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  “I wonder if we might be paid a wage,” he said.

  “What?” She recoiled as if he had slapped her. “A wage?”

  “We work as Cook works,” he went on persuasively. “She is paid wages and has time off. We are servants as she is.”

  “But you are slaves!”

  “I wish we could be servants. I could be content as your servant. I could serve you and have my pride.”

  “It’s not possible. . . .”

  “No, Frances,” he said quickly. “It is this which is not possible. I cannot be owned by you any longer. I have to have my freedom. I cannot be with you as I want to be with you, unless I am a freeman. Anything else shames us both. I want you to pay me, to pay all of us, and then at least I would be here by my own choice, I would be my own man.”

  “Josiah would never agree. . . . Sarah would never allow it.”

  “If you paid me enough, I could rent a room and you could come to me. We could be together under my roof, not hidden, not secret.”

  She shook her head. “It is not possible, my dear. It is not possible.”

  “You are the owner.”

  “In name alone. Everything I own, from my clothes to my father’s dining table, became Josiah’s when we married. It is his scheme; he bought you and the others. If you and the others were freed, who would pay? Sarah keeps the accounts. There are the shipping costs and your food and livery—”

  “We could pay you back, out of our wages.”

  She shook her head. “Mehuru—you have been sold and John has been sold for a hundred and ten guineas each! You could never earn that amount! Cook is paid only thirteen pounds a year, and she is trained. This is all part of a scheme; you are the first consignment, and then there will be other slaves coming, and they . . .” She trailed off at the thunderstruck look on his face. “What is the matter? What is it?”

  “Did you say I am sold? And the little boy John is sold?”

  She nodded.

  “You have sold me?”

  Her eyes flickered from him to the door as if she wished someone would interrupt them. “Cicero, I—”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t call me Cicero!” he said in a sharp undertone. “In your bedroom you called me Mehuru! I won’t be a freeman in your bed and a slave in your parlor.”

  “Mehuru . . . the sale has not gone through. It was an offer only, and Josiah has accepted it. It was before Easter . . . before I knew. . . . It was before we . . . I did not think . . .”

  He turned abruptly, strode over to the window, and glared out into the backyard. It was a warm, sunny morning. A rosebush, sprawling over the backyard wall, was slowly opening its buds. He watched a bee land and struggle through the rich parcel of petals to the orange center.

  “You will sell me?”

  She could not see his face and did not know what the tight tone in his voice might mean.

  “No,” she protested. She could feel a sense of panic rising. She had never argued with a man before, had never faced a man’s anger. “Please, Mehuru, be patient. You know I could not bear to be without you. You know that. I will tell Josiah that we have to keep you, and we will sell Julius in your place.”

  He turned on his heel. “Until you are tired of me,” he said bitingly. “When you have had your fill of me, you can sell me then. You could sell me to a woman who wanted a man, with a special recommendation. You could tell her I am not fit to be paid a wage for a decent day’s work, but that I can be played with and”—in his anger he stumbled over the English words, but he made an obscene gesture with his hand—“used like a bull to a cow.”

  Frances went white and dropped into a chair. “It isn’t like that. . . . It isn’t like that. . . .”

  He stalked to the door. “Excuse me. I have not carried the night soil pail down from the women’s room. It will be stinking. I have work to do.”

  “Mehuru!” she called. But the door had slammed behind him, and he was gone.

  Frances rose from her chair, ran to the door, and flung it open. But in the empty hall she hesitated, her hand on her heart to still its painful racing. She could not cry out for him, could not chase him around the house. He was her servant. He was lower than her servant; he was her slave. To betray for one instant that she had forgotten her position and his would be a disgrace so total that death itself could not be worse. If Josiah knew, if Sarah knew . . . Frances shuddered at the thought and went back into the parlor. She seated herself again at the table and stared unseeingly at the notepaper.

  Anyone coming into the parlor would have seen a lady of quality, fashionably dressed, writing letters. Frances, as still and as elegant as if she were sitting for her portrait, listened, in case Mehuru relented and came back into the parlor. She listened and she waited all morning. The rapid, fluctuating beat of her heart raced every time she heard a footstep in the hall, but he did not come.

  CHAPTER

  25

  AT MIDDAY JOSIAH CAME home from the coffeehouse where he had been forward-selling the cargo of Daisy. She had been seen loading off Africa and should be home in December. Josiah wanted to raise money to give him some ready cash for the housekeeping costs. He was gambling that she would be home on time and with a good cargo of sugar. He met a friend of Stephen Waring’s, Mr. Green, who was enthusiastic about the Hot Well lease. He assured Josiah that it was a fine piece of business and that only his commitment to building in Clifton meant that he himself was not in the running for it. In the meantime he offered Josiah a Hot Well lodging house at a price anyone could see was attractive. He complimented Josiah in seeing the opportunity of the Hot Well for what it was, a potential gold mine. Josiah came home excitable and with a sense of moving in the circles of the highest power in Bristol, where a whisper could make or break a man.

  Frances hastily sent down a message to Cook that Josiah was home and wanted some luncheon. Within half an hour, a cold collation was laid in the morning room. Sarah joined them.

  “You are pale, Frances,” she observed. “Are you unwell again?”

  Frances shook her head. “I am perfectly well,” she said. A small, niggling pain at her heart contradicted her, but she ignored it.

  “Will you take a little rum and water?” Josiah offered.

  Frances refused. “No. I will have a glass of ratafia and just a piece of bread and butter.”

  He helped her to her place and rang the bell. “I had an inquiry for one of our boys. The surviving one is promised to Mr. Waring. He is well enough to be sold now, is he not?”

  Frances caught her breath. “Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Not yet. I don’t think so. And he is very little.” She glanced over at Mary, who was serving them from the sideboard and who knew enough English to follow the conversation.

  “How old d’you think he is?” Josiah asked around a mouthful of bread and ham.

  “About four years, perhaps five,” Frances answered.

  “Old enough, then, to run errands. He could go as a page boy.”

  “I am not yet happy about his health,” Frances said desperately. “It would look very bad if we sold him and then he was sick or even died. We must make sure he is well before we let him go.”

  “Yes,” Josiah agreed. “But we could use the money, Frances.”

  “What news of Rose?” Sarah demanded. “Have you had bad news, Josiah?”

  He shook his head. “No, no news at all, sister. I was thinking merely that it is time that the slaves were sold. We have had them for more than half a year. We always thought they would go within six months.”

  “Their training was so interrupted, with moving house and everything,” Frances insisted breathlessly. “You must give me longer. If they are to be a credit to us . . . They don’t all speak well . . . and we have to keep Mehuru, I mean Cicero, to run the house and train the others. . . .”

  “Very well,” Josiah said pacifically. “No matter. Whenever you think fit, my dear.”

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