Page 133 of The Summer Country

“We don’t need to buy her loyalty,” said Nanny, moving to put an arm around Jenny’s shoulders, like a mother hen taking her chick under her wing. “Jenny is with us, aren’t you? She’s been with us from the first, and I won’t hear a word against her. If she wants us to leave Peverills be . . . well, there are plenty of other fields to burn.”

“What about Beckles?” asked Bussa.

Mary Anne and Neddy were to go to Peverills to eat their Easter dinner with Charles and Lottie. She would, Jenny decided, make sure they stayed there, if she had to break the axle of the carriage with her own two hands.

“Burn it,” she said. “Burn every last cane and sow the ground with salt, and I’ll come and dance on the ashes.”

Christ Church, Barbados

Easter 1816

“I wish you’d let me hold a proper celebration for you,” Charles said to Jonathan. “A dance, perhaps.”

They were back from Easter services, still trailing the odor of sanctity about them. Carlota had been carried off to bed, protesting, by her nursemaid. Neddy had fallen quietly asleep in a corner of the pew and been borne back to Beckles. The adults sat over their supper, a farewell supper as well as an Easter one.

“With rum punch and everyone whispering about how I’m marrying above my station?” Jonathan looked pointedly at Mary Anne, who very deliberately pretended not to notice. “No, thank you. I’m just as happy to slip off quietly. I’ll come back when I’m too important to ignore.”

“Don’t forget us once you’re grand,” said Charles.

“Forget my Lottie? Never.” Jonathan took a hearty swig of his claret, the good claret, which Charles had brought out in honor of the occasion. “I’ll visit to make sure you’re taking care of her proper.”

“I think I can manage,” said Charles, trying not to betray his annoyance. Yes, he was delighted to see Lottie enveloped in affection, but Jonathan contrived to make him feel unfit. It didn’t help that Jenny was standing behind Mary Anne’s chair. She did her best to hide it, but he knew she felt he’d failed her. “You go and enjoy your honeymoon. You’re bound for Antigua?”

“We’re to be married from Antigua and then sail for the Carolinas.” Jonathan’s rather harsh-featured face lit when he spoke of his bride. Personally, Charles didn’t quite see it, but he was delighted that Jonathan did.

Jack shall have Jill; / Nought shall go ill. Charles wished it were as simple as that, that there were a deus ex machina out of a Shakespeare comedy who could sprinkle fairy dust on them all and make it all come out right, everyone with his proper mate.

His mate was there, standing just behind his sister-in-law, but he couldn’t acknowledge her, not by a word, not by a smile.

Was it worth it? Sometimes Charles wondered. He was proud of the changes he’d made to Peverills, but they were so small, so little in the grand scheme of things. Change, if it came, wasn’t going to come from men like him, tinkering on their plantations, but from men like Wilberforce, holding forth in the House of Commons. They might have run away together years ago, been together with their child, sailed away like Jonathan and his bride, Jonathan, who was beaming like he’d made the very earth and found it good.

It was the claret, making him maudlin. Charles caught himself just before he looked at Jenny and made himself smile at Jonathan instead.

“I wish you very happy,” said Charles. He raised his glass. “A toast to you and your bride. May you have long and happy lives together.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jonathan.

“You don’t drink to a toast in your own honor,” protested Mary Anne.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony. We’re all family here.” Charles nodded at Jonathan. “I account Jonathan family. I couldn’t have held Peverills without him and I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone.”

“Run it all into the ground within a year,” said Jonathan with a grin. His face changed, and he lifted his head, sniffing. “What is that smell?”

Now that he mentioned it, Charles could smell it too, like caramel, a burnt-sugar smell that singed the nose and clung to the back of the throat. “I hope Cook isn’t attempting French tarts again. We had burnt pears for days.”

Mary Anne rose from her chair, her fork still in her hand. “That’s cane. That’s cane burning.”

Jonathan’s groom London came running into the room. “There’s word come from Bayleys. There’s plantations burning all across St. Philip!”

“What?” Charles stared at the boy, uncomprehending. The last revolt on the island had been so long ago, it was out of all memory, in the days when there was still a Stuart on the throne of England and men wore wigs that fell in curls past their shoulders. “It must be some mistake—cane trash burning that got out of hand. . . .”

“No mistake, Master Charles.” London’s eyes were bright with excitement. “There’s men marching under banners. They’re headed straight here. Simkin from Bayleys said.”

They weren’t supposed to be here. Behind Mary Anne’s chair, Jenny stood, disbelieving. They weren’t supposed to be at Peverills. Jenny knew the plan, knew it down to the minute. Beckles, yes, but not Peverills. They had agreed.

“Excuse me,” said Jonathan, and pushed away from the table, hurriedly leaving the room.

The sounds of the mob were growing closer now; Jenny could hear the shouting. Through the window, she could see the red glow of torches, brighter and brighter.