Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  Cells walked toward me. His hair wasn’t powdered. The gray and black locks had a tinge of blue in the candle’s light.

  Handsome in his short cream waistcoat with silver buttons that glimmered, he stopped inches from me. The heat made his hazel eyes quite green. “How did I let us get here? To this place where you hate me. Where we can’t act in one accord.”

  “Cells . . .”

  Like he’d shed a mask, his trademark smirk ripped away. “This is my fault. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been more direct in my intentions in eighty-nine. I should’ve been the one to take you to see the world, no one else.”

  “Nothing you could’ve said that day would have changed my mind.”

  “Maybe you didn’t know what a blackguard Prince William is. His womanizing in the Caribbean is legendary. His support of the old ways . . . he’s full throated about it. He wants the British to drive every rebellion into the sea.”

  William wasn’t that way but defending him to Cells would show him I was bothered by his opinion. “I suppose I’m too liberal then.”

  “No, Dolly. You see what you want. That’s why you loved me. You saw only the good, not the selfish bastard I am.”

  The heat, the kiss of heavy air, the longing in his voice—all dampened my face, my bodice. His admission made it hard to breathe.

  He rubbed his face. His cheeks looked very red. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you to come back with me?”

  “There is noth—”

  “I love you. I love Dolly, always did.”

  Cells caught my hand and spun me to the wordless dance that had always been ours. “I couldn’t say it before, not with all my secrets. But you know everything, except how I burn for you. How every moment away from your light is a torture. I’ve been in the dark too long.”

  I was in his arms, half turned against his chest. The satin of my sleeves bunched, catching on his buttons.

  His breath singed my neck. “I’m free of the vows I said to God. I know you hate me, but I feel the passion in your skin. It’s still there for me, for us.”

  “I should go to Charlotte.”

  “Dolly, I let you get away once. Not again.”

  “Release me. I’m walking out of here.”

  “Even though you still love me?”

  “Were you always this conceited?”

  “Probably. Only you and Fanny complained.”

  I slipped away. “I’m happy now. I’m with Thomas. Be the man I always wanted. Be my hero. Save my daughter.”

  “Can’t I save you, too?”

  It took everything to not fall prey to the memories, the good ones we’d shared. “You took Catharina from me because you were convinced I couldn’t care for her the best. This time I’m admitting I can’t take care of Charlotte. I need you to.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  It was enough to escape to the bookcase before the rhythm of his heart claimed mine.

  “I love Charlotte, Dolly. I’ll keep her safe.”

  I offered him a smile and headed to the door. He moved faster and held it open. “If friendship is all that is available, I’ll take that for now, but the bond between us will never break. It will grow stronger when you realize as I do that we should be together—”

  With my palm, I cupped his mouth. I couldn’t hear his lies or his truths. “Take care of my girls, Cells.”

  He kissed my fingers. “With my life, Dolly. With my life.”

  Breathing heavy, like I’d succumbed to his campaigning, I walked out of the drawing room to Charlotte’s cries.

  I wanted to offer a last hug, but I couldn’t.

  She’d only go to Demerara if she had no choice.

  I mumbled good-bye and ran, hoping that me leaving Cells was the best for Charlotte . . . and my soul.

  Grenada 1795: The Win

  A distant cannon sounded from the hills. Mount Qua Qua must be under direct attack. How long could the rebels hold on?

  Trying to get comfortable in my bed was hard. St. George’s was still safe but business was cut in half. My shop stayed closed most days. The blockades kept goods from flowing. Grenada was never going to be the same again.

  “Doll, the noise is far away. Go back to sleep.”

  Thomas sat at his desk working on wills for his clients. He turned in his chair. “You all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stop fretting about Charlotte. You made the right decision leaving her with Cells.”

  “What makes you think I’m thinking about that?”

  “It’s all you’ve talked about since you’ve been back. That and the store.”

  “What should I be talking about?”

  “Well, you could talk about me and the boys. We were lonely and had to do a lot fishing while you and Charlotte spent time with Papa Cells. I hear he’s an engaging host.”

  Thomas’s voice was a mixture of tension, humor, and good old jealousy, but I’d ignore it. “A party won’t save my girl.”

  He put down his papers. His boots, dusty and smelling of sea salt, knocked as he came and sat on the bed. “Charlotte is fine, Doll.”

  “Mamaí says the lieutenant governor locked up more rebels while we were away. They were hanged. It’s an awful thing to see a man strung up. Awful.”

  “Charlotte is safe.”

  “I know Cells will protect her, but she has to lie about Jean-Joseph, the love of her life.”

  “Well, thank goodness you’ll never have to do that. I’m right here.”

  He sent those boots flying then lay in the pillows and took me with him. “I do owe Cells, Doll. If the fool knew what he had when you worshiped the ground he walked on, I wouldn’t have you now. Same thing with that prince.”

  “You’re trying to make me laugh again.”

  With a kiss to my forehead, he snuggled me to his shoulder. “You might make me crazy, but there’s no one for me but you, woman. Keep dreaming good dreams. I want to see how many stars you catch.”

  “Thomas, I do believe that you know how to love me right.”

  He looped the strings of my nightgown about his thumb. “Might need to practice.” He tugged the satin loose. “A great deal of practice.”

  No man in my life, none had supported me, not like Thomas. He wasn’t threatened by my dreams or my past. I should assure him of my heart and say to him the three words he said easily.

  Instead, I gave Thomas words he craved. The ones that made him happiest. “No more tea.”

  “What?”

  “Put another babe in this old womb if you can, sir.”

  In the small light of the candle, I saw his lips lift and crest. “That mission sounds like it will require a lot of practice. You sure, Doll? Babies are hard on you.”

  “You’re here to keep me well. I have no fear.”

  I dropped my sleeves and waited for his touch. I wanted to be consumed by Thomas, wrapped so deeply in his love that there wasn’t me without him. Then I wouldn’t hear the cannons or the guns or any sad memories in my soul. Wouldn’t ever think of the other paths I could’ve taken, not while in Thomas’s easy arms.

  They moved me to where he could be with me, where he could edge up my hem and caress my thigh. He was neither fast, nor wild, with his kisses. He’d studied me. He knew me, and I knew him.

  I threaded my arms about his neck as Thomas hummed, singing my name. “I didn’t actually fret too much about Cells. You kept coming home to me each night.”

  “Smug.”

  “No, just patient. I win, Doll.”

  “Win what?”

  “Being the man who gets to hold you when you’re scared.”

  I wasn’t scared . . . much.

  But it was foolish to argue when he was spinning me to that moment where our breaths became raspy, our hearts labored with the same rhythm. Maybe I didn’t need wild and strong when this rhythm, this steady love, could last. Thomas had me arching to him, aching for his fingers.

  If this w
omb could work one more time, I knew Thomas would be beside me loving me through the darkness.

  Grenada 1797: The Whisper

  Frances read Cells’s letter to me at the breakfast table. He mentioned that all was well and that in public Charlotte had kept up a brave front and said nothing when Demeraran colonists celebrated the failed Fédon rebellion.

  A year had passed since the British ended that war. Mary Rose and Julien were killed or imprisoned, while I birthed another daughter. Dorothy Christina, my Crissy, came out screaming. I never doubted she’d live but nothing stopped my torturing myself about everything, especially not being with Charlotte.

  Cells’s squiggles assured me that no one outside of the Hermitage suspected a thing. Our Foden-Fédon ruse had taken hold. Yet he failed to mention anything of Catharina other than her good health. I went down the hall wringing my hands, wondering about his games or if he plotted to provoke an earlier visit from me.

  No one could leave Grenada yet. The government hadn’t eased restrictions. Now my sparrow was sick.

  Outside Kitty’s bedchamber, my worked-up mind blackened to nothing, drifting into the Obeah shadows and all the death masks I bore. Her bone-rattling cough ran through me sharp and pricking like a knife to my spine.

  Nothing worked, no doctors, no teas, no liniments, no prayers.

  I slipped down the wall, drowning in my own sobs.

  Sally kicked my foot. “Why you out here?”

  “Umm . . . I don’t know.”

  Her head lifted to another of Kitty’s barking coughs. “I thought your man told you not to ’cause he didn’t want that baby sick.”

  Little Crissy slept good, all through the night now. The birthing sadness robbed me but Thomas poured his love into me, but Kitty . . . She needed strength, much more than me.

  Not fair.

  All those years ago in Mamaí’s hut, looking out the window, those stars were ours. Not just mine. Our dreams. Ours . . . Kitty and me . . . us.

  I lifted wet eyes to Sally. “No. My husband wouldn’t do that.”

  Her chin nodded, her silver head and long braid shining like a halo in the dim sconce’s light. “Well, he’s the only good blanca I know. You’re good too. Don’t let her leave alone.”

  The stoic woman pointed to the bedroom door and walked away.

  My her, my heart, my swallow, my sister, my first friend.

  I stood, smoothed my wrinkled indigo sleeves down to my wrists, and went into her room.

  It was hot inside and smelled of lemony tamarind, more of the old cures for bad lungs.

  Mamaí mopped Kitty’s sweaty brow.

  “May I sit with you?” My voice was a whisper, choppy and tear-filled.

  “Look, Kitty. Dolly’s here and might have news of Polk.”

  Kitty looked weak, pale with drawn-in cheeks. Black vomit spattered the cloth my mother used to wipe Sis’s lips.

  “Swallow, may I sit beside you?”

  “Dolly? You’ve come to play?”

  “Yes.” I ran and put my ear to her fevered chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stay with me until I sleep, Dolly. The dark frightens me sometimes. It’s scary.”

  Climbing onto the mattress, I let her snuggle against my side, my knee, like before, like in our hut. “You beat the shadows. We won. Let’s hope to see stars tonight. I’ll wait here with you.”

  She sniffled. I did too.

  “Dolly, tell Polk . . . he’s . . . my good friend. You, too.”

  “Save your strength.” My mother’s calm voice was wet. Her hair had fully turned white at her temples. The rest was brown and curled beneath her head wrap.

  Kitty stretched her fingers to Mamaí and settled deeper against my thigh. “I died in the stocks at the Marketplace, Dolly. But you gave me my life again.”

  I clutched her fingers, tracing each knuckle. “There’s more life for us. More dreams. Get better.”

  “Keep dreaming, Dolly. Keep—”

  Her coughing became a whisper, but it echoed and lingered until it vanished like smoke.

  And I stayed with my swallow, holding her hand, memorizing her face until I was sure her spirit flew. She was forever free.

  Grenada 1799: The Worst

  In Edward’s old room, I held baby Elizabeth, my new grandniece. Yawning like her, I wanted to head to bed. I’d trained two new housekeepers last night. “Business is good, little girl.”

  My contracts were almost to fifty, the level I had before the rebellion. In another month things would be calm enough to visit Demerara.

  It was time. Catharina needed to meet her true mother. Little Elizabeth Penner was motherless, the granddaughter of the aunt I never knew. Negotiations for Mamaí’s eldest daughter, Ella. The sister I never knew had finally come to live with us and brought this little bundle.

  Elizabeth’s golden brown eyes were wide and searching. “Can you see the freedom here? Can you feel it?”

  She yawned and grabbed at me like Catharina. Cells’s evasive talk about our girl wouldn’t stop me anymore. There was something he and even Charlotte weren’t saying, as if I was too weak to endure the news. Kitty’s death and lingering birthing sadness stole so much of me, but I was ready again for the world. I had to finish our dreams.

  Elizabeth suckled her thumb.

  “Save that for counting, little one.” I settled her in her cradle, the one used by all my children since Demerara. “I’m going to be your special friend, like my Mrs. Ben was to me. I promise.”

  When the babe finally slept, I crept down to the parlor. Frances and Ann were passing a book of poems Thomas had gotten for them.

  Blam.

  Something fell.

  I peeked into the kitchen. Eliza and Sally were laughing at the sack of flour that fell from the table. They were usually a stoic pair.

  “You want to help, Mama?” Eliza asked in her chipper voice.

  “No. I’ll wait to be amazed at what you two cook.”

  They went back to measuring and stirring, and I turned to the open door that led to Mamaí’s garden.

  Harry and Josephy weeded and cleaned up the rows between the callaloo and yams. I knew they hoped to do their chores early. If Thomas felt up to it, they’d go fishing on the Mary. Mamaí and Ella were out there, too, drinking tea.

  Ella was nice, but my heart still wanted Kitty, still grieved seeing her latest art.

  Mamaí came inside and passed me in the hall. She touched my cheek. “You feeling poorly, too?”

  How should I feel? Dread stayed stuck in my throat. “I think I want to be away from Grenada.”

  She gripped my hand. “You ran away once to see the other side of the sea. You can’t be thinking of that now.”

  “No. That’s not this season, but someday, I’ll take you all.”

  The pressure of her touch increased for a moment. “Don’t run. See that your family needs your strength. See it, Dolly, see it now, before it’s gone. Before he’s gone.”

  My eyes locked onto the secrets in her beautiful wizened eyes.

  Him.

  Thomas.

  I ran to him, to the room we put the wee children for learning. Thomas was on the floor perched against the wall. One trembling puffy hand stretched out to baby number ten. Dorothy Christina, my Crissy, wobbled and swayed with a book on her head, but she made it to him before the thing with its gilded spine toppled onto his leg.

  Thomas reached out, held her close. “Such poise my darling. A society woman in the making. I’m proud of you. You’ll rule the world like your mother.”

  Mamaí came inside. “Crissy, time for you to eat.”

  The child offered a frown with her bright pink lips. “I’m coming, Grama.” She put the book on her head again and pranced to the door.

  “This way, oh queen,” Mamaí said.

  The two hobbled out, but my eyes stayed on Thomas. I finally saw, finally allowed myself to see how pale his skin, how thick his ankles were, like his heart wasn’t pumping blood good. At fift
y-eight, for a white man, one not working the fields, he was too young to be sick.

  “Help me up, Dorothy.”

  I lent him my arm, my strength, and I held him.

  The feel of Thomas was different. His embrace had no strength. The thick sound of his chest was like Edward’s.

  No. Why, Holy Father? Why?

  He kissed my cheek, with his finger he swiped at my tears. “Get my boys, woman. I need to sail with them.”

  “No, you need to be in bed. We can fight—”

  “This is one fight you can’t win. Get them.”

  Stubborn fool.

  Thomas knew me better than any, and I knew him. I rushed from the room and did as he asked. This time I wouldn’t stop what he wanted.

  The sea stirred different shades of blue and green. The sun was high and bright reflecting on the Mary’s white sails. The trademark blue-painted post of the mainsail looked proud.

  Josephy steered. Harry adjusted some lines then stood by his side. Frances, Eliza, and Ann gathered at Thomas’s bare feet. I couldn’t get his boots on. His feet were too swollen. I put them at his side.

  His breathing was hard. He clutched his chest and gave a pained look.

  The boys grinned.

  They didn’t know this was good-bye, but Frances and Ann, my sensitive souls, did. Frances more so. Her world was Thomas and books. She could be a solicitor if not for the profession being for men alone.

  Thomas sighed long. “Josephy, take the boat in now.”

  “Pa! Just one more time.”

  “No.” Thomas winced. “No, my boy.”

  “Mind your father.” I said each word slowly. They inched out of my trembling lips. “Then you all go on back to Mamaí. She and Sally and Crissy are waiting on the shore.”

  My sons caught my weak eyes. They nodded. The tiller turned. The sail moved.

  The Mary made it to shore. Thomas had his eyes closed. “I love you all. Mind and support your mother. She’s not done dreaming.”

  Spittle leaked from his mouth, but he blinked heavily then looked to the sky. The children kissed his cheeks and touched him then they went to Mamaí. Frances ran back and hugged him one more time.