Enemy In The House (8 page)

She searched though and found on a table a few papers in her father’s clear handwriting, the lines as straight as if they had been ruled. She glanced through them, her heart aching. There were notes, apparently for a pamphlet he had thought of writing concerning rice planting, bits of translations from the Greek—Marcus Aurelius, to her surprise, for that stern and stoic philosopher could have roused no true response in her father’s luxury-loving heart. It had obviously exasperated her father who took pride in his Latin but was out of his depth in Greek and had written an indignant note on a margin:
“Why
meditate in Greek? Wasn’t his native tongue good enough?”

Amity smiled and smiled again when she found the third volume of
The Story of Clarissa Harlowe
on the table, with another vigorous marginal comment: “Twaddle.” She must inquire about the will. Actually, though, it was not of great importance. She and China and Jamey were his only heirs. Certainly some maid had entered the room, opened the jalousie, forgotten to close it. No harm was done. She went to sleep, thinking of Simon. He
was
alive, somewhere in America. He seemed, though, very far away.

Dawn in Jamaica comes early. Even the birds are aware of the precious cool hours before the heat of the day descends. It was barely light when some strange half-heard sound, like a hunting horn but off-key, awoke her. A myna bird gave its peculiar, melodious cry over and over outside the windows. Amity, half roused, listened to it, drifted back to sleep and rose at last, late. By then the birds were silent; the heat was stifling and humid.

Grappit had ridden out early to the canefields. Neville had accompanied him. “Poor boy,” Aunt Grappit said. “But then, that is a planter’s life.” The implication was that the sooner Neville accustomed himself to the life of a Jamaican planter, the better. Amity said nothing.

Jamey was playing in the care of the maid who had taken prompt and cheerful charge of him the night before; Amity heard their voices and found them in a grassy, hedged and shaded plot outside the back door from the lounge. She wondered where Hester was.

Charles had disappeared, too; China didn’t know where he had gone—strolling around the place, she thought, and flung more dresses into the arms of a maid. “Be sure the iron is not too hot. Understand me?”

“Oh, yes, lady.”

The maid who brought her breakfast obviously understood, for she nodded cheerfully. It was not so easy to understand the oddly slurred speech of the native Jamaicans with its unexpected rhythm and emphasis.

Before unpacking her own trunk, Amity went out to the veranda. In the sunlight the full beauty of Mallam Penn lay before her. The first Mallam to emigrate to Jamaica and settle at Mallam Penn had chosen well. She wondered vaguely who that first Mallam was; other than that he must have been a remote relative of her father’s and of Simon’s, she didn’t know and it didn’t matter, but he had done well. The entire plantation was snuggled down in a green and lovely valley among blue-tinted mountains which reared abruptly on three sides. Yet the land itself was high, too. It was obviously fertile land; great canefields stretched out behind and at both sides of the house, until they seemed almost to touch the mountains themselves. There was a long strip of forest densely entangled in vines, which went back as far as Amity could see, into another deep but narrow valley.

The view, though, from the veranda was breathtaking in its beauty, for the valley opened there, so widely that far below, across the massed greens of trees and tangled shrubbery, there was visible a great reach of the sea. It was so blue and clear that it was as if all the blues of the world were distilled into a new color, a blue Amity had never seen nor dreamed of, that belonged to another world.

There were no clouds; the sky was only a lighter, thinner blue than the sea. Far off there was the slow white curl of waves. It was a scene of beauty. It was also, in its immensity, in the dense tropical foliage, the enormous vine-hung trees, with their announcement of hidden depths of jungle, a little frightening.

She wondered suddenly how near was the closest town or village; how far away was the closest, neighboring penn. It was, of course, not even a day’s journey to Kingston; Spanish Town must be fairly near Kingston. Grappit had spoken of the doctor, the clergyman, a nearby town called Punt Town. So civilization was somewhere within reach.

She went back to her room, unpacked, made room in the great armoire for her own few dresses and was summoned to a hot and heavy second breakfast, which Madam Grappit said was the custom in Jamaica. It was far too heavy a meal, more like dinner than luncheon or breakfast: platters of chicken, ham, soup, went back in their silver dishes to the cookhouse, behind the great house. (“They call it the great house,” Aunt Grappit said, cracking nuts with her strong teeth. “Every plantation house here is called the great house. Heaven knows why!”)

China partook heartily as she always did, belying her frail and delicate appearance. Neville, Grappit and Charles did not appear at all. After second breakfast, Aunt Grappit told them, it was the custom to rest through the heat of the day.

“La, Aunt,” China said, “I vow the heat is monstrous oppressive,” wiped a trace of turtle soup from her pretty mouth and, yawning, went away.

Late in the afternoon Amity had a talk with Charles. Unable to endure the stillness in the house she had gone out and strolled down the driveway, with its neat layer of tiny shells. Coming back she met Charles.

He had not only discarded his neat and fashionable wig, so his black hair was drawn smoothly back and clubbed, he had also discarded his coat and long embroidered waistcoat. He mopped his forehead with a full, white cambric sleeve and smiled. “You look very thoughtful.”

She could count on Charles’ help. “I want to talk to you, Charles.”

He glanced up at the house, with all its open windows. “Shall we walk down to the gate?”

It was nearing sunset. The sky was crimson and purple, the shadows under the great trees were already blue.

“Well?” Charles said.

“Charles, my father willed all his property to me.”

Charles waited a moment. Then he said, “I surmised that. Now you wish to claim it.”

“It should be fairly divided. China and Jamey should have their rights.”

“I expected—if I was right in my surmise—that you would feel like that. But what about Simon Mallam?”

“He will see it as I do.”

“The British courts may not recognize the claims of the wife of a rebel.”

“I don’t like that word,” she said with sudden sharpness.

“You’re not turning rebel, yourself, Amity?”

“No! But the men you call rebels are honest men—”

“Spare me. They are traitors and rebels.”

She swallowed hard. “That isn’t what I want to talk to you about. I want to establish China and Jamey’s claims to Mallam Penn. And I want to get rid of Uncle Grappit before he can make himself their—and my guardian.”

“It’s customary to put business affairs into the bands of a man, an older member of the family.”

They had reached the gate. The sea, far below them, was still alight with lemon and old colors. “Not Uncle Grappit,” she said. “Besides—”

“Besides he may have murdered two men.”

“No! I’ve thought about that. I can’t believe it.”

He waited a moment. Finally he said, “Even if we did believe it, even if we had evidence, there is, as I said, nothing we can do about it. But simply because this thought has occurred to both of us, I advise you, if I may, to go carefully.”

“He’s determined to have himself appointed guardian or—or trustee or something. I’ll not have it.”

“That is clearly his motive in coming to Jamaica so hurriedly. He believed that your father was dead but he had to make sure. Of course, his trip here is an admission that he’s given up any claim on the American property. At least until the war is over. The courts there would give a Loyalist’s claims short shrift. So he headed for Jamaica. It may ease your mind to reflect that
if
he murdered those two men his prompt sailing for Jamaica rather nullifies the motive that suggested itself.”

She wished Charles would not use pompous phrases. “What do you mean?”

“Why, you must see it yourself. Why kill two men in order to get your clutches on some property in America that you don’t stand a ghost of a chance of getting legal possession of anyway?”

“He might look to the future,” she said. “He’s sure the British will win. And—oh Charles, if he—if he did murder them, wouldn’t he get away just as fast as he could?”

“There’s something in that, I suppose,” Charles said, but dubiously. He made up his mind. “No—put murder out of your head but go carefully. Now then, I certainly intend to help you secure Mallam Penn, if I can. Where is your father’s will?”

“I don’t know. He brought it with him. But it doesn’t matter really. He had only three heirs, China and Jamey and me.”

“I rather think the courts will decide that he has only one heir, his son. It’s the British custom.”

“Well, then, that is fair. The settlement of the American estate must wait till the war is over.”

“Of course,” Charles said slowly, watching the sea, “if you hadn’t married Simon—your father’s will would stand in Jamaica. You would inherit Mallam Penn. It is a rich plantation, Amity. I’ve been looking around today. I should think that it is a far richer property than that in America.”

“Let it go to Jamey, then.” They turned to stroll back toward the house.

“If you hadn’t married Simon—” Charles flicked away a buzzing mosquito and said musingly, “I am beginning now to understand why you married Simon. You hoped to save the property from confiscation. You have a sense of obligation for the care of China and Jamey. It was entirely a marriage of convenience.”

“No. No, Charles, it wasn’t really that. I love Simon.”

He smiled. “You are a dutiful wife.”

“No, no, it’s true. I ought to have made you understand that first night on the ship. When we left Savannah. But I was flustered and you were so—so different.” (“Be romantic,” China had advised him.) “Charles, please forgive me for not making it clear. I’ve always loved Simon. And I—oh Charles. I wheedled him into marriage. Now Savannah has surrendered. He was there with the Army. I don’t know where he is now or whether he is safe or—Charles, if only he were here this minute, safe and sound!”

“If Simon were here he’d be in a very dangerous position! Well, time will take care of most problems—yes, time. You know that you can count on my friendship—if you’ll allow me no other word. Besides Jamey is my nephew. I have his interests at heart, as well as yours. We’ll find out what has happened to your father’s will and try to establish its provisions. But when money is in question people often do very strange and unlikely things—” He stopped so abruptly, staring, that she followed his gaze.

There was a ragged break in the hedge. Through it she had a glimpse of a garden, now untended, with sprawling, overgrown vines and weeds. In the middle of it Hester stood with Neville. It
was
Hester, but a different Hester. Her hair was now in loose brown waves, framing a face which certainly had been touched with paint. Instead of her decorous Quaker’s dress she wore a thin green silk with great panniers which reduced her waist to a slim and inviting circle and seemed to billow out, no less invitingly, over the luxuriant curves of her body. She was like a flower suddenly come into full and rather lush bloom, a tropical flower, a product of the heat and sun, frail yet tenacious.

Neville was bending over her, a bee caught by the promise of honey. Or a fish, hooked and gasping. Amity thought tersely, for as she looked the maid turned away, swaying seductively, and vanished, and Neville ran after her and out of sight.

“QUITE A LITTLE PASTORAL
scene,” Charles said.

“Neville is such a fool! If Aunt Grappit had seen that—”

“Neville can take care of himself. It’s not the first wench he’s pursued.”

“Hester’s—different. There’s something about her—a kind of air of—”

“China says, duchess.”

“Well, I was thinking of a stronger will than Neville’s.”

Charles’ dark eyes were alert and amused. “You surely don’t mean you think she can play for Neville and snare him! … There’s your aunt on the veranda.”

Aunt Grappit was standing at the veranda railing looking down at them, her eyes sharp as a cat’s, her hair done elaborately again and powdered. She was dressed in a gown of purple silk with, this time, a yellow petticoat. If she’d seen what I saw a moment ago, Amity thought, she’d have Hester off the place in five minutes.

On the other hand, Madam Grappit was complacent about Neville; she said that young men would be young men. No, she wouldn’t bother her head about a serving maid. There was in fact very little that Aunt Grappit would bother her head about unless it came between her and something she wanted.

But she would stop at murder. It was preposterous even to consider such a word in connection with the woman standing there in her fine London frock, eyeing her so closely. It was so preposterous a picture that again it cast a bizarre and unlikely reflection upon the possibility that anybody at all had gone out that night and coolly murdered either Dr. Shincok or Lawyer Benfit, with a view to removing a witness to Amity’s marriage.

Aunt Grappit turned; her purple silk and wide yellow petticoat vanished into the house. As Amity and Charles went up the steps Neville came behind them, mopping his face with a fine cambric handkerchief. “Whew—” he said. “They say the summer is even hotter. Amity, who is this nursemaid?”

“You should know by now!”

“Sh-sh—” Neville’s blue eyes shot a glance toward the open door. “She’s an attractive girl, you know.”

He perched airily on the railing. His attitude consciously displayed his handsome green coat, his fawn-colored breeches and the laces at his throat and cuffs. Charles said, “Your father has a better idea of the kind of dress for the tropics than we have, Neville.”

Neville’s eyebrows arched up in real surprise. “That white linen he wears! No fit. No elegance. Like a sack”