Black Gold (12 page)

“Is
that
how I look?” she asked with mock indignation.

“Well, not exactly,” he confessed. “I exaggerated a little.”

Anne was pleasantly astonished. The boy spoke fluently, once free of the fear of ridicule.

***

At lunch with Charlie in the servants' hall, Anne glanced out the window. A steady drizzle fell from a leaden sky. For the boy's treat she'd have to think of something to do indoors.

“When we've finished eating, let's go to the tennis hall. It should be empty then. I'll teach you a new trick.”

Intrigued, the boy clapped his hands and swiftly cleared his plate.

As they entered the building, they were met by loud grunts. Jeffery was in the training room, stripped to the waist, stretching his muscles. “I felt stiff from sparring this morning,” he explained with a fleeting glance toward Anne and Charlie. While the boy gaped at him, Jeffery began rhythmically lifting a pair of large iron balls. His skin soon shone with sweat.

“We shall leave Jeffery to his exercise,” Anne said to the boy, leading him to the tennis court. She found a trove of tennis balls in a corner of the room. For several minutes she and Charlie tossed the balls back and forth. “Watch me,” she said and began to juggle three of them. Charlie stared eagerly, his mouth gaping in amazement. She kept the balls flying for several seconds, then caught them.

“Now, you try it, Charlie.” She smiled encouragement and tossed two balls to him.

After several attempts, Charlie managed to keep both balls in the air at the same time. “You'll soon juggle three,” Anne told him. His coordination was excellent.

He juggled the balls ever higher until he lost control and they fell to the floor. Turning to Anne, he smiled broadly, then glanced over her shoulder. His smile faded. Anne swung around apprehensive. Roach?

In the shadows of the antechamber, Jeffery was watching them. Aware he had been noticed, he came forward. “I'm sorry to have disturbed your game.” He bowed and started to leave.

On impulse Anne called to him, “Would you like to try it?”

He hesitated for a moment, then returned to the training room. He came out with three sixteen pound balls cradled in his arm. He said to Charlie, “I learned this as a boy and still enjoy doing it.” He tossed the three balls in the air, one after the other, until all three were rising to incredible heights.

He kept the balls going for a minute or so, with little apparent effort and much grace. In her many years at Sadler's Wells, Anne had never seen such strength and skill. She glanced at Charlie: in his mind the black man had reached heroic stature.

Sensing the boy's admiration, Jeffery winked at him and caught the balls. He beckoned Charlie to follow him, paused, and turned a questioning eye to Anne. She picked up her skirts and joined them outside. The mouldy scent of decayed wet leaves filled her nostrils, but the drizzle had stopped. Thin shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds. Jeffery led them to a level clearing in the pine grove that served as a bowling green. It stretched to an embankment at the far end, where a large square block of wood rested on top of a thick pole.

Jeffery had brought one of the iron balls along. He took a balanced stance, swung the shot a couple of times, stretched out his left arm toward the target, drew back his right arm with the shot clasped in his huge hand, and threw it. The shot knocked the wood off the pole. He must often practice here, Anne realized.

The boy gestured, he'd like to try it. Jeffery found a small bowling ball and gave it to the boy, who imitated Jeffery's pitch. It missed the block but not by much. Pleased, he turned to Anne. “May I play with Jeffery?” he asked, articulating each word clearly and glancing toward the black man.

Anne gave Jeffery an inquiring look.

He shrugged. “I'm free for a few more minutes.”

“Free?” Anne asked herself. Yes, even a slave could elude his master's grip for a short while and do what he wished. She watched the boy and the slave in conversation, Jeffery squatting to Charlie's level explaining the rules of bowling. What an incongruous pair! She couldn't keep from smiling. Charlie might have found a friend.

***

“Visit Bristol tomorrow?” Saint-Martin glanced at his adjutant over lunch in the colonel's room. Georges had just returned from a morning spent following Roach and had reported what he had learned from Madame Gagnon.

“I think we must,” Georges replied, then explained the visit's connection to capturing Fitzroy. “Let's hope we reach Charlie's old nurse Betty before Roach does.”

“We'll leave early tomorrow morning.” Saint-Martin laid down knife and fork and leaned back reflecting. Betty would be frightened off by two strange men at her door, asking questions about Lady Margaret. They had to find a way to gain her trust. In an instant he had a solution. Charlie, the boy she loved. She'd open her door for him. “What do you think, Georges? Shall I ask Miss Cartier to join us and bring little Charlie along?”

“Shrewd idea, sir. Wish I'd thought of it.”

Saint-Martin resumed his meal, then paused again. “And another thing, Georges, after our talk with nurse Betty, we should visit the harbor. That's where we'll embark for France, if we ever lay hold of Fitzroy.”

***

In the late afternoon, Anne and Paul found Sir Harry, Lady Margaret, and Captain Fitzroy together in the parlor. Unsmiling, stiffly facing one another, they were drinking tea and straining at conversation. Jeffery stood by, waiting to serve them. Anne had welcomed Paul's suggestion. Now she addressed the proposal to Lady Margaret with side glances to Sir Harry: a Sunday in Bristol with Charlie, leaving by Combe Park coach at about eight in the morning and returning in the late afternoon before sunset. Charlie would pay a visit to his old nurse and see the ships in the harbor. Colonel Saint-Martin, who also wished to inspect Bristol's celebrated harbor, would accompany them for safety's sake.

Lady Margaret appeared surprised by the request. “Charlie's nurse?” She stared blankly for a moment. “Yes, of course, old Betty! It's been three years since Charlie's seen her. She was so good to him.” She smiled radiantly at Anne, then at Paul. “That would be lovely. I have the address somewhere. I'll write a note for you to take along.”

While Anne spoke to Lady Margaret, Paul observed Captain Fitzroy, who was questioning Sir Harry about the forthcoming fight and the terms of a bet. They reminded Paul of a pair of his fellow officers arranging a duel. At Anne's mention of a visit to the old nurse, the Irishman glanced at her, then at Paul, and an odd, calculating expression flitted across his face.

As Paul and Anne left the parlor, Sir Harry walked them to the door. He touched Paul's elbow. “When you visit Bristol harbor, call on my ship,
The African Rose.
Critchley will write a note to introduce you to the captain. The ship's being refitted for a voyage to Africa.” It was a brig with a copper-sheathed hull, he explained, one of the fastest ships in his fleet. During the American War, it carried twenty guns and captured many prizes. “By the way,
The Rose
will make a call at Bordeaux and take on a shipment of wine. There's nothing like fine French wine to help us build good will with the governors of our forts on the slave coast.”

“I agree,” remarked Saint-Martin politely, then stepped into the hall. When the door closed behind him, he thought how convenient for the ship to stop at Bordeaux.

***

Colonel Saint-Martin went to the stables to arrange for a coach. Peter Hyde, Sir Harry's coachman, had just returned from London. He was a heavy middle-aged man of medium height with thinning gray hair and the broad, battered face of a fighter. Sunday should be his day off, he said gruffly, but he would consider making a trip to Bristol. The colonel promised to pay him well.

“I'll prepare a coach for you and drive it myself. I like your man, Georges. Stout fellow. Met him Wednesday in London. Owe him a pint of ale. He can ride guard with me up front.”

Saint-Martin felt reassured and returned to his room where he laid out his traveling clothes. At eight o'clock in the evening, as he was writing in his diary, Jeffery came with an invitation from Lady Margaret to join her, Captain Fitzroy, and other guests for billiards in the parlor. According to Jeffery, Miss Cartier had excused herself and had retired to her room to write letters and to rest.

The colonel accepted the invitation reluctantly, knowing he would have to meet Fitzroy sooner or later. They were living across the hall from each other. But he would need to steady himself mentally. Their meeting could explode the revulsion and anger he felt toward the man. This antipathy had been refreshed by learning that Fitzroy had accosted Mary Campbell in the kitchen and that his alibi for the night of her death came from his two dubious companions, Tarleton and Corbett. The captain had apparently pursued her with the same brutal instinct as he had Sylvie.

As Saint-Martin entered the parlor, Lady Margaret approached him. “So glad you could come. I've been abandoned. Harry's gone to the theater to watch his protégé, the sweet young Harriet Ware.” She made a pouting grimace, then smiled mischievously. “So, on the spur of the moment, I decided to have a little party.” She gazed boldly at Saint-Martin, assessing him with a flirtatious eye. “You will fit very nicely into Sir Harry's place.” She took his arm and ushered him around the room, introducing him to her guests.

At the billiard table she drew Captain Fitzroy away from the game, the cue still in his left hand. “I believe you two have not yet met,” she said, placing her hand on the captain's shoulder. “This morning, my husband invited Colonel Saint-Martin to be our guest and gave him the room across from yours. I'm so pleased we shall enjoy his company.”

Fitzroy bowed slightly to her and smiled. “Is that so, Margaret?” He turned to Saint-Martin, extending his right hand. “Welcome to Combe Park, Colonel.”

For an instant, Saint-Martin experienced a powerful wrenching sensation. Fitzroy appeared transformed into a beast of a man, punching and kicking Sylvie. Tearing off her clothes. Throwing himself upon her. Lust and anger distorted his face into a savage, grotesque mask.

Gripped by wrath, Saint-Martin felt an urge to seize Fitzroy's throat and strangle him. Fortunately, the horrific vision left as suddenly as it had come. It must have registered on his face, he thought. But Fitzroy did not appear to have noticed anything unusual. He stood at ease in his fine blue uniform, his mouth curled into a cool smile, his right hand waiting. Saint-Martin numbly shook it while uttering a polite greeting.

When Fitzroy turned his attention back to the billiard table, the colonel felt relieved and seized the opportunity to observe him again. Last night, he had seen him at a distance, youthful and handsome, dancing gracefully with Lady Margaret. This evening, standing close to him, Saint-Martin detected the incipient marks of a dissipated life—sagging jowls, cold lusterless eyes, a nervous tick of the mouth.

Lady Margaret beckoned Fitzroy's companions, the two British officers, from the far side of the table. Both wore red military coats with blue lapels; swords hung at their waists. “Major Tarleton, Captain Corbett,” she remarked to Saint-Martin, “your old enemies from the American War. Perhaps you could make peace with them in a friendly game of billiards.”

“If they agree, Lady Margaret,” he replied cautiously. They did not appear friendly. Tarleton was a stocky, red-faced man, whose beady black eyes belied the hearty manner he affected. Corbett was small, dark, and wiry. His protuberant eyes gave the impression he was perpetually astonished. Gripping their cues like spears, the two officers measured Saint-Martin for a moment, then shook his hand.

“Good!” declared Lady Margaret. She called out to the black footman standing near a sideboard of food and drink. “Jeffery! Bring us two more billiard cues. The colonel and I shall join these men.”

The colonel was momentarily surprised. He was accustomed to French noblewomen playing billiards for high stakes. But Lady Margaret's clear creamy skin, her hauteur had led him to believe billiards would bore her. Caring for her beauty had seemed to be her only concern and had left her little time or energy for anything else.

Sensing his attitude, she threw him a teasing glance, took a cue from the footman, and laid a wager on her first shot. With a practiced hand, she knocked the ball smartly into the pocket. In the match that followed she proved herself equal to the men.

Saint-Martin felt himself at a disadvantage. In the English version of billiards, he needed to drive the balls into the table's six side pockets. In the French version to which he was accustomed the table had no pockets. The balls caromed off the cushioned wooden sides, striking one another. He was also used to playing with a French cue, called a mace. Its tip was large, square, and curved slightly upward for resting on the table while in play. The English cue tapered to a small round tip, requiring special skill from the player.

That the other players earned higher scores mattered not in the least to Saint-Martin. He had come to observe, not to win. What intrigued him was the competition between Lady Margaret and Fitzroy. Contrary to the convention of women deferring to men, she played with keen determination and threatened to beat him. The final score was close, Fitzroy winning by a point or two.

They all moved to a table where Jeffery served a fine port wine. Under its influence, Lady Margaret grew talkative, teased the men, laughed loudly. Fitzroy became sullen and glared at her. With a toss of her head, she rose, stood behind his chair, and petted him playfully. He yielded a grudging smile and agreed to a game of whist.

For yet a short while, the colonel played billiards with Tarleton and Corbett, then excused himself. On the way back to his room, he walked out on the large empty portico off the entrance hall for a breath of fresh air. The night was cool and damp. The moon breaking through the clouds cast a fitful light between the tall columns.