Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  “You didn’t answer, Mama. Charlotte was right. You like him too.”

  “I’ll never forget your father. He was the best of me. I have a business to run. I may have to make some choices and ask favors to keep working on my dreams.”

  Crissy pulled away a little and stuck out her lip. “I don’t like him.”

  If she knew Cells and my history . . . well, she’d still not like him.

  Seeing him in town, at meetings, even by the shore, had become easier. When the fancy invitation to a ball he’d host on Friday at his Hermitage arrived, I was a little surprised.

  Yet, the ask should’ve been expected.

  When Demerara’s governor used my business for his housekeeping, I knew it would be a sign of legitimacy to Cells.

  He liked to be among the influencers. I was on my way to being one.

  Charlotte had sent my refusal. Maybe I’d been too rash. If I could hire out Cells’s workers . . . his artisans could finish my hotel this year. Then any free laborers could be hired for Kensington Plantation.

  Then I’d owe Cells. What was in it for him? His price would be costly. Too costly.

  “Maybe we should do something that’s not business. Where shall we go this afternoon?”

  Her face brightened with dimples showing. “Let’s drive on Robb Street and look at the fashionable houses. I like when we do that.”

  Crissy was my dreaming child. She needed a bedchamber with a window pointing east to see the best stars. “It’s Wednesday. We’ll drive by our lot out at Werk-en-Rust and then on to the marketplace. Then to the fancy houses.”

  All Crissy’s dimples bloomed. She was a garden of lotus flowers with her pink jacket.

  Yet my sweetheart wouldn’t be happy for long, not when she saw the bodies of women and men that looked like us, glistening and naked in the sun, awaiting purchase.

  Demerara 1806: The Rhythm

  I parked in the grass near a long stretch of sand along the river. The Demerara was smooth and calm today even with her waters filled with vessels.

  On the left, the left side I tried never to see, were the flat-bottomed boats. It was Wednesday, auction day. Those vessels were filled with huddled masses of black and brown limbs.

  I wasn’t close enough to see their eyes, but I imagined them to be like Kitty’s the day of her auction—bloodshot, bulging with fear, but dry from shedding too many tears.

  When we lived at the Hermitage, my sister and I never came here. We never went anywhere on Wednesdays. I refused to see these boats when I walked to Foden’s Anna Catharina. I couldn’t believe I was here now.

  Crissy tugged on my sleeve. “Mama, what is this? What are they doing to those people? Why are we here?”

  Why were we?

  ’Cause I was too pigheaded to tell my children born free or almost free about the horrors of my pa’s plantation, the killing system that the planters condoned.

  ’Cause I didn’t want to ask Cells for help. Though he’d figure out a way to lie and make it feel like the truth, I couldn’t be indebted. That was worse than selling my soul.

  Adjusting the brim of my hat, I climbed down. “Stay here, child. Don’t leave the dray.”

  Fear rolled in my gut, swaying me like a drunk as I crossed to the docks. Twenty feet from the first slave boat, the foul smell of palm oil and sweat and fear clogged my throat.

  Crowded. The field, the boats. Some whites picnicked like it was entertainment.

  An old man poked an enslaved girl in her shoulder with a cane like he prodded a sow. He came down and stood in the grass beside me. “Look, runaways gathered too. Just joking. You look too wealthy for that.”

  “Did you have to do that, poke her?”

  “I’ll do what I want with my money.” His gaze swept over me like I was slathered in oil. “No ninny is goin’ tell me how to buy ninnies. That’s what I get for being civil.”

  I heard his words, but he didn’t say ninnies. That was my head again, making the slights feel less like stabs. Hadn’t heard that name said to my face in years. The money I had, the money I tried to protect, had kept the ugly away.

  Being here was ugly.

  Owning people was worse than ugly.

  I tried to think I’d be better than these white men and women. I’d clothe my enslaved people. No one would fear rape. I’d get them blankets and big provision grounds to grow the food, all they wanted. I’d teach them how to save for their manumissions.

  A hundred lies filled my chest, all to convince me I was better than these louts poking and cursing as they bought men and women.

  Once I bid, I’d never go away from this decision. A little bad was still bad. A good owner was still an owner.

  “Woman, you going to bid? I want to make sure to drive up the price. You look like you can afford to lose money.”

  No.

  I wasn’t one of them. Couldn’t become one of those planters.

  “You gone, dumb woman?”

  From the old fool, I ran. In a blink, I was at the dray.

  Crissy had stayed put. “Mama, what is it?”

  “They think they’re buying slaves, child, but they’re not. They’re buying stolen dreams. These planters accept that they can’t make do any other way. I can’t be one of them.”

  But I was them once. When I had Cells buy Kitty for me, that made me one.

  Run to Cells. Run to him now.

  I settled into the dray.

  “You’re going to buy a dream?”

  “No. I’m going to get an agent. I thought he might be here.”

  Head down, Crissy became quiet. Maybe she accepted my lie or counted this as grown-folk business.

  Come Friday, I’d secure an agent, someone to handle what I had no stomach for. One man had already proved to be perfect for the job.

  My horses slowed then stopped outside of the Hermitage. My driver bounced out and helped me down. My gown of plantain yellow with a gauzy overdress the color of the creamy white flesh of mammee apples fluttered as I walked.

  Moving slowly up the stairs, I tried to think of how to ask, then what to ask, and more importantly what I was willing to pay. With Cells, there had to be something in the deal for his benefit.

  The music and heat hit me as soon as I entered the hall. Years ago, the Hermitage parties hosted fiddles and flutes. This tune was strange. I’d have to peer into the drawing room to find out.

  Past his study, I lingered at the portraits. If I’d not pinned my turban perfectly to show off my curls, big sleek spirals, I’d doff my pale yellow hat to the lone female. I’d come to this house a servant and returned looking the part of a conqueror. The aunt must approve.

  Then I caught sight of a new painting. In a thick gilded frame was the massa of the Hermitage. John Coseveldt Cells in the power and strength of his youth, clad in his favorite whites—white embroidered jacket, big cravat, waistcoat and breeches, even white leather shoes.

  In a moment, I was young, in my jet maidin’ outfit setting the table, looking at all the things I’d never beheld. Then I became his Bilhah enjoying private suppers in his study, listening to Charlotte and Edward dash through the halls.

  The memories brought a flush to my fifty-year-old cheeks.

  Time to find the original massa before I was a sweaty fool. I stepped into the dining room and walked to the threshold of the drawing room.

  All the doors and windows were wide open. A tiny breeze sauntered through, warm and spiced with heady lotus lilies and peppery fever grass.

  A young woman exhibited on a boxy-looking thing that made the music.

  Polk, good old Polk, in a starched black mantle, came into the dining room. He bore a silver tray. “Mrs. Dorothy, I thought Mr. Cells said you weren’t coming.”

  “Changed my mind.” I put my hand on his arm. “Good to see you.”

  He lowered his tray of crystal goblets filled with claret. “Here. One of his finest wines. You’re a guest.” Polk shook his bald head and made a uh-uh-uh sound. “Oh, if
Mrs. Randolph could see you now, she’d bust something. The woman went to live with her children three years ago, but she’d love to see you in your glory.”

  I finished one glass then took another of the fruity wine and looked at my reflection in the shiny crystal. Full-figured, thick thighs swathed in silk, ebony skin polished with coconut oil, bright light eyes filled with hope, and no silver yet in my curls—broken pieces, reworked by time and fire, clean up good.

  “Join the guests in the drawing room, Mrs. Dolly. Massa is having his daughters play the new pianoforte.”

  Daughters? I sailed through the threshold. Catharina sat at the chestnut box too. She’d been shadowed from my view. My heart swelled with pride as I saw her making music.

  My Catharina, now twenty-three, looked calm and assured exhibiting. My palms became slick, hoping for her. A young brunette sat with Catharina, must be Cells’s other daughter. He stood near, tapping the top of the pianoforte.

  Seeing him there supporting both girls made me feel good.

  Then he saw me, his smile widening. I returned to the dining room and put my goblet down and wished my heart would settle.

  When I looked up, Cells was at the door. His grin spread to his hazel eyes. This look of approval was for me, me alone.

  Clapping broke our shared glance.

  He put my palm to his arm and led me inside. “Everyone is dancing. My daughters will continue to indulge.”

  Cells had never done that at any of his parties, touch me or place my arm on his. These events were scripted. Music and exhibition, dinner, then dance, but no us, just them and this world of finery and flattering talk.

  The girls played again.

  Catharina beamed in my direction, then bent her head to the big music box.

  “If everyone is to dance, that would mean us, too, Mrs. Thomas. It’s two-four time. I’m sure it wasn’t the popular dance the last time you were in London, in eighty-nine.”

  “The last time, Cells, was last year. In 1805, I’m sure I’d heard of a country dance.”

  The surprise in his face, the hint of pink in his cheeks made me chuckle. The all-knowing man didn’t realize that I kept going across the sea even without a prince.

  “We should join them, Dolly. I did ask everyone to dance.”

  The rhythm came to me. It prickled my skin.

  Cells drew me to the center, close to where his guests danced. We clapped hands and exchanged sides in rhythm to the song. Expert that he was, he’d kept us moving until we were a part of the line. The parade of turbans and headpieces—pinks and yellows and golds, with feathers and without—bowed in front of their partners. The crowd of planters and politicians and wives swayed and hopped and spun.

  As I mimicked what everyone else did, I studied faces and the lack of ones. D.P. Simon wasn’t here, neither were any of the women who’d helped me. I was the only free person of color with an invite.

  That hit me hard.

  These people, these planters and politicians and maybe wives, too, were the folks I battled to hire free laborers. The men gaily dancing without a care plotted and made things difficult. They had no problem hiring my housekeepers or buying my huckstered goods, but growing cane or running an exquisite hotel or having dreams of being more was wrong to them. They’d smile in my face and ruin me like they had D.P.

  No more twirling or giving away my cares to the rhythm. I let go of Cells. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

  Head held high, I moved to the closest garden door and escaped.

  Demerara 1806: The Requiem

  I had only four more paces, then I’d be at my carriage and away from this party, away from the Hermitage. The torches lining the path exposed hibiscus bushes and the cannonball trees I loved.

  “Mama?” came a voice behind me.

  Shuddering, stopping, I turned. “Yes, Catharina.”

  Dressed in a light blue gown with white satin gloves, she clasped her hands as if she were nervous. “I’m glad you came tonight, Mama Thomas.”

  “I’m glad too. You play beautifully.”

  She shook her head. “I’m grateful. I finally saw you and my father together. Now I believe him when he said I was created in love.”

  Catharina came to me. With tentative arms, she embraced me.

  My eyes were wet. “I may not have made all the right decisions, but know I loved you the moment you moved in my stomach. I wanted nothing but goodness for you. I still want that.” I touched her face, drawing a finger down her nose, landing in that wonderful cleft in her chin. “It’s Friday, Catharina. Simon is home worshiping. Go see him, support him. There are forces against him because of his beliefs and probably because he married you. Having me as one of your mothers will do that.”

  She locked her arms tighter about me.

  If coming to the Hermitage was for this, then I was full. I’d figure out how to fight for my building tomorrow.

  “Do you still love my father?”

  Her question echoed against my chest, vibrating deep. There were things I missed, would always miss when Cells was my friend. “I did long ago.”

  “Don’t go.” John Coseveldt Cells appeared on the porch. He clasped the rail with his solid hands. “Dolly, dinner hasn’t been served.”

  “I need to leave, Cells.”

  Catharina clasped my arm. “Oh, stay for a little longer. I’ll play again.”

  “Dear girl,” he said to her, “go entertain our guests. I think your mother came to talk to me.”

  Our daughter’s gaze swiveled between us. “I think I’ll leave early, Father. Good evening.” She went back toward the house.

  “She’s me, Cells, wanting Pa and Mamaí to reunite.” I touched my brow, smearing beads of sweat. “Coming was a bad idea.”

  Cells trotted to me. “You came to talk, Dolly. Come inside.” He clasped my hand like he always did, strong and gentle, and led me straight to his study.

  The door shut. Music seeped through his wall of books. “So what is it that you’ve come to say?”

  “Where’s the small talk, Cells?” I moved from him to the shelves. “Show me a new book in your collection.” I swiped my gloved fingers along the surface. “No green dust.”

  “Small talk is what you want?” He stood beside me, the click of his dancing heels announcing him as much as the rush of my heart.

  He tilted his head and looked at me the way he did, the way he always did in here, even when I didn’t understand.

  “Not much has changed since Barbados, except we both are widowed. You have Catharina in your life. My vain attempts at giving her the world can’t be held against me.”

  One hand went to the shelf above me, the other to my right, and he leaned in. If I moved an inch, I would feel his white silk waistcoat, the silver threading on the buttonholes.

  “I’ve been respectful, Dolly. I let you grieve. I let you come back to Demerara on your own. I’ve even kept my distance while you settled. Have I been punished enough? What will you hold against me that’s not your beating heart?”

  His head dipped to my parted lips. He kissed me softly.

  I didn’t jerk away. It had been too long since I’d been desired.

  He pulled back a little, then he dove in and kissed me like he always did with everything.

  Wild, pressing against me, he swept me against his dustless bookcases, and I let him.

  He ruined me again, with a touch that said I was all he’d ever wanted. With his lips on mine, I panted and dove my fingers into his shorter cropped hair, that curled about his ears.

  When he became more insistent on searching the pleats of my gown, fingering the low cut of my bodice, I remembered myself and stepped to his side. “I didn’t come for this.”

  “But you’re here, Dolly. It’s time to get us right. Come back to me.”

  He caressed my face again and he devoured my mouth and my will to resist.

  But I had to.

  His passions were bigger than mine, but this time I couldn’t give i
n or look away or surrender. I clutched his hands and backed up. “I’m not returning to you, but I need your help.”

  Breathing hard, he moved to his desk. “Same thing, Dolly.”

  “That’s your terms? Well, at least I know how being indebted is a benefit to you.”

  “From what I remember, we benefited each other.” He sat, his fingers latching on to the edge of the desk. “Tell me what you want?”

  “Without any conditions, let me hire out your men skilled at building. I have a hotel that barely has its foundation. My son is desperate to grow his plantation. He needs help too.”

  “Ah, the Kensington. A nice touch to remember the prince. His favorite palace?”

  “His grandmother’s, actually.”

  Flames erupted in Cells’s squinting eyes. His lips thinned. “That’s funny, Dolly. Polk says Joseph Thomas Jr. was born in eighty-nine.”

  Early in ninety, but I wouldn’t correct him. “His birthday has passed if you are so concerned.”

  Cells laughed. “Twenty-one-year-old Frances, does she ever ask about Captain Owen?”

  “You’re jealous of a prince and a sea captain? How awful for you.”

  “How could I not be when we share the same taste in women?”

  If he thought that a slight, he was wrong. “The prince didn’t mind sharing a boat with me. My black skin was beautiful to him. My dancing, too. Men with true power aren’t threatened by me at all.”

  A twitch went across Cells’s cheek. “Such aspirations, Dolly, to be a royal concubine. Perhaps the idea came from all the fairy tales I read Charlotte and Edward.”

  I wasn’t sure how low a jealous Cells would strike and wasn’t waiting around to find out. “Thank you for the invitation. Good evening.”

  He blocked my path. “I turned my world upside down to come to you in eighty-nine. I’d separated from Fanny, embarrassed her with all her society. I’d filed the paperwork for divorce in her native Scotland myself. I had it all planned and you hadn’t the decency to tell me that you didn’t love me anymore. I had to see a sketch of you and the prince in heat.”