbles, sir? Interesting.”
“Yes, very. The French owe the British a great deal when it comes to the love of sparkling wine.”
“You’re always fighting with the French, but you take time to drink their liquor?”
His laugh returned like it floated up from the water’s depths. “We are civilized. I can enjoy French vintners and see them in battle the next day. And if I can convince you that champagne is divine, you will dance with me at my ball.”
The joy in his voice made me glad I’d decided to stay, but a ball? “Let’s enjoy the champagne. That’s enough.”
“I want to dance, Dorothy. You love to dance too. How could we not be friends?”
We both chuckled, for there were hundreds of reasons why we were never to be friends.
Easing a little closer, I rubbed my sleeve against the wool of his crisp jacket. “You don’t need more trouble.”
One of his big old arms found its way about my waist. “One minute you’re out of sorts. The next, you seem to fancy me. It could confuse a lesser man.”
“Good thing you’re not one of those.”
“Dorothy, I never know how things are between us. I like that.” He offered a hug. The scent of soap, good and clean, clung to him. I smelled no wine, no ale. He was sober.
“My dear, why is it we end up here?”
Because my heart needed joy.
Because he returned for me.
This moment wasn’t for baring souls. It was light. “You begged me, sir.”
“I don’t beg, madame. That’s obviously not the answer.”
He took a wispy lock of my hair, the curl blown straight by the wind, and tucked it about my ear. “The lights of Jamaica are lovely. The natural walks—the flowers and plantings are beautiful.”
“William, is London like that?”
“Not exactly, but my grandmother did a great many improvements to a little house in Kensington. The grounds have very fine plantings, mint bushes and fever grasses. The roses and yellow lantanas . . . the vivid yellow reminds me of daffodils.”
He rubbed at his mouth like he wished to take back the pretty words. I was glad he said it, glad he could show me his heart. I was tired of trying to figure out lies from love.
“Duty calls. Champagne later.”
He gave me my sack, our hands touching for a moment before he left, before I returned to the cabin. I didn’t bring a fancy gown for his ball. Without my finest trappings, I didn’t think I should be on display in William’s world. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t easy in my skin.
The Boat 1789: Coast of Jamaica
Once past the shores of Montserrat, it took three days for the prince’s Andromeda to drop anchor in Jamaica. I’d hung the best gown I’d brought, a red-and-blue linen dress. It wasn’t enough.
My decision was made. I’d stay below during William’s ball. Sipping my glass of Sourire de Reims Rosé, I enjoyed the pink bubbles tapping my nose. The sweetness on my tongue tasted like a mammee apple mixed with cloves.
William slid on his jacket. He looked wonderful in dark, dark blue, and better with white breeches. Splaying my fingers, he took my glass and finished it. “You intend to stay below?”
“I had until you finished my glass.”
He tapped a cask. The dull moaning sound meant the vessel was full.
“There’s more, Dorothy.”
“Yes, but you’ve taught me that the first pour is best. Since we’ve broken the seal, the bubbles will fade.”
“Then dress and come for new wine. Only the freshest bottles will be served.”
His mood was good. The best I’d seen, but I had to disappoint him. The last time I left these walls, I heard the bitter words his men had for me. Calling me a whore hurt, calling me ninny with all the awfulness of my brother Nicholas’s tone left me shaking. I hadn’t seen such venom in a long time, but I hadn’t been this vulnerable, away from my power, my family in years.
I said none of this to William, just smiled at him. “This is your party, sir. Have great fun.”
“Dorothy.” His face held a little petulant pout then softened. “Come see how a war frigate becomes a peaceful ballroom. When I took possession of this vessel, I gave a ball to honor my father. Now, I toast to his health.”
“But you haven’t received word.”
William’s smile disappeared. The tension his party planning had masked returned. “Governor Clarke and his wife will enjoy meeting you.”
From his chair, I fingered the cask sitting on his writing blotter. “Some governors aren’t good. An old friend of mine had difficulty with the governors of Demerara.”
“Some are tolerable. Dominica’s governor is a bore. He insulted my good friend Nelson. That man will never be invited on board.” Harsh air huffed out of his mouth. “Please reconsider, Dorothy.”
“I’ll wait for you here. Then you can tell me all. I love your tales.”
“Wish you admitted to more. You fascinate me.”
After waving him forward with a salute, I filled my glass, a slow pour. The pale liquid danced and sputtered in the crystal.
“Mrs. Clarke, she’s quite a character and accomplished. You might get on well with her, but I’ll send you a meal.”
He headed out. The music of fiddles fluttered inside before the door shut.
William didn’t understand. Too many fools waited on deck. With no fancy dress of embroidery and lace, everyone would ask why I was aboard or if I was the prince’s slave. I’d had my fill of those looks, every sour face when my black hand was in William’s.
His officers went whoring in brothels at every chance. I was sure they’d enjoyed black flesh, but seeing it celebrated in the open was too much for them. Would the other side of the sea be more of the same?
I took up my glass, but the goblet slipped and fell. It shattered.
Heart pounding, I sank to the floor and picked up the chunks. Each bit sparkled a little differently in my palms. Each one could be a bright accomplishment or one of my sharp failings.
No one would know the difference between a victory or a failing, if all the bits stayed hidden.
The Boat 1789: The Ball
The door to William’s cabin opened.
Expecting a cabin boy with supper, I rose from the bed.
A woman, older but not old, with thick, curled brown hair swept inside. “You’re his mole?”
“What?”
“Or is it his mouse?” Her low neckline and high bodice showed off her bosom, shoving it up for display. The close pearls about her neck drizzled into her dress. She pressed closer and tried to touch my braid, one peeking from my scarlet scarf.
I waggled a finger at her and stepped away. “The party’s on deck. Not here.”
She put her hands down along her gown of shimmering mango satin. “Don’t mean any harm. You are exquisite.”
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Kitty Hunter Clarke. Your hair is very fine. Never seen an African or Creole with such hair.”
Stepping to the other side of the desk, I put as much distance between us as I could. “My hair is the fault of your fathers, Creole or not.”
“A witty Negress. I like that, keep that fire.”
“Why are you here, Miss Clarke?”
“I’m the governor’s wife. My husband represents Jamaica, but don’t mind me. Once I get talking, it’s hard to stop. You are pretty, such perfect features and William’s wide nose. Just as he described.” She clapped like she’d won something. “We must get you dressed. Where are your bags?”
My nervous fingers gripped the edge of the desk. “You need to leave.”
“Yes, with you dressed to go up with me.” She burrowed into my bag, diving in like an iguana leaping from the roof.
Perhaps I’d had too much champagne, but the sight of the governor’s wife rooting through my things made me chuckle.
She stopped digging, her arms folding about her. “You figured me out.”
I did the same, crossing mine over my simple tan bodice. “Of course.”
“Prince William is such a dear. He truly wants you to come. I thought I could chase you out by being ridiculous. I’m sorry.”
No woman outside of my family had ever apologized to me, especially no governor’s wife. “Thank you.”
It was all I could say and not grin like a fool. “Why did you take up this mission to drive out the prince’s mole?”
“I figured the gossips had done their work to make you miss his party. Anyone associated with a man in power becomes the subject of intense conversation.”
“You mean hate.”
My low words made her cheeks redden. Her eyes drifted as if death masks from her past danced around us. Her chin lowered. “Once I was talked about in such a manner. I want to encourage you. Don’t miss life because of loose talk. Come. Lift the prince’s spirits.”
“Is the situation with his pa bad?”
“Yes. The king may die. Their relationship, it’s been strained. The prince is often on the outs. He needs to see him.”
Our similarities, William’s and mine, continued, each chasing our father’s love. When the ship passed Montserrat, I realized I’d given up on mine that last time I saw Pa. I hoped William would make amends with his.
Mrs. Clarke picked up my teacup, half full of champagne. “This is much better in crystal. You’ll see the bubbles.”
“Not that many bubbles left. The prince said it needed to stay in the barrel fermenting to be best.”
I dug into his desk, found a metal tin, poured some champagne, and offered it to Mrs. Clarke. “What does a governor’s wife know of gossip?”
“I know it well. I dared to have a passion for a married earl. I was defiant. We loved out of the confines of marriage. Glorious, but my reputation was in tatters.”
“Now, you’ve repented and live a good and holy life helping princes?”
“No. I loved another earl, one who wasn’t supposed to be mine either.”
Her fresh giggles made me grin. “Today you’re a governor’s wife?”
“Yes.” She sipped from the tin and smacked her lips. “It’s been a journey.”
This woman sounded educated, looked expensive, but was white as a ghost showing off her bosom. I was educated enough, had some money, but I’d never been showy and definitely was no pale ghost. Jet-rich skin and jewel-bright eyes with thick hips, these were gifts the world lusted for in secret, not on a prince’s arm, not in public.
“Despite the gossip, Miss Dorothy, I kept lifting my head, kept showing up, and I definitely kept living.”
She finished her champagne. “It’s better in a glass.” Chuckling to herself as much as with me, she moved to the door. “If I were you, I’d dress. Come up to the ball. Show up. Keep doing it.”
The door shut and I looked at the wall of windows. They were framed portraits of the black sky and inky water. A few showed stars. They were faint, but they were there. Stars were always there, even if they were hard to see.
I wasn’t a mole. I was a dancer. A dancer should dance, dance while working, dance in church or under the stars. I tore off my scarf and looped my curls with pin bucklers. A freewoman doesn’t cover her hair.
Over a simple gown of cream muslin I donned my dress of red and blue. It was wrinkled, but the heat of the night would fix that. Mouthing a prayer I didn’t make William’s problems worse, I climbed to the deck.
Garlands of blue hibiscus flowed from polished brass urns positioned every six feet along the massive boat. Fine candles smelling of honey and fire lit tables dressed in white linen. Between the mizzenmast and the main one, a line of people twirled to the fiddlers’ fast tempo. Closer to the rear, the stern, servants in silver mantles stood at the ready.
Officers who’d fussed about me being on board were dressed in starched scarlet or jet-colored uniforms. One saluted a painting of a vine and thistle hanging near the bow.
Prince William left his conversation and came to me. With a snap of his fingers a servant arrived and offered a woven crown of golden daffodils and blue lignum. “From my walk in Kingston today. I thought of you.”
My hand fell to his arm, but not before I placed his gift on my head.
The sighs, the stunned gasps of women whipping lace fans—I pushed them from my mind and followed my prince to the end of the deck. “You had time to paint? I knew you could.”
“I do like a good sketch.”
I forgave the smirk on his lips and glanced at his big canvas. “Does it have meaning?”
“Miss Dorothy, the red thistle bush is for the dear Scottish. The red cross and the blue belt is St. George’s Cross and Garter.”
“What’s the squiggle on the blue belt, my most noble prince?”
“Honi soit qui mal y pense. It means shame on him who thinks evil of it.” He linked his fingers with mine, bare palm to bare palm, no white dancing gloves. “It is a shame to think evil of what is good.”
It was. I would stop now.
When he pulled me to his side, I went without resisting.
“Are you hungry, Dorothy? My chef has made white soup, fine roasted partridges. There’s plenty of your favorite champagne. Oh, and I’ve convinced Mrs. Clarke to accompany us to England, when I finally get my orders. You’ll have a companion.”
“You think of everything, William.”
“Dorothy, I do.”
The music and a renewed sense of boldness filled my chest. “Then I choose to dance. I remember you begging.”
He laughed as we took our places. William and I danced like the morrow would never come. If not for missing my family, this night would be perfect.
The Boat 1789: Coast of Dominica
William returned to his cabin. In his hands, he waved documents.
Sitting at his desk, I crossed my fingers. My heart pounded. “Did the overseers finally give their blessing?”
He walked to me and hovered.
I watched emotions color his eyes, waves of blue and midnight stirring until they were fully jet.
“Yes, Dorothy. They’ve granted me leave. I can go to my father. I hope I’ll arrive in time.”
“Don’t go making this good news bad.”
“You’re right.” He dove into his trunk and pulled out a bottle.
The calabash-shaped glass, did it have more champagne? We’d had so much at his ball and the days that f
ollowed.
“Sourire de Reims Rosé?”
His face frowned, like I’d made his world go away. “It’s Rosé de Saignée. It’s almost as good. It’s different.”
“Good but different, William?”
Putting the bottle on the desk, he planted in front of me, my lanky prince. His head bent. He kissed me.
It was surprising and rushed. He was more enthusiastic than I, but he was a little younger than my thirty-three years. He didn’t understand the meaning of slow and steady. To show him, I kissed him.
His mouth had a pleasant feel. His arms were strong; they again became demanding.
To make this good, he would need to be tamed. All these fast movements were for dancing in a crowd.
“We should toast,” I said. “Let me know what this good but different wine is.”
With a few tugs, the cork flew. Bang, it hit the wall.
His laughter was full and rich. He filled one glass and then another.
The crystal shone as he handed it to me. “We toast to my orders, my father’s health, and to you staying.”
He lifted his goblet, but then set it on the desk. “Graceful creature, you’ve kept me entertained for three weeks. I’ve blathered. You’ve smiled.”
And said nothing of myself except of my business, nothing of my family or background. Though I felt William was different and his stories of gratitude and friendship with Blacks, like the healer of Jamaica, Cubah Cornwallis, impressed me, I knew the limits of his world.
Or maybe I’d come to understood how things shifted in importance with men.
“What is it that you want, Dorothy? What would make you the happiest?”
If I spoke up now—and told him that I, a woman who’d been enslaved, wanted to build fine things, things that would last and show Blacks could achieve everything—laughter would make the heat in his eyes leave.
Or he’d frown with pity, because his world didn’t allow it.
Mine barely did.
We were equals at this moment, and I’d let nothing steal my peace. I rose fully in my power and put hands to his shoulders. “I suppose I’m still figuring things out. This trip is exposing me to many new things.”
Island Queen Page 27
