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Here, however, she shook her head.
“I don’t know. It’s really not safe to ask,” she added, lowering her voice still further, and now her eyes were serious. “Tell me—the servant who spoke to you; what did he say?”
Aware of just how quickly gossip spreads in rural places, Grey wasn’t about to reveal that threats had been made against Governor Warren. Instead he asked, “Have you ever heard of zombies?”
She went quite white.
“No,” she said abruptly. It was a risk, but he took her hand to keep her from turning away.
“I cannot tell you why I need to know,” he said, very low-voiced, “but please believe me, Miss Twelvetrees—Nancy”—callously, he pressed her hand—“it’s extremely important. Any help that you can give me would be—well, I should appreciate it extremely.” Her hand was warm; the fingers moved a little in his, and not in an effort to pull away. Her color was coming back.
“I truly don’t know much,” she said, equally low-voiced. “Only that zombies are dead people who have been raised by magic to do the bidding of the person who made them.”
“The person who made them—this would be an Obeah-man?”
“Oh! No,” she said, surprised. “The Koromantyns don’t make zombies—in fact, they think it quite an unclean practice.”
“I’m entirely of one mind with them,” he assured her. “Who does make zombies?”
“Nancy!” Philip had concluded his conversation with the overseer and was coming toward them, a hospitable smile on his broad, perspiring face. “I say, can we not have something to eat? I’m sure the Colonel must be famished, and I’m most extraordinarily clemmed myself.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Twelvetrees said, with a quick warning glance at Grey. “I’ll tell Cook.” Grey tightened his grip momentarily on her fingers, and she smiled at him.
“As I was saying, Colonel, you must call on Mrs. Abernathy at Rose Hall. She would be the person best equipped to inform you.”
“Inform you?” Twelvetrees, curse him, chose this moment to become inquisitive. “About what?”
“Customs and beliefs among the Ashanti, my dear,” his sister said blandly. “Colonel Grey has a particular interest in such things.”
Twelvetrees snorted briefly.
“Ashanti, my left foot! Ibo, Fulani, Koromantyn . . . baptize ’em all proper Christians and let’s hear no more about what heathen beliefs they may have brought with ’em. From the little I know, you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, Colonel. Though if you do, of course,” he added hastily, recalling that it was not his place to tell the Lieutenant Colonel who would be protecting Twelvetrees’s life and property his business, “then my sister’s quite right—Mrs. Abernathy would be best placed to advise you. Almost all her slaves are Ashanti. She . . . er . . . she’s said to . . . um . . . take an interest.”
To Grey’s own interest, Twelvetrees’s face went a deep red, and he hastily changed the subject, asking Grey fussy questions about the exact disposition of his troops. Grey evaded direct answers beyond assuring Twelvetrees that two companies of infantry would be dispatched to his plantation as soon as word could be sent to Spanish Town.
He wished to leave at once, for various reasons, but was obliged to remain for tea, an uncomfortable meal of heavy, stodgy food, eaten under the heated gaze of Miss Twelvetrees. For the most part, he thought he had handled her with tact and delicacy—but toward the end of the meal she began to give him little pursed-mouth jabs. Nothing one could—or should—overtly notice, but he saw Philip blink at her once or twice in frowning bewilderment.
“Of course, I could not pose as an authority regarding any aspect of life on Jamaica,” she said, fixing him with an unreadable look. “We have lived here barely six months.”
“Indeed,” he said politely, a wodge of undigested Savoy cake settling heavily in his stomach. “You seem very much at home—and a very lovely home it is, Miss Twelvetrees. I perceive your most harmonious touch throughout.”
This belated attempt at flattery was met with the scorn it deserved; the eleven was back, hardening her brow.
“My brother inherited the plantation from our cousin, Edward Twelvetrees. Edward lived in London himself.” She leveled a look like the barrel of a musket at him. “Did you know him, Colonel?”
And just what would the bloody woman do if he told her the truth? he wondered. Clearly, she thought she knew something, but . . . no, he thought, watching her closely. She couldn’t know the truth, but had heard some rumor. So this poking at him was an attempt—and a clumsy one—to get him to say more.
“I know several Twelvetreeses casually,” he said, very amiably. “But if I met your cousin, I do not think I had the pleasure of speaking with him at any great length.” “You bloody murderer!” and “Fucking sodomite!” not really constituting conversation, if you asked Grey.
Miss Twelvetrees blinked at him, surprised, and he realized what he should have seen much earlier. She was drunk. He had found the sangria light, refreshing—but had drunk only one glass himself. He had not noticed her refill her own, and yet the pitcher stood nearly empty.
“My dear,” said Philip, very kindly. “It is warm, is it not? You look a trifle pale and indisposed.” In fact, she was flushed, her hair beginning to come down behind her rather large ears—but she did indeed look indisposed. Philip rang the bell, rising to his feet, and nodded to the black maid who came in.
“I am not indisposed,” Nancy Twelvetrees said, with some dignity. “I’m—I simply—that is—” But the black maid, evidently used to this office, was already hauling Miss Twelvetrees toward the door, though with sufficient skill as to make it look as though she merely assisted her mistress.
Grey rose himself, perforce, and took Miss Nancy’s hand, bowing over it.
“Your servant, Miss Twelvetrees,” he said. “I hope—”
