CHAPTER ELEVEN
Martinique, August 1747
Still caught in the dream, Beth fought to control the panic that surged through her. Her heart hammered in her chest and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. She swung her legs out of bed and leaned forward, putting her head between her knees until the dizziness passed.
“Are you sick, Madame Beth?” Rosalie asked worriedly. “Should I wake Monsieur and ask him to send for the doctor?”
Before Beth could answer, there came a knock on the door.
“What’s happening?” Pierre’s voice sounded from the hall. The door opened an inch, admitting a slice of light from the candle he was holding.
Beth sat up again, ignoring the little white lights sparkling at the edge of her vision that told her the dizziness had not completely passed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaky. “I had a bad dream.” She pulled the sheet around her. “Please, come in.”
He walked into the room but stopped just inside the doorway, obviously torn between the breach of etiquette he was committing by entering a lady’s bedchamber and worry for the welfare of the said lady.
Rosalie picked up a candle from the bedside table and lit it from the one Pierre was carrying. Yellow light filled the room, banishing the shadows.
“You are very pale, Beth,” Pierre remarked. “Are you sure you’re not sick? Do you have a fever?”
“No, really, I am well,” Beth assured him. Although she was sweating, partly from the dream and partly from the temperature in the room, she actually felt cold and clammy rather than hot and feverish. She had still not shaken off the dream; it seemed more real to her than the room she was in and the two people observing her worriedly.
With a great effort she pushed it away and looked up at her employer.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I must have cried out. It was a nightmare, that’s all. I will be fine, really. Rosalie, will you fetch me some lemon water, please?” She swung her legs into bed and sat back against the pillows. She hoped that Pierre would leave with Rosalie, but instead he moved further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What manner of dream was it?” he asked. “Did you dream of a snake, or of a black bird?”
“No, not at all,” Beth replied. “Why?”
“One of my friends, his wife dreamt that a snake had come into her husband’s room and was eating him. The slaves said that it was a very bad omen, but my friend of course ignored it, being civilised and a good son of the Church. A few days later he died.”
“He died?” Beth said, aghast. “Did a snake bite him?”
“No, he had a fall from his horse. I’m sorry. This is not helpful. It was just superstition, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it.”
“It wasn’t about anybody in Martinique,” Beth reassured him. “It was about before I came here. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, of course not. I am sorry. You have had some terrible experiences in your life, far too many for such a young woman. It’s hardly surprising if you have a nightmare now and then. And you know that there are some philosophers now who say nightmares are caused by eating rich food. Perhaps that’s what it was.” He patted her hand gently to reassure her. Rosalie came back with the drink, and Pierre stood.
“Well, if you are sure you are not unwell…” he said.
“No, Rosalie is with me and I don’t feel ill at all, just tired,” she assured him. She wanted desperately to be alone, to think about what she had dreamt before it faded from her mind completely, as dreams often do.
After he’d gone Beth put on a clean, dry nightdress, then told Rosalie to go back to sleep. She sat for a while sipping the lemon water, deep in thought, but when she realised that Rosalie was worried about her mistress and was trying to stay awake, Beth blew the candle out and lay down. After a while she heard her maid’s breathing even out and knew she was asleep.
She had lied to Pierre; her dream had not been about her past. In it she had been standing on a lawn, a lawn she had never seen in life. To the right in the distance there was a mound of earth, and in the middle of the lawn was a huge oak tree. She had looked down at her feet and seen that they were bare. The grass was cool and wet and it was raining, not as it did in Martinique, torrentially, but as it often did in Britain, a light, drizzling rain. It had been a pleasant dream. She had wiggled her toes, enjoying the coolness of the soft green grass under her feet.
And then she had heard a roar of despair and anguish so loud and so heartrending that it had shocked her out of sleep immediately. There had been nobody else in her dream; the landscape had been empty, apart from the tree and the mound of earth. But the cry was indisputably human.
Indisputably Alex.
She had not dreamt of him since she had set sail on the Veteran, five months ago. At first she had missed the dreams of him, which had always been pleasant, reliving times they had spent together; sitting on a log by the side of Loch Lomond, dancing at Versailles while the whole court watched them, lying in the heather snuggled together under his plaid. When the dreams stopped she had missed them terribly, but after a while she had told herself it was better so. She had to move on, start a new life. But this dream had not been a reliving of anything they had been through together, good or bad.
She lay awake for a long time, trying to convince herself that it was nothing. As Pierre had said, it was the workings of a piece of almond cake she had eaten at supper. It was nothing. Alex was dead. It was her imagination, that was all.
Beth had the same dream the next night and the one after that, with the consequence that on the third day she was exhausted and quite happy to sit on the porch with Antoinette playing cards for the whole morning, letting the mundane gossip that so interested her companion wash over her instead of fidgeting and trying to find excuses to do something active to break the monotony.
It was very hot during the days now, and even the constant waving of fans by the slave children brought no relief, merely wafting hot humid air around them, while the poor children were bathed in sweat from the effort of moving the huge woven palm fans for hours at a time.
But this is better than working in the boiling house or the fields, Beth told herself. They are fortunate.
She had hoped that this was as hot as it got in Martinique and that, like in Britain, September would see some relief from the high temperatures and heavy rainstorms that left the air so humid it was difficult to breathe sometimes. But when she had asked Raymond, he told her that September would be even hotter than August and there was a higher risk of hurricanes too.
Antoinette chatted away about the disgraceful behaviour of Monsieur Bernard, who not only acknowledged his mulatto bastards, but insisted that they live in his house with his legitimate children. She had been complaining about her neighbour’s behaviour for days now, so Beth no longer had to pay attention to be sure of making a suitable response. Instead she let the monologue become background noise and thought about her dream instead.
Three nights. Exactly the same dream, with no variation. This had never happened to her before. Rosalie had told her that dreams could mean someone was trying to snare her with witchcraft, but it would depend on the dream. Was it about someone who had died? Beth had said that it was, although she was reluctant to give details, for no good reason that she could think of. She just felt instinctively that she should keep it to herself. Rosalie said that perhaps the dead person was trying to communicate with her, to pass on an important message. Sometimes to dream of the dead meant there would be news of the living, but whether that was good or bad news she couldn’t say. Other people said that if you dreamt the dead person had come back to life, it meant that something important that you had lost would come back to you.
In other words, Beth thought drily, no one knows what the hell dreams mean for certain. If they meant anything at all.
She hadn’t dreamt that Alex had come back to life. The tormented cry that had shocked her into wakefulness for the last three nights had been uttered by a living voice, not a dead one, nor a resurrected one.
Was Alex alive?
Even while she told herself that she was being stupid, that he was certainly dead, doubts assailed her, filling her mind. Highbury had said there were no prisoners named Alexander MacGregor, but what if he had been imprisoned somewhere where no one knew his true identity and was being held under an assumed name? What if he had been so badly injured that he was incapable of coming for her? If Duncan and Angus were dead too, and there was no one with the ability to find her? Graeme would have come, or Iain, she thought. Unless they were also dead. It was possible; Culloden had been a massacre.
On the fourth night she didn’t dream of the strange lawn, or hear the cry of distress; but nevertheless she was still shocked into wakefulness in the middle of the night, not by a dream this time, but by a memory.
“He thinks of you, all the time. He doesn’t know, you see, that’s why.” That was what Prince Edward had said when she had told his father that Sir Anthony was dead. At the time she had dismissed it from her mind, and then had forgotten it completely in the maelstrom of subsequent events. Now she sat up in bed in the dark, remembering. The prince was a strange child, ‘a sayer of things’, someone had said.
She thought back to the cricket match at Prince Frederick’s, when the child had told her that Daniel was going to hurt her. After the malevolent young lord had thrown the ball at her, she had been impressed that the prince had foreseen it. But what if he had not been referring to something as trivial as a bruise, but to the fact that Daniel had gone on to discover the truth about Sir Anthony? Alex had thought him to have the second sight, after all.
Had he been telling her in his strange way that Alex hadn’t come for her, not because he was dead, but because he thought she was? No, it wasn’t possible. There had been twenty women in the hut that day, and most of them would have seen what happened to her after she killed the sergeant. One of them must have told Alex or whoever else had come for her after the battle.
She was being ridiculous. She hated living in this hot, sticky, boring place, surrounded by luxury she had no interest in and desperately miserable, sullen slaves who she could not relegate in her mind to being part of the scenery. She hated it so much that she was trying to invent reasons to go back to Britain.
She could not go back to Britain. It was too dangerous for her there. Prince Edward was just a little odd. No doubt he had keen eyesight, being so young, and had seen the malevolent look in Lord Daniel’s eye from across the cricket pitch. He had made a lucky guess, that was all. She could not travel halfway across the world, risking her life in the process, based on the ramblings of a small child.
She told herself that for the rest of the sleepless night with the result that the next day, after four badly disturbed nights, she was half-dead with fatigue. On any normal day she would have been able to go back to bed at any time, but as chance would have it today visitors were coming for lunch, after which they would go for a drive to the coast, hoping to enjoy a sea breeze.
Normally Beth would have relished any diversion from listening to Antoinette’s complaints, and would have thrown herself wholeheartedly into the excursion; indeed she did try to, but by early evening the combination of heat and exhaustion rendered her listless and irritable, with the result that her answers to the habitual questions probing her relationship with King Louis verged on sarcastic rather than merely evasive and by the time she was able to go to bed she had a banging headache, fell into bed the second Rosalie had finished helping her to undress and was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
It seemed that she had been asleep for no more than a few minutes before she was being shaken awake.
“Madame Beth!” Rosalie cried. “Wake up!”
She felt drugged and heavy, her eyelids glued shut, and when she finally managed to open them and come to some sort of wakefulness, she was surprised to see that several candles had been lit and Rosalie was already fully dressed. Voices came from the corridor, along with the sound of someone running down the stairs and across the porch outside.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, yawning sleepily.
“Madame Antoinette is sick, very sick,” Rosalie replied, pouring water from a pitcher into a basin and dropping a cloth into it. “Papa has been sent to fetch the doctor.” She wrung it out and gave it to Beth, who had thrown back the covers and was sitting on the side of the bed. Beth wiped her face with it and then stood up, grabbing her dressing gown from the chair where it had been placed the previous morning. She wrapped it round herself.
It must be serious, then. Antoinette was always ill, or always complaining that she was ill. No one, including her husband, thought of her constant ailments as anything more than hypochondria. Pierre would not have sent for the doctor in the middle of the night for one of her megrims.
“Are the guests still here? Did they stay?” Beth asked as she hunted under the bed for her slippers. One particular guest, an elderly man with startlingly black hair, had flirted incessantly with her throughout the evening. His attentions had stayed within the bounds of propriety and seemed harmless, but she didn’t want to fuel his ardour by appearing en déshabillé if he was still here.
“No, they left a little while after you came to bed. I’m so sorry to wake you, madame, because you were very tired, but Monsieur told me to, once he saw that Madame was…that she wasn’t…er…”
“That she was really sick, instead of just pretending to be so,” Beth finished helpfully.
“Er…yes, madame.”
“Rosalie, I will never be angry with you for speaking the truth,” Beth said. “Now, I think you should go downstairs and see if you can do anything to help. I will call you when I need to dress properly.”
She walked down the hallway and into Antoinette’s room, which was ablaze with candlelight. Pierre was standing at the foot of the bed looking helplessly on as Eulalie attempted to support her mistress whilst holding a basin, into which Antoinette was vomiting weakly. Beth moved forward and sat on the bed, holding the sick woman up until she had finished, then lowering her back down. She was shivering violently, but her face was flushed and she was burning with fever. In spite of the fact that Antoinette had taken to her bed on the slightest pretext every few days since Beth had arrived, this time there was no denying that she was very sick.
“Do you have pain, madame?” Eulalie asked, moving to the window and throwing the contents of the basin as far as she could into the night so that they would miss the porch.
“My eyes and my back,” Antoinette moaned through chattering teeth. “It hurts, so much.”
“We must try to bring the fever down,” Beth said. She tried to remember if Anne Maynard had ever told her how to treat fever, but as far as she knew no one of her acquaintance had ever had more than the mildest fever. She wanted to help, but had no idea what to do.
“Tamarind water,” Eulalie advised, taking over. “She must drink as much as possible to sweat out the sickness. Monsieur Pierre, could she have some laudanum for the pain?”
Pierre jumped, as though coming out of a trance.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, rushing from the room and returning a minute later with a small brown bottle. Eulalie took it from him, putting several drops into a glass of wine. Between them Beth and Eulalie managed to get Antoinette to swallow it. Pierre hovered at the end of the bed again, his face a mask of distress. Antoinette slumped back, still shivering. Her nightdress and the sheet beneath her were soaked. Beth went to the chest, rummaging in it and producing a clean nightdress and a sheet.
“Monsieur, if you wish you could try to get a little sleep?” Eulalie suggested gently. “You will need to be fresh when the doctor returns. We will wake you if there is any reason to, I promise.”
“Of course, you are right,” he said, vastly relieved to be given an excuse to vacate the room.
“There,” Eulalie said briskly once he was out of the way. “Now we won’t be falling over him. Can you stay to help, Madame Beth, or do you need to sleep as well?”
“No, I’m awake now,” Beth said. “Do you know what is wrong with her?”
“It could be swamp fever,” Eulalie said. “If it is, then she should recover. It comes and goes, and she has had attacks before. But they were not as bad as this. Or it could be the yellow fever; when I had it, I too had pains and a fever like this.”
“I thought people died of yellow fever!” Beth said.
“A lot do, but some live, too. I was blessed,” Eulalie replied. “But we must pray that it is not, that it is just an attack of swamp fever.”
Between them they changed the sheets, managed to get Antoinette into a dry nightdress, and then spent the rest of the night alternating between washing the delirious woman’s face and limbs with cool water, persuading her to drink as much as they could, and holding the basin while she vomited it back up again.
It was mid-morning before Raymond returned with the doctor, by which time Beth was struggling to keep her eyes open, even though Antoinette was much worse, unable to sleep and in considerable pain in spite of the laudanum.
“You must go to bed for a time, Madame Beth,” Eulalie said. “I have had the fever and no one who lives through it falls sick again. But you have not, I think, and you need to be strong so as not to fall ill also.”
Beth took her advice. There was little she could do right now. As she was walking to her room the doctor came up the stairs, followed by Raymond. The doctor nodded to her and carried on, but Raymond stopped.
“How is she, Madame Beth?” he asked.
“She’s in a lot of pain, and has a fever,” Beth replied. “Eulalie thinks it could be swamp fever, or maybe yellow fever.”
Raymond’s eyes widened.
“Madame, are you wearing the charm I gave to you?” he asked urgently.
“No, not at the moment. Why?”
“Please, madame, I beg of you to wear it. If it is the yellow fever, it is very, very bad. The charm will protect you, stop you getting sick also. You must promise me!” he finished, a tone of desperation in his voice. She reached out and took his hand, touched by his concern for her.
“I am going to sleep for a few hours,” she said. “But I will put it on now before I sleep, I promise. And I will keep it on.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Taking the amulet out and slipping it round her neck was the only thing she did, before falling onto the bed and sinking immediately into sleep.
When she woke it was dark, and for a moment she lay there disoriented, drugged by the deep sleep she had just had. Then she remembered and sat up, fumbling in the dark for the flint and tinder to strike a light. There was a thin yellow band of light under the door which told her that whatever time it was, people were still up and about. Abandoning her search, she wrapped her dressing gown around her and opened the bedroom door. Rosalie was sitting outside it on the floor, and only Beth’s natural quick reflexes stopped her falling over her maid.
“Oh, madame,” Rosalie said. “I didn’t wish to disturb you, so I was waiting here for you to awaken. I will help you to dress.” She stood up and pulled a candle from one of the wall brackets.
“What time is it?” Beth asked as Rosalie lit candles in the room and then opened the chest which contained her mistress’s clothes.
“I am not sure, but the bell should ring for the field gangs soon,” Rosalie answered.
The field gangs? Had she slept right through the day and into the night? No wonder she felt disoriented!
“How is Antoinette?” Beth asked.
“She is the same,” Rosalie said. “The doctor has bled her and purged her, but it has not helped yet. He is staying tonight, is sleeping now. Eulalie is still with Madame Antoinette.”
Once dressed, the amulet tucked out of sight so as not to attract comment, Beth went to the sick woman’s room, insisted that Eulalie go and get some sleep, and then sat on a chair at the side of the bed.
Antoinette was sleeping fitfully, and when Beth put her hand to her companion’s forehead it was still hot. She wrung out a cloth in a basin and wiped her face gently. Then, because she didn’t know what else to do, she folded her hands and prayed that the sick woman would survive.
At first the prayers, along with the doctor’s ministrations, seemed to work. On the third day the fever subsided and Antoinette announced that she felt much better. She ate some soup and expressed a wish to get up on the following day, once she had slept properly. She insisted on being left alone to do so. Hugely relieved, the exhausted, worried household all went to bed.
Two days later Antoinette relapsed, and this time there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was indeed yellow fever. Her skin and eyes turned yellow, she started to vomit again, a dark bloody stream that soon became almost continuous, and began having violent convulsions. The doctor, and this time the priest were sent for, the priest arriving in time to give the patient the last rites, although Antoinette was incapable of confessing her sins or making any responses by then.
The doctor arrived half an hour after she died. It seemed that several of the guests at the Delisle’s party had also succumbed to the fever, although Antoinette was the only one who had perished so far. Which was indeed a miracle, the priest said. Yellow fever was a virulent illness known to wipe out whole swathes of the population, particularly the whites.
It was common knowledge among the white population that negroes, being a different and inferior species to the European settlers, had some degree of natural protection against the fever, much in the same way apes did. It seemed that Monsieur Pierre and Madame Beth had been fortunate indeed, as neither of them sickened.
This was no doubt due to their prayers and righteous way of life, the priest remarked at dinner the following day. He was staying until the funeral was over, which would be conducted within the next two days. Lengthy funeral preparations were not practical in a tropical country.
Beth wondered what the priest would think if he had heard Raymond, just half an hour before, thanking Beth for wearing her charm, as that was no doubt the reason she had not fallen sick, especially as she had spent all of the last day of Antoinette’s life at her bedside. Whether it was due to the charm, her godliness or her robust constitution Beth had no idea; she was just happy not to be dying in such a horrible way.
She also felt guilty. She knew she should feel very sad that Antoinette was dead. She was sorry that the poor woman had suffered so and she felt great sympathy for Pierre, who seemed distraught by the loss of his wife. But she had neither liked nor respected Antoinette Delisle, and she realised now, as she sat in the darkened dining room and sweated in the obligatory black woollen dress that was de rigueur for mourning, that for her everything had changed.
For at least a month now she had known in her heart of hearts that she would never become accustomed to living in Martinique. In spite of the luxury and the beautiful scenery, she hated too much about it to ever settle here; the heat, the boredom and pointlessness of life for women at least, the lack of freedom of movement, and above all the brutality of slavery.
Antoinette’s death meant that she had to act. She could not stay at Soleil plantation now. If she were to remain in Martinique she had two choices; marry a planter or spend the rest of her life as companion to a series of spoiled, bored women. The first she would never do, and even the thought of the second made her want to throw herself off the nearest cliff in horror.
So then, she would leave. She could not go right now and leave Pierre alone in his grief. But once the funeral was over she would start making plans, and as soon as he had recovered from his initial shock at the loss of his spouse she would tell him of her intention to return to…
France. That was what she would tell everyone. She was going to France. They would accept that. France was the mother country, after all, and Beth was known at the court. And in saying that, she would be telling no lies. She was indeed going to sail to France. And then from there she was going home.
Later that night in bed she thought about the enormity of what she intended to do. If she was caught she would probably be imprisoned for life, at best. More likely she would be quietly disposed of.
It was fortunate that she had, on the spur of the moment, asked the Marquis de Caylus to add her name to the list of dead; including it as Lady Elizabeth Peters rather than Elizabeth Cunningham would tell Newcastle when he read it that she had been defiant to the end. She had done it to stop him sending assassins out to kill her, which she suspected he would probably have done if he knew her to be alive and free. He hated her, and the feeling was requited. But she realised now that because she was believed to be dead, no one would be actively looking for her to return to Britain, although if she was recognised once there, which was possible in view of her distinctive hair and features, she would be arrested in any case.
Nevertheless she was going back, regardless of the risk, regardless of the stupidity of quite literally following a dream. Because since the recurring nightmare she could not shake the feeling that Alex was alive and had been in some way calling to her. She had to find out for certain that he was dead. And the only way she could do that was to go home.
To Scotland.
* * *
Three weeks after the funeral, with no sign of Pierre coming out of his profound depression, Beth was growing restless and irritable, and feeling terribly guilty for doing so. Part of her felt deep sympathy for him; after all, he had been married to Antoinette for over ten years and had no children to comfort him. And he was now alone, having no relatives in Martinique.
But at the same time, when Antoinette had been alive the couple had behaved like polite strangers to each other. She had never seen either of them show even the slightest sign of affection towards one another. Even when she was dying, Pierre had come no closer to his wife than the bedroom doorway, retching at the dreadful smell emanating from the dying woman and terrified of contracting the disease himself.
She couldn’t help but think that some of his apparent misery was in fact feigned, part of a façade that he felt he must present to his neighbours along with the stiflingly hot mourning clothes. Really, it was ridiculous for people to follow the traditions of France to the letter in this climate! It was all well and good to wear woollen mourning clothes for six weeks in Paris, where the climate was more akin to that of England, but in a tropical climate like this it was sheer hell.
She tentatively suggested to Pierre that perhaps they could revert to silk mourning a little early, but his horrified reaction to the gross lack of respect it would show for his dead wife put an end to that. Instead she spent as much time as she could in her bedroom, where she would sit by the window in her shift staring out at the luxuriant countryside and the slaves labouring in the fields, planning for the day she would leave this beautiful, horrible island forever.
On the first day of the seventh week after Antoinette’s death, Beth threw off the woollen mourning with profound relief and, wearing black silk with the absolute minimum of undergarments ventured out into the garden, heading down to a part where some trees had recently been felled, leaving stumps a few feet high which would be ideal for her purposes. Now that she had at least half a plan for what she intended to do with her future, she knew that danger was likely to feature in it, and she might as well prepare for that as best she could now, whilst she had nothing else to occupy her time with.
She put down a bag full of old cracked pots that she’d got from the gardener, took out her knives, of which she now had four, and laid them on the ground. Then she went over to one of the stumps and placed a cracked clay pot on top of it before walking back to the knives. She picked one up, took careful aim and threw. It missed the pot by a couple of inches and disappeared into the undergrowth. Beth swore under her breath and went off to search for it.
There was no greater incentive to speedy improvement than spending twenty minutes hunting through dense foliage for a lost knife. Within a few throws she was hitting the pot every time. Within an hour she was aiming for, and hitting, particular flowers, vines, and within an inch of the same spot on the tree stump, and from an ever-increasing distance. Maybe she could ask Pierre for a target to be made. Then she would not spend half her time trying to locate her knife after it had sliced the vine she’d aimed for in two and sailed on into the undergrowth.
She was sweating freely now, but thoroughly enjoying both the challenge and the exercise. She decided to have one more round of throwing before heading back to the house. The knives would need sharpening, another thing she wanted to do herself. And she would need to start holding books at arm’s length again, as she had in the Tower of London; her arms were aching with the unaccustomed exertion.
She bent down, picked up a knife, aimed carefully, and threw. It pierced the tree and stuck there, quivering. Then she picked up the other three knives together and one after the other in quick succession threw them after their companion. She was about to walk over to the tree to see how accurately she’d thrown when applause came from behind her. She turned to see an elderly man with startlingly black hair watching her with open admiration. She remembered him; the last time she’d seen him had been the day before Antoinette had fallen ill, and he had flirted with her all evening.
“Bravo, madame!” he called. “You have an incredible skill! I have never seen the like before.”
She smiled and then walked over to the stump, pulling the knives out before joining her admirer.
“Monsieur Giroux, how lovely to see you!” Beth said. She was actually telling the truth. He could only be here at Pierre’s invitation, which was a good sign, as the grieving widower had seen no one since Antoinette’s funeral.
“Please, madame, you must call me André. I insist,” he said.
He offered her his arm and she put the knives in her pocket and took it. They walked back to the house together.
“Where did you learn such a skill, my dear?” he asked as they entered the salon. Raymond was despatched to inform Pierre that his visitor was here, and Beth and André sat down.
“My mother taught me when I was a child,” Beth replied. “She was a Highlander and thought it prudent to teach her daughter how to defend herself.”
“And have you needed to defend yourself?” André asked.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Beth replied.
Before he could ask her to elaborate on this, Pierre appeared.
The difference in him was so remarkable that Beth knew at once that whilst Pierre no doubt was saddened by the death of his wife, the majority of his decline had been for show. He came into the room smiling and greeted his friend very cordially. He wore black, as was correct, but like Beth he had abandoned the heavy woollen clothing, instead opting for a black silk outfit. Before long several other guests arrived, and they all repaired to the dining area for dinner.
Although there were no flowers on the table and there was neither music nor dancing afterwards as a sign of respect for the dead woman, the evening was very convivial, with André regaling the tale of how he had come upon Lady Peters skewering a tree, and renewing his flirtation with her.
This time she was not exhausted and irritable, so she accepted both the questions regarding her knife-throwing skills and André’s overblown compliments in good part. The evening ended with a game of cards and as she mounted the stairs for bed, Beth realised with surprise that she had actually enjoyed herself, for two reasons; firstly she had been starved of company for the last six weeks, apart from Rosalie, who had come on in leaps and bounds with her reading and writing due to the increased amount of time Beth now had to teach her; and secondly because now she knew that Pierre was not actually going to grieve to death, she could start to put her plan into action.
That thought cheered her up immeasurably.
The following morning she slept late and when she woke up and tried to move, her arms were stiff and dreadfully sore from the previous day’s exertion. She was tentatively stretching her arms above her head trying to relieve the ache, when Rosalie appeared with a tray of breakfast for her.
Freshly squeezed orange juice, chocolate, almond pastries. And a slender glass vase, in which resided a single perfect cream flower. Beth stared at it. The petals were thick and waxy, and a faint pink blush tinted their underside. She didn’t bend to smell it, because she knew it had no scent. She also knew that it was called an orchid. She knew that because she had seen its twin, in Nice, four years ago almost to the day. Except at that time it had been Angus who had brought breakfast, not Rosalie.
It’s a sign, she thought, that I’m doing the right thing. A wave of longing to be sitting at breakfast with her husband and brother-in-law, watching them insult each other good-naturedly as only very close relations or friends could, washed over her, bringing tears to her eyes momentarily.
Beth looked up to see Rosalie eyeing her uncertainly.
“Is something wrong, madame?” she asked. “I thought to bring you your favourite breakfast, but if you want something else, then—”
“No, it’s perfect,” Beth said. “The orchid is very beautiful. I didn’t know that Monsieur Pierre grew them.”
“He doesn’t, madame. It is a gift from Monsieur Giroux. He said that it is flawless like yourself, and that if it pleases you he would very much like to show you his collection of orchids, if you would honour him with a visit one day.”
“He told you to tell me that?” Beth asked.
“Yes, madame. He made me repeat it so that I would make no mistake.”
So the flirtation was not all harmless, after all. The sooner she left, the better. She picked up the orange juice.
“Monsieur Giroux has the most remarkable black hair. It cannot be natural.”
Rosalie grinned.
“No, madame. His body servant colours it for him. But I think he wouldn’t want anyone to know that.”
“I promise I won’t tell him. Do you know how to colour hair, Rosalie?”
“No, madame. But I’ll try to find out, if you wish.”
“Yes please.”
“May I ask, madame, if it is for you?”
“It is, although I would prefer it if you told nobody that. It should be a secret.”
“Of course.” Rosalie smiled, clearly liking the idea of being entrusted with a secret. It would be interesting to see whether she was able to find out the information without breaking the confidence.
“Really, my dear Beth, there is no need for you to leave. Why, I have come to think of you almost as family. Are you not happy here?” Pierre asked when Beth revealed her intention to leave Martinique. She could hardly tell him how miserable she was here; after all, it was not his fault.
“Of course I am happy,” she lied instead. “But I was engaged as a companion to Antoinette, and it wouldn’t be proper for me to stay for much longer now there are no other women in the house. People will start to talk, which will do neither of us any good.”
“Ah, of course you are right. I should have thought of that. I have been somewhat distracted of late. But it would not do for your honour to be compromised.”
“I’m so glad you understand,” Beth said.
“However there is a way that you could continue to stay here. You must know how very fond of you I have become in these last months. I would be deeply honoured if you would consent to become my wife,” he continued, moving forward and taking her hand in his.
Beth’s horror at the proposal must have shown on her face, because Pierre released her hand immediately.
“I understand that this has come as a shock to you, and if I have offended you I apologise,” he said. “In France, as I’m sure you know, it would be most unseemly for a man to propose to another lady whilst in mourning for his previous wife. But unfortunately, due to the particular conditions on the island and the precariousness of life, we do not have the luxury of being able to wait for months before continuing with our lives. Nobody would think it strange if we were to marry immediately.
“But I understand that you might need some time to become accustomed to the idea. Or if you would feel more comfortable waiting until the official mourning is over, I could arrange for you to stay with some married friends of mine, so as to avoid any rumours.”
Beth was stunned, not just by the proposal, but by the arrogance of the man. It was quite obvious, not only by his words but his manner, that he expected her to be honoured that he wished to marry her. The fact that she might find him repugnant did not even cross his mind. He really believed that her only possible objection could be one of social convention. Her first impulse was to tell him the truth; but she had not spent years under the tutelage of Sir Anthony Peters without learning how to dissemble. And if she was to get everything she wanted, she must not antagonise him.
“Pierre, I am truly flattered,” she replied. “If I appear somewhat shocked it is partly as you say, because I’m not accustomed to the speed of life on the island. But also you have forgotten, I think, that I am still married. Indeed, that is one of the reasons I must leave.”
“But did you not tell me that you believe Sir Anthony to be dead?” Pierre asked.
“I do believe it. But believing is not the same as knowing. I could not in all conscience marry you when my husband might still be alive. That would be a terrible sin, not just against you and the law, but against God.”
“But my dear, you may never find out! And it would be a great tragedy for such a beautiful young lady as yourself never to know happiness again because of such a forlorn hope.”
He really thought that she would find happiness with him, that a woman was incapable of being happy unless a man was telling her what to do! No, that was unfair to him. Society in general believed a woman’s only function in life was to make a man happy and bear his children. And he would be a good catch for some woman, wealthy as he was, kind, if a little distant, and not unattractive.
But not for her. Alex had spoilt her for any other man. She would never marry again, whether he was alive or not. Think! She told herself fiercely. Keep focussed on what you need to achieve here!
“You are indeed correct, Pierre,” she responded. “And that is one of the reasons why I think I should go to France.”
“France?!” he cried. “You mean to leave Martinique altogether?”
“I think it is my only choice. If my husband is alive he will almost certainly have travelled to Paris, or possibly to Rome, where he will be safe. And I am sure that, if he is alive, someone in Paris will know of his whereabouts. If there is no news of him there, then I will be convinced that he must have perished.”
“But you do not need to actually travel all the way to France to ascertain that,” Pierre objected. “Surely we can make enquiries by letter? I know it will take longer, but I am willing to wait for you, and I can think of several married friends who would be only too happy for you to pay them an extended visit while we wait.”
“Oh, no! We could not do that! You know of course that Sir Anthony was one of the most successful spies King James had! I do not know what identity he is now living under, but a letter, if intercepted, could prove fatal to him. I will not take that risk, not for anything. If I discover that he is dead, then I will of course be free to marry again.”
She smiled at Pierre in a way that she hoped conveyed that if that were the case he would be her first choice of spouse. It seemed she was successful, because he beamed at her and taking her hand in his again, raised it to his lips.
“Then, my dearest Beth,” he said, “we must arrange passage for you as soon as possible, although I am not happy at the thought of you making such a long journey alone. I would love to accompany you, but alas, I cannot leave the plantation for such a long time.”
Thank God for that, she thought.
“That is one of the things I wished to discuss with you, Pierre,” she said, allowing him to retain her hand. “I had hoped you would permit me to purchase Rosalie, so that she could accompany me. And, for my added safety, I would of course like a man to accompany me as well, and to that end would be very grateful if you would allow Raymond to come too. I don’t know how much it would cost to buy them both, but I am happy to pay whatever you ask.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Raymond, who was standing in the corner of the room as usual, flinch and glance her way. She dared not give him any sign, because Pierre was staring at her in shock.
“Raymond?” he said. “Of course I would be happy to let you have Rosalie as a gift from me, to show my affection for you. You have trained her to your desires and I have no use for her, except as a field slave perhaps. But I could not possibly part with Raymond. If I were ever to sell him, he would fetch at least a hundred and fifty louis, probably more. He is young, healthy and a very experienced manservant.”
A hundred and fifty?! She could not afford that. Unless…
“Pierre, I would happily pay that to have someone I could trust implicitly accompany me on my voyage. As you know, I arrived here penniless and the only money I have is the generous allowance you’ve paid me. I will gladly give all of that back to you if you would allow me to buy him. Once I am in France, I am not without connections and will arrange for the remaining sum to be sent to you.”
Pierre smiled, and patted her hand.
“Now, I would not hear of you giving your allowance back to me – you will need that for your trip. I will of course pay for your passage. No, I insist,” he said, when she opened her mouth to object. “I will seek for someone else to accompany you.”
Damn. She couldn’t labour the point right now. She must be content with Rosalie for the moment. But she had no intention of separating father and daughter. A hundred and fifty louis. Where could she get that much money? She had to think of a way. But not now.
“It will be so exciting to have a slave of my own!” she said instead. “How soon can we transfer her to me?”
“I will send for my lawyer tomorrow and we can have the papers drawn up. You will need them in case anyone questions you or accuses her of being a runaway.”
“You are very kind, Pierre! Thank you!” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
She went back to her room feeling like a prostitute. Which was ridiculous, because she had only kissed him and allowed him to briefly embrace her. It was nothing compared to what women did every day of the week to get their way.
But it was not what she did. She had absolutely no intention of marrying Pierre, no intention of ever coming back to Martinique, regardless of what she discovered when she got home. And she had every intention of taking Raymond away from here too. There had to be a way to get the money. She could and would repay it when she got back to England. There was a chest of gold buried in a field that could buy an army of Raymonds.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts and plans that it didn’t occur to her to question where Rosalie was until there came a loud banging on the door. Before Beth could respond, Eulalie threw the door open and ran into the room.
“Oh, Madame Beth!” she cried, gripping Beth’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “You must come at once!”
Manhandling a white person and making a demand of them was such a huge breach of slave conduct that Beth immediately knew something must be terribly wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Monsieur Armstrong, he is whipping Rosalie! You must stop him!”
Eulalie had hardly finished speaking before Beth was down the stairs, across the porch and running across the fields in the direction of the whipping-post. Eulalie picked up her skirts and followed behind.
By the time Beth came within sight of the post, Armstrong had already administered several strokes to Rosalie’s naked back. Too breathless to command him to stop, Beth kept running, cannoning into him from behind with such force that he went sprawling on the ground.
She stopped, standing between him and Rosalie so that he could not continue the punishment, and bent over, fighting for breath. Rosalie, tied by her wrists to the frame, was moaning incoherently. Armstrong clambered to his feet and glared at her. All the slaves in the vicinity stopped working. This was going to be interesting.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Beth gasped, when she could breathe enough to speak.
“This negress has been stealing!” Armstrong stated. “I am administering punishment, as it is my job to do.”
Beth straightened up. In the distance she could see Eulalie hurrying through the cane fields in her direction.
“Did Monsieur order you to flog her?” Beth asked.
“No, but—”
“And I certainly did not. Your responsibility is for the field slaves, Mr Armstrong, not for the house slaves. How dare you even think to touch my maid without first asking my permission?”
“I do not need your permission, madame, to chastise one of Monsieur’s slaves,” Armstrong replied coldly. “I have his authority to act as I see fit.”
“You are misinformed, sir. Rosalie is not one of Monsieur Pierre’s slaves. She belongs to me.”
Her voice, although she did not realise it, was pure ice. Pure aristocrat. Francis Armstrong recognised it, and for the first time his tone expressed some doubt.
“You? I have not been told of this. When did you buy her?”
“That is not your concern. Neither Monsieur Delisle nor myself need to ask permission of you to make a business transaction, I think?”
“No, but—”
“You have exceeded your authority, Armstrong,” Beth said, relegating him to inferior status by referring to him by his surname alone. In the background someone laughed, and Armstrong swivelled round, eager to vent his frustrated rage on someone. A sea of blank expressions faced him. He turned back, to where Beth was instructing one of the slaves to cut the maid’s bindings. When he did Rosalie slumped to the ground, where Eulalie, who had now caught up, gently covered her naked upper body with her apron.
“Madame, this woman stole some ribbons from you,” Armstrong said. “You should be happy to discover this before something more valuable is taken. She was brazenly wearing them in her hair, for all to see!”
“Some turquoise ribbons?” Beth said coldly. “She was wearing them ‘brazenly’ as you say because I gave them to her as a gift. Did you ask her where she came by them?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did she tell you that I had made a present of them to her?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you did not make the effort to come to me to ask whether or not she was speaking the truth? As in fact she was?”
“Slaves lie all the time!” Armstrong protested. “I cannot go and ask the master every time a slave lies to avoid punishment! No work would be done if I did that!”
“No work will be done by my maid for several days while she heals, because of your erroneous assumption, Armstrong. And you have damaged my property, and for no good reason, which I am extremely displeased about. I will be having very strong words with Pierre about you!”
Although it appeared to be a slip of the tongue, she had used Monsieur Delisle’s first name deliberately to demonstrate that she was on friendly terms with him, and she saw by Armstrong’s change of expression that he understood what she was inferring. He had a choice; lose face in front of the slaves by apologising to a woman openly, or risk her raising hell with the master. The slaves saw it too, and all of those out of his line of vision were grinning.
Beth resisted the urge to grin back at them. She had to maintain her cold, superior expression, which was not difficult as she was as angry as she’d ever been in her life, a cold anger. The two English people faced each other, while in the background Eulalie muttered soothing words to Rosalie.
Armstrong looked away, down at the floor, and she knew she had won.
“I apologise, madame, if I acted wrongly,” he muttered.
“You did. And now you will release one of the field hands to carry my maid carefully back to the house,” she said.
“But the field hands are not allowed in the house!” Armstrong protested.
“You seriously wish me to call Monsieur Delisle from his work to carry my maid back to the house? Very well. Eulalie. Please go and tell Monsieur that he is required urgently.”
“No!” Armstrong cried. “I only meant…I will carry her myself.”
“You will do nothing of the sort!” Beth responded. She turned her back in a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. “You,” she said, pointing to a young man, “will you carry my maid back to the house? You will receive no punishment if you do.”
“Yes, madame,” he said. “I won’t hurt her, madame.”
“Thank you. Come, we are finished here.”
The young negro bent, and with great tenderness picked Rosalie up as if she weighed nothing and set off across the fields with her, Beth and Eulalie following behind, walking slowly so as to cause her the least discomfort possible. Even so, by the time they got back to the house the young girl was unconscious from the pain.
When he got to the porch steps the young man stopped uncertainly.
“Follow me, please,” Beth said, and led the way up to her bedroom where she instructed him to lay Rosalie on the bed, face down. He bowed to her, turned to leave, then hesitated before turning back to her.
“Madame Beth,” he said. “You have made an enemy of Monsieur Armstrong. He is a very bad man.”
“I am not afraid of Armstrong,” she replied gently. “But I will be careful. If he tries to punish you for following my orders today, make sure I hear of it immediately. In fact, if he takes out his anger at me on any of you, I would like to hear about it.”
“I think he will not today, and maybe never.” He glanced at her neck, and smiled. “You are a good lady. You will be safe.”
He turned and ran lightly down the steps and was gone. Beth looked down at herself to see what had made him smile. The cord from which the amulet hung was showing. She tucked it back under her fichu. He must know about the amulet and also believe in its protective qualities. Maybe Raymond had showed it to the other slaves when he had found it.
She put the matter from her mind and went to tend to Rosalie.
Eulalie had removed her apron from Rosalie’s back and was gently washing the blood away to reveal a number of weals. Armstrong had hit her at least ten times.
“She will be scarred for life,” Beth said, tears coming to her eyes. “I didn’t reach her in time.”
“No, no, Madame Beth, it is not so bad,” Eulalie assured her. “It would have been much worse if you hadn’t run so fast. The punishment for stealing is a hundred lashes at the very least. Usually the hand is cut off, but Mr Armstrong cannot mutilate a slave without Monsieur’s permission.”
“But he has mutilated her!” Beth said.
Eulalie smiled at madame’s naivety.
“Oh, no, madame, I mean he cannot punish in a way that would reduce their worth. Rosalie will be scarred, though not very much thanks to you. But she will still be able to work for you! You told Monsieur Armstrong that she was yours?”
“Yes. I asked if I could buy her. Monsieur is going to gift her to me,” Beth said. She didn’t elaborate, not wanting anyone to know what she intended yet.
Eulalie started to rub salve into Rosalie’s wounds. The maid moaned, and her eyes opened. Then she realised where she was lying, and tried to move. She cried out with the pain, and Beth sat on the side of the bed, taking Rosalie’s hand in hers.
“Shh,” Beth said. “You must stay still. You are safe now. Eulalie is taking care of your wounds, and then she will fetch something for you to drink to ease the pain and help you to sleep.”
“I cannot sleep here, madame!” Rosalie said. “This is your bed! It isn’t right. Monsieur will be very angry.”
“Monsieur will not know unless you tell him,” Beth said logically. “Rest. Everything will be well, I promise you.”
Later, when Rosalie’s wounds had been dressed and she was finally sleeping, drugged by one of Eulalie’s potions with the addition of some laudanum, Beth thought it safe to leave the room for a while. She wanted to go and talk to Pierre about Francis Armstrong’s actions, but Raymond intercepted her as she walked across the porch toward his office.
“Monsieur has guests, Madame Beth,” he said.
Ah well. Probably better to take a little time, think how to word her complaint against Armstrong in the right way.
“Thank you,” Beth said.
“How is Rosalie?” Raymond asked.
“She’s sleeping now. Eulalie says she will be better in a few days. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry, madame? You saved her from much worse!” Raymond said.
“I didn’t reach her in time to stop him hurting her. She will be scarred, I think.”
“Madame, you saved her. No one else would have done that. I thank you. And I wished…if I may ask you something?”
“Of course!”
“Do you really intend to take Rosalie to France with you?”
“I intend to take both of you to France with me, if you wish it,” Beth said. Almost she told him of her full intention, but reined her tongue in. No. She would tell no one until she was sure she could fulfil her wishes.
“You are very kind, Madame Beth. But I must tell you, Monsieur will never sell me, not until I am too old or sick to serve him. But I would ask you to take Rosalie with you.”
“Raymond, you have already lost your wife. I would not separate you from your daughter as well,” Beth replied.
“Madame, please. I beg of you, whatever happens, please take Rosalie away from this place with you. She will be happy with you and you will treat her very well, I know. That will not be the case if you leave her here. I will be sad to lose her, but happy that she will have a good life.” His eyes on hers were pleading, desperate.
“I promise you, Raymond, that I will take her with me when I leave. But I have not given up yet. I will do my utmost to take you with me as well, if you want.”
“I think it will not be possible,” he said sadly.
“Few things are impossible, if you want them badly enough,” Beth said. “We will see.”
Firstly she would fight to get Raymond. And then, if Alex was alive, she would find him. Whatever the cost, however long it took, she would find him.
She had been wrong. She did not want a new life; she wanted her old life back. And finally she had the determination, the courage, and most importantly, the freedom to obtain it.