“Sourire de Reims Rosé? Kitty Hunter Clarke said she’d met a Negress on a royal boat off the coast of Jamaica. You wouldn’t know—”
“Mrs. Clarke was a good woman. She lived a life of shame and beauty. But I only saw the beauty.”
Today on the beach, Mr. King had told me of Kitty’s passing. How could I explain the simple joy of receiving letters from her?
I wasn’t about to get teary-eyed in front of strangers or rivals or whoever these women would be to me. Instead, I toasted memories.
Lifting my goblet high, I watched the fine crystal sparkle in the light. “To Kitty Clarke.”
Miss Ritchie clinked hers with mine. “I can’t wait to see what you think is better than this.”
“So, ladies, have I suffered through this glass for naught, or did I pass your test?”
Miss Ritchie’s smile pursed. “Not a test per se.”
I stabbed my last piece of the tart plum. “Friends, foes, or friendly rivals?”
“Not quite rivals or foes,” she said. “That leaves friends, I think. I think we’ll grow to be good friends.”
The stewing Miss Brett patted her fingers on a crisp white napkin. “You should look at the Werk-en-Rust area for land. Most of the area was an old cemetery. It’s close to the Demerara River, the main waterway. It can have as much traffic as the Ritchie Royal Hotel.”
Miss Ritchie put down her glass. “Bite your tongue.”
“I’ll look into that area. Thank you.”
The ladies chattered among themselves, the latest gossip and politics of the colony. I sat observing them, marveling at the width and depth of their talk.
Except for Kitty Clarke and my family, I hadn’t seen many friendly women who knew smart things. I had to admire women helping women. It felt right.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Thomas? Besides this champagne.”
“All my life, I’ve been singled out as that one woman, that one different from the rest. Now I’m sitting with women, good powerful women. And you want to help me. That’s different. I like this kind of different.”
Miss Brett smiled. “My mother’s my hero, but even she had never seen something like this till Demerara.”
“To the Entertainment Society.” Miss Ross raised her glass.
I gladly drank the bubbleless champagne, but my heart saw this and memorized their faces, the sound of their bold voices. I hoped this fellowship of smart women could outwit the men trying to stop me.
Demerara 1804: The Rule
Sitting in the back of the dray with Charlotte, I watched Josephy drive up the trail. My fourteen-year-old lanky son took us to see farming land. I liked parcels in town, far out here meant a plantation.
Josephy completed schooling in Scotland at the Inverness Royal Academy. He came back excited about farming and spent months searching for the right plot. I fretted for him. Laborers for his dreams to make the land successful wouldn’t magically appear. I couldn’t get any for the parcels I bought in Werk-en-Rust.
The dray passed the wharf area. On the platform were half-naked men, barely in breeches. From the smell of mushrooms in the air, it meant their black skin had been shined with palm oil. The bugs, everything from chiggers to biting forty-leg centipedes, would be drawn by that scent.
“Mama?” Charlotte grabbed my hand. “Are you well?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re shivering.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I turned my neck the wrong way. I shouldn’t look to the left.”
With my eyes closed, I wished I had no soul like the rest of the planters, the enslavers of men. They’d use this labor to build. Not me, only free—free whites, free coloreds, or free Blacks.
My son turned his head, and I beheld a glorious grin. “Mama, wait until you see this acreage.”
Our carriage headed down a dusty road. Cottonwoods, cedars, and palms lined our way.
“I’ve learned a lot from you,” he said. “We head to Mahaica. It’s perfect and only an hour away from Stabroek.”
Soon, we parked in a clearing, a flat area with emerald bushes. Josephy jumped on his seat and threw both his arms high. “We’re here. This land is for us.”
He scrambled down and secured the dray. “Mama, sis. Let me show you where we will grow cane and coffee.”
Charlotte walked forward cupping her eyes. “Lots of good cedar. Good hardwoods for building.”
I kept my face even. I didn’t want to give either too much hope if this wasn’t a good investment.
“Look,” he said as he walked into a small path cut between cedars, “it’s nice acreage. No swamp. No mosquitoes.”
Charlotte adjusted her blue bonnet and pressed forward. “Harry and Eliza can’t get sick anymore. The wet season had them both coughing.”
Never been as scared for my children as when I heard a rumble in their chest. “No bugs or illness is good.”
My son towered over me. “Is this too much exertion? I know you haven’t been sleeping.”
I hadn’t. Still not used to sleeping alone. Still not used to remembering what was gone. “I’m fine, son. Let’s see what’s beyond the trees.”
The crash of waves, the sound called my name. I dashed forward.
“Mama, wait.” Charlotte’s warning wouldn’t stop me. I had to see if these forty-eight-year-old ears lied.
At the top of the hill, the smell of salty air met my cheeks like a sloppy wet kiss. On this plateau, I could see everything—the sea, distant ships, peace.
The shade of trees offered a respite from the dry hot air. My sleeves stuck to me. A bead of sweat curled from my ear down my long neck. “This land, this is wonderful. I’ll buy it, Josephy.”
He grabbed his sister and started to dance. Just needed Polk’s fiddle and this would be the sweetest place. If I couldn’t have the shore in Stabroek, then I’d have it here. “Get the paperwork, Josephy.”
“Mama, we should call it Roseau where you and Pa fell in love.”
My son, the man with the tender heart. “No, that doesn’t fit.” I tapped my nose, then tapped his and Charlotte’s. “A friend talked of how his pa loved outdoor spaces. I saw it once, walked it at midnight. Let’s call it Kensington. This could be our Kensington Plantation.”
Charlotte nodded. “Kensington sounds good, but can we afford this? I know you’ve been fretting over Catharina and Mr. Simon’s finances.”
Their situation had become dire. They were going to lose Chance Hall. I didn’t know what to do. I was helpless watching planters—many of Cells’s friends, some I’d served long ago at the Hermitage, some employed my housekeepers—call their notes and charge Simon so much interest.
I sucked in the hot air then sighed. “You let me and her father figure out what to do about Catharina, but this, my darling boy, my daring girl, is going to be ours.”
I’d push back my plans for my hotel if I had to. It wasn’t the money but the labor that slowed things. That and the planter men.
My son dashed down the hill. “I’m putting my feet in the water.”
Charlotte didn’t budge. “You sure you want me to help?”
“My girls are every bit as smart as my boys. And you, my Charlotte, know how to run an estate. Jean-Joseph use to brag on you. You can do it.”
She looked down, like this good earth might open and swallow her. “Would Jean-Joseph be proud of me, knowing I’ve taken up with a white man? He hated them.”
“He hated the evil they did, but Fédon loved you. He’d want you happy. I’ve seen how Fullarton treats you.” I lifted her chin. “Like a jewel, a precious star.”
“He’s good to me. I’m a good wife, but we have no children. Maybe my barrenness is judgment.”
I pulled her to me. “Don’t you go doubting yourself. Babies don’t make your worth. Having them adds to your happiness.”
“Easy for you to say, Mama. You’ve ten children.”
It wasn’t easy for me. I couldn’t tell her how I regretted some moments, how the bir
thing sadness stole my joy.
I hummed our hymn. Rop tú mo baile.
I sang away my sorrows and kept at it until she sang too.
The woods have always been good to me. It was my first church.
“Charlotte, if you never have a babe, birth something here in this land. Then be like my sister Kitty, the best auntie. That’s honorable and decent.”
She kissed my cheek. “Then maybe you should move forward. Papa Cells will be back for good in a few weeks. He never forgot you. He never remarried.”
Before she started repeating the platitudes I’d offered to free Charlotte of her mourning robes, I waved to my son. “Josephy! Put your boots on. Let’s head back.”
He nodded and plopped down, tugging on his dusty boots.
“Mama,” Charlotte said in her sweetest swallowlike voice, “Mr. Thomas has been gone almost six years. Papa Cells is coming back. He’s waited long enough, don’t you think?”
Josephy took his sister’s arm and headed toward the dray.
I looked back at the sea. I was in love with my departed Thomas.
Nine years was a long time since I last saw Cells, but there was nothing to fear with him coming back, nothing at all. I charged down the hill knowing I still couldn’t lie to myself even when I wanted.
London 1824: Marine Society Office
My carriage stops on Lambeth Road at the Marine Society Office. Official buildings in London are hewn in fortified stone, very different from the wood government buildings of Demerara.
Seems to me Lieutenant Governor Murray would have time to build such great works if he weren’t oppressing his vulnerable citizens. What good colonist wouldn’t pay a fair tax to build lasting things?
A footman in a scarlet mantle helps me down. I glide to the pavement like I’ve taken a step on the ballroom floor. Part of me wishes this footman was Polk. My, how he’d love these streets.
Today isn’t about dancing, it’s about escape. Well, maybe those are two sides of the same coin.
I nod to the footman. “I’ll send for you when I’m done.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The fellow has perfected the disaffected smile. The awkwardness of being ordered around by a woman like me affects all men, until I tip them with a shilling. Money teaches respect quickly.
Sailing through the doors, I enjoy the scent of orange oil wafting in the air. Mr. King keeps a tidy office.
Before I announce myself, William King rushes from his office. He sweeps my old hand into his young strong one. He’s his father’s son, diligent with spectacles, honest. That’s how I’ll remember Thomas King.
“Please, Mrs. Dorothy, head this way.”
The son tucks my arm into the crook of his. I’m proud of his success. I’m proud of how the Kings have grown my investments.
The door closes, and he has his palms out. “Give me. I know you have a sack of goodies.”
I should tap those fingers with my fan, but I reach into my bag for two jars of preserved golden ginger, spicy and sweet, and another filled with tangy red guava jelly.
His round face lights up and he digs his fingers into the ginger before I can stop him. “Elizabeth is going to love these.”
“That is if you leave any, greedy boy.” I ease into the chair, all my nerves hidden in a smile. “How’s Elizabeth?”
“She’s well. She’s been an aid to my mother. Father’s passing hit us hard.”
“Elizabeth’s a sweet, diligent girl. I’m glad I introduced you.”
“Me too.” My godson is happy. His joyous blue eyes warm me. It always amazes me how the son of a slave transporter fell in love with a woman freed from slavery.
“Your pa turned out to be good.”
William looks over his spectacles. “You gave him a way back, you know. He was tormented over what he’d done in his quest for riches.”
“The chase will do that. No one is immune to poor choices.”
“Well, transport is now illegal. With the talk of abolition heating up Parliament, I’m sure we’ll see the end of legal slavery in our lifetime.”
At sixty-eight, I truly wish it happens during my days.
William sits at a desk that’s tall and wide, surely built by his family’s fortune, but the son leads a charity organization for homeless boys. He taps the blotter on his desk. “My father took pride being the governor of the Foundling Hospital. He said it almost rivaled assisting you.”
He scoops another ginger treat. His mouth puckers from the sweet fire. “You’re not here to reminisce.”
“You’re King’s son. I need advice. If I wish to sell all in Demerara, how long will it take? How much is at risk if I do?”
He scratches his chin. “The estates, the farming lands, everything? It’s quite a lot of property. You sure you’re looking to liquidate quickly?”
“If that means to sell fast at the best price, yes.”
“Selling fast never gets the best price, but you know this.” He eyes the jelly. “I need a crust of bread.”
“Oattie bread?”
He nods and dumps two pieces of ginger in his mouth.
They burn his tongue. I remember how the treat always did. William’s a man who likes pain and pleasure. His loving marriage to a colored woman cut him from many social circles, his work with abolition from others.
“You’re sure you want to sell now, Mrs. Dorothy? I know Demerara has been chaotic. Perhaps wait a little longer.”
“King, if I make this drastic change, I’ll need your assistance and discretion.”
“As always. Would you move to London or Glasgow or another of your islands?”
“Not sure. There are many places dear to me.”
His eyes have a glow. Does he know this isn’t my first time thinking of living in London?
He scoops up an additional piece of fiery ginger. “Is there a certain gentleman of the world you might be running away with? You have a great deal of spirit.”
“If I do this, I’m not running to no man. More likely I’m running from them.”
With his chin nodding, he adjusts his spectacles. “To make one of the bravest women I know flee, it must be a lot of men.”
I wouldn’t say it all now, not until my dear damfo told me meeting with Lord Bathurst was impossible.
“I’ll look into things, Mrs. Dorothy.”
“Thank you. You were your pa’s joy, you and your siblings. Take comfort in that.”
He walks me to the big area with clerks and desks. “I do. As Elizabeth reminds me, what happened cannot be erased. A pot of good now doesn’t wipe away yesterday’s stains. Sounds like something you’d say, Mrs. Dorothy.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Smart girl. Busy with your mother, she must not have time for anything else?”
“You know she does. Can’t stop the woman and her projects if I tried.” He kisses my cheek. “Elizabeth wouldn’t want these men chasing you off. I’ll let her know you’re in town and to visit.”
“Good. But do let her finish her project first.”
“Oh, that’s a given with my dear wife.” William turns to one of his clerks. “Send for Mrs. Thomas’s carriage. It should be in the King’s Mews.”
“That sounds royal unless it’s one of your ventures.”
“No, it’s in honor of the new king.”
“Yes, one of those Georges, George IV.”
After a final hug, he leaves and I sit and wait. From the window, I see someone who looks familiar.
Tall, reddish-gray hair.
I close my eyes and wish I could unsee him, the likeness of him.
The man passing by the glass could be Nicholas Kirwan. His tyranny made me run to save my life. The Demerara Council is making me fear for my livelihood.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out. The fellow passes. Old Mr. King told me Nicholas died in a bar fight in 1788. Someone finished Kitty’s scar. His evil was gone.
Bathurst must stop the evil of the Demerara Council.
&n
bsp; My damfo will gain this meeting. I believe she can.
I close my eyes. I’m Doll the dancer. She needs to live again in my head. She always has hope. She knows how to win.
Demerara 1805: The Robertsons
The sun set as my Eliza held Gilbert Robertson’s hand in the living room parlor on America Street. Her high-waisted gown of muslin, with deep pleats that formed a train of beige and pink stripes, made my dumpling look taller, every inch a princess.
Eliza was a good girl. She deserved the world.
The cloudless day was perfect for their ceremony, which included signing of the concubine contract and a blessing from a minister, an Anglican one like Mr. Robertson.
“Mama, I’m happy.” Eliza’s eyes widened at the figure for her dowry, one thousand pounds. My housekeeping businesses boomed. Frances kept my services in Grenada and Dominica growing. A hundred and ten clients now in total between the islands. For Demerara, I was up to forty. Pity my land projects, my hotel and plantation, weren’t thriving.
“Mama? You seemed distracted.”
Blinking, I hugged her, a big bear hug like I was Thomas. “Your pa would be pleased at your smile.”
Over her shoulder, I looked at my Demerara family—Charlotte and Fullarton; Lizzy, Coxall, and their brood; my sons; and Crissy gathered for this union. My heart thought of our loved ones in Grenada. “Your sisters, Frances and Ann, send you their love. I know everyone in St. George’s does.”
Only Catharina hadn’t come or sent well wishes.
The Simon finances were worse.
And I’d said no again. No more pocket money. No more coming just to get money.
I hadn’t seen her in a month. Money was all that tied us together.
My Harry picked up his fiddle. “I think there should be dancing.”
He zipped a tune, almost as good as Polk.
Couples danced, and the younger children played in the place meant for Mamaí’s garden.
I wished Kitty was here. Eliza was the child we shared, the one her goodness and mercy poured into when I had none.
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