CHAPTER NINE
Martinique, July 1747
Once the harvest was over, as promised Pierre took Antoinette and Beth to Saint Pierre for a few days. Beth would have enjoyed the journey more if she had been allowed to ride in the fresh air and take in the scenery along the way, but everything had to be done with great pomp, so they travelled in a stuffy carriage which bounced its way along the bumpy, badly maintained road, while several liveried footmen, including Raymond, rode on the front or back of the coach, and other slaves were either sent on ahead to prepare the rooms their owners would stay in or ran behind the coach as it travelled.
At the speed the coach was travelling, ‘running behind it’ was actually no more than a leisurely walk. Beth, sitting inside the overheated carriage, with the velvet curtains firmly closed so as to keep out any light which might bring on one of Antoinette’s megrims, longed to leap out and walk with Rosalie and Eulalie, who were bringing up the rear. But of course that would never do, so she gritted her teeth and bore it, and by the time they arrived at their spacious apartments in the town, she ached far more from the jouncing of the coach than she would have done from walking.
The first evening they went to a concert and listened to Bach’s Goldberg Variations. To Beth’s delight, both Pierre and Antoinette declared themselves to be great lovers of music, and as a result she could allow herself to become completely absorbed in the delicate melodies without them being rudely interrupted by her companions.
However, in spite of the undoubted skill of the harpsichordist, the luxurious surroundings, and the comparative silence of the appreciative audience, she did miss a few of the variations completely due to reliving the first time she had heard Bach’s music, at Versailles, when Lord Winter had been a most uncongenial companion, and Sir Anthony had, during the interval, challenged Henri Monselle to a duel. Had it really been over four years since that night? In some ways it felt like yesterday; she could still see the shock in Henri’s eyes as Sir Anthony’s blade drove through his chest, could feel the hurt and despair that had clutched at her heart as she realised that the man she loved did not trust her. And yet in other ways it felt as though centuries had passed since then; so much had happened in the intervening period, both good and bad.
That life is over, she told herself fiercely as she felt tears prick her eyes, and she forced herself to concentrate on the music again. Henri is dead, Sir Anthony no longer exists, and Alex… No. She would not think of him. She would think of the future. That was all that mattered now.
The following day Beth was hoping they might go for a walk along the wide tree-lined roads of Saint Pierre and take in some of the beautiful European-style buildings; but instead they clambered back into the stuffy coach and went on a round of social calls, at which there seemed to be two main topics of conversation; slaves and disease. At every house the company talked about the laziness and lack of gratitude of the slaves and the resulting punishments that had to be meted out, the potential for a slave uprising, and who had died recently.
Beth was wondering if every other plantation except Soleil was composed of slaves who just sat around all day doing nothing, until Antoinette joined in, saying that it was the same everywhere, and that Monsieur Armstrong had to wield the whip constantly to get the negroes to do any work at all. Having seen first hand how the Delisles’ slaves laboured, Beth then allowed her mind to wander, as she had learned to do so well in her early days with her Cunningham cousins. It was the only way she could be sure not to say something offensive.
As for the second topic of conversation, it appeared that several people of their acquaintance died every week. She was about to dismiss that too as ridiculous exaggeration until she remembered that all six of Antoinette’s children had died, and that every household they visited had lost more than one member of the family as well as a large number of slaves to some illness or other; mainly either vomito negro, which could carry people off in a day, dysentery, or ague, also called intermittent fever because it came and went, some victims surviving for years, some dying very quickly. That, combined with the fact that even the wealthy planters rarely lived beyond fifty, told Beth that her chances of being reunited with Alex reasonably soon were pretty good. It was a cheering thought.
In the evening they went to a dinner in a luxuriously appointed salon which would not have looked out of place in Paris itself. As Beth entered she was announced as ‘Lady Elizabeth Peters’, after which numerous guests were presented to her, curtseying and bowing obsequiously, their expressions conveying that they considered it a great honour that the beautiful English aristocrat would condescend to speak to them. She played along, smiling graciously and uttering meaningless pleasantries while she wondered what the Delisles had told their acquaintance about her to make them behave in this deferential way.
Within five minutes of sitting down to dinner she found out.
“I am so excited to be seated next to you, my lady,” the elderly woman to the left of Beth said, once she had managed to manipulate the vast skirts of her dress into place and sit down. Beth fanned herself vigorously and smiled at her neighbour, whose white paint and rouge were already starting to run in the heat of the room. All the doors and windows were open, but there was not a breath of wind; the flames of the many candles in the sparkling chandeliers were all vertical, those on the table only flickering due to the movements of the diners. “Pierre tells me that you have been to the Palace of Versailles at the express invitation of His Majesty the King!” the woman continued excitedly.
“Indeed, er…”
“Do please call me Louise!” the old lady trilled.
“Indeed, Louise, I did have that honour when I visited France with my husband four years ago.”
Louise clapped her hands with joy.
“Oh, do tell me what the Palace looks like! Is it as beautiful as they say?”
Obligingly Beth launched into a description of the beauties of the Palace; the glorious Hall of Mirrors, so named because it boasted over three hundred prodigiously expensive mirrors, the War Room with its ornate marble panels glorifying the great deeds of the present king’s great-grandfather Louis XIV, the incredible decorations by the gifted artist Le Brun, and the Royal Chapel, with its beautiful vaulted ceiling. As she spoke she became aware that everyone in the vicinity had stopped talking and was listening avidly to her. She was just about to continue on to describe the gardens, when Louise interrupted her.
“And is it true that His Majesty became a particular friend of yours?”
Further down the table Pierre beamed at her, basking in the reflected glory of his beautiful and aristocratic house guest, who was, it seemed, not only on first name terms with the King of France, but was a particular friend.
Beth sighed. It was clear where this was leading. The Delisles had already invented their own version of her history, and their friends obviously believed them. She knew how society gossip worked; denying outright that she had been Louis’ mistress would only convince them all the more that she had shared his bed.
Pierre had been good to her; although technically her employer, not for one moment had he treated her as anything other than an honoured guest. The allowance he was paying her was extremely generous, and he had shown her nothing but kindness. Partially falling in with what appeared to be his exaggerated account of her relationship with King Louis was the least she could do. For the rest she would employ one of Sir Anthony’s weapons for such situations.
“Indeed,” Beth said. “I will never forget the first time I caught sight of His Majesty. My husband and I had been invited to attend mass in the Royal Chapel, and I became so engrossed in the paintings on the ceiling I was just telling you about, that when King Louis entered I quite forgot to lower my gaze to the ground, with the result that I found myself staring straight into his eyes! A terrible breach of protocol! I was mortified!”
“Oh, how romantic!” a pretty young lady on the other side of the table cried. “And was it then that you—”
Her question was interrupted by the arrival of the first course, oysters and crayfish in a spicy sauce, of which large platters were placed at strategic points along the table, from which the diners could then help themselves. Once everyone had chosen what they wanted both the eating and conversation resumed, and Beth was within a few minutes asked the inevitable question, which although delivered sotto voce by the questioner, might as well have been bellowed across the room, judging by the number of necks craning to hear the answer.
“And was it then that you became the lover of the king?” the pretty young lady asked.
Well, that was a little more direct than she’d expected.
“Of course not! We were in the chapel, madame! We were there to hear mass, a most solemn occasion. No, I kept my eyes to the ground and my thoughts on Heaven for the rest of the service.”
“Of course,” her questioner said, annoyed that the directness of the question had not inspired an equally direct response.
“Is it not true, Lady Elizabeth, that your husband challenged the king’s personal servant to a duel due to jealousy, because he could not challenge the king himself?” Louise asked.
“Why on earth would he wish to challenge the king?” Beth responded, utterly astonished. “We were honoured to be invited to the Palace! But yes, he did challenge Monsieur Monselle, which was quite ridiculous. He and I were merely acquaintances. We shared an interest in the works of John Milton, nothing more. It was a most unfortunate and tragic situation. Ah! Here is the soup course. I had never tasted sweet potato until I arrived here, and I confess to having quite a weakness for it.”
She dived into the soup, completely entranced by it, so entranced that she did not hear the next three questions aimed at her from further down the table, but did, oddly, hear the fourth, which coincidentally was not about the King of France.
“I am learning to,” she replied in response to the question about whether she was acclimatising to Martinique, “although I think it will take me a little time to adjust to the climate. It is so different from that of England.”
And Scotland. She would give all of this luxury, her safety, even her life, if she could be sitting on a log by the side of Loch Lomond right now, her thumb tucked in Alex’s swordbelt, his arm heavy on her shoulder as they watched the sun go down over the water. For a moment the fine table, the crystal, the silver, the guests, faded away as she leaned into her husband, feeling the warmth of his body against the length of her side…
Stop it, she told herself fiercely, dragging herself back to the present. You will go mad if you let yourself live in the past. It is over. It. Is. Over.
“I’m sorry?” she said, aware that someone else had asked something that everyone was clearly hoping she would answer.
“I asked if the king’s bedchamber was also decorated by Le Brun?”
Oh, for God’s sake…
“I really couldn’t say, madame,” she replied sweetly. “After all, visitors are not allowed to enter the King’s and Queen’s private apartments, as I’m sure you know.”
After another few well-deflected questions, people gave up. It was very clear that King Louis had chosen Lady Elizabeth Peters to be his mistress not just for her beauty, but for her discretion, or possibly stupidity, too.
The rest of her time in Saint Pierre was in the main a copy of the first two days. Only the entertainment differed. Sometimes it was music, sometimes a play or an opera, all of which Beth enjoyed. But she came to dread the inevitable dinners with variations of the same questions to be fended off.
Eventually, on her final evening in Saint Pierre, someone came up with a question which no one thought she could evade.
“Do tell me, my lady, is the king’s member really as large as it’s reputed to be?” It was asked by a middle-aged rakish man with a long face and a hooked nose who Beth had met three times, and towards whom she had developed an antipathy. The question was greeted by gasps; whilst possibly an acceptable question to be put to a whore, Lady Elizabeth, royal mistress or no, had been a paragon of virtue since arriving on the island.
Lady Elizabeth looked the gentleman up and down with obvious disdain, and then smiled.
“I hate to disappoint you, Monsieur Duval, but I don’t believe King Louis is enamoured of buggery. Indeed I think it may be illegal in France – it certainly is in England. However, as you are so interested, I shall write to His Majesty this very evening, giving him your details and informing him of your desire for him.”
For the rest of the evening no one asked her any questions that were even vaguely related to King Louis, and the unfortunate Monsieur Duval gave her a very wide berth indeed. Beth reflected that if someone had asked her that question on her first evening in Saint Pierre rather than the last, she might have at least enjoyed the meals more.
She would not have enjoyed the dancing, though, which went on into the early hours of the morning. It was incredible that women who found the temperature too hot to contemplate going for a walk or a ride outdoors by day were happy to spend hours dancing indoors in furnace-like heat whilst wearing heavy and cumbersome court gowns supported by hoops and numerous petticoats.
* * *
After two weeks the Delisles and accompanying slaves returned to the Soleil plantation, where life returned to normal. After another two weeks of sedentary pursuits in the enervating company of Antoinette, Beth reflected that life with her Cunningham cousins had been exhilarating by comparison.
Her only consolation was her friendship with Rosalie, which was improving daily as the young maid grew more competent at her duties and more confident in conversing, once she realised her mistress was not going to punish her for making a mistake or speaking out of turn.
One afternoon when Antoinette was in bed suffering from one of her attacks, Beth was about to set out for the blacksmith’s forge to see if her knives were ready, when Pierre intercepted her as she was leaving the house and insisted on sending a slave to find out for her. She returned to her bedroom in a black mood, pacing up and down the room in a futile attempt to burn off her energy. Then she threw herself onto the bed and picked up the book she was halfway through reading, L’Astrée, but after reading the same page four times without absorbing anything, was about to put it down when Rosalie came in, carrying one of Beth’s heavy gowns, which had just been cleaned.
“Ah!” said Beth, seizing this chance of diversion. “Do you have any other chores to do today?”
Rosalie looked confused.
“Madame, I am always yours to command,” she said. She moved toward the heavy chest in the corner of the room to put the dress away, ready for the next time it was needed to torture its wearer. The way she carried it, with infinite care, gave Beth an idea.
“Would you like to try it on?” she said.
Rosalie’s expression gave Beth her answer, even though the maid shook her head instantly.
“Oh no, madame,” she said. “I couldn’t. I would make it dirty.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Beth said, “and we are about the same size. I think it would fit you very well.”
Rosalie looked longingly at the heap of turquoise-blue silk draped over her arm. “No, really, madame, you are very kind, but I couldn’t.”
“Let’s play a game,” Beth suggested, a tactic which she had employed repeatedly since her first day with Rosalie, and which seemed to help her relax. “You will be the mistress and I will be the maid, and will dress you. I am very bored, and as Monsieur Delisle does not take kindly to me offering to help Eulalie prepare dinner or weed the gardens,” both of which Pierre had rebuked her for trying to do in the past week, “then you will be helping me to keep my sanity. Come, take off your gown, and I’ll lay out the clothes on the bed.”
Half an hour later and with much laughter Rosalie was encased in shift, stockings, stays, pockets, modesty petticoat, panniers, three petticoats, stomacher and gown, all tied or pinned in place.
“Oh, Madame Beth!” she said. “It is so heavy! How do you wear all these clothes for a whole day?”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” Beth responded candidly. “I have always hated dressing fashionably. I would far rather wear practical clothing like your own. When I lived at home, I did.”
“At home in England, madame?”
“Yes.” And Scotland. “No, don’t look in the mirror yet. I don’t wear wigs, so I don’t have one for you to try on, but you need something to decorate your hair. Here.” Deftly she tied a ribbon of the same colour as the dress into Rosalie’s thick black frizzy hair, which she kept ruthlessly brushed and pinned into a roll now that she had a position in the house. “There,” Beth said, handing her a fan. “Now you may look at yourself.”
The rapturous expression on the young maid’s face as she observed herself in the mirror was worth all the time spent tying ribbons and laces. The aqua shade of the shimmering silk complemented her dark brown skin wonderfully and she looked like a fairytale princess.
“Ohhh!” she said breathlessly, turning round and looking back over her shoulder into the mirror. “Oh, madame, it is worth feeling so hot to look so good!”
The next two hours were spent with Beth showing Rosalie how to walk, sit, curtsey, use a fan and finally, with much laughter, how to use a chamberpot. For the first time since Beth had listened to Bach in Saint Pierre, she was actually enjoying herself.
When Rosalie was finally back in her normal dress and the gown was put safely away, she untied the ribbon from her hair and moved to put it back in the drawer with Beth’s other fripperies.
“No,” Beth said. “I would gladly give you the gown, if you had a use for it, but you must at least keep the ribbon. It will remind you of this afternoon.”
“You are too good to me, madame,” Rosalie said, smiling shyly as she ran her fingers along the length of ribbon.
“When I lived in England, before I married Sir Anthony,” Beth said, “I had a maid called Sarah, who also became a friend, as you and I are becoming. On the night before I was due to marry I took her to the opera. I helped her to dress, just as I have helped you and we enjoyed ourselves enormously.”
“Oh, madame, that must have been wonderful for her!”
“Not really,” Beth said. “The evening didn’t go as planned, although it was certainly memorable. But one day if possible I will take you to a play, or a concert maybe, and if I do you can wear that gown.”
Rosalie smiled sadly.
“You are very kind, Madame Beth,” she said, “but even if Monsieur were to allow it, no slave would be permitted to attend the theatre.”
“Are there no free black people in Martinique?” Beth asked.
“Oh yes, madame, but I do not think they would be allowed to attend a theatre with white people.”
Beth sighed. Of course not. What was she thinking of? She threw herself down on the end of the bed, standing up again immediately and picking up the book she had inadvertently sat on. She was about to put it back on the shelf when an idea struck her.
“Rosalie,” she said. “Would you like to learn to read?”
“No, Beth, I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” Pierre said, when Beth put her idea of holding reading and writing classes for the slaves to him.
“But why not? You said there is not as much work now the harvest is over.” Although Pierre had said this, Beth saw no sign of the slaves having any more leisure time than they had in the cane-cutting months. The bell still rang before sun-up, and the field gangs toiled until long after sunset. There was always something to do; digging, planting, weeding, collecting wood for the boiling house ready for the next harvest, repairing machinery and walls – the list of chores seemed endless. “Surely you could spare them for maybe one hour a week?” she persisted. “It would give me something to do. I want to feel useful.”
“But you are useful, my dear. Antoinette could not do without you.” Pierre sighed. “Even if I could spare the slaves for an hour a week it is not advisable that they learn to read, even if they were capable of doing so, which I really do not believe most of them are. If they could read, then they would be able to read nefarious publications encouraging them to rebel. That will not do at all.”
Beth, who had been about to say that Rosalie was learning to read very quickly and after just a week knew the whole alphabet and could write her name, realised this would not now be wise, and changed tack.
“But they would also be able to read the Bible, Pierre!” she said. “How wonderful would it be if they could read the word of God every day, and not only on Sundays?”
“Ah, now I can see that although you are a good Roman, the reformed faith of your home country has been a bad influence on you. It is quite sufficient for the negroes to learn the word of God from someone who knows which scripture is fitting for them to hear and which not. No, I am sorry Beth, you know I will indulge you where I can, but this is not possible.”
Back in her room, Beth fumed. No doubt he wouldn’t want the slaves to be able to read Galatians 3:28, or Exodus, or numerous other verses that spoke about rights that the slaves of Martinique did not enjoy.
She was still annoyed about it a few days later when Pierre and Antoinette threw a dinner party, to which were invited all the local plantation owners. It was a somewhat informal occasion; dinner, then conversation and cards followed by some music and perhaps dancing.
Beth insisted on helping to choose and pick the flowers that would decorate the dining table, which gave her an opportunity to wander around the garden all day finding out not just about flowers for the table but other plants too, from the extremely knowledgeable head gardener, an elderly wrinkled negro by the name of Ezra.
“You see, madame, this flower, the marya-marya, she is very beautiful, but like many beautiful ladies, she is also deadly,” he said of a passion fruit plant over whose flowers Beth had exclaimed. “She has the sticky juice here on these bracts, which insects love, and then she traps them and they die, and so they cannot eat her, because she eats them first! She is very clever! And then this one, with her tiny flowers, which madame will not want for the house, I think, she is very precious, because with her you can cure many things. She is called Snakewort, because she cures the bite of the snake sometimes, and also the dysentery.”
“How do you know all this, Ezra?” Beth said after an hour in which she learnt more about plants than she had in the whole of her life in England, and all of it delivered in a fascinating way.
“People tell me as a child, madame, and I listen. Once I know a thing, I know her forever.” He beamed, delighted to have a truly interested audience. “Now I teach Nicaise, who is my grandson, because I am very old and soon I must die, I think.”
“How old are you, Ezra?” Beth asked. He did look very ancient indeed, older even than her grandmother, who was probably over eighty.
“I am fifty-two, madame!” he said with great pride.
Fifty-two, she thought as she walked back to the house, her arms full of exotic flowers, her head full of knowledge and rage. He had a prodigious memory and intelligence. What could he have achieved, given an education? He could have been an apothecary or a great medical man perhaps. Instead he spent his time and energy stopping the ever-growing tropical foliage from encroaching on the perfect clipped lawn, just so that Pierre and Antoinette could, if they wished, sit on it and drink tea or chocolate occasionally. True, he seemed happy enough; but how could he be if he had no choice in his life? He was one of the lucky slaves – clearly he enjoyed the task he’d been given, or had learned to.
But what of the others, the field gangs, those who toiled in the boiling house?
She thought about this all through dinner, with the result that afterwards as they were about to go into the salon Antoinette took her to one side.
“Are you feeling ill, Beth?” she asked.
“No, not at all!” Beth responded. “Why do you ask?”
“Only you were so quiet all through the meal, and hardly spoke at all. You look well, but I thought perhaps you felt unwell.”
For a moment Beth was tempted to say yes, she had a headache and make her excuses, avoid the tedium of the conversation to come, but that would be unfair. After all, her allowance was large and her duties few; but she knew that one of her unwritten obligations was to be the gracious and vivacious English noblewoman when guests called. So far no one had mentioned King Louis, so it was possible that the evening might be moderately interesting.
“No,” she replied, smiling. “I wished only to concentrate on the food, which was exquisite. But thank you for your concern, Antoinette. You are most kind.”
Once in the salon, where some settled to cards and others relaxed on chaise longues and cushioned chairs to converse, Beth made more of an effort and was soon listening with interest to a neighbouring planter who was explaining how his great-great-grandfather, along with other Frenchmen, had made the island their own.
“It was very dangerous, Lady Elizabeth,” he told her. “He was living on what is now a British island, St Kitt’s, and was forced to leave. When he arrived here the island was full of Caribs. My great-great-grandfather lived in a little shack he built from leaves and branches, and cleared his land by hand. I’m sure you have seen how quickly everything grows in Martinique already, even though you’ve only been here a short time. It is very difficult to cultivate such land. But he did it, and in between doing it he led raids against the Caribs. They were savages – it is said that they ate the flesh of men when they could get it, which made it very perilous for anyone to go into the jungle.”
“Really, Julien, do you think man-eating savages are a suitable topic of conversation for a young lady? We do not want to drive Beth from Martinique before she has had time to grow used to it!” Pierre interposed.
“My apologies, Lady Elizabeth,” Julien said, bowing. “I assure you, there are no Caribs on the island now and have not been for many years.”
“No, now we have the danger of the slaves rising and cutting us to pieces while we sleep,” Antoinette put in. Pierre raised his eyes to heaven.
“Are you now becoming accustomed to life on Martinique, my lady?” Julien said quickly, before the conversation could turn to the ever-present dangers of malcontent negroes. “It is very different from your home country, I think.”
“It is,” Beth agreed. “I enjoy the food now; it’s interesting to try the fruits and vegetables I had never even heard of before I arrived here. I can cope with the heat a little better. And when I first arrived here the smell of the sugar made me feel sick all the time. It was Raymond who told me that he didn’t notice the smell any more. I found it hard to believe that anyone could not notice such a strong odour, but now it no longer bothers me at all. Some things are harder to adjust to, though.”
“Beth finds the treatment of slaves difficult to accept,” Pierre elaborated.
“Ah,” Julien replied. “This is normal, I think, for people who are new to the islands. It is the punishments you have a difficulty with?”
“Not only that, monsieur,” Beth said. “I find it difficult to live in such luxury as this,” she waved her arm around the room with its ornate gilded woodwork, crystal chandeliers, rich velvet curtains and luxurious furnishings, “while the people who work to provide the money for it live in vermin-infested shacks, work more than sixteen hours a day in appalling conditions, and are beaten regularly.”
“But this surely is no different to your country, or my own, in fact?” argued Julien. “The poor in France and England live in very basic conditions and work long hours, whilst the rich enjoy untold luxuries. It is the way of the world.”
He had a point.
“That is true,” Beth conceded. “But at least they have not been torn from their own country; and if they are in a job that they hate, with a cruel master, they can seek another one and leave. If they are unjustly treated, they have some recourse to the law. They have some choice; a limited one maybe, but at least some.”
Julien nodded. “I see your point, my lady, and I have heard this view before. But you are not allowing for the base nature of the negro. Left to himself the negro is a savage barbarian. In his own country he lives in sin, walks around almost naked and does as his tribal leader tells him without question. He is incapable of thinking for himself. At least here, although he may be enslaved he is at least exposed to civilisation.”
“That is exactly what the British government say about the Highlanders in Scotland,” Beth said. “It is the excuse Cumberland and his troops are using to justify the so-called ‘pacification’ of the Highlands.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard of this,” another man put in. “It is regrettable. But I think there is some truth in this view. The Highlanders are a lawless savage people who live by raiding and murdering each other. They speak a sort of gibberish language, and I am told the men wear a short petticoat and nothing else! On a windy day nothing is left to the imagination!”
Several women tittered.
“My mother was a Highlander, sir,” Beth said quietly. It was on the tip of her tongue to say and my husband too, and he was more civilised than all of you. But no. She had not kept silence for over a year only to divulge secrets over brandy in a salon.
A profound and uncomfortable silence fell upon the room.
“I thought you were of a noble family, Lady Elizabeth,” one woman finally ventured.
“My father was the second son of a lord, madame,” Beth said. “My mother was one of these Highland savages of whom you speak. I am, I suppose, to this gentleman’s way of thinking, a mulatto. That is what you call the offspring of a white planter and a savage barbarian negro, is it not? Tell me, would you accept a mulatto into your society as you have accepted me?”
“It is not the same thing at all, my lady,” Julien countered, “and I am sure your mother was an exception.”
“No, she was not an exception,” Beth replied, her temper rising. “She spoke the ‘gibberish’, which is rightly called Gaelic, and is a beautiful, poetic language. She came from a clan who, it is true, in common with other clans, look to their chief rather than the government in London to dictate the law and to protect them. They have their own code of honour and loyalty, which they adhere to, and which is the reason why in five months of hiding in their lands with a reward of £30,000 on his head, Prince Charles Edward Stuart was not betrayed to the government.”
“I am sure no one wished to offend you, Beth,” Pierre said.
With an effort, Beth calmed herself.
“I am sure that’s true, Pierre,” she said after a moment. “But it does illustrate my point. The reason that the British government, and you, monsieur,” indicating the unnamed man, “believe that the Highlanders are savage barbarians is merely because you do not understand them, cannot speak their language. Just because their laws, customs and traditions are incomprehensible to you does not mean they have none. Those they have are not the same as yours, so you believe them to be wrong rather than merely different. And now the Elector and his son are showing the Highlanders what real civilisation is, by butchering men and children, raping women and burning them in their homes!”
“I must protest, my lady!” the unnamed man replied. “I did not intend to insult your mother, and I apologise for that. But if we return to our original conversation, we were discussing the negro. After all, the Highlanders are European, and white. The African is a very different sort of creature from us. They do not think the same way, cannot reason as we do. Left to themselves they are lazy and indolent, lacking in motivation. They do not feel emotions as we do. They are human, yes, but a far more inferior human. To expose them to civilisation, and to Christ, can only be a good thing!”
“But what sort of civilisation are you exposing them to, sir?” Beth retorted, silencing the murmurs of approval that the man’s comment had aroused. “A civilisation that says people can be bought and sold like cattle, can be forced to labour twenty hours a day in the most appalling conditions without pay, and can be whipped and mutilated, even murdered at the whim of their owner, with no right to seek justice, no rights at all. A civilisation that allows babies to be torn from their mother’s breast and sold, husbands and wives to be separated. It is wrong.
“Maybe I feel this because the attitude towards the negroes and my mother’s family is the same. Maybe it is because I was sent here by the British government to be sold into slavery for life, and would, were it not for Captain Marsal and Monsieur le Marquis, be living in the same way as your slaves, with no choice, no rights and no recourse to law. I think you see things differently when, but for the toss of a dice, you would be suffering the same fate. But at least in the eyes of my government I had committed an offence and was being punished for it. The negroes have done nothing wrong except to be African and black, which makes their treatment even worse.”
The silence which now descended on the company was even more profound and uncomfortable. Beth looked around at the uncomprehending expressions on people’s faces, and sighed.
I might as well have been speaking in Gaelic for all they understand, she thought sadly. They did not want to understand, because if they did then they might have to act on it, and then their way of life would collapse. It’s pointless, she thought. Everything is pointless. A great wave of despair washed over her.
“I am sorry, Pierre, Antoinette,” she said, “I did not wish to spoil your evening. If you will excuse me, I think I must be a little unwell after all. I will retire to bed, with your permission?”
“Of course, my dear!” Pierre said, his expression one of mixed concern and relief. She had given him an excuse for her behaviour. She is a woman, new to our ways, and unwell. She did not mean what she said.
Beth said her goodnights and left the room. Suddenly she felt unutterably weary. I cannot go on like this, she thought. I cannot become accustomed to this way of life. I do not want to become accustomed to such a way of life.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard her name called, very softly. She looked over the banister to see Raymond in the hall, his face lifted to hers. Quickly he ran up the stairs, stopping two steps below her.
“Madame Beth, may I ask, did you mean what you said just now, in the salon?” he asked.
“Yes. I rarely say what I do not mean,” she replied.
He smiled.
“You are a good person, my lady,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for what you are doing for Rosalie. She is very excited to be learning to read. She loves you very much.”
“It is nothing, Raymond,” Beth said. “She learns very quickly and it helps me to pass the time as well. I would teach you too, all of you, if it were possible.”
He nodded.
“Even so, you are different. You see us as people, I think,” he said.
“You are people, Raymond. How could I not see you as such?”
“Madame, I wanted to give you a present. But I am worried that you will be offended if I do,” he said.
“Why would I be offended by a present? I would be honoured, but really, you do not need to give me anything. I’m happy to teach Rosalie.”
“It is not for that.” He held out his hand to her, and she took the object from him. It was a small triangular stone, intricately carved. In the dim light from the candle she carried she could see that one edge of the triangle had been carved in the shape of a human profile, and there were what seemed to be Celtic knotwork carvings on the face of the stone. A small hole had been drilled through the top and threaded with a thin leather lace.
“This is beautiful,” she said. “Did you carve this? You are very talented. What kind of stone is it?”
“It is not stone, but wood, a very hard wood. It is very old. I did not carve it. It gives protection.”
“I think you need protection more than I do, Raymond,” Beth said. “You should keep it for yourself.”
“No. It is for you. It will give you protection against disease, madame, and against…other things.”
“What other things?”
His eyes slid away from hers and then back again, his expression earnest.
“You must promise me, please, madame, that if anything ever happens, anything bad, you will wear it around your neck or on your wrist. If it is seen, you will not be harmed.”
“Is something going to happen?” she asked, alarmed now.
“I don’t know of anything, no,” he said. “But if it does, this will keep you safe. You will make me very happy if you accept it.”
“Then I will, and thank you,” she said.
He smiled broadly, and then, before she could ask any more questions, he turned and ran lightly back down the stairs.
In her room, she sat on the bed looking at the wooden amulet more closely. Each side of the triangle was no more than an inch long, but the carvings were very fine. Angus would love this, she thought. After a while Rosalie came in.
“Oh, Madame Beth! I didn’t know you had left the party! You should have called me,” she said.
“Do you know what this is, Rosalie?” Beth asked, still looking at the object in her hand. Rosalie came across and bent over.
“Ah, so he gave it to you. He said he wanted to, but was afraid you would be angry,” she said.
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because you worship the Christ god.”
“You do as well, don’t you?” Beth said.
“Yes, madame, I do. But this, this is another god, very old. A god of the ancestors of the people who lived here before the French came. His name is Yúcahu, and he will protect you. My father likes you very much and is afraid for you, and for what will happen to me if anything happens to you. He said that you protect me, and so if he gave this to you, by protecting you it will protect both of us!” She smiled, then seeing Beth’s expression, her brow creased. “Are you angry, Madame Beth?” she asked nervously.
Beth looked up into her maid’s eyes.
“No, I’m not angry, of course not. It’s a very kind gesture. Rosalie, are the slaves planning to revolt?”
“No, madame!” Rosalie replied immediately. “No, it is to protect you against illness, snakebites and bad luck. I have heard nothing of a revolt. Did my father say that?”
“No. It was just my imagination. Come, help me undress, and then you can sleep. You look tired,” Beth said.
Later she lay in the dark listening to the muted sounds of music and laughter from below, running her fingers over the amulet, and thinking.
Rosalie had been telling the truth when she said she knew nothing of a revolt, Beth was sure of that. She was not so sure of Raymond, because she didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he was lying. She could not blame them if they were planning a rising. She had lived here long enough to know that slaves were whipped and beaten for nothing. She had heard their screams carrying across to the house as they were flogged at the whipping post, had had to resist running across the fields to stop it. She could not stop it. She had no authority over the drivers and overseers who meted out discipline.
The planters were terrified of a slave revolt. The whites were outnumbered by slaves by over five to one, and the whole island was like a barrel of gunpowder waiting for the fuse to be lit. If she told Pierre what Raymond had said to her, he would be arrested, questioned, certainly tortured, and probably killed.
She could not do that to a man, one who was trying to protect her, based only on her own vague suspicions. If she had any proof it might be different.
Might.
Her father had been English and Hanoverian, her mother a Highlander and Jacobite. She had grown up hearing both sides of the story and had finally, after much thought and reading, chosen to take the side of the Stuarts. It had been a reasoned decision, not based purely on instinct and emotion.
She had spoken the truth tonight. She was of noble birth, that was true; but she was also a Highlander, partly by birth and partly by marriage. And the Highlanders were being treated in the same way as the negroes. The difference was only a matter of degree. She felt an obligation to the Delisles, liked many of the planters she had met, even if she held little in common with them; and she felt a great sense of injustice at the treatment of the slaves, but had not lived here for long enough to come down firmly on one side.
I don’t want to live here long enough for that, she thought. But I have to. I must stop thinking about home and the people I miss there. I cannot go back. If I do I will put my friends and myself in danger. And if I go to France or Italy I will just be another Jacobite among the many that King James and Prince Charles now have to support. As a woman I cannot fight, and I would not wish to be a burden.
At least here she could do something. As far as the possibility of a slave revolt went, for now she would do nothing, but she would pay attention. If she heard something more definite, then she would find a way to alert Pierre to the possibility of a revolt without implicating Raymond or anyone else.
She could teach Rosalie to read and write, albeit in secret, maybe find a way to teach others too, in time. It was better to help at least one person to maybe have a better life. And if she could, when she knew more, persuade some of the planters to treat their slaves more sympathetically, then her life would be worth living.
Small victories.
During the days when Antoinette did not need her, and as the temperature rose as July gave way to August, Beth spent more and more time in her room, ostensibly ‘resting’, a pastime eminently fitting for a delicate young aristocratic lady in such weather. Of course she needed her maid to fan her, and pour glasses of lime or tamarind water for her.
And so Rosalie’s education continued apace.