Keturah Page 17

  Nothing more, she sternly repeated to her reflection in the speckled mirror. Because she was here for her sisters. For herself. Not for a man.

  They came through the grand gates of Morning Star Plantation about six in the evening, just as the sun was beginning to sink on the horizon. Golden light streamed through the flowering trees and their entwined limbs that formed a natural roof over their heads.

  “Oh, is it not glorious?” Selah enthused, clasping her hands and looking round.

  Indeed, it is, Keturah thought. The Welands—or their predecessors—had obviously been planting along the road for generations. The aroma of the flowers was an intoxicating mix of sweet and spice. “Such a heavenly smell,” Ket said. She closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and breathed it in deeply.

  “It is, truly,” Verity agreed, doing the same.

  Their eyes met, and for the first time Keturah didn’t feel guilt for wrenching her sisters away from English society, for exposing them to the dangers found aboard a ship or in the midst of such a far place. Instead, she felt pure glee in sharing this moment, this moment they would never have experienced anywhere else but here.

  Verity took her hand, squeezed it, and then looked upward again, as did Keturah and Selah. There were vast banks of yellow bells, reminding Ket of daffodils, and yet they grew in fat clumps forming a riot of gold. There were the curious primal red and yellow blooms of the claw crab and the teeny numerous white stars of butterfly jasmine, lending the air a heady scent. Purple-and rose-colored bougainvillea vines wound their way around tree trunks and across lava-black rocks.

  “Do you think we might plant some things like this along the entrance of Tabletop?” Selah asked.

  “I think it would be a grand idea,” Keturah said. “But perhaps we should first replace the rotting floorboards in the big house.”

  Selah nodded. “And the slaves’ cabins too. Many of them need much repair.”

  “And the mill,” added Verity. “But someday, Ket, someday I know you shall make Tabletop look even better than this!”

  They pulled through the end of the flowery tunnel, and their view shifted dramatically—encompassing miles of sugarcane fields, young and yet sprouting already, and stretching from mountain peak to sea. Everything about Morning Star Plantation was neat and tidy, evidence that they were entering one of the premier estates on-island. It hadn’t taken long for Keturah to find that many plantations along Lower Round Road were struggling, with buildings that showed signs of financial setbacks.

  Morning Star was not one of them. The Welands’ home had been freshly whitewashed, and there were billowing curtains along the porch to shield guests from the bright setting sun. The porch was much bigger than their own, wrapping around what looked like the entire house, offering a grand view of the hill that sloped gently down to the seashore. Rocking chairs and swings lined the porch, allowing for guests to take in the cooler evening air as well as the vistas. At this time of day, the water appeared sapphire blue, contrasting beautifully with the green of the cane all about them. ’Tis all so idyllic, Ket thought. What Tabletop might become too. Perhaps what Father experienced, once …

  While his mother was not in view—presumably off mingling with other guests—Jeffrey was smiling cordially and patiently awaiting their driver to pull to a stop. Like others she glimpsed beyond him, he wore a perfectly powdered, curled wig, a pristine navy coat, white shirt and matching neckcloth. Tan breeches met stockings and finely polished leather shoes. A slave in livery opened the carriage door, and another stood by to assist them as they took their skirts in one hand and made their way down the two steps to stand upon the gravel courtyard. It was only then that Mr. Weland stepped forward to greet them.

  “Welcome to Morning Star,” he said, taking Keturah’s hand in his and bending low to kiss it. She did not miss that he did not immediately drop it; in fact, he seemed reluctant to move on to Verity and Selah to do the same. And as soon as he had completed that task, he turned back to her and took her hand again, surprising her. He stretched out her arm and looked her up and down. “You look well, Lady Tomlinson. Clearly, you’ve had your first decent slumber on-island.”

  She smiled, embarrassed at his subtle reference as to the state he’d found her in yesterday. “Yes, a bit more rest, a bath, and a new gown can do wonders for a woman.”

  “Indeed,” he said, his small mouth knotting up in a most peculiar grin. Still he held her hand and appraised her once more. “Indeed,” he repeated with some enthusiasm.

  Irritated at his impropriety, she pulled her hand free and turned to her sisters, both of whom were wide-eyed at the man’s manners. “I fear we find ourselves quite parched after our ride,” she said, lifting fingers to her throat.

  “Oh yes, of course,” he said and offered his arm. “Let me introduce you about and we shall find you ladies some punch.” That last word was said with some emphasis to a nearby servant, and the man was immediately off. Mr. Weland had introduced the girls to the Takaitus family—an older man, his wife, and their three awkward sons—and seemed reluctant to introduce them to a handsome young widower named Mr. Fredrickson before abruptly moving on to a family by the name of Jones. Soon the servant returned with a silver tray with crystal cups full of a red-orange fruit juice.

  Keturah and her sisters each gratefully took a cup, as did Mr. Weland. He raised his cup in a toast. “To fine new neighbors.”

  “To fine new neighbors,” the girls intoned and then eagerly sipped from their cups. Keturah paused … and almost spit it out. Although she’d had rum punch before—the drink was a favorite at parties in London—what was in her cup seemed to be more rum than punch.

  Selah briefly met her gaze with alarm, swallowing hard as her pretty cheeks flushed pink. Keturah did not dare look to Verity, afraid she might begin laughing in a most unladylike manner. Carefully, she held her cup in her hands, and as they followed Mr. Weland as he introduced them to more of the guests, she whispered to her youngest sister, “Drink that ever so slowly, Selah. And see if you might get a servant to fetch us tea instead, would you?”

  Selah nodded, understanding her meaning. While the islanders might be accustomed to strong drink, they were not, and the last thing Keturah needed was to be intoxicated on her very first evening among her peers.

  The tea was slower to arrive than the punch, and with sips here and there, Keturah began to feel the warming effects of the drink in both her belly and her countenance. The awkwardness of meeting new neighbors and fellow islanders was eased considerably, she mused. The soiree was primarily men, who either greeted the sisters with outright joy, as if starved for female companionship, or with some contempt, as if thinking what so many others had—that Nevis was the last place three unaccompanied women should be.

  In time, the girls were separated, each swept away into conversation in various groups, each surrounded by men. It felt a little like being the belles of the ball, which Keturah had never been. As a young lady of society, she was one of the last to have her dance card filled. She was far too tall and not beautiful enough to draw the young men’s attentions. The memory of Gray fairly ignoring her after her debutante ball came to mind. She recalled how he’d asked nearly all the other girls but her to dance, and how much that had stung. Yet here on Nevis, she felt as attractive as Verity, or even Selah, given the swarm of attention. She thought even Gray might look her way this evening were he to see her.

  Not that I want that. ’Tis perfectly suitable, our friendship. A godsend, really. Did she not need a friend tonight more than another man on the hunt for a bride?

  And yet she caught herself looking about for him again. Surely he had been invited?

  Resolutely, she refused a second cup of punch when her own was empty, and finally a cup of tea arrived, strong and steamy. She smelled the welcome brew and sipped at it as she moved through the throngs of people she’d yet to meet, courteously excusing herself from the company of those who seemed to disapprove of her presence and lingering in
the company of others who seemed to think her intriguing, if not perfectly acceptable. Keturah knew she would need every friend she could find on-island, men from whom she could solicit counsel and direction, if necessary. She remembered the card her father’s friend had given her before they embarked on the Restoration—Wilson, Green, Barnes—none of whom she’d run across yet this evening. It was unfortunate, for there were myriad subjects with which she was utterly unfamiliar, countless things she had yet to learn about running a plantation, despite Philip’s efforts to prepare her when aboard the ship.

  Gray. She found herself momentarily alone on the porch, looking out toward St. Kitts and wondering again why he was not here tonight. She had been so certain he would be attending this soiree. Indeed, it seemed that most of the planters from Cotton Ground were here. Odd, she thought. Surrounded by men and you so wish for your old friend? It was only that, she reassured herself. All of these men and women were new to her, strangers. It was bound to make a girl homesick for the familiar.

  She heard someone tuning a violin … Could it be? A few more notes and she could tell the musician was on the far side of the group below, hidden from view. Taking her skirt in hand, she hurried down the steps, grinning as more notes filled the air. She nodded graciously as she made her way through the crowd, most men turning to watch her come through. Honestly, she’d never experienced so much admiration and intense interest since her debut into society.

  But when she reached the far side of the crowd, her smile faded.

  It wasn’t Gray. It was another violinist, with two others beside him. The man gave her a curious glance, a hopeful smile, and then after tapping his foot three times the trio began to play a lively tune.

  Jeffrey Weland was by her side again, and now she found his constant attentions vaguely irritating. “Do you care to dance, Lady Tomlinson?”

  “Of course,” she forced herself to graciously say. As he escorted her to the center of the courtyard, now cleared of people to make way for dancing, she saw that both of her sisters were also escorted.

  The sun was setting beyond Mr. Weland as he bowed and she curtsied, and they began to dance. She told herself to concentrate on the things that pleased her now so as not to offend her new neighbor.

  Only once had she been at a dance held out of doors. But then Lady Fairchild had always had a penchant for the avant-garde. Every other ball she’d attended had been in a proper ballroom. Back home, the Bannings had held an annual ball of their own and attended two or three others a week, especially those years they went to spend a season in London.

  She moved from one dance partner to another. Her teacup disappeared, and feeling parched she was forced to sip more rum punch between dances. Mr. Weland appeared frequently, and she knew it might cause a stir that they had danced together so much, but what was she to do? He was her host. It was also a relief to have a dance partner who was an inch or two taller than she was, for it was ever so uncomfortable whenever she towered over her escort.

  A roast pig, various fruits, and fresh bread were brought out to a long table, and Mr. Weland led her over to it. Her sisters rejoined her side, each looking dewy and happy.

  Mr. Weland lifted a crystal cup—which seemed always to be magically full, as was hers—and waited for the rest to do the same. “To a fine year and a change of fortune for all Nevisians. May this be the grandest harvest on record.”

  “Hear, hear!” cried everyone in unison.

  But Keturah fought to keep from squirming. Because as he said the grandest harvest, Mr. Weland had given her the oddest look. As if he half anticipated harvesting her. She thought it quite strange. But then the succulent smell of the roast pork distracted her, her stomach rumbling as if on cue.

  They took their seats at small tables arranged about the gardens rather than at one long table. Is this how Nevisians entertain? Keturah wondered. It was a far cry from the paneled dining rooms of the mansions of London, and yet the breeze felt deliciously welcome, especially after eight turns on the dance floor. To go inside at that moment would have felt like a travesty—the last thing she wanted to do. And to dine here, surrounded by swaying palms and the scents of jasmine and sea salt on the air, the jungle coming alive with the sounds of crickets and chattering monkeys … well, it was like a heavenly picnic, she thought. Blessedly, it was only the three Banning sisters and an ancient deaf woman named Widow Foster at their table, giving her a temporary reprieve from the constant male attention.

  The girls were abuzz about one handsome neighbor or another and questioned Ket about Mr. Weland’s obvious interest in her.

  “I believe he is only being cordial,” Keturah said, trying to settle them. “Friendly just as any proper neighbor would be.”

  Verity lifted one brow and eyed her thoughtfully as she chewed and swallowed. “Any proper neighbor, Ket?”

  Keturah looked past her sister to the many people gathered around fifty other tiny tables about the grounds and saw that many of them stole glances in their direction. She leaned forward. “They are merely curious. We are the newest arrivals, after all, and it appears that females are in fearfully short supply.”

  “True,” Verity said. She paused to take a few sips of punch. “But I’ve also heard whispers. You, dear sister, are the talk of the party. I believe you shall have a constant stream of suitors, whether you’re ready to entertain them or not.”

  “No,” Keturah said, frowning and shaking her head. She despised how her heart began pounding, as though she were a girl of fifteen rather than a mature woman.

  “Yes,” Ver countered, her lips hovering above the rim of her cup. “Because you are a widow and an heiress, and if there is one thing all these men want, ’tis a woman with sterling behind her name.”

  Keturah’s breath caught, and her stomach sank. Of course. How could she be so foolish? It wasn’t that Mr. Weland and all these other men thought she was beautiful. She’d not somehow become more beguiling, more alluring than even her pretty sisters merely by crossing the Atlantic.

  She set down her cup of rum punch firmly and drew a deep breath. Her inheritance from Edward would be barely enough to give Tabletop a chance at recovery. Enough for two, perhaps three, harvests. And that was if they were careful. Not nearly enough to save another’s failing plantation—and she would never wish it to pour into the already-full coffers of one such as Morning Star.

  Why did it always boil down to wealth? When might she find someone who regarded her for who she was rather than what she could provide? Was love, true love, an utter myth?

  She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the party with eyes cooled by new understanding. These men wanted to use her, to take advantage of her. Perhaps some fancied marrying her simply so they could eke every bit from her that they could, just as Edward had tried to do.

  It was a game, really, as was all of life. But she would no longer be a pawn in that game. She had learned the rules the hard way.

  And no one would be taking advantage of her or hers ever again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Keturah, forgive me,” Verity said with a frown as Ket rose and told them to prepare to leave. “I have managed to ruin your festive mood.”

  “No, no,” Ket said, forcing a smile. “It is good to be reminded of the truth, no matter the setting. Come. Let us thank the Welands and summon Primus to fetch the carriage. It is best to leave them all wishing for more of our company than less, is it not?”

  Her sisters nodded, but she could tell that her swiftly evolving perspective was affecting them too. That was all right, for if men here sought Keturah out for her wealth, so might they attempt the same with her sisters. While neither Verity nor Selah had to their names what Keturah had, few here knew it. Certainly, they could see Tabletop had fallen on difficult times, yet they also knew the Bannings still held Hartwick Manor and quite a large tract of land back home. None would know of the debts on the ledgers there; they’d only see what so many saw. The outside. How things appeared. The grand
, pristine lines of a mansion. The manicured gardens. The fine gowns the girls wore and the many servants.

  All while the foundation crumbled from beneath their feet.

  Keturah swallowed hard, said farewell to her new acquaintances, artfully dodging one flirtatious comment after another, keen now to the game that was afoot. It was with some relief that she sank into the back of the carriage, surrounded by her sisters’ stiff silences, displeased that they’d been pulled from what they considered a delightful party.

  As they rode along in the quiet of the carriage, it was Verity who tried again. “Ket,” she whispered so that Primus wouldn’t overhear, “forgive me, but did it bring up memories of Edward?”

  “It brought up memories of being used as a woman, in every sense of the word,” Keturah bit out. Instantly, she regretted her words. She should have framed them more delicately. She let out a groan and took Verity’s hand, then Selah’s. “It made me remember that I will not allow a man to take advantage of any of us. Ever again.”

  They both paused. Then Selah said, “You can try. But our lives are in God’s hands, Ket. Not our own.”

  This time, Keturah managed to hold her tongue a moment. Then, “But does not God himself expect us to use our minds? Our sound judgment?”

  “Of course,” Selah said. “But this is a harsh world, full of harsh realities. We cannot expect to shield ourselves from all harm, forever. You cannot assume you can do that for us. We shall, as you say, use our good minds. Look for God’s lead and do our best to follow. But we cannot live in fear of hurt. It will keep us from venturing into new things, welcoming new people.”

  “And we need to welcome new people into our lives,” Verity put in. “If we are to make it here, Ket, we cannot do it alone.”

  Ket shook her head slowly. She was thankful for the dark, so her sisters couldn’t see her roll her eyes. They were so naïve. And she was glad for it, in some ways. Glad they hadn’t yet experienced the hurts that had left her so guarded. And yet she was determined to protect them as well as she could, for as long as she could. Despite their wishes.