The Pull Of Freedom (7 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,” Elizabeth was looking in the mirror and frowning, her skin was looking slightly leathery and weather worn, the poem by John Milton seemed to apply to her now.

Robert came behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, “stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!”

“My hasting days fly on with full career,” Elizabeth brushed her hair and grinned at him. This was the husband she knew and loved.

“But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.” He took the brush from her hand and ran it through her ink blank strands.

“Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth.” She picked up the other line of the Sonata seven and closed her eyes. She missed London so much.

“That I to manhood am arrived so near;” Robert’s eyes were swimming with warmth, regret gripped him at the way he had left her earlier.

“And inward ripeness doth much less appear,” Elizabeth finished the last line of the first stanza and sighed, “I'm happy that Father had me tutored with my brothers.”

“That was what I found so fascinating about you at first,” Robert placed the brush on the dressing table and stared at her. He was taught that wives were helpmates who should ensure that husbands were happy. His wife wanted it all. She demanded equality in their relationship. This he blamed on Lord Howard, the indulgent father, who taught her how to be one of the boys. Now he was stuck with her, his freedom severely hampered by her liberated presence. She was probably waiting for him to apologise for shouting at her earlier.

“Robert I … ” Elizabeth did not like it when she was stared at for long periods of time and now her husband was doing it, a look of resignation in his eyes. She cleared her throat; “I think I am going back to London.”

Robert straightened up from his crouching posture on her dressing table and glared. “You are not taking Mark.”

“I will send him back when he is of age,” Elizabeth said stressed, her green eyes were filled with tears and she wrung her hands, “father wrote and he said that I can come home whenever I want, he will send his ship for me. I just need to say the word.”

“Father this, father that.” Robert said strolling around the room. “I'm used to Mark being here. I will miss him if you take him. You are escaping like a frail debutante from hardship back to your father’s secure wealth.”

“What about me?” Elizabeth asked dully facing her husband, her face pale and her hands trembling, “will you miss me?”

Robert paused, “I used to see you every year at Yule tide before you took it upon yourself to come to the colonies.”

“That was not enough,” Elizabeth said defeated, “I wanted us to live like a regular couple.”

“You can not handle the lifestyle here,” Robert said raking his hand through his hair, “you are impossible to live with. The customs here are different from London.”

“What custom is that? Sleeping with your slaves?” Elizabeth looked at Robert hard, red colour crept from his neck up to his face, “I won’t stand for it Robert, it is wrong and immoral.”

Robert stalked to the door and flung it open; a frightened Martha who was just about to knock scampered out of his way.

“You can go,” Robert swung back and looked at his wife, “but Mark stays. I bid you goodnight madam.”

Martha went tentatively into her Mistress' room; the poor lady was crying her eyes out, her small body hardly made a dent into the bed.

“Close the door,” Elizabeth wailed and flung a pillow over her tear streaked face.

Martha closed the door and stood in the room, she was there to help the lady dress for bed, she had heard that there was a mini-quarrel in the dining room and that her Mistress had stalked off to bed. It seemed to her that white women were no better off than the slaves in this awful  world. She looked at the embittered woman on the bed and sighed.

Elizabeth got up and looked at Martha, “I'm leaving this country. I can’t take Mark but I will still go. Could you pack for me Martha, my trunk should hold all that is necessary. I will go to London where there is culture and fun.”

Martha nodded heading for the area where her Mistresses dresses were kept.

“Don’t pack now,” Elizabeth sniffled, “I will tell you when I'm leaving but it will be soon.”

Martha headed for the door, “is that all ma’am.”

“No,” Elizabeth sat up in the bed her red-rimmed eyes sad, “am I a bad person?” She looked at Martha imploringly, “I just can’t live like the other wives in this society. I can’t turn a blind eye. I just can’t. How can you sell your own child? I guess I'm not strong enough to endure such inhumane practices. Surely, God must punish men for that evil. The children are not slaves anymore, they are half yours. Yet they treat them as you would any other person in the gutter.”

Martha stood silently listening and nodding.

“I'm going back before I am totally ruined.” Elizabeth got up from the bed slowly. “Probably when a little more refinement and culture arrives here I'll come back.”

Martha looked at Elizabeth and thought how naïve she was, going back to England would make the situation worse. Her husband would go on living like he was before and more than likely indoctrinate his son into his practices when he had free rein of the household. Running away was a bad idea. She imagined Mark’s innocent face and her skin turned clammy. He was not going to do well if he grows up without his mother’s guidance. All these things were going through Martha’s head as she watched her selfish mistress.

“You will take care of Mark for me,” Elizabeth said to Martha, “you will teach him the correct values.”

Martha nodded contemplatively. They called them slaves and ordered them around and yet they allowed them to rear their children. “I will ma’am,” she said out loud.

Chapter Nineteen

They were around the dining table at the Braithwaite’s house. Hilga was once again acting like her sister’s shadow. Her eyes were downcast over her meal as if today she hadn’t, with boldness, held a whip with the sole purpose of whipping a slave—anticipation alight in her eyes.

Hilma spoke non-stop about her upcoming nuptials. She had never met the man she was going to marry but he was well placed in the society and that alone was enough for her.

“Did you know my intended is related to the Duke of Edinburgh?”

“He is?” Kes looked suitably impressed as he chewed his soup. The slightly thick liquid was rapidly congealing, making sipping an impossibility.

“Did you know that my intended is cousin to an Earl?”

Kes shook his head, he was wondering what Nanny and the others were doing. Did they think it was a good idea for him to spend the three days? What were they planning next? He was missing the maroon way of life already though he was in the house for just a day.

“Did you know … ” Hilma was twirling her blonde hair around her finger her eyes dreamy.

“No he doesn’t know.” Hilga snapped. Her face looked more colourful in the flickering lights of the candles, some of the spots standing out in sharp relief. “He doesn’t care and neither do I.”

“If I never,” Hilma huffed, “you are being rude, we have a distinguished guest you know.”

Hilga ignored her, the parents acted as if nothing happened.

“So tell us more about you and your family Sir Floyd Kesington.”  Paul Braithwaite asked him in the silence.

He suddenly missed the self-centred prattling of Hilma. What was his story? The true one was that his mother an English lady fell in love with his father an African slave. After secretly meeting each other for years and planning to run off together and live on another island where people would believe she was the mistress of the house and the black man was her slave.  Her cruel husband found out about their affair. His mother in a fit of passion admitted that her son was not his child. At the age of twelve he was sold into slavery, ill treated by blacks and whites alike because of his mixed heritage until he finally met people who accepted him for who he was. And now he was a maroon plotting to take whatever is needed from the plantations.

He missed his mother though, her gentle smile, her unconditional love. He never understood why she was carted from the house in the night kicking and screaming. Her lover, the African slave called Kojo who had always been kind to him, who used to tell him stories about Africa and his adventures in the bushes had been castrated and hanged in the front yard. The man he had believed to be his father had ordered him to be sold the next day and there he had been separated from all that was familiar.

“Sir Kesington?” Paul asked.

Kes looked around, they were all looking at him, while he mused about his real story. What could he tell them?

“Well, I grew up in London. My father died when I was small, I can’t remember him. My mother was the only child of a rich man so I pursued scholarly endeavours and became a barrister.”

He paused and looked at them, Hilga was the first to smile, she was the sceptic so he relaxed.

Serena leaned closer to him, “so that is why we couldn’t tempt you with half the money from Garfield. You are already rich.” She was smiling smugly and looking at Hilga.

Warning bells went off in his head.

He could see that they were already planning to marry him off to Satan’s spawn, as the slave girl had called her earlier today. Maybe he should have made up a story where he sounded a little poorer.

Serena nudged Hilga confirming his fears.

Hilma started to pout. He was suddenly more attractive to her and suddenly she was not the centre of attention in her own house.

“I don’t think he likes us having slaves mother,” Hilga said smugly, “I wonder why.”

Paul looked at him his thin eyebrows rising. Kes had the fleeting thought that he definitely had on his wife’s face paint and almost smiled—he should be concentrating. Why didn’t he like slavery?

“My mother died when I was small and I was left in the care of a Negress. I grew fond of them.”

“I thought it was your father that died when you were young?” Hilga asked frowning.

“Yes. They … ” he was in trouble he needed to concentrate. “My mother died too. From a long illness.”

Everybody nodded at this explanation.

“That’s so tragic,” Serena exclaimed, “why couldn’t they find you a white nurse.”

“I thought the tragedy would have been the passing of his mother,” Paul chastised his wife. He was angling to get the money from his long lost cousin and if he sounded sympathetic enough to this lawyer, regarding the plight of Negroes, who knew what could happen.

They continued to eat in silence, until Hilma burst out, “I don’t want to marry Stoddard anymore.”

“What?” Serena placed a hand over her heart, her face flushed. “What nonsense girl.”

“I don’t know him,” Hilma whined, “and he is twice my age. Wasn’t that what you said father?”

Paul grunted, he usually did not get involved in his daughter’s fits.

“Everything is already arranged Hilma!” Serena put down her fork in the chicken stew; she hurriedly swallowed her food and nodded toward Kes. "We have a visitor, can you have an attack of the bridal nerves at another time.”

“He is why I don’t want to get married,” Hilma’s blue eyes filled with tears, “I love him. I think destiny has thrown him in my path.”

Kes felt warm all over as he stared at her pretty pouting face. This could cause trouble for his plans. This twist he had not foreseen. He should not have alluded to a rich grandfather.

“He is mine,” Hilga screeched her blotched face pale. “I will not sit around for one more time and watch you get your own way.”

Aha, Kes chewed on the succulent chicken, it was much deeper than family riches; this seemed like sibling rivalry at its worst. The ugly duckling and the beautiful swan and suddenly he was the prize.

“Mother, Father, speak to her,” Hilma pointed down the table at her sister.

“Now Hilma,” Paul started, “we already signed a contract that you would marry Captain Stoddard.”

“Hilga you are acting like a fisherman’s wife,” Serena said almost at the same time.

Hilma turned to Kes, her blue eyes bright, “I will marry you and bear your children and we can live on a plantation where there are no slaves, or back in England where we will dance together at the Queen’s balls.”

“The Queen’s balls?” Kes smiled at her slightly. He was itching to laugh at the spoiled debutante but he could see that this was obviously a serious moment.

“No,” Hilga screeched, “I am going to marry him. We are going to live on a plantation with slaves whom we pay and then we visit England twice a year for the season.”

Even in her fantasies Hilga couldn't see herself without the slaves. He looked at her and treated her to the same half smile he gave her sister.

“Ladies, stop it,” Paul finally chastised his brawling family, his wife looked as if she had fainted in the chair, her head rolling from side to side slackly. He had no choice but to be the disciplinarian.

Both Hilma and Hilga glared at each other. Kes could almost feel the venom in the glances.

The housekeeper came to the side of Serena with some smelling salts, that revived her and the meal went on silently.

“I want you to forget about what happened at dinner,” Paul said to Kes as they shared a brandy in his library—the women had gone off to embroider.

“What are you going to do about the slaves?” Kes asked hoping to get a good answer. He doubted he could last through the week with this family from hell.

“I am looking into it dear man.” Paul said haughtily; his eyes shifted from Kes’ and gazed into the flickering candlelight. “Stay for the week, by then I will have my answer.”

“With all due respect Paul,” Kes cleared his throat, “your daughters are on the war path and I am reluctant to get in the middle.”

“They are always on the war path,” Paul said embarrassingly, “they were just looking for an excuse.”

Kes grunted. “Even so I'm going to shorten my stay to three days.”

Paul nodded, “fair enough, by then I will have an answer.”

By then, I will know exactly how much you are worth. Kes thought silently.