Page 44 of The Summer Country

Dr. Braithwaite glanced down at her. “You should ask George Davenant. I’m sure he would be more than delighted to tell you stories.”

“Yes, fairy stories,” said Emily impatiently, remembering Mrs. Davenant’s term. “Cavaliers and Roundheads and elopements and romances.”

Dr. Braithwaite stopped at the front door. A nurse regarded them with frank curiosity over her wash bucket before Dr. Braithwaite gestured her away.

“What more is there to know? Mrs. Davenant is a respected member of the parish. There have been Beckles at Beckleses since Barbados was Barbados. I’m just a humble surgeon. I wouldn’t presume to comment on my betters.” For a moment, they stared at each other, the terse words hovering in the air. In a very different voice, Dr. Braithwaite asked, “Do you mean to accept the invitation?”

She should go, she knew. There was no reason not to. She ought to be exceedingly grateful for the opportunity to see the workings of a plantation firsthand. It was pure foolishness to stall and dither, and all because there was something, something about Beckles that had made her feel unsettled. Vulnerable.

Nonsense, she told herself. If she meant to make a go of Peverills, she would have to learn to love the country. That was all it was, acculturation. With time, the sounds of the cane in the wind would become as familiar as the shouts and rattles of a city street. And it would certainly smell sweeter.

As for Mrs. Davenant—no, she must have imagined the rancor when her grandfather’s name was mentioned. Mrs. Davenant had been nothing but kind after. Well, not kind, precisely, but helpful. Sometimes helpful was better than kind. It was an idiom Emily understood.

And it would do Laura good to get away, away from Bridgetown and its tainted water.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Chapter Ten

Christ Church, Barbados

June 1812

“You might try to look as though you’re enjoying yourself,” muttered Robert. “Crop Over is a celebration. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”

“I am,” lied Charles.

Outside, the sun glared, but inside, the louvres had been drawn shut and candlelight, expensive, wasteful candlelight glimmered off embroidered waistcoats and opal stickpins. Men dipped their glasses into vast bowls of rum punch, while women in long gloves held glasses of French champagne, regardless of the war with France. Here, in this room, one would never know that battles were being fought across Spain and Portugal, or that people were starving just outside their doors.

In front of them, the vast mahogany table was entirely hidden by platters of food. Never mind that drought had blighted the Guinea corn, that the people in the quarters had gone from subsistence rations to something that barely blunted the edge of hunger. The harvest festival at Beckles boasted jellied quince and haunches of ham, roasted fowl and French pie. Trifle rich with cream and sherry, candied sweetmeats, and platters overflowing with fruit.

“It seems such a waste,” Charles burst out. “All of this when our people are hungry.”

The ham was sweating on the table, slices beginning to curl. A stray grape lolled next to a platter, bruised edges turning brown.

“Not so loud,” said Robert, fixing a fake smile and bowing to an acquaintance. “Do you want people to think we’re up the River Tick?”

But they were. So far, they were drowning in it. Disaster had succeeded disaster. In May, dust had poured from the sky, turning the day to night. Cinders fell like the devil’s own snowflakes, until the fields were black with ash, choking new shoots of plantain and Guinea corn. Drought followed, killing whatever survived.

Charles had sold his mother’s jewels. He hadn’t sold them himself; he had sent Fenty to do it, discreetly, so that their name might not be attached. He’d never asked how the man managed it, just taken the money and bought provisions, dear, so very dear, three times their price, but how could he haggle when his people were starving?

Charles had always thought himself a deist, but over the past few months, he had begun to feel as though he were being dogged by a vengeful Old Testament God, the sort who tossed prophets into the mouth of a whale and sent frogs pattering down like rain.

“They would only think the truth,” said Charles. “We’re in a bad way.”

“For the love of God, don’t let anyone hear you say so! Ah, Lascelles! How was your harvest?” Lowering his voice, Robert said viciously, “There’s an easy solution. Hadn’t you better go speak to the heiress?”

“You go,” said Charles. “I’ll join you presently.”

Robert raised a brow. “You’d best make up your mind. Drink or pass, brother.”

And then he was gone, pushing through the crowd, greeting and greeted, laughter and good fellowship following wherever he went. Miss Beckles stood with an older man and a dark-haired woman who wore her modest dress as though it belonged to her and her ruby-and-gold parure as though it didn’t.

Miss Beckles’s cheeks were flushed with heat. Her chestnut hair had been twisted into a knot at the back and teased into curls on either side of her face. She was, in short, in very good looks, with the sort of buxom prettiness that made one think of shepherdesses and milkmaids, earthy and inviting.

But Charles’s eyes went past her.

There she was. Jenny. Standing quietly behind her mistress, garbed in a plain muslin dress and white lawn smock. The only hint of frivolity was a narrow band of lace, an indicator of her status and the festival day.