by Erica Brown
‘Viola Bianca,’ he said softly.
Myriad memories came flooding back: her naked pride when he’d first seen her; the warmth of her body next to his on the many nights they’d slept together, her brazen flamboyance; the way she’d made him laugh; and her generosity to her relatives, some of whom she employed as servants.
Viola’s half-brother, Merrill, he now recalled was one of those servants and had had a host of children. Samson Jones was his grandson.
He couldn’t help but brush a tear from the corner of his eye. Viola had meant everything to him and thinking of her stopped him feeling afraid. If only she was here. She’d take care of the menacing crowd and send them packing with a rain of hard slaps and a flurry of shouted oaths. Suddenly he felt totally lost, totally alone.
‘Now do you see?’ said Samson, his eyes dark as he studied Otis Strong, off-shoot of a family that had ruled over a large part of Barbados for three generations.
Carefully, almost reverently, Otis folded the paper back into three sections. Why couldn’t he remember signing this? The answer was obvious. He’d been drunk and Viola had persuaded him. Or perhaps she’d forged his signature?
Swiftly, aware of a rumbling resentment in the sweating bodies pressed around him, he undid the paper again, brought it close to his face, studied the signature again and realized the truth. A little drunk he might have been, but he’d signed willingly.
The question was, why now? ‘You’ve taken a long time coming forward with this,’ he said pointedly to Samson, drawing himself up as tall as he could and doing his best to seem brave.
Samson smiled. ‘My grandfather died just two months ago. He’d hoped my cousin Blanche would come back and see that the land would pass over peacefully. But she ain’t come back, so now we wants what’s ours.’
Otis was too frightened to ask how the paper had come into the hands of a group of maroons. Some had been freed, owned land and had infiltrated certain lower echelons of officialdom on the island, and were not easily trifled with. They had a certain status, a little education and knew their rights.
‘I wish to share my inheritance with people in need,’ said Samson as though he had read Otis’s mind.
Barbados had turned ugly for Otis Strong. Viola had died and left him lonely. His wife Emily – whom he’d learned to tolerate – had become susceptible to mood swings and was best left alone. God knows what she would have to say about this. Worst of all was the thought of facing his family – especially his brother Emmanuel – and telling him what he’d done in a moment of drunken debauchery. All his life he had swum in the wake of his ruthless father and equally ruthless brother. As the second son, he had always felt less than perfect. Although he had strived to be like them, he’d never quite made it. Sometimes he’d envied his younger brother Jeb. Third in line for everything, Jeb had been true to himself, never emulating anyone and mostly mocking of both his father and his eldest brother. If only he’d joined the church like Jeb.
Samson roused him from his thoughts. ‘I want this sorted out, Mr Strong! I want this sorted out now!’
The crowd around him shouted in support. Otis felt his knees giving out as he eyed the ugliness in their faces. Suddenly he could not go on. He could not help but give into them because he feared them. Year by year the descendants of people who had once lived and died in the cane fields were becoming more powerful. Before long, he decided, they would rule the island and the British would go home — or die where they stood.
‘I can do nothing tonight,’ Otis began, his voice weak as his feelings of helplessness and his fear of facing Emmanuel intensified. ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will attend to this. I promise.’
A murmur of disapproval ran through the crowd like a low rumbling of thunder. For a moment Samson’s big, brown eyes were wide with suspicion. His face was so shiny with sweat it seemed to be moulded from glass.
Otis held his breath, surrendering to his fate, his decision made about what he should do next once Samson had agreed – if he agreed. If not, they’d probably kill him here and now.
At last Samson’s expression changed. ‘Tomorrow. We will be back tomorrow.’
Feeling defeated and worn-out, Otis walked slowly back to the house. He’d shamed his family. He had to recognize the legal document. There was no doubt it would stand up in law. Emmanuel would be furious and he would be dragged home. Bristol was like a nightmare, a place he had no wish to remember. It was Barbados he loved. Here he could gaze at the sea and the stars and dream of the days that used to be when Viola was with him.
He’d been walking with his eyes fixed on the ground. When he looked up, his heart almost stopped beating. At first it seemed as if the house were on fire until he realized it was only the reflection of receding torchlight, ebbing like a fiery tide along the road back to Bridgetown.
Accompanied by a number of house servants, Emily stood waiting in the hall, her presence as cold as the black and white tiles that covered the floor. Her hair was tucked up under a lace-edged cap and although it was close to bedtime, she was still dressed, her demeanour as rigid as her whalebone corset and the frame of her skirt.
‘The militia must be sent for or we’ll be killed in our beds,’ she said, her voice an odd monotone, bereft of emotion.
Otis was staring at the floor, wishing he wasn’t here, wishing he could turn back the clock and sit sipping fruit juice with Viola, the love of his life, who had instinctively known when to stay silent and when to ask questions, when to make love, and when to stroke his ego, which, for the most part, had been dented all his life.
‘Go to bed,’ he said, his voice low and his head still bowed.
Emily ignored him and barked at a servant. ‘Godfrey! Go for the militia. Tell them to come straight away.’
Godfrey, a thin-shouldered man with a large head that seemed too big for his body, leapt to obey.
‘No!’ Otis held up his hand, almost as though it were an axe about to come down on someone’s head. ‘No! Go to bed. All of you!’
Even the servants looked surprised, eyeing each other as if needing confirmation that this was the same Otis Strong they’d always known.
Oblivious to any change in him or any unease in their servants, Emily said, ‘They should be—’
‘Go to bed!’
Seeing that her husband had, for once, stood by his decision, Emily sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh well, if you wish. What does it matter if we are dead tomorrow? Who’s going to know? Who’s going to care?’
She shooed the servants away, fetching the nearest, a small boy kept to shine shoes, a quick clip around the ear. ‘You heard your master. Off with you!’
‘You too,’ Otis mumbled.
Emily frowned. It wasn’t done for a family member to give orders to another member while the servants were still around. ‘Not in front of the servants, Otis, I am your wife after all and it just isn’t done—’
Otis raised his head suddenly and glared at her, all the pent-up detestation showing in his eyes and the grim way he spoke. ‘Get out of my sight, woman! Leave me alone!’
Emily opened her mouth to protest at his treatment then thought better of it. She tossed her head, which might have been coquettish when she was young, but nowadays it made her jowls tremble and the veins stand out on her throat. ‘Very well. We’ll talk in the morning.’ With that, she stalked up the stairs to her own bedroom, at the opposite end of the house to the one Otis occupied.
Otis slumped in a chair for a while, as the butler walked around softly, bolting and barring windows and doors, dousing candles and oil lamps, before retiring.
Emily was a difficult woman and he’d always had trouble conversing with her, but tonight she had said something very poignant indeed. Who would miss them if they were killed in their beds? The answer was no one. They had no children and didn’t love each other. The only woman he’d ever loved was gone. There was only Rivermead, and such was his love for Viola that he’d inadvertently signed away a portion of it. Emmanuel
would be furious, and quite rightly so. Otis was mortified. There was nothing left for him to love except memories.
The house creaking around him as it settled for the night finally roused him from memories of the past and thoughts of those he had loved.
After wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands, he looked towards the windows and the moonlit garden beyond. Was it his fancy, or did he see someone waving at him from around the frangipani tree? He thought he saw a flash of mauve, though it could have been mist. He chose to think otherwise, opened the door and went out.
The mauve mist seemed to hover briefly then disappear some way ahead of him. He didn’t know how long he followed before it vanished into the whitewashed house with the green tin roof that looked out towards the cane fields and the hills in one direction, and the sea in the other.
When the mist reappeared, it seemed to be hanging like a veil beneath the moon. A gleaming path of light shone over the sea from the shore to the moon.
Tears streaming down his face, Otis ran to the beach – and then he saw her, he was sure it was her, standing at the end of the glowing path, just below the moon and above the sea.
‘Viola!’ Her name was no more than a breath in his mouth. The past and his memories were preferable to the present and even the future and he wanted them back – most of all, he wanted Viola.
Without undressing, he waded into the sea, the warm water drawing him like a lover’s arms further and further towards the moon where it hovered above the distant horizon.
Chapter Twenty Two
It came as a shock to hear that Silas Osborne had lost his mind.
‘Damn!’ shouted Tom, his hands on his waist, his jacket flying out behind him as he paced the room.
Horatia sat white as a sheet, staring at nothing in particular. ‘What do we do?’ she said.
Tom shook his head. ‘It certainly puts everything in perspective.’
‘It certainly does,’ said Horatia, clasping and unclasping her hands.
Earlier that morning, Rupert had lied for her. He’d told Tom about the ship launch and said the reason it hadn’t been named Miriam Strong was that the nameplate was late in coming so no one knew what to name her. It was suggested that the name be changed regardless of the launch. Tom pointed out that to change a ship’s name once she was launched was unlucky.
The news about Silas Osborne overshadowed everything.
Tom sighed heavily. ‘I suppose if I’m to escape the gallows, I have to go to Barbados, though I can’t say I’m looking forward to the prospect.’
Horatia was sitting like a coiled spring, waiting for the opportunity. ‘Not even if I come?’
Tom smiled at her. ‘You’ve been good to me, Horatia. I can never thank you and your brothers enough for all you’ve done.’
Horatia wasn’t happy at sharing his gratitude with her brothers, but she’d put up with it for now. His smile made her heart leap and she could never remember him being so warm towards her as he had been of late. She smiled back. What a joy it was to mean something to him. And all because of a boy named Clarence Ward. She hoped he was never found.
A thought seemed to cross his mind, causing the corners of his mouth to turn down. ‘I was looking forward to running my own fleet out of Bristol.’
‘We can start one in Barbados,’ Horatia blurted. ‘Or even Boston.’ She’d been thinking about this ever since Monk had stated Tom’s chances of being tried for murder.
Tom smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘I have one ship. You have one ship. It’s hardly enough.’
‘I have money,’ she said, a look of promise in her eyes.
‘Surely not enough.’
She smiled. ‘Oh yes, I do. It’s just a case of realizing my assets – brick and stone assets in case you were thinking otherwise.’
He ran his eyes over her. ‘The assets I see before me are quite outstanding.’
Horatia reached out and caressed his cheek. He caught her fingers, kissed her palm, then each of her knuckles.
Horatia felt as if her body was unravelling, trying to become liquid in order to get outside of her stays and the layers of petticoat that girded her loins.
‘I’m going to buy you a fleet,’ she said, her dress ballooning out around her as she sank to her knees and looked up into his face. ‘I’m going to sell my properties and buy you a fleet of steamships.’
Tom stared at her in disbelief. Her offer amazed him. ‘You’d do that for me?’
‘Of course I would. You should know that.’
He smiled. ‘You’re a very clever woman, Horatia Strong.’
She smiled back. ‘I know, but I’ve proved my point.’
He’d never seen her so soft and had never felt so vulnerable. Blanche had rejected him and rightly so. In the past he’d resisted Horatia’s advances, but not any more.
The moment sang like a nightingale and still echoed in their ears when their lips met. He ran his hands up her neck, caressed her jaw.
She leaned forward, her breast filling his hand, rising and falling rapidly with her breathing.
The feel, the smell, the look of her aroused him. He couldn’t deny that. So why shouldn’t he let himself go? Why shouldn’t he give her what she wanted? He knew how she felt. He’d always known.
Her hand was on his thigh when they parted, both breathless and flushed with promise.
Horatia rose to her feet. ‘I’m going to sell my assets as quickly as possible.’
‘And how will you do that?’
Slowly, she let his hands slip from her grasp and headed for the door. ‘I’ll take the quickest route of all,’ she exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘I shall sell everything – except the Mathilda – to my father.’
The swiftness with which she thought things through left him breathless. He smiled and shook his head in amazement, finding himself admiring her once again.
She looked piqued. ‘Trust me, Tom. All this talk of hanging will be left behind. We’ll be happy,’ she said before she left to see Sir Emmanuel. ‘I promise you we’ll be happy.’
It didn’t occur to him until she’d gone that he might not have fully understood the meaning of what she was offering. Were they to leave the country as loosely related cousins, or did she have something more intimate and binding in mind?
Cross that bridge when you come to it, he decided. In the meantime, go along with her plans. After all, what choice do you have?
* * *
Emmanuel sat numbly in a chair, staring at nothing in particular and belching loudly on account of the brandy he’d consumed. Although it was barely mid-morning, he’d already polished off the entire contents of the decanter. Drinking too much had become a frequent habit, a form of escape from truths he didn’t wish to face or memories too painful to remember.
When Horatia found him, he was still sitting, solid and unmoving, his face marbled with pink veins. As she entered, the mantel clock – an ornate affair of white Dresden with a bright brass face – struck eleven.
‘I want to sell all my assets. In order to do this quickly, I think it will be best if you buy them.’
Emmanuel sat unmoving at first, then slid his eyes sidelong.
Presuming his lack of response was due to drink, she carried on.
‘Septimus Monk has advised that Tom leave the country. Barbados would be safest, though Tom favours Boston, but neither of us is sure about his welcome from his former-in-laws. I prefer Barbados. The law is more forgiving of crimes committed by white men in the West Indies. Before I dispose of my assets, I would like you to write to Uncle Otis. Ask him if he could locate a decent house for us. I understand he may not want relatives living with him at Rivermead. Convince him that we have no intention of interfering in the running of the plantation. Explain if you like, the reasons for us coming and our determination to build up the Strong Shipping Line as an adjunct to sugar, not as a rival or a replacement.’
Horatia stopped pacing. She was used to her father being too drunk to ta
ke in what she was saying, but he usually gave some kind of response. Today there was none.
Horatia looked down at him and frowned. She sniffed. Yes, of course he was drunk. The smell of brandy was on his breath, on his clothes and seeping with the sweat from his pores. His mouth hung open. He turned to look at her. His eyes were utterly blank. Slowly he raised his hand and held out a piece of paper – a letter. Horatia took it and began to read. As the news hit her, she sank into a chair.
Her Uncle Otis was dead, and what was worse, it was hinted in the letter that he’d taken his own life. According to the solicitor, he had walked into the sea and his body had been found the next morning when a group of fishermen had hauled in their catch. He had been hanging in their net, dripping, dead and chilly white.
‘Why?’ she whispered.
She scanned the letter again. There had been an uprising in Barbados and many maroons – the peasant farmers, descendants of freed slaves – and plantation workers had been killed or injured. The plantation was being run by the estate manager who had also sent a letter. It was this letter that captured Horatia’s attention:
… I am running the plantation in fit manner, though Mrs Strong refuses to let me have sight of papers I deem necessary to the running of the estate. She insists the house is private property and that she will shoot me if I try to enter. In truth, I fear for her sanity. She has not been well for some years now, though Mr Strong would not have her put away…
‘Good God!’ Horatia threw back her head and closed her eyes. Her uncle’s wife was going mad.
On opening her eyes, the sight of her father’s recumbent figure, his round belly rising and falling, made her angry.
‘Well, Father,’ she said, bending over the back of his chair, her chin almost resting on his head, ‘what a wonderful family are we Strongs! Your brother has drowned himself, your sister-in-law is mad, one of your sons depends on opium to get him through the day and you yourself depend on drink. Could it be that the sins of the fathers are coming home to roost?’
