Demerara 1819: Tribulations
I whirled around and around in the large dining room of my Cumingsburg’s hotel. The heavenly scent of coq au vin filled the air. That was what my French chef, Louis Le Plat, named this dish of old tough roosters stewed tender in claret with yams and onions. His Provençal fish stew of lobster and scallops and mussels had such a silky taste in the mouth. Once Lord Combermere, the new governor of Barbados, tasted it, he would believe he’d died and gone to heaven.
He surely would croak knowing colored girls had made his week in Demerara a success. This would be a win for the Entertainment Society.
Mrs. Ostrehan Brett’s assembly rooms held a festive tea. Rebecca’s Royal Hotel hosted a subscription ball with the finest crystal I’d ever seen. Tonight, my dinner would be the crowning jewel.
Every table in my ballroom held a starched white cloth and a perfect vase, ones my sister Kitty made. Shiny clay vessels of red and purple painted with happy dancing women made me feel her presence. I lifted my glass and offered her a toast.
I wobbled and fastened my hand to the back of a chair. The fine spindles shone with sweet orange oil. I swayed. I was in a fog like Mount Qua Qua’s.
This night was important. I, Dorothy Kirwan Thomas, was implored by Demerara’s lieutenant governor John Murray to organize this week. It was sort of funny, Irish Murray picking me. My Irish Montserratian roots felt particularly proud. I lifted my half-empty glass for a béaláiste. “Well done, Dolly.”
Toasting alone seemed hollow, but I’d been by myself a long time.
Harry came from my cellar with a notepad. The checklist in his palms almost made me weep.
“Mama, we have plenty of champagne. Plenty of Sourire de Reims Rosé.”
“Lord Combermere is part of that British world of princes and kings. He’ll appreciate my selection.”
I’d sent a barrel to Bushy House as a wedding present. Prince William married a princess. He’d gone through a series of wealthy mistresses after he and Miss Bland parted. The papers mocked him badly about how empty his pockets were. It was good he’d found someone to marry, someone nice so he wouldn’t have to dance alone.
“Harry, you are a dear. Will your widow friend be coming tonight?”
“Mama, I have no time for friends and to be choosy.”
At twenty-seven and a man, this was true.
Plucking my glass, the low ding sounded like a black curassow’s call. In my window open to the stars, the bird sang its love songs. “Here’s to time.”
“Mama, are you well?”
“Go check on your grandma and your sisters. They’ve all come from Grenada for tonight’s festivities.”
Polk’s son went and got them. My old friend himself was in my kitchen helping Chef Plat, eating what the fiddler called extras—things that Polk judged would go to waste.
My son held my hand. “Tonight is going to go well. Don’t be nervous.” He kissed my cheek and went out of my ballroom.
Tonight would go well.
I put my glass on the stand the servers would use for empties. I truly had no worries. My Charlotte had everyone in order. Eliza, too, but she’d be with Polk in the kitchen. Catharina wouldn’t be coming. She was with child again and wanted nothing more than to sit on her sofa with Simon massaging her feet. They still lived at Werk-en-Rust.
They didn’t have much, but their love had been made stronger. It appeared that she was right about them. For this, I was glad.
My simple gray frock and headscarf wouldn’t do. The pale green gown with beading at the bodice and hem hung in my room. The matching turban when placed on my silver curls would make me a viscountess or princess. No, an island queen, for this silk crown had the colors of Montserrat, Dominica, and Grenada, their sea-green and coral pinks about the banding.
Walking from the ballroom, I saw Cells crouching at the lion’s cage. The young cat had a shaggy mane but Kitty’s topaz eyes. The white-chested animal with streaks of tan and brown in his coat growled at Cells.
“Good cat.”
Cells stood up, slowly. “You trained the beast well, Dolly. You’ve done so well. Beyond my expectations.”
He walked toward me with his swagger. For an old man in his seventies, he looked good. Fully gray, even in his mustache, he’d aged well.
My lips smacked and I covered a giggle. “If I weren’t fretful that either he or I would break a hip, we’d be in the hall rolling in passion on the purple silk tapestry.”
He blinked at me and then coughed. “Dolly, you know you said that out loud.”
Oops. “Must be the champagne. Forget what I said.”
He stopped in front of me. “That’s a little hard. Once a thing is said, it’s truly hard to ignore.”
“No, we can ignore it. That’s how we work, how we’ve learned to live.”
The musicians I’d hired started to play—a flute, a fiddle, and drums. The rhythm took my breath as Cells touched me. With his palm at my waist, I was transported to the time he taught me to dance. “This is not the allemande.”
The man was still tall, still able to crowd me. His arms had strength. He pulled me to his chest, spinning us. “It’s called the waltz. Maybe you and I had to wait until the dance was right.”
He kissed me.
I backed him against the wall with my hands along his shoulders. The smell of the fresh paper treatment hung above the molding filled my nose as much as his bay rum cologne.
Cells held me, my face burrowing into his cravat. His lips again fell on my brow. “If I’d known that a little champagne was all it took to get to you, I’d have ordered barrels years ago. What is this brew?”
“Sourire de Reims Rosé is what I love. But this is Rosé de Saignée. You taste the berries and the grapes. It stays longer on the tongue.”
“Let me taste the blend again.” He kissed me deeper this time.
My heart pounded and knocked against his ribs.
Maybe Coseveldt wasn’t that old and maybe I wasn’t either. And maybe I’d been a fool to think that I could be alone forever.
“Tarn it. I’m Crissy.”
“What?”
“I haven’t told you yet. Fool girl has run off with another man, Major Gordon, to Scotland.”
“Sorry, Dolly. I know you’ve tried.”
“Oh, kiss me, Cells, before my head clears. Before I start fretting about that girl or this dinner, or any stupid reason that I put between us.”
With his wicked smile, he did. His hands warmed places I thought dead, and I reached for a man who’d always been there at the right time, in spite of our worst selves.
“This isn’t what the leaders of Demerara and Barbados need to see, two ready-to-be-naked bodies entwined next to my lion.”
“Marry me, Dorothy.”
“No.”
I put my arms about his neck and kissed him quiet.
“Marry me, Dorothy.”
“Will you stop talking if I agree?”
“Yes, after you say yes.”
I was drunk and crazy and tired of running. “Maybe.”
“Close enough.”
His lips pressed against mine made them curl. He tried to lift me, but that groan said his back would give out. That wouldn’t do for either of us.
Clasping his jacket, I led him down the hall. “This way.”
“I should be good and say you have a very important dinner, but I was only ever good when I was with you.”
A scream loud and earth shattering seared my soul.
Cells ran to it, tugging me with him.
Down the hall, I saw my mother screaming. Charlotte looked like she’d pass out.
“What has happened, Mamaí?”
“L-Lizz-y and Co-Coxall.” Charlotte’s voice shook and cried.
That rhythm. The stuttered breath, the way a person could barely breathe, barely say a word when the worst came.
Cells took the paper from Charlotte. “They drowned. Their ship went down. I’m sorry, Dolly.”
My strength disappeared when he confirmed disaster.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t lift my head and sank to the floor with Mamaí. Lizzy was both our babies. We sobbed like fools.
Cells had his hands on my back. “I’ll send word to Lieutenant Governor Murray. I’ll let him know tonight is canceled.”
“No.” I pulled away and found the strength to stand. “No.
Charlotte wiped her eyes. “Mama, it is for the best.”
“No.”
They didn’t seem to hear me. “Nooooo!” I shouted. “I will wear my hat and force a smile.”
My mother nodded and put on her classic smile. “I’ll be ready, too.”
Charlotte cried and ran down the hall.
“I’m going to dress.” I stumbled forward.
Cells followed. “You can’t possibly go through with this, Dolly. No one expects you to do this. You’re human. Take a moment to grieve.”
“Grief doesn’t let you choose. It comes for you. This evening has to go on. It’s bigger than me, Cells. It’s bigger. Colored girls don’t get second chances to shine. You have to take the moments when they come.”
“Then I’ll be with you. But I think—”
“I said what I’m going to do.” I left him and went to my room.
“Dolly, we can have supper. You and I, we can grieve. Dolly?”
I closed and locked the door.
Then I fell against it and let my tears flow. I had to get them all out, or I wouldn’t get through this dinner with dry eyes. Then I’d have to tell my namesake, Dorothea, and all my grands here or away in school that their parents were never coming back from across the sea.
The heavy knock on my door had to be Cells, but I couldn’t move. No one would see me again until dinner. Then I would be dressed and proudly wear Mamaí’s smile and my turban.
Rop tú mo baile. Rop tú mo baile.
That was Cells singing my hymn through the door. I sang, too, then stood and washed my face. The world of governors, of princes, even Cells would only see strong Dorothy Thomas, not Dolly who’d again become broken glass.
Demerara 1822: Chasing
Cells paced in my parlor. “The British government is going to keep pushing until a rebellion happens here. Shortsighted fools.”
“What are you talking about? We’re supposed to be thinking of another baby gift for Charlotte.”
My darling girl had birthed Mary Fullarton two years earlier and now Sarah King Fullarton rested upstairs in my house on Robb Street.
Nothing was better than seeing those pink bundles laid in a polished cedar crib.
Maybe it took her man coming and going to renew their love. “Cells, we need to think of Charlotte. She has her dream. Two little babies of her own.”
He pushed at his high cravat like it made his neck sweat. It was a thick linen. Perhaps it did.
“I’m excited for Charlotte. I love those little girls, but a rebellion could endanger her, the children, all of us.”
“What?”
He paced now, back and forth. “They’re sending missionaries like Wray, and now this Reverend Smith is spreading talk about freedom of the spirit. That’s nothing but abolition.”
“Abolition is needed. It should be done.”
“The planters here in Demerara, of which you are one, don’t want this. There will be insurrection. The damages from the civil unrest will be staggering.”
“Abolition must happen. The fear of freedom being stolen must end.”
“Dolly, you own more slaves than anyone. You’ve passed the numbers I ever kept at the Hermitage years ago. Do you know how much you’ve paid? How much money you will lose?”
“If I don’t own them, someone cruel will. The hunger for black flesh is too great here.” I shot him a wink. “You should know.”
He went pink in his cheeks. Though we enjoyed each other’s company again, the man never knew how to walk away from an argument. “Dolly, you’re a slave owner, but you’ve been listening to the missionary’s drivel? Has William King been sending you Wilberforce’s pamphlets?”
Yes, he had. He and Elizabeth quietly supported the cause. Those two knew right from wrong. They were a quiet force for good.
“Cells, I do all the things Lord Bathurst, the secretary of war and the colonies, wants. I adhere to his fancy Amelioration Laws—I allow my enslaved to go to church on Sundays. I’ve always given them off on Saturdays and Wednesday nights. I pay wages and give them plenty of clothing and shelter. No families are separated, they get big provision grounds. And, never, ever, ever have I allowed flogging. Stocks for a thief once, but that was as much as I could tolerate.”
“Yes, you run your plantation and businesses with fairness.”
I squinted at him. “All that makes me is a good slaver. None of that replaces freedom. Abolition should happen.”
He pulled his hands together around his hat, a boxed beaver pelt dyed black. “Dolly, the planters are too strong. They control the council and the militias. People will die. If tensions are allowed to fester, the people you’ve been good to will die.”
“Everyone needs to be brave. I’ve been called to be strong all my life. Others should be too. You see how Coxall’s brothers cheated Lizzy’s children, their freeborn children? No one of color is safe if slavery still exists.”
“Dolly, I won’t be able to protect you. There’s talk about you and Miss Ritchie, all the women of the Entertainment Society. People fear the power you have with your money. They are pushing me to make you aware.” He shrugged. “They actually think I might have some influence, but only because they don’t know you as I do.”
Every man in that council had dined at my table. Now they were pulling on Cells’s coattails to quiet me. That was an awful position for him to be in when he had divided loyalties.
Mine were clear. I’d push for as much change as I could as long as there was strength in my hand.
I put my fingers against his lapels. Part of me wanted to curl my palms about the dark revers and not let go.
But I had to let go. I’d choose for him.
“I’m no better than the others, the good planter folk, except my story, my life, is written in my skin. The world has to change. I’ll send a collection to Pastor Smith.” I bit my lip. “Holy Father, forgive me sending tithes to Anglicans.”
“That only stokes rebellion. Why don’t we go away? We can take all the grands like you did before.”
“How do we protect my grands from your daughter Louisa? Her children will say they should have Kensington Plantation?”
“They’d never do that.”
“It’s money, Cells. If whites can cheat mix-raced heirs out of their inheritance, they’ll find a way to do it to mine. Look what the Coxalls did. I’m paying for each of my grand’s education. Until the world changes, the white side will squeeze mine.”
My dreams weren’t done. No sitting on porches waiting to become ghosts. That was the problem now. Loving while you’re old meant sooner or later one of us would get sick and put on a death mask. I didn’t want that. Couldn’t stand to have any more in my head.
“Cells, I’m going away. You’ll have to argue with me about this in a few months.”
“You’re leaving and you didn’t say anything?”
“Little Emma, Crissy’s daughter, is ready for Kensington House. Then I’ll head to Glasgow.”
His face reddened. “You’re going after Crissy? The daughter who keeps dishonoring you. She frittered away every cent you’ve ever given her.”
“Yes, I’m going to Crissy in Scotland. I have to see if she’s being treated well. I may not approve of what she’s done, but I can still see about her.”
“You just overcame a fever. Dolly, might I remind you that bulam killed two sons and your sister. You’re not invincible.”
“I have to go. If you still want to argue, you’ll have to wait until I return.”
He backed away from my sofa. “This Ma
jor Gordon is almost husband number three.”
“You’re adorable when you are mad, but don’t go getting that heart racing too fast.”
“Then I should come with you. We could marry in Scotland.”
“No. This trip is for Emma and Crissy. Harry will come with me. He’s all the protector I need.”
“I’m just to dither waiting for you? I feel like a kept man without much keeping. You trot me out for special occasions. Here’s John C. Cells who’s Dorothy Thomas’s dinner guest, her dance partner upon occasion.”
“I don’t invite you to everything. Charlotte does. Coseveldt, you need a woman who’ll make you her priority, one with fewer hats. My children are my priority. All I want is a friend who shows up, shares a little supper, and surprises me.”
He took off his lenses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “I thought every woman wanted to be cherished.”
“They do until they can’t stomach the terms of the contract. I’ve learned to cherish me.”
His smirk returned. “Then I want to be cherished. Let me be one of yours. I want some of that famous Dolly Thomas attention. Chase me about.”
Now I released a laugh. “At least you finally have owned what you want.”
“What are you talking about, Dolly?”
“You want me to chase you like I did all those years ago. I won’t follow you around, pine for you, or put your needs first.”
“Is that wrong when two people love each other? To want to be together, to grow old, well, older together. Maybe I want to leave my hat next to yours, just once in that fancy closet with the tissue paper and shelves.”
I drew him close and kissed him, long and with all the passion I could muster.
“And I want to remember us young and wild, not waiting for the other to get sick and die.”
My hand trailed his cheek, my fingers tracing his frowning lines, the mustache that was trimmed and silky silver. “I saw your face when I was sick. I don’t want that image of us to be the one that’s left.”
“You remember the good about us? I can’t tell sometimes.”
“Always, Cells.”
“Woman, I know you love me. I know you’d rather spit than say it. I need you to bend just a little.”
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