Frances did not answer. She knew that they should not have sent for Sir Charles, with his tainted expertise. She knew why the woman who had named herself Died of Shame was eating earth and pouring earth on her head and streaking her face with it. Frances knew that she was inviting a rapist to order how his victim should be managed. She knew that she was being slowly and effectively corrupted by a system over which she had no control.
“How will he know what to do?” she asked.
“Clearwater is one of the best-run plantations on Jamaica.”
“But he said that a quarter of their slaves died within the first year and another quarter within the next four, just through illness. He loses even more by punishments and selling on.”
“That’s quite good, actually,” Miss Cole remarked. “Some plantations, especially those that are low-lying in fever country, lose every single slave within a couple of seasons.”
Frances seated herself at the table and picked up the sheet she had been darning. “Sir Charles said that of every ten slaves shipped out of Africa, two die on the voyage, two more die the first year, and then another two are dead by the fourth year,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “So for every ten that have been caught and shipped, only four are left alive by the end of five years.”
Miss Cole nodded. “And this is why it is such a reliable trade,” she observed. “That is why it is such good business for us.”
Frances inclined her head. “I see.”
The two women sat in silence until Miss Cole, looking down at the quay, said, “Here he is,” as Sir Charles strolled up to the front door and hammered on it with his pearl-handled stick.
He came into the parlor behind Brown. He kissed Miss Cole’s hand, bowed low over Frances’s hand, and kissed it gently. He straightened up and gave her a little intimate, roguish smile. He looked like a charming boy caught in an apple orchard with bulging pockets. He very nearly winked.
“Forgive me,” he said in his warm, flirtatious tone. “I should have presented myself with my compliments this morning. My daughter and I enjoyed a most excellent evening with you. Alas! I overslept—your wine was very fine!”
“We sent for you because we have some difficulty with one of the slaves,” Miss Cole interrupted.
He turned from scanning Frances’s face and smiled at her. “Anything I can do to assist—you only have to command me.”
“Frances has the managing of them,” Miss Cole said, allocating blame where it was due. “And now one of them is behaving very strangely. They are all moaning, and it is disturbing Cook.”
Sir Charles gave a little seductive laugh and flickered a smile at Frances. “We cannot have that excellent cook disturbed for one moment. Would you like me to see them?”
“It is just one,” Frances said quietly. “She will not eat food. . . . She is eating—”
“Earth?” he guessed.
Frances’s glance flew to his face. “You knew?”
He shrugged. “It’s not unusual. A foul habit, isn’t it? The women do it often. It makes them sick as dogs. They get the yaws, and they will eat it till they die sometimes. It is their mad spite. They know they are robbing you of their purchase price. They are insane with spite. You will need to use a bridle, ma’am.”
“A bridle?”
He tutted in irritation. “Of course, you will not have one to hand. I had thought myself at home! We put a bridle on them when they eat soil. A metal cage which goes around the face, under the jaw, with a gag of metal across the mouth. Their driver must take it off at mealtimes and watch her to make sure she eats her food. She must wear it all the rest of the time. They are cunning as monkeys. If they want to eat dirt, they will get their hands on it somehow. The only way is to gag their mouths.”
“And you frequently use these devices?” Miss Cole asked, interested.
“We could not run the plantations without them. We use it on those who eat earth, and many people put their cooks and kitchen maids in bridles to stop them tasting as they work. This is a common problem for us, ma’am, and a common solution. I could draw one for you, and a farrier could make it up. It looks like a scold’s bridle from olden times—it has the advantage of making them dumb as well! Which one is causing the trouble? What size is she?”
Miss Cole looked at Frances. Frances wanted to say, “the one you raped,” but she found she could not. The man stood before her, smiling, assured, charming. She could not name him as a rapist. He had assaulted a woman, and now she ate dirt and heaped dirt on her head, and Frances was dumb.
“The largest woman,” she said, cowardly.
“Well, you’ll just want a medium-size one, then,” Sir Charles said comfortably. “It has to be tight enough to cut into the mouth, to press against the lips, against the teeth and gums. They learn the lesson well that way. If she bleeds a little around the mouth, it is no great loss. Here, I’ll sketch one out for you.”
Miss Cole gestured to the parlor table and put paper and a pen before him. With swift, confident sweeps of the pen, he drew a little helmet with an open socket for the nose and a smooth plate that blocked the mouth, fastening behind the head with leather straps.
“Don’t be discouraged,” he said kindly to Frances. “One little setback means nothing. I am sure you are making good progress.”
“Thank you,” Frances said stiltedly.
“Now, come back with me to my hotel!” he commanded. “And take a glass of wine and a little luncheon with me there! Honoria will join us; she is longing to improve her friendship with you, Mrs. Cole.”
Frances glanced at Miss Cole, who was flustered and flattered. “You must give us a moment to put on our bonnets. Shall I need a cape or a shawl?”
“It’s as cold as ever, but it has stopped raining, thank God!” Sir Charles exclaimed. “I shall wait for as long as you need to get ready, Miss Cole. It’s not often I have the honor of a beauty on either arm. I would wait all day for the privilege.” He smiled at her, and Miss Cole flushed with pleasure. His sideways gleam to Frances gave the compliment to her. His powerful maleness, his confidence of his own desirability filled the little room.
Frances went slowly to the door. She did not want to put her hand on Sir Charles’s arm. She did not want to have luncheon with him. She did not want to see his knowing little smile or hear his half-shamed, half-bragging chuckle. She thought of him taking the black woman against her consent, and of all the other black women he had used, against their wills. She paused at the door, nerving herself to refuse.
“This is a great pleasure for me.” Sir Charles beamed. “I have such little occasion for the society of English ladies. I can feel myself becoming more civilized minute by minute.”
Frances felt the traitorous weakness of her polite smile. “Oh, good,” she said.
CHAPTER
13
THE LUNCH PARTY WAS not a great success, although Sir Charles was a charming and expansive host and Miss Cole was delighted to be in his company. Honoria was as coldly polite as she had been the previous night. Frances could feel the sick thudding of her headache coming back.
“You are pale, Mrs. Cole,” Honoria said in her rich, languid accent. “You are so lucky. I have to shield my face from the sun all the time at home. Mama is terrified of me getting brown—brown like the girls.”
“I don’t feel very well,” Frances said quietly.
“The strains of new married life, eh?” Sir Charles interrupted, smiling intimately down the table at Frances. “Running a house, teaching the slaves. You must tell Josiah that he must not work you too hard!”
“It is not the work,” Frances said. “I worked harder when I was at home.” She felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the rectory and the little village where she and her father were well known along every lane and track and where she enjoyed a constant sense of self-righteousness. “I used to walk in all weathers. I used to visit the poor; my father was the rector and my uncle, Lord Scott, the landlord. It is the countryside I mis
s. My home was in the hills outside Bath.”
“And now you are cooped up in town!” Sir Charles exclaimed sympathetically. “I wish I could take you ladies to Clearwater.” He included Sarah in his smile, but his eyes were on Frances. “You could rest in a hammock and look out over two hundred acres to the sea, Mrs. Cole! As lush and as thick and as fruitful as your heart could desire, and a dozen slaves to do your bidding, whatever you might want! That would bring the color to your cheeks. And I myself should make you rum punch, which would make your heart beat a little faster.” His voice held a caress. Frances glanced uncomfortably at Sarah.
“My sister is happy where she is,” Sarah said. “And within a month we will be living at Queens Square. There is some delay with the purchase of the house, but when it goes through, we shall have the Queens Square garden for our enjoyment.”
“An excellent address,” Sir Charles agreed. “But had you not thought of the heights of Park Street? I barely recognized the city, there has been so much building since I was last here. The whole town seems to be sprouting terraces.”
Miss Cole shook her head decidedly. “No. We prefer to live in the town. My brother says that a merchant is happiest where he can see the masts of his ships.”
“I am sure he knows best,” Sir Charles said pleasantly. “And so the next time I come to visit you, I shall see you in a beautiful town house, Mrs. Cole.”
“Yes,” Frances said thinly.
Sir Charles nodded for more wine at the black slave who stood behind him, and the man stepped forward and poured. Frances shook her head. “I drink only water at noon.”
“Why, that is why you are so pale!” Sir Charles exclaimed. “You must let me give you a little of my own rum, in a punch of my own devising.” He nodded to the slave. “Punch, Sammy. Punch. Quick-quick.”
The man bowed, unsmilingly. “Yassuh.”
“Please don’t bother,” Frances protested. “I assure you, Sir Charles . . .”
He smiled and leaned toward her. He put out his hand and rested it over hers. Unseen by Miss Cole, his little finger slid beneath her wrist and caressed the delicate skin. “You must indulge me,” he said. His voice was very warm. “I have been spoiled in the Sugar Islands, and I bring my luxurious ways home with me. You must indulge me, Mrs. Cole.”
Frances, thinking of his indulgences last night and the woman who today smeared earth on her face and filled her mouth with dirt, took her hand away.
“You are a fine host,” Miss Cole said sharply, keeping a critical watch on Frances. “My sister will be delighted to taste your punch, and then we must go home. We have much to do in the afternoon, as you will understand. My sister is no longer a lady of leisure; she is the wife of a working merchant. She has duties now.”
Sir Charles shot a sympathetic look at Frances. Then his slave came in with a silver punch bowl, and he turned his attention to the drink.
“I must speak with Mr. Cole on business this day,” he said after he had squeezed the lemons and added the sugar. He nodded to the slave and watched him carefully as he handed around the silver cups of punch.
“My brother will be delighted,” Sarah replied instantly. “Is there any way that I can be of assistance?”
“You can advise me, ma’am,” Sir Charles said pleasantly. “I am dogged by the troubles of getting my moneys to England. There are investments I wish to make; I wish to buy land here. I shall return to live here one day, of course, and there is Honoria’s dowry to think about. I don’t like to send bullion on a strange ship, and I have no agent in England to handle notes of credit for me. I even have some gold with me now, but I need the name of someone whom I can trust to handle it for me, to invest it.”
Miss Cole thought for a moment. “You have no family here?”
He shook his head. “It was all done by my brother; he was my factor. But he died two years ago, and I have no one to take his place.”
Miss Cole cleared her throat. “If I might be so bold as to offer our services . . .” she began tentatively. “We have had a long and successful trading relationship, Sir Charles. I know that both my brother and I would be honored. . . . You could place your moneys with us, and we could serve as your agents in England. We could purchase what things you needed and send them out to you on our ships. You could give us notes of credit for all the slaves you purchase from other traders, and we could pay them when they were presented to us.”
Sir Charles hesitated. “I know trading companies do this. But mostly in London, and, forgive me, they are all larger concerns.”
Sarah touched her tongue to her dry lips. “We are expanding, as you know,” she persisted. “And we have reserves of our own capital to draw on. We are experienced in the trade.”
“But the purchase of land . . .” Sir Charles let his doubt trail into silence. He implied, but did not say, that a self-made Bristol trader would hardly know how to buy good agricultural land.
“You would want to choose your own estate, of course,” Sarah continued desperately. “But we could collect the rents for you.”
“Yes,” Sir Charles said slowly. “But land is a very different thing from the trade, my dear Miss Cole.”
“I am sure my uncle, Lord Scott, would be happy to assist,” Frances interrupted suddenly.
Both Sir Charles and Sarah looked toward her, surprised. Frances felt irritated that they should assume that she had nothing to say in a conversation about business, that she was as much of a parasite as Honoria, who was gazing blankly out the window.
“He told me that Josiah was to call on him at any time,” Frances said. “And he owns much land in Somerset, and he also has a large estate in Scotland and a lot of land in Ireland.”
“Lord Scott himself would be prepared to advise me?” Sir Charles asked. He glanced toward Honoria. “You would introduce us?”
Frances, who might know nothing of business, knew a great deal about social values. “My uncle, Lord Scott, would be delighted to assist you and to welcome you and Miss Honoria to Scott House in London. My aunt and uncle are there for the Season. My aunt generally gives a ball. I could ask her for tickets.”
Honoria, who had been daydreaming during the business discussion, straightened in her chair and fixed her father with a meaningful glare.
“Well, well.” Sir Charles smiled. “What an excellent idea! I should be honored with Lord Scott’s acquaintance. I should be happy to enter into an agreement with you, if Lord Scott were our adviser. It might be a very good idea indeed.” He beamed at Frances and shot an indiscreet wink at Honoria. “I should be grateful,” he said. “Grateful to make his lordship’s acquaintance. And Miss Honoria would be glad of a ticket to the ball, I don’t doubt! You are obliging, Mrs. Cole. I appreciate it.”
“It is my pleasure,” Frances said coldly. She knew that she was a fool to be led into favors for Sir Charles, but her pride had been piqued at being neglected at the luncheon table; she had been driven by an unworthy desire to outshine Sarah and by irritation at being excluded from the conversation. She did not know how to be his guest and yet keep her distance from him. And she had longed to put Miss Honoria in her place.
Sir Charles sent them home in his hired carriage, as it had come on to rain. As they drew near to the quay, Frances could smell the sweet, nauseating stench of the river. The rain was washing smuts down out of the heavy sky. The dark, dirty clouds of smoke from the glass furnace and from the leadworks hung around the spire of St. Mary’s, staining the intricate carvings and trailing tears of soot down the faces of the stone saints. It was growing dark with the early dusk of midwinter. Sarah was bubbling with suppressed elation. “You did very well, Frances,” she said. “Very well indeed. Sir Charles is a fine man to have as a friend.”
Frances felt her momentary excitement drain away. “I do not like Sir Charles,” she said in a small voice. “And I have a headache.”
“He is a most important man to us,” Sarah snapped. “And your mention of Lord Scott was very helpful. Will
you be able to bring his lordship up to scratch, d’you think?”
Frances stepped out of the carriage and went to the front door. A new ship was in port near to the Cole dock, and the Merchant Venturers’ great crane was screeching as it swung out and hauled barrels up from the hold. The noise jarred on Frances’s taut nerves. She was sorry that she had been persuaded to go to lunch and angry with herself at her complaisance to Sir Charles. She had wanted to enter into the world of persuasion and business. With the return to the dirty little house on the quayside, she realized that she had been exercising her social charm on a rapist to benefit a petty dockside trading company.
“Lord Scott has my interests at heart,” Frances said distantly. “I am sure he will do anything I ask him.”
“If we can get him to come in, then we can be Sir Charles’s agents, and our problems of cash will be over.”
The door opened. Frances stepped inside before her sister-in-law. “I hope so indeed,” she replied, smothering a cough.
Sarah clicked her teeth together. “You did offer,” she reminded Frances. “You will have to come up to scratch. You cannot promise something and then renege. These are business matters; your word must be sacred.”
“It is not religion,” Frances said tartly. “You speak as if a contract were one of the Ten Commandments.”
Sarah nodded. “It is. That is exactly what you must learn as a merchant’s wife. You should break one of the commandments before you break your word. Everything this house has been built on depends on the reliability of our word.”
“I will try to understand,” Frances said with dull resentment. “I am teaching the slaves, sister. I will do everything else that is in my power to further our business. And if Josiah wishes it, I will ask Lord Scott for his advice and ask him to invite Sir Charles and Miss Honoria to Scott House.”