by Lorri Dudley
He turned her to face him. “He’s a slave who disobeyed an order and needed to be punished.”
“What in heaven’s name could he have done to deserve that sort of punishment?”
Mr. Rousseau’s face colored a deeper shade of red. “He refused to work.”
“His mother died. Do you not allow them a day to mourn for the dead?”
“If I allowed them a day, they’d want a week.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you beat him, nearly sending him to the grave after his mother. What good would he be to you dead?” Her voice shook with anger. “You’re a monster. A monster who preys on the weak so you can feel strong.”
Rousseau threw her against the interior wall so hard, tiny sparks of light danced in her periphery. He shifted his rifle and held it across her chest like an iron bar, pinning her there against the rough straw and mud wall.
His eyes held a lethal glare. “You are trespassing on my property.”
She stared at the cruel line of his lips as he spit the words in her face. His upper lip curled, and his lower jaw jutted forward like a snarling bulldog, revealing a set of crooked bottom teeth. She struggled for breath and fought to push the gun away with her hands. But she was too weak to budge him.
“You will leave immediately and not repeat what you’ve seen here, or I’ll destroy your reputation and that of your father. You may have social status in England, but on this island, you are nothing unless I say you are something. I’m the ruling class here.”
God, help me save Booker.
Georgia forced herself to stand firm against the hatred in his eyes and ignore the putrid odor of his breath. She’d been naive to think she could manipulate Mr. Rousseau with her flirtations. He desired power and used intimidation to get it, but his threats against her reputation didn’t faze her. By Jove, she’d come back from a disastrous reputation before.
Peace filled her, and her mind focused. If she could get control of his gun, he’d lose his power.
Booker groaned. Rousseau’s gaze flicked in his direction.
Georgia acted swiftly. She kneed Rousseau in the groin, and the man howled in pain. His shoulders crumpled, and he pitched forward onto the ground. She yanked the gun out of his loosened grip and quickly spun the barrel around to aim it at his forehead. As she cocked the weapon, she mentally thanked God for her Papa, who’d taught her to shoot during his hunting trips.
Mr. Rousseau scrambled backward on his hands and feet like a crab until he stumbled and landed on his backside.
The slave who’d been following Mr. Rousseau stuck his head in the doorway.
Georgia nodded at the wide-eyed footman. “Get the child and the basket and load them in the wagon.”
When he continued to stand there, stunned, she shifted the gun to hover between the slave and Rousseau. The man scrambled into the hut and scooped Booker into his arms.
“The wagon is by the road. Jenneigh will help you once you get there.”
“You can’t take them,” Rousseau barked. “They’re my property. That’s stealing.”
“I’ll send your slave back with the rifle, but Booker is staying with me. My father will bring your actions before the town.” She sidestepped her way around him, never lowering the weapon, and backed out the door.
“Lennox can go ahead and try,” he yelled to her retreating form, “but I own this town. You’ll see.”
One of them would see, that was for certain. She kept walking backward, pointing the gun in Rousseau’s direction. When she was halfway to the wagon, she turned and sprinted the final distance.
“Good Lord, Miss Georgia.” Jenneigh climbed in next to Booker in the bed of the wagon and tucked a horse blanket around him.
Mr. Rousseau’s footman stood off to the side. Georgia raised the gun again toward him and commanded him to move away. When he was far enough back that she could get a good lead with the horses, she climbed up with one hand into the front seat of the wagon.
“Stay where you are,” Georgia yelled to the footman.
With a quick snap of the reins, the horses burst into motion. When they’d gone about ten yards, Georgia half rose from her seat and hurled the gun deep into the tall sugar cane.
The bumping of the wagon caused Booker to moan, but Georgia didn’t dare slow the horses until they neared her father’s farm.
“Miss Georgia.” Jenneigh leaned forward closer to Georiga’s ear. “I’m not sure what you’ve gone and done, but I thank you for it. May God bless your soul.”
“Jenneigh, I need you to start praying real hard, because I’ve gotten Papa and Mr. Wells in a mess of trouble.”
Chapter 23
…I am not without hope, for I believe our encounter to be God-ordained. I daresay, I flatter myself that you would return the sincerity of my affection for you, or the honesty of my intentions.
—From Mr. Clark, local vicar in Nevis, to Lady Pickering
Harrison, Fredrick, and Max rested on the back porch of Fredrick’s bungalow, enjoying the tropical breeze and a sweet lemonade after inspecting the fields. The thunder of beating hooves and the rumble of a fast-moving wagon sounded in the distance, drawing closer with each second.
“Someone’s in a hurry.” Harrison rose and strolled to the side of the house to catch a view of the traveler. His pulse jumped as the vehicle came into sight. “It’s your wagon, Fredrick.”
“Who’s—?” Fredrick started to rise.
“Looks like two women driving, and at a breakneck speed.” Then one of the figures came into clearer view, and his breath caught. “Georgia’s driving. What is she doing?”
Fredrick looked on with his brow furrowed. “I have no idea.”
Harrison rounded the front of the house as Georgia jerked the horses to a stop. At the sight of sheer panic on her face, icy fingers of dread wrapped around his chest and squeezed. He raced down the stairs. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Booker.” She scrambled down from her perch before he could aid her. “Please, help me get him out of the wagon. He’s been badly beaten.”
Harrison strode to the wagon and peeked over the side. He cringed. The child could barely see through swollen eyes, and his thin arms and legs held gashes and bruises everywhere. Harrison reached into the wagon and gently scooped the boy into his arms.
“Hurry.” Georgia led the way up the stairs.
Harrison followed, with Jenneigh, Fredrick, and Max behind him. Booker’s face was twisted in pain, but he was responsive and breathing. “We’ve got you, son,” he said. “Everything is going to be all right. We’re going to fix you up good as new.”
Georgia held the front door open, and Harrison swept past her, but not before he registered the fear etched in her furrowed brow, the worry in her eyes.
She pointed the way. “You can lay him on the sofa in the salon.”
Lady Pickering set her embroidery aside and rose when they walked in. “What happened?”
He placed Booker on the cushioned surface, and even though it was soft, the boy still grimaced.
Max peeked his head in between Lady Pickering and Fredrick. “Gosh, he looks awful.”
Harrison pointed to the hall, hoping to protect his son’s innocence from the horrific injustice done to his fellow classmate. “Go to the kitchen and ask Hattie to send someone to fetch the physician, then have her bring water and blankets for Booker.”
Max nodded and scurried out the door.
* * *
“He’s been badly beaten.” Georgia glanced at Harrison. He wanted to shield her from the scene, too, take her into his arms and reassure her Booker would be all right. But the boy’s wellbeing took precedence at the moment.
Georgia wrapped her arms around her midsection, and Harrison’s eyes narrowed on the reddish-purple blotches on her skin. Those marks were not from sunburn.
Lady Pickering grabbed a pillow and blanket and began to mother the boy as Fredrick spoke to him in low tones.
Harrison gently pressed a hand on G
eorgia’s lower back and guided her into the library. He motioned for her to sit.
“I don’t think I can right now.” She paced the perimeter, plucking at the sides of her gown with her fingers.
“Tell me what happened.”
Georgia turned to face him. Her eyes were hollow caverns echoing her fear. She bit her bottom lip and hesitated.
“You need to tell me so I can help.”
She nodded and inhaled a breath that made her chest rise. “Jenneigh and I went to Rousseau’s plantation to deliver the food to Booker.”
Fear slammed inside him. “You went where?” Harrison regretted his outburst when she raised her chin and refused to go on. He had to contain his temper and coax her once again into speaking.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only time he had to fight for control. When she told him how Rousseau pinned her with his gun, his temper threatened to explode like a packed cannon with a lit fuse. His fingers clenched into balled fists, which he hid behind his back so Georgia wouldn’t notice. He also carefully veiled his shock as she explained how she turned the gun back on Rousseau.
Harrison’s fingers itched to either wallop the chit with a good spanking or applaud her for turning the situation around on a villain. Feelings he’d suppressed flared to life once again, stirring deep inside him as Georgia stood like an avenging angel, eyes flashing and golden strands of hair framing her face. Her pale-yellow gown only enhanced her ethereal appearance.
As she finished her retelling, she released a long gush of air and sank into a nearby chair. Harrison fought to control the clamor of emotions buzzing like hornets in his chest. Her gaze held his, and the avenging angel melted into a frightened girl. Tears welled in her eyes, and her hands shook with tremors. Even her teeth rattled.
Shock. Georgia, who’d so far remained calm under duress, now crumbled from the strain of the trauma she’d faced. Who could blame her after all she’d experienced? Harrison knelt beside her chair and pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, turning her face into his chest and sobbing into his shirt.
He stroked her back, inhaling the blended perfume of the island breeze and English garden that permeated her hair. “You’re my brave girl. It’s going to be all right.”
He wanted to protect her, avenge her, and wrap her in his arms, all at the same time. The fierceness of his feelings pulled the strength from his limbs, and he leaned against the side of a winged-back chair for support. Thank you, God, for protecting her.
He held Georgia until her tears stopped and all that remained was the occasional hiccupped sob. Then he drew back and cupped her face in his hands. Though red and puffy, her eyes shown a vibrant turquoise like the Caribbean Sea. He wiped the tracks of her tears away with his thumbs and admired the new sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose. He treasured those freckles. In a way, they were like the markings of a rite of passage. Georgia had changed, inside and out. Her sacrifices had proved it. Her love extended far beyond the superficial.
“I wish you wouldn’t have put your life in danger, but you did a good thing. You probably saved Booker’s life.”
Her eyes teared up once again, and he continued. “Now, I need you to be brave again. Can you do that?”
He waited for her to nod. He wasn’t merely saying it. He needed her to be strong. There was no telling how the island would take the news. Rousseau wasn’t well liked, and what he’d done to Booker was morally wrong, but he had the law on his side. She’d stolen his property, and at gunpoint to boot. Harrison had some convincing to do and egos to smooth over with the magistrates in the assembly.
Fortunately, some officials were on his side. This wasn’t the first time Rousseau had been caught being excessively cruel to slaves.
“I have to settle some things in town. Rousseau, I’m sure, is already there pulling caps with the magistrate and getting the plantation owners all stirred up.”
“I should go and explain what happened.”
“No.” His voice came out firmer than he’d intended, and he hated the way she flinched in response. He softened his tone and slid his hands to her shoulders. “Things could get out of hand. I don’t want you in any more danger. There are some adamant opinions on slavery here. Tempers are going to fly.”
“But it’s going to be your word against his. I could bring Jenneigh to collaborate my story.”
He shook his head. “You know they won’t recognize a woman’s testimony, and definitely not a black woman’s.”
Her shoulders sagged like a deflating balloon.
“Don’t fret. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Booker. We’ll cast our cares on God. It’s in His hands, so you are not to worry for even one second, you understand?” His thumbs stroked the creases from her forehead, and he forced a half smile. “They don’t stand a chance. If God is for us, who can be against us?”
Chapter 24
…I meant no disrespect, Your Majesty. My son and I will sail with the next ship to leave Nevis.
—From the Duke of Linton to Prince Regent, George IV
By the time Harrison pulled up to the town square, Edward Rousseau had already gathered Milton Gimbsy, the magistrate, and a handful of plantation owners. Some rested on the low branches in the shade of the banyan tree. Some stood, and others paced back and forth.
Harrison bowed his head and sent up a prayer for wisdom, peace, and understanding. With an amen and new-found strength, he sucked in a breath and climbed down from the wagon. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“It’s because of him.” Rousseau stabbed a finger in his direction. “He’s the one putting ideas in the woman’s head.”
Mr. Gimbsy stood. His tanned skin stood out in stark contrast against his sun-bleached hair and white shirt. “Wait a minute. Let’s all calm down.” He focused on Rousseau with those words. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Rousseau glowered at the man, but perched on a low-set branch of the banyan.
Mr. Gimbsy addressed Harrison. “Mr. Wells, I’m assuming you’re aware of the recent event involving Miss Lennox.”
“I am, your honor. I’ve come straight from the Lennox residence, where a boy lays on the brink of death’s door.”
“That’s my slave.” Rousseau jumped to his feet. “She stole him from my property, at gunpoint, no less.”
Anger flared in Harrison’s chest. He crossed his arms to push it down and mentally prayed for strength. “Did Mr. Rousseau happen to mention that the gun was his weapon, wrenched from his hands in self-defense?”
The sounds of gasps and grumbles reached him, but he didn’t take his eyes off Rousseau, whose face turned a vibrant red.
“I was hunting and found her trespassing on my property.”
“She was delivering a basket of food to the boy, whose mother recently passed away.”
“That’s what she told you.” Little globs of spit flew from Rousseau’s mouth as he spoke. “It’s a woman’s word against mine.”
“Trespassing is an offense,” a plantation owner shouted.
Harrison turned to the man and kept his expression neutral. “I see. Shall I tell Hattie not to deliver her famous bread pudding to your wife any longer? We wouldn’t want her trespassing.”
The man squirmed.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Mr. Gimbsy said.
Rousseau stomped the heel of his boot into the grass. “My property was stolen. I want it back, and I want Miss Lennox punished for her misdeed.”
“You punished Miss Lennox enough when you threatened her and pinned her against the wall with your rifle.” Harrison wanted to plant his fist into the man’s self-righteous face. God, help me do Your will, not mine.
“Lies. It’s all lies from that woman’s mouth.” Rousseau’s eyes took on a crazed look. “I’m the one who’s been wronged.”
“Only a weak man hurts a woman, and I witnessed the red marks on her arms from your hands. You attacked a woman who was performing a good deed.”
“If I laid a hand on
her, it was to stop her from stealing my property.”
“Doesn’t the Bible tell us to look after the orphans and widows? Miss Lennox was defending the weak.” Harrison peered into the faces of the people he’d often sat beside in the same church pew. “Booker recently became orphaned, and it is our godly duty to defend him. The boy was severely beaten, and the blame lies at Rousseau’s door.”
“There’s no proof it was I who beat the child.”
“Mr. Wells, we must be tolerant until the full truth is disclosed.” The magistrate stepped in. “Though I disapprove of this behavior, Rousseau is a man of much clout. He’s beholden to the East India Trade Company, and they have the ear of the king. England wants sugar in their tea, and Mr. Rousseau provides it.”
Never before had Harrison been so tempted to give up his identity. All of this would change if they knew he, too, had the ear of the king, and in a much higher position than Edward Rousseau. “Mr. Gimbsy, how can we stand by and allow Rousseau to practice cruelty, mayhap even murder, to our fellow mankind. Merely because England wants three lumps of sugar instead of two?” His gaze swept the gathered crowd. “I daresay, tolerance is a crime when we don’t defend those who can’t defend themselves.”
Murmured grumbles and faint cheers sounded amongst the men.
“I don’t like it myself.” The magistrate rubbed the stubble on his chin with one hand. “But the boy is Rousseau’s property. He must be returned.”
Rousseau’s eyes narrowed on Harrison, and a smug smile spread across his face.
“Rousseau,” the magistrate said, “this is your second offense. You won’t be getting a third. Next slave you beat with excessive cruelty will land you in the Nevis jail.”
His smile fell.
Mr. Gimbsy turned to Harrison. “Have the boy returned tomorrow.”
Harrison locked a lethal gaze on Rousseau. “How much do you want for the boy?”
Rousseau crossed his arms over his chest. “You couldn’t pay what I’m asking.”
