On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

“I will never forget your goodness to me,” Marina said. He straightened, and their eyes clung.

  “It was nothing, Miss Garrod.” Lewis forced himself to look away to address Tallboys, who waited on the portico steps. “Your servant, sir.”

  The clergyman inclined his head. “Let me add my thanks, Mr. Durant. Let it never be said that I do not value loyalty and friendship as I should.” He beckoned to his ward. “Come, Marina. Our guests are eager to depart.”

  ***

  When Penelope stepped into the sitting room, Sarah ran into her mother’s arms. “Mama, you’re home!” she cried. Looking at the child afresh, Buckler saw that she had lost much of her baby fat. Her thin, wiry arms were clasped around her mother’s neck, and she was dropping little kisses on Penelope’s cheeks and chin. After a moment, she raised her face with its huge, dark eyes to examine her mother more closely. Apparently satisfied, she wiggled free. Maggie, Jamie, and Frank clustered round Penelope, Maggie breaking into a stream of chatter and her sons jumping up and down. Frank tugged at Penelope’s skirt, while Jamie put his thumb in his mouth and stared at her. After Penelope released Sarah, Lewis greeted his niece by lifting her into the air and making her shriek with pleasure. Maggie’s boys, who worshipped Penelope’s brother, were soon drawing him aside to show off their treasures. Frank had a ball he wanted to demonstrate to the peril of a vase that sat on the sofa table, and Jamie a scrawled picture that was supposed to be a dog.

  Buckler had not moved from the threshold. He felt a lightness of heart that made him grin like a fool, mingled with the terrifying sensation that he had come home, even though no one but Penelope knew it yet. Not that these lodgings in a mean street off Golden Square could ever be a real home to any of them. The house itself had once been splendid enough, but, now let in suites of rooms, it had deteriorated into damp and dingy shabbiness.

  As they’d ascended the broad staircase with its blocked-up windows, Buckler’s imagination had been busy with schemes to relocate the whole family. A place where the air was clean and the children could play out of doors, but not so far away that he could not easily manage his business. There were difficulties ahead—enormous ones. He would investigate Penelope’s precise legal position with her marriage, and arrange a bond that would secure her an income for life, no matter what happened to him.

  He watched her with the children. She’d been so young when she wed Jeremy Wolfe, just eighteen. She’d never told him the full story of her marriage, but he was certain she hadn’t had her father’s permission, and he thought she might have married abroad. Could there be a loophole that would free her? If not, could he bring himself to put her at risk if their relationship became what he so ardently desired? Later. He would ask himself the hard questions later and make sure Penelope asked them too.

  When the clamor had subsided, she glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “Edward, say hello to Sarah.”

  He went to the child and held out his hand in greeting.

  ***

  It was John Chase’s turn to take leave. He’d escorted the maid Todd, lugging her valise, to the main road and had written the report laying out the evidence against Mrs. Yates for use in the coroner’s court and beyond. He’d supervised Tallboys in preparing a statement for her to sign in which she formally resigned as trustee. He’d also consulted with the magistrate, who would oversee the initial inquiry into her crimes, and seen the poisoner confined in the village lockup. Tallboys and Honeycutt, asking that she be provided with every comfort, had arranged for an attorney to wait upon her. Tallboys had inquired if Chase would remain for dinner, but he’d declined, eager to get home. In the morning he would see the chief magistrate at Bow Street, but for tonight he was tired and wanted to be alone.

  Tallboys now seemed to distrust his powers of management—a reaction that made him more likeable and that probably wouldn’t last. He asked Chase what should be done with the Honeycutts, if Marina should persist in her antagonism toward them.

  “Send them about their business,” recommended Chase. “The will leaves them provided for. Why should Miss Garrod be expected to house and feed them if you, her guardian, doesn’t choose?”

  “You don’t think—” Breaking off, he shot Chase a doubting look, then said, “Would it be possible, do you suppose, that Mrs. Yates might go away somewhere and live quietly? She must have been mad to play those heathen tricks and murder her own brother. The scandal, Mr. Chase. It will be dreadful for Miss Garrod.”

  And for you, thought Chase. “Not possible. Mrs. Yates must stand her trial. I’ll see that she does myself. I think you know that she is entirely sane, sir.”

  The clergyman heaved a bottomless sigh. “And what if a suitable candidate can’t be found for the girl’s hand in time? Miss Garrod will be left to my charge forever if she does not satisfy the terms of the trust.”

  “Leave that problem for another day,” said Chase.

  Marina Garrod took his arm and accompanied him right to the carriage door, waving Mr. Tallboys off when he tried to dog her heels.

  “Mr. Chase,” she said when they faced one another in the warm glow of early evening, “it is not too much to say that you have saved my life—you and your friends—but chiefly you. I was unhappy when my father employed you. I thought you were another spy. I never thought you would be my friend.”

  “But your father did. He chose me because I owed your mother my life. Mr. Garrod hoped I was the kind of man who wishes to repay old debts, and he was right in that. Now, though, I would act for your sake alone, out of my great admiration for you. It has been an honor to serve you, ma’am.” This was not the speech he usually delivered to his clients, but he felt it warranted in this case. And meant it, every word. It had been iniquitous of Garrod to make his daughter’s marriage a condition of her inheritance, but Chase believed she would somehow continue to manage her relatives, and he did not envy Mr. Tallboys in his task.

  “I would hate never to see you again.” Marina paused, then added lightly, “Perhaps I will one day give a grand party. Will you come watch over the jewels of the guests?”

  He bowed, taking her hand. “Glad to, Miss Garrod.”

  “I want you to know that in any house of mine, you will be an invited guest. Standing around and terrifying the servants will not be allowed. I will even expect you to dance with me.”

  “If these creaky bones decide to cooperate, I am your man.”

  They smiled at one another, and Chase released her.

  He was about to mount the steps into the coach when she called him back. “Mr. Chase, do you think I might write a letter to my mother in Jamaica? Will they let me?”

  “Insist on it,” he told her. “Mark my words. From this day forward, your family will strive to please you. When you write to Joanna, give her my regards.”

  “Anyone who wishes to please me will help me defeat the infamous provision in my father’s will that forbids the emancipation of his slaves. Mr. Durant and I have already discussed the matter.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Do you suppose Mr. Buckler can advise me?”

  Chase almost laughed aloud but didn’t want to hurt her feelings. The thought of Tallboys forced to deal with a budding abolitionist was delicious to him, and, should she persevere in these aims, Buckler would be jolted from his bookish retreat yet again. Or maybe that retreat had become a thing of the past, in any case. Chase had noticed the perfect harmony that existed between his friends and was both happy for them and determined to reserve his judgment of this development for the future. Marina awaited his response. He said, “I am sure Mr. Buckler will be glad to assist you, and if you need me for anything, you’ll let me know. Goodbye for the present, Miss Garrod.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Chase.”

  As the carriage rolled away, he put out his head and waved a hand to her. She waved back. He watched her until the coach turned onto the main road.

  At home, he le
t himself into the entrance hall. He heard the clatter of the dinner dishes coming from the dining room as he sneaked up the stairs, wishing to avoid seeing anyone. On the landing, however, he met Sybil Fakenham.

  “You’re back,” she said, seemingly without much interest. But the curiosity was strong in her eyes, and he knew he’d likely be receiving a late-night visit.

  “Why aren’t you at dinner? Still at daggers-drawn with Mrs. Beeks?”

  “We’ve reached a stalemate, though hostile forces are ever ready for attack.”

  “Declare a peace treaty. You won’t be around long enough to wage a war.”

  “Oh, am I going somewhere?” Her sharp nose wrinkled at him.

  “You are going to be lady’s maid to a young woman. It’s all arranged. Miss Garrod needs a friend in her household, so I’ll ask you to keep that tongue of yours between your teeth and make yourself useful to her. They expect you tomorrow. It’s a good position, Sybil.” He named the salary that Tallboys had quoted him.

  Her eyes widened. “I’ll start packing my bags. Mr. Chase, there’s something you should know.”

  “Later,” he said, so exhausted that he stumbled a little as he approached his door. He hadn’t had a full night’s rest in five days. “Tell Mrs. Beeks not to disturb me with a tray for several hours at least.”

  He went into his bedchamber and closed the door. He removed his boots, ripped the cravat from his neck, and shrugged off his coat. Just as he was about to throw himself on the bed, he saw it, a white rectangle in the middle of his desk. It was impossible to see more, for the room darkened rapidly as night descended. Chase walked to the desk and picked up the letter. Showing foreign postmarks, creases, and water spots, it was addressed in a firm, young hand, which he recognized at once. It was from his son. His fatigue forgotten, he strode to the mantelpiece to retrieve the tinderbox. He lit a candle and sat down in his armchair to read Jonathan’s letter.

  Acknowledgments

  I must start by thanking my friend Dan Kelleher for helping me understand boiler explosions. Dan, chemistry teacher extraordinaire, pointed out problems with my scenario and suggested clarifications. In a historical novel, there’s always the question of what actually happened versus what my early nineteenth-century characters believed had occurred, especially since steam technology as applied to greenhouses was newfangled in Regency England. I truly appreciate Dan’s help.

  Margaret and Peter Mason generously gave their time to read a draft of the manuscript and offer perceptive comments. It is in no small part due to their efforts that I was able to catch a number of silly mistakes. Thank you, Margaret and Peter!

  As always, I thank my husband, Michael, who helped me with boilers, laudanum, greenhouses, and about a thousand other plotting and character matters. Let’s just say that he comes along with me on the journey of every book.

  Finally, I am grateful to everyone at Poisoned Pen Press for shepherding this manuscript through production. Thank you, especially, to Barbara Peters, Annette Rogers, Beth Deveny, Rob Rosenwald, and Pete Zrioka.

  Historical Notes

  In 1791 the abolitionist William Fox exhorted Britons to acknowledge the cruelty of racial and geographic boundaries that seek to separate person from person, soul from soul: “Can our pride suggest that the rights of men are limited to any nation, or to any colour? Or, were anyone to treat a fellow creature in this country as we do the unhappy Africans in the West Indies; struck with horror, we should be zealous to deliver the oppressed, and punish the oppressor” (as quoted in Debbie Lee’s Slavery and the Romantic Imagination, 14).

  Lee refers to slavery as “the great moral question” of the late Georgian era. Another related development of the time was, of course, the impulse toward freedom represented by the various revolutions sweeping the globe, including the one that gave birth to America, and that created the first black republic in the French colony of St. Domingue (Haiti). Slavery was not a faraway evil easily ignored by Britons. It was hotly contested, its moral dimensions explored in pamphlets and in poignant images of suffering humanity. While many people who profited from the institution battled to uphold it, others, “struck with horror,” argued, with increasing success, that slavery was antithetical to British values. Still, after the abolition of the slave trade in 1807, slavery itself endured for several more decades in the British empire. And none of the oppressors were ever punished. Instead, the government provided thousands of English men and women with financial compensation when they were forced to free their slaves.

  Exposure to the issue of slavery in Georgian England brought with it anxieties about the danger of permeable boundaries in a global society (sound familiar?). And this exposure to new ideas, other cultures, and other races evoked a corresponding concern about protecting the purity of the domestic hearth and of national identity. Nor was the fear that sacred boundaries could be dissolved limited to race; the anxiety also extended to gender, social, and cultural norms. Thus, my character Marina Garrod is perceived as a threat to her family on every level. She is not a true English rose in that she carries Africa in her blood, a heritage made visible in her complexion. She is illegitimate and lacks breeding. Moreover, as the presumed heiress to a large fortune, her father has tapped this “half lady” to become the mother of a dynastic line. Lastly, through her mother, she is linked to Obeah, an African folk religion that can be seen as a vehicle of hidden power and revolt. In a society that prided itself on refinement and enlightenment, and that valued the transmission of family name, lands, and wealth to the next generation, Marina does not belong.

  A quick note on Obeah and John Crow: I intend to publish a separate essay on this subject on my website, for there is no room here to discuss the fascinating connections between Obeah, the vulture John Crow, the John Canoe dancers, poisons, and Abrus precatorius or the jequirity bean (wild licorice). Some fuzziness exists as to when these symbolic links were forged. My main source—an essay by John Rashford, “Plants, Spirits and the Meaning of ‘John’ in Jamaica,” which was published in the Jamaica Journal in 1984—mentions that the first record of the Jamaican turkey buzzard being called “John Crow” did not occur until 1826. But I have found indications that this may have happened earlier, and certainly, ideas can brew in the popular culture for some time before they are written down. A source of 1811 refers to the beads of wild licorice as being popular with Jamaican slaves for jewelry.

  I am indebted to Rashford and to many other scholars of the Caribbean and the West Indians in London, and regret that I can mention only a few more in these already lengthy notes. First and foremost, I must acknowledge Nick Hibbert Steele. Nick—a descendant of George Hibbert, the model for my character Hugo Garrod—provided resources from his personal library and his valuable insights. Very kindly, he read the manuscript in order to help me catch any historical inaccuracies. I should emphasize that Hugo Garrod is not George Hibbert. Though Hibbert’s family wealth derived from Jamaica, Hibbert never went to the island and had no mixed-race children. He did live in Clapham among abolitionists such as William Wilberforce, and he kept a famous garden filled with botanical exotica (in particular, the Proteas mentioned in this novel). I have borrowed some of Hibbert’s biographical details for the purposes of this story.

  Next is Dan Livesay, whose dissertation titled Children of Uncertain Fortune: Mixed Race Migration from the West Indies to Britain, 1750-1820, was essential to this project. Dan’s work chronicles the precarious lives of mixed-race children who relocated to Britain. White relatives sometimes mounted legal challenges to the inheritances left to these children or tried to rebrand them with the mark of slavery. For example, Dan explores the life of Barbadian planter Joshua Steele. Steele died, leaving his mixed-race children, Catherine and Edward, a sizeable inheritance. When Catherine and Edward were sent to school in England, Steele’s sister, Mary Ann, successfully proved that the children were not properly manumitted, a tactic she used to make h
erself heiress of the estate and guardian of the minors. She did settle money on them but not as much as had been allocated in her brother’s will. Dan makes the point that Catherine and Edward were left in a subservient position and were prevented from being independent people of color. I thank Dan Livesay not only for his scholarship but also for his encouraging response to my email. Thanks also to Brooke Newman, professor of history at Virginia Commonwealth University, and Dr. Ian Barrett of King’s College, London, for their assistance.

  I should mention the work of Deirdre Coleman and Felicity Nussbaum. In particular, Coleman’s essay “Janet Schaw and the Complexions of Empire” helped me develop a mystery built around the notion of deadly convention. My idea was that my murderer should be a woman who poisons her brother (with arsenic that has tainted the purest sugar) because she feels he has brought a contaminating influence into her respectable family. In short, she wants those boundaries, those walls, to be raised up so that the Other can be excluded. Her obsession with purity, whiteness, and Englishness becomes a sickness of the spirit that pollutes her relationships with all of her adopted children and turns her into a civilized savage determined to create her own domestic empire.

  I like to ponder the connections between my twenty-first-century novel and an anonymous work of 1808 titled simply The Woman of Colour: A Tale. In his excellent introduction to this work, Lyndon J. Dominique states that the novel is important “not only because it is the first long prose fiction in British literature to prominently feature a racially conscious mulatto heroine, but also because, conceivably, a woman of color could have written it” (18). How curious and disturbing it is, then, that this novel was ignored for almost two hundred years! The Woman of Colour introduces Olivia Fairfield, the natural daughter of a Jamaican planter and a slave on his plantation. Similar to my character Marina Garrod, she is expected to marry her cousin, as a condition of her lover inheriting her father’s estate. Olivia travels to England, where she is the victim of rank prejudice and fraud. But she is not afraid to express her fellow feeling with African slaves or her contempt for slavery. She skillfully uses the weapon of protest cloaked in propriety to battle her tormenters.