Page 4 of The Summer Country

“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.”