Page 124 of The Summer Country

Nanny grinned at her. “You should see what a clucking there is! Letters from plantation owners protesting that we ought to be grateful for a bed, but you can tell they’re scared. It’s the beginning of the end for them.”

“If it is . . .” The words trailed away.

Never to have to answer to Mary Anne again. To be able to live, openly, with her child.

And with Charles, she reminded herself. But Charles faded into the background in her imaginings. Her love for Charles had long since ceased to be a fiery, all-consuming thing. It was a soft blanket she wrapped around herself, somewhat frayed around the edges. She loved him, yes, but it was her child who consumed her thoughts, for whom she planned and schemed.

Her child, who had seen her today and never known her for who she was.

Jenny made a face at the chickens. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Come to Harrow of an evening. . . . I forget. We’re called Simmons now. The new master likes the sound of his own name. It’s all one, whatever it’s called.” Nanny Grigg gave Jenny’s arm a squeeze. “Come to Simmons and I’ll show you and you can read it for yourself. Seeing as you can.”

“Thank you,” said Jenny slowly. “I think I shall.”

“The new master, he doesn’t like us reading the papers, but we get them all the same. Those of us who can read have been spreading the news to those who can’t.” Nanny Grigg’s cheerful face turned serious. “You might think of doing the same here. I wouldn’t trust any of them not to try to cheat us out of our freedom.”

“Not Charles,” said Jenny automatically. Had he said anything about the registry bill? She couldn’t recall. She’d stopped listening.

“Eh,” said Nanny Grigg, and then looked at Jenny, struck by a thought. “We’ve only the papers, but your Master Charles—he’ll have better news, wouldn’t he? With his place on the council? And with all his fine friends in London?”

“He’s always writing,” said Jenny carefully.

“If you hear anything, you’ll tell us? We’ve missed you for your own sake—but it would be good to have news. As you say, you can only trust the papers so far.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” promised Jenny.

“There,” said Nanny Grigg. “That’s put the color back in your cheeks. We’ll wait for the word.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bridgetown, Barbados

June 1854

Emily dreaded the thought of sending word of Adam’s death to Laura. And to Uncle Archie and Aunt Millicent.

“There has to have been some mistake.” They had retreated to the hallway, away from the specter of death. Emily craned to see over Nathaniel’s arm. “Check again. Maybe he was breathing. Maybe you missed it.”

“Emily.” Nathaniel took her by the shoulders. “Emily, there’s nothing to be done.”

“He took a little broth this morning. He sat up against the pillows!”

“It takes people like that sometimes,” said Nathaniel soberly. “We don’t know enough yet about the course of the disease.”

“But he was getting better.”

Even as she said it, she knew Nathaniel was right. Hadn’t she seen it herself? People who seemed perfectly well, dead two hours later. Horrible cases recovering, unexpectedly. The supposedly convalescent suddenly struck down. They didn’t know. There were times when she wondered if it wasn’t natural at all, but God’s retribution, smiting as he saw fit.

Her father, she knew, wouldn’t appreciate such thoughts. Her father’s God was a God of love, a God of patience and kindness. She had seen the strength of her father’s faith during the affliction of ’49 and knew her own to be a pale thing in comparison.

Emily lowered her head, staring at Nathaniel’s waistcoat buttons. They were very nice waistcoat buttons, brass, incised with a fleur-de-lis. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell them. And the baby—” Emily drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She had to take control of herself. There were practicalities to be dealt with. A funeral. The idea of burying Adam, so full of life, of mischief, seemed insane, obscene. “There’s no question of sending the body home to England.”

“No.” Nathaniel left it at that. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Emily blinked, hard. “Thank you,” she said, in as steady a voice as she could muster. “I think—I think I shall go to bed now.”

There wasn’t any reason to stay up, no Adam to check on in the night.