Black Gold (22 page)

“How's the Red Devil doing?” Georges asked.

“Forcing his luck,” Burton replied. Before the fight had begun, Roach had placed a large bet on Futrell to win and had doubled it when Jeff fell.

“Sir Harry looks nervous,” said Georges, glancing toward Rogers, who stood stock still, his eyes focused intently on his fighter. He had bet another five thousand pounds just before Jeff fell. When the umpires withdrew, directing the fight to begin again, Rogers visibly relaxed and smiled.

Georges winced. A slave's pain meant little to his master.

***

As the fight resumed, Jeff drew a deep breath, recalled his goal. Win and be free. He raised his left arm. It was now almost useless, but it had done its work. Futrell's eyes were swollen nearly shut.

The champion launched his attack like an enraged bull. Jeff continued his evasive tactics, dancing from side to side, bobbing and weaving. The crowd hooted in unison, “Fight like a man. Fight like a man.” Their chant spurred him on. He would show them what it meant to “fight like a man.” Smart, skillful, patient.

Futrell eventually tired, his assaults weakened, and for a moment he dropped his guard. Jeff feinted with his wounded hand, then caught Futrell with a powerful right hook just below the left ear. He fell senseless to the canvas. In the thirty seconds allowed by the timekeeper, he barely managed to struggle to his feet.

The mood of the fickle crowd now shifted in the black man's favor. They chanted in a crescendo of voices, “Lord Jeff! Lord Jeff!”

Jeff pressed home his advantage, striking repeatedly with his strong right hand while evading his opponent's wild blows and clumsy attempts to grapple. At the end of an hour, Futrell was staggering about the ring, blinded, his arms hanging helplessly at his side. The crowd cried for blood. “Finish him! Finish him!”

Jeff glanced toward Futrell's handlers. They exchanged a few hurried words, then drew their battered man into his corner. The crowd roared, “Lord Jeff! Champion!”

Moved by a powerful surge of pride, he strode to the center of the ring and lifted his right arm in a salute of victory.

***

After the match, when the crowd of spectators had thinned out, Anne and Charlie descended from the coach, emotionally drained. Their stiff limbs needed to stretch before the two-hour ride back to Bath. Like Anne herself, moved by affection for Jeffery, the boy had watched with greater interest than she had expected. It also dawned on her that the boy's initial recalcitrance to attending the match expressed a childish opposition to his father's will rather than a weakling's revulsion to the brutality of the sport. Paul joined them and they walked toward the ring, ignoring the gawking eyes of bystanders. Anne wanted to congratulate Jeffery when his handlers were done with him.

He stepped out of the ring into the outer circle, glistening with perspiration. Peter Hyde began sponging his body while Mendoza applied an ointment to the bruised, swollen knuckles of his hands and bandaged them. A doctor inspected his wrist and determined the fracture to be a simple hairline break that didn't need to be set. He applied a stiff bandage and fashioned a sling for the arm.

Realizing that the doctor's ministrations would take yet a little more time, Anne left Charlie in Paul's care and looked about for Jack Roach. A short distance away, Dick Burton stood by a ruined pillar. She went to him. Roach couldn't be far away.

“Over there,” Burton said to her, leading her eye in the direction of the former sanctuary. In the shadow of the pillar, Anne raised the little spyglass. Roach was standing between his two ruffians on the edge of the crowd gathered around the treasurer of the fight committee. Arms akimbo, Roach looked down as if mulling over a decision. A menacing frown distorted his face.

Anne shifted her gaze to the crowd. At that moment, Sir Harry came into focus. He approached the treasurer to arrange payment on his bets. A broad smile on his face, he shared a flask of strong drink with other glad winners. Some of the losers nearby shrugged off their losses with the nonchalance of men who always expected to win next time. Others, among them Captain Fitzroy, looked darkly grim. Sir Harry turned to meet the captain's eye and smiled with cold, malicious satisfaction. The captain gave back a stare that could have killed, had it been a lethal weapon.

Meanwhile, Roach appeared to have made up his mind. Leaving his companions behind, he approached Sir Harry. They entered into an animated conversation, Roach with his back to Anne, Rogers facing her. Anne thought they were going to discuss a wager until Roach said something that directed Rogers' eyes toward Jeffery.

“What's he done?” asked Sir Harry, canting his head quizzically.

Roach drew closer to Rogers and spoke in his ear. Rogers listened intently, occasionally nodding. Finally, Roach stepped back.

Without any sign of gratitude, Rogers said merely, “I'll deal with him.” Eyes narrowed, he stared at the black man. Her chest tight with foreboding, Anne hurried back to Paul and Charlie. Sir Harry composed himself and settled his affairs. His ruddy face glowed with his old enthusiasm. Approaching Paul, he shouted, “Lord Jeff's the best investment I've made in a long time!” He threw a cursory glance at Anne and Charlie. “The odds were against him, two to one. He's earned twenty thousand pounds for me today. That's twice what a whole ship's cargo of slaves will fetch in Jamaica after months at sea!” He pointed to Jeffery, who sat on a stool close by, still stripped to the waist, grimacing as the doctor applied an astringent ointment to an ugly cut on his left cheek. “Look at him—fifteen stone of pure black gold!”

His eyes fixed on Rogers, Jeffery repeated out loud the words “black gold” several times. Then he thanked the doctor and rose stiffly. His chin high, he walked up to Rogers. “Sir,” said the slave in a strong, clear voice. “I wish to claim the winner's share of the door money. Two hundred pounds.”

Jeffery's request momentarily stunned Sir Harry speechless. His brow furrowed with astonishment. Then, he bristled. “How dare you! Every penny a slave earns belongs to his master. I was prepared to give you a guinea to spend as you like. Now, you shall have nothing!” His face grew taut. “I know what you're up to. You are henceforth confined to Combe Park. Don't think for a moment I'll allow that wretched Quaker to steal you from me.” He paused, his lips quivering with anger, then continued in a low menacing voice, “I'll soon decide what to do with you.”

Chapter 19

Victory Party

Wednesday, April 4

A cold drizzle diffused light from the windows of Combe Park into a soft, luminous, enveloping cloud. The building glowed against the dark sky like a ghostly prince's palace. Jeffery stood outside the entrance, an exotic sentry, with a crimson cape over his livery and a powdered wig on his head. Sir Harry had ordered him back to his duties as footman. On probation until further notice. Forbidden to leave the estate. He must find a way to inform Sarah.

An oncoming coach interrupted his thoughts. He was soon busy. A caravan of coaches and cabriolets, some adorned with noble devices, pulled up to the entrance and discharged their distinguished occupants. They were greeted by music drifting out of the house. Sir Harry was celebrating Jeffery's victory and his own winnings.

For appearance's sake, Jeffery's left arm was without the sling, though still painful and useless. Nonetheless, he met the visitors with his usual courteous manner and inscrutable expression. He had learned to keep his feelings to himself. His soul at least remained free. But it was angry, churning within him like boiling water in a hot cauldron. Some of that anger had spilled over poor Futrell. A sad man tonight, eyes swollen shut, pride wounded. Beaten by a black slave! Jeffery felt a stir of pity for his adversary. The man had fought fair and lost.

Jeffery sighed, drew a deep breath of the cool, damp air. He preferred being outside this evening and Sir Harry Rogers inside. Had to keep a safe distance between them. Might break the man's neck if he met him alone. Rogers! A cruel and selfish man. Should have praised his fighter and freed him. Won the fight and a fortune for him. Did it with only one sound arm.

The arrival of coaches slowed to a trickle. Jeffery strayed from his post at the entrance and wandered past Sir Harry's study. Light seeped through the drapes. The footman stared at the window, hearkened to faint bursts of laughter. Sir Harry was in there with his friends, talking about the fight, about “black gold.” Thinking, what should he do with his boxer? Worth twenty thousand pounds to him. Maybe more. But the boxer might run away. Then Sir Harry'd have nothing.

Jeffery turned and walked slowly back to the entrance, recalling the tall slender figure of Sarah Smith and her golden brown eyes. Now that he had come to know her and feel affection for her, he could not imagine leaving Bath without her. If Sir Harry were to decide to send him back to Jamaica, he would have to kill him first.

Hooves and wheels clattered on the paving stones, jarring Jeffery out of his thoughts. As he opened a coach door, he grimaced. His broken left arm had swollen to twice its normal size and was throbbing with pain. His bone-weary body ached at every joint. He felt nauseated. But he swore to himself to show no weakness. He must be worthy of his father and earn respect from men of honor. The visitors threw him sidelong glances, but paid him no compliments, then hastened on to congratulate Sir Harry and to enjoy his hospitality. Jeffery shrugged off the slights. Being ignored was better than being patronized.

From time to time, he glanced over his shoulder. He had to ward off fashionably dressed thieves and courtesans who might try to slip by him and ply their trade inside. Despite the chilly weather, they could walk up the road to Combe Park and enter the house behind his back while he tended to the coaches. Most noble households would have included Mr. Jack Roach among such pests, but Sir Harry had instructed Jeffery to send Mr. Roach to his study.

Late last night, after the guests had left Combe Park, Roach had come up to Jeffery at the entrance. “I had a score to settle with that Cartier woman out there on the portico,” he had said. “It was none of your business.” He had shaken his fist in Jeffery's face. “No proud black bastard can push me around and get away with it. I shall make you suffer. I know about Sarah Smith and the Quaker and about a big black slave trying to become free. When the time is right, Sir Harry Rogers will be told.”

Jeffery had seized the man, spun him around, and kicked him out the door. He had felt the urge to kill him then and there, but thought better of it. Roach had cursed him, then vanished into the night, only to reappear at the fight today and make good on his threat to expose him.

Like a bad penny, Roach soon arrived alone in a cabriolet. Fighting back his anger, Jeffery approached to open the door.

“Back off, you black dodger!” exclaimed Roach. “You cost me a thousand quid today. Had you fought like a man, Futrell would've pounded you into mincemeat.”

Jeffery stepped back, taking care not to show his pleasure at Roach's loss or his contempt for the man's logic. “Sir Harry has instructed me to direct you to his study.”

Roach sneered. “Tell him, I'll come when I'm ready.” He turned and glared at Jeffery, a malign grin on his face. “Oh, by the way, Sarah Smith's landlord owes me a favor. Tomorrow I'll tell him she's a trouble-maker helping a black man escape his master. We can't have that in Bath. To be sure, he'll say. By tomorrow night, your Sarah and her mother will be out on the street.”

A surge of rage struck Jeffery. Raising his right arm and clenching his fist, he took a step toward his tormentor.

Roach reached swiftly into his coat and pulled out a pistol. “Another step and you're a dead man. I'd love to kill you.”

Choking with anger, Jeffery lowered his arm.

For a few more seconds, Roach aimed the pistol at the footman, then put it back in his coat. He patted down his wig, tugged at his lapels, and sauntered into the house.

***

Dressed in crimson livery, Georges was busy serving in the dining room. Guests were coming and going, milling around the tables, chatting, drinking wine. Although he had hardly a minute to himself, he kept watch on Critchley, seated with William at a corner table. Both of them looked like proper gentlemen. The former had lightly powdered and dressed his hair. A deft application of rouge concealed his sallow complexion. His dark green suit, while out of fashion, was of high quality and fit him well. He carried himself with enough insouciance to fit into the present company of men of the world.

His young charge was similarly groomed and dressed in a light blue suit, handsome, save for a pouting mouth. He slouched sourly in his chair, apparently lacking money to wager in the gambling den. When the tutor spoke to him, he languidly studied the ceiling.

Then Jack Roach walked in and looked about, a scowl on his face. Thanks to the butt Anne had given him, his lips were still swollen. His finger was bandaged. Anne also deserved credit for that. And his jaw was taut. He had something urgent on his mind.

His eyes lit on Critchley and William. A waiter was taking their order. Roach stood just inside the door until the waiter returned to the bar, then moved quickly to the tutor's side.

A neighboring table signaled to Georges for service. He drew near enough to eavesdrop.

“I want it now,” snarled Roach under his breath.

“We can't talk here,” replied Critchley, glancing at William, who had pricked up his ears.

Georges, pretending to be busy, lingered as long as he dared.

“Meet me later,” Roach said, then whispered something in the tutor's ear. William leaned forward, attempting to hear.

Critchley snapped at him. The young man slouched back, sullen, mumbling to himself.

“I'll be there, Jack,” said Critchley with a sardonic twist of his lips, then added, “Remember, no tricks.”

Roach glared at Critchley, abruptly turned on his heel, and left the room. The tutor's gaze followed him to the door. Then, with a shrug, he said something to William, who grimaced. At that moment, the waiter arrived with their drinks.

As Georges was mulling over this incident, Captain Fitzroy's valet walked by. He glanced furtively at Georges, then quickly averted his eyes. He, too, had been listening.

***

Anne and Harriet entertained in the ballroom most of the evening, country dancing with the guests, singing ballads and airs. The room grew warm, and they tired. During an intermission, they found an open window near the chancel. Harriet patted her brow with a kerchief, Anne pulled a fan from her sleeve. After a moment's rest, she considered speaking to her friend about the dangers of becoming involved with Sir Harry, but she couldn't get her attention.

The young woman's gaze lighted upon one handsome man after another. Finally, she tensed, her face brightened. “Captain Fitzroy is casting glances my way…Yes, here he comes. Good, we'll do the next country dance together.” She tucked the kerchief away and gave the approaching captain a radiant smile. He responded with one of his own, extended his hand, and drew her toward the couples who were gathering on the dance floor.

With a sigh of resignation Anne moved off to the side of the room near the door. The musicians gathered, struck up a lively tune, and set the dancers in motion. The hall shook with the sound of voices and the pounding of feet. Anne was fanning herself when Georges slipped in next to her.

“Watch Critchley and Roach. They're bargaining,” he whispered, leading her eye to the back of the ballroom. The two men were huddling under the mezzanine. “Try to read their lips with your spyglass. If you learn anything, you'll find me in the dining room.”

Anne worked her way cautiously toward the men, hiding her face with the fan, until she came as near as she dared. In the shelter of a pillar that partially concealed her face, she raised her spyglass, shifted the lens to the diagonal position, and focused on them. She couldn't read Roach's lips; he was whispering into Critchley's ear. But she could see Critchley's face. His eyes were cast down, his brow creased with distrust. He merely nodded or shook his head in response. She had almost given up hope, when Critchley finally began speaking. At that moment, as luck would have it, a guest stepped into Anne's line of sight. Still, she caught two words: “tennis… thousand.”

It was near ten o'clock when Anne joined Georges in the dining room. The guests' demands had abated, allowing him a few minutes with her. While pretending to order, she told him what she had learned spying in the ballroom. “The word ‘tennis' has to mean a meeting will take place at the tennis hall.”

Georges nodded. “And a ‘thousand'? That must be pounds!” At a table nearby, a man and a woman glanced at him, then looked at each other with arched eyebrows. To disarm their curiosity, Georges added, “At the faro table.” The neighbors shook their heads, their question apparently answered. Georges lowered his voice. “That's a small fortune. Must be Critchley's price for whatever he stole from Lady Margaret. With that much money he could retire and live comfortably for years.”

“Can that be the sum Roach will demand from Sir Harry?” Anne asked.

“I doubt it,” Georges replied. “Roach knows Sir Harry's willing to pay much more to be free to marry again.” He paused for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Colonel Saint-Martin has to be told. Will you do it? I must go back to waiting on tables.”

Anne agreed and was about to leave when she glanced over her shoulder. Fitzroy was at the door. He walked in with his usual nonchalance and called his valet aside. They exchanged a few quiet words. Fitzroy's expression grew tense, then anxious. Anne didn't need her spyglass to see the names being mentioned. Finally, the valet withdrew.

Fitzroy will go looking for Critchley and Roach, she said to herself, and find out what they're plotting. From the other side of the room, Georges signaled. She glanced toward the door again. The Red Devil himself had also arrived.

Roach and Fitzroy sat down at a table facing one another. They appeared to be bargaining, each man outwardly calm and collected, like bitter enemies discussing terms, having agreed to a truce.

Anne pretended to be drinking wine as she studied the two men over the rim of her glass. Since she could see them only in profile, she couldn't read their lips. At last, Roach rose from the table, turning his face so that Anne could finally study him. “Bring money,” she thought he said.

When Roach left the room, Fitzroy soon followed. Anne lowered her glass, reflecting for a moment, while Georges hurried back to her. She reported what she had seen, then asked, “Is Roach giving Fitzroy an opportunity to bid for the stolen item?”

“That seems likely,” Georges replied. “But he must find a great deal of money to replace what he lost at the fight. He'll get it from Lady Margaret. Her jewels perhaps. But he must act quickly. As we speak, Roach is probably bargaining with Sir Harry in his study.”

Georges withdrew to his duties. Anne remained at the table for another minute, then set out to find Paul. In the entrance hall, she saw Jeffery at his post by the door. “Have you seen Colonel Saint-Martin?” she asked.

“No, Miss Cartier, I haven't.”

She was about to leave him when she noticed he seemed troubled. “Are you well, Jeffery?”

“I'm ill,” he replied. “In a few minutes, someone will come to take my place.”

She hesitated. Should she ask if she could help in any way? No, she needed to find Paul quickly. Critchley's meeting with Roach in the tennis hall could take place at any minute.

He gazed at her, a cry for help in his eyes.

For another moment, she went on debating with herself what to do. Tongues would surely wag if they were seen together. Then, she made up her mind and signaled for him to follow her. She led him upstairs into the antechamber of her room, a quiet private place. She closed the door and stood facing the footman.

While the voices of guests below drifted faintly up to them, he told her that Roach was going to wreak his revenge on Sarah and her mother. “I must warn them and Mr. Woodbridge. Perhaps they can do something to change the landlord's mind or at least find another place to stay.” He reached out his hands to her, pleading. “Could you deliver a warning to them? I can't do it myself, I can't leave Combe Park. The servants have been told to keep watch on me.”