Page 46 of The Summer Country

“Ma’am. Sir. And may I make known to you our bookkeeper at Peverills, Mr. Fenty?” Charles made sure to accord Jonathan that “mister,” which divided gentleman from servant. He could sense Jonathan’s gratitude and Miss Beckles’s disapproval. “He’ll be able to tell you more than I about our harvest. His memory for numbers is nothing short of miraculous.”

“If you ever find yourself seeking other employment . . .” said Mr. Boland with a grin. “I’ve no head for numbers myself, but I muddle along. I understand you’ve had a time of it this year?”

The transition was so smoothly done that Charles found himself nodding, and caught Jonathan’s quick, sharp look of warning.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” said Miss Beckles quickly, “but we’ve never had a better harvest.”

Mr. Boland’s jowls wagged understandingly, but there was something in those shrewd blue eyes that belied his easygoing charm. “The dust didn’t give you any trouble, then? It was something to be seen, I gather.”

“It was,” said Charles, with a rueful smile. He looked at Mrs. Boland, a decade younger than her husband, at least, but slight and quiet where her husband was expansive in both girth and character. “When I woke and saw the darkness and the ash falling, I thought it was a judgment on us, like Pharaoh and the Israelites. First ash and then drought. Sometimes I wonder—I wonder if we aren’t being punished for enslaving our fellow man. I expect frogs next or boils.”

“Nonsense,” said Robert, making little effort to disguise his displeasure.

“‘And the Lord said . . . I will send all my plagues upon thine heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people. . . .’” Mrs. Boland spoke for the first time, the words rising up and down with a strong Welsh lilt. “‘For now I will stretch out my hand, that I may smite thee and thy people with pestilence, and thou shalt be cut off from the earth.’ Exodus, chapter nine,” she added prosaically.

“Yes,” said Charles hoarsely. Her words burned like a brand on his flesh. Thou shalt be cut off from the earth. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

Mr. Boland chuckled, a husky, whisky-infused sound, reducing prophecy to so much chatter. “Yes, that’s all grand, my dear, but these are hardly the people of Israel. You know what the Bible says about the sons of Ham. Servant of my servant, was it? So you’ve no need to trouble your conscience. Not until you see the frogs falling.”

“Two plagues weren’t enough to convince you?” said Charles drily.

Mr. Boland grinned at him. “Sure, and it took Pharaoh ten.”

“In that case,” said Robert, looking narrowly at Charles, “we’ve the slaying of the firstborn to look forward to. What do you think of that, brother mine?”

Charles could see Jenny standing behind Miss Beckles, listening, impassive. She might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention the others paid her. It was incredible to him still how many people moved among them daily, unnoted and unnoticed, the boys pulling the fans, the liveried servants removing empty glasses and refilling the great bowls of punch. So many to serve so few.

“I think that such retribution would be well deserved,” said Charles quietly. “Malo nodo malus quaerendus cuneus.”

The wrinkles on Mr. Boland’s forehead drew together. “Desperate diseases require desperate remedies, is it? I knew I remembered some Latin yet.”

“Well, I think it’s absurd,” interjected Miss Beckles, who had time for neither plagues nor Latin. “It wasn’t ash from heaven. It was ash from La Soufrière.”

“And there you are,” said Mr. Boland, his lips twitching with amusement. “You can’t say fairer than that.”

There was a great deal he could say, but it was, Charles saw, no use arguing. “Are you in Barbados long, Mr. Boland?”

“That depends on what I find.” He yanked a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it to his mouth as a coughing fit overtook him, bending him double. Dabbing his lips, he said hoarsely, “I beg your pardon. We’ll be here a month, at least. And if we find such hospitality, who’s to say we’ll ever want to go?”

“The doctors said to stay until the cough goes away,” said his wife, frowning at him.

“Yes, yes. I’m meant to be here for my health,” said Mr. Boland, stuffing the handkerchief into his waistcoat pocket. “But if all tables are set like this, it’s gout I’ll be after needing a cure for, not my chest!”

“You already have gout,” said his wife pointedly.

“You see how she pecks at me? I’m not allowed the least pleasure.”

“Only the pleasure of staying alive,” said his wife sternly.

“We can do better than that,” said Colonel Lyons, joining the group. “If you’ll join us in the mill yard I can promise you a spectacle you won’t soon forget. The Negroes have their party—and then we have ours. With ratafia and cakes for the ladies,” he added with a bow to Mrs. Boland. “The ladies generally retire early. The harvest festival can become a bit . . . indelicate.”

“Only to those raised on milk and water,” retorted his niece. “I have the favors ready.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll distribute them.” Colonel Lyons placed a heavy hand on his niece’s shoulder and squeezed.

Jenny took a half step forward, closer to her mistress, then stopped.

“Thank you, Uncle,” said Miss Beckles in a strained voice. Charles could see the imprint of her uncle’s signet in the bare flesh of her shoulder. “These are my people. It’s my duty.”