“Oh Lily, I do depend on your practical nature to keep me from wailing at all the unfairness of the world. Cookie’s fever is raging out of control and I’m responsible for her welfare.” Claire paced the parlor of her uncle’s great house, anxiously waiting for the two doctors she had summoned for the third time in five days.
Cookie or rather Mrs. Simson had been the cook under the employ of the late baron, Claire’s father. At a young age, Claire had difficulty pronouncing Mrs. Simson, and so, had adopted the name of Cookie. From the time they could walk, Claire and Lily spent time in the kitchen with Cookie who delighted in having her two young charges under her feet.
“When my parents were alive…” Claire touched her heart, thinking of them and all the love they showered on her. Sitting on her father’s knee, listening to his deep rumble of laughter, or listening to her mother sing to her. That was before the accident. Their carriage had been struck broadside by a driver-less coach. Over and over their carriage had tumbled down a sharp ravine−her lovely mother with a broken neck, her father dying days later. Claire survived. It was a living testament to the love they held for their only child. For cushioned safely in between her parents, she emerged unscathed.
Yet her dear papa never realized he would not survive to his senior years. He had neglected to make provisions for his only daughter in the eventuality of his death and had been inattentive of his brother’s greed and temperament. Her father’s brother, Sir Jarvis wasted no time in securing the title of Baron and all the family’s holdings. One early morning, the girls were placed in a carriage and driven deep into London. They had been dropped off into a honeycomb of filth, so confined, it made Claire shudder to remember the long ago experience. Dirt besmirched walls, rot and garbage, families stuffed like beans in a bag, children with matted hair walking barefoot, men and women drinking, squabbling, fighting and screaming every foul invective imaginable. Bewildered, the two girls had wandered the rookeries of St. Giles, frightened from the ragged children who stole their rich coats. Claire had pulled Lily beneath a stairwell. Soot dripped on them and they shivered from the dank cold. Scouring trash bins for food became a learned ritual. Scared out of her wits, Claire had wanted to cry. She had refused to give into that impulse and had comforted Lily. She needed to protect her cousin. When darkness emerged, a more fearful experience descended. Men leered−and groped at her, trying to lure her into their carriages. The promise of a bit of bread to a child whose stomach gnawed with hunger came tempting. Despite her sheltered life, her body had trembled with the evil they represented and she ran away.
With a week spent in the country, tending her ill sister, Mrs. Simpson returned to discover the girls were missing. Little had been done about an investigation. She could not prove Jarvis was at the bottom of the farce nor did she trust him. No way did she believe his weak explanation of being in another town at the time of the kidnapping. Her maternal instincts exploded. She questioned everyone. Most of the servants remained silent, terrified of going up against a knight of the realm. A stable boy gave her a clue. He had been sleeping up in the loft when Sir Jarvis and a strange man had visited. He had not heard all the conversation. The girl’s names were associated with St. Giles.
Were her babies forsaken to that devil’s pesthole? Cookie rose like an avenging angel. She contacted her brother, a pickpocket who lived in Jacob’s Island, the heart of that rotting dunghill of humanity. She waited, praying to a higher power. A week later her prayers were answered when her brother showed up with her two little frightened and filthy girls.
Mrs. Simson had confronted Jarvis. When he told her the girls were no concern of his, she flew into a rage and resigned. Cookie had procured a solicitor, an old family friend to secure the small inheritance Claire received from her mother that Jarvis did not get his hands on. With frugality, they lived as a family. Without Cookie’s intervention, Claire knew their circumstances would have been dire.
Lily studied Claire over the brim of her teacup. “Let’s put our mind on other things for the time being. I find conversation diverting in times of crisis.”
Claire stopped. Why did her thoughts drift again to that damn convict? “I can’t believe what I’ve been reduced to since our arrival in Jamaica. I bought a slave because I felt sorry for him, making a spectacle of myself. Thank the Governor for my rescue, turning it into a humorous feminine ploy instead of the fiasco it truly was.”
Lily pushed her spectacles up her nose. “He didn’t seem happy about you buying him. I wonder why?”
Claire shrugged. “Far be it from me to ascertain the nuances of men. To think I received nothing but his scorn for saving the ungrateful wretch’s neck.” She grimaced, the abhorrent sale of men a bitter taste upon her tongue.
She moved to a window and watched a slave struggling to heave Sir Jarvis up on his stallion. The animal bowed beneath his weight. “I curse the day I ran into my uncle in London. He had disappeared for years. I never dreamed he lived in Jamaica,” Claire said unable to shrug off her melancholia. He recognized me, looked me over like a broodmare then pushed me off on London’s most expensive modistes.”
“Greed and personal profit are paramount to him. For Jarvis to reap a fortune, you had to be fitted with all the finery to entrap a wealthy husband.”
“It was the finery I needed. I am plain, Lily. Men see me as a friend with no romantic attachment.”
“You are far from plain,” Lily admonished. “To save money, you dressed practical. As I told you before, you are more beautiful than your mother, and she was known as a great beauty. But even without all the silks and satins you are beautiful. Your uncle hedged his bets on you.”
“Attempting to navigate the fashionable circles in London was unfamiliar territory for me. I felt different and awkward, never quite fitting. I didn’t really know how to react to all the male attention. They were all so stuffy and pretentious, the men lofty and arrogant, the women preening for attention, cruel and vicious, too.” Claire scoffed at being launched in society.
“The men were always available to comment on your beauty,” Lily said.
“By which I knew they were either blind or liars, and since they could see their way to the wine well enough, I concluded the latter. I was distracted by the social whirl. The balls, teas, operas everything society had to offer, but early on, I have to confess, Lily, it lost its luster. I grew bored. To think I had even entertained marrying a man of that world, an idle aristocrat who would leave me alone. She sighed. “A nice quiet, uninvolved man. That would be wonderful.”
Lily arched her eyebrow. “Your friend Hyacinth married a sea-captain, and looked forward to traveling to the many parts around the world.”
Claire grew thoughtful. “I’ve always loved accounts of exotic lands. Sometimes I think I’m like my dashing father who would thrive in foreign environs. But I’m ruled by my mother’s strong streak of conservatism. Besides such exotic movements are forbidden for young women unless they are accompanied by male relatives.”
“We shall treat Jamaica as a learning experience,” Lily maintained with an air of briskness.
Claire shook her head. “I much prefer my attachment to London. It’s reliable. Never did I think I could exist without it. But I have to tell you, Lily−” Colorful exotic flowers bloomed in the manicured gardens. Claire sighed. “Being placed in Jamaica has awakened a need for open spaces. There is a connection here, as if my father and mother are with me.”
Lily nodded in agreement. “I also have developed an attachment. All the damp and congestion of London I can leave behind. But I do miss the bookshops. Thanks to you, I am content with unfettered access to the Governor’s library during our sojourn.”
“We’ve been through a lot together but without Cookie, we would never have survived.”
The two physicians arrived and Claire showed them to Cookie’s room. They laid out their instruments to bleed her again. Ice spread through Claire’s stomach.
“She is so pale,” Lily whispered. “I’ve read everything I could from the books in the Governor’s library. I cannot glean anything to aid in fixing this odd ailment. I feel so helpless.”
“If only I had not dragged her here. The heat has been torturous,” said Claire.
“If they bleed her one more time−I fear her passing.”
The physician raised his lance. The sharp blade hovered above Cookie’s arm. Claire bit her lip. “Stop. There must be something else you can do.”
The physician looked down his nose at her with all the arrogance his office afforded him. “I’m afraid she will die unless I perform this surgery.”
Claire bristled. “I’m afraid she will die if you do.”
He smiled. “You are new to our locale and most probably sensitive to female vapors. I insist you leave the room. Let a more knowledgeable person perform his lifesaving skills.
Claire’s nostrils flared with her fury. “Get out.”
The physicians looked at one another as if they had not heard her right. Claire corrected that notion by grabbing a lance off the bed and pointing it at them. “You heard me. Get out. A dog could come up with a better prescription for survival. I’ll not let her die at your hands.” She backed them out of the room and slammed the door. When they cried for their instruments, Claire obliged. She tossed their bags out the window.
Lily placed a cool cloth on Cookie’s forehead. “That was nicely done. Whatever are we to do now? I’m afraid our own counsel is worn out.”
Claire hands shook. “What have I done? I’ve signed her death warrant.”
Lily turned to pull back the drapes. Sunlight fell on dark shadow.
Claire raised her head. “Didn’t Captain Johnson say the slave I bought was a physician?”
Lily lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that speech was invented to bargain him for a higher price. But will he oblige you?”
“He has to be a physician. And why wouldn’t he help?” Claire demanded.
“He seemed so angry, as if he had a score to settle with you,” Lily informed her. “Besides it’s improper to go to the fields alone. Sir Jarvis sent Moses into town on errands, so there isn’t anyone to escort you.”
Cookie’s shallow breathing increased. She owed so much to the woman who saved their lives. “I don’t know the man or why he feels hostility toward me.” Claire plunked a hat on her head. “I’ll do anything to save Cookie even if I have to travel through the gates of Hell and bring back the devil himself.”
Included in one of those melancholy droves of human chattel, Devon survived, almost suffocated by the heat. At night, they were crowded into barracks, many with wounds, undressed and festering, caused by incessant floggings and fierce insects. Many were fortunate to die.
In Devon’s mind, Baron Jarvis had far exceeded the foulest work of God’s creation. If he had any regrets, it was not having the opportunity to draw a lance on the baron. A beneficial operation, he mused, beneficial as for the welfare of humanity. The difficulty lay in the opportunity. The man stood robust and clear of any ailments. In any case, the idea had merit.
To keep his sanity, he channeled thoughts of revenge on the brown haired witch who bought him. He had caught a glimpse of her, conversing with three old pea-hens. Her brown curls were caught up in an elegant cluster at the nape, entwined with jasmine flowers, and she emanated a breathtakingly beautiful image of breeding and serenity. She had laughed at something the old biddies said, and her face had acquired a radiance that was mesmerizing. Devon’s shock of seeing her then as on the docks vanished as quickly as it hit him, but he had continued to study her with the same detached interest as a stable master would a thoroughbred he already knows is flawed.
With habit, he recalled her proud triumph in purchasing him. It had been a game, an entertainment for a spoiled, selfish, frivolous woman, her character no different than her uncle. But she owed him a debt. For Devon it became a game on how he would collect that debt.
The yoke of slavery was an unending agony. Many men like himself were forced into back-breaking work in the fields. Others, not so lucky were chained to the mill-wheel like beasts of burden, the ready lash of the whip reminding them of their servitude. From foul water and ill-nourishment, a sickness broke out between them. Devon protested to exercise his expertise as a surgeon to relieve some of the suffering. He was accounted obstinate and threatened with a flogging. Only from the loss of the men perishing at a high rate did the overseer relent. Without rest, Devon worked to improve the conditions of his fellow captives and checked the spread of disease. The mortality rate would have been higher if not for his skill.
The field work hardened him after the softening influence of Newgate and aboard the ship. If the opportunity of escape occurred he would stand ready in prime condition.
Old Ethan, a convicted rebel collapsed and writhed in misery. “Reckon it don’t matter. May’s well die a sheep as a lamb. They’ll flog me if I don’t get back up.”
Devon knelt beside Ethan. “Nobody will flog you, old one.” He lay so sick and battered, his pallor like a shrunk cedar white with the hoar-frost. “Ames, Bloodsmythe, Wolf.”
Three other convicted rebels he had bonded with on the ship hid Ethan under a palmetto.
“Old Ethan, you rest here in the shade. We’ll do your work. No one need know the difference.” Devon covered him with palm branches.
Ames drew Devon aside. “If they catch us, we’ll all be flogged. Be like they’ll end his life here in the field or tie a millstone around Ethan and let him sink to the bottom of the river.”
Devon frowned. “If I don’t get him out of the sun and let him rest, it will mean the death of him. And while I grant Jarvis has no soul, I doubt he would deliberately murder an old man at expense to his profit.”
Ames shook his head. “Jarvis is a killer. ‘Tis said that after each flogging, he lays Anne Jensen in lust.” He spat in disgust. “It fair makes me puke to set eyes on him.”
Devon picked up his shovel and commenced to work, considering Ames’ warning with cool indifference. Ames was a good lad, third son of an earl, set with principles, gone off to war on the wrong side without weighing the hubris in which he entangled himself. It was a heavy price he paid for that impetuous decision. Each day, Devon swore he saw another piece of hope diminish the light in the lad’s eyes. A raven settled on his shoulder. “Ah here’s our friend, Abu Ajir, father of omens to bid us good day,” laughed Devon who paused to understand the rarity of his humor. Blue-green iridescence reflected on the bird’s head. “You seem the only one in good health, my favorite stowaway.”
“If not for you nursing Abu Ajir back to health aboard the ship, he’d be fodder for the fishes. He has sought you as his master. I wish I could fly away with our friend,” Ames expression went slack.
Devon did not concede to Ames’s misery. Guards pointed at them from down the field. He brushed aside the bird and set his shovel into the ground. “Better to keep the illusion of hard work than to receive a flogging.”
Ames followed Devon’s lead. “Why did you name the raven an Arab name?”
“Half a decade ago, I spent two years in a Spanish prison that lent me the company of many different men.” He did not glance at Ames’s countenance to see his surprise. Instead he looked up to see the object of his enmity riding toward him.
She was like a fair flower disheveled in the wind. Her dress was of simple yellow muslin, the bodice shaped close to her slender figure and accented her tiny waist. Her bonnet lay frivolous upon her back with several silk ribbons flowing in the breeze. Her hair fell freely down her back, framing her features with gleaming chestnut. With avid curiosity, he saw a spark in her eyes and flushing of her cheeks, a delightful shade of rose. She was a vision to bedazzle the most hardened of men. The convict-rebels, busy with their labors, could not keep their eyes off her. And neither could Devon.