CHAPTER SIX
Summer Hill, Sussex, June 1747
“This,” said Caroline, gesturing to an enormous and still-growing pile of soil, “is where the lake will be, and on the other side there’s going to be a winding path, wide enough for two people to ride abreast, that will lead through those trees to a building of some sort – we haven’t designed it yet – where visitors can relax. There’ll be three rooms, including a kitchen so we can have freshly cooked food for dinner parties. Are you tired?” she added.
Edwin, busy looking at the huge expanse of land that comprised their garden, took a few moments to realise that he’d been asked a question.
“No,” he replied finally. “Well, yes, but your enthusiasm has woken me up. Once I sit down I’ll probably fall asleep, but I’m awake right now. Why do we have to have a kitchen in the garden? We’ve got one in the house.”
“I know, but by the time the servants carried the food all the way down here, it would be cold,” Caroline pointed out.
“Can’t we just have cold food? Meat, bread, cheese, that sort of thing?”
Caroline looked at her husband.
“No, Sir Edwin Harlow, we cannot,” she said. “Well, we can, but not if we want to impress the people who can push you up your career ladder. Which we do want to do. Don’t we?”
Edwin rubbed his eyes.
“I suppose so,” he said without enthusiasm. “But right now I just want to spend a couple of days with you and Freddie, and breathe some clean air for a change.” He inhaled deeply. “The air smells green here. It’s lovely.”
Caroline’s brow creased with concern.
“I’m sorry, Edwin,” she said. “I’m being selfish. I was so surprised to see you I couldn’t resist showing you what we’re doing. Let’s go back to the house, and you can have a nap. I’ll show you the rest later, or tomorrow.”
Edwin glanced back at the house, which was a considerable distance away from where they now stood.
“No,” he said. “We’ve come this far, and I really am awake right now. I’ve just had enough of politics and socialising for a day or two, that’s all. Carry on. A building of some sort. On the top of that slope?” He pointed to a low hill about a quarter of a mile away. In the near distance Freddie was kneeling down, examining something on the path with the total absorption of the very young.
“Yes. Maybe a Grecian temple, or a gothic building? You can help me decide, if you’ve got time. If we walk there now, I’ll show you the view. It’s wonderful. You can see for miles. When the visitors – which we won’t invite until you’re ready to socialise,” she added, “have rowed across the lake and then walked or ridden up the slope, they’ll be ready for food. And they’ll be able to sit and admire the countryside while they eat. Everyone will be very impressed. And I can’t wait to invite Great-Uncle Percy.”
Edwin stopped and turned to his wife, who immediately adopted an expression of innocence.
“You hate Great-Uncle Percy,” he said. “Why would you invite him?”
“Because since you’ve been knighted he’s realised how much he loves his great-niece. And because I’m also going to invite Prince Fred and then make Percy row us across the lake. He won’t dare refuse if Fred asks him,” she added, the innocent expression spoiled somewhat by the malicious gleam in her hazel eyes.
“We’re going to have a boat?” Edwin asked.
“You’re moving up in the world,” Caroline said. “Lord Cobham has a barge like Fred’s, with a dragon carved on the prow. We don’t need anything as big as that though; it would look silly on our small lake.”
“Small?!” Edwin said incredulously. “It looks huge to me!”
“That’s because you’re not used to it. Look at Harriet’s place, for example. I think she told me it’s a four mile ride around the perimeter, and that’s just the garden. She owns half the county. Ours is very small by comparison to that, about one and a half miles, but that doesn’t mean we can’t impress. Everything just needs to be to scale, that’s all. Anyway, Cobham’s boat would be too big for Percy to row. But I want something ornate that’ll carry half a dozen people or so. Of course we need to finish the lake first. We can think about the boat later.”
Having reached Freddie the fond parents, as one, knelt down next to him to see what had captured his interest.
“What’s he called?” the little boy asked. Clearly somewhat apprehensive of the large pincer-like appendages on one of the two black beetles he was observing, Freddie was sensibly making use of a stick to stop them running away, blocking their path with it every time they moved a few inches away and forcing them to turn in another direction.
“They’re stag beetles,” Caroline said. “See, the big one looks as though he’s got antlers, like a stag deer.”
“Is he hurting the little one?” Freddie asked.
“Er, no,” Edwin said, blushing slightly, to Caroline’s amusement. “They’re…um…”
“Making babies,” Caroline finished. Edwin’s face reddened even more.
“Ah,” Freddie said. “Can I keep them? In a box?” He looked up at his father hopefully, knowing him to be the one most likely to give in.
“No,” Edwin said, adding, before his son’s face could crumple, “They belong outside, in the grass. They’d be very sad if you put them in a box. You wouldn’t want them to be sad, would you?”
“No,” Freddie said uncertainly.
“Come on then, let’s leave them to…make babies,” Edwin continued. “I need you to hold my hand.”
“Why?” his son asked, reluctant to leave his new plaything.
“Because I’m tired and I’ve got to walk up that hill, and I need you to help me go up it.”
“You’re a wonderful father,” Caroline said a few minutes later as the family progressed up the slope at the very slow pace of a three-and-a-half-year-old. Edwin smiled.
“That’s another reason I’m sick of politics right now. I don’t see enough of you both.”
“But you’re doing important work,” Caroline said.
“Nothing is as important as what I’m doing right now,” Edwin replied. They arrived at the top of the slope, and he inhaled deeply as he took in the view that was revealed to them.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Caroline said.
It was. A glorious patchwork of fields and woodland was spread out before them, reaching as far as the eye could see, broken only by a small hamlet complete with a church whose spire rose above the cluster of houses, the whole rendered picturesque by distance. It was a quintessential English country vista, and Edwin’s spirits lifted along with the lark that they could hear singing as it rose higher and higher in the warmth of the perfect early summer day.
“I am so lucky,” he said, almost to himself.
“Not at all,” Caroline replied practically. “You’ve worked hard for this.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, still staring at the view. “But that’s not why I’m lucky. If someone had told me that night when I met you at Thomas’s dinner party, that nine years later I’d be standing here in my own enormous garden, married to the most beautiful woman in the world, with a perfect son, looking at a wonderful view, I’d have called him a madman. But here I am.” He turned to look at her and smiled, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Caroline observed this with alarm.
“Let’s go back,” she said. “You’re very tired.”
“I am,” he agreed, “but I’m also very happy. If it worries you when I tell you I love you, then clearly I need to do it more often.”
“You don’t need to,” she replied. “I know without you telling me.”
“Even so,” he said, returning his attention to the view. Caroline frowned.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Let’s go back,” he said. “What else are you planning?”
Caroline’s frown remained, but she took the hint and the three of them turned for home.
“I thought we could have a kind of terrace on both sides of the building – maybe one that runs all the way round it,” she said, “so that people could have dinner looking at the beautiful view, after which we could have music or some other entertainment, and then they could come to this side of the building and see a firework display. We could set that up on the lawn near the lake, so that the fireworks would be reflected in the water. Yes, that would be very nice. And if anything went wrong with the display there’d be plenty of water on hand to put it out,” she added, with the wisdom acquired from attending a great many aristocratic firework displays in her youth.
“Isn’t this all going to be very expensive?” Edwin asked as they headed back past the lake-to-be.
“Yes,” Caroline said happily, her frown disappearing. “That’s part of the point of it. The more wealthy you are, the more impressed people will be. And the more impressed people are, the more likely they’ll be to listen to you when you present a bill arguing against public executions or the treatment of slaves in the Colonies, or…there is something wrong. What is it?” she asked, noting the look of distress that had passed across his face.
Edwin sighed.
“You know me too well,” he said. “I can’t hide anything from you. But it’ll keep until we get indoors. Let’s enjoy the walk back together first.”
With an enormous effort Caroline refrained from pestering him to reveal whatever it was that was on his mind. If it was the expense involved in this project of hers though, she could alleviate his worries immediately.
“So, as I was saying, when it’s finished and people come to visit, not only will they enjoy themselves, but they will believe you to be rich, and wealth implies power, which can only help you. In the meantime I’m enjoying myself enormously here. And no one need know that Harriet’s paying for it all. She certainly won’t tell anyone.”
“Harriet’s paying for all this?” Edwin asked.
“Yes. Who did you think was paying for it?”
“I thought…your dowry…” When Caroline had married Edwin her father had refused to pay her £3000 dowry, but now, having seen his formerly despised son-in-law knighted by the king, he had changed his mind and had released it to her, Edwin wanting nothing to do with it.
“God, no. This is going to cost around £20,000 by the time it’s finished. Maybe more,” Caroline said. “But that’s nothing for Harriet, as you know. She’s richer than Croesus. She wants me to keep the dowry anyway, ‘in case those bloody Tories get in’, as she put it. She told me it’ll be worth the expense to watch Percy have an apoplexy when he has to row her and Fred across the lake.” She laughed. “She has imposed one condition, though. I have to build a hothouse so she can show me how to grow bananas and lemons.”
She chattered on about greenhouses and shrubs, and the ha-ha that William Kent had planned to put behind the house so that they could observe animals grazing in the distance without having them trespass on the property and cover the lawn with unwanted manure. This continued until they reached the sanctuary of the library, the cosiest room in the house and at present the only one completely finished, and as soon as Freddie had been passed over to his nurse, Caroline pounced.
“What is it? Tell me now, because nothing could be worse than what I’m imagining,” she said.
Edwin sank down into a chair and kicked his shoes off. He looked suddenly utterly exhausted, but as sympathetic as Caroline felt towards him she needed to know the news, whatever it was.
“I’ve finally managed to find out what happened to Beth after she went to denounce Anthony to the Duke of Newcastle,” Edwin said. He had been trying to find out without arousing too much suspicion for months, but had met with a wall of silence. “That’s one reason why I’m tired. I took Newcastle’s servant Benjamin out last night and got him drunk. Which meant I had to drink too. Not as much as he did, but you know I’m not a great drinker.”
“So you’re crapulent,” Caroline said.
“Not so much now, no, though I was very sick this morning, only managed to get an hour’s sleep and then I rode like the devil all day to get here. I wanted to see you and I was going to tell you straight away. But it was so lovely walking round the gardens listening to you telling me all your plans that I didn’t want to spoil it.”
“Tell me now then,” she said.
“Beth didn’t denounce Anthony,” Edwin replied.
Caroline sank down into a chair opposite her husband.
“Thank God for that,” she said. Edwin cast her an astonished look, which she intercepted. “If Beth had betrayed Anthony, for whatever reason, I don’t think she could have lived with herself. I know you thought she should, but I didn’t and still don’t, for her sake if not his. What did she do, then?”
“She denounced Richard instead. She told Newcastle that Richard knew Anthony was a spy, but accepted the money to buy a commission in the army to keep quiet, and that he warned them when Lord Daniel found out he was a fraud, so they could get away.”
To his further astonishment, Caroline started laughing.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said between giggles. “Perfect! I can’t think of a better revenge. I didn’t think I could love Beth any more than I do already, but this…Richard will have a fit. Does he know?”
Edwin leaned forward, his expression so serious that Caroline stopped laughing abruptly.
“Caro, Beth’s been transported for life to Antigua, in the West Indies, as an indentured servant,” he said.
Caroline sat for a moment frozen, clearly convinced that she’d heard him wrongly.
“No,” she said finally. “No, it’s not possible. She’s a lady! No noblewomen have been transported! And there’s going to be a general pardon soon, you told me so only last week!”
“There is,” Edwin confirmed. “It will be published in the next few days.”
“Well then, she can come back!” Caroline said. “We can pay for her to come back. I can’t believe it. Antigua? Are you sure Benjamin was telling you the truth?”
“Yes, he was. I’m sure of it because this morning he was horrified, said that Newcastle would…er…do something terrible to him if he knew he’d divulged what had happened to her. I promised to keep his confidence, providing he informed me of any more information that came through about her. Which means you mustn’t tell anyone, not even Sarah.”
“You blackmailed him?” Caroline said incredulously. “You?!”
Edwin reddened.
“I care for Beth very much, you know that,” he said. “It was the only thing I could think of to make sure that we find out what happens – assuming he hears anything, of course.”
“He could just tell you that he hasn’t heard anything, whether he does or not,” Caroline pointed out.
“He could. But I don’t think he will. He also told me that he admired her courage and thought the duke was very harsh on her. I promised not to say anything about that too. I do have a reputation for discretion, which helped. He trusts me to keep my word and providing I do, I think he will keep his.”
Caroline sat back in her chair, thinking hard.
“It seems unfair not to tell Sarah,” she said after a minute. “I trust her not to say anything to anyone else.”
“I know you do and you’re probably right, but we can’t take the chance,” Edwin said.
“We have to find out who bought Beth’s indenture and offer them enough money to put her on the next ship back,” she said. “I don’t know how we—”
“We can’t,” Edwin interrupted. “She won’t be included in the pardon. There are a lot of exceptions, including Anthony, all the leaders who escaped to France and anyone who was transported before the Act is published, among others. If she came back she’d be arrested, possibly executed. I thought about it all the way here. There’s nothing we can do for her.”
Caroline covered her face with her hands. A full minute passed in silence.
“I’m so sorry,” Edwin said helplessly after a time. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. But I knew you’d want to know.”
She took her hands away from her face. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and ran down her cheeks unheeded. Edwin moved to kneel by her chair and took her in his arms.
“I can’t believe that vicious bastard would condemn her to a life of slavery, just because she wouldn’t give him what he wanted,” she said fiercely into his shoulder. “Flora MacDonald is being treated like a romantic heroine because she helped Charles escape. Lady Mackintosh raised her whole clan to fight for Charles while her husband was out with Cumberland, but she was only in prison for a few weeks! All Beth did was protect the man she loves, yet she’s shipped off to be a slave! It’s so unfair!”
“It’s not the same thing,” Edwin said. “Flora MacDonald was coerced into helping Charles – she said herself that she would have helped anyone, including Cumberland, had he been in the same position. Anne Mackintosh was released to her husband’s custody because he was loyal to the king. But Anthony was the most dangerous spy we know of. God knows what secrets he passed on to the Pretender and Louis. He made a fool of everyone, even the king. Beth was his willing accomplice; she admitted that freely. She’s as bad as Anthony, in Newcastle’s eyes.”
“No,” Caroline said, taking out her handkerchief and blowing her nose fiercely. “Maybe that’s partly true, but a lot of this is to do with her being a woman and daring to stand up to him. He can’t have her executed because none of the women have been, so he tried to have her starved to death. Now he’s trying to kill her in another way. Didn’t you tell me the death rate of slaves is really high out in the West Indies? Higher than in the American Colonies?”
“Yes, but that’s not just slaves; over half the new settlers die too. It’s one of the reasons why we haven’t succeeded in trying to take the French and Spanish islands. Most of the troops we send out die of swamp fever or bloody flux before they get a chance to fight. But it is worse for the slaves, yes. That’s one of the reasons I’m fighting for better treatment for them. I can’t get anywhere by talking about humanity, so I’ve started looking at economics, to see if it’s cheaper to treat slaves well than to buy new ones when they die.”
“Newcastle’s done this because he wants her dead. This is nothing more than spite on his part. We have to do something.”
“I don’t see that we can,” Edwin said.
“Can we find out where she is exactly, and maybe write to her? At the very least we can let her know that we care for her. And maybe we can pay whoever’s got her to release her and let her go to France, or Rome – somewhere she’ll be safe, if she can’t come home. We could do that!”
Could they? They sat in silence, thinking about it.
“You can’t be implicated in this,” Caroline said after a while. “Nor can I, for that matter. Newcastle would ruin you if we succeed in thwarting him. And Benjamin would suffer too. But if we can find out where she is I think Fred would help again. And it would do his reputation no harm to do so. I want him to know what Newcastle’s done. And then when Fred becomes King, which surely can’t be long in coming, I’m going to help him in whatever way I can to destroy that evil bastard.”
Edwin regarded his wife with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
“Remind me never to make an enemy of you,” he said.
“I haven’t loved many people in my life, you know that,” Caroline replied, “but Beth is one of those people. I will do a lot, almost anything for the people I love. And she’s done nothing to make me stop loving her. As for you, you aren’t capable of doing anything to make me stop loving you.”
“And Anthony?” Edwin asked softly.
“Yes, I loved him, I’ll admit that,” Caroline replied. “But if he did leave Beth to her fate to save his own skin, and I find out who and where he is, I’ll give him over to the authorities without a moment’s regret. But I don’t believe he would do that. I think Beth was right. I think he’s dead. And so will you be if you don’t get some sleep. You look dreadful. Go to bed. We can think this through later. How long are you staying for?”
“I can stay tomorrow, but then I have to go back to London. I’ll come back when the session ends on the eighteenth. The king intends to dissolve Parliament then.”
“Dissolve it? Why?” Caroline asked.
“Because Fred, as you call him, is causing trouble again. He wants a more active role, and the king refuses to grant him one. So he’s trying to influence the boroughs to get as many of his followers into the Commons at next year’s elections as possible. And his current supporters are trying to form an alliance with the Tories right now. Which is why the king’s dissolving Parliament, to thwart him. And I haven’t told you that, either.”
“Hmm,” Caroline said. “That’s interesting. We’ll have to tread very carefully here, Edwin. You can’t afford to annoy George, but you need to keep Fred on your side too.”
Edwin sighed tiredly.
“Let’s hope that having Great-Uncle Percy row him across our lake will do that, then, because I daren’t express any pro-Leicester House sentiments in Parliament at the moment. The king is not in the best humour about the prince’s actions.”
“Go to bed, Edwin,” Caroline said. “We can talk about that when you come here for the summer. After all, the elections aren’t until next year, and you’ll win the seat anyway with Harriet behind you. I think it’s more urgent that we try to work out how to help Beth, if we can.”
* * *
Martinique, June 1747
Beth was in the middle of breakfast, which she’d elected to eat outside on the porch, the sun having not yet reached its full power, when Raymond appeared to tell her that the master would like to see her in his office once she’d finished eating.
“He was surprised to see you awake so early, Madame Beth, and wishes to know if you are having difficulty sleeping?”
Beth glanced at the clock, which was visible through the open doors.
“Not at all. It’s after eight, hardly early,” she said. “I wanted to enjoy the morning, before it gets really hot.”
Raymond smiled. “It’s still spring, madame. It will be much hotter soon. Or at least it will feel much hotter because we have a lot more rain from July to November, which makes the air very humid.”
Oh God, Beth thought. She was already finding the humidity unbearable. She finished her pastry and stood.
“Lead the way,” she said.
Pierre Delisle was busy writing in his ledger, but looked up as she entered his office and smiled broadly.
“Ah, Beth! You are very prompt. I hope that Raymond did not rush you. I expressly told him to assure you there was no hurry.”
Raymond, who was standing stiffly by the door, suddenly looked distinctly alarmed.
“He did assure me,” Beth lied smoothly. “But I was eager to know why you wanted to see me.”
“I have chosen a negress to be your servant,” Pierre said, gesticulating to the corner of the room, “although if you think she is unsuitable, I will find another for you.”
Beth turned to look in the direction he was pointing, where a young girl of about fourteen or so was staring at the floor, looking absolutely petrified. Beth smiled and opened her mouth to say hello.
“She is named Rosalie, and if you accept her she will be given a trial with you. She hasn’t worked as a body servant before, but Eulalie will help to train her, and if she gives you the slightest reason for dissatisfaction you must inform me immediately and I will deal with her,” Pierre continued.
“Hello Rosalie,” Beth said gently. The poor girl was shaking like a leaf.
“Curtsey to your new mistress, girl!” Pierre barked. Rosalie sank immediately into a curtsey, only managing to stand again on wobbly legs through sheer effort of will, Beth noticed. She briefly raised a pair of huge, terrified brown eyes to Beth’s, before looking at the floor again.
Beth moved forward and took the girl gently by the hand.
“I am sure we will get along very well,” she said reassuringly. “We are both new, in our different ways, and we can teach each other. You can teach me about Martinique, and I can teach you how to be a maid. It will be fun!”
“Rosalie,” Pierre said. The young girl looked up at him. “You are very lucky to have this chance to work in the house, and I am sure Madame Beth will be a good mistress to you.”
Well, I certainly won’t be dragging her from the other side of the house to pick up a handkerchief that’s two inches away from my fingers, Beth thought.
“As you know, she is new to this country and is not used to the ways of negroes,” he continued. “So I will be keeping a very close eye on you. If I see any sign that you are taking advantage of her kind nature, I will have you whipped and sent back to the field gang immediately. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Monsieur Pierre,” Rosalie whispered.
“Good. Now Raymond will show you to Madame Beth’s room. Go!” he shouted. The girl flew from the room as though shot from a cannon, Raymond closing the door quietly behind them.
The moment they were gone Beth rounded on her employer.
“It’s very kind of you to provide a servant for me, Pierre,” she said, managing with an effort to keep her voice calm, “but was it really necessary to frighten her out of her wits? I thought the poor girl was going to faint! And I might be new to the country, but I’ve had plenty of experience in dealing with servants.”
“My dear Beth,” Monsieur Delisle said in quite a different tone from that he’d used moments before, “I did not intend to insult you. Indeed it was the furthest thing from my mind. I have no doubt of your ability to keep English servants in order, but you will find the negro to be quite a different creature to that you are used to. They are like dogs, brute creatures who need to be constantly reminded who is the master. If you show them kindness, they will bite you.”
“In my experience, if you show dogs kindness they will love you for it,” Beth retorted. “But we are talking about a human being here, not a dog. I thank you for your advice, but I will train Rosalie in my own way. I will be sure to tell you if I need any help with her.”
She turned and walked out of the room quickly, before she lost her temper. What a strange man. Yesterday he had been so kind and considerate; he had told her they were all one big family! Yet today he reminded her of Lord Edward with his pomposity and contempt for servants.
Are all the people in Martinique like this? she wondered. No. The marquis had not been like this; he had been nothing but kindness for the whole ten days she had stayed in his house. But then she had not had cause to speak to him about servants. Slaves.
She stood for a moment with her eyes closed, taking in deep breaths of the hot sugar-scented air, feeling alien. And homesick. She would give almost anything to inhale a lungful of cool fresh Scottish mountain air right now.
No. It’s over. That life is finished. This is my new life now. I must remember I am penniless, and Monsieur Delisle is showing me kindness by employing me and treating me as an equal. I must become accustomed to the ways of the people if I am to fit in here. I will fit in here, she told herself fiercely. She opened her eyes and uttered a little shriek.
“I am sorry, madame,” Raymond said. He had approached silently while she’d been arguing with herself, and was standing a couple of feet away from her. “I did not wish to alarm you. Rosalie is in your rooms, and Eulalie is showing her how she must behave. I hope—” He stopped abruptly.
“What do you hope, Raymond?” Beth asked gently.
“I hope you will be kind to her, Madame Beth. She is a good girl and hard-working, but not suited for life in the fields, I think. She will do her best to please you, madame,” he said somewhat fervently.
“I will be kind to her, I promise,” Beth reassured him. “I have never been cruel to a servant, and do not intend to start now.”
Raymond smiled suddenly, displaying a set of perfect white teeth. He was very handsome when he smiled. And clearly he disliked sugar as much as she did.
“Thank you, madame,” he said. “I am very grateful.”
When Beth arrived in her rooms Eulalie was showing Rosalie how to lay out clothes. They both rose as Beth entered, and curtseyed deeply. Rosalie looked only marginally less terrified than she had in Monsieur Delisle’s office.
“Thank you, Eulalie,” Beth said. “I’m sure you have an awful lot to do, so I will take over now in showing Rosalie her duties. Could you send up some tea, please?”
“Of course, madame,” Eulalie replied. As she reached the door, Beth called her back.
“With two cups, please,” she said.
Once Eulalie had left the room, Beth motioned to Rosalie to sit down, and then took the seat opposite her.
“Have you ever tasted tea, Rosalie?” she asked.
“No, madame,” Rosalie whispered.
“Well, you are about to. And while we drink our tea I want to get to know you a little, and to tell you about myself. It’s important that you learn your duties, but it’s far more important that you know who you will be working for. Monsieur Pierre was right when he said that I’m new to the country, and that I’m not used to the ways of negroes, whatever they are. I am used to the ways of people, though, and I have trained more than one young woman to be a good maid.
“I am patient and kind, but I’m also firm. When I lived in England I had quite a few servants, and they all became my friends. I hope you and I will also become friends. Ah, here is the tea!” she said as the door opened and a young girl brought in a tray, placing it carefully on the table. She set a cup and saucer in front of Beth and then looked confused.
“The other one is for Rosalie,” Beth explained. “You can leave now. I will pour the tea. Now,” she continued as the thunderstruck maid left the room, “tell me about yourself.” She poured the tea into Rosalie’s cup and then pushed it in front of her. “Help yourself to sugar,” she said.
Rosalie sat, frozen. This was clearly such an alien situation to her that she had no idea what to do. Beth sighed. Carefully she placed one lump of the sugar into her cup and then stirred it with a silver teaspoon. Then she sipped it and waited. After a moment, as she had hoped, Rosalie copied her. Beth smiled.
“How old are you, Rosalie?” Beth asked.
“I’m not sure, madame,” Rosalie said. “I think I’m about fourteen.”
“Were you born here?”
“Yes, madame, I’ve lived here on Soleil all my life.”
Soleil. So she had been born on the plantation, and was therefore presumably unlikely to commit suicide if asked to do a day’s work.
“And do you live with your parents?” Beth asked.
Rosalie looked confused.
“Eulalie said I’m to stay here, madame,” she said. “I’m to sleep on the floor in case you need me in the night.”
“Why would I need…?”Beth began, then rethought. “Do you want to sleep in my room, or would you rather sleep at home? Wherever you normally sleep?”
Rosalie bit her lip and looked around the room frantically as though the answer might be found somewhere in it. She looked about to cry.
My God, Beth realised, she’s never been given a choice in anything in her life. She has no idea how to even form an opinion.
“Tell me about where you’ve lived until now,” she said instead. “I want to learn all about the plantation. I am going to ask Monsieur to show it to me, but it will help me if you tell me about it first. And then I will tell you about England, and you will see how different it is to Soleil. Have you ever met a blind person?”
“Yes, madame,” Rosalie said, perking up now she knew how to answer. “Georges went blind when he got old. He died last winter,” she added sadly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Beth said. “Did you play games when you were a child?”
“Oh yes, madame,” Rosalie said.
“This is a game, then. Pretend I am blind, and you have to tell me exactly what your house looks like. And then I’ll pretend you’re blind, and I will tell you what my house in England looked like. It will be fun, and we’ll get to know each other a little.”
Rosalie smiled, tentatively. It was a start.
“Adela’s cabin is smaller than this room,” she began. “The walls are made of wood and the roof is made from leaves, big leaves. There is a table and some stools, and a shelf where Adela keeps her pots and dishes. Adela sleeps in a hammock, but I sleep on the floor with the other children – there are ten of us. The floor is made of dirt and when it rains the water comes under the door and we get wet.”
So presumably sleeping on the floor of Beth’s room would be preferable to sleeping on the wet muddy ground. Unless…
“Is Adela your mother?” Beth asked.
“No, madame. My mother was sold when I was very small. I don’t remember her. Adela doesn’t have any children of her own, but she likes them, and she looks after the ones whose mothers have died or been sold.”
“Do you think you will be happy to sleep in my room then?” Beth asked, keeping her expression neutral with an effort. “You will be dry, at least, and I will get you a mattress so you don’t have to lie on the tiles.”
“Oh, yes, madame, I would love that!” Rosalie said happily. “It is cooler here, too!”
Later that evening, while Pierre worked in his office and Antoinette lay on the couch on the porch, snoring gently, Beth listened to the chatter of the night insects and thought about what Rosalie had revealed to her that day about plantation life as she had slowly relaxed under Beth’s gentle questioning.
The slaves lived in small cabins, ten or more to a room smaller than Beth’s bedroom. Sometimes the cabins were blown down by hurricanes and had to be rebuilt. If the hurricane was very bad and blew the whole cabin away, the slaves would have to live and sleep outside, sheltering from the daily downpours under banana leaves or anything else they could find. On every second Saturday there was no work, except at harvest time or after a hurricane, when everyone had to work very long hours. On the free Saturdays the slaves would tend their little plots where they grew food. In the evening they would tell stories, and sometimes they would play music and dance. On Sundays the priest would come and talk to them about Christ, and if they forgot the words of the creed or the Pater Noster he would beat them.
On the surface this didn’t seem such a bad way of life, until you realised that harvest lasted from January until June, and that the field gangs worked in the blazing sun, often for sixteen hours or more a day, with inadequate amounts of food. And above all, they had no choice in their lives, none at all.
It was perfectly acceptable for families to be forcibly separated, for mothers and fathers to be sold, never to see each other or their children again.
Ealasaid had told her that indentured servitude was just another word for slavery. At the time, as she had listened to her grandmother’s sketchy account of her life in the Colonies, Beth had had only a vague idea of what slavery was.
She had escaped that fate because of a privateer named Paul Marsal. But thousands of other Jacobite prisoners had not.
She needed to know exactly what she had escaped.
“I am sorry Beth, but it isn’t possible at the moment. I am far too busy with the harvest to take you on a tour,” Pierre said, gesturing to the mound of papers that littered the desk of his office.
“I understand,” Beth replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to take precious time away from your work, and I know what a busy time the harvest is – it was the same in England. But surely one of your workers could show me? Raymond or Eulalie perhaps? I am really interested to learn how sugar is made!”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I assure you. But I cannot spare anyone at this time. Sugar is not like the crops you grow in England or in France. It has to be cut at exactly the right moment in its growth, and once it is cut it must be processed immediately, or it will spoil. It is a very delicate process. But I don’t think it will interest a young lady of breeding. Antoinette has never expressed an interest in seeing it. It is very hot and dangerous work.”
“I think it sounds most fascinating, monsieur,” Beth persisted. “And you must remember I am experienced in danger.”
“Indeed you are! And it must have been a terrible ordeal for you to be captured by privateers! I would not expose you to more disagreeable sights for the world. When the harvest is over we shall go to Saint Pierre for a few days. It is really most delightful there and far more suited to a delicate lady like yourself.”
Back in her room, having been kindly but firmly dismissed, Beth fumed. Being captured by privateers was one of the best parts of the last few months, she thought, wondering what Pierre would say if he knew that her experiences over the last two years had rendered her far more suited to a privateering life than one spent sitting on a porch all day listening to Antoinette complain about the heat and her ailments. The harvest would be over soon, and then she would have to wait until next year to see how sugar was produced.
The thought of still being here next year filled her with gloom, which she impatiently pushed to one side. Her current life was far better than the one she’d been destined for on Antigua, she reminded herself. Which brought her back to one of the reasons she wanted to tour the factory – to see what she had escaped, in the hope that it would render the next months or years bearable by comparison.
She sat on her bed, and plotted.
* * *
It was still quite dark when she woke one morning a week after her conversation with Pierre. The bell had rung to call the slaves to the fields, but the house was still in silence. At the foot of the bed on a thin mattress, Rosalie was sleeping soundly. Beth had deliberately kept her awake and busy late last night, inventing chores for her to tire her out in the hope that she would be able to slip from the room at dawn without waking her.
As soon as there was just enough light for her to see to dress, she donned the clothes she had told Rosalie to lay out on the chair; front-lacing stays, one petticoat and a light cotton morning dress. Antoinette would consider her half-naked but she was unlikely to rise before ten, and Beth intended to be back by then. And she didn’t really give a damn what anyone thought, anyway. She was always being told she was unused to the ways of the island; she could use that as an excuse if necessary.
Tiptoeing across the room, she opened the door, slipped out and closed it carefully and silently. She walked to the front door in her stocking feet, slipped her shoes on on the porch and then set off in the direction of the fields, where the slaves were already hard at work. As she walked she remembered the last time she had sneaked out of a house on an illicit journey. At least this time she hadn’t had to climb down a drainpipe, and she was unlikely to come across a roomful of Gaelic-speaking Jacobites. Nearly five years had passed since then. In some ways it seemed like moments, in other ways a lifetime ago.
She smiled as she remembered how terrified she’d been that night, then pushed the memory of her first meeting with Alex, Duncan and Angus to the back of her mind and focussed on the sight ahead of her as she walked toward the buildings which formed the sugar factory.
The sugar cane was much taller close up than it seemed from the house, about twice the height of a tall man. The slaves, barefoot and dressed in rags, stood in the cane, wrapped one arm round several stems, then swung their machetes and cut it close to the ground. Then they moved on to the next stems, while the children gathered it into bundles and carried it to a line of mules, where it was loaded on to them. Beth stopped to watch, fascinated by the speed and skill of the cutters.
“You should not be here, madame, it’s dangerous,” a voice came from behind her, making her jump. She turned to the owner of the voice, a slender young white man with long dark hair, dressed in breeches and a shirt that was open almost to the waist. In his hand he carried a whip, and slung over his shoulder was a musket.
“How do they cut the cane without injuring themselves?” she asked.
“It takes time to learn, madame. The cane does cut them because the edges are sharp, but does not harm them enough to stop them working. Sometimes they cut their legs with the machete though. That is annoying, because we cannot afford to lose a worker for even a day at this time.”
“You are English!” she said in that language, recognising the accent, although his French, like hers, was almost fluent.
“I am,” he said, switching to English too. “Francis Armstrong at your service, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I prefer Beth,” she replied. “But how do you know my name?”
“Word spreads quickly on the island,” he replied, smiling. “Everyone knows you are a lady who was cruelly transported by the English and rescued by Monsieur Delisle!”
Beth took a moment to process this version of events, and then smiled.
“I’m sure you know why I am here, then. But what is an Englishman doing in a French colony? You were not on the Veteran!”
“No. I am here by choice, my lady. I have contracted to serve Monsieur Pierre for seven years, and then I hope to buy land and settle here. I’m of the Roman faith, and studied in France. I feel more at home here than I would on a British island. But now I must get someone to escort you back to the house.”
“Do you have a blacksmith here?” she asked, ignoring his last sentence.
“Yes, but—”
“Excellent!” she replied crisply. “Then I would very much like to see him. I have a commission for him. And as I am here, I am very interested in learning how sugar is produced. So if this someone you are about to get can give me a tour of the factory, I would be very grateful.”
“My lady, we really cannot spare someone—” Francis began.
“I know, I understand how busy you are. But it will take no longer to show me the factory than it would to escort me home. Having made my way here alone, I am quite capable of reversing the process. So, if you would be so kind?” she finished, every inch a noblewoman. If I’m going to be paraded as the plantation’s specimen aristocrat, I might as well take advantage of it, she thought.
The overseer called over one of the slaves, a large, broad-shouldered African, naked from the waist up and sweating freely, and handed him the whip.
“Joshua,” he said. “You will make sure the negroes keep at it. I will be back soon and if the work isn’t going as fast as it should be, your back will know about it.”
“Yes, monsieur,” the man said. He took the whip and began to walk along the line. If Beth had wondered why none of the slaves had stopped work to look at her or observe her exchange with Mr Armstrong, she now had her answer.
The overseer walked along the path with her, explaining as he went.
“The cane, when it’s cut, is loaded onto the mules and then taken to the mill,” he said. “Everything has to be done quickly and one task follows on from the other, so we must all work at a good and steady speed, so that no one is left with nothing to do.”
Inside the mill slaves were feeding the cane through constantly turning vertical rollers which crushed the stalks, resulting in a thick green juice.
“Now I will show you the boiling house, or perhaps it would be better for me to tell you, because it really is very—”
“Dangerous,” she finished for him. She turned to a man who was standing by the rollers, closely observing the workers. In his hand he held an axe. “What are you doing?” she asked.
The man bowed deeply. “I watch,” he said in broken French. “If hand get caught, I chop, like so.” He raised and lowered the axe.
Beth turned to Francis.
“Is that true?” she asked. “He chops the person’s hand off?”
“Yes,” Francis answered. “The rollers are powered by the wind and we have no way to stop them quickly. If someone gets their hand caught in the roller, then the only way to free them is to cut off the limb. Otherwise they will be dragged through the roller and killed. The rollers are very powerful, my lady, they have to be.”
“Does that happen often?” Beth asked, horrified.
“Not often, but yes, it happens, especially late in the evenings when the negroes are tired.”
“Is there no way to put up a guard of some sort, to stop that happening?” she asked.
“No. Other owners have tried, but it slows the work down too much, is not practical. Now, shall I take you to the blacksmith?”
“No,” she said. “You said there is a boiling house? What happens there? Yes, I know,” she continued as he made to object, “it is dangerous. I have experienced a lot of danger in my life, Mr Armstrong. I am sure I can deal with whatever dangers the boiling house holds.”
As soon as she got there however, she knew why Francis hadn’t wanted her to see it, why Pierre hadn’t wanted her to see it.
It was a large room made of stone, with a shingle roof. On one side was a series of copper cauldrons, ranging from very large to relatively small, and each one was set over an oven. The cauldrons were full of boiling juice, and slaves, dressed only in ragged breeches, were skimming scum off the top of each one with what looked like large oars. Steam filled the room, making it difficult to see what was going on clearly.
“Nathaniel there,” Francis said, pointing to a thin negro with pockmarked skin, who smiled at her, “is a very skilled worker. He adds quicklime, which helps the sugar to become granulated, but he has to add the exact amount, or it will not work and the sugar will be spoilt. The amount to add depends on many things; the time of planting, the way the cane has grown, the amount of sun and rain, the soil, if it has been attacked by any pests…really, he is a very important man. The juice starts off in the large pot, then it is skimmed, poured into the next one, and so on. Once it is in the smallest, Nathaniel has to determine the exact moment to strike the sugar, and then the fire is dampened and the sugar cools. Let us go outside.”
Even standing in the doorway, Beth had felt the heat from the room searing her lungs as she struggled to breathe. After a few seconds her skin felt as though it was going to blister. Never in her life had she experienced anything like the intense heat of that room. It was unbearable. No one could even breathe in there for more than a minute or two, let alone work in it.
Men, women, children were working in there, for sixteen hours a day, six days a week. It was hell, quite literally.
She stood outside, sucking in lungsful of what seemed by comparison to be cool air, although the temperature in the fields was now very warm.
“Are you well, my lady?” Francis asked. “This was why I said it was dangerous, because of the heat. If you are not accustomed…”
“How does anyone become accustomed to that?” she said, aghast. “It’s not possible.”
“Everything is possible if you have no choice, my lady,” he replied with cold practicality. “There is no alternative. The sugar must be processed and that is the only way to process it. The slaves must do it, or die. They know this.”
“Do they not die anyway, working in that?” she asked. Her chest was burning, and her hair was plastered to her neck with sugary steam and sweat. She felt sick.
“Some do,” he said. “If they get the boiling juice on their skin it sticks and burns through the flesh. Some die anyway, from the heat. But we all have to die. The islands are full of dangers; swamp fever, fluxes, snakebites, maroons…but there are great riches to be made too, for the right men.” He smiled.
“But not for them,” Beth said, gesturing to the myriad black workers.
“No, not for them. But they are still blessed, because they are all baptised into Mother Church when they land on the island,” Francis said, “and have the chance of eternal life in Paradise, which they would not have, had they stayed in ignorance in Africa. The British slaves are not so fortunate, for they are not baptised in any faith at all. So you see, the slaves here are very fortunate and have their own riches to come!”
Back in her room later in the morning, after having seen the blacksmith and instructed him as to the exact type of knife she wanted him to make for her, and promising him cash that she would have to ask Pierre for as an advance on her salary, she thought about what she had seen that day. After a while there came a small cough from the other side of the room. Beth looked up from her musing to see Rosalie, who was standing in the doorway looking very concerned.
“Are you well, Madame Beth?” she asked tentatively. “Can I get anything for you?”
Yes. An extremely large whisky and passage on the next ship out, Beth thought.
“No thank you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Come and sit down. I’m very pleased with how quickly you’re learning the work. I think you are a natural. Who taught you to massage a scalp like you did when you washed my hair yesterday?”
Rosalie smiled, her eyes lighting up.
“Adela, madame. She said it’s a very good way to relax, better than tafia or rum. She said that is the devil’s brew.”
“It felt very good,” Beth said.
“I used to sometimes massage the women when they came back from the fields, if they asked,” Rosalie offered. Although by nature shy and quiet, she was opening up to Beth, who was starting to like her very much.
“I went to the fields today,” Beth said. “I was very quiet, because I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh madame, you should have woken me! It is not safe to go there alone!”
“I was safe – Monsieur Armstrong showed me how the sugar is made.” She caught the unconscious twist of Rosalie’s lip as she mentioned the overseer’s name. Interesting. “I think working in the fields is very hard. I didn’t expect the women to be doing the same work as the men. Did you cut cane before you came into the house?”
“No, madame, I wasn’t strong enough for that. Only the strongest negroes are in that gang. They plant the cane, and then they cut it. It’s when they plant the cane that they ask me to massage them the most, because it hurts the back, here.” She put her hands in the small of her back. “I used to help to dig the manure in and pull up the weeds. Monsieur Francis said that next year he would teach me to clay the sugar, but then when you arrived Papa asked Monsieur Delisle if I could come into the house.”
“Papa?” Beth, who had been about to ask what claying the sugar was, said.
“Yes, madame. Raymond. He is my papa.”
“What’s a maroon?” Beth asked that evening as they all sat on the porch after supper. Pierre had elected to sit with his wife and her companion for an hour before returning to his work.
“Runaway slaves,” Antoinette said, sipping at a glass of Madeira wine. Beth was not partial to it normally, but as it was the only wine that improved rather than spoilt in the tropical heat, she was learning to like it. “They live in hordes in the forest, and are all murderers and rapists. We live in constant fear that they will come down from the mountains and kill us all as we sleep.”
“My dear, you must not frighten our guest so! They are a problem, it is true, but we are well protected here, and my slaves are loyal. Francis told me that you went to the factory today. I must state that I am not happy that you did so without asking me.”
“I did ask you,” Beth pointed out. “But you said you were too busy. I wanted to ask the blacksmith to make some knives for me, and did not wish to disturb you, so I went alone. Monsieur Armstrong was kind enough to show me the factory, when I asked.”
“Really, my dear, you did not need to visit the smith. I could have sent for him. And as I said, it is dangerous—”
“I don’t see why it’s dangerous, if, as you say, the slaves are loyal. And it’s not as though I was actually cutting the cane, feeding it through the rollers or skimming the pots of juice. I was unlikely to cut my own leg off or have to have my hand chopped off to save my life,” Beth finished, more bluntly than she had intended.
“Ah, you are upset. And in truth, this was what I wished to spare you,” Pierre said, his face a mask of concern. “It is always the way with newcomers. They find our ways distressing until they are more accustomed to them.”
“Did one of them have a limb cut off, then?” Antoinette asked indifferently.
“No,” Beth said. “Not while I was there, anyway.”
“Ah. Good. We really cannot afford to lose anyone at this point in the harvest. They will use any excuse to stop working.”
Beth, who had been occupied with trying to fish an unfortunate and now deceased small insect out of her wine glass, looked up.
“Madame Beth, please allow me,” Raymond said, leaping forward from his place near the door, where he had been standing in case he was needed. He bent over her glass and took the opportunity to cast her an imploring glance, which she saw. She nodded imperceptibly. “I will change your glass for a clean one,” he said.
Beth closed her eyes momentarily, remembered Sir Anthony’s training, discarded what she had been about to say, and opened them again.
“Pierre, I am afraid I must ask for a small advance on my allowance, if you would be so kind,” she said.
“Of course, my dear. May I ask what you wish to purchase?”
“The smith is making two knives for me.”
“Why do you need knives to be made?” Antoinette asked. “We have plenty of knives in the house you can use for cutting food.”
“And he asked you for money?” Pierre said at the same time, aghast.
“They are not for cutting food, and no, he did not ask me for money,” Beth replied. “They are throwing knives, and have to have a particular point of balance to them. If he does a good job, I would very much like to pay him something. It would make me happy,” she finished.
“There is really no need to pay him, but of course if you wish to I will be delighted to advance you the money. In fact I will give you your first month’s consideration in the morning. It is not fitting that you should have to ask. I apologise,” Pierre said.
“Thank you, Pierre. You are very kind.”
“But why do you want such things made?” he asked.
Raymond returned with her wine, and she thanked him.
“My mother was from the Highlands of Scotland,” Beth said. “You may know of the Highlanders – they are thought by the British government to be savages, murderers and rapists. Nothing could be further from the truth of course, but it is always so when one people does not understand the ways of another. The redcoats, being civilised, murdered a good number of my mother’s clan when she was a child, and so she was taught to protect herself in case of further attack, and she taught me. I am very adept at throwing a knife. I thought it might be useful to have a throwing knife in case I see one of those poisonous vipers you told me about.”
“How amazing!” Antoinette said, having missed the thinly veiled inference altogether. “But the snakes move very quickly, you know.”
“I am very adept,” Beth said. “I will show you when I get the knives.”
Pleading tiredness due to her early start that morning, Beth made her excuses not long after and headed to bed. As she reached the stairs she passed Raymond, who had been sent to fetch another bottle of Madeira.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low so that the couple on the porch would not hear.
He smiled, knowing what she was referring to.
“You will become accustomed to the ways of plantation life, madame,” he whispered. “It takes time, that is all.”
“I hope I never become accustomed to what I saw today,” she replied. “What is claying the sugar?”
“It is a way of refining the sugar, madame, to make it whiter. You may have seen the clay trays that are used in the boiling room when you were there, before you had to leave.”
So Francis had told Pierre about the whole of her visit, then.
“In the boiling room?” Beth said.
“Yes madame. I am sorry, you will excuse me?” he said, lifting the bottle.
“Of course.” She started up the stairs, then paused. “Raymond?” she said, still low-voiced.
He turned.
“I swear to you, I will do everything in my power and more to ensure your daughter never has to work in that inferno,” she whispered fervently.
He looked up at her, then smiled again, broadly.
“Thank you, Madame Beth,” he said. “You are a blessing to us.”
He stepped away to the porch, and she continued up the stairs to her room.