Page 48 of The Summer Country

But even their festival attire couldn’t hide the scars on arms and legs from billhooks that had slipped while cutting the cane, the raised flesh that came of being seared with drops of boiling sugar, men with arms lost to the crush of the cane press, women with stripes on their backs from the lash of the whip.

Robert accounted himself a lenient master because he denied the drivers the use of the thonged whip. Only a small cat was used, he had told Charles, of five strands, and no more than three lashes applied for any offense. If a driver exceeded his authority, and overapplied the lash, he would be punished. Accidents did happen, of course, it was unavoidable, and toiling in the cane took its toll, but he made sure the members of the first and second gang were given two dressed meals a day, and salt fish and molasses besides, to keep their strength up, and there was no needless violence at Peverills, only what was required to keep the workers in line. Really, did Charles think he was so careless of their stock?

Robert was nodding and smiling now as the carts rolled forward, waving to the workers on the wagons, joking with his friends about the stamina of the women of the first gang, struggling all day to fell the long, long cane.

Colonel Lyons stepped forward as the carts rumbled to a stop, saying a word in turn to each of the riders, handing each a bright coin—he made sure, Charles saw, to display them, the copper winking in the light—a kerchief for the women, and a necktie for the men.

In defiance of her uncle, Miss Beckles came forward, following the colonel, making sure to add her own words of congratulations.

An elderly man stepped forward and began a speech of thanks, looking uneasily from Miss Beckles to the colonel as though unsure to whom he was meant to be speaking.

“Thank you all,” said the colonel, stepping in front of his niece and pitching his voice to carry, “for your good work this harvest. Come and enjoy the fruits of your labor! There’s rum aplenty for every man—and woman too! And I’ve a gift of sugar for you all.”

Miss Beckles’s lips pressed together at that “I.” “We have a gift of sugar for you all,” she corrected, but Colonel Lyons didn’t heed her.

He raised his glass, calling out, “Strike the fiddle, pour the rum, and let’s say farewell to hard times and hello to plenty!”

Like Prospero conjuring spirits, fiddles and drums began to play as if by magic. Cups circulated around the crowd. Two men dragged from the last cart an effigy of a man dressed in a rusty black top hat and frock coat.

Bending, Colonel Lyons murmured something to his niece, who looked at him from under her brows, but complied, trudging back to the tent where the women had gathered, directing them toward the house, away from the music and revelry.

“Who’s a flame for me?” demanded Colonel Lyons, and the girl in white, blushing, was nudged forward, a flaming brand in her hand.

Colonel Lyons caught her around the waist, giving her a squeeze as he lifted the torch in the air. A cheer went up from the crowd as he touched it to the effigy, which blazed up with alacrity, making the people nearest jump back in delighted horror.

“That’s Mr. Harding,” said a quiet voice beside him, and Charles looked to see Jenny standing there, not quite next to him, a little behind, as though she too just happened to be viewing the scene. “The one they’re burning.”

“Mr. Harding?” Charles tried to keep his voice level, as though he weren’t as unsettled by her presence as his eyes were by the flames and his head by the rum. Everything seemed to dance and leap around him, heat prickling his skin.

“You didn’t have Mr. Harding at Peverills?”

“I don’t remember,” Charles confessed, although now that she mentioned it, he thought he remembered seeing something burning. But did he truly remember it, or did he only imagine he did?

He couldn’t be sure. Their own Crop Over had been a muted affair in comparison; he had distributed a ration of sugar to each man and woman on the estate as tradition dictated, and then retreated to allow them to enjoy their own celebrations, without the inhibition of his presence. Or, at least, that was what he had told himself. In truth, it was cowardice, an inability to be among the people whose labor clothed and fed him, knowing how much he owed them and how far he was still from expiating that debt. His brother would think him mad, he knew.

Charles shook his head to clear it. “Who’s Mr. Harding?”

“Hard times,” said Jenny, and then paused for a moment before saying, so quietly he could hardly hear her, “Might I speak with you? Not here.”

“Of course.” Charles tried to ignore the way his palms turned sweaty, the mingled anticipation and fear. It was nothing to do with him, he was sure, at least not like that. Jenny’s eyes were on her father, watching him as one might a snake. “It would be my pleasure. I’m in your debt and would be happy to repay in any way I can.”

Jenny looked at him sideways. “Any way?”

“Within honor.” He looked at her closely, feeling a strong urge to go out and battle dragons on her behalf. Or at least Colonel Lyons. “Is it as bad as that?”

Jenny pressed her lips together and looked away. Speaking rapidly, she said, “Do you know where the Old Mill is?”

“The ruin? When?” The ladies had already retreated to the house, and Colonel Lyons, having disposed of Mr. Harding, was beginning to look about.

Jenny was already beginning to slip away, into the crowd. “When Mr. Harding is ash.”

“It’s done,” said Charles, but she wasn’t there to hear. Colonel Lyons was looking at him, so Charles made a show of locking his hands behind his back and strolling around the mill yard, examining the tubs of blackstrap and molasses, the tables laden with bowls of rice and peas, cassava pone, and salt fish.

“Was that one of the maids with you?” Colonel Lyons strode over to him, his entourage stumbling behind.

Charles schooled himself to indifference. “Yes, I believe so. She wanted to know if I needed more rum.”

“If you have to ask,” said Colonel Lyons, with a glint to his eye, “why then, the answer is yes.”