Dangerous Waters (27 page)

“Dr Crossley –” Phoebe began.

Abba's chin rose. “You a stranger here, Doctor. Better you take miss and go.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Phoebe blurted, folding her arms across her aching stomach. She longed to leave. But she couldn't. Not until she had done what she came here to do. “I'm tired, I'm hungry, and as for getting on a horse again –” she shook her head.

Jowan grasped her shoulders. “Phoebe –”

“Doctor,” Abba moved out of Phoebe's line of vision. “You take miss down hall. Nice room, plenty chair. She rest awhile. I bring food for her.”

Phoebe closed her eyes, bracing herself for an icy response to the housekeeper's impertinence.
He wanted to break me like he break his horses.
Abba had been Rupert's mistress. Rupert had seduced her daughter, his own half-sister, and fathered her child.

Jowan's grip loosened. “Er, yes. Perhaps that would be for the best.” He sounded almost conciliatory.

Phoebe was so relieved she dismissed fleeting suspicion as a reflection of her own anxieties. Lord knew she had plenty. But they were not for sharing. And to ask what had prompted his sudden reversal would be like throwing a gift back in his face.

He stood aside. “After you, Miss Dymond.”

Taking a step forward Phoebe stopped. “Oh –” She indicated her medicine chest standing open on the cupboard beneath the window.

“I bring,” Abba said. “You go.”

“As soon as possible if you please,” Jowan instructed the housekeeper.

His palm warm beneath her elbow as he guided her along the hall, a sensation that was both comfort and torture. She had expected life here to be different from Cornwall. But the reality was far beyond anything she could have imagined. She felt naïve and foolish and terribly alone.

“I think this must be –” He leaned past her to open the door. He was so close. She longed to rest her head against his shoulder, to draw on his strength. Terrified he might notice the surge of hot colour in her cheeks she immediately lowered her eyes.

“Ah yes.” He ushered her inside.

A veranda shaded the windows from the sun, and gauze curtains filtered the late afternoon light. Elegant chairs, sofas and side tables were grouped around the spacious high-ceilinged room. Gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls and a Turkey rug covered half the dark wood floor. But the musty smell hinted at damp and lack of use.

“This house is filthy,” Jowan grated. “It's obvious that Quintrell's – illness – has been seized on as an excuse for idleness. And the housekeeper must bear responsibility for – “

“No doubt you're right,“ Phoebe moved away rubbing her upper arms. “But there are circumstances – perhaps a little compassion – “

“Compassion?” Jowan's brows lifted.

“The girl who just died – “

“What about her?”

Phoebe's throat closed.
So young to die, and in such a way.
Was Abba right? Was Chalice better off dead than living as a slave breeding more slaves? “She was Abba's daughter and only twelve years old.”

“
Abba's
daughter? But she looked –” The shock on Jowan's face was followed by another emotion so swiftly masked it was gone before Phoebe could identify it. “This godforsaken place –” he broke off. “Forgive me, I –” He stopped again and took a deliberate breath. “The situation here makes it imperative that you return immediately to Kingston until –” he hesitated. “Until the danger is past.”

Phoebe's thoughts raced. She had never intended, nor did she want to stay. But nor could she leave without fulfilling her obligation. “I can't just
go
. Not until – I – I haven't even seen him.”

“It really would not be wise. Mr Quintrell's condition – “

“Yes, so you have said. And I understand the risks.”

“No, you don't.” Jowan was grim. “Or you would not be arguing.”

“It's not that simple,” Phoebe cried. Despite the humid heat she felt shivery. “While you were upstairs – “she broke off. She would not add to his burdens by confiding what she had learned. Rupert Quintrell's morals – or lack of them – were not Jowan Crossley's concern. She had virtually blackmailed him into escorting her here. He had complied with more grace and kindness than she deserved. And the prospect of a future without him in it –

Swallowing the painful stiffness in her throat she forced a smile. “It was very good of you to accompany me. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say. Naturally you must return to Kingston as soon as possible. Mr Burley will want you aboard the ship. But I cannot go.”
Not immediately
. Unable to keep still she moved about the room, touching an ornament, straightening a china bowl. “By your own admission Mr Quintrell is desperately ill. Both he and the house have been dreadfully neglected. If I were to go now what is to prevent the slaves once again leaving him alone and untended? I cannot simply abandon him
.
”
Even if he deserves no better.

Striding forward Jowan spun her round to face him. His features were taut and she winced as his fingers dug into her flesh. “You don't understand.”

His expression frightened her but she stood firm. “No, it's
you
who don't understand. I have an obligation.”

He shook his head violently. “You don't. Believe me. In fact, you –” About to say something else he clenched his teeth as if to physically stop the words spilling out. “Phoebe, listen. You cannot stay here.”

She spun round, the strain beyond bearing. “Why not?”

His eyes bored into hers. “Because – because –”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Terrified of betraying herself, terrified she might be wrong, she looked down so her lashes veiled her eyes. She could not breathe, hardly dared to hope. But if he acknowledged what she had glimpsed, if he said what was in his heart, then she could do the same. And that would change everything. For though she must still see Rupert to tell him she could not marry him, and ensure he would be properly cared for, after that she would be free.

Abruptly releasing her he turned away, raking his hair with both hands. “Because –” his voice was harsh. “You are not of age, nor yet married.”

The disappointment was crushing.
She had been so sure.
How could she have got it so utterly wrong? Swaying, she reached blindly for the carved back of the sofa. Pride alone kept her upright. She spoke wildly, no longer caring. “If that is your only objection then it is easily remedied. Send for a clergyman.”

“My only – ?“ A raw laugh ripped from his throat as he paced up and down. “If you but knew.”

“Then tell me,” she hurled the words at his back. “Is it your duty to my uncle? Is that what is preying on you? If so, be reassured. By bringing me here your obligation is discharged. My actions are no longer your concern, nor my welfare your responsibility.
You
are free to leave at once.”

“
Free?”
He turned, and the anguish on his face shocked her. “I wish –” He inhaled deeply. “Believe me, if there was any way to spare you – but there is not. Phoebe, Rupert Quintrell has syphilis.”

Phoebe felt her legs give way.
Syphilis?
The man to whom she was betrothed had
syphilis?
Her mind flashed back to what Abba had said.
Men think if they go with virgin girl it make them clean again.
She had seen what the disease could do. The uncle of one of Aunt Sarah's clients had turned from neat, cheery shipping clerk into a foul-mouthed man whose sudden inexplicable rages had terrified his family. He had hoarded old newspapers, prowling the town at night to find more, forgetting who or where he was. Grossly fat from morbid eating he had lost control of his bladder and bowels and begun having convulsions. During one of these he had fallen and cracked his skull on a brass fender. His death shortly after had been a blessed release, both for him and for his shattered family.

Had William Quintrell been aware of his son's condition?
No, she would not believe – Surely he could not have known yet still sought a wife for Rupert?
And what of Uncle George
? The possibility that he too might have – Her vision went dark and the room spun. She vaguely aware of a strong supporting arm, her shoulder pressed against a broad chest, and a great wave of relief as she sank down onto a sofa. She drew deep shaky breaths and the blackness receded.

“Is he – ?” She tried again. “Has he lost his senses?”

Jowan turned from the window. “No. His mind is still sound – or as sound as it ever was. But I believe him to be in the final stages of the disease.”

“How –” Her voice emerged as a cracked whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “How long – ?” she couldn't finish the question.

“Will he live?” Jowan shook his head. “A few weeks at most. But who knows how many others in this house have been infected? You must see you are in danger. And every hour you spend here increases the risk. Look at this place,” he gestured angrily. “Look at the state of it.”

Phoebe rose and moved away. Only by putting physical distance between them would she be able to do what was necessary. She prayed silently for strength. “It's filthy,” she agreed. “And without supervision it will get worse. So will everything else.”

“That is not – “

“My concern?” Phoebe interrupted. “I cannot agree. All I know of Rupert Quintrell's character is what I have heard from his father who spoke nothing but praise, Mr Matcham who bore him great ill-will, and Abba whom he taunted with her twelve-year-old daughter. He may indeed be everything that is unpleasant. But my own situation – an orphan with no dowry – hardly recommended me. This marriage offered me status, a home, and –”

His face was rigid. “And that will make you happy?”

Though she had used the past tense to describe her reasons for accepting Rupert's proposal, Jowan's question implied she still intended to accept it. She dared not correct him. If she did he would feel constrained to continue as her guardian, a situation intolerable to them both.

“Happiness cannot be bought,” she said. “Nor did I expect it.” She tilted her chin, drawing on every ounce of courage. “I do not tell you this in a bid for sympathy, Doctor Crossley. Indeed I'm sure there are others who find themselves in far worse situations. But as far as my uncle was concerned I had become something of a problem. Mr Quintrell's proposal offered a satisfactory solution. I would not have
chosen
to marry a stranger. But someone in my position does not have the luxury of choice. Mr Quintrell's offer included a promise that not only would I be permitted to continue my work, I would be encouraged to do so. You cannot understand what – “

Jowan's features were bleak. “On the contrary, I understand perfectly. You are declining my offer of escort to safety. You prefer instead to marry a man of notorious reputation who is dying from the effects of a lifetime's debauchery.”

“No!” Phoebe tried to stop him. “That is not at all – If you will let me explain –”

“Do not trouble.” He was icy. “You have made yourself abundantly clear. And you will be a widow soon enough. No doubt inheriting the plantation will soften that blow and compensate for all the unpleasant tasks you must face in the meantime. Forgive my impertinence. Clearly my concern was neither necessary nor welcome.”

Phoebe stared at him, stunned by both his bitter hostility and his refusal to let her explain that though she intended breaking her engagement to Rupert Quintrell, she could not walk away and abandon him to slaves who had little reason to be merciful. Grief was solid leaden lump in her chest. She swallowed painfully.

“If that is how you view my actions then we have nothing more to say to one another – ever.”

Turning her back so he would not see her desperate battle to retain control, she heard the door open. Isaac shuffled in with a tray containing a bowl of savoury stew, two slices of corn bread of a small plate and a glass of mango juice.

“Dis here is calalou, miss. Abba say you eat, then sit a while and rest. Doctor, please you come long a-me.”

Responding to Jowan's formal bow with an equally formal curtsey Phoebe watched him leave, her back straight and her head high. But after the door closed behind Isaac she sank down onto the nearest chair. She was beyond pain, too shocked even to be angry. No doubt both would come later. She looked at the food then turned away. How could she eat?
But she must, for how else would she remain strong? And if she were to fall ill what use would she be to Rupert or Abba or anyone else?

The first mouthful rekindled her hunger. Refusing to think she concentrated fiercely on the flavours of beef, chicken, shrimp, tomatoes, onions and greens in their spicy broth. Spooning up the last of the stew she slowly chewed the corn bread crust. Rinsing her mouth with the remaining mango juice she set down the glass. She felt soothed and replete, but suddenly irresistibly sleepy. The intense demands of the past two days had finally caught up.

She stumbled over to the sofa and lay down. She shouldn't really – there was so much to do. And that was good because she wouldn't have time to think. Or to remember the suffering in Jowan's eyes or the bleakness of his expression, or those terrible wounding words he had hurled like daggers. Why had he been so angry? Why had he refused to listen?

She felt herself falling and fought to keep her eyes open. She was so dreadfully tired. Just a few minutes' rest…Then she would… Darkness enveloped her and she sank into oblivion.

Chapter Twenty Two

She knew she was dreaming yet the sensations were frighteningly real. She was lying down so she must be in bed. But it was jolting and swaying. She could hear creaking and rumbles and complicated drum rhythms that rose and fell in waves. They were faint but insistent and reached inside her touching something in her soul. No, this was wrong. It was Uncle George who had heard them. And he had refused to talk about it. Now she understood why, for they stirred feelings that were strange and unnerving. How was it possible that in the multi-layered sound she could recognise rage against injustice, aching homesickness, and grief for everything lost?
She was dreaming.

The stifling darkness was thick with the smell of straw, earth, old vegetables, raw sugar, rum, and soap.
Soap?
As it dawned on her that the warmth against her side was another body, the deep
boom
of an explosion made her heart leap violently and stopped her breath.

She didn't only hear it she felt the vibration through her body. Panic choked her and she struggled desperately to sit up. But something was holding her down. She tried to fight but her arms and legs wouldn't respond. Trapped, helpless, she became aware of a quiet voice –
Jowan's voice
– saying over and over again that she was safe. But she wasn't. If he was here she was in terrible danger because she might betray herself, and he didn't want her. She was screaming but no sound emerged. No one could hear her. No one was listening.

The drumming faded and in its place she heard the simple reassuring rhythm of a heartbeat. Too exhausted to struggle she gave up and drifted away from sounds she didn't understand: and from the discomfort, the fear, and sadness as cold and deep as the Atlantic swell.

No longer an enemy, the darkness absorbed her and she became part of it. She felt warm breath against her face as the quiet voice murmured. She couldn't hear the words but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more.

A deafening crack followed by a low rumble jerked her back to consciousness. With a gasp she jerked up, wincing and covering her eyes against the brilliant lightning flash. Thunder cracked and rolled once more. She sagged as relief loosened muscles rigid with terror. It was just a storm.
That other blast had been part of her dream.
She rubbed her forehead. It felt stuffed with cotton and her bones ached.

“Good morning.”

Her eyes flew open and she gasped, bewilderment growing as she looked round. She was in a four-wheeled wagon surrounded by pots, baskets and canvas-wrapped bundles. Isaac was driving. He had exchanged his livery for a ragged shirt but she recognised his grey woolly head. Quamin was beside him with a musket across his knees. Jowan sat with his back against the tailboard, his booted legs crossed at the ankle inches from her hip. His face was tired and drawn, his expression sombre.

“I thought –”
She hadn't been dreaming. But how much of the nightmare was real.
Her throat was dry, her voice husky. “Where are we?

“Approaching Kingston.”

Withdrawing as far as the confined space would allow, Phoebe hugged her knees.
Kingston?
She opened her mouth to ask, but closed it again. Her head hurt. Lightning flashed, instantly followed by deafening thunder so close she felt the vibration. Overhead the treetops disappeared into frayed purple cloud. She flinched as a large raindrop hit her cheek. Another splashed onto her hand and slid between her clenched fingers.

Seizing some roughly folded canvas Jowan shook it out and swung it over his shoulders, holding it forward. “Come, it's not much, but it may keep off the worst.” Confused by his reserve – so different from yesterday's contempt
and his gentle reassurance in her dream –
Phoebe didn't move. Still groggy, not sure what was real or what was happening, she gazed dully at the straw mats and rumpled grey blanket spread out beneath her.

Realisation pierced her like a blade.
This was last night's bed. Here she had slept in Jowan Crossley's arms
. Vivid impressions tumbled through her mind: of terrors soothed, of peace and safety. But these were pushed aside by contrasting images of his bleak bitter expression and devastating accusations before he had walked out, leaving her annihilated.

Embarrassed, mortified and furiously angry, she felt a rush of heat surge from her toes to her scalp. Turning away from him her gaze fell on the baskets, iron pots and calabashes crammed against the sides of the cart.

The calabash lamp: alight when Abba had taken her to Chalice. Later, when Jowan had led her away she had noticed, but her mind had been on other things. She remembered now. The table had been dark, the flame extinguished. Abba had called it a charm lamp. She'd said she was burning it to make a wish come true: a wish for Rupert. Phoebe had assumed she meant for his recovery. But that was before she learned the truth about Chalice's baby.

On the driving seat Isaac and Quamin hunched their shoulders against the downpour.

“Phoebe – Miss Dymond,” he corrected himself, his voice low. “Please, there is no need for you to get wet.”

He had kidnapped her and now he was offering shelter?
She hadn't wanted to stay
. But he hadn't known that nor had he allowed her to explain.
If he could believe her capable of such reasoning, such actions, as those he'd accused her of, why should he care if she got wet or caught cold?
That was obvious. He still felt responsible for her.
A burden neither of them wanted.
She longed to jump out of the cart, run away from the scene of her humiliation, away from him. But she had no idea which way to go. And she felt horribly weak.

She shook her head. “The rain isn't cold.” She looked down at primrose muslin now wet as well as creased and grubby, and the green jacket that someone – Abba?
Him? –
had buttoned her into after she had fallen asleep.

Startled, she saw him toss the canvas aside and raise his face to the teeming rain. Within moments his hair was plastered to his scalp.

“You're right,” he said.

The deluge stopped as suddenly as it had started. Rays of sunlight slanted through the trees and a soft pattering filled the steamy air as water dripped from foliage. Darted from the undergrowth a huge iridescent dragonfly hovered above a puddle on the rutted track then zig-zagged away through a spiralling cloud of midges.

Pressing fingertips to her temples, Phoebe tried to concentrate. She remembered eating the calalou Isaac had brought into the drawing room. Afterwards she had felt overwhelmingly tired, and must have fallen asleep. But to have slept for so long, and not woken even when someone –
Jowan? –
had lifted her off the sofa and carried her to this cart –

She stiffened, her head jerking up. “You drugged me.”

“Actually, it was Abba. While you and I were talking in the drawing room she added some sedatives from your medicine chest to the food.”

“
Abba?
” Phoebe struggled to accept that the housekeeper would do such a thing entirely on her own initiative. Then realised she hadn't. “But you knew.” It was a statement not a question. She remembered how Abba had moved round behind her, the sudden alteration in Jowan's voice. Abba must have signalled her intention,
and he had agreed.
But if he had known what was planned, known he intended to take her away from the plantation, then why
why
had he said such terrible things?

“Yes, I knew. And had she not done it, I would have.” His gaze flickered before returning to meet hers directly. “There was no alternative. You had refused to leave. I could not risk you being harmed.”

Phoebe hugged her knees. She didn't understand. “Why would anyone want to harm me?”

“Don't be naïve, Phoebe. You're white. As far as the slaves are concerned that alone is sufficient reason.”

“But I've never – “

“I know. You have never ill-treated anyone. And you did your best to help Abba's daughter. That's why she had the cart made ready and sent Isaac with us. She wanted us away from Grove Hill before dark.”

Phoebe recalled her nightmare: so vivid it had seemed real.

She moistened her lips. “Last night – I dreamed –” she hesitated, not wanting to ask him, needing to know, yet not wanting to hear. “An explosion –” She knew at once from his expression. “It was real?” At his brief nod shock tingled down her arms in pins and needles.

What had happened last night?
“Was it – Did it come from Grove Hill?”

“Yes.” He was terse.

“The house?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “It might have started in the processing works or the distilling shed.”

“Started? You mean – ?”

“In wooden buildings where rum is made and stored an explosion would inevitably lead to fire. And with so much fuel available any fire is likely to have spread.”

She bit her lip. They both knew that the house was some distance from the processing plant. So if the house had burned it would not have been an accident.

“Who – ?” Her throat dried and she had to swallow before she could continue. “The Maroons?”

He shrugged. “It's possible.” But she could see he didn't believe it. “I think it more likely to have been the Grove Hill slaves.”

“But why?” Before he could reply she added quickly, “I'm not totally ignorant. I'm well aware most slaves endure a wretched existence. But they have put up with it for many years. And Mr Downey told me that though plantation owners live in constant fear of rebellion the risks are actually quite low. If only because Creole slaves born in Jamaica would never join any uprising led by an African-born slave.”

Jowan nodded.

“So something must have happened to –”

“It did. The new overseer was promised a bonus if he could bring the crop in by August. So he's been making the slaves work eighteen to twenty hours a day. That means they haven't had time to tend their vegetable grounds. And those are their main source of food.”

“Were they starving?”

“They were certainly hungry.”

But not actually starving.
Phoebe forced herself to think. Blowing up the boiling and cooling houses, the workshops and the still would leave the slaves without work, without a place to live, and facing the death penalty. “Something else must have happened.” She saw the flash in his eyes and instantly dropped her gaze.
Admiration?
It was more likely to be impatience.

“Several slaves were caught pilfering cane syrup. They distil it to make a rough spirit. Apparently such theft is universal during crop time. Most owners and overseers ignore it because if the slaves are happier they are less likely to cause trouble over the heavier workload.But in this instance the slaves were punished in a way intended to act as a deterrent.”

“What – ?”

“I think it's better that you don't – “

“Oh please,” Phoebe didn't hide her impatience. She was in turmoil. She felt raw and exposed: angry and betrayed by his connivance with Abba in removing her from Grove Hill, and ashamed of her relief that the decision had been taken out of her hands. But uppermost in her mind was the agonising realisation that she had spent the night in his arms, that she had sought
and found
comfort from the man whose withering contempt and terrible accusations had wounded her beyond bearing.

She could hear her racing heartbeat and relived the shock and excruciating hurt. Her eyes burned but she swallowed the tears. She would die rather than let him see her weep.

“When we were aboard the
Providence
and you needed my assistance you managed to forget my gender. Try to forget it again now and tell me what was done to them.”

His jaw tightened and she saw a tiny muscle jumping at the corner of his mouth. “As you will. Their right hands were cut off and the stumps sealed with hot pitch to prevent them bleeding to death thus evading the full effect of the punishment.”

Phoebe fought nausea. She had wanted to know. Now she did. “But surely the overseer would have neither the right nor the authority to – “

“You're correct, he didn't. It was the owner's decision.”

Oh dear God. Rupert had sent such an order from his sick-bed?
“When did – when was the punishment carried out?“

“Two days ago. Yesterday afternoon when I left you, Isaac took me to Abba. She warned me that a
calenda
was planned. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes, it's a voodoo night-dance.”

“I understand from Mr Downey –” his gaze caught hers. “I too was fortunate enough to enjoy several stimulating and informative conversations with him. I learned things that –” he stopped. “Well, no matter.” Drawing a breath he continued in a more detached tone. “He told me that these dances provoke powerful emotions. Coming so soon after being forced to watch the mutilation of their work-mates and taking into account the effect of any cane spirit that had not been confiscated, one slave calling for revenge would have been all that was needed to set off a conflagration.”

Phoebe's imagination conjured the scene in horrifying detail.

“We had to leave while it was still possible to do so,” Jowan said. “Had we remained –” He fell silent. “Abba reasoned that with most of the slaves taking part in the dance that any rebel slaves or maroons lurking in the area would also be drawn to it. Those few hours offered the best – the only – chance for us to get away without anyone noticing.”

Phoebe remembered the women working in the kitchen. “What about the household slaves? If the others – if the house was –” she swallowed.

Jowan shrugged. “No doubt having stolen whatever they could carry they would flee to safety in the north-west of the island where there are steep forested hills and ravines. Few whites are brave or foolhardy enough to go there.”