Page 66 of The Summer Country

“His money now,” said Charles, and found himself on the receiving end of a basilisk glare. “As a matter of law, when you married—”

“Yes, I know all that. I asked him to have the money conveyed so that it might remain separate for my use but he said there’d be no need of that, as we were of one mind. . . . One mind, indeed!”

“One body under the law,” suggested Charles helpfully. He held up his hands at her frown. “And you do have one object. To make Beckles prosper.”

“Oh, I have no objection to Robert using my money to make improvements on my land. His ideas are sound. But how, pray tell, does making my uncle a gift of my money improve our situation?”

Charles was spared the task of replying by the arrival of the cakes. A procession arrived from the kitchen, bearing platters of iced dainties, comfits in sugar, and the tea things, the silver slop bowl polished to a sheen that hurt his eyes. Mary Anne, it seemed, had taken up housekeeping with a vengeance.

Jenny quietly directed the disposition of the tea things, making no sign to Charles.

“You might as well sit down,” said Mary Anne ungraciously. “Sugar?”

“Please.” He didn’t like sweet tea, but it bought him time. When Mary Anne had plunked the cup onto the saucer and sloshed tea into it, thrusting the whole into his hand, Charles asked, “Has your uncle gone, then?”

“Oh yes, back to Jamaica, with enough in his pocket to make this a very profitable interlude, indeed.”

“I should think you would be glad to see the back of him,” Charles ventured. The tension between them was hardly a secret; that had been there for anyone to see.

“I want to see him poor and starving,” said Mary Anne crossly. “I want to see his clothes in tatters and his face covered with sores. Not wealthy and happy in Jamaica!”

“He did make a good job of running Beckles.”

“He was stealing from me for years,” said Mary Anne flatly.

“Was he?” Despite his best efforts, Charles found himself looking to Jenny, standing like a statue behind her mistress’s chair.

“You can say anything in front of Jenny, you know that,” said Mary Anne impatiently. “Jenny is my other self. I have no secrets from her.”

“Yes, of course,” said Charles. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for her misapprehension or alarmed at the sentiment. “Are you certain? About the money, I mean.”

“I can add two and two. I tried to show your brother the books, but he refused to listen. He told me not to enact him a Cheltenham tragedy.”

“Perhaps if I have Jonathan look at them . . .”

“Your pet Redleg?”

“He’s a very good bookkeeper.” Charles didn’t want to argue with her. “Can’t you talk to Robert about it? I’m sure, once he sees the evidence with his own eyes . . .”

“You talk to him,” flung back Mary Anne. “I’ve talked and talked until I’m short of breath. And when I ask him about my lands—mine!—he tells me not to trouble myself. Does he expect me to sit on a cushion and drink ratafia all day?”

“Er . . .” That was, Charles suspected, exactly what Robert expected of a wife.

“He wants me out of the way. Oh, not like that,” she said impatiently, as Charles stared. “He wants me to be a proper Creole wife and stay indoors, with servants to thread my needle and fan my feet. Beckles is my home. Mine.”

“What’s yours?” Robert appeared in the door, fresh from the fields, his stock limp with sweat and his crop still in his hand.

“Nothing, apparently,” said Mary Anne, looking crossly at Charles. He wasn’t sure what she had expected of him. The law was quite clear on the subject of marital property.

Robert frowned at Charles. “Here so soon, brother?”

“I came to welcome you back home,” said Charles, since some sort of explanation seemed to be required. “My new sister kindly entertained me in your absence.”

“I’m sure she did.” Robert’s tone was so acid that Charles had to resist the urge to glance behind him, to see if he’d suddenly grown horns or a tail.

“If you will pardon me? Charles.” Mary Anne nodded graciously at him and glared at her husband before sweeping from the room, Jenny following behind her.

Charles felt as bewildered as though he’d been too much in the sun. What the blazes had happened in Antigua?