After I read the final part of the story to Adelaide she claimed that my ‘horrid’ tale had given her nightmares.
‘As if we had not suffered enough in reality,’ she moaned. I forbore to mention the part she had played in our problems. After all, she had finally come to her senses regarding the wretched pirate Tomas.
December 28th
Dom Pedro greeted me with affection when we met on Christmas Day at the house in the hills above Rio which I had briefly inhabited before Paraty. He admired little Sebastian, pronouncing him to be a fine boy, before returning him to the wet nurse who took him back to the nursery. He brought gifts for his son, a charming coral and ivory rattle and a small, solid gold drinking cup engraved with the royal crest and the letter S. He did not remain long with us and his parting remark was one of embarrassed apology, ‘for all the trouble you have endured because of our relationship.’ He departed, assuring me of his utmost and enduring regard for my person. It was a strange speech, I thought. After all, I had entered into the arrangement willingly enough. It was obvious that Dom Pedro was trying to convey a message to me, but, being royal, he would prefer one of his minions to do the deed.
The minion was not long in coming. A few days later Dom Joaquim de Vilhena, a court official, came to call. He began with the greatest formality.
‘I am delighted to inform you that it has pleased his majesty to confer on your son the title of Baron Monserrat. He will receive the education and upbringing of a noble, eventually taking his place as a court official.’ Dom Joaquim bowed and I returned the bow. Then he explained that my presence would not be required.
‘His Royal Highness is sure that you would not wish to incommode the royal family. In view of your short contract with Dona Leopoldina it would be appropriate if you now made plans to leave Brazil. Your son will remain behind.’ He bowed again and sat down mopping his forehead with a large lace-edged handkerchief.
I sat as if turned to stone as this news was given to me. It was not totally unexpected, and I did indeed want to return to England, but I had thought to take my child with me – or had I? How would I explain him at Longbourn or Pemberley? What could I offer him in comparison to the grandeur of the court? A sudden pang of sadness pierced my heart. Sebastian was my son and I would not see him grow. We would never become close to each other. It was not fair!
Meanwhile, Dom Joaquim was telling me that all my expenses would be met. He stood up and handed me a long mahogany box embossed with Dom Pedro’s crest, suggesting that I should leave ‘soon.’ Dona Serafina would arrive to take the baby to the palace with his wet nurse. Everything had been prepared. He made another elaborate bow and departed.
The box remained on my lap for several minutes after his departure until Adelaide gently removed it and opened the lid. A magnificent diamond collar sparkled up at us. I had been paid off. My maid patted my hand, ‘Upon my word, madam, this will keep you in comfort for many a year.’ Eufrasia peered at the stones and said nothing.
Later, as I sat at the window watching the violent rose and gold afternoon light dying into indigo, Eufrasia came to me. ‘There might be a way to get him back. I can help you, lady.’
I am to accompany my slave to a candomblé gathering. ‘What will happen?’ I asked her. I was apprehensive, but Eufrasia smiled. ‘We give a party and the gods come!’
For the first time since she entered my employ, Adelaide refused to accompany me to the voodoo grounds, or the candomblé house of life, as it is known. She has a real terror of the conjure women. Females act as intermediaries with the gods in their religion, brought from Africa on the slave ships. I did not press her. She will be my assurance of rescue if there is danger.
Thus I found myself being led through the darkened streets by a young black girl who has promised me that her peoples’ magic will restore my errant royal lover to me. It is ridiculous, of course, but I have nothing to lose. In this country strange things happen. As we crept along, I recalled that Dom Pedro believed in all manner of African superstitions. He had a black herbalist who supplied him with goat’s beard sedge, ‘to raise the prick’ he had explained to me.
I was almost suffocating beneath a heavy, black cloak as we passed the slaves’ church of Our Lady of the Rosary and eventually reached a clearing on the edge of the city. I knew we were near the sea as I could hear the crash of the waves. The slaves had set up an illegal shelter in which to practise their rites. Perspiring heavily under the cloak, I heard the ecstatic chanting and singing and drumming, the clack of gourds and coconut shells and the wiry twanging of the berimbau.
Eufrasia hid me in a corner of the enclosure, where I watched the old women dressed in white like ancient brides, their wrinkled leathery faces transformed to resemble black angels. The women whirled and turned like windmills, arms outstretched, slowly at first, then faster and faster as they became possessed, shaking and falling in a trance-like state. ‘The orishas, the gods, are speaking through them,’ Eufrasia whispered.
We watched for what seemed like hours as the chanting and drumming grew louder. A cockerel was sacrificed by a man dressed in straw and feathers covered with many strings of beads. Blood flowed across a pagan altar. I cowered behind the slave girl, fascinated and horrified by turns. When the ceremony had ended, everyone ate and drank and socialised in a bizarre version of an English supper party. The slave stew known as feijoada was much in evidence; black beans and smoked sausage with the salted ears, snout, trotters and tail of the pig. Jugs of cachaça were liberally poured.
Eufrasia led me away to where one of the white-clad conjure women was throwing cowrie shells on the ground. ‘She is a diviner; she will tell you the truth.’ My story was whispered in her ear. The woman barely glanced at me as she threw the shells, muttering to herself.
‘What does she say?’ I asked.
Eufrasia shook her head, ‘the affair will not end well.’ I almost snorted into the smoky, humid night where cooking fires lit up the scene.
‘Is that all she can tell us? We already know this.’ The woman muttered again and wandered off.
‘She will give you something,’ Eufrasia said. ‘You must put it in his food and it will bind him to you. Do you have money for her?’ The old woman returned and I gave her some coins. She handed me some herbs in a palm leaf, then snatched them back and gave them to Eufrasia as if I could not be trusted. Men and women were wandering down to the beach, throwing things into the sea and singing.
‘They are praising Iemanjá, the mother of the waters,’ my slave told me as we crept back through the night streets trying to avoid the militia men. When I fell into my bed, exhausted, I could hear the singing and the drums ringing in my ears. I showed the herbs to Adelaide next morning and she cried out, ‘No, madam, no!’ She is right of course. I have no intention of using the herbs. I could not risk harming the heir to the throne. My very life depends on it. I gave the palm leaf’s contents to Eufrasia and told her to throw them into the sea. She shrugged and took them without a word. As she walked away I called after her. ‘Why did you offer to help me?’ She replied without looking back, ‘Because you threw the whip away.’
With a sudden change of heart I rushed after the slave girl, breathlessly calling her to return the package. ‘I will keep the herbs. They may be useful in the future.’ Wordlessly, she handed them to me. My maid shrugged her shoulders with an ‘on your head be it’ expression.
Adelaide returned to packing our belongings. Dona Serafina came to the house and watched silently as I kissed little Sebastian for the last time. I wonder if I will ever see him again. Perhaps we will meet again one day in Europe. He would be grown up and I will be a stranger to him. I stood at the window until the litter carried by the royal slaves disappeared along the street.
‘It is for the best,’ were Dona Serafina’s parting words, and of course she was right.
Chapter 18
January 3rd, 1819
Mr and Mrs Luccombe are coming to escort me to a farewell dinner to
night. They have been loyal friends and the souls of discretion. I must talk to him about giving Eufrasia her freedom. Dom Pedro has given permission for this and has also promised that reports on my son’s progress will be sent to me at intervals.
January 8th
My dinner with the Luccombes was a restrained affair. Although my friend tried to cheer me by saying how glad I would be to return to England after my unpleasant adventures, he sounded a trifle unconvincing. Eventually, after catching his wife’s eye he subsided into an embarrassed silence.
I said very little, aware of the pitying looks directed at me by Mrs Luccombe. As the dessert was served I raised my eyes from the plate and we all three chorused as one, ‘It is for the best.’ I gulped and felt my eyes filling with tears of mingled regret and relief. Mrs Luccombe clucked over me while her husband stared out of the window. The household slaves pressed against the walls like black marble columns, gazing at us with blank eyes. Their ubiquitous presence was something I would not miss.
After I collected myself, we discussed the voyage to the West Indies where I must wait for another ship bound for England.
‘The journey to Jamaica is not a long one, thank God,’ said Mr Luccombe, ‘and a stay of a few days there will be most pleasant. At least you will be on British soil again.’ His wife added that they had greatly enjoyed their stay on the island when they were en route to Brazil. I dreaded another sea voyage but I could hardly cross to the other side of the world overland. Hopefully, the voyage would be shorter and more bearable than the ghastly journey I had experienced from Europe to Brazil with Dona Leopoldina.
I bade a cordial farewell to my friends and returned to the house. Adelaide had completed the packing of our goods and there remained only the task of handing Eufrasia the document releasing her from slavery. I had requested it from the court and the prince had agreed. My former slave’s inscrutable expression vanished for a moment. She covered her face and rocked backwards and forwards. I placed a purse of money in her hand.
‘Thank you, Eufrasia, for everything you have done for me.’ The girl did not respond. She simply carried the paper, the purse, and her few belongings through the door. As she passed me she briefly passed her cool, blue-black hand over my cheek. Then she was gone.
‘We should have asked her to take the parrot,’ Adelaide commented.
We boarded the ship a few days later. A court official came to see us depart – no doubt to make sure that we actually left. The prince sent a magnificent bouquet of vivid pink cattleya orchids to the quayside. There was a brief message, ‘My fondest regards… always at your service.’ I clutched them to my bosom as, slowly, the ship sailed across the vast, magnificent Bay of Guanabara. My Brazilian adventure was over.
Part Two
Chapter 19
February 6th
As I waited on the quayside in Falmouth, Jamaica, for a carriage to convey me to an inn, I noticed an elegantly dressed gentleman dismounting from a horse and engaging one of the sailors in conversation. After giving the man some instructions, he moved closer and doffed his hat to me.
‘May I be of service to you, madam? I believe you are newly arrived on the island. I am Martin de Fontblanc Macaulay of La Nouvelle Heloise in the parish of Saint Catherine.’
He regarded me with a twinkle in his brown eyes and a decidedly forward manner. He wore a red hibiscus flower on the lapel of his coat and his dark hair was as carefully arranged as that of any member of the ton in London. This man had designs upon my person. When a lady travels alone she must be on her guard.
I bowed my head and thanked him, saying that I was awaiting conveyance to an inn. The gentleman clapped his hand and summoned a servant, almost from the air, who was commanded to carry our baggage while Mr Macaulay offered to act as a mounted escort. The carriage duly arrived and Adelaide and I were transported away to our destination.
When we arrived at the inn, I thanked our escort warmly and he remarked that he hoped we would meet again during my stay.
‘Do you know that gentleman?’ I asked the innkeeper, who replied that Martin de Fontblanc Macaulay was a creole of French and Scottish descent, whose family moved to Jamaica from Martinique during the eighteenth century. Obviously everyone on the island knows the history of their fellow citizens.
‘Mr Macaulay now owns a large sugar plantation with many slaves, following the death of his elder brother.’ Was I mistaken or was there a guarded tone to the innkeeper’s words?
‘Surely there are no slaves on this island anymore?’ I exclaimed. ‘Have they not been emancipated?’ The innkeeper gave a surly shrug and muttered something about ‘Johnny new-comers.’ The rest was inaudible.
Falmouth is a delightful town, full of newly-built houses in the style so popular at home. It is like a miniature Bath, but with sunshine and no disagreeable, decrepit people bathing in hot springs. The dockside was bustling with people, merchants and their many servants or slaves, with a large number of ships coming and going. The innkeeper told me in his scarcely intelligible accent that, ‘Falmouth is the jewel in Jamaica’s crown. We send great wealth to the Mother Country.’
February 8th
It was not long before my path crossed with Mr Macaulay’s again. When I went to inquire about our ship to England, who should I find chatting amicably with the captain but our gallant escort?
‘Indeed, sir, you are dogging my footsteps are you not?’ I remarked in jest. He made me a low bow and assured me that our meeting was a happy coincidence. After the captain confirmed that the ship would not sail for another week, Mr Macaulay said it would be a pleasure to be able to show me his beautiful island.
‘Will you do me the honour of dining at La Nouvelle Heloise this evening, madam? My brother and I would be delighted to receive an English lady.’ I could hardly refuse such an invitation, although we had not been officially introduced. It seems that manners are somewhat more relaxed in this part of the world.
The gentleman arrived in person to escort me to his home. ‘It is called La Nouvelle Heloise after my great grandmother, who came from France via Martinique. When the family moved to Jamaica, my great grandfather chose the name. You will, I am sure, appreciate the pun in the title?’ I looked at him blankly for a moment, then smiled and nodded. I had not the faintest notion.
The house was charming; a large plantation mansion in pastel shades of blue and pink with delicately carved verandas and shutters. Acres of sugar growing land surrounded the house but I saw no one toiling in the fields that day, although there were black servants in the house.
I was introduced to Mr Macaulay’s younger brother, James, who was a good deal taller than his sibling with a somewhat careworn air. He was responsible for the day-to-day running of the estate during his brother’s absence, as Mr Macaulay was abroad for some years. He has been back on the island for several months, I gathered.
‘But Jamaican life is not to my taste,’ he told me as we sat down to dinner in the elegant, if sparsely furnished dining room. ‘I left the West Indies to complete my education in England and then I joined the army to fight Napoleon. I fought at Waterloo, you know, like your late husband, dear lady.’ His gaze travelled boldly over my person, settling on my bosoms which had increased somewhat in size since I became a mother. I fluttered my eyelashes and adjusted my light Indian shawl.
‘How did you come to be in Brazil, Mrs Wickham?’
‘Indeed,’ I sighed. ‘After the sad loss of my husband it was the greatest good fortune that I was offered a post at the Portuguese Court in Rio, due to the efforts of an influential friend.’ That part, at least, was true.
‘And how did you find life in Rio, madam?’ asked Mr Macaulay, leaning even closer across the table.
‘I can scarcely begin to tell you of my diverse experiences there,’ I cried, clasping my hands together. ‘Their way of life is so strange, so exotic and colourful, and their manners so different from those of the English. I was quite overcome until I adjusted to their customs, and to t
he heat.’
‘Ah, yes, the heat,’ he remarked. ‘It is wearing for new-comers but I was raised here and it bothers me little. I confess I found the English climate very harsh but I greatly enjoyed the congenial society. The ladies especially were most gracious.’
I could imagine the ladies welcoming this rich, handsome stranger. His appearance was far more pleasing than Dom Pedro’s, although he is not tall. He congratulated me on mastering the Portuguese language to some degree. ‘It is an outlandish tongue, is it not?’ He had fought in the peninsular campaign and knew Spain and Portugal quite well.
As the meal progressed, my companion confessed that he was thinking of returning ‘imminently’ to England, leaving his younger brother once more in charge of the estate. ‘I need the stimulus of London or Paris. Life is so narrow and provincial here.’ Indeed, his description of society on the island made it sound very much like Meryton with sunshine. He leaned in again and patted my hand in a familiar manner.
‘Too much quiet and ease can be stultifying, do you not agree, Mrs Wickham?’
I assured him that I was hoping for some peace and quiet after the excitement of Rio, ‘Although I fear the rigours of the sea crossing.’ I described the horrors of the journey to Brazil and he laughed.
‘Do not expect a comfortable trip this time, but perhaps the boredom may be enlivened by an agreeable companion.’ I cannot comprehend his meaning.
We dined on river mullet and fried pork with many unusual greens which are grown on the island. There was the usual shrimp, beans and rice found everywhere in this region but I accepted only a little of this. I had vowed never to eat shrimp again after I left Brazil.
The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad Page 11
