Mr. Turner smiled at Adam, and although his expression was perfectly pleasant, the room felt a little smaller. “I was the boy who held his horse. That was when I was a slave, of course.”
Adam’s mouth opened and closed. Laura sat like a marble statue, beautiful and still. Mr. Braithwaite’s lips tightened, and he looked away.
“You weren’t his slave, were you?” Emily blurted out. There were bits of his life in Barbados her grandfather had never shared; he had treated her father’s passionate involvement in the British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society with amused contempt—but he had never failed to make a large contribution. She had never been sure if it was out of a conviction he was reluctant to voice—her grandfather had scoffed at do-gooding at the same time that he had opened his purse and his kitchen to the indigent—or merely the desire to place her father more and more firmly in his debt.
Mr. Turner gave a bark of laughter. “Jonathan Fenty? He didn’t own the clothes on his back, not in those days. No. My owner leased me to his employer.”
“That,” said Mrs. Turner, with a significant look at her husband, “is all in the past now.”
Mr. Turner held out a hand to his wife. Mrs. Turner’s hand looked pale against her husband’s, the ruby of her ring very bright. “My wife’s family have been free for some generations. I consider myself very fortunate that she lowered herself to marry me.”
His tone invited them to share the joke.
The horror of it—the barbarism—that one person might lease another, like—like a piece of farm equipment. Emily had read of it, she had attended lectures and meetings, but to hear it spoken of so frankly, by one who had, himself, been chattel . . . She should, Emily knew, make the appropriate noises of distress, sympathy even, express her delight that the institution was now ended, at least in this part of the world. But there was something in Mr. Turner’s countenance that blunted sympathy, that made the words tangle on her tongue.
Donning a social smile, Mrs. Turner turned to Adam and Laura. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“Yes, quite,” said Adam, who had spent most of the voyage being ill into a bucket.
“And your accommodations?” inquired Mrs. Turner, determined to bring the conversation back to the mundane. Emily was reminded forcibly of Aunt Millicent. “Are they to your liking?”
“The inn is charming. It was very kind of you to arrange it for us,” said Adam to the air somewhere beyond Mr. Turner’s shoulder.
“My agent made the arrangements,” said Mr. Turner. He nodded casually to his nephew. “Has Nathaniel been looking after you?”
Adam glanced nervously at Mr. Braithwaite. “Mr. Braithwaite was all that was kind.”
“Dr. Braithwaite,” corrected Mr. Turner pleasantly.
“I didn’t—that is—no one said . . .” Adam looked as though he wanted the Aubusson carpet to swallow him up. Laura stared at her gloved hands.
“Educated in London and Edinburgh,” said Mr. Turner, his eyes meeting his nephew’s across the room. There was an unmistakable similarity between the two men; before his hair had begun to gray and his figure to broaden, Mr. Turner must, Emily thought, have been a handsome man. “We tried in vain to interest Nathaniel in commerce. He was always mad after medicine.”
“Best watch out, or you’ll have Miss Dawson tagging along after you,” Adam said, a little too heartily. “Miss Dawson revels in the sick and infirm, the sicker and more infirm the better, right, old thing? My cousin is happiest pouring nostrums down the throats of the unsuspecting. Don’t stay still too long, or you may find yourself wreathed in bandages—whether you’ve broken anything or not.”
“I have some training in the nursing arts,” said Emily, frowning at Adam. To Dr. Braithwaite, she said, “I spent three mornings a week at the Bristol Royal Infirmary.”
“You must see our hospital, then,” said Mrs. Turner. “We are very proud of it.”
“It was built by subscription,” contributed Mr. Turner, something about the way he said it making Emily quite sure that a large part of the subscription had come from his pocket. “Just ten years ago now.”
Dr. Braithwaite spoke from his place beside the mantel, his words slicing through the room. “It was built after emancipation. It was embarrassing for everyone to have former slaves dying in the streets of Bridgetown.”
“That wasn’t the only reason,” said Mr. Turner.
“The poor are always with us, aren’t they?” Adam put in quickly. He inclined his head to Dr. Braithwaite. “If the hospital is one of the sights of the town, we must see it, of course.”
“If you have an interest in philanthropic endeavors, I can do no better than to direct you to my wife,” said Mr. Turner blandly. Emily suspected he knew that Adam had about as much interest in philanthropy as Emily had in poultry farming. “She is the president of the Ladies’ Branch Association for the Education of the Female Children of the Coloured Poor, secretary of the Bible Society, treasurer of the St. Mary’s Friendly Society, a member of the committee for furnishing clothes to the poor and indigent, and—have I forgotten anything, my dear?”
“Only St. Paul’s choir, the Library Association, and the lyceum committee,” said Mrs. Turner patiently.
“Goodness,” said Adam. “That’s—very civic-minded of you.”
“As you can see,” said Dr. Braithwaite, “my aunt is largely responsible for the clothing, educating, and enlightening of the poor of Bridgetown.”
“Well,” said Mr. Turner, nodding at his nephew, “since you take care of their bodies, someone must have a care for their souls. And their linen.”
There was an edge to their conversation that made Emily uneasy. Trying to break the tension, she said, “I should love to see the hospital and the charity school and the library, but first I should like to see Peverill House, if I might.”
“Peverills?” Mr. Turner looked at her in surprise. It was an entirely different word on his tongue.
“Is that how you say it? I understand it is a plantation.”
“It is indeed a plantation,” said Mr. Turner slowly, “and was a very prosperous one at one point—or so I gather. Those days were well before my time. What do you want with Peverills?”
“It’s not really so much what we want with it,” Adam prevaricated. “Our grandfather—he appears to have owned it. We didn’t any of us know anything of it until the will was read.”
There was no reason, thought Emily, for Adam to look at her as though it were her fault.
“It was left to me,” she explained to Mr. Turner, as though it were as simple as that, as though Aunt Millicent hadn’t protested and Uncle Archibald stammered and the lawyer been forced to explain again and again that it was Emily’s to do with as she liked, that there was nothing to prevent her inheriting it.
It was, Aunt Millicent had said, an absurd legacy for a young lady (this with a glance at her own three daughters, who had not received plantations, in Barbados or otherwise).
If it was indeed a sugar plantation, Uncle Archibald had said, looking deeply uncomfortable, it ought to be part of the holdings of Fenty and Company.
But it wasn’t. This plantation—Peverills—had belonged to her grandfather and now it belonged to Emily.
Mr. Turner looked to Adam, who shrugged, looking mildly embarrassed. “It’s true. The plantation belongs to my cousin.”
“I see,” said Mr. Turner, as though he didn’t see at all. To Adam he said, “You mean to sell it, I assume.”
“Naturally,” said Adam.
“I mean to do nothing of the kind,” said Emily. Both men looked at her as though she had run mad. “Surely, it would be unwise to arrive at any conclusion before I’ve seen it.”
“You mustn’t expect too much. Peverills isn’t what it was.”
“With the price of sugar what it is . . .” Adam ventured.
“The price of sugar has come down again—it won’t command as much as it would have, say, ten years ago,” Mr. Turner conceded, a
nd Adam looked relieved, having feared to betray his own ignorance. “Mind you, a plantation’s not a bad investment, provided one knows what he’s getting into. I have two of my own. But Peverills . . . Had I known, I would have advised your grandfather against the purchase.”
“Is there something wrong with the land?” Adam asked.
“Only neglect,” said Mr. Turner. He looked at Emily, at her modest skirts, her white lace collar, her snub nose, her mid-brown hair looped in bunches over her ears, and Emily could feel herself bristling under his scrutiny. “But it will take time and care to put right again.”
“And there’s the ghost, of course,” contributed Dr. Braithwaite from his post by the curio cabinet.
“Ghost?” said Emily.
“It’s just a local story,” said Mrs. Turner soothingly, with a reproachful look at her nephew. “People do make up stories about old houses. And Peverills is one of the oldest on the island.”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Turner interjected, “you might escort our guests, Nathaniel. You are the most familiar with that area.”
Dr. Braithwaite lost his casual lounge. “I have obligations at the hospital.”
“Not on Thursday,” said Mr. Turner pleasantly. “You’re often that way on a Thursday, aren’t you?”
There was suddenly something in the air that made the hairs at the nape of Emily’s neck prickle, a tension between the two men like the charged calm before a storm at sea.
“Is it so very near, then?” asked Emily. “It seemed rather far from Bridgetown on the map.”
“Ours is a little island, Miss Dawson,” said Mr. Turner genially. His eyes never left his nephew. “You mustn’t judge it by England. Everything is more immediate than one would imagine.”
It sounded as though he was speaking of more than distance. Emily bit her lip. “We shouldn’t wish to trouble—”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Turner, still smiling, but there was something in that smile that made Emily see why prosperous Bristol merchants blanched at the sound of his name. “We would not wish to be behindhand in our obligations to the Fenty family. Would we, Nathaniel?”
Beneath the mustache, Dr. Braithwaite’s lips had compressed into a thin line. His eyes met his uncle’s and he gave a terse nod. “As you wish. Miss Dawson, I shall be honored by the pleasure of your company on Thursday.”
This, thought Emily, wasn’t how she wanted to see her plantation, accompanied by an unwilling guide. But there was nothing to say but “Thank you, Dr. Braithwaite.”
“Shall we go through to supper?” said Mrs. Turner.
Chapter Two
Christ Church Parish, Barbados
February 1812
“I can’t remember when I’ve dined so well.” Charles gripped the table with both hands, raising himself to his feet with difficulty. Mostly he had drunk well, his glass filled again and again by a silent servant who seemed to have no other purpose but to see him foxed. “Miss Beckles. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Miss Beckles dropped a curtsy. He could see her only as a glimmer of pink silk and crepe, hovering headless in the gloom, her dark hair blending into the wood paneling of the dining parlor. Her voice was low and throaty, a soft burr. “Good night, Mr. Davenant. Uncle.”
Charles should bow, he knew. But he was afraid he might overset himself if he tried. That would be one way to introduce himself to the neighboring gentry, tumbling flat on his face.
Too late. He blinked and Miss Beckles was gone, her maid following soft-footed behind her.
“Come, come.” Miss Beckles’s uncle linked arms with Charles, hauling him forward. “Now that the womenfolk are safely away, you’ll share a drop of port with me?”
There had already been claret, claret and punch, made with limes and goodness knew what else. Charles felt as though the very walls were in motion, swaying like the cabin of a ship, and Charles swaying with them. Although the ship from England had never rocked like this, never with this sickening lurch at the pit of his stomach. Charles was a good sailor. He would have said he was a good drinker too, well able to hold his liquor, but the ports and clarets of Lincoln’s Inn were as nothing to whatever had been in that punch.
What had been in that punch?
Charles blinked, hard. “You’re very kind, Mr. Lyons, but—”
“Colonel Lyons,” the other man corrected him, leading him through an arch from the dining room to the great room. Charles wasn’t sure whether it was the drink that made the room stretch into infinity or the contrast with the cramped chambers he had left behind in London. “I’ve served in the militia these past fifteen years now. We’ll have to find you a place now you’re back. It’s a good group of lads. Your brother, for one. He’ll go far if he goes on the way he’s started. Not but what it’s hard for him being a second son, eh? But we all have our place. We’ll have our port on the veranda, shall we?”
The colonel lifted a hand, like an enchanter in a tale, and shadows leaped to life, setting lights glimmering in the darkness.
Not shadows, people. People waiting to light lamps, pull over chairs, plump cushions. This wasn’t a tale, it was Barbados, and the colonel was no Prospero, just a neighbor with exceptionally strong drink and a well-trained staff.
Charles clung to the shreds of sobriety. “I should be getting back.”
There was something about the evening that sat ill with him, and it wasn’t just the punch. The colonel was too friendly, too warm, like an uncle in a stage play; Miss Beckles too demure, a caricature of ladylike reserve. Miss Beckles had said little, but when she had spoken, tension crackled in the air, as though there were another conversation being had, one between uncle and niece, one Charles didn’t understand. Maybe that was why he had drunk so deep, let Colonel Lyons press the claret on him again and again and again.
Miss Beckles had drunk only sparingly.
“Not just yet,” said the colonel, and Charles found himself half dropping into a cushioned wicker chair, a crystal glass in his hand. “You’ll not have me be chary in welcoming a visitor—not that you’re a visitor, of course.”
Wasn’t he? He felt like one.
You’ve been gone too long. That’s what his brother had thrown at him.
And it was true; Charles had forgotten more about Barbados than he remembered. He could remember now those early years in school in England, dreaming of Peverills, of the warm sun, the caves veiled with vines, the steady plip of the water through the dripstone. Over the years, Peverills had flattened into an illustration from a book, a botanist’s rendering of something beautiful but remote. He might call it home, but his memories were increasingly attenuated, stories told again and again until they had lost their meaning.
And now . . . Charles felt as though he had slipped into a familiar pair of shoes only to find that they pinched. Everything felt strange, unfamiliar: the scents, the sounds, the accents. On the veranda, the smells of the island pressed in on him: frangipani, mango, lime blossom, rum, manure, and the ever-present cloy of the cane. He could feel it catching at the back of his throat. It didn’t feel like home; it felt like the beginnings of an ague.
It wasn’t Beckles. It wasn’t the colonel. It was Charles; he was the odd one, wishing himself back in a London winter, back in his cramped quarters at Lincoln’s Inn.
The colonel was still speaking. It took Charles an effort to focus on his voice. “How do you find Peverills?”
“Busy,” he offered, for lack of anything better. Busy didn’t begin to describe it. All his studies, his legal training had never prepared him for this, for the books and books of ledgers, the land, the people, the complicated patchwork of leases that rounded out the corners of their lands. “My father’s affairs were—more complex than I had realized.”
“Ah, your father. He had grand schemes, your father,” said Colonel Lyons tolerantly. “A bit of a dreamer.”
Charles stiffened. “My father, sir, is—was a gentleman and a scholar. His ideas were much praised in London.”
> Never mind that they had been left incomplete, left on Charles’s head, unexplained, half-finished. Charles’s head ached. Robert was right; he should have come home sooner, learned all this by his father’s side. But there had never been any hurry. There would be time enough, that was what his father said in his letters.
Until there wasn’t.
Colonel Lyons kicked back in his chair, stretching out his legs in their silk stockings and black evening pumps. “Oh, such things are all very well on paper, but—now, now, don’t bristle so. I mean no offense. But if you need practical advice, Beckles is a short ride, as you see. My door is always open.”
“Thank you,” said Charles stiffly. It was a kindness, he knew. But something about the colonel set him on edge. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I know you have obligations enough of your own.”
“It’s no bother, my boy. There isn’t much about the land that I can’t tell you. And my niece isn’t such an exacting taskmaster as that.” At Charles’s involuntary look of surprise, Colonel Lyons added, “Didn’t anyone tell you? It’s my niece who owns all this. I manage it for her. Have done since her father died. I used to have a place of my own—on Jamaica—but when my sister’s husband died, so young . . . well, family is family. I’m sure you understand.”
What Charles didn’t understand was why he was being told this at all, but he murmured what he hoped were appropriate noises of assent. “You’ve been here some time, then,” he said.
“Since my niece was a mere babe in arms. It’s been a burden, I’ll tell you that, but I’ve done my best for her.” The colonel smiled fondly, but there seemed to be too many teeth in it. He looked meaningfully at Charles. “The man who marries her will find him possessed of a rich dowry.”
Charles coughed on his sip of port. “Oh?” he said weakly.
The colonel gave a rich chuckle. “We’ve had the fortune hunters at the door, sure enough. But they don’t last long.”
Charles stood, with an effort. The seat of the wicker chair felt deeper than it had been when he had sat down. “Your niece is fortunate to have you taking such care, sir. Now, if you will pardon me—” I need to stick my head in a trough of very cold water, he thought.
The Summer Country Page 2
