Tides of Fortune

by Julia Brannan

  “Nothing, madame,” Eulalie replied hastily. “Only…”

  “Yes? If I am doing something wrong, Eulalie, you must tell me,” she said gently. “I am new to Martinique, and must learn to behave as others do. I’m sure I’ll be asking a lot of questions over the next few weeks.”

  “It’s only that it’s not normal for white people to wash and dress themselves. I was expecting to wash you and brush your hair, so I was just a little surprised, madame.”

  “Ah!” Beth said. “But I am perfectly capable, and I’m sure you have a lot of other things to do, especially as looking after me is an extra chore for you right now.” She smiled at Eulalie, who smiled back warmly.

  “It’s no trouble, madame,” she said, moving behind Beth and untangling the ribbons of her stays. “In this country the masters and mistresses don’t do anything for themselves. That’s what we’re here for, to do everything so they can be comfortable.”

  “Everything?” Beth said. “No, I only want one petticoat.”

  “Everything,” Eulalie confirmed. “Are you sure, madame? Madame Antoinette always wears three.”

  Three? No wonder she’s always ill! thought Beth.

  “Well, if you don’t tell anyone, no one will know,” Beth replied, grinning. She looked at Eulalie’s costume, a short-sleeved cotton dress and apron. “It’s far too hot for three petticoats. In fact if I could, I would rather wear what you are wearing. It’s much more practical. Do you think I could have some dresses made up for me?”

  “Oh no, madame! You would be the scandal of the island!”

  Damn.

  Madame Delisle made her first appearance at dinner, which was served at two o’clock at the dining table Beth had seen the previous evening.

  The first sight of Antoinette Delisle was something of a shock to Beth. Although her husband was a little stout, Madame Delisle, although extremely pretty, with eyes as blue as Beth’s own and light brown hair worn in an elaborate style and heavily powdered, was very overweight. In fact she was the fattest person Beth had ever seen, her numerous chins marring the beauty of her features. Her arms were bare from the elbow and covered in gold bracelets which drew attention to, rather than disguising the rolls of fat at her wrists, and her enormous breasts bulged over the fashionably low-cut bodice of her gown, threatening to spill out at any moment.

  Beth greeted her hostess, who apologised for not having been well enough to come down the day before, then sat down at the table, a servant moving forward to push the chair under her. She eyed the bowl of bright orange soup set before her with some interest.

  “It’s sweet potato,” Pierre supplied, noticing her expression. “It is very delicious. I think you will not have tasted it before. I hope you like it, because we eat a lot of it here, in its various forms. It is very versatile.”

  It was strange, with a slightly sweet, though thankfully not sugary flavour, but it was very pleasant.

  “I have found a slave for you who I think will do nicely,” Pierre said. “Her name is Rosalie, and she is very clever and quick to learn. She has been begging me for the opportunity to work in the house for some time, so is very grateful. You can meet her later or perhaps tomorrow. Of course if she displeases you, you must tell me immediately and I will set her back to work in the fields.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Beth said. “Eulalie is very helpful.”

  “You must be firm with her,” Antoinette said between mouthfuls of soup. “You must always be firm with these people, or they take appalling advantage. You are not used to dealing with negroes and they will sense this. You must start as you mean to go on.”

  “Aren’t negroes just like other people?” Beth asked, a little put out.

  “Not at all. They are savages, with no morals,” she cast a vitriolic glance at her husband, who coloured, “or capacity for reason. The only reason they know is the whip. If you treat them kindly they will murder you in your bed as you sleep.”

  “That’s what they said about my mother,” Beth said without thinking, then cursed inwardly.

  “Your mother was a negro?” Antoinette asked, eyeing her with profound distaste.

  “No,” Beth replied, already taking a dislike to this woman whose companion she was to be. This was not a good start. “My mother was from the Highlands of Scotland. The English think of them much as you think of negroes.”

  “Now, my dear,” Pierre jumped in hastily, “you must not alarm our guest, or she will want to leave before she has even settled in! It is true that things are a little different here. I am sure your mother’s people are delightful and civilised, but the negro is of a different stamp altogether. They lack intelligence and are incapable of thinking for themselves. They need a firm but kind master. Indeed, that is what they appreciate. And in fact they do very well here – much better than on the British islands, in fact! King Louis, in his divine wisdom, issued a code for the treatment of negroes.

  “You will be happy to know that all of them, on arrival in Martinique, are baptised into the faith of Rome and are given religious instruction in Christian ways. It is forbidden for them to work on Sundays, and in fact most of the plantation owners also allow them Saturdays too except at harvest time, when everyone must work as needed. This is not the case on Antigua, for instance, where many negroes are allowed to persist in their heathen, Satanic practices, and where they may be obliged to toil even on the Sabbath! Really, you will discover for yourself that we are all one happy family here!” He beamed at Beth, and smiled tentatively at his wife.

  “Some are treated more like family than the family,” his wife shot back. The tentative smile disappeared.

  “I find your blinds most interesting,” Beth said a little desperately. “I have never seen the like before. It took me some time to find out how to raise them this morning.”

  “Ah! They are Persian blinds!” Pierre responded eagerly, much in the way a starving dog might leap on a bone. “They are most ingenious, are they not? When they are lowered you can use the cord to turn the slats from a vertical to horizontal position, which helps to keep out the heat of the sun whilst letting in enough light for one to read or do other tasks.”

  The second course, of a fish Beth had never seen before arrived, and she turned her attention to that.

  This was not going to be easy.

  “He’s got two bastards by that negro whore Celie,” Antoinette said bluntly later when they had moved from the dining room to the porch, where they were ensconced on bamboo sofas, and supported by several cushions which two slaves had carefully positioned behind Antoinette while Beth had deftly arranged her own. Pierre had escaped with great relief back to his office immediately the dessert plates had been removed, without Beth having had a chance to ask if she could accompany him to the fields the next day. “He thought he could keep it from me, but I’m not stupid. The second brat was born while I was in Paris. When I told him I knew, he had the cheek to suggest that they be brought up in the house!”

  “I understand how distressing that must be for you, especially now, after your sad loss,” Beth said.

  Antoinette looked uncomprehending for a second.

  “Ah, yes, of course. We have been very unfortunate. That is just one of the many reasons why I despise this country. I have told him, if he gets me with child again I’m not having it here. Really, the heat is appalling normally, but when you’re as big as a house as well…and then for it all to come to nothing when the baby is swept away by some awful miasma. So I told him, if you think you’re going to bring up a mulatto bastard to be your heir when you’re gone, you can rethink, and that quickly. We’ll try again, and as soon as I catch, I’ll go to Paris and stay there till the child is old enough to hopefully withstand this damnable place. And then he can have as many bastards as he wants, as long as he leaves me alone and doesn’t flaunt them in front of me.”

  Beth had no idea how to respond to this diatribe, so she sat quietly for a moment. Far from being grief-stricken by the
death of her children, Antoinette seemed to consider it merely a nuisance because she was expected to provide more.

  “I was hoping to ask Monsieur Delisle if I could ride out with him one day, to learn about the production of sugar, if you do not object,” she said finally.

  “I don’t object, but why ever would you want to do that?” Antoinette asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “I thought it would be interesting. I really know nothing about sugar, apart from what it tastes like,” Beth said. “I like to learn about new things.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to regale you with all the tedious details. As long as you don’t expect me to come with you.”

  “I thought perhaps this afternoon we could take a walk round the gardens?” Beth suggested. “There are so many flowers and trees that I have never seen before. I should like to—”

  “Damn. Eulalie!” Antoinette shouted suddenly, making Beth jump. “I thought we could sit here for the rest of the day, get to know one another better,” she said. “It’s really too hot to walk, and if you want to see the flowers I can get one of the negroes to cut some for you and bring them in.”

  Eulalie rushed out from the house, curtseying and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Yes, madame?” she said.

  “I have dropped my handkerchief,” Antoinette said, pointing to the side of the couch. On the floor, a few inches from her pointing finger, was a scrap of cotton and lace. Eulalie bent down and retrieved it, placing it in her mistress’s outstretched hand while Beth looked on, aghast.

  This was not going to be easy at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Scotland, late May 1747

  Frozen with shock, Angus, along with the rest of the MacGregors watched Alex walk purposefully across the saucer-shaped depression, Richard’s blood still dripping from his gore-soaked hand. It wasn’t until his brother had disappeared over the edge and was heading down the slope that Angus realised he’d meant what he’d said on emerging from the cave.

  “Mallaichte bas,” he swore under his breath, before racing to the edge of the depression and looking over it. Alex was striding downhill, careless of the low-growing gorse scratching his legs or the danger of stepping into rabbit holes.

  “Alex!” Angus bellowed at the top of his voice. “Stop!”

  Although half the clan flinched at the combined volume and desperation of Angus’s call, Alex appeared not to hear and continued on his way. Angus hesitated for a moment, then coming to a decision, went after him. As one, the rest of the clan took up a position where they could see what was about to ensue.

  Angus caught up with Alex when he was about a quarter of the way down the slope, grabbing his arm to bring him to a halt.

  “Alex,” he said breathlessly, “Ye canna just go off like that!”

  Alex looked at his brother as if seeing him for the first time in his life.

  “Did ye no’ hear what I said?” he asked. “Beth’s alive.”

  “Richard tellt ye that, did he?”

  “Aye.” He looked down at the hand that still clutched his shirt. Angus let him go, and he immediately continued on his way.

  “He’s lying to ye, man! Surely ye ken that? Beth’s dead. Maggie saw her shot! It’s a trap,” Angus said, following behind.

  “No,” Alex replied. “He knew she’d been shot, in the head, here.” He tapped his left temple.

  “So do we, but that doesna mean she’s alive!” He sped up a little, grasping Alex’s arm and bringing him to a halt again. “Maybe someone tellt him. He is her brother, after all!”

  “Was,” Alex said.

  “What?”

  “Was. He’s dead. Ye need to take him back to the hut and make sure he can be found. I want the Maynard lassie to know she’s a widow.”

  He started to pull away, but this time, instead of releasing him Angus tightened his grip.

  “Alex, ye’re no’ thinking right. Ye canna just go off to England or wherever, like that. That bastard knew ye loved her, and he’d do anything to hurt ye, even if he wouldna live to see it.”

  Alex turned to face Angus and looked at him properly now, his eyes dark with pain and the remains of his rage against Richard, his mouth hard with determination.

  “Angus, I made her a promise. I tellt her I’d come for her. I have to keep it. You can lead the clan while I’m gone. Now let me go. That’s an order from your chieftain.”

  Any other human being, on hearing Alex’s tone as he uttered that last sentence, would have obeyed him. When Angus didn’t, Alex wrenched his arm free and turned away, intending to carry on down to the lochside.

  He managed maybe five paces before Angus ran after him, wrapping his arms round him from behind and dragging them both to the ground, Angus landing on top of his brother, who was face down in the heather.

  “And as your brother,” Angus said desperately, “I canna let you go. They’ll kill ye. I canna let that happen.”

  Alex’s temper exploded immediately and with a strength born of blind rage he succeeded in heaving his brother off his back, and then seeing Angus immediately reaching for him again, hit him full in the face as hard as he could to stop him.

  Angus fell backwards for a moment, the force of the blow causing him to see stars, then he threw himself forward again, gripping Alex’s legs as he tried to stand and bringing him down in the heather and gorse once more, then punching any part of his body he could reach, desperate to incapacitate Alex enough to stop him dashing off to certain arrest and execution.

  Their last serious fight had been over two years before, and Angus had matured considerably since then, both physically and in experience. Both brothers were emotional and determined, and as a result were evenly matched, and what had started as a difference of opinion soon degenerated into a no-holds-barred brawl.

  “Christ,” Graeme said after a few minutes of watching the vicious fight taking place on the hillside below. “Are you just going to let them carry on until one of them kills the other?”

  “No, they dinna intend to kill each other. If that was their intention, they’d hae drawn their dirks by now,” Alasdair pointed out matter-of-factly.

  Graeme watched as Angus managed to struggle to his feet briefly, his face a mask of red; he aimed a vicious kick at the supine Alex which contacted with enough force to make the chieftain’s whole body jerk in pain. Then Alex caught Angus’s foot as he took aim again and twisted it hard enough to have broken his ankle had he not gone with the blow and fallen. A series of grunts drifted up the hill as more blows connected and were returned.

  “If they carry on like that, one of them’s going to get killed, dirk or no,” Graeme observed. “I know Alex is your chieftain and all that, but I don’t think he’ll thank you if you let him kill his brother while he’s not thinking right.”

  Kenneth sighed.

  “Christ, Duncan, I miss ye, laddie,” he said under his breath, and then indicating to Dougal and Alasdair to follow him he strode down the hill towards the warring brothers, stopping a few yards away from them for a moment to assess the damage. Then he waded in, and grabbing hold of the nearest combatant, which happened to be Angus, he lifted him off his brother and in an impressive feat of strength threw him several yards down the hill, where he landed in an undignified and somewhat startled heap.

  “Hold him,” Kenneth said brusquely to Dougal and Alasdair, who, not without trepidation each gripped an arm of their bruised and bloody chieftain as he tried to go after Angus, pulling him back down to the ground, while Kenneth walked down to where Angus was just regaining his feet and grabbed him from behind, pinioning his arms.

  Angus struggled in his grip, his chest heaving with emotion, sobbing the same incoherent sentence over and over through swollen, bloody lips;

  “Icannaloseyoutoo, Icannaloseyoutoo, Icannaloseyoutoo.”

  It took a few moments for Kenneth to understand what he was saying, but when he did he closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed, then sank down in the
heather, pulling his distraught captive with him.

  “Isd,” he said softly, “We’ll no’ let that happen. Stop now, stop, for God’s sake, laddie.” He sat, maintaining his iron grip on the young clansman until he felt the resistance drain away and finally Angus relaxed back into him, his chest still heaving, but now with the effort of holding back the tears. Kenneth relaxed his grip enough for it now to be more of an embrace than restraint, but was ready to tighten it again if he had to.

  “Let it out, laddie, there’s no shame in it,” he said gently, and with that Angus gave up the fight, both with his brother and his emotions, and started to cry in earnest, with great racking sobs. Kenneth turned his body, and Angus buried his head in the big man’s chest and wailed like an infant, finally releasing the grief for the death of his brother and sister-in-law that he’d held in for so long.

  In the meantime Graeme had made his way down to where Alasdair and Dougal were struggling to maintain their grip on their enraged chieftain, not least because he was commanding them to release him and their inbred instinct was to obey the order.

  Graeme had no such instinct. Pulling his pistol out of his belt and cocking it, he pointed it at Alex’s head and said, his voice hard and cold, “Calm yourself, man. It’s over. Look at him, for God’s sake. He’s grieving and not thinking clearly. Neither of you are.”

  Alex froze, his survival instinct telling him that while Graeme would not kill him, he would have no compunction about shooting to disable if he absolutely had to. He looked past the elderly Englishman and down the hill to where Angus was cradled in Kenneth’s arms, and his rage drained away as quickly as it had risen.

  “Dear God,” he said quietly, then he looked at Dougal and Alasdair. “Ye can let me go now. I’m all right. I canna go and leave him like that.”

  Graeme lowered the pistol and the two clansmen let Alex go. He struggled to his feet and limped down the hill to the two figures huddled on the ground, then knelt down next to them.

  “Ye did well, Kenneth,” he said. “Let me take him now.”