The Book of Night Women (17 page)

—Good heavens no, Mama. How could you even ask such a thing of your son? You were ill and indisposed and rather than cancel the event, I—

—You had her come and change away as she saw fit.

—We haven’t changed everything, dear Mama.

—Then pray tell me, why is there such an insipid green all over my ballroom?

Massa Humphrey sigh.

—Forgive me, Mama, I have been truly remiss. But we had it on good authority that the governor’s wife absolutely despises blue. Surely you would expect us to be rid of it? I know you would take no pleasure in offending her ladyship.

The mistress stop huff and puff.

—I shall not bring any French flavour to my ball, Humphrey. I suppose next you will be marrying the Creole.

—Mother. I beg you, Massa Humphrey say and climb out of the bed.

—Good heavens! I see you sleep in the French fashion nowadays. And your poor mama!

She turn away from her son, but look a little.

—Oh, Mother, I daresay I didn’t leave your womb in tails or breeches, he say. She don’t say nothing but watch him go to privy.

—Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters of a natural function to take care of. You will join us for breakfast, won’t you, Mama?

—Why, yes, thank you. Such a wonderful son have I, to invite me to breakfast
in my own house
. Next thing I know, I’ll be getting an invitation to tea as well. I shall endeavour my very best to attend then, shan’t I? the mistress say.

—That is all your loving, undressed son asks, Mama, Massa Humphrey say and close the door to the privy. The mistress huff and puff all the way down into the kitchen.

—I suppose soon you’ll be marrying the Creole! she say in that whisper when people really want you to hear what they say.

Lilith and Homer setting knife and fork on the table for breakfast. As she set down a fork at the head of the table, Lilith look at Homer.

—You set Obeah ’pon the Johnny-jumpers? she say.

—What?

—Me say if you work Obeah ’pon the Johnny-jumpers.

—Listen, chile, I don’t practise no black magic on this premises and anybody who say different goin’ deal with me.

—You forget what you do with Circe? Me don’t believe you.

—Well, me chile, me never care what you believe yesterday, and me don’t care today, but who’s to say how me goin’ feel tomorrow, eh?

Now that Andromeda dead, Lilith take over her place in the dining room when the massa family eat. These days, Miss Isobel at every breakfast because the best work get done in the early hours, she say. Every now and then, Massa Humphrey will lose sight of the Miss and just call her Isobel, but nobody notice except Lilith.

Everything ’bout white people circle round bedroom, ballroom and dining table. The dining table near as long as two carriage and the wood dark like night. The edge curve around like circle and carve up with leaf and flowers in the wood. There be twelve chairs round the table, fourteen when extra company come calling. Homer say the cup, saucer and plate come from England. The last time anybody broke a dish was a slave girl back in 1784 and she get whip so hard she couldn’t lift butter after that. Homer stand behind the chair at the foot of the table. Lilith and the other kitchen negroes stand beside each other on the left and right side. Supper can sometimes take up to ten course plus coffee, cake and nuts, but most times breakfast much simpler, with just one course of everything served at once. When the massa and family come in the room, the negroes pull out the chairs for them to sit and put the napkin in them lap. The negroes commence to serve. Lilith on the left side near the head of the table where the massa sit. But one of the mens pull out the chair for him. The chaperone grunt. Lilith remember her.

At the breakfast, the mistress chatting up plenty. She don’t even eat much.

—I’m afraid we’ve not had the pleasure, Mr. Quinn, and my son seems to have taken leave of his manners, if not senses, she say.

—The pleasure is mine, Robert Quinn say and kiss the mistress’ hand like he didn’t meet her four time before.

—I’ve always had a soft spot for the Irish, even after that sorry business when you joined forces with the ghastly French in that ridiculous insurgency.

Robert Quinn look like he ’bout to choke. Miss Isobel put her fan to her mouth.

—A tiny fraction of me countrymen in County Mayo as it was, ma’am, and dealt with they were, he say.

—And how pleased I am to hear it. And you, young Miss Isobel, tell me how is your dear mother, Ludmilla?

—My mother has long been dead, ma’am. My stepmother, Laeticia, is quite well.

—Laeticia, Ludmilla, posh. At my age one loses track of the many merry wives of your father.

Then the mistress ask Massa Humphrey why he not in London for the season.

—Nowadays nobody takes the season seriously until March, Mama, he say.—Besides, with all that’s to be done here I would not have much time indeed.

—Such a tragedy for you, for you’re still young. In mind, at the very least. Ah, the season, I’m too old for such thoughts now, but when I was a young lady of betrothal age, I daresay I managed to win a husband after only one season. Ah, the times, the balls, the suppers, how other women were envious! And a West Indian planter, said my mama. I insist that you go back to London at once, Humphrey!

—But Mama, my place is here, with you.

—A young gentleman has no place with a West Indian woman. That is all I am now, I’m afraid.

—I shall never leave you alone, Mama.

—Please. To be a woman in the West Indies is to be alone. Isn’t that so, young Elizabeth?

—Isobel, ma’am.

—I’m too old to remember or care, unfortunately. Anyway Humphrey, the season is the only chance you’ll have for an ideal wife, of some decent breeding. I insist that you ship yourself off at once. And you, Mr. Quinn, are you married?

—No lady has blessed me with her hand yet, ma’am.

—Really? Has my house become a haven for young bachelors? Surely there must be a maid or serving girl somewhere who seeks to be made into a decent woman.

Robert Quinn don’t say nothing, but look at Massa Humphrey, who sigh and nod. Everybody perplex. The mistress will remember which woman was wearing dress with pink lace trim and how it cause scandal back in 1779, but she will forget that her husband dead. She still talk to him. The mistress will know ’bout man things like war and how much slave must cost, but will forget that she must go to the commode to piss. And Homer used to think that the mistress be in her room writing letter until one day she pick up a page and see that she writing list. Nothing but list. List of name, list of animal, list of number, list of Bible chapter, list of list. And more list. Something of the mistress’ mind lost in her room.

Soon everybody talking ’bout Saint-Domingue. Miss Isobel say it be a colossal, bloody tragedy on account that she still be having some sort of cousin over there.

—My family is at least half French, you know, she say.

—I think that makes you the enemy, Miss Isobel. Now speak true, are you a spy? Massa Humphrey say. They laugh like two little pickney up to mischief. The chaperone grunt like she be the mama. Robert Quinn don’t say nothing.

—Serves those bloody Frenchies right, the mistress say. Too slack, that Code Noir. Way too permissive with those negroes. I swear, give a negro a free hand and he’ll rub it all over you.

Massa Humphrey look at him mother hard.—What do you know about Code Noir, Mama? he say.

—More than you know about French-British relations, she say and look at Miss Isobel.

—Either way, it’s a calamitous business, Robert Quinn say.—If we’re not careful we’ll be heading the same way.

—Whatever do you mean, Robert?

—Come now, Humphrey, he say and see the mistress and Miss Isobel glare at him.—Really, Master Wilson, Jamaica is about as stable as gunpowder in a kitchen.

—Quinn, I’ll not have you scare the ladies needlessly. Surely it’s not as bad as all that, Massa Humphrey say.

—Not as bad as all that? Are ye blind or stupid?

—Mr. Quinn! I’d thank you to remember your place, Miss Isobel say.

—Oh I’m well aware of it, ma’am. It has been made quite plain to me.

—Quinn, enough. As I said, I will not have you frighten the ladies, Massa Humphrey say.

—I’m not as easily scared as all that, Miss Isobel say.

—Master Humphrey, there has been a major uprising every year in this colony for the past five years. Montego Bay is still in ruins after being burnt down five years ago. I say, every month there’s one conspiracy or another.

—Indeed, and the regiment always rises to the occasion. They dealt with those sorry niggers in Trelawney only a fortnight ago.

—Regiment indeed. Pansies, the lot o’ them.

—Gentlemen! Surely there’s another forum for this kind of talk? Miss Isobel say and nod in the direction of the negroes.—And you, Mr. Quinn, show some decorum if you’re capable.

Quinn face get red.

—We’re the envy of the colonies, Montpelier is, Massa Humphrey say.

—Besides, Mr. Quinn has not even been living in Jamaica a year, certainly not long enough to judge these things, Miss Isobel say.

—Trelawney damn near—

—Quinn, Massa Humphrey say.

—Pardon me. Trelawney almost became an African state in seventeen ninety-eight.

—What has gotten into you, Quinn? Is it some Irish propensity to exaggerate?

—Goes along with the British tendency to disregard the obvious, I’ll wager.

—One is either British or brutish, as far as I can see, Massa Humphrey say. Quinn, him face still red, don’t say nothing.

Everybody watching the two. Lilith watch the two man as both they skin get red. She watch the two man as they grip the knife and fork harder and talk lower and lower through grit teeth. Lilith watching man acting like how man act when chain not round him neck or scar on him back. Lilith think soon one goin’ leap after the other and they goin’ fight like wild animal on the floor. Lilith smelling expectation and it smelling like sweat. Lilith look at what she not to look at in way she not to look. Homer hiss and jolt Lilith. The chaperone not messing with man argument, she want more chocolate cake. Her third slice. Lilith nearly miss the plate because Massa Humphrey slam him hand on the table. The chaperone grab the plate. Robert Quinn hold him two hand up in the air.

—’Tis a fact, it is. As plain as day. The ratio of whites to negroes here is the same as Saint-Domingue, Humphrey, Robert Quinn say.

—And we have far greater control over them than Saint-Domingue, Massa Humphrey say.

—I hear the streets are covered in blood over there, Miss Isobel say.

—French blood, Robert Quinn say, and she look at him in a way that would shrivel the fountain statue.

—Well, I suppose now that you will have nothing to do with all things French, you have clearly resolved to a life of no French kisses, sir, Miss Isobel say.

Massa Humphrey blush. Then he laugh. Robert Quinn smile a little. The chaperone say, It must have been the wet nurse who taught you such vulgarity, dear, and everybody laugh some more. Everybody laughing so much that nobody see that the mistress did gone far back into herself. Not until she scream.

—One hundred pounds, not fifty! One hundred pounds, not fifty! One hundred pounds, not fifty! the mistress say.

Homer and Lilith hear her first. The others still rocking back and forth from what the chaperone never mean to be joke.

—How many times must you be told! say the mistress. This time everybody quiet.

—Tell us what, Mama? Massa Humphrey say.

—One hundred pounds, not fifty, one hundred pounds, not godforsaken fifty, the mistress say and throw away her fork.

—What hundred pounds, Mam—

—Oh, to hell with it all, you were never really cut out for slave affairs, selling a healthy buck for fifty pounds. I truly wish you were a man, Patrick! Sometimes I truly do!

Massa Humphrey shut him eye and grab the edge of the table hard. Robert Quinn and Miss Isobel look away. Only the chaperone didn’t know what the story was.

—Who’s Patrick, madam? she ask.

—And what business have you to be inquiring about my husband? the mistress shout. The chaperone shrink. Massa Humphrey look at Homer.

—Patrick! Get down here this instant! Patrick! Patrick! the mistress say.

Massa Humphrey face bury in him hand. The mistress quiet for a little bit, so quiet that the wind start whisper in the window. But then she scream. And scream and scream again. Robert Quinn leap from him seat, but Massa Humphrey head still hiding in him hand. The mistress start flap her hands like they be wings that can’t fly and tip back with the chair. Lilith rush first and catch the chair, but the mistress coming down so hard that they fall to the floor anyway. Homer rush to the mistress to pull her up but the woman in hysterics, screaming to butcher the horse that kill her husband. Miss Isobel hand in her lap and she staring at the tablecloth. The chaperone too. Robert Quinn throw down him napkin and go over to the mistress, Homer and Lilith. Robert Quinn reach down to help but Homer shout out to give her air and him pull back. The mistress’ head fall back in Lilith lap and she still like a corpse.

—Take her away, Massa Humphrey say.

The mistress room look like evening even when is noon. Lilith go to pull back a drape but Homer shake her head no. Robert Quinn and Homer put the mistress to bed, but as soon as she hit the sheet she wake up. She weak. She saying word that don’t sound like no word. Then she look over and see Lilith.

—Who are you, one of Jack Wilkins’ bastards? she say. Lilith don’t know what to say. She look up and see Robert Quinn looking at her. The mistress nod off. Then her eye open again.

—I will not see my son betrothed to a Creole half-Frenchie costermonger’s daughter, she say. Not on my life, such as it is. . . . Patrick! Is that you, Patrick! Put a stop to this childish nonsense and come out of the closet! Patrick! Patrick!