CHAPTER THREE
Beth was sitting on a bench under a frangipani tree in the garden of the governor of Martinique’s house, waiting for the carriage that would take her to her new life to arrive. It was difficult to believe that only ten days ago she had been lying on wooden boards in a vermin-infested hold with a hundred and forty-nine other people on their way to a life of indentured servitude, or more accurately, slavery.
Now she was wearing a dress of rose-coloured silk with matching slippers, her skin was clean and perfumed and her hair was shining and free of lice. And, more important than that, more important than anything, for the first time in over a year she was truly free.
Her first impression of her new home, as she had stood with all the other passengers on deck watching Port Royal come into view had been that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen, and the most foreign. Nothing about it reminded her of her homeland, which she considered a blessing. The sea, at home normally grey, or on rare glorious days blue-grey, was here an almost impossible royal blue colour shading to bright turquoise as it drew near to the shore. The sky was also the shade of blue only seen on perfect summer days in Britain. Port Royal, where they were coming in to land, was dominated by its huge fort, Fort St Louis, which stood on a rocky peninsula surrounded by a high and very impressive wall.
Behind the town thickly wooded vibrant green slopes stretched into the distance, and closer to the shore palm trees, of which she had heard but never seen, waved as if welcoming the strangers.
Once off the ship the Jacobites had crowded together on the shore, rendered speechless by the sheer strangeness of it all. Everything was different; the language, the people, whose skin colour came in all shades from ivory through to ebony, the trees, buildings, flowers, weather…there was nothing at all to remind them of home. Everything seemed impossibly bright, vibrant, somehow more.
Well, except the clothes. Beth sighed. It seemed ridiculous to her that the white Creole inhabitants of Martinique insisted on wearing European fashions, in spite of the heat. Wearing shift, stays, petticoats, dress, fichu and stockings in the cool English climate could render one uncomfortably warm, but in this heat it was almost a torture.
She flicked open her fan and waved it in front of her face for a few minutes, then gave up. The effort of moving hot air around her head was actually making her warmer than just enduring it would. Even in the shade she was hot, and the heady scent of the frangipani blossoms, wonderful when perfuming a room, was cloying when you were sitting directly underneath the source, sweating freely. She hoped that once she was out of the town people would embrace a more practical attitude to clothing.
Captain Marsal, seemingly oblivious to the heat in spite of wearing breeches and frockcoat of emerald-green velvet and sporting an elaborate powdered wig topped by his tricorn hat, had led the prisoners from the dock, setting a brisk pace along the road to the governor’s mansion.
“I sent a message ahead on Le Diamant to advise him of our imminent arrival,” Paul had explained to Beth as they walked, “and he told us to proceed directly to his house once we docked.”
The governor, Charles de Tubières, Marquis de Caylus, came out to meet them all on the spreading, immaculately cut lawn in front of his house. Captain Marsal, tucking Beth’s hand neatly under his arm and retaining it when she would have stopped, led her straight up to the governor and bowed deeply. Beth curtseyed.
“Monsieur le Marquis,” Paul began, “these are the unfortunate prisoners I informed you of in my letter and this beautiful young lady has kindly acted as my official translator, as she is fluent in French, English, and Scottish. She has been invaluable to me, and I trust you will make use of her services as well.”
The marquis, a slender middle-aged man with a weatherbeaten countenance, eyed her appreciatively.
“Are you agreeable to that suggestion, madame?” he asked.
“I would be honoured to assist in any way I can, Monsieur le Marquis,” Beth agreed.
It had been a clever and kind move by the captain, as a result of which, while the rest of the Jacobites had been accommodated all over town in lodgings which ranged from comfortable to barely habitable, Beth had found herself in a beautiful and luxurious apartment in the governor’s house itself, where she had lived for the last ten days.
After a warm, jasmine-scented bath into which Beth had sunk in a bliss that was almost delirious, she had been served with a meal that would not have been out of place at the court of King Louis himself, following which a maid had assisted her to dress in a pale green gown borrowed from the marquis’ housekeeper. She had then been directed down a sweeping staircase into the governor’s office.
“Ah, Madame Cunningham!” he exclaimed. “Please, sit down. I see Paulette’s gown is a little generous for your delicate proportions. I will arrange for a dressmaker to visit you tomorrow. Are you feeling refreshed?”
Beth sat down on the solid mahogany chair indicated and looked around with appreciation.
“I am. Thank you, monsieur. Your house is very beautiful. It reminds me of Versailles.”
It did. Her own room was painted in pale yellow with white mouldings, the furniture gilded, the cushions covered in cream silk brocade. This room was equally luxurious but decorated in more masculine shades of deep blue, with dark wood furniture. A large mirror hung over the marble fireplace. Beth wondered if there was ever any need to light a fire in its hearth. Behind the governor stood a black man in green livery, while another stood by the door, having opened it for her to enter and closed it behind her.
“You have visited Versailles, Madame Cunningham?” the marquis asked. “Did you take a tour?”
Damn. But it didn’t matter. It was common knowledge that she had been there. Regardless of what the marquis intended to do with her and her fellow Jacobites, there was no harm in talking about her time at Versailles.
“Yes, monsieur. My husband and I travelled in Europe after our wedding, and took a tour of the palace. But then we had the great honour of being invited to a soirée by His Majesty King Louis himself. It was most interesting.”
“There is a John Cunningham listed amongst the passengers,” the marquis said, looking down at a paper on his desk. “Is he then…?”
“Ah. No,” Beth answered. “I didn’t know there was someone else of the same name on board. No, he is no relation. Cunningham was my name before I married, and I am the only supporter of the Stuarts in my family. My husband was Sir Anthony Peters. I believe him to be dead now, monsieur.”
“Sir Anthony Peters?” the marquis repeated, clearly surprised.
“You knew him?” Beth asked, thinking rapidly. She must be very careful now.
“Not personally, no. But everyone knew of Sir Anthony. He was the talk of Paris. Maurepas told me of him. He challenged the king’s servant, Monsieur Monselle to a duel, did he not, and accidentally killed him?”
“He did, yes,” Beth replied neutrally. It was impossible to tell from the marquis’ expression whether he was impressed or appalled by the fact that the baronet had skewered the king’s panderer. “It was quite ridiculous. Monsieur Monselle and myself had a shared interest in the poetry of John Milton, and Anthony misinterpreted an innocent friendship. He challenged Monsieur Monselle in a fit of jealous rage. It was most uncharacteristic of him.”
“So I heard,” the marquis replied, which confirmed to Beth that he had been told Sir Anthony was ineffectual, at the very least. “Well, I must say, Lady Peters, that although I am sure your friendship was purely platonic, Monselle was not a…shall we say, a man of good character? If I was married to a lady as beautiful as yourself, I too would be jealous if such a man occupied your time. But you said Sir Anthony is no longer with us? My condolences, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Beth said politely. She needed to change the subject, quickly. “If it is not impertinent of me, may I ask if you have reached a decision regarding the fate of myself and my fellow passengers?”
“Of course, that must be your primary concern right now. I have heard of the appalling way those who fought for Prince Charles Edward have been treated by the Duke of Cumberland and his men, and I will not add to your ordeal by prolonging my deliberations. In view of the regard in which King Louis holds King James and his son, there is really only one decision I can make, and that is to treat you all in the same way as you would have been had you sailed to France itself. Tomorrow I intend, with your help as my translator of course, to inform all of you that you are no longer prisoners. You are free.”
On hearing this news Beth burst into tears, to her utter embarrassment and horror.
The marquis stood immediately and waved to the servant to bring some wine.
“My dear Lady Peters,” he said. “Please, do not distress yourself. I assure you, it is the last thing I wished to do.”
He offered her his handkerchief, which she took, wiping away her tears with impatience. The surge of relief, following hard on the reminder of Alex killing Henri, had caught her unawares. She fought to control herself, with some success.
“I am sorry, monsieur,” she said, once she could speak. “I am far from distressed. It is just…after two years in prison, I can hardly believe it. It was a little too much for me.”
The servant returned with the wine and poured a glass for her, which she accepted gratefully. She sipped at it, taking the opportunity to pull her temporarily scattered thoughts together.
“Won’t the British demand our return, once they know where we are?” she asked after a time.
“Possibly. Probably. But I am a man of my word. Once a promise is made, it cannot be retracted. I am sure the British will understand.”
He smiled in a way that told Beth he was really looking forward to making the British ‘understand’. At that moment she was almost in love with him.
The following morning when the marquis told the assembled crowd of Scots and English, in slightly more formal terms than he had used to Beth, that he was giving them their freedom, he got the same reaction from the majority of them as he had from her the previous evening. This time, however, he was a little more prepared for it and allowed them some time to absorb that they were not about to be sent back to Britain, or on to Antigua, or held in prison here until the British authorities decided what was to be done with them.
Free. They were free to do whatever they wanted. They were all free.
“Now,” he said, once they were all capable of listening to him again, “I am aware that you will need a little time to decide what you wish to do, and I will of course arrange for your accommodation in the meantime, and for you all to have food and clothing and a small allowance. I think some of you may decide to go to France, where many of your fellow compatriots are. If you wish to do this, I will happily arrange passage for you, either to France or to anywhere else you may wish to go. I cannot recommend that you return to your native land. But of course it would be your own choice. If you choose to remain in Martinique, then we will see if employment can be found for you. Most of you, I see by the ship’s list, have a useful trade. But you do not need to decide today, of course. You are all emotional and need time to take in this information, and to celebrate, I think.”
They had celebrated en masse that evening. They had spent over four weeks cooped up in a tiny hold, starving and despairing, and regardless of personality and cultural differences had formed a close bond based on their shared plight. Now they spent one night in the streets and inns of Port Royal, and in spite of the fact that every one of them got roaring drunk, the combination of shared despair followed by shared elation ensured that the only injuries sustained during the evening were due to walking into furniture and falling over due to excessive consumption of alcohol.
Captain Marsal and much of his crew joined the ecstatic throng in their celebrations, the captain being conveyed along the main street atop the shoulders of several of the ex-prisoners. Once back on his own feet he sought and found Beth, who, though having initially vowed to remain sober, was already on her third glass of tafia. She had watered it down, aware that having drunk very little in the last two years her tolerance for alcohol was not what it had been in the past.
“Ah! Lady Peters! I wished to speak with you before we all become too…happy,” he announced, bowing with his customary elaborate gesture. He had spoken about her with the governor, then.
“I am still Beth,” she replied.
“As you wish. I would like to have met Sir Anthony. He seems to have been an interesting man.”
“He was,” she agreed, “as are you. It was very kind of you to introduce me to the marquis personally. My accommodations are very luxurious as a result.”
“We are friends, Beth, and friends help each other, do they not? I also wanted to thank you for introducing me to the delightful Madame Clavering.”
“You are getting to know each other then, in spite of the language difficulties?” she asked. The night they had met, Beth had spent approximately half an hour translating between the two of them before the captain had decided his English, poor as he declared it to be, was adequate to the occasion. Beth, smiling, had left the two of them together.
“We are. You were right, she is a most spirited lady, and a delightful one. And she has kindly agreed to accompany me on my next venture in order to ascertain if she could take to the life.” Although he attempted nonchalance his eyes were sparkling, and as she looked up at him he smiled broadly.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said, embracing him impulsively. He wrapped his arms around her and was whispering, “Thank you,” in her ear when the reason for their embrace appeared behind them.
“So, I leave ye alone for ten minutes and find ye in the arms of another!” Elizabeth said.
Paul pushed Beth away as though indeed guilty and was trying to formulate an explanation in English, when Beth spoke.
“Well, if you leave a handsome and dangerous man, and a Frenchman at that, alone in a street full of free and tipsy women, you’ve only yourself to blame!”
“Free. Aye, there’s a word I didna think to hear in a long time,” Elizabeth said, her feigned jealousy forgotten. “Wonderful, is it no’?”
Captain Marsal visibly relaxed as the two women embraced. He really needed to learn about British humour.
“I believe you’re going to become a pirate,” Beth said once they’d released each other.
“Privateer,” Paul Marsal said automatically.
“Of course. A privateer,” Beth amended.
“Aye, why no’? I must admit, I’ve developed a taste for adventure over the last years,” Elizabeth said. “I canna really see myself going back to sewing shirts in a wee bothy somewhere, wi’ the only highlight a monthly visit to the market. Can you?”
Could she? That was the problem Beth had mulled over in her mind for the next few days while she had gone through the motions of translating for the other Jacobites as they sorted out all the paperwork and administration needed to find jobs in Martinique, or to arrange passage to France.
Each afternoon she ran an impromptu French class on the shady porch of the governor’s timber-framed, white-painted house, where she tried to instil basic French vocabulary in all those willing to learn, whilst they drank fresh lemonade and slaves fanned them with huge leaves.
She also attended mass every day while she was staying in the marquis’ house. In Britain she had only been able to go to mass a few times a year, due to a combination of the fact that she’d had to keep her faith hidden from her family, and that there were punitive laws in place regarding public worship for Roman Catholics. Here she had no such restriction, and it felt wonderful to sit in the quiet, peaceful church listening to the soothing tones of the Latin service. Every day she lit candles, one for Alex and one for the rest of the MacGregors and MacDonalds. She had no idea how many of them were alive, and what their lives were now like, but it comforted her to pray for them.
During dinner, which she took with the marquis, he regaled her with stories of his eventful life as a commander in the French Navy. He was an excellent raconteur, and she listened with fascination as he told her about the time he had been attacked by the British in the dead of night as he passed the Straits of Gibraltar. He had had only three ships to their four, but had nevertheless prevailed.
“It was ungentlemanly of them, because we were not at war at the time, you know,” he explained. “They gave the excuse that they did not know our nationality, which was ludicrous as we were openly flying our colours. I think they expected it to be an easy conquest, but in the end we sent them scuttling away with their tails between their legs, and crippled one of their ships in the process – broke the mast, you know.”
“It must have been terrifying for the men, to be attacked in the middle of the night,” Beth said, thinking of how frightened they had all been when down in the hold wondering what was happening above.
“Perhaps. But it also gave me an opportunity to get the measure of my crew. You can only tell the real worth of a man when he is under pressure. It was a valuable lesson for all of us.”
“Do you miss those days, wish you were still commanding a fleet?” she asked, her mind still pondering Elizabeth’s words of a few days ago, and wondering if it was possible to settle for a quiet life once you’d experienced an adventurous one.
The marquis sat and thought for a minute.
“Sometimes,” he admitted finally. “And sometimes I regret not marrying and having a family too. But you know, it is not possible to do everything in one life. One must take the opportunities when they arise, as I did when offered the governorship of this beautiful island. And one must also accept when it is time to make way for a younger man. I am nearly fifty. And I am content.”
The marquis waved his arm and his servants, or slaves, Beth was not sure which they were, came to clear the dishes. Beth accepted a brandy and they adjourned to the salon.
“I have a proposal for you, Lady Peters, which might suit you. I have an acquaintance, a Monsieur Delisle, who owns a sugar plantation on the windward side of the island near Sainte Marie. They have recently lost a child, and Madame Delisle is feeling a little low in spirits. She was in Paris for a time, but now she has returned she is not settling in well here. Her husband thinks it might lift her mood to have a companion, someone vivacious and intelligent who can help her to readjust to her life here. And of course I thought of you.”
“I am not sure I could help anyone adjust to the life here, monsieur,” Beth said. “After all, I have yet to adjust to it myself.”
“That is true. But you have an enthusiasm and a zest for life that is most beguiling. You are not one to mope about the past, I think. You look forward. I think you might be able to encourage Madame Delisle to take the same attitude, and so embrace your life here together, as it were.”
Beth was thankful that he had not seen her standing by the window of her bedroom at night, gazing at the moon and wondering if Graeme, Jane and Thomas, Sarah or any of the MacGregors were also looking skyward and thinking of her. Missing her, as she was missing them so dreadfully.
But he was right. She could not go home; it was too dangerous, for her and for those she loved. She had to make a new life. Why not here? She was tired of adventure, of continuously having to be alert for danger, of never knowing if she would see the sun rise on another morning.
“You do not have to decide now,” the marquis said, taking her silence for reluctance. “I only received his letter today. He will not expect me to reply immediately. And you are most welcome to stay here for as long as you please.”
He was being kind, she knew that, but she could not stay for long in the house of a bachelor without exciting gossip. And he was a devout man, a man of high morals and very high standing in the community.
“If you do choose to accept, I think you will be happy in Martinique. The people are very friendly and welcoming. And Monsieur Delisle will give you a handsome allowance, as befits your station as a member of the English nobility,” the marquis added.
“Rather than as an ex-convict,” Beth said drily.
“My dear Lady Peters, you must not think of yourself as such. It is no crime to assist in the restoration of a king to his rightful place.”
“I do not think the British Government or my family see it that way, monsieur,” she said. “To them I am a traitor.”
“Did you ever declare allegiance to the Elector of Hanover?” the marquis asked.
“No,” Beth replied. But I did lie to him, and to his son, and to the whole of the nobility that you feel I belong to.
“Well then,” said the marquis, “you cannot betray someone you have never paid allegiance to.”
“You are very kind, monsieur. And in return I must be honest with you before I accept your friend’s offer. I am not a member of the English nobility. My father was the second son of a lord, that is true. His brother inherited the title, and the family turned against my father when he married my mother, who was a Scottish seamstress. My husband was not really called Sir Anthony Peters; nor was he a baronet. It was an assumed identity. That is common knowledge in England. His true identity is unknown to the authorities, and I will never divulge it to anyone. And that is why I was transported, when real ladies were not. If your friend still wants me to be his wife’s companion when he knows the truth, then I will accept. But I cannot accept a salary commensurate with that of a lady, under false pretences.”
The marquis smiled at her.
“My dear, there is more to nobility than a mere title. You are the granddaughter of a lord, therefore you are of noble birth. You display excellent manners, are learned, intelligent, and clearly at home in all echelons of society. Regardless of your family’s or your country’s opinion, you are well-bred and principled. I cannot think of anyone more worthy of the title ‘Lady’ than yourself, although I could name a good many who claim such a title with far less justification. But if it makes you feel at ease, then I will tell Monsieur Delisle what you have just told me. If you wish to accept his offer, of course. Please, take the time you need to consider.”
“I don’t need any time, monsieur. If you consider me to be suitable for the position, I would be honoured to accept your friend’s kind offer.”
There. It was done. Now there was no going back, no point in spending nights staring at the moon and yearning to sail back to her friends in Manchester or her family in Scotland. She was sick of danger. It was time to move on, to embrace a new life. She was ready to do so.
On Monday the marquis had called her into his study to advise her that Monsieur Delisle had written back to say that he was delighted she had accepted, and that he would send a carriage for her on Wednesday, if that was not too soon.
“No,” Beth said. “I think the sooner I embrace my new life the better, although I will miss the others who came with me. But they will soon be moving on to new lives too.”
“Indeed they will,” said the marquis. “Ten of the men have asked to go to France and will embark in due course. I suspect more will follow. But many have decided to stay here, so I think you will perhaps be able to visit each other, or at least communicate from time to time with them. I will provide you with their addresses once they are settled, if you are agreeable.”
“That would be wonderful! And of course you can give them my address too, if you would be so kind.”
The marquis nodded assent.
“You might also like to know that the good Captain Ricky has already embarked for Britain with the unfortunate news about his ship. I trust he will not be treated harshly. He really had no option but to surrender, in view of the odds. And I am writing a letter to the Duke of Newcastle to give him the names of those who sadly did not survive the passage, so he may inform their loved ones.”
“I doubt he will condescend to perform such a service, but it is kind of you to think of it, monsieur,” Beth said. He really was a lovely man. Living in a colony governed by such a kind man could surely only be a positive experience, a peaceful one. She was ready for some peace.
“I will leave you to gather your things together. Are your dresses ready?” he asked.
“Yes. If you will be so kind as to inform me of the cost, I will of course repay you once I receive my allowance from Monsieur Delisle,” Beth said.
The marquis looked shocked.
“You will do no such thing, madame!” he said. “Consider the gowns a small remuneration for your services as a translator, and for listening patiently to an old man reliving his youth.”
She laughed.
“Your tales were fascinating. I thoroughly enjoyed them, and you are far from old,” she said with absolute honesty. She turned and made to leave the room, but then stopped at the door.
“Monsieur le Marquis, may I ask one more small thing of you? It may seem a little surprising, but I would be obliged if you would perform it.”
“Anything, madame.”
She told him her request, and although it did seem a little surprising, once she had assured him she was certain of her decision he agreed to acquiesce to it.
Now she sat waiting, and hoping she had done the right thing. She could have requested to go to France, and have thrown herself on the mercy of King Louis, but she was unwilling to put herself in the debt of anyone who wanted to seduce her. Her facial scar had not disfigured her as she had hoped it would, and was now merely a fine red line running from the corner of her left eye across her temple before disappearing into her hair, which had grown over it. Soon, she had been told, it would fade to silver and be almost invisible. There would be too many painful reminders at the court of King Louis anyway. No, she had made the right decision.
She heard the sound of horses’ hooves and wheels coming along the drive, and, standing, moved forward out of the shade of the frangipani tree to embrace her new life.
* * *
Although she had resolved to absorb every minute of the journey to Sainte Marie, she had travelled no more than a mile along the road, which was lined with a vast profusion of tropical foliage, all of it strange to her, when the heat combined with the rocking motion of the coach and her fitful sleep of the night before lulled her into a profound slumber that lasted almost the whole duration of the journey.
At first when she woke she had no idea where she was, and gazed muzzily out of the window at the drive along which they were travelling, which was lined on both sides by tall trees casting a dappled shade along the driveway. She shook her head to clear it, then took a drink from the flask of ale that the marquis’ cook had provided for her. It was warm, but it quenched her thirst. The air was full of a sweet cloying scent, and she wondered what kind of trees edged the drive that smelt so strongly.
The house itself as they pulled up outside it was lovely. Two storeys high, built of stone and wood with a wide-hipped roof shading the deep wraparound porch, and surrounded by a beautiful garden full of brightly blooming shrubs, it looked very inviting. As the carriage came to a halt, several servants came out of the house to unload and carry her baggage and escort her inside.
“The master bids you welcome, madame,” a young black man in full European livery said to her as he led her up the stairs and inside the house. “The mistress is indisposed at the moment, but hopes to join you for supper. The master is expected home at any time, but told me to show you to your room and to bring you anything you want.”
“Thank you,” Beth said, looking round with interest. She had expected to be taken into a hallway with doors leading off it to various rooms as in England, but instead she found herself immediately in the salon, which was furnished in European style with ornately carved and gilded furniture. The ground floor of the house had no interior walls, the only separation between one area and another being waist-high screens supported by thin wooden pillars. From where she was standing she could see the dining room, one end of the huge mahogany table already set for three, with a centrepiece of bright red and purple flowers.
She pulled her attention back to the hovering footman, and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Everything is new to me, and I forgot my manners. I am Beth, and your name…?”
The footman looked distinctly taken aback, but recovered quickly. He bowed.
“I am Raymond, madame, and this,” pointing to a young woman who had just come running into the room, “is Eulalie, who will show you to your room and ensure that you have everything you need. We will inform you when the master returns.”
“Thank you, Raymond. Can you tell me the name of the trees that are planted along the driveway?”
“Yes, madame. They are tamarind trees.”
“Tamarind.” It was a new word to her. “They have a very strong sweet scent.” In fact it was so strong that she could still smell it in the house.
The footman looked puzzled for a moment, and then he smiled.
“Ah! No, madame, I think it is the sugar cane that you can smell. They burnt the fields this morning ready for cutting tomorrow. You will get used to it in time, I think. It is everywhere.”
Get used to it? God. It was horrible, sickly and nauseating.
“Does it always smell of sugar here?” she asked.
“I suppose it does, madame. I have been here for over twenty years, and I don’t notice it any more.”
Her bedroom smelt the same. There was no point in opening the window, because the smell was coming from outside. Thankfully the upstairs area did have dividing walls, but they were constructed of wooden planks rather than stone as in English houses. The room was dominated by a large, ornately carved mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting. Her two trunks, both full of clothes provided by the Marquis de Caylus, had been placed at the foot of the bed, and as Beth lifted the lid of one, three women, all dressed in maid’s clothes, came in and curtseyed deeply.
“Madame, we are here to put away your clothes and to help you to wash and change. Would you like some refreshment? Lime water, wine?” the elder of the maids asked.
Beth agreed to some lime water, and allowed the maids to get on with their work while she went to the window and looked out. The house was built on a promontory, and gazing into the middle distance she could see various buildings including two windmills, which she supposed were to do with sugar production. Between the garden of the house and the factory buildings were fields and fields of tall swaying plants that must be sugar cane. To the right of her view were some fields that had been cut. And everywhere there were workers, all of them with dark brown skins, most of the men shirtless in spite of the blazing heat, the women in ankle-length dresses with scarves tied round their heads, and all of them working hard. Monsieur Delisle must be very wealthy, she thought, to be able to employ so many workers, including three maids to attend me where one would have done. In spite of the heat and the sickly smell, she felt a wave of elation wash over her. She was in a strange land, where everything was new and different. There was so much to learn and she had always had a thirst for knowledge.
She had eaten sugar, of course; Lord and Lady Winter had been very partial to elaborate marchpane subtleties at their parties. But she knew nothing about its production. It would be interesting to learn. She wanted to know everything, everything about this island that was to be her home for the rest of her life.
She made a start on her education at supper. Madame Delisle was still indisposed, her husband informed Beth as they sat down together at the dining table to drink coffee and eat small cakes, attended by two servants. He was a small, rather stout man of about forty with dark brown hair and eyes.
“I am sorry that I did not come to Port Royal myself to bring you here, but it is a very busy time on the plantation right now, and I have to be here to ensure everything goes as it should. My dear Antoinette is unfortunately prone to megrims, which can incapacitate her for two or three days at a time,” Monsieur Delisle informed Beth. “She is most upset to be too unwell to welcome you, but I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Beth replied. She nibbled at a cake, thinking she had never tasted anything so sweet in her life. At least the Winters’ marchpane subtleties had contained a lot of almonds; this seemed to be made of pure sugar.
“My wife is of a delicate constitution at the moment. We buried our son only a few months ago, and she seems to have taken his death very badly,” her host continued.
“Yes, Monsieur le Marquis told me. I was very sorry to hear it,” Beth said. “How awful for you.”
“Yes. He was our sixth child to pass in as many years. The climate, you know, it is not healthful for babies. I have assured Antoinette that the next time she is…ah…” he coughed delicately, “I will ensure that she returns to France for the birth, and stays until the child is robust enough to endure our climate.”
“I know nothing at all of this country, monsieur,” Beth said, somewhat alarmed. It was certainly normal for one or two babies from a large family to die in infancy, but six in six years? And with such obviously privileged parents? “I don’t even know exactly where I am in the world!”
“Oh, we can remedy that,” he replied happily. “When we have eaten, if you would care to step into my study, I have a map which will show you exactly where you are! Yes, Martinique is most beautiful, and I would not live anywhere else in the world. I have lived here since I was born and it is my home, as I hope it will become yours. My wife was born in Paris and has found it difficult to acclimatise to the tropical climate.
“I had hoped the sojourn to Paris after Jean’s death would have helped her to come to terms with it, but alas, it does not seem to be the case. Perhaps you will be able to help her see the beauty of this island. It is full of treasures, which it will be my delight to show you if you are interested. But there are also dangers, many miasmas which flourish in the heat. Of course there is poison, although we have had no trouble in that quarter for a time. And then there are the snakes…do you have snakes in England, Lady Peters?”
“Please, monsieur, call me Beth. It’s the name I prefer. Yes, we have grass snakes and vipers, but I have never seen one. They are not common.”
“Then you must call me Pierre, and I will tell you immediately about our viper, for it is very poisonous. It only comes out in the evenings and is quite shy, so you should not have a problem, but its bite can be deadly, so you must take care if you walk out in the evenings, and you must not go into the fields after dark. They are more of a problem for the slaves, as are chiggers, little insects which get into the feet and can cause infection. I have lost three slaves this year to viper bites, which is very costly. But of course you will not have a problem with chiggers unless you delight in walking barefoot!” He laughed, and Beth resolved never to walk anywhere without shoes. “My apologies. I do not wish to frighten you on your first day! Come, I will show you where you are in the world, and then if you wish we can sit on the porch for a short time and enjoy the cool evening air, if you are not too tired.”
“No,” she said. “I slept in the carriage for most of the journey.”
She followed her host out of the main house and into a smaller adjoining building, which formed his office. It contained a large desk, currently strewn with papers, sturdy wooden chairs unlike the spindly-legged gilded ones in the dining room, a bookcase and several chests of drawers. Pierre Delisle turned to her and smiled, revealing a set of somewhat blackened teeth, and pointed to the wall with a hand that seemed incongruous with the rest of him, being very slender, almost feminine.
“There, madame…my apologies…Beth, is a map of our part of the world. Here we are,” he said, indicating a speck about halfway down a small crescent of specks surrounded by sea.
“But it’s tiny!” she said, surprised.
“Yes, we are small, only seventy-five thousand people,” he agreed, “and of those, perhaps only fifteen thousand are civilised, but nevertheless Martinique is very important, a large source of income for His Majesty. We produce maybe thirty per cent of the world’s sugar,” he added proudly. “Here, you see,” he pointed to another speck, a little higher up on the map, “is Antigua, your original destination and at the moment a British colony, but who knows in the future, eh? Likewise here,” he tapped his finger on a huge landmass above and to the left, “are the American Colonies, also British at the moment.”
Beth looked at the map with interest, running her finger down the coastline of North America. “My grandmother was transported here,” she said softly.
“Really? Where? Was she with Prince Charles as well?”
“Oh no,” Beth said. “She is over eighty now. No, it was a very long time ago. But I don’t know which part she was sent to. Your plantation is very beautiful, Pierre. I saw some of it from my window earlier.”
“Yes, I have three hundred acres, most of that in sugar, but we also grow much of our food here too, and the slaves have their own plots where they grow food for themselves. You will not have seen from your window, and it is too dark now, but we also have pigs, cows, poultry, and there is a lake which is stocked with fish. Of course we are not far from the ocean either, so we can also enjoy the fruits of the sea.”
“How many slaves do you own?” she asked.
“Two hundred in the fields and mill, and another thirty house slaves, although I hope to have more soon. Several of the women are with child and I am praying for their safe delivery. Good slaves are expensive now, more than double the price I paid twenty years ago when I inherited this place from my father. And it is good to have them from birth, in spite of the cost of raising them to an age when they can be useful, because then you can make sure they are not insolent and lazy like many of the negroes brought from Africa are. Some of them are so lazy they will feign illness, even kill themselves rather than do an honest day’s work! Luckily at the moment I have an excellent manager who knows how to get the best out of them, but it is a daily struggle.”
Beth glanced at Raymond, who was standing by the door in case they should need anything. His face was impassive, his gaze fixed on the wall straight ahead.
“Er…so any children born to slave women belong to you as well?” she asked.
“Indeed. That is why a healthy young woman is so expensive to buy, although I don’t know why, as so many of them seem to miscarry their children that they are not worth the price. But I can see I am tiring you, my dear,” Monsieur Delisle said, mistaking Beth’s shocked countenance for fatigue. “You have had a terrible ordeal in the past weeks and a long journey today, and everything is new to you. That alone can be tiring, particularly for a young lady of gentle birth. We can sit on the porch tomorrow evening, when I hope Antoinette will be well enough to join us. Eulalie will help you to prepare for bed tonight, and then I will assign a suitable negress to be your body servant, with your approval of course.” He smiled and raised her hand to his lips. “I will not keep you any longer tonight. Goodnight, my dear.”
Once in bed she lay for a long time staring at the heavy net curtains shrouding the bed and protecting her from the mosquitoes which she could hear whining as they flew around the room. Indentured servitude was just another word for slavery. Her grandmother had told her that. Would any children she’d had have belonged to the owner? Was it possible to be so lazy you would rather kill yourself than work? What was it like to watch six of your children die in as many years? And what had Monsieur Delisle meant when he had said there was poison?
It is a new way of life, she told herself fiercely. Of course it will seem strange to me. The English misunderstand the Highlanders because they don’t understand their way of life. I must not judge anyone, either Monsieur Delisle or his workers, until I have learnt about how they live. And I must adjust to that way of life, if I am to be happy.
She closed her eyes, listened to the unfamiliar sound of the rustling cane, which sounded not unlike waves lapping against the shore, and tried to reconcile the gentle brown eyes and genuine concern of Pierre Delisle for her comfort with his apparently uncaring attitude towards his workforce, until she finally drifted to sleep.
She was awoken early next morning by the clanging of a bell, and sat straight up in bed, instantly wide awake, wondering what was wrong. She listened for a while, but after hearing no sounds from the rest of the house assumed it must be something normal. She got out of bed, and padding over to the window, looked through the slatted blind. It was still dark, although a glow on the distant horizon heralded the imminent rising of the sun. It was already hot and it had rained in the night, which added to the humidity. Even in her thin cotton nightgown she was sweating.
She turned and looked at the clothes for today which had been laid out on the chair for her by Eulalie the previous evening. She sighed. She could not wear all those clothes every day. It was ridiculous expecting people to wear European fashions in this heat. Maybe once she had settled in she could amend her clothing a little. At least she did not need to get dressed until the rest of the household woke.
She waited a while until the sun rose, then after spending a short time working out how to raise the blind, she looked out across the plantation again. The cane fields were a sea of activity, the machetes of the slaves as they cut the cane flashing in the sunlight. A line of mules was being loaded with freshly cut cane, after which they set off in the direction of the cluster of buildings she had noticed the night before. From here Beth couldn’t see exactly what they were doing, but she made a resolution to ask Pierre if she could accompany him one day to learn more about sugar production. The bell that had woken her must have been the call to start work.
A little later there came a knock on the door and Eulalie popped her head round it, clearly surprised to see the new madame already up and at the window.
“Good morning, Madame Beth,” she said, smiling. “I have brought you some chocolate, and can help you to wash and dress this morning. Monsieur said he will assign a maid for you today.” She came in and bustled round, setting out cups and a chocolate pot on a table in the corner of the room. She poured a cup and brought it to Beth, who accepted it gratefully. “I will go and fetch the water for you to wash, madame,” she said, curtseying before disappearing through the door.
Beth sipped the chocolate and grimaced. It was horrible, far too sugary. She couldn’t possibly drink it. She got up and put the cup back down on the saucer, then decided to brush her hair while waiting for the water to wash.
When Eulalie reappeared she looked somewhat taken aback that Beth was doing her own hair, but said nothing. She put down the large pail of water, sponge and soap and glanced at the chocolate cup.
“I’m sorry, Eulalie, but I couldn’t drink it. I’m not used to so much sugar.”
“Could I get you something else, madame? Tea, coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely! But with only a teaspoon of sugar, please. You can have the chocolate if you like it,” Beth said.
“Oh no, madame, I’m not allowed to drink chocolate. I’ll take it away, and be back in a moment.”
By the time she returned five minutes later Beth had washed herself, liberally sprinkled her body with some cologne that had been on the dresser, finished brushing her hair and was already in her shift and stays.
“Ah, thank you!” she said brightly to the maid. “I will need some help tying my laces, I’m afraid. What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing the horrified expression on Eulalie’s face.
“Nothing, madame,” Eulalie replied hastily. “Only…”
“Yes? If I am doing something wrong, Eulalie, you must tell me,” she said gently. “I am new to Martinique, and must learn to behave as others do. I’m sure I’ll be asking a lot of questions over the next few weeks.”
“It’s only that it’s not normal for white people to wash and dress themselves. I was expecting to wash you and brush your hair, so I was just a little surprised, madame.”
“Ah!” Beth said. “But I am perfectly capable, and I’m sure you have a lot of other things to do, especially as looking after me is an extra chore for you right now.” She smiled at Eulalie, who smiled back warmly.
“It’s no trouble, madame,” she said, moving behind Beth and untangling the ribbons of her stays. “In this country the masters and mistresses don’t do anything for themselves. That’s what we’re here for, to do everything so they can be comfortable.”
“Everything?” Beth said. “No, I only want one petticoat.”
“Everything,” Eulalie confirmed. “Are you sure, madame? Madame Antoinette always wears three.”
Three? No wonder she’s always ill! thought Beth.
“Well, if you don’t tell anyone, no one will know,” Beth replied, grinning. She looked at Eulalie’s costume, a short-sleeved cotton dress and apron. “It’s far too hot for three petticoats. In fact if I could, I would rather wear what you are wearing. It’s much more practical. Do you think I could have some dresses made up for me?”
“Oh no, madame! You would be the scandal of the island!”
Damn.
Madame Delisle made her first appearance at dinner, which was served at two o’clock at the dining table Beth had seen the previous evening.
The first sight of Antoinette Delisle was something of a shock to Beth. Although her husband was a little stout, Madame Delisle, although extremely pretty, with eyes as blue as Beth’s own and light brown hair worn in an elaborate style and heavily powdered, was very overweight. In fact she was the fattest person Beth had ever seen, her numerous chins marring the beauty of her features. Her arms were bare from the elbow and covered in gold bracelets which drew attention to, rather than disguising the rolls of fat at her wrists, and her enormous breasts bulged over the fashionably low-cut bodice of her gown, threatening to spill out at any moment.
Beth greeted her hostess, who apologised for not having been well enough to come down the day before, then sat down at the table, a servant moving forward to push the chair under her. She eyed the bowl of bright orange soup set before her with some interest.
“It’s sweet potato,” Pierre supplied, noticing her expression. “It is very delicious. I think you will not have tasted it before. I hope you like it, because we eat a lot of it here, in its various forms. It is very versatile.”
It was strange, with a slightly sweet, though thankfully not sugary flavour, but it was very pleasant.
“I have found a slave for you who I think will do nicely,” Pierre said. “Her name is Rosalie, and she is very clever and quick to learn. She has been begging me for the opportunity to work in the house for some time, so is very grateful. You can meet her later or perhaps tomorrow. Of course if she displeases you, you must tell me immediately and I will set her back to work in the fields.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Beth said. “Eulalie is very helpful.”
“You must be firm with her,” Antoinette said between mouthfuls of soup. “You must always be firm with these people, or they take appalling advantage. You are not used to dealing with negroes and they will sense this. You must start as you mean to go on.”
“Aren’t negroes just like other people?” Beth asked, a little put out.
“Not at all. They are savages, with no morals,” she cast a vitriolic glance at her husband, who coloured, “or capacity for reason. The only reason they know is the whip. If you treat them kindly they will murder you in your bed as you sleep.”
“That’s what they said about my mother,” Beth said without thinking, then cursed inwardly.
“Your mother was a negro?” Antoinette asked, eyeing her with profound distaste.
“No,” Beth replied, already taking a dislike to this woman whose companion she was to be. This was not a good start. “My mother was from the Highlands of Scotland. The English think of them much as you think of negroes.”
“Now, my dear,” Pierre jumped in hastily, “you must not alarm our guest, or she will want to leave before she has even settled in! It is true that things are a little different here. I am sure your mother’s people are delightful and civilised, but the negro is of a different stamp altogether. They lack intelligence and are incapable of thinking for themselves. They need a firm but kind master. Indeed, that is what they appreciate. And in fact they do very well here – much better than on the British islands, in fact! King Louis, in his divine wisdom, issued a code for the treatment of negroes.
“You will be happy to know that all of them, on arrival in Martinique, are baptised into the faith of Rome and are given religious instruction in Christian ways. It is forbidden for them to work on Sundays, and in fact most of the plantation owners also allow them Saturdays too except at harvest time, when everyone must work as needed. This is not the case on Antigua, for instance, where many negroes are allowed to persist in their heathen, Satanic practices, and where they may be obliged to toil even on the Sabbath! Really, you will discover for yourself that we are all one happy family here!” He beamed at Beth, and smiled tentatively at his wife.
“Some are treated more like family than the family,” his wife shot back. The tentative smile disappeared.
“I find your blinds most interesting,” Beth said a little desperately. “I have never seen the like before. It took me some time to find out how to raise them this morning.”
“Ah! They are Persian blinds!” Pierre responded eagerly, much in the way a starving dog might leap on a bone. “They are most ingenious, are they not? When they are lowered you can use the cord to turn the slats from a vertical to horizontal position, which helps to keep out the heat of the sun whilst letting in enough light for one to read or do other tasks.”
The second course, of a fish Beth had never seen before arrived, and she turned her attention to that.
This was not going to be easy.
“He’s got two bastards by that negro whore Celie,” Antoinette said bluntly later when they had moved from the dining room to the porch, where they were ensconced on bamboo sofas, and supported by several cushions which two slaves had carefully positioned behind Antoinette while Beth had deftly arranged her own. Pierre had escaped with great relief back to his office immediately the dessert plates had been removed, without Beth having had a chance to ask if she could accompany him to the fields the next day. “He thought he could keep it from me, but I’m not stupid. The second brat was born while I was in Paris. When I told him I knew, he had the cheek to suggest that they be brought up in the house!”
“I understand how distressing that must be for you, especially now, after your sad loss,” Beth said.
Antoinette looked uncomprehending for a second.
“Ah, yes, of course. We have been very unfortunate. That is just one of the many reasons why I despise this country. I have told him, if he gets me with child again I’m not having it here. Really, the heat is appalling normally, but when you’re as big as a house as well…and then for it all to come to nothing when the baby is swept away by some awful miasma. So I told him, if you think you’re going to bring up a mulatto bastard to be your heir when you’re gone, you can rethink, and that quickly. We’ll try again, and as soon as I catch, I’ll go to Paris and stay there till the child is old enough to hopefully withstand this damnable place. And then he can have as many bastards as he wants, as long as he leaves me alone and doesn’t flaunt them in front of me.”
Beth had no idea how to respond to this diatribe, so she sat quietly for a moment. Far from being grief-stricken by the death of her children, Antoinette seemed to consider it merely a nuisance because she was expected to provide more.
“I was hoping to ask Monsieur Delisle if I could ride out with him one day, to learn about the production of sugar, if you do not object,” she said finally.
“I don’t object, but why ever would you want to do that?” Antoinette asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I thought it would be interesting. I really know nothing about sugar, apart from what it tastes like,” Beth said. “I like to learn about new things.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to regale you with all the tedious details. As long as you don’t expect me to come with you.”
“I thought perhaps this afternoon we could take a walk round the gardens?” Beth suggested. “There are so many flowers and trees that I have never seen before. I should like to—”
“Damn. Eulalie!” Antoinette shouted suddenly, making Beth jump. “I thought we could sit here for the rest of the day, get to know one another better,” she said. “It’s really too hot to walk, and if you want to see the flowers I can get one of the negroes to cut some for you and bring them in.”
Eulalie rushed out from the house, curtseying and wiping her hands on her apron.
“Yes, madame?” she said.
“I have dropped my handkerchief,” Antoinette said, pointing to the side of the couch. On the floor, a few inches from her pointing finger, was a scrap of cotton and lace. Eulalie bent down and retrieved it, placing it in her mistress’s outstretched hand while Beth looked on, aghast.
This was not going to be easy at all.