A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  She stood, and placed her untouched glass on the desk. It was time to let him know she was not easily caught. “I beg, sir, you’ll remember that I am here to educate your daughter, which I shall do to the best of my ability—nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Ma’am.” He straightened, placing his glass next to hers. “You are absolutely correct. And you, by the way, were also absolutely proper in reprimanding Celia for her treatment of Nerissa. Our house slaves are valuable investments and should be treated as such. Tonight I’m to dine in rough male company—I regret it is so; but tomorrow I expect you to dine with Celia and me. ”

  “I look forward to it, sir. Thank you.”

  He bowed. “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “First time on the island, eh, Pendale?” More claret sloshed into Allen’s glass.

  He nodded and tried to remember the name of the man who addressed him.

  “You should’ve been here six months ago.”

  “Indeed?”

  “We had a burning.”

  “A burning?”

  “A couple of escaped slaves. Splendid sport, hunting them down.”

  “Ran for days,” another man, whose bulbous red nose betrayed his interest in drink, interjected. “Blight took the dogs to track them. Lord, you should have heard ’em squeal.”

  “And then we burned them.”

  “Took hours. Ever seen a man burn, Pendale?”

  “A moment,” Allen said. “You’re telling me they were burned alive as punishment?”

  “Works,” one of them said. “That’s why they don’t run too often.”

  “Although”—the other leaned toward Allen—“they’re a sullen lot, now, Lemarchand’s slaves, and none too happy that Blight’s returned.”

  They both nodded drunkenly.

  “Mark my words, March’ll have trouble before long. And if it spreads to our estates, we’ll all have trouble.”

  The other man, with the poor attention span of the extremely drunk, stared into his glass and sighed. “March has some remarkably pretty girls. Light-skinned, you know. Almost look like white women. Think he’ll give us one for the night?”

  “One each.”

  “Two each,” the other man responded with a chuckle.

  The arrival of a large joint of mutton on the table halted the conversation, and the guest on Allen’s other side plucked his sleeve.

  “Since you’re new to the island, Pendale ….”

  Allen, having heard similar advice already, paid little attention as the man droned on. “Always wear a hat. Always use a mosquito net and avoid the night humors. Don’t let the Negroes get insolent. They respond only to beatings. They’re not people, Pendale. Animals, really. It’s our duty to protect them from their base natures…”

  Or discussions on the price of sugar, ginger and tobacco. Complaints about prices, about abolitionists in England pecking away at the sugar lords’ rights, causing seditious trouble with their pamphlets and petitions … spreading all sorts of sentimental rubbish about how the poor Africans were plucked from their hearths …

  “Indeed. Something you’d never see in England,” Allen said. His glass was empty again. A footman, bewigged and in elaborate livery—but with bare feet, which Allen really couldn’t get used to —stepped forward to pour more wine.

  “Of course not, sir. That is my point exactly. We are not savages. We are civilized men.” The man opposite him, whose name Allen couldn’t remember, belched.

  “Then I should inform you, sir, that the same does take place in England, in our port towns and cities. Men are captured against their will, plucked from their hearths.”

  A huge moth the size of Allen’s hand fluttered in through the open window, evading the two footmen who stood with palm leaves wafting the flying insects away. The moth blundered into a flame, falling onto the table with destroyed wings, but trying to rise again.

  “I suppose you talk of the Press gang,” Lemarchand—March, rather, he’d asked Allen to call him that—interjected. His smile was polite but, even as drunk as everyone was, Allen could tell his host was not pleased with the way the conversation was going.

  “I do, sir.”

  “It is a necessity in times of war.” Lemarchand shrugged. “Besides, the Press-gang provides employment for many, and the chance for prize money and advancement.”

  “Or, more likely, an untimely death, and makes widows and orphans of the men’s families. Sir, those are Englishmen who are seized, who supposedly enjoy the rights of Magna Carta.” There was a murmur of approval from the guests crowded around the table. “It is also their right, under that same institution, to petition against the trade.”

  “You’d have the Tricouleur fly in London?” someone demanded belligerently from further down the table.

  “No, sir, but some might argue that an ill such as the Press-gang exists, because the slave trade has corrupted our consciences.” Christ, that was a mouthful to enunciate after gallons of claret. He wasn’t even sure it made much sense.

  There was a short silence. The moth lay struggling in a pool of wax and spilled wine. Allen reached forward and crushed it with a balled-up napkin.

  “Damned moths,” someone said with a laugh, and the drinking resumed.

  Later, much later, Allen staggered up the stairs. God, he was drunk.

  And into his bedchamber, fumbling at buttons with clumsy fingers—boots off first, you fool—and then, oh, thank God, into bed. Lie flat. Don’t move. Room spinning. Puke? No, don’t have the energy. Sleep. That was it. Probably have the devil of a headache tomorrow. Today. Later.

  Someone giggled. A female giggle. Cool air swept over him.

  “Clarissa?”

  “No, sir, Nerissa.”

  “Rhymes,” he said with great satisfaction.

  He opened his eyes. The pretty maid—the one who had accompanied Miss Lemarchand—stood at his bedside with a palm leaf in her hand. “Master, ’im say I fan you.”

  “How thoughtful. Go away.” He closed his eyes.

  “Or anyt’in’ else you want, sah.”

  “Anything else, eh?” How very hospitable.

  “Yes, sah.”

  The palm leaf swept through the air and tickled his nose and chest. Some delightful possibilities here, but he really didn’t want to move, and besides he’d far rather have Clarissa to do anything he wanted, or that she wanted, too. The palm frond caressed his cock. He opened his eyes, blinked, and focused. His erection lay against his belly—nothing to do with him, really. Just there, with no sort of urgency, only a possibility of pleasure should he choose.

  Nerissa’s offer suddenly seemed a lot more interesting, as did the tickle of the palm frond.

  “Stop that, girl,” he said. He tried to cover himself with the sheet before realizing that he lay on it and moving was just too much effort. All too much effort. Far better to let Nerissa take over, replace the palm frond with her hand, and then kneel over him, musky and warm, her breasts brushing his chest and face. She tucked his cock inside her—his hands were too clumsy to be of much use, but they landed on her breasts, smooth and solid. Meanwhile, below, far, far away, she bounced and slid in a way that should have been enjoyable but seemed strangely detached.

  She panted, rolled her eyes, and gave a fine imitation of a woman in the throes of ecstasy. She did it quite well. It might have convinced him if drink hadn’t disengaged him from her efforts. He was reminded of the times he’d bounced up and down on top of merchants’ wives and bored aristocratic ladies, feigning passion, performing—one of the pleasures of Bristol: shopping, the waters, the play and Allen Pendale’s cock.

  “Get off me!” He hadn’t meant to shout and he certainly didn’t intend to shove her off him, off the bed, and onto the floor.

  She scrambled away from him, pulling her skirts down. She was afraid now, flinching as he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed.

  “I know you didn’t want to come here. That you were told to—”


  “De master, he say I should come to you. I sorry, sah.”

  “I’ll tell him you pleased me,” Allen said.

  She stood, curtsied, and cast a longing glance at the door.

  “You may go,” he said. “Look in my coat pocket. There’s a shilling there.”

  Nerissa cast a sidelong, suspicious glance at him and picked his coat from the floor. She shook it out, smoothed the fabric and laid it over a chair, before dipping her hand into the pocket. Her face lit up as she found the coin, and then she ran from the room, as though afraid he might demand the money back from her.

  CHAPTER 9

  “But of course you must stay another day, Pendale.” March smiled at Allen, who sat slumped and gloomy at the breakfast table. “Miss Onslowe, you must be my advocate here.”

  “Please do stay, Mr. Pendale,” Clarissa said. She licked pineapple juice from her fingers. What luxury, pineapple for breakfast—every day, if she wished it.

  “My father expects me, sir.”

  You liar, Allen. He seemed in a dreadful mood, toying with a cup of coffee and glowering at the table—probably he had drunk far too much last night.

  “I’m sure his lordship can spare you another day. I’d like to show you the estate, and I’m sure the ladies will be disappointed if you don’t eat dinner with us tonight.”

  “Well, then, I shall be honored to accept, sir.” This with a brief smile.

  “Mr. Pendale.” Clarissa touched his hand.

  He snatched it away as if she’d burned him with hot coals.

  “Mr. Pendale, I’m very glad you are to stay. Miss Celia shall have her first dancing lesson and we’ll have need of partners for her.”

  “You’ve plenty of possible partners for a dancing class loafing around here,” Allen said, indicating the half-dozen footmen waiting at the side of the room.

  “Certainly not. This is my daughter.” March sounded outraged.

  “Beg your pardon,” Allen murmured.

  Celia, up until now yawning and sleepy, spoke. “I do so long to dance. ’Im play de fiddle for us.” She nodded at one of the footmen.

  “Again, if you please,” Clarissa said.

  Celia giggled. “Joshua will play the fiddle for us.”

  Allen heaved a martyred sigh. “And what if I do not dance, miss?”

  “You do, Mr. Pendale.” Clarissa wiped her fingers on her napkin.

  “Or if I tread on your feet?”

  Celia giggled again, while her father looked on with an indulgent smile.

  “An’ de mantua maker, ’er come today,” Celia said.

  “Pendale, I suggest we take a ride,” March said. “We certainly don’t want to interfere with women’s business.”

  The two men left shortly after.

  Clarissa gave a longing glance out of the window at the dazzling blue sky and then followed Celia to the drawing room, where the mantua maker, surrounded by lengths of expensive fabrics, waited for them.

  Allen had heard his father talk of his own sugar estate, but was amazed at the crowds of slaves who toiled in the square patches of cane under the blazing sun. Men slashed at the cane with murderous-looking machetes, while women and children carried the cut lengths away. As the long line moved forward, the slaves hummed, low and mournful. There were not many children and, he suspected, although he could not tell their ages, that most of the women were not old. He had heard complaints the previous night of how the slaves did not breed as their owners expected.

  Blight, astride a mule, raised his hat to them. A whip was coiled over the pommel of his saddle. Two hulking, heavily muscled Negroes, also mounted on mules, rode behind him.

  “He’s a good man,” March commented. “They respect him.”

  “Are the Negroes overseers also?” Allen asked. “What do they think of having to command their own kind?”

  “Slavery is common among the Africans,” March said. “Castor and Pollux obey Blight in all things. They’re slaves, too, of course.”

  Patches of dark sweat broke out on the horses’ flanks, as they rode on rough paths through a dry and inhospitable landscape, scattered with tamarind trees. March talked knowledgeably of the estate business, and Allen allowed himself to let down his guard and enjoy his host’s company. He was impressed by the sheer scope of March’s plantation, the large number of scattered outbuildings: mills to crush the liquid from the cane, carpenters’ shops and smithies that helped run the enterprise.

  “What’s that building?” Allen asked, pointing toward a low stone building that stood in isolation in the fields.

  “The slave dungeon,” March replied. “They all live in deadly fear of it. After a day or so in the dark and heat without food and water, even the most rebellious among them will become as docile as a lamb.”

  They rode by a line of slaves carrying huge bundles of dried cane on their shoulders toward a stone building about the size of a small church. Smoke poured from a chimney.

  “How do you find the heat?” March asked.

  “Tolerable.”

  “Excellent. I’ll show you the boiling house.”

  They dismounted and entered into a building that reminded Allen of descriptions of hell—terrible heat and stench, dark figures stirring huge cauldrons, reducing the liquid from the canes to crystals. The dried cane provided the fuel for the fires that burned by day and night. March, seemingly impervious to the heat, strolled over to a tray of crystals and chatted to an overseer, while running the finished product through his fingers.

  Allen, his shirt drenched, staggered outside, away from the suffocating heat, where March joined him.

  “How the devil do they stand it?” Allen gasped. “Do they not swoon with the heat?”

  “Quite frequently. There are others to take their place.”

  They stopped at the house of another of March’s overseers for ale and simple food, before returning to the house. Allen swung himself down from his horse; as he’d expected, he felt the muscles in his back and legs twinge after all those weeks at sea.

  March laid a friendly arm on his shoulders. “What say you to a plunge bath? I have a bath here, based on the Turkish model.”

  March’s easy manner disarmed him and he accepted. This was not the cynical despot who dispatched female slaves to visitors’ beds, but the charming, attentive host who, yesterday, had chatted of mutual acquaintances in Bristol and London over brandy in his study.

  March gave orders to the slaves, setting them to work with the kindly indulgence of a father with charming, disobedient offspring, and dispatching others ahead to prepare the bath.

  As they walked through the house, he made conversation with Allen. “Did you visit Constantinople on your Grand Tour? I based the design on the baths there—delightful places.”

  One of the barefooted footmen flung open a door to a room paneled with mahogany, where a graceful curving staircase led down to a circular bath lined and surrounded by turquoise and scarlet tiles.

  “Magnificent,” Allen said. “How does it work?”

  March laughed. “It is very simple. A cistern on the roof catches water, which is heated by a fire downstairs—the heat rises, you see—and the pressure of the water falling from above ensures a steady stream.”

  He nodded to a footman, who turned a faucet in the shape of a dolphin and hot, steaming water gushed into the bath.

  “I found Constantinople remarkable,” March continued as the footman helped him out of his coat. “I hoped to see the fabled harem, but of course I should likely have come home without my ballocks. The women I did see were like tents, hidden except for their eyes. And while there’s a certain pleasure in a pair of dark, lively eyes, it’s not all one looks for in a woman.”

  As he spoke he stripped and the footman poured brandy, bowed, and left. Allen discarded his clothes and followed March into the steaming water. Two broad steps, one at water level and one below, formed seats in the bath, which was about three feet deep.

  The two men settled
into the water, each with a glass of brandy.

  “Do you plan to practice law indefinitely?” March asked. “You should consider running for Parliament.”

  “I’ve thought of it,” Allen admitted.

  “Of course.” March closed his eyes, arms spread on the tiled surround. “What do you make of Miss Onslowe?”

  Allen immediately became alert, although he kept his relaxed posture. “She’s a pretty woman. Easy to talk to. Accomplished.” He added, since possibly March already knew, “One gets to know one’s fellow travelers pretty well aboard ship.”

  March was interested in Clarissa? She’d been in his house less than one day. Surely not.

  He stole a look at March, handsome and with only that streak of white in his hair revealing his age. If March was interested in Clarissa, he’d keep her happy enough in bed, damn it, and, thanks to Allen’s tutelage and her quick appreciation, she’d service him well. Far too well. But Clarissa could not succumb to her employer’s advances. Not with her mission to write of conditions on the island for the abolitionist cause.

  He eased down further into the water, his foot brushing against the other man’s, apologized, and rested his head on a folded towel on the tiled surround. It would be most discourteous if he was to fall asleep, but that was what March appeared to be doing. Allen dozed off and dreamed pleasantly of Clarissa, her pale limbs entwining his, her tongue on his cock, and was woken by the sound of running water—March leaning over him to turn the faucet on and replenish the hot water.

  “I beg your pardon. I fell asleep.” And he now had a cock-stand the size of a small tree, to his embarrassment, waving merrily underwater as though demanding attention. He hoped March had not noticed.

  “No matter. I generally do myself.” March closed off the stream of water, but remained leaning across him, his hand now planted on the ledge close to Allen’s hip. “You look quite peaceful when you’re asleep.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. You seem to be enraged about one thing or another when you’re awake.”

  Allen shrugged.