A Certain Latitude (13 page)

She stood, curtsied, and cast a longing glance at the door.

“You may go,” he said. “Look in my coat pocket. There’s a shilling there.”

Nerissa cast a sidelong, suspicious glance at him and picked his coat from the floor. She shook it out, smoothed the fabric and laid it over a chair, before dipping her hand into the pocket. Her face lit up as she found the coin, and then she ran from the room, as though afraid he might demand the money back from her.

“But of course you must stay another day, Pendale.” March smiled at Allen, who sat slumped and gloomy at the breakfast table. “Miss Onslowe, you must be my advocate here.”

“Please do stay, Mr. Pendale,” Clarissa said. She licked pineapple juice from her fingers. What luxury, pineapple for breakfast—every day, if she wished it.

“My father expects me, sir.”

You liar, Allen.
He seemed in a dreadful mood, toying with a cup of coffee and glowering at the table—probably he had drunk far too much last night.

“I’m sure his lordship can spare you another day. I’d like to show you the estate, and I’m sure the ladies will be disappointed if you don’t eat dinner with us tonight.”

“Well, then, I shall be honored to accept, sir.” This with a brief smile.

“Mr. Pendale.” Clarissa touched his hand.

He snatched it away as if she’d burned him with hot coals.

“Mr. Pendale, I’m very glad you are to stay. Miss Celia shall have her first dancing lesson and we’ll have need of partners for her.”

“You’ve plenty of possible partners for a dancing class loafing around here,” Allen said, indicating the half-dozen footmen waiting at the side of the room.

“Certainly not. This is my
daughter
.” March sounded outraged.

“Beg your pardon,” Allen murmured.

Celia, up until now yawning and sleepy, spoke. “I do so long to dance. ’Im play de fiddle for us.” She nodded at one of the footmen.

“Again, if you please,” Clarissa said.

Celia giggled. “Joshua will play the fiddle for us.”

Allen heaved a martyred sigh. “And what if I do not dance, miss?”

“You do, Mr. Pendale.” Clarissa wiped her fingers on her napkin.

“Or if I tread on your feet?”

Celia giggled again, while her father looked on with an indulgent smile.

“An’ de mantua maker, ’er come today,” Celia said.

“Pendale, I suggest we take a ride,” March said. “We certainly don’t want to interfere with women’s business.”

The two men left shortly after.

Clarissa gave a longing glance out of the window at the dazzling blue sky and then followed Celia to the drawing room, where the mantua maker, surrounded by lengths of expensive fabrics, waited for them.

Allen had heard his father talk of his own sugar estate, but was amazed at the crowds of slaves who toiled in the square patches of cane under the blazing sun. Men slashed at the cane with murderous-looking machetes, while women and children carried the cut lengths away. As the long line moved forward, the slaves hummed, low and mournful. There were not many children and, he suspected, although he could not tell their ages, that most of the women were not old. He had heard complaints the previous night of how the slaves did not breed as their owners expected.

Blight, astride a mule, raised his hat to them. A whip was coiled over the pommel of his saddle. Two hulking, heavily muscled Negroes, also mounted on mules, rode behind him.

“He’s a good man,” March commented. “They respect him.”

“Are the Negroes overseers also?” Allen asked. “What do they think of having to command their own kind?”

“Slavery is common among the Africans,” March said. “Castor and Pollux obey Blight in all things. They’re slaves, too, of course.”

Patches of dark sweat broke out on the horses’ flanks, as they rode on rough paths through a dry and inhospitable landscape, scattered with tamarind trees. March talked knowledgeably of the estate business, and Allen allowed himself to let down his guard and enjoy his host’s company. He was impressed by the sheer scope of March’s plantation, the large number of scattered outbuildings: mills to crush the liquid from the cane, carpenters’ shops and smithies that helped run the enterprise.

“What’s that building?” Allen asked, pointing toward a low stone building that stood in isolation in the fields.

“The slave dungeon,” March replied. “They all live in deadly fear of it. After a day or so in the dark and heat without food and water, even the most rebellious among them will become as docile as a lamb.”

They rode by a line of slaves carrying huge bundles of dried cane on their shoulders toward a stone building about the size of a small church. Smoke poured from a chimney.

“How do you find the heat?” March asked.

“Tolerable.”

“Excellent. I’ll show you the boiling house.”

They dismounted and entered into a building that reminded Allen of descriptions of hell—terrible heat and stench, dark figures stirring huge cauldrons, reducing the liquid from the canes to crystals. The dried cane provided the fuel for the fires that burned by day and night. March, seemingly impervious to the heat, strolled over to a tray of crystals and chatted to an overseer, while running the finished product through his fingers.

Allen, his shirt drenched, staggered outside, away from the suffocating heat, where March joined him.

“How the devil do they stand it?” Allen gasped. “Do they not swoon with the heat?”

“Quite frequently. There are others to take their place.”

They stopped at the house of another of March’s overseers for ale and simple food, before returning to the house. Allen swung himself down from his horse; as he’d expected, he felt the muscles in his back and legs twinge after all those weeks at sea.

March laid a friendly arm on his shoulders. “What say you to a plunge bath? I have a bath here, based on the Turkish model.”

March’s easy manner disarmed him and he accepted. This was not the cynical despot who dispatched female slaves to visitors’ beds, but the charming, attentive host who, yesterday, had chatted of mutual acquaintances in Bristol and London over brandy in his study.

March gave orders to the slaves, setting them to work with the kindly indulgence of a father with charming, disobedient offspring, and dispatching others ahead to prepare the bath.

As they walked through the house, he made conversation with Allen. “Did you visit Constantinople on your Grand Tour? I based the design on the baths there—delightful places.”

One of the barefooted footmen flung open a door to a room paneled with mahogany, where a graceful curving staircase led down to a circular bath lined and surrounded by turquoise and scarlet tiles.

“Magnificent,” Allen said. “How does it work?”

March laughed. “It is very simple. A cistern on the roof catches water, which is heated by a fire downstairs—the heat rises, you see—and the pressure of the water falling from above ensures a steady stream.”

He nodded to a footman, who turned a faucet in the shape of a dolphin and hot, steaming water gushed into the bath.

“I found Constantinople remarkable,” March continued as the footman helped him out of his coat. “I hoped to see the fabled harem, but of course I should likely have come home without my ballocks. The women I did see were like tents, hidden except for their eyes. And while there’s a certain pleasure in a pair of dark, lively eyes, it’s not all one looks for in a woman.”

As he spoke he stripped and the footman poured brandy, bowed, and left. Allen discarded his clothes and followed March into the steaming water. Two broad steps, one at water level and one below, formed seats in the bath, which was about three feet deep.

The two men settled into the water, each with a glass of brandy.

“Do you plan to practice law indefinitely?” March asked. “You should consider running for Parliament.”

“I’ve thought of it,” Allen admitted.

“Of course.” March closed his eyes, arms spread on the tiled surround. “What do you make of Miss Onslowe?”

Allen immediately became alert, although he kept his relaxed posture. “She’s a pretty woman. Easy to talk to. Accomplished.” He added, since possibly March already knew, “One gets to know one’s fellow travelers pretty well aboard ship.”

March was interested in Clarissa? She’d been in his house less than one day. Surely not.

He stole a look at March, handsome and with only that streak of white in his hair revealing his age. If March was interested in Clarissa, he’d keep her happy enough in bed, damn it, and, thanks to Allen’s tutelage and her quick appreciation, she’d service him well. Far too well. But Clarissa could not succumb to her employer’s advances. Not with her mission to write of conditions on the island for the abolitionist cause.

He eased down further into the water, his foot brushing against the other man’s, apologized, and rested his head on a folded towel on the tiled surround. It would be most discourteous if he was to fall asleep, but that was what March appeared to be doing. Allen dozed off and dreamed pleasantly of Clarissa, her pale limbs entwining his, her tongue on his cock, and was woken by the sound of running water—March leaning over him to turn the faucet on and replenish the hot water.

“I beg your pardon. I fell asleep.” And he now had a cock-stand the size of a small tree, to his embarrassment, waving merrily underwater as though demanding attention. He hoped March had not noticed.

“No matter. I generally do myself.” March closed off the stream of water, but remained leaning across him, his hand now planted on the ledge close to Allen’s hip. “You look quite peaceful when you’re asleep.”

“I do?”

“Yes. You seem to be enraged about one thing or another when you’re awake.”

Allen shrugged.

March continued, “I find it interesting. Arousing, even.”

Oh, Christ. March had an impressive erection cradled in his other hand.

He had a choice. He could pretend ignorance of his own and March’s states and talk of the weather. Eventually, he supposed, his would subside and he could leave, and March could deal with his own tumescence, hopefully when Allen was not there. He had an image of himself sitting in cooling water for hours, grimly willing his erection away. Or, he could—

“I’ll ride with you or drink with you, but I won’t fuck you, sir.” Allen got out of the water, dripping wet, his cock bobbing senselessly in front of him.

March grinned, seductive, terrifyingly beautiful, cock sliding in his hand, gazing at Allen’s nakedness. “Allen—Pendale—calm yourself. I’m not asking anything of you.”

“I’m not some pretty boy who’ll roll over for you,” Allen continued, backing away, nearly slipping on the wet tile. He grabbed a towel to cover himself.

“My dear, I’d never describe you as a pretty boy.”

Despite himself Allen burst into laughter. “Ah, well, I suppose not.”

“And,” March added, “I haven’t invited you to roll over—or anything—for me. Perhaps you flatter yourself.”

“Go and frig yourself,” Allen growled, conscious that March was doing just that, although in a lazy and frivolous sort of way, and his own cock remained resolutely hard and begging for attention.

He bent to retrieve his breeches.

“Mmm. Delightful,” March murmured.

“You old lecher,” Allen returned.

“Such a splendid arse.”

“Which, believe me, you won’t get up.” Just to show the unnatural bastard he wasn’t that much of a prude, he gave himself an ostentatious tug. And another. And—his hand slid, pumping.

Christ.

“Of course not.” March lay back in the water, his hand moving a little more urgently. “Never. Not until you beg me, Allen. And I assure you, if I put my mind to it, you will.”

Breeches half on, Allen grabbed the rest of his clothes and fled.

Ladies, it appeared, rested in the afternoon, lest the heat of the sun destroy their complexions. Clarissa, suffering from a surfeit of what she considered female silliness—much serious discussion of fabrics and fashion papers already out of date, trims, sleeves, buttons, ornaments, head-dresses and hats—longed to walk in the garden. She wanted to explore the greenery, vines and trees that lay beyond the flowerbeds and graveled paths. On the horizon were blue-green hills, or perhaps she should call them mountains, as their rocky contours suggested. Celia didn’t know if the mountains had a name, and nor did Nerissa the maid.

Perhaps she should rest. Celia had warned her of fever and Clarissa knew many visitors became ill; settlers often did not survive their first year. She stripped to her shift and wandered around her room; opened and closed a few books, and wondered if she’d ever get the opportunity to actually teach Celia anything.

At the window she pulled up the linen shade to look at the inviting greenery outside, made wavy and greener yet by the glass. How could anyone believe all the theories about miasmas and such, when the sky was such a glorious, clear blue? She pushed the window up and took a deep breath of the air.

The bedchamber door flew open, crashing against the wall. Allen entered the room, kicked the door shut, and tossed his coat and waistcoat onto the bed.

“And good afternoon to you too,” Clarissa said. “I trust you had a pleasant ride?”

His answer was a snort. He leaned back against the panels of the door, arms folded. His hair was damp, curling wild around his head.

“I’ve come to bid you farewell.”

“So soon? I thought you were to dine with us.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He took a step forward, launching himself from the door. He pulled a neck-cloth from his pocket, hesitated and threw it onto the bed.

“What’s wrong?” He really had been difficult ever since they’d reached land, surly and brooding. His bad mood must be caused by his impending meeting with his father; he had decided to get it over with, and not linger.

She let the blind fall. “Allen, if you’ve come to bid me farewell, that’s one thing, but I will not bear the brunt of your bad humor.”