by Jayla Jasso
Vera glanced back at the closed bedroom door. “They get their grubs on that Scarborough fortune waiting for you back in England, Jo.”
Jolie frowned. “Scarborough fortune?”
Vera shushed her, then whispered, “Yes, Jojo, a fortune.”
“But I thought Father left what little he had to Lord Hauste, in payment for taking care of me,” Jolie whispered back.
“That’s what the master always want you to believe. They want you to marry Theo so they can get rid of you and claim your inheritance. Then they can buy half of Crab Island, they said.”
“Get rid of me? You mean—”
“Shhh, Jo.” Vera glanced toward the door once again. “I mean get rid of you forever.”
“You heard them say all this, Nana?”
“Old African woman slave, but not stupid. I understand plain English just fine. I hear Master and his crooked-eye nephew planning in the dining room when they think I can’t hear.”
“Oh, my!” Jolie stumbled backwards toward the bed and sank down on the edge of the mattress.
Vera followed and took her hand. “Child, you got nothing to fear as long as you don’t marry that nephew. But Nana advise you not to be too stubborn, either. Play along for a while. That fortune may be only thing keeping you alive.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! The sudden pounding on Jolie’s bedroom door caused both women to jump.
“Jolie,” came Hauste’s gruff voice through the door, “don’t be late for supper. Wear a pretty gown, and try to pinch some color into your cheeks. Theo will be here to dine with us.”
Jolie exchanged a glance with Vera. “Y-yes, sir,” she called out.
They waited until they heard his footsteps recede, and then Vera spoke again in a hushed whisper. “Remember, Jo. Keep them hopeful but don’t give in, that’s your nana’s advice. Maybe we figure a way out of this before they get too suspicious.”
Jolie nodded. “I wish El Vencedor would come to life and save us—you, me, and all the slaves.” She stood so Vera could help her out of her rumpled dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jolie glanced down at her half-eaten bowl of soup, then back up at the face of the man seated across from her at Hauste’s dining table. At the age of twenty-seven, Theodore Wilkerson was not an entirely unhandsome man; his face was narrow but well proportioned, his eyes a bit lopsided (the right one was larger than the left) but an interesting shade of light gray, and his nose somewhat Roman-shaped. His ash-blond hair was a bit unruly, and unlike his corpulent uncle Hauste, Theo was tall and slender.
And his heart was as cold as a Scottish winter, from all Jolie had ever seen. She’d sooner fall in love with one of Hauste’s bloodhounds than this two-faced, sniveling Englishman.
Remembering Vera’s words of warning, that she should not betray her true feelings or the knowledge of their wicked plans, Jolie made eye contact with Theo and forced a smile, then dropped her eyes shyly to her plate when he half smiled back in surprise. Hauste was droning on and on about the fluctuating sugar cane market and how a hard-working plantation owner couldn’t count on making much profit these days.
Theo kept his gaze fixed on Jolie. “I say, Uncle, doesn’t cousin Jolie look well this evening? I believe she is settling in at home and beginning to recover from her ordeal.”
Lord Hauste glanced at her. “Why, yes, she does look fetching in that blue gown.”
Jolie bit back the urge to retch and smiled primly. Best to remain cool and composed. She mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”
“She speaks!” Hauste exchanged a grin with his nephew. “I believe she has at last returned to the land of the living.”
Feeling uncomfortable under their stares, she shifted in her seat, trying to think of a change of topic. “Ah—could I perhaps have more bread?”
Lord Hauste called out to Vera. The African woman appeared instantly.
“Vera, our little Jolie seems to be getting her appetite back. Bring more of that nice bread you’ve been baking this afternoon.” Hauste drank heartily from his wine goblet, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His attention returned to Jolie. “I hear you slept all afternoon. Seems the rest has done you some good.”
Jolie chose her reply with care. “Yes, I suppose I do feel more myself tonight.”
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to grant you a pardon for not completing your chores today.”
Only a momentary flicker of contempt passed over Jolie’s face before she quickly masked it behind a stiff smile. “You are too kind.”
Theo spoke up in her defense. “Maybe you should let her sleep every afternoon if it will improve her temperament and complexion, Ethan.”
Hauste finished gnawing the meat from a rib bone and growled with his mouth full, “Nobody sleeps all afternoon in this house!”
Jolie flinched, and Theo frowned at his uncle.
Hauste saw Theo’s look and seemed to reconsider as he chewed. He washed the meat down with gulp of wine. “Unless, of course, someone is feeling, uh, out of sorts—now and again.”
“Really, Uncle, I don’t know why Jolie should have to perform chores all day. You have slaves to do that work, and God knows how lazy slaves can be if you let up on them. Perhaps she could spend her free time sewing some curtains or table linens like other soon-to-be brides do.” Theo eyed Hauste over his goblet as he drank.
“That would be a complete waste of time!”
Jolie didn’t miss Theo’s raised eyebrow at his uncle.
Lord Hauste cleared his throat. “I mean to say, surely Jolie would be wasting her time sewing those silly things, when you are able to purchase such niceties for her instead.”
Jolie kept her gaze low and sipped her water. Valiant attempt to recover, but not successful. Vera’s suspicions are correct.
“Of course, of course.” Theo smiled sweetly at Jolie. “Anything her heart desires. But perhaps she would like to make herself a nice going-away gown, something to wear after the wedding ceremony.”
Jolie could not conceive of “going away” with Theodore Wilkerson any more than she could imagine going through with the wedding itself. But she latched onto this topic, eager to disguise the fact she knew what they were up to. “Then we are to have a formal wedding?” she asked quietly.
“Well...” Theo faltered, taken aback. “If you have no objections, I…” He set his wine goblet down and leaned forward a bit. “Dare I take this to mean that you have reconsidered your objections to marrying me, Jolie?”
Jolie swallowed. She didn’t want to give away too much, too soon. She gave him a quick smile and cleared her throat. “Well, I haven’t really made a firm decision, I just—wondered what you had planned, Theo.” She forced herself to murmur his name a little breathily, and noted his pleased expression. She could do this, she realized. She could stall for time to come up with a plan of escape. She just had to play her cards intelligently, judiciously.
Theo glanced quickly at Hauste. “Well, we thought—that is, I thought—we could marry in the cathedral in San Juan, invite our friends, fellow planters and such, and perhaps...stay and tour the main island a few days before returning home. Would you—would that be satisfactory?”
“I suppose it would be satisfactory, if I decide to marry you.” Jolie tried to appear thoughtful and serene. “Staying on the main island would afford a good opportunity to do some shopping.”
Theo spoke with renewed hope in his voice. “Yes, yes. And you could buy whatever household things you so desired, Jolie.”
“I suppose you would intend for us to live in your cottage?” she inquired.
“It isn’t as large as this house, but I’m certain you would find it comfortable enough. When I get this year’s cane crop out, perhaps we could build a larger house. One with a little courtyard out front—”
Hauste cleared his throat loudly, a warning to his nephew. Jolie read their expressions perfectly as the two men exchanged glances.
Theo piped down, and Hauste called for Vera t
o bring dessert.
Jolie dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and smiled briefly at Theo’s flushed face before looking away and sipping primly from her water glass.
It came as a bit of a surprise to her to realize Theodore Wilkerson’s soul was not as frosty as she’d thought.
#
To-day I learned of a Family Fortune that awaits me in England. It must be substantial, for Lord Hauste intends to take it from me by marrying me off to his spineless Nephew, who practically never had an Idea of his own and if he had, wouldn’t have the will to make use of it. After the wedding, they intend to rid themselves of me and claim my Inheritance for their own. I must be intelligent about this matter. I am treading on very dangerous Ground. I must keep my Head about me and plan another Escape.
For now I will do Nothing except pretend to continue in my “Recovery” and be as perfectly agreeable as I can without fully consenting to Marriage with Theo.
Jolie paused in her writing to gaze out over the dark orchard just outside her window. The fragrance of the tropical fruits and lush greenery wafted into her room through the open window, and she inhaled, then sighed wearily.
Oh, Gabriel. I need you. Please be alive.
A tear slipped through her lashes and landed on the word “please,” blurring it. Jolie blotted it with a cloth to prevent the ink from running into any other words. Then she put away her pen and corked the ink bottle, closed her journal, and slid it back under the mattress.
She blew out her candle and lay down on her bed, clasping her hands together and resting them over her abdomen. She could feel her agitated heartbeat, and reached up to brush a heated tear from her cheek. The effort was futile, for more tears returned to take its place. She cried for Gabriel for a long while, silently so as not to alert anyone else in the house.
#
It was a beautiful afternoon, and Jolie managed to slip away from the main house to sit in the grass under a large shade tree at the edge of the orchard. Five of the little slave children gathered around her, sitting cross-legged, their luminous dark eyes peering up at her. She read one of her own tattered childhood story books, a story about a boy who climbs a neighbor’s fence to steal apples. The African children gazed up her as if the tale were the most fascinating thing they had ever heard, with its colorful descriptions of the errant boy and his wiser, talking dog. Jolie mimicked different voices for the boy, the wolf, the dog, and the other characters, laughing along with them at the part where the boy got the seat of his breeches caught in the fence, building up the suspense in her voice when a hungry wolf found him.
When the story was done, Jolie and the children chatted and picked idly at the grass, making crosses and finger rings from the blades.
One of the girls, a perceptive child named Evetta, scooted closer. “Miss Jolie? How come the white people won’t let us move away? How come we have to live here?”
The other children looked up and waited for Jolie’s answer, their eyes inquisitive pools.
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Evetta. I wish it were not so.”
“I don’t like Master Hauste and the other white men.” Evetta leaned close and propped a thin elbow on Jolie’s knee. “They are mean to my mama and papa.”
Jolie put her arm around the little girl, tears pricking her eyes. “I don’t like Master Hauste, either. I wish we could all get away.”
One of the boys piped up—Kenny. “Master Hauste beat my papa. I saw him.”
Despite her efforts, Jolie’s tears spilled over, utter despair washing over her. Her emotions were more raw by the day, and her heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. Five pairs of bewildered little eyes watched as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron. She wanted to grab all of them and run away from this horrid place.
“Don’t cry, Miss Jolie,” another little girl murmured, rising to her knees and moving closer to clutch a handful of Jolie’s skirt. Evetta rose and put her slim arms around Jolie’s neck, patting her shoulder. Jolie hugged her to her side, then held out her arms to the other children, who immediately crowded themselves into her embrace, their small, dark arms encircling her sobbing frame.
#
The large, round, mango-colored moon hung low over the tops of the palm trees as Jolie hurried along beside Vera in the darkness. They followed the path from the back of the house toward the slave huts. Jolie held her skirts in her hands and ducked low in the shadows, praying under her breath that Lord Hauste would not notice her missing from her room tonight. He had been so lenient lately about checking on her whereabouts that she hoped tonight she’d be safe from his scrutiny.
Jolie could hear drums, homemade stringed instruments, and horns playing in the distance. After passing through several feet of cane, tropical underbrush, and palm trees, she and Vera made it to the circle of thatched houses. Torches and fires lit the center of the clearing where the slaves were dancing, playing instruments, or seated on mats on the ground. Most were dressed in loose-fitting white clothing, some with red or purple bandanas tied around their necks or their heads, and they wore fancy necklaces made of shells. An older man sitting high on a ladder was singing in a native tongue of Africa, and children ran and played near the edges of the group.
When Jolie entered the circle, the music stopped and several slaves rushed over to greet her, the torch lights dancing in their eyes as they crowded around. “Miss Jolie! Miss Jolie!”
Jolie smiled at their shining brown faces.
The old man on the ladder spoke loudly enough that the entire group could hear: “Miss Jolie return to de plantation, come back to us.”
Sharoka the wisewoman prodded Jolie’s waist. “Lord help, look how skinny she is. Miss Jolie not eating. She grieving over that blue-eye Spaniard.”
“I’m fine, really,” Jolie tried to interject, but no one heard her over the din of excited chatter.
“Master Hauste ain’t beating you, is he?” tall Nwoye asked, peering down at Jolie’s face in concern.
“No, friend Nwoye. He isn’t beating me.”
Vera piped up to the others. “Vera don’t trust that white man. Think he got something up his sleeve.”
Several nodded in agreement.
Jolie tried to divert their attention back to the celebration. “Please, go on with the wedding. Let’s not spoil the occasion with talk of Master Hauste.”
She was drawn over to a mat near the edge of the circle and made to sit with the women to watch as the wedding began. A lovely young woman named Eteyna appeared, dressed in a beautiful white dress draped with twisted red scarves that wound about her torso. Intricate seashell necklaces adorned her graceful neck, and she wore brass bracelets on her smooth, ebony arms. Her handsome groom, Kashe, wore white trousers and a loose white shirt that hung open at the neck to reveal powerful, work-hardened chest muscles.
Jolie watched with keen interest as the marriage ceremony progressed. She imagined herself and Gabriel in their place; she would be like Eteyna, barefoot and braceleted, while Gabriel came to her dressed all in white, his black hair gleaming down his back, his blue eyes piercing to her very soul.
It was this dreamy reverie that caused her complete confusion when the drums stopped abruptly and all around her people began jumping to their feet and backing away from the entrance to the circle. Jolie turned to look over her shoulder. Like a horrific nightmare, her guardian rode into view on a rearing horse, bullwhip in hand, flanked on either side by armed guards. Hauste held two of his bloodhounds by their leashes, and they strained against the leather straps, barking rabidly at the crowd of slaves. The African women and children shrank back, and the men closed ranks in front of them, eyeing Hauste and his dogs warily.
Nwoye stood his ground, feet firmly planted, the thick muscles in his arms flexing as his hands curled into fists at his sides. “What business do you have here, Master Hauste?”
“No business with you, slave,” Hauste snarled. His contemptuous gaze shifted to Jolie. “What in bloody hell are y
ou doing here?”
Jolie scrambled to her feet, still in shock.
“Planning a new escape attempt? Going to try to give the whole lot of them to El Vencedor this time, you little witch? Do you dare to betray my trust further? Your life belongs to me, Jolie Scarborough. You are alive only because I have had mercy on you. And you mock my kindness by sneaking away to confer secretly with these savages?”
At this, Nwoye and a couple of the other men advanced a step or two, their deep-rooted rage rising dangerously close to the surface.
Hauste turned his scathing glare on them, uncurling the whip so the tip of it fell to touch the ground beside his horse. “What’s this? You brutes think to try and protect her? Stand back or I’ll whip the lot of you! And you, Nwoye, I’ll leave you so mangled this time that you’ll beg for death!”
Jolie stood paralyzed, watching in mute disbelief. Her heart seemed stuck in her throat, and she couldn’t think of what to do. The Africans backed off a little, but stayed on their guard.
Hauste nodded to one of his henchman, who dismounted and strode over to Jolie, seizing her by her wrists. She expected to be hauled over to his horse and thrown onto the saddle, but instead he pulled her with him to the edge of the clearing. She soon understood his objective: the whipping post. She began to struggle, her mind desperately denying that any of this was happening.
Gasps of horror rose from the crowd of Africans as they too realized Hauste’s intent, and Vera burst forward, sobbing. She flung herself at the guard’s legs as he pulled Jolie toward the thick, solid post. Many of the slaves, men and women, surged forward then, but shrank back when another guard fired a musket over their heads.
Hauste cracked his whip at the slaves. “Get back, you beasts! Get back or you all take a turn at the post tonight!”
The guard managed to kick Vera away, bloodying her nose, and forced Jolie to the pole. He wrapped her arms around it and jerked a length of rope from his pocket to tie her wrists together.
