Arriving by the perimeter of the cluster though, the boy hid himself behind the large trunk of a tree and stared for some time at the pitiful sight before him. At the center of an opening on the muddy bank of the stream, two black men sat side by side in stocks. At least, one of them sat. The other, the larger and older of the two, lay back on the wet ground, one arm draped across his face.
The younger man wore no shirt, and Jamey could see why he was sitting. His back glistened with blood from a whipping he must have received not very long ago. The boy felt his stomach turn over at the sight of the open wounds. The other man had a shirt on, but as Jamey stared, the man moved his arm. His face was misshapen, no doubt from countless beatings, but what was worse, the boy could see he had no ears. It looked to him as though they had been cut off long ago, for the scars were long healed. The boy stared hard at the face, so wretched and old and lost.
Watching them he felt the anger seething within him.
Chickens pecked about in the yard, stirred up occasionally by two little children who chased them with sticks, while pigs and goats rooted about outside of small fenced vegetable gardens. Jamey could see a young man with a twisted foot in an open tanner’s hut, scraping the hide of a sheep. Lines of clothing were visible on a small knoll beyond the last cottage, and as the boy watched, a woman came out of the cottage and carried a bucket down to the stream.
On her return, she looked around and then quickly strode to the stocks. Pulling a half-loaf of bread from her blouse, she dropped in the lap of the sitting man. Producing a wooden cup from the same place, she dipped it into the bucket and handed it to him, hurrying on without a word.
The boy sent a prayer heavenward, and then continued to look for his friend. Set off from the others, by the hut closest to a path that Jamey figured must lead toward Melbury Hall, he could see piles of stacked wood. Moving along a ditch, he slowly worked his way toward the hut. When he was fairly close, he peeked up over the embankment.
Israel was busy at work, chopping wood that had been sawed into fireplace lengths. Sitting on a broad section of tree trunk, a white man of advancing years sat smoking a pipe and talking continually at the boy. Jamey remained where he was until the man stood up, stretched, and—with a final word of direction to Israel—walked up the path toward the Hall.
As soon as he was gone, Jamey picked up a piece of bark off the ground and threw it to where Israel was piling wood. The other boy’s head came up instantly. The flesh around Israel’s hazel eyes was still swollen from his beating two days earlier. He looked around nervously as he trotted toward the woodpile.
“What are you doing here?”
“I went to the cottage in the forest yesterday…and then again today, but you never showed up.” Jamey let himself be pulled back behind a tree, away from the huts. “I was worried.”
Israel looked up the path. “You shouldn’t have come here. If I am caught talking to you…”
“I’ll take the blame,” Jamey said. “They won’t do anything to me. And wait until I tell Mr. Clarke about the two men I saw in the stocks. The people at Solgrave know nothing of what is happening here…I’m sure of it.”
“Stay,” Israel pleaded, putting his hand on Jamey’s arm. “You mustn’t say anything. The more you say, the rougher things will become for us.”
Jamey opened his mouth to argue, but Israel’s frown and quick gesture toward the path silenced him. The two crouched behind a pile of brushwood.
A moment later, a thin, well-dressed woman glided silently into the opening, stopping by the pile of wood that Israel had been working on earlier. She lay a gloved hand on a stack of wood and glanced about searchingly.
“Who is that?” Jamey whispered.
“Lady Wentworth!” Israel mouthed. “She is the squire’s wife.”
As the two of them watched, she suddenly sank onto the stump the old man had been sitting on, and covered her face with her hands.
Jamey could see she was crying. “What’s wrong with her?”
Israel didn’t answer and just shrugged, staring with a frown at the weeping woman. At one point, Jamey thought his friend was going to leave their hiding place and go to her. As Israel began to stand up, though, Jamey touched his arm, stopping him.
Lady Wentworth didn’t remain there for too long, though. Just as Jamey was beginning to get that pins and needles feeling in his legs, the woman wiped her face with a lace handkerchief. Standing up, she turned and disappeared again into the woods.
Israel was on his feet as soon as the woman was gone.
“She doesn’t look like a cruel mistress.”
Israel shook his head. “She isn’t!”
“What’s wrong with her?” Jamey asked again, his curiosity eating him up.
“What’s wrong with any of us?” Israel answered, unconsciously raising his hand to his bruised cheek. “What’s wrong with Jonah? Why must he be whipped and placed in the stocks without reason? And what of old Moses? He has already lost his wits from too many beatings…why put him in the stocks over and over?”
This was the first time that Jamey had seen Israel’s temper rise, and he felt his friend’s hurt and anger fuse with his own.
“Squire Wentworth is the cause of it all, isn’t he?”
Without answering, Israel moved away from their hiding place and went back to his job of piling wood. Jamey followed him. “I’ll tell Lord Stanmore about this—about these beatings. He’ll do something about it.”
“No white man will do a thing about us. No white woman either.” He pointed in the direction that Lady Wentworth had disappeared. “She wants to help. But she cannot. So what does she do? She cries. She comes here and tends to our wounds and then goes away again to London as soon as she can.”
“Stanmore will be different!” Jamey defended his earlier statement. “My tutor told me what he is trying to do in Parliament. He is trying to put a stop to the stealing away of people from their own homes. He is a good man, Israel. He will…“
“If he is such a good man, then why don’t you want him for a father?” Israel’s hazel eyes flashed with challenge as he faced Jamey. “If you think he is so noble, then why do you try to run away from him?”
Jamey suddenly found himself lost for words. There were things that he could say. Arguments he’d used before. But none of it seemed important in light of the differences in the lives that he and Israel led. His complaints seemed so petty compared to the suffering his new friend faced.
“I asked you before…I beg you now,” Israel’s voice was gentle again as he spoke. “Do not mention any of this to anyone. Not to your tutor. Not to your mama. And not to Lord Stanmore.”
***
Squire Wentworth pushed the correspondence away on his desk and looked up at his bailiff.
“They’re promising me thirty-five slaves before harvest. Have you given any thought as to where you shall put them?”
“Aye, sir. When we know we’ll have them, sure, we can evict Shaw and his lot from the east vale. That’ll house a dozen. The rest can put up shacks at the southern end of the Grove, or cozy into the existing huts. After the slave-ships, they’ll seem like palaces, I’d wager.”
Wentworth frowned. “Doesn’t the southern end flood in the spring?”
“Aye, so they tell me.” Mickleby shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But does it really matter, squire?”
“Only in that I don’t wish to spend the time or the money rebuilding the bloody houses every spring.”
“I’ll have the dirty buggers put ‘em up on high enough ground, squire.”
“Very well, then.” Wentworth closed the books before him and rose to his feet. “And you’ll have enough work for them.”
“Aye. They’ll earn their keep.” The bailiff smiled, stepping back and watching his employer come around the desk. “’Tis fine seeing you in such good spirits, squire, if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”
“Don’t mind at all, Mickleby. It is good having a cha
nge of scenery in the house now and again.” The squire’s face darkened abruptly. “Now get out to the south barns. Those black bastards are surely robbing me blind this very minute.”
***
The afternoon sun was still bright when Millicent Wentworth glided quietly into the parlor. The squire, playing whist with Lady Nisdale, didn’t look up from the cards, but Louisa arched a thin eyebrow as she took in the wife’s appearance. Millicent knew her shoes were wet, as was the hem of her dress. Even if her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, though, she cared not. What was the point of hiding such things from this guest?
“You are a forbidding sight, my dear!” Louisa shook her head. “The lady of the manor looking less composed than a pantry maid…scandalous, I’m sure!”
Millicent clutched the back of the nearest chair and ignored the woman’s insult. She kept her gaze fixed instead on her husband.
“Wentworth, I am surprised at you,” Louisa taunted, reaching over and affectionately patting the man’s free hand on the table. “In London, everyone praises your influence on your simple wife in matters of style, but here…”
“Sir, I need to speak with you.” Millicent interrupted the other’s condescending speech. “Alone!”
“Later.” Wentworth said dismissively without looking up from his cards. A knowing smile broke across Louisa’s lips. “It is your play, my pet.”
“Ah!” Louisa withdrew her hand and pouted at the cards. “But this distraction has caused me to forget what’s been played.”
She might as well not exist, Millicent thought bitterly, feeling anger and fear coiling simultaneously around her heart. This very afternoon, she’d stood and watched her husband disappear into their guest’s bedchamber, totally disregarding her presence in the corridor or the presence of two passing servants.
Not that she cared anything about his disgusting sexual liaisons, Millicent thought, as tears welled up uncontrollably in her eyes. True, treating her brutally and disdainfully and with complete lack of discretion was foul and villainous. But to treat their workers in such a way. Even knowing what would follow, she forced herself to persist in her desire for an audience with him.
“Wentworth! I need to speak with you. This is important.”
Perhaps it was the change in her tone—one that she’d never dared to use with her husband—that got his attention. She trembled uncontrollably as the man’s hand visibly fisted and his glare flashed threatening toward her.
His cool tone belied the fury she could see in his eyes. “I am not accustomed to having my commands ignored.”
Louisa glanced from one to the other before laying her cards casually on the table and rising slowly to her feet. “I think I shall take a walk in the gardens before readying myself for this evening.”
“Stay a while, my pet,” Wentworth ordered, clasping Louisa by the wrist and gently pulling her around the table until she stood beside his chair.
It was impossible not to see her husband’s hand slip possessively around the woman’s generous hips as he gazed haughtily at Millicent.
“You have one minute.”
Millicent was almost relieved to realize that her anger did not increase at this insolence, but remained focused on the injustice that she’d witnessed in the Grove.
“During my walk this afternoon, I found Jonah and Moses in stocks. Jonah was…“
“Louisa,” Wentworth interrupted, turning sideways in his chair and pulling their guest onto his lap. “Did I ever tell you about the arrangement between my wife and I?”
“Jonah had been whipped!” Millicent raised her voice. “I want to know why!”
“Unlike you, my pet, my wife abhors my touch.” He ran a finger on the edge of the low neckline of the dress and tugged down. One pink tip peeked out.
“Not now, Wentworth!” Louisa’s face turned a shade of red with obvious embarrassment. She placed her hands on his shoulders to push out of his grasp. But his strong grip on her waist kept her where she was. He pressed his lips on the ivory flesh of her breast. She pushed his face away.
“No reason to fret, Louisa,” he said with a short laugh. “She will go soon.”
“Stop it, Wentworth.” Louisa snapped, shoving harder this time and breaking free. She pulled her dress up in place as she took a step back.
“Actually, I am not astonished that you object to her watching us, considering…” He still kept his gaze on Louisa as she ran her hands up and down her arms as if warding off a chill. “….considering my wife’s sordid taste in men. But I would never dream of bringing her into our bed as we brought in that…what was her name?”
“There has never been any other man,” Millicent cried out in disbelief. She stared for a moment. “Was this the reason for those poor men’s beating?”
“She favors the slaves, you know. Everyone knows. She goes into the park and allows the Africans to have their way with her. Last year, in fact, she tried to give birth to a bastard…”
“That is a lie!” Tears again rushed down Millicent’s face. “That child was yours…a child you forced on me. If you had believed me…if you hadn’t beaten me…losing him…”
“…But this year, Lady Wentworth has raised her standards.” Malice was evident in every inch of the man’s face. “She has been trying to lure that school teacher on…but I have been watching over what is mine. She thinks those slaves will not divulge the misdeeds of their own whore, but my wife is quite deluded on that count.”
“It is not true.” Millicent continued to shake her head as her husband rose slowly to his feet. “Mr. Cunningham’s visits here have nothing to do with me. He comes here because he has compassion…for people who need him.”
“Do you hear it in her voice, Louisa? Do you see it in her face? She dotes on him.”
Louisa turned with distaste and stared out the window as Wentworth advanced on his retreating wife.
“And have you slept with him already, Millicent? Are you carrying his child, too?”
“Stop!” She gasped in pain as Wentworth grabbed her upper arm. “I am innocent! There is nothing between...”
“Innocent as a Covent Garden whore! And your dear Mr. Cunningham may enjoy the protection of our sanctimonious Lord Stanmore,” the squire whispered, shaking her so hard that she fell against him. “But you are mine. To touch as I like. To punish as I see fit…and in just the same fashion that I will deal with those filthy brutes who think they can keep you as their whore.”
“There is only one brute…”
Millicent’s words turned to cries of pain as the squire’s blows rained down on her face and body.
And by the window, Louisa Nisdale stared with a face of stone at the hills above Solgrave.
CHAPTER 20
The dawning sun had barely broken free of night’s grasp when Rebecca left her bedchamber. Making her way down the servants’ stairs, she went out a side door and started down toward the stables.
This morning, she had put on, reluctantly at first, the new riding habit that had been delivered to her room the night before. It had come with the other dozen dresses and accessories Mrs. Trent had ordered earlier in the week. The cloth of plum velvet, edged with silky violet ribbon—with its matching hat—was one of the finest outfits she had ever worn. It was certainly a dress that she would never have chosen for herself, if for no other reason than its obvious extravagance. But in the face of Lady Nisdale’s ridicule the day before, Rebecca found herself appreciating Mrs. Trent’s choice.
The dark leather boots that had been delivered with the dress made a soft noise on the path as she neared the stables. She had practiced her request a few times in her head. She had met some of the grooms already. There was no reason why her request should be denied, Rebecca reminded herself, trying to ease the nervousness she was feeling—nervousness that actually had very little to do with borrowing a horse.
The source of her worries lay with how Millicent would react to what she was about to tell her. Yesterday, Rebecca had prayed tha
t her old friend would be understanding of her past—of the crime she had been forced to commit and all she had been doing since. But walking toward the stables in the cool morning air, Rebecca reminded herself that people change. Cheerful, friendly Millicent Gregory of Mrs. Stockdale’s Academy for Girls was now a very different Lady Wentworth of Melbury Hall. What made Rebecca think she could trust her?
The smoke from the smith’s fire was drifting into the tree tops, and half a dozen grooms were visible bustling about the stables. As Rebecca approached, she could see a number of horses being brushed or led out for exercise in the paddock areas, but her friend had not yet arrived. Rebecca drew a deep breath, almost relieved that she’d have a few more minutes to calm her jittery insides. But the sight of the earl of Stanmore standing by a handsome black hunter and engaged in reflective discussion with a groom took Rebecca totally by surprise. His gaze flickered toward her and then returned with evident pleasure.
“Rebec…er, Mrs. Ford!” he greeted her, leaving the groom behind. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Good morning, m’lord!” Her insides ignited, and she forced out the words as he looked over her new attire with obvious approval. “I was…I met Lady Wentworth yesterday…and she invited me to go riding with her this morning. So I was hoping your lordship would not mind if I were to borrow a horse.”
“Of course not!” He instantly turned to the groom and gave him a series of instructions. As the man hurried off to do as he was ordered, Stanmore’s attention returned to Rebecca. “I was under the assumption that you did not ride.”
“I do not ride, generally. I mean, I have not for some years.” She felt embarrassment flush her cheeks for the half-truth she had told him before. “I used to ride, though, so Lady Wentworth’s invitation sparked my interest in trying it out again.”
Rebecca noticed the frown that ceased his brow. He picked up the reins of his own steed and led the horse through a gate into a meadow. Rebecca walked with him, closing the gate after Stanmore had passed through.
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