Keturah Read online

  Grinning, McKintrick nodded and turned to Verity. “Until we meet again then, lass.”

  “Until then,” she returned shyly.

  He and Shubert assisted the ladies to the wagon seats, and they set off along the aptly named Lower Round Road, given that it encircled the island. They passed numerous shops in Charlestown—the blacksmith, the silversmith, a cooper, a leatherworks shop, and even a glassblower—until they finally cleared the last building and the first plantation came into view.

  Shubert’s two companions, casually introduced as Lawrence and Francis, had brought along two new slaves Shubert had purchased. The boys were about thirteen or fourteen and were forced to walk and stumble behind their horses on ten-foot leads. Keturah did her best not to look—it was too upsetting to watch them fall and narrowly rise up in time, again and again.

  Even taking in the horror in the Banning servants’ faces—riding in the back of the wagons—was an upset of its own. They obviously did not know quite what to do with the two new slaves in the back of the rented wagon. In fact, they had yet to speak to them. The slave girl was weeping, the long lashes on her back seeping with blood through her dirty “new” gown—apparently all that was available on short notice. The young man had his arm around her waist, face set in grim lines.

  But as they moved toward the leeward side of the island where she knew Tabletop was situated, Keturah began to breathe just a wee bit easier, soothed by what she saw outside of the wagons.

  The road was lined with flowering trees that towered above them and granted them partial shade. There were magnolia and African tulip and poui trees, all of which she recognized from studying Gray’s illustrated book Agriculture Among the Indies, and below were West Indian ebony bushes. The jungle was alight with bright vermilion, yellow, and red blossoms. She inhaled deeply and detected a mix of jasmine and other sweet scents on the air. Among the trees that lined the road were also fruit trees—mango and guava and palms loaded with coconut. Her mouth watered at the sight of the ripe-looking mango, the ruby-red fruit making her wish she could climb that tree, one limb at a time, that instant.

  Between the trees they caught glimpses of the ocean below with its different hues of turquoise, deep green, and royal blue. On either side of the road was nothing but acre upon acre of sugarcane—young stalks of green rustling in the trade winds—or freshly tilled soil.

  They passed by lines of slaves carrying hoes and scythes across their shoulders, walking along a path while a white man on horseback followed behind. He tipped his hat, but they did not stop to make his acquaintance. He was obviously an employee, not a man of their station. There’d be time enough for that later. All Keturah wanted now was to get to her own plantation and settle into a chair for a proper dish of tea. Yes, a spot of tea would make all of what they were encountering all the more negotiable, somehow.

  They drove past a windmill near the road, its huge blades of sailcloth turning at a good clip in the breeze, and more slaves with bound cane balanced on their heads. They stared at the Bannings as they passed, eyes wide and doleful. Again, Keturah noticed her own servants giving them the longest looks. It was almost as if she could hear them thinking, That could be me.

  A half hour later, the view made all three girls gape as they stared out toward other islands in the distance, like massive turtles rising from the sea.

  Noticing their awe, Mr. Shubert smiled. “That there is Saint Christopher, what we islanders call Saint Kitts, and in the distance is Saba. From the other side of the island you can see Monserrat and Guadeloupe. But we here in Cotton Ground get the finest rain on the island and the best sunsets to boot.”

  “Cotton Ground,” Selah mused, staring off dreamily to the steep drop-offs below them and, farther off, to the turquoise sea. “Did they grow cotton here once?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Until they saw the folly of their ways, of course. Cotton Ground is how the locals refer to Saint Thomas’s parish.”

  “They tried growing ginger down in Gingerland,” added Lawrence.

  “They tried indigo and tobacco here too,” said Francis, “but eventually they all understood that sugar was the cash crop.”

  Sugar. An industry that had birthed countless fortunes, her great-great-grandfather’s among them, Keturah thought. The story went that, before sugar, the family was on the brink of bankruptcy, with the threat of losing Hartwick Manor very real. And here we are again …

  They passed the elegant stone entrances of what Shubert told them was Red Rock Plantation—a lovely estate with a long lane of flowering trees that created a tunnel-like approach toward the main house—and twenty minutes later they had at last arrived at Tabletop.

  Moving down an overgrown lane, lined on either side with more fruit trees that might someday achieve the grandeur of Red Rock, Ket found it a relief when the property opened up onto a wide grassy plain. A sprawling grand house sat at the top with several outbuildings encircling her. High above to their right, they could see a flat area that disappeared from view, and several terraced pieces of land above it, climbing their way up Mt. Nevis and disappearing among the lowlying clouds.

  Mr. Shubert followed her gaze and then looked back to her. “The plantation’s namesake, Tabletop,” he drawled. “Your father knew that the cane grew fine up on that bluff and set to terracing other fields. He thought that erosion was the cause of our falling yields over the years and tried to make right of it. God bless his soul,” he said, crossing himself, “he passed before that dream could be realized.”

  “Yes, well …” Keturah began, knowing not at all what to say to that. Father had been trying to terrace fields? Similar to how the Japanese cultivated their rice fields, as referenced in one of Gray’s horticulture books? He’d mentioned no such thing in his letters. And yet Mr. Abercrombie had mentioned “land improvements” as part of the stress on the plantation over the last few years.

  “Lord Reynolds,” said Angus, “the owner of Red Rock, he tried to tell Mr. Banning that it was foolish, sacrificing those years of harvest to chase that idea, but Mr. Banning, well, he would hear nothing of it.”

  Keturah shared a glance with Verity. They could well imagine their stubborn father refusing to take advice contrary to his vision. How many harvests had he sacrificed, though, exactly? Something had been harvested every fifteen months or so … had that been what could be planted on the original, naturally level ground? Was this what had put their fortune in jeopardy? The plantation had been producing half of what it had at the time her grandfather owned it. But in recent years …

  “How was the harvest at Red Rock this last spring, Mr. Shubert?” she asked.

  “Satisfactory,” he said with a shrug of one shoulder. “Not as abundant as those that previous generations saw, mind you, but satisfactory.”

  “I see.” She motioned for the driver to pull up on the reins, belatedly aware again of the boys who trailed behind Shubert’s man’s mount. A pang of guilt washed through her. What was the matter with her? Why had she not stopped at the entrance to Red Rock and insisted they part ways then? “Well, thank you, Mr. Shubert, for seeing us home. No doubt you need to be off to see to your own. Thank you for your trouble.”

  “Oh, it is no trouble a’tall,” he said. “Seeing my pretty new neighbors home? No, Lady Tomlinson, I assure you, I shall be the envy of the island.”

  She forced a genteel smile but only kept wishing he’d leave them be and head back to Red Rock. When would he decide he’d gone far enough? When they were at their very doorstep?

  To their left, the trees opened up to a worn group of twenty or more cabins, some overgrown with vines, others with porches with rotted posts and sagging roofs. Slaves’ quarters, Ket surmised, grimacing at their dilapidated state. Several doors creaked open an inch or two, and Ket assumed there were people inside, curious to see who was arriving at Tabletop. So they were not all dead. Hope of not having to replace them all made her heart surge. The fewer times I must face the slavers’ auction platforms, the
better.

  Shubert continued to ride alongside their wagon, his eyes on the big house. There was a light of both curiosity and excitement in his expression. The man was polite enough, she decided, but there was an undercurrent of some darker emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Wariness? His attention was solely on the house now.

  Keturah was noting the size and condition of the structure, bracing against Shubert’s silent warning, when the front door swung open and a pretty black woman in a proper English dress emerged. The dress was outdated but clean and tidy. Trailing behind her was perhaps an eight-year-old mulatto boy, also dressed in proper English attire. Hand in hand they descended two of the steps as the carriages and wagons drew to a stop in front.

  “Ket,” Verity whispered, moving to cover her hand with her own. Her voice was oddly low. Keturah saw she was staring at the boy. She did too for a moment.

  It was as if they had already met. The boy looked startlingly familiar.

  Which was impossible, of course.

  Doing a poor job of hiding his smile, Angus Shubert dismounted and came over to help the ladies down from their carriage. Then he led them over to the front steps of the house. “Now, Mitilda, these here are the master’s daughters, the Misses Banning and Lady Tomlinson, newly arrived from England. I think it high time you get on out of that house and let the people with true claim lay hold of it. Don’t you?”

  Keturah frowned at his contentious tone and yet bristled at its import. What was this? The woman had laid claim to the house? Is that where she’d found the fine clothes for herself and her son? Rummaging through trunks while her father lay in his cold, cruel grave? And yet … that did not make any sense.

  The woman standing on the steps above them, with her long elegant neck and wise eyes, lifted her chin and slowly appraised each of the girls. She didn’t spare Mr. Shubert more than a passing glance, moving on to the slaves in the wagon—both those in proper dress and the two new ones, who were so weary they looked ready to fall asleep where they sat.

  “Welcome home, ladies,” she said with a gentle, lilting Creole accent. “I am Mitilda, housekeeper to your father,” she added proudly.

  Mr. Shubert let out a huff of a laugh, as if tempted to say a word about that but narrowly holding back.

  Primus glanced warily from Shubert to Mitilda and back again. Ket knew that Shubert had frightened him, manhandling him so, and deeply regretted it.

  “Now that you are here,” Mitilda said, “I will give over the care of this plantation to you and yours, Lady Tomlinson.” She reached for a ring of keys, tied with a ribbon at her waist, and with trembling fingers she unlaced the knot. Gracefully, she came down the last of the front-porch steps and over to Ket, offering the keys to her. They were about the same height, and she held her gaze a moment longer than even servants in England dared. Was this what rankled Mr. Shubert, her air of … authority?

  “These keys will give you access to the house,” Mitilda said, “as well as to the storehouse and the mill.”

  Keturah nodded. “Thank you. But there is no need for you to go, Mitilda. If my father trusted you as housekeeper, then so shall we.”

  Behind her, Shubert snorted. One of his companions chuckled and lightly punched the other as if in jest. Keturah stiffened but kept her attention on Mitilda.

  The thin woman with the coffee-colored skin gave her a pained smile. “I think not, Lady Tomlinson,” she said, then reached out to wrap an arm around the shoulders of the boy. “Upon his death, your father set my son, Abraham, and I free. He gave us a stipend to live on—ten pounds a year. That cottage, on the edge of the clearing, and a bit of land to work. We were jus’ looking after the place until proper relations could arrive.”

  Something about the words proper relations made Ket look to the boy again. She studied the line of his nose, the fullness of his lips. She noted the golden glint to his brown eyes that reminded her of her own, as well as of her father’s. How odd that he would have it too.

  Proper relations.

  Those eyes, like hers. Like … Father’s.

  In that moment her heart began pounding painfully in her chest, sending a wave of vertigo through her. A stipend to live on. Setting them free, when he had not done the same for any of the slaves he’d held at Hartwick Manor all their lives.

  There’d be only one reason he’d do that for these two.

  She drew a hand to her chest, even as she heard Mr. Shubert huff another laugh under his breath. This was why he’d insisted on coming here. Why he hadn’t left even after they’d arrived at the plantation. Because he wanted to witness this—their meeting with that woman and that child.

  These two who were clearly her father’s mistress … and his son.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Get out,” Keturah muttered, shaking her head. Suddenly all she felt was fury, insensible fury. How could she? How could Mitilda have done it? Taken up with a white man? Compromised his reputation? And now she stood here before them as if she was the very lady of this house? “Go!” she cried, her voice cracking. “Go!”

  “Ket,” Verity said, grabbing her sister’s wrist and turning Ket toward her. It seemed Ver hadn’t put two and two together, even though she’d been startled by an uneasy recognition.

  “Keturah!” Selah whispered, equally confused.

  But Mitilda and her boy were already moving past the gloating Mr. Shubert, his wide mouth twisting into a sneer. “You can come keep house for me now, Mitilda,” he called to her. It was as if he enjoyed seeing the woman being brought down a notch. As if this set an old wrong finally right.

  Keturah stared at Mitilda’s trim back and her swishing skirts, and at her young son, who glanced over his shoulder at them as though wondering what was happening, before she felt the first pang of regret. What was his name?

  But it was too late for Ket to call them back. Even if she tried, what would she say? She had no idea.

  Climb this tree, Ket, one limb at a time.

  “I’m certain you must be on your way, Mr. Shubert,” she said curtly, dismissing him before turning to the others. “Cuffee and Edwin, please go to the slaves’ cabins and report back to me what you find. How many still live and what their immediate needs are. Absalom, see to our two new arrivals. Bring them into the house and to the kitchen. Get them all the fresh water they can drink and see if there might be a bit of bread. Primus, take the keys and survey the outbuildings. I assume one is a storehouse. I expect a report on what you find too. Verity and Selah, come with me.” She forced a smile, trying to encourage her shaken sisters. “Let’s go see what our new home is like at last!”

  She hurried up the stairs, anxious to put more distance between herself and the neighbor’s overseer. “Good day, Mr. Shubert,” she briskly said, once they had reached the top of the creaky stairs.

  “At your service, Lady Tomlinson,” he said with a nod, a bit of a smile still tugging at his lips. He’d found what he came for—some sort of comeuppance for Mitilda and surely a story to share with others. He was only a few years older than she, but Keturah felt that he knew this world as if he’d lived here decades longer. Perhaps he had. Would the Banning women spend the rest of their days providing stories for the local gossips everywhere they went?

  Most likely, she thought with a heavy sigh. She entered the house and waited at the door until her sisters were inside, then shut out the rest. She leaned her head against the door, feeling the relief of being just their own trio for a moment.

  “Ket,” Verity began, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Was that child … was he … ?”

  “He is our brother,” Keturah whispered, nose still against the mahogany door. It held that unique tropical wood scent she had come to know aboard the Restoration.

  Selah gasped. “What did she just say?”

  “She said he’s our brother,” Verity answered stiffly.

  “Our … brother?” Selah squeaked. “How is that possible?”

  All sorts of unladylike thoughts ca
me to Keturah’s mind, but she kept silent, waiting for Selah to fully understand. Father. No, Father. How could you?

  “Oh,” Selah breathed. “I see. But … no. How could it be? How could he have done that to Mother?”

  “Mother never knew,” Ket said. She turned around, her back to the door but her hand on its iron latch, as if holding on to something helped her remain standing. Her knees felt wobbly beneath her skirts. “Just as Father was intent on our never knowing. He never thought we would come here. He never believed we would meet them ourselves. Many tried to warn us,” she added, reaching out one hand to Verity, the other to Selah. “They told us this place would shock us to our very bones, make us quake in our shoes. They said it was no place for a lady, and if this afternoon is any indication, I would say they had ample cause.”

  Ket took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But we are here, sisters. We have made it through weeks of being at sea and a threatening storm. We saved two slaves from a harsh master. We have only just endured meeting two people of … relations unlike we ever could have anticipated. And yet somehow we managed it,” she said, squeezing their hands. “Shall we not take those steps as victories and move forward from here?”

  Verity nodded slowly, and then Selah did the same, each squeezing her hand in return. Clinging to one another, they walked through the wide parlor with its large windows overlooking the steep incline of a hill and the sea far below. It was a far more marvelous view than Ket had ever imagined, with the deep green of the jungle meeting the remains of the light, bits of swaying green cane—latent stalks post-harvest—stretching all the way down to the turquoise water.

  The shutters had been left open, allowing the breeze to flow in and through the room. The girls forced themselves to turn from the captivating view and take in the peeling wallpaper, a faded leaf print, and the once-impressive mahogany crown molding and millwork, stained and splintered after years of exposure to the island’s humidity. The wooden floors were buckling in places, and the Turkish rugs were either rotting or nearly worn through. But it was all clean, Keturah surmised. Impeccably clean.