The Summer Country

by Lauren Willig

  Despite her patient’s instructions to the contrary, she measured out some laudanum and tricked her into drinking it, and finally saw Mrs. Davenant fall into a proper sleep. A drugged sleep, but a sleep all the same.

  Emily meant to stay awake and keep watch, but the day had been long and the night even longer and she found herself drifting into sleep and waking with a jerk of the neck, until exhaustion took her and she slept as soundly as though she had been drugged instead of Mrs. Davenant.

  When Emily woke, it was dawn, the thin light stretching through the breaks in the jalousies.

  Her patient was already awake, lying against her pillows, staring at her. “You’re very like her. Not in looks. Not in looks at all. She was beautiful, did you know?”

  “I take after my father,” said Emily. She rubbed her eyes, still muzzy with sleep. “No one has ever praised him for his beauty, but it’s generally agreed he has a beautiful soul.”

  “Souls, piffle. My uncle was a handsome man.” Mrs. Davenant coughed into her hand, her chest rattling painfully. Her eyes glittered strangely, darting around the room, as though she were seeing people who weren’t there. “We all knew she was his daughter. He told me when he gave her to me. ‘I give you my own child,’ he said. Of course, that was before I knew him for what he was. A snake. He’d as soon eat his young, if it suited him.”

  Distracted, Nathaniel had said. Emily rose painfully from her chair, shaking out her crumpled skirts. One leg had fallen asleep under her and she had a crick in her neck.

  Hobbling over to the bed, Emily put the back of her hand to Mrs. Davenant’s head. “You’re burning up.”

  “Bring me my wrap, Jenny. It’s cold. I’m cold.” Emily went to look for a blanket, but Mrs. Davenant clawed herself upright, calling, “What are you doing? Where are you going? Jenny!”

  “Shhh, Mrs. Davenant, don’t fret yourself.” Emily wrung out a bit of cloth in the basin, bathing the older woman’s forehead.

  After a few moments, Mrs. Davenant’s eyes opened. She blinked, and then blinked again. “Miss Dawson,” she said slowly. “Miss Dawson?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Davenant. You’re ill but you’re going to get better,” said Emily, with the practiced cheer of the sickroom.

  “Did I tell you that I know who you are? I guessed right away. What I didn’t know was whether you knew. At first, I thought you might.”

  Emily nodded and dipped the cloth into the water, letting the patient ramble. She’d heard stranger things. She leaned over to put the cool cloth on Mrs. Davenant’s forehead. The older woman was shivering and shaking with the fever.

  “You think I’m distracted, don’t you? I’m not. I remember everything.” Mrs. Davenant pointed at Emily’s locket, which had come out of her bodice and was swinging on its ribbon. “That’s a pretty bauble you’ve got there. Give it here. I want a look at it.”

  Reluctantly, but not wanting to upset her further, Emily untied the ribbon and handed Mrs. Davenant the locket. Her neck felt very bare without it.

  “This,” said Mrs. Davenant, holding it up triumphantly, “used to be mine. My uncle gave it to me.”

  Emily instinctively reached to take it back. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This was my mother’s.”

  She was too slow. Pressing hard on the locket, Mrs. Davenant flicked open the catch, and, before Emily had time to protest, stuck her nail beneath the miniature of Emily’s mother, prying it from the back.

  “Stop!” Emily protested, but it was too late; the tiny piece of vellum had come loose, the glue on the back old and dried.

  “See?” rasped Mrs. Davenant. She pointed with a trembling finger at the gold center of the locket. “To Jenny, for her good service. I gave it to her. I should know. And she gave it to her daughter. There.”

  Emily rescued her mother’s miniature, grabbing miniature and locket and pressing the former haphazardly back into its place. “That was my mother,” she said, trying not to show how shaken she felt.

  Mrs. Davenant stared up at her, her gray eyes all but black. “Yes, your mother. Lottie.”

  “No,” said Emily, beginning to lose patience. “My mother was Lucy. Lucy Fenty.”

  “Lucy, Lottie. Jonathan Fenty’s girl. Only she wasn’t. First they said she was Portuguese and then they passed her off as Fenty’s. I’d like to say I knew, but I didn’t. Not until the day of the fire, when Jenny . . .” Mrs. Davenant’s face twisted with pain and grief. “My Jenny.”

  “My mother was Jonathan Fenty’s daughter,” said Emily. Never mind that she wasn’t sure whose child her mother was. Augustus Boland’s, most likely. “She can’t have been the little Portuguese girl. Lottie? She died in the fire. George told me.”

  “And how would George know? He knows only what he’s been told. He wasn’t there.” Mrs. Davenant grasped Emily’s wrist, her fingers surprisingly strong. “I was there. I was there.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Emily. Mrs. Davenant’s fingers encircled her wrist like a manacle.

  “Don’t you think I didn’t know who you were from the first?” It ought to have sounded mad, but it didn’t. Beneath the fever glow, Mrs. Davenant’s eyes were clear, clear and intent on Emily’s face. “I was there. I was there and I saw. I saw Jonathan Fenty steal her away. . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Christ Church, Barbados

  April 1816

  “Jenny!” There was no answer from within, only the crackle of the flames. “Jenny!”

  Mary Anne darted forward but the flames were licking up, catching onto the wood panels of the walls, making the canvas of old portraits sizzle. She couldn’t see Jenny through the flames, couldn’t see if she had been hit or had made it through.

  Outside, she could hear the shout of “Fire! Fire!”

  Mary Anne hesitated a moment, and then gathered up her skirts and ran out the front. People were running about, some with buckets, some with silver, some throwing water on the flames, others fleeing.

  Mary Anne grabbed at the first slave she came across, pulling at his arm. “My maid—she’s in there.”

  The man didn’t so much as pause.

  Mary Anne tried grabbing at someone else. “I order you to—”

  But the man yanked away, hurrying with his bucket toward the blaze.

  There were doors in the back, she knew, somewhere, doors on the garden side, doors out to the veranda, doors, doors, doors, more and more being engulfed in flames as the futile trickles of water did little to damp the rapacity of the fire. Ash blew on the wind, stinging her cheeks and hair, making her bat at the embers on her dress. The scent of burning cane singed her nostrils and made her cough into the fold of her shawl.

  “Jenny!” She couldn’t be gone, not Jenny, her Jenny. Mary Anne ran around the side of the house and saw Charles hurrying toward her, toward the house, his face haggard, a gash over one eye.

  “Charles!” The word came out a sob of relief. “Thank goodness. My Jenny—she’s in there. She might be hurt. Please, please, send someone in for her.”

  “Jenny?” To her dying day, she would never forget the look on Charles’s face, horror, stark and dreadful.

  Without another word, he turned and plunged toward the house, into the flames.

  “Charles! What are you—” He was gone, through what had once been a door and was now a gaping maw to hell, spitting ash and fire.

  The flames flared up; stones fell from one of the great gables, landing with a crash on what once had been a flagstone terrace. Mary Anne felt as though her world was collapsing around her in the same way, stone by stone, tumbling to the ground, as a horrible suspicion overtook her, clear as day in the light of the fire, in the memory of Charles’s horror-struck face, of Jenny’s agitated cry.

  My baby, she had said. Lottie. My baby.

  And Charles . . . Charles . . . running into the fire . . .

  A window burst from the flames, glass exploding across the lawn, and Mary Anne turned and ran, ran for the stables, for her carr
iage. The air was bright with flame and dark with soot; the smell of burnt cane was smothering. She lowered her head into the crook of her shawl, fighting her way through to the stable yard, where she was met by the sound of confusion.

  A horse reared by her, hooves pawing the air, before plunging madly off, nearly missing kicking her.

  The stable boys were running this way and that, trying to calm the horrified horses, but to no avail.

  Mary Anne got a hold of herself and grabbed at a bridle. She was a good rider, wasn’t she? She’d ride back to Beckles. Beckles and Edward. Fear seized her, but she refused to acknowledge it. Her people would stand fast, she was sure of it. Well, mostly sure of it.

  The horse flung back his head, snatching the bridle out of her hand, scoring the skin. Mary Anne barely noticed. She launched herself blindly at another and found herself staring at a booted foot.

  She looked up, her eyes streaming in the smoke, and saw Jonathan Fenty, holding the reins in one hand, the other arm clamped around a blanket-wrapped bundle from which emerged a pair of wide blue eyes and dark curls tied up in blue ribbons.

  “Where do you think you’re going with her?” Mary Anne grabbed at his boot, saying the first thing that came to mind. “That’s my property you’re making off with.”

  Fenty’s riding crop flicked down, not hard, just enough to make her snatch her hand. “Don’t you dare,” he said, bringing his horse back under control with effort.

  “Unker Johnny . . .”

  “Hush, lamb,” he said.

  Anger boiled up in Mary Anne, anger and fear and loss, all mixed together, bubbling and poisonous. “She’s not your lamb,” she said sharply. “She’s my property, and she’s coming back to Beckles with me.”

  Fenty tucked Lottie’s head into his arm, shielding her. “Stay away from her.”

  The horse sidled and a boy grabbed it, Fenty’s groom, one of the slaves she’d leased to Charles, Paris or Rome or something of that sort.

  She couldn’t be outfaced like this, not in front of one of her own slaves. Mary Anne grabbed at the stirrup. “Don’t be absurd. Get down from there and give me the horse and the girl and I won’t have you up for theft.”

  “You won’t have me up for anything, you poisonous hag. Not unless you want everyone to know the truth about you.” Mary Anne couldn’t help it, she stiffened, and saw the triumph in Fenty’s eyes. “I’ll do it too.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” He was bluffing, bluffing, he had to be. Robert, lying in a pool of blood. The writing desk heavy in her hands. Jenny, clutching Edward. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Do you want to take that gamble?” Behind Jonathan, the night was orange and black. The horse reared in fear, the boy, with difficulty, holding him steady. “I didn’t think so. We’ll be going now.”

  “No!” Mary Anne was too angry to think clearly.

  This was Jenny’s girl, her Jenny’s girl, Jenny, who had lied to her, had kept secrets from her. Jenny owed her this. Oh God, Jenny. And beneath it all, the gnawing worry. Would Jenny have told? It was only a Redleg’s word against hers, but rumors had a tendency to spread. And who knew what MacAndrews might say in his cups if pressed?

  “Charles went in after her, did you know that?” Mary Anne tossed at him. “They’re both dead.”

  That hit him. He closed his eyes for a moment and held the girl a little tighter. “A bad end to a bad business. And it would none of it have happened if you’d shown a little human kindness.”

  “Me?” Human kindness? This was her fault now.

  “We’re going now. If you follow us, if you make any trouble for us, I’ll blazon your secrets to the world.” Fenty glanced over his shoulder, at the house, which was burning merrily. “I’ll make you a deal. You leave us alone, I’ll leave you alone. And hi! London!”

  The boy stood to attention. “Master Jonathan?”

  He’s not your master, Mary Anne wanted to spit. He’s just a jumped-up bakkra. But her throat was gritty with smoke and her eyes were sticky with smuts and there were no words, no words at all.

  Fenty looked down at the boy, his smoke-grimed face and low-brimmed hat giving him the look of a pirate. “What would you say if I told you I was bringing my sister’s child to Antigua with me?”

  “I’d say it’s good to care for family, Master Jonathan.”

  Fenty extracted a purse from his pocket and tossed it to the boy. To Mary Anne he said hoarsely, “I’m buying his freedom. That will cover his price and the manumission fees. You’re free now, boy. And not a word of this to anyone. You’ll see it done?”

  She hated him. She hated him more than she’d hated anyone. But the boy, London, was watching her, his eyes bright, clutching that purse for dear life. “I’ll see it done,” she said, her voice choked with smoke and rage. “Now get out and take that foreign brat with you before I call the law on you.”

  “The law is busy tonight,” said Fenty, and he had the nerve, the absolute nerve, to tip his hat to her in passing, as the horse cantered away, out of the stable yard, her Jenny’s daughter, her property, snuggled neatly in the crook of his arm.

  “You!” Mary Anne snapped at London. “What are you looking at? Get me a horse! Now!”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said, and, miraculously, he found her a horse and helped her mount.

  Mary Anne spared a thought for Charles, but it was too late for him; the towers of Peverills were toppling, generations gone in a moment. She leaned hard over the mane of her horse and rode as she hadn’t ridden since she was a girl, her silk skirts hitched up around her knees, riding without saddle or bridle, the smoke in her nose and her hair, the sound of shouting in her ears.

  She kept her eyes trained for plumes of smoke, but the air grew clearer as they rode south. Lights blossomed in the house as she pounded up the drive, and she could have cried to see that they were the normal light of candles, not great gusts of flame.

  “Rioters at Peverills,” she said shortly to Prince Robert, the steward, as he came hurrying out, fuddled with sleep. “See the silver’s hidden and the household ready to take arms, if need be.”

  For a moment, she wondered, if they took arms, would it be for her? But no, that was absurd. Of course they would. Wouldn’t they?

  “The vandals have torched the cane fields,” she said shortly. “The militia’s out. They’ll make short work of them.”

  Just in case anyone had any ideas. She wasn’t sure whether the militia was out or not, but they ought to be.

  She spared a thought for Robert, Robert who had been so handsome in his militia uniform once upon a time. How he would have loved this. He would have donned his brass-embellished coat and flung himself on his horse and gamboled off, delighted with the chance for action. His portrait seemed to smile at her, forever young, forever handsome. On the opposite wall, there was Jenny, holding her shawl and her fan, Jenny, always behind her, always waiting.

  Mary Anne sank down into a chair and buried her head in her knees. All her hopes, everyone she had ever cared about, all turned to ash, all gone, all dead.

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had never meant to hurt him. But when he grabbed her like that, when he pushed her—what else was she to have done?

  And Jenny. Jenny.

  The tears dripping down onto her hands were black, black as shame. Mary Anne touched them with a trembling finger, half wondering if this was a sort of judgment, before realizing that it was soot, soot from the fire, that her face and her dress were caked with it, that it was matted in her hair and caught beneath her nails.

  The reality of it, that ash, hit her like the falling stones of Peverills, and she lowered her face into her hands and let the grief and sorrow take her. Robert and Jenny and Charles and Lottie . . .

  “Mistress?” A hand touched her back, and for a moment wild hope surged through her, Jenny, escaped from the fire, Jenny, returned to her, and she’d make it right this time, she’d scold her for lying, of course, but she’d tell
her she was forgiven and they would start over again, together, and she’d find Jenny a nice husband, a good husband, and maybe, maybe, she would even free her if she liked, if she would stay close, just so long as she was alive, alive and unharmed. “Mistress?”

  But it was only Queenie, looking anxious and very, very young, and, most important, not Jenny.

  Mary Anne pressed her hands to her mouth, choking a howl of grief. “It’s Master Charles,” she managed. “Peverills is burnt, and Master Charles with it.”

  Let them think she was crying for Charles, not Jenny, oh Jenny. There was a jagged hole where Jenny had been, all blighted earth and scorched ground. She couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been Jenny, standing behind her, brushing her hair, offering her counsel she was too proud to take.

  She wanted to crush the face of the clock, to take the hands and turn them back, to make everything right, to bring back Robert in his militia uniform, Charles, with his absurd dreams, but, most of all, Jenny, her Jenny.

  “Mistress, come away,” said Queenie, and Mary Anne let herself be led away, hunched and hobbling like an old woman, ash in her hair and in her mouth.

  She let Queenie help her into the bath, and watched as the soot sluiced down around her, rinsing out of her hair and off her face, turning the water gray, then black. She stood as Queenie dried her, and held her arms up so that Queenie could put a clean shift over her head, and submitted to being led into the bed she had once, so briefly, shared with Robert.

  Gone, gone, all gone.

  She slept badly, and her dreams were dreams of riot and flame. Beckles was burning and Edward in it and Jenny only stood there and watched and watched and when Mary Anne reached for her she was gone.

  She woke with the taste of soot in her mouth, her throat so raw she could hardly speak.

  Mary Anne dressed in a red day dress, banded with blue, and set about the motions of living. She ate a breakfast that tasted of nothing and reviewed books that seemed to be composed of jots and squiggles. Reports came from other plantations. There had been deviltry in the night. Thousands of slaves were up in arms. The cane fields were burning. Martial law had been declared. The militia was out, rounding up the perpetrators. Rum, sugar, wine, corn, jewels, and plate had been looted and discarded, strewn about the roads.