Respectable Trade Read online

  Frances did not answer. She knew that they should not have sent for Sir Charles, with his tainted expertise. She knew why the woman who had named herself Died of Shame was eating earth and pouring earth on her head and streaking her face with it. Frances knew that she was inviting a rapist to order how his victim should be managed. She knew that she was being slowly and effectively corrupted by a system over which she had no control.

  “How will he know what to do?” she asked.

  “Clearwater is one of the best-run plantations on Jamaica.”

  “But he said that a quarter of their slaves died within the first year and another quarter within the next four, just through illness. He loses even more by punishments and selling on.”

  “That’s quite good, actually,” Miss Cole remarked. “Some plantations, especially those that are low-lying in fever country, lose every single slave within a couple of seasons.”

  Frances seated herself at the table and picked up the sheet she had been darning. “Sir Charles said that of every ten slaves shipped out of Africa, two die on the voyage, two more die the first year, and then another two are dead by the fourth year,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “So for every ten that have been caught and shipped, only four are left alive by the end of five years.”

  Miss Cole nodded. “And this is why it is such a reliable trade,” she observed. “That is why it is such good business for us.”

  Frances inclined her head. “I see.”

  The two women sat in silence until Miss Cole, looking down at the quay, said, “Here he is,” as Sir Charles strolled up to the front door and hammered on it with his pearl-handled stick.

  He came into the parlor behind Brown. He kissed Miss Cole’s hand, bowed low over Frances’s hand, and kissed it gently. He straightened up and gave her a little intimate, roguish smile. He looked like a charming boy caught in an apple orchard with bulging pockets. He very nearly winked.

  “Forgive me,” he said in his warm, flirtatious tone. “I should have presented myself with my compliments this morning. My daughter and I enjoyed a most excellent evening with you. Alas! I overslept—your wine was very fine!”

  “We sent for you because we have some difficulty with one of the slaves,” Miss Cole interrupted.

  He turned from scanning Frances’s face and smiled at her. “Anything I can do to assist—you only have to command me.”

  “Frances has the managing of them,” Miss Cole said, allocating blame where it was due. “And now one of them is behaving very strangely. They are all moaning, and it is disturbing Cook.”

  Sir Charles gave a little seductive laugh and flickered a smile at Frances. “We cannot have that excellent cook disturbed for one moment. Would you like me to see them?”

  “It is just one,” Frances said quietly. “She will not eat food. . . . She is eating—”

  “Earth?” he guessed.

  Frances’s glance flew to his face. “You knew?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not unusual. A foul habit, isn’t it? The women do it often. It makes them sick as dogs. They get the yaws, and they will eat it till they die sometimes. It is their mad spite. They know they are robbing you of their purchase price. They are insane with spite. You will need to use a bridle, ma’am.”

  “A bridle?”

  He tutted in irritation. “Of course, you will not have one to hand. I had thought myself at home! We put a bridle on them when they eat soil. A metal cage which goes around the face, under the jaw, with a gag of metal across the mouth. Their driver must take it off at mealtimes and watch her to make sure she eats her food. She must wear it all the rest of the time. They are cunning as monkeys. If they want to eat dirt, they will get their hands on it somehow. The only way is to gag their mouths.”

  “And you frequently use these devices?” Miss Cole asked, interested.

  “We could not run the plantations without them. We use it on those who eat earth, and many people put their cooks and kitchen maids in bridles to stop them tasting as they work. This is a common problem for us, ma’am, and a common solution. I could draw one for you, and a farrier could make it up. It looks like a scold’s bridle from olden times—it has the advantage of making them dumb as well! Which one is causing the trouble? What size is she?”

  Miss Cole looked at Frances. Frances wanted to say, “the one you raped,” but she found she could not. The man stood before her, smiling, assured, charming. She could not name him as a rapist. He had assaulted a woman, and now she ate dirt and heaped dirt on her head, and Frances was dumb.

  “The largest woman,” she said, cowardly.

  “Well, you’ll just want a medium-size one, then,” Sir Charles said comfortably. “It has to be tight enough to cut into the mouth, to press against the lips, against the teeth and gums. They learn the lesson well that way. If she bleeds a little around the mouth, it is no great loss. Here, I’ll sketch one out for you.”

  Miss Cole gestured to the parlor table and put paper and a pen before him. With swift, confident sweeps of the pen, he drew a little helmet with an open socket for the nose and a smooth plate that blocked the mouth, fastening behind the head with leather straps.

  “Don’t be discouraged,” he said kindly to Frances. “One little setback means nothing. I am sure you are making good progress.”

  “Thank you,” Frances said stiltedly.

  “Now, come back with me to my hotel!” he commanded. “And take a glass of wine and a little luncheon with me there! Honoria will join us; she is longing to improve her friendship with you, Mrs. Cole.”

  Frances glanced at Miss Cole, who was flustered and flattered. “You must give us a moment to put on our bonnets. Shall I need a cape or a shawl?”

  “It’s as cold as ever, but it has stopped raining, thank God!” Sir Charles exclaimed. “I shall wait for as long as you need to get ready, Miss Cole. It’s not often I have the honor of a beauty on either arm. I would wait all day for the privilege.” He smiled at her, and Miss Cole flushed with pleasure. His sideways gleam to Frances gave the compliment to her. His powerful maleness, his confidence of his own desirability filled the little room.

  Frances went slowly to the door. She did not want to put her hand on Sir Charles’s arm. She did not want to have luncheon with him. She did not want to see his knowing little smile or hear his half-shamed, half-bragging chuckle. She thought of him taking the black woman against her consent, and of all the other black women he had used, against their wills. She paused at the door, nerving herself to refuse.

  “This is a great pleasure for me.” Sir Charles beamed. “I have such little occasion for the society of English ladies. I can feel myself becoming more civilized minute by minute.”

  Frances felt the traitorous weakness of her polite smile. “Oh, good,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  13

  THE LUNCH PARTY WAS not a great success, although Sir Charles was a charming and expansive host and Miss Cole was delighted to be in his company. Honoria was as coldly polite as she had been the previous night. Frances could feel the sick thudding of her headache coming back.

  “You are pale, Mrs. Cole,” Honoria said in her rich, languid accent. “You are so lucky. I have to shield my face from the sun all the time at home. Mama is terrified of me getting brown—brown like the girls.”

  “I don’t feel very well,” Frances said quietly.

  “The strains of new married life, eh?” Sir Charles interrupted, smiling intimately down the table at Frances. “Running a house, teaching the slaves. You must tell Josiah that he must not work you too hard!”

  “It is not the work,” Frances said. “I worked harder when I was at home.” She felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the rectory and the little village where she and her father were well known along every lane and track and where she enjoyed a constant sense of self-righteousness. “I used to walk in all weathers. I used to visit the poor; my father was the rector and my uncle, Lord Scott, the landlord. It is the countryside I mis