The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Mistress Kitty, Regina and Harding sat round the unlit fire in silence as if in three separate worlds of their own. A table between them held china teacups and a silver tea-service.

  Regina, dressed in a gold velvet gown and satin petticoat, poured the tea. Then she proceeded to help Mistress Kitty to drink from one of the delicate cups. In one hand she held the cup to the older woman’s lips. With the other hand she held a napkin ready to dab away any rivulets of tea that overflowed.

  Harding lit a pipe and sprawled back, glassily watching the smoke drift into the air. Mistress Kitty felt so worried about him she could not drag her eyes from his face. Several times she allowed tea to spill from her mouth and Regina had to catch it in the napkin and take great pains to dry her face.

  Kitty had never seen Robert look so unhappy. Her heart was sore for him. She longed to break from the prison of her failures and weaknesses and be of comfort and help to him. But she knew she could not.

  As soon as the tea ritual was finished, Regina said,

  ‘Time to go upstairs now.’

  She acquiesced thankfully. It was good to sink back into the feather nest of her bed and have Regina prop her pillows at exactly the right height and leave one of her favourite books conveniently beside the hand she was able to use. She was able to move both sides of her body more and more each day but her breathless turns still tended to plague and exhaust her.

  ‘Is there anything else you want?’ Regina asked.

  Kitty hesitated. Then with difficulty managed,

  ‘I’m worried about Robert.’

  Avoiding her eyes, Regina smoothed and tidied the bedcovers.

  ‘There’s no need. I must go now. I have things to attend to.’

  ‘Worried about Robert,’ Regina’s mind echoed sarcastically as she returned downstairs. If only Mistress Kitty knew. All Robert was out of countenance for was having his attentions rejected once and for all by Mistress Annabella. The last time she had been in Williamsburg she had met Nancy and Nancy had told her how Harding had called on Mistress Annabella after Mr Blackadder’s death and how Mistress Annabella had sent Harding storming away in a terrible temper and he had never written or returned since.

  Later, she’d bumped into Annabella and, after a few minutes’ polite small talk, Annabella had suddenly asked in a sad voice:

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘A crowd of French pigs raped me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘It’s better to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Better for who?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘I’ll never forget.’

  Annabella shrugged before moving on.

  ‘I pity you,’ she said.

  Harding was still in the drawing-room, his teeth clenched over the stem of his long white pipe. Then, unexpectedly, the overseer was ushered into the room. Harding laid aside the pipe.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ The overseer’s grubby skin and crushed clothes looked out of place in the immaculate room. At least Harding was always clean in his person and linen. ‘Big buck called Coolidge brought this letter for Mistress Chisholm.’

  Regina struggled to stifle an upsurge of anxiety.

  ‘That must be from my brother.’

  The overseer handed the letter to her and after being dismissed by Harding, left the room.

  She broke the seal and read under the date,

  ‘My dear Regina,

  Abigail and I are to be married in three days’ time. I hope Mr and Mrs Harding will allow you to attend the ceremony. It is being performed in Abigail’s old home (for we have a new home built ready for us to move into). The ceremony will take place at noon and will be followed by a feast and dancing in Mr Matleck’s barn. (Mr Matleck is a friend of Abigail’s father.)

  We had not expected to be able to marry so soon but everyone in the settlement helped with the building and furnishing of our house and I am so happy and eager to be wed.

  I hope you are well and happy too, Regina, and I look forward to seeing you.

  Your loving brother,

  Gav.’

  Regina passed the letter to Harding. His eyes skimmed over the paper then he returned it saying,

  ‘I planned to go tomorrow to collect some stores. You may travel with me.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘To your brother’s wedding?’

  ‘He’ll be happy enough without me there. And his Abigail will be even happier.’

  She could not prevent the note of bitterness entering her voice.

  Harding said,

  ‘Jealousy is an ugly emotion, mistress. It does not become you to be jealous of your brother’s happiness, or his young bride.’

  Never before in her life had Regina felt so furious. Rage flared up and flashed out before she could control it.

  ‘How dare you lecture me on what emotions I should or should not have. You, of all people!’

  He rose immediately from his chair, his hand shooting out and catching her by the wrist as she made to turn away. She cried out in pain at the hardness of his grip and the way it jerked her back round towards him.

  ‘Don’t you forget, Mistress Chisholm,’ he said, ‘that you are a servant in my house. You keep a respectful tongue in your head and you do as I say. And I say you travel with me to the settlement tomorrow. Now go and tell my wife and make the necessary arrangements for her welfare until we return.’

  As soon as she managed to wrench herself free, she swept from the room, up the stairs and along the corridor to Mistress Kitty’s bedroom. Once inside though, a fit of trembling like a fever took possession of her and she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Regina, my dear, my poor, dear girl,’ Kitty said.

  ‘I hate him. I hate him. He’s an animal.’

  ‘No, no.’

  Regina took a deep breath and lowered her hands. Her wrist was discoloured with bruised blood and it throbbed painfully.

  ‘We’re going to the settlement tomorrow but don’t worry, I’ll leave instructions for the slaves. You’ll be all right.’

  Tears trickled down Mistress Kitty’s face and noticing them, Regina hastened to dab at them with a towel from the wash-table.

  ‘There’s no need to distress yourself. We won’t be away for long. I didn’t want to go at all. It’s that brute who’s insisting.’

  For a minute Mistress Kitty’s mouth struggled to form words, then she gave up and closed her eyes. Regina smoothed and tidied the bedclothes before leaving the room to go and talk to the slaves.

  The kitchen was stifling. Heat blanketed out from the open fireplace. An iron swee was positioned over the blazing logs like a black arm. Hanging from it a kettle steamed and a large cooking pot kept erupting like an angry volcano. The door of the brick oven lay open and a sweating Callie Mae was retrieving a tray of scones. From a ceiling beam above the fireplace green herbs hung to dry. Beside them dangled yellow and rust coloured yarns that some of the other slaves had spun, dyed and woven.

  Regina wasted no time in issuing her instructions. The steam was marking her velvet gown and the heat was making it drag and cling, causing intense discomfort. As soon as possible she swept away from the kitchen building and back to the cool of the house.

  She was still furious with Harding. He hardly ever left her thoughts now. While sitting talking or reading to Mistress Kitty her mind’s eye followed his bull-shouldered figure as he strode along the path to his office or rode leisurely around the plantation. While she was busy on a piece of embroidery, the colours blurred until she could only see his face. While in the same room she stole furtive glances at him. She hated him. She had always hated him. But now the emotion was acquiring frightening proportions. His selfish, arrogant, cold, domineering, overpowering, animal presence was beginning to obsess her every waking moment. Even at night, lying in the narrow bed in the closet off Mistress Kit
ty’s room, listening to Mistress Kitty’s snores and the rustling and creaking of trees and the strange wild sounds echoing from the forest, the awareness of him was as strong as her own heartbeat, as close as her own breath.

  Gav felt proud and happy. Life was good. People were good. The people of the settlement made quite a frolic of house-raising and his had been no exception. The men and boys had helped him clear a good acre of forest. Then they lent a hand in the building of a sturdy two roomed log cabin. The women had made beef and vegetable stew and spoonbread to sustain the workers. Then, after the house had been completed, there had been much hilarity and singing and dancing in which everyone joined. They’d had tournament tilting as well. Several wooden hoops had been hung from a crossbar in the clearing in front of the gaol. Then some of the young bucks, himself included, had mounted their horses, levelled a lance and at full gallop tried to run it through a hoop and tear it free. He had freed the most hoops and so gained the right to name Abigail ‘The Queen of Love and Beauty.’

  Now he was going to marry Abigail. He could hardly believe his good fortune. And when he saw Regina emerge through the trees his happiness was complete. She came slowly, a slim yet awesome figure in a velvet riding coat the colour of chocolate and a cold, expressionless face.

  Beside her rode Mr Harding.

  Mr Harding wished him well and in a rush of courage, born of his great happiness, he invited the planter to join in the festivities if he’d a mind to. To his surprise and delight Mr Harding accepted and soon everyone was crowding around Abigail’s father’s house and the ceremony was being performed. Only a few people could be accommodated inside. Those included Mr Harding and Regina. They sat staring in front of them with an odd kind of intensity that seemed to have little to do with Abigail and him.

  Afterwards in the barn, however, they feasted and drank copiously with the rest and soon lost much of their seriousness. Then later, when the dancing was in full swing, he saw Regina whirl round and round with Mr Harding in wild abandonment. Regina had always been a person of frightening extremes. He thanked God that Abigail was such a sensible, well-balanced, natural kind of girl. You always knew where you stood with Abigail.

  The dancing went on until morning but by that time a party of young ladies had taken Abigail up a ladder to the loft and put her to bed there. A delegation of young men then took him up. Then there was the ceremony of throwing the stocking. The bridesmaids stood in turn at the foot of the bed with their backs towards it. In that position and with much giggling, they threw a rolled stocking at the bride. The groomsmen in their turn, aimed at the groom and the first one to succeed in hitting the mark was supposed to be the next one married.

  He had not seen Regina and Mr Harding leave but he’d been told afterwards that they had collected their stores and ridden away followed by their wagon and slaves.

  He hoped Regina would come and visit him once he and Abigail got settled in their own home. It wouldn’t be as grand a place as no doubt she had become accustomed to, but as well as working in the store, he would plant and care for flax and corn and vegetables and eventually fruit trees on his land, claiming more space from the forest as he needed it. Abigail would cook and bake and make soft soap and dip candles and spin and weave. They would create a comfortable and happy home. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. And he often thought how lucky it was that fate had led him to this big, exciting country where so much was possible.

  The drinking and the dancing had flung Regina’s mind into turmoil. Even the silent journey through the forest had done nothing to quieten and soothe her emotions. It had been raining and the sparkling moisture gave a fresh and alive feeling in the dense, virgin woods. The leaves were a vivid, translucent green from which water dripped slowly, suddenly in heavy splashes. Bird song trilled high in the trees. Wet, earthy smells titillated the nostrils. Excitement vibrated in the air. As they went deeper, as it became darker, she was aware of animals lurking soundlessly in the shadows. Shadows closed in all around. And all the time as her body undulated to the rhythm of the horse, warm and strong against her flesh, she was aware of Harding riding beside her, not saying anything, not even looking at her. His presence, especially in that dark wild place, became a torment to her.

  She hated him. His ability to cut himself off, to be completely independent and self-sufficient frightened her. He had had a weakness for Annabella but he had soon hardened that weakness away. She felt unsafe and insecure. Her whole existence had come to depend on this man, was painfully entangled with his, like the roots of the trees that surrounded and shut off Forest Hall from the rest of the world.

  The house was waiting for them on the edge of the wilderness like a white skull, its windows black sockets. It was as if long ago it had been abandoned. Yet she felt more than ever that it was a part of her, that she belonged to the place, and it belonged to her.

  Inside, Harding’s wife slept. Regina stood at the end of the four poster bed and stared at the woman through the ghostly grey of the mosquito net. What a useless creature Kitty Harding was. A mere wrinkle of skin and bone beneath the coverlet, her balding head with its few dry wisps of hair hardly denting the pillow. This was the mistress of Forest Hall? It was so unfair. This creature did nothing for Forest Hall. And she was certainly no use to her husband. She did not even understand him. Her loyalty to him, or to the imaginary picture she treasured of him, was pathetic. Robert Harding was an arrogant and ruthless man. He wanted only two things of a woman; a son to carry on his name and gratification of his animal passions. That was his weakness. It hadn’t been love for Annabella. He wasn’t capable of love. He had felt only lust for Annabella’s body. Granted, Annabella was very beautiful and could incite the passions of most men but the thought edged cautiously into her head—couldn’t her own beauty match Annabella’s? Hadn’t she been much admired while working in the store? The implications of this fact in relation to Harding were now inescapable. There could be no doubt of what she must do. By pandering to his lust she must make herself indispensable to him. She must set out to attract him, not repel him. Then one day, because Mistress Kitty could not possibly drag out her pathetic life for much longer, she could be mistress of this house.

  As she undressed and put on a flimsy robe, triumph made her shiver, yet at the same time she felt sick with fear. The candles in the hall lent a feeble light and as she stopped and listened at the drawing-room for the clink of Harding’s whisky glass, the gold of her robe had a metallic glimmer. She opened the door and went in. The room was empty. The curtains had been drawn and a fire glowed in the hearth sending exploratory red fingers over the sandy grain of the books, the silky sheen of the upholstery, and the burnished copper of her hair. The brass face of the tall clock in the corner matched her robe. She lit a candle.

  Harding would be down for his glass of whisky, she was sure. He always came into the drawing-room for a drink before retiring. Panic nearly overcame her and caused her to fly back upstairs. Childhood terrors returned. She was trapped in the hole-in-the-wall bed struggling hysterically against the French soldiers.

  She had a sudden ridiculous longing to rush to Mistress Kitty’s room and cling to her for comfort and protection as, long ago, before even the animal soldiers, she had found comfort and protection from her mother. After the soldiers there had been no one. No mother, no comfort, no hope. She had been alone, all the time fighting for survival, fighting to protect herself. And she was alone now.

  She was standing beside the bookshelves holding a book and trying to stop her fingers trembling as she turned the pages, when Harding entered. She did not look round until the whisky bottle clinked and splashed against his glass. When she did will herself to turn, he was standing with his back to the fire, legs apart, a glass in one hand and his other hand hooked in the top of his breeches. He had discarded his coat, waistcoat and neckcloth and wore only tight buff-coloured breeches and a white shirt hanging open to his waist showing brown skin and black hair.

&n
bsp; She forced herself to meet his eyes, deep-set and tawny-streaked, containing only darkness and danger like those of a wild animal. She thought she would die with terror. She remembered the strength of him as he had whirled her round and round in the wedding dance. She wanted to run from the room. But somehow she could not even look away. At last he said,

  ‘Come here.’

  Conscious of her thin robe and how it revealed the contours of her body, she managed to carry her terror across the room and stand helplessly in front of him.

  He took a mouthful of whisky, savoured it in his mouth without taking his eyes from her and then flicked the loosely tied belt at her waist. Her robe slithered open. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No protests?’ He finished the whisky and laid aside the glass. She didn’t move, just stared up at him. He smiled his cold smile at her. ‘No modest fumblings?’ One hand slid round the back of her neck. ‘No struggles?’ His fingers entwined in her hair, painfully twisting it, straining her head to one side. ‘No fighting to defend your honour?’ He pulled her against him until their bodies touched.

  She moaned at the feel of him and passion that was even stronger than hatred engulfed her. She was no longer in control of her actions. Nor did she have any understanding of them. Her fingers clawed him closer to her as if every inch of her body was thirsting for the touch of him. She cried out in surprise and terror and ecstasy as his lips met hers and his tongue forced its way deep into her mouth. Then he swung her into his arms and carried her out of the room and upstairs.

  Mistress Kitty heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs, heard the door of Robert’s bedroom kicked open, heard the noisy creaking of his bed, heard Regina’s cries and moans. Then silence. Mistress Kitty wept. At the same time she tried to feel glad that Robert and Regina had found fulfilment. But she felt lonely and lost. Tomorrow she would be all right though. She would be all right. Regina and Robert would come to see her. They would take care of her. They had always been so good and kind. Lying like a ghost under the mosquito net in the four poster bed in the cluttered room in the stillness of the house, Mistress Kitty sobbed, ‘Dear Regina. Dear Robert. They deserve each other.’