by Mari Labbee
Her chin rested on her hand as she looked out the window at Alexander standing under the fig tree, pulling on a pair of gloves, when his voice startled her.
“I gather we’re feeling better,” he said without looking up.
Eyes trained on his lanky frame, she wondered if he was speaking to her and straightened up.
He looked up then. “Strong enough to go riding?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
The smell of him was on her, and she didn’t want to wash it off. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she ran her hands along her firm, strong body, and thinking about the glorious day that she hadn’t wanted to see end.
Since arriving, she’d been left alone every night. Alexander closed himself off at the end of every day in the farthest wing of the house behind a locked door, and she dined alone every night in her room. But tonight would be different. He had asked, as a gentleman would, for the pleasure of her company at dinner. She played with her hair before the mirror, finally deciding to wear it up. And the hibiscus she had picked earlier, she pinned behind one ear. She pulled out the blue dress that fell just off her shoulders; it would display her long neck to best effect. They had given her two dresses and a pair of breeches to wear, since her own clothes had been lost in the shipwreck. It never occurred to her to ask where (or from whom) the clothes had come.
“Good evening,” she said, walking into the dining room.
Alexander turned and stared at her. His eyes followed the curve of her body and stopped at the flower just at the nape of her neck.
“Thank you for joining me, Indigo. You look lovely.”
He paused, still staring. “I thought we might dine outside. It’s a lovely night.”
“Oh, not in here?” she asked, disappointed that they wouldn’t be eating in the dining room with its beautiful long table and silver candelabra. She’d envisioned sitting at one end of the elegant table while he sat at the other. King and queen of the domain, everything as it should be.
“No,” he said, turning quickly.
Outside on the terrace, they took their seats at a small table. The night was balmy and clear. The days had slowly grown warmer since her arrival, and today it had been hot, but there was a breeze, and it felt delicious against her skin. Maybe outside was better.
They began their dinner of fish and plantains in silence, which followed for an awkward, almost uncomfortable, time until Alexander spoke.
“Have you had any luck with your memories?”
She needed to be careful, a careless lapse, and he would suspect.
She nodded. “No. I have tried, but all I can manage to recall is my name and little else beyond the morning I woke up on the beach. Dr. Burrows says that in time it will return.”
At the end of every examination, Dr. Burrows had declared that in time her memories would return. Alexander had heard this declaration multiple times already. She felt him watching her but wouldn’t look up to meet his eyes. Perhaps an offering might alleviate the curiosity and help her begin weaving the history she was entitled to rather than the one she’d had.
“Well,” she said, hesitating for effect, “there has been a spark or two of things that I imagine are from my life before, but I can make no sense of them or of the details surrounding any of it.”
He waited, and she continued.
“I have recalled a garden. Lovely, with rose bushes, tall as a child and fragrant like the spring. I see a vase on my bedside table where I have positioned a favorite chair by a window.”
“For reading perhaps?” he interjected.
“Yes, exactly. That is what I imagined. The light is always best by a window.”
He nodded in agreement, and she watched him as he thought about what she had just said. She hoped that he had recognized the hints she conveyed to insinuate her position as lady of the house. A vase filled with flowers, a chair by the window, a woman of leisure would remember these things. Did he believe her? It was hard to tell. Alexander’s placid face rarely gave away his thoughts, and he struggled with conversation, evidently not enjoying the effort it took. He struggled now.
“If I may,” Alexander offered, “in this image, are you able to see past the window to where you are? Is there a street or town you can recall?”
She thought of the beautiful London that she’d ventured into on those lonely days that seemed a lifetime ago. The streets, the gardens, the carriages, the people she watched and sometimes spoke to, all of it clear in her mind—but she did not speak like an Englishwoman.
“I cannot know for sure but…somehow I feel it might be somewhere in America.” She laughed lightly. “Oh Alexander, I wish I could be sure. I only know I cannot trust my own mind. I feel so foolish.”
He looked embarrassed. “I have forced you. Perhaps it is still too soon. Forgive me.”
She would forgive him anything. Saying his name was like honey on her tongue. He looked exceptionally handsome on this moonlit terrace beneath the vines curling around the arbors above them, and she allowed herself wine, knowing the effect it would have and desiring it.
They spoke of the plantation, a favorite subject of his and one he enjoyed talking about immensely. The light in his eyes as he spoke made that evident. She felt quite special too when he confessed how little he knew about tobacco before taking the reins of Fig Field, but he knew soil and knew he had a talent for growing things; tobacco is just another crop. Feed it what it wants, and it will grow. He made it sound so simple, but the three managers before him hadn’t managed that. He was special, and she guessed that, to an extent, he knew it.
The evening faded softly. Alexander sat back and pushed his cleared plate away. “Tomorrow we will need to go into town. We shall set off just after Johan and I go over the day’s tasks.”
We? He said we. Did he mean to take her with him? He always went alone or took one or two of the servants if there were supplies to pick up. But he said we as if to include her. His statement sounded a bit too much like an order for her liking, which instantly made her bristle, but that it was an invitation immediately quelled the anger. In any case, he didn’t notice the cascade of reactions and continued.
“The governor and his wife have asked about you and your recovery. They requested to meet you when you became well enough. And I would say you are well enough now.”
She wondered why they hadn’t already made the trip up to Fig Field like the others. Perchance it was because he was the governor; maybe that was as good as a king here; she couldn’t be sure but settled with that assumption. On the plantation, she had dispensed with wearing a corset and much of the usual underpinnings, preferring the breeches to the dresses, but a trip into town would require doing up the high collar; it would be expected.
“Of course, Alexander. I would love to meet the governor.”
With one tine of her fork, she daintily pierced the last piece of fleshy fish on her plate and brought it to her mouth. She was a brilliant mimic, and all night she had successfully imitated the good manners of a lady: never using her fingers, taking tiny bites, sipping instead of gulping—careful, being very careful. He was watching her every move, but he was distracted, she could tell. About what, she wondered. Could it be that the same thoughts running through her head were running through his? It was all she could do to stop herself from reaching across the table for him. He had poured them both full glasses of wine, and the sweet spirit had run through her, setting her on fire.
Alexander’s gaze was fixed on her, and she matched it, watching, as he slowly rose from his chair to make his way over to her. Standing behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to kiss the top of one shoulder; his lips were soft and hot, and she shuddered. As he moved to kiss her other shoulder, she leaned back to meet his kiss, pulling down the front of her dress as she did. Impatiently she took his hands and guided them down to her breasts. He moaned and kissed her hard.
This moment had been coming since she first set eyes on him that morning on
the beach. She wondered how it might happen, knowing that eventually it would, but needing him to lead the charge, needing him to take control, and now the moment was upon her—he was hers. His hands moved over her body hungrily, and his kiss was all-consuming. Suddenly, though, he stopped and pushed her away.
“No,” he said, stepping back, breathing fast and shallow. “Indigo, I take my leave.”
Without further explanation, he turned and was gone, leaving her under the arbor exposed and bewildered—the fire completely out of control now.
The road from Fig Field to New Quay was barely a cleared path. It hadn’t rained for several days, but the mud was still thick in places where the canopy never let the sun through, and the cart bounced roughly down the steep incline. She gripped the rail by her seat, cursing the wet heat that was strangling her. It didn’t help that she wanted to strangle Alexander, either. He hadn’t said one word about their night and acted as if nothing had happened between them the night before. He had talked, this morning, of tiresome things that she was not concerned with. Every bump they hit fueled her increasingly foul mood.
About halfway through their journey, an ear-piercing riot materialized above them, and the trees became filled with jewel-feathered birds. They scrambled, lightning quick, across the limbs high above with incredible balance—grooming and fluffing, pecking at each other playfully and territorially. Their shrieks were constant, and there was nothing musical about them. Still, it was a glorious pain, and she was instantly thrilled.
“What are they?” she asked.
Alexander grimaced as the shrieking surrounded them.
“Parrots. Macaws,” he responded with shoulders hiked up high and grimacing. “It’s become quite fashionable to own one back home, I understand, and they are worth quite a lot—if you can catch them.”
Fig Field had mice. She had always known rats. The asylum had had plenty, and London was quite familiar with them, but mice were small, and no bother to her. And there was the winged pestilence that grew bigger here than anywhere; the nets above the beds at Fig Field were the only defense against those. But now, looking at the chaos above them, she realized that what Fig Field was really missing, were parrots.
“Macaws,” Indigo repeated, liking their name, wondering what it would take to catch one.
The meeting with the governor was quick but rather formal, and a quarter hour after arriving at the ministry offices, they exited the somber gray building with the British flag flying atop it.
Past the government buildings, merchants lined one side of the street. On the opposite side was the port. There was a drinking pub at the very end of the dock. It was located far from the main road to ensure that no decent person might wander in by mistake in search of refreshment on a hot afternoon. Like its residents, the town tried mightily at refinement, falling just shy of it, but after the isolation of Fig Field, the bustle of a town was exciting.
Alexander brought the cart to a stop in front of one of the storefronts. A bold-lettered sign above the door proclaimed Stratman Ltd. Dry goods. He held the door open and gestured for her to step in ahead of him. The store was stacked floor to ceiling with cases of everything one could want: tools, fabric, soap, and paper. She was looking around when a man emerged from behind a curtain. A quite short, quite fat, quite bald little man scurried over to greet them, extending his hand as he came.
“Philip,” Alexander said, grasping the man’s hand.
“Alexander. How good to see you, dear fellow.”
They shook hands vigorously for a moment before the man turned to Indigo.
“And, Indigo, you are looking fine today. Alexander has told us of your progress, and I see he was not exaggerating.” The man took her hand and kissed it—for far too long—but she allowed it.
He looked up, staring longingly into her eyes. It took a moment before she recognized the little man. He had come to Fig Field the day after she arrived. She hadn’t remembered his name, but the ogling was unforgettable. Finally releasing her but still leering, he asked, “Have you remembered any more about what happened, dear?”
She answered softly and breathy, “No, I’m afraid not.”
The little man shook his head dramatically before turning back to Alexander.
“Such a tragedy. Has anything else washed up on the beach?”
Alexander nodded.
“Oh dear,” the little man said, flapping his hands at Indigo. “I suppose you are all alone in this world.”
She looked over at Alexander as if to say, No I’m with him, but Alexander was preoccupied and hadn’t been paying attention. The little man took it in stride; nothing could extinguish the perkiness.
“Victoria has just made us some tea; I should think you’d like some after that ride down.”
She couldn’t think of anything more vile in this heat, but Alexander nodded.
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
The little man led the way toward the back of the shop, talking all the while, where a flight of stairs would take them up to the second floor. Alexander sidestepped to allow her ahead of him, and as she passed him, he placed his hand on the small of her back for just a moment. She gripped the banister and wondered: was this something in the way of an apology? Well, she would not have it. There would have to be more if he was ever to touch her again.
The flat above the store was small, and if not for the windows that lay open to outside, it might have been oppressively hot. The air in there was close but sweet with the scent of flowers carried up into the room by sea breezes. Victoria had just set down a tea tray and cheerily greeted everyone. Indigo had yet to meet her; she had not been with her husband the day he visited. She was a bit shorter (if that were even possible) and just as plump as her little husband. Two dumplings in silk frocks, Indigo thought, almost laughing.
Victoria was as fussy as she looked. She fussed over the tea and fussed over Indigo and the men, and as she served Alexander and her husband, the woman cast sidelong glances at Indigo, who didn’t particularly care.
No doubt she is admiring my hands. Thought Indigo-that was to be expected. Her hands were her favorite feature, and she was fastidious about them.
Victoria, like all the others, was curious about the stranger with no memory living among them; it was fine by her.
The tea was hot, and the conversation was dull, filled with politics and business. The men sat across from each other, and Indigo sat across from Victoria next to one of the open windows where, blessedly, the breeze cooled the back of her exposed neck. The men eventually moved away to another corner of the room, talking of ships and guns. Maybe…she couldn’t be sure; only snippets reached her as she tried to follow Victoria, who was talking about things she knew she should be interested in—embroidery and the like—but wasn’t. Still, she nodded politely and acted interested as Victoria spoke. On it went, and she was lost in her own thoughts until Victoria uttered one word.
“Camille.”
“Who?” Indigo asked.
Victoria looked puzzled.
“Camille, my dear, your hostess.”
What had Victoria been saying? Who was this woman she was talking about? Indigo’s frown confused Victoria.
“Camille.” She paused. “Alexander’s wife.”
Everything went black.
Calmly, and hoping the surprise wasn’t evident, she responded, “Oh. Yes. Of course, Camille.”
“The poor dear.” Victoria shook her head and poured herself another cup of tea.
“All of us, especially Alexander, have been so distressed about her illness. Dr. Burrows has not been able to do anything for her. And day after day she just withers away.”
So Alexander had a wife, one he had never mentioned and kept hidden away. Her blood boiled, and Victoria’s high, chirpy voice fueled the fire inside.
“It all came on very suddenly, you know. She was out riding with Alexander on a spring day and fell. There were no broken bones, no hit to the head, nothing that could be foun
d. But from that day on, her body began weakening, the weakness progressing relentlessly with no explanation.” Victoria sighed dramatically and sipped tea before continuing.
“Well, all of us were deathly afraid, and Dr. Burrows called for a quarantine of the plantation, but Alexander wouldn’t leave, and neither he nor the servants at Fig Field became ill. Whatever condition has befallen poor Camille is not infectious, but it is a profound mystery.”
Indigo found her voice. “How long has she been ill?”
Victoria thought a moment. “Going on six months now. She has been wasting away that long, poor dear.” She gestured at Indigo’s cup. “Another?”
Indigo nodded. She would let the boiling hot liquid burn through her. A few interminable but enlightening hours later, they left the store.
The ride back to Fig Field was a silent affair. Indigo avoided looking at Alexander, wanting him to know how angry she was. But the effort was a waste of energy. He never noticed her distress. In fact, it appeared he had forgotten she was there; so lost was he in thought. This just made her angrier, and she was angry about so much, most of all that she had been a bribe for the fat little man. Philip Stratman was not only the island’s largest merchant but also the minister of trade, and good relations with him were necessary. Alexander had brought her along, knowing the fat little man would paw and leer at her. Fig Field’s popularity with the Crown and the exclusive contract it held had a lot to do with Philip Stratman.
The ride back was dustier, bumpier, and quieter; even the birds had flown off. To where? She wondered, but didn’t ask. Dinner that night was, not unexpectedly, a solitary affair. Alexander had locked himself away again—he was with her.
That night on one of her solitary walks by the long neglected greenhouse, she looked at the house and saw the light up on the second floor at the very end of the far-off wing.
