A Certain Latitude Read online

  Clarissa smiled at her and the young woman looked even more uneasy. “I wish to ask you some questions about your life.”

  “I don’ know, ma’am.” Said with a closed, blank expression.

  “You won’t get into trouble,” Clarissa said gently. She wrote the name Nerissa and the date, and underlined them both.

  “You gon’ write it down?”

  “Yes. I want to let people know in England—the people who are working to end the trade—what it is like for you and other slaves here.”

  “You show it to King George?” Nerissa brightened.

  “Well, perhaps not the king. But certainly Mr. Wilberforce—ah, you’ve heard of him, I see. No woman has written yet about the female slaves.”

  “I don’ know. De master, he wouldn’t like it.”

  “I won’t use your name,” Clarissa said. “No one will know it is you, and I doubt Mr. Lemarchand will read it. My name will not appear on it either.”

  Nerissa sat silent. Whether her silence meant assent, Clarissa didn’t know. Might as well begin, then.

  “Where were you born?”

  “Don’ remember.”

  “Here or in Africa?”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, I got de ironing to do for Miss Celia.” Nerissa stood, fists clenched on her apron.

  “Wait,” Clarissa said. She lifted the lid of her writing slope and regarded the meager contents. A few coins and that vulgar ribbon Mrs. Blight had given her. She picked the ribbon out and dangled it from her fingertips. Nerissa’s eyes brightened.

  “I shall give you this,” Clarissa said, “and sixpence. But first you must talk, and you should tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

  Nerissa stared at the ribbon. “I not get into trouble?”

  “No. I shall tell no one. And I shall ask other women, too.”

  “So I de first?”

  “Yes. Yes, you are. And I know you’re a brave girl.”

  Nerissa nodded and smiled. “So I be de first. So. I come from Africa when I was little.” She gestured to about the height of her thigh.

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’ know. Little. De slavers take us from our village, I don’ remember too much of that. Dey take my papa away from us, and me and my mama cry and howl. My mama, she hold me tight when we inside de big ship, and den men come take her away. I never see her after that …”

  Clarissa’s pencil scratched busily as she wrote and wrote, her hand cramping. Twice she had to ask Nerissa to stop so she could sharpen the point, and the afternoon light faded as Nerissa’s voice lilted and swooped.

  Later, Clarissa read and transcribed her notes and found herself weeping.

  When she’d become a housekeeper, Clarissa had inherited a book of recipes and useful household tips dating back at least a half century. She had added in more of the same as she’d learned the intricacies of the household.

  Why wasn’t there a similar volume for a mistress? She certainly would have found it useful in the confusion of this first week with March. Sometimes she thought she should create such a book for her successor, who would find herself bound by the same web of complicated, subtle ritual.

  She ran over some of those in her mind, as she once again made her way to his bedchamber. What had she learned of March, other than his scents and textures, the sounds he made during lovemaking? He liked to direct the lovemaking, holding on to a rigid control until his orgasm broke, and recovering soon after. He tolerated little affection—she remembered with a pang her hand clasping Allen’s in the heaving darkness of a storm at sea—falling asleep without touching her, but inevitably waking lustful before dawn, reaching out for her. In the early mornings his lovemaking had more spontaneity than the elaborate choreography of the night.

  She loved his touch even as it confused her.

  And now …

  Finch, waiting with outmost respect outside her bedchamber, cleared his throat.

  She glanced at him through the half open door. What did he think, having to escort a mistress through the house at night? March liked the sense of ritual it conveyed, she supposed. She was quite capable of walking alone from one end of the house to the other.

  “A moment.” She ran her hairbrush through her hair and touched perfume between her breasts. March had handed the tiny crystal bottle to her quite casually that evening before dinner. She breathed in the scent—something exotic and carnal. She wondered where he had acquired it. March, the magician of his island, producing jewels and perfume for her—paid for with money from King Sugar.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror one last time, adjusted an earring to hang straight, and blew out the candle. The scent of honeysuckle drifted in through the window, the stars ablaze—would she ever become accustomed to their fierceness in these latitudes?—and she moved toward the circle of light Finch’s lantern cast.

  Silently he led her through the darkened corridor of the house, tapped on March’s door, and opened it.

  To her surprise March was already in bed, a book in his hand.

  Once again she was struck by his beauty—the dark hair tumbling onto his shoulders, his grave stillness.

  He raised his head. “You wear the perfume, then.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” There had barely been time to thank him for the gift earlier—time only to slip it into the bosom of her gown before Celia noticed.

  “The mantua maker calls tomorrow. She’ll bring some fabrics for you to look at. Order whatever you like.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, I have some very specific ways you’ll thank me, Clarissa.” He gave a faint smile.

  She waited, wondering if he enjoyed her apprehension, sensed the nervous desire that coiled in her belly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to come to bed, my dear?”

  “If you could be so kind…” she moved to sit on the bed so he could unbutton her gown. Of course she could do it herself—all her gowns were fashioned so that she did not require assistance in dressing or undressing. They were the simple, hard-wearing gowns of a woman who worked for her living, not those of a courtesan. She didn’t even really know what a courtesan should wear, here, where there was so little society and fashions were bound to be months behind their London counterparts.

  Meanwhile she enjoyed the touch of March’s long fingers, the errant caresses of her spine and shoulders.

  The buttons released, she stood to let the gown drop to her feet. Her stays were simple enough, made of canvas and whalebone, and she unlaced them herself.

  March watched with great attention as she raised one foot to remove her stocking. Despite his carnal intentions, there was an unnervingly domestic feel to the scene—she half expected him to yawn and turn over when she came to bed.

  As she slipped between the sheets, he closed the book and laid it down on the cabinet next to the bed.

  “Your book proves tedious?”

  “I fear so.” He turned on his side, facing her, head propped in his hand. “You shall be my storyteller tonight.”

  “What sort of story would you like?”

  “Something arousing.” His hand brushed her jaw, stroked a lock of hair back. “Tell me about Allen Pendale.”

  So March knew. She hesitated.

  “You may begin.” Very courteous but with a hint of a challenge.

  Allen. Allen, a source of restless energy, fencing with an invisible opponent, fighting mysterious unseen forces in his dreams, racing Blight up the rigging. Allen, up to his elbows in filthy water, laundering his linen to an unwholesome gray and laughing at his own incompetency. And Allen as her lover: humorous, ardent, generous, surprising. Miss Onslowe, you’re a miracle…

  “We proved a diversion to each other on the voyage,” she said. Was that true? Was that all they’d been to each other?

  Stumbling for the right words, she embarked on a tale of two lovers aboard a ship. A man and a woman who had undertaken a voyage of desire, passionate and inventive, navigat
ing the mysteries of their own bodies.

  She traced the contours of March’s shoulders and chest, describing another man’s body. “Darker. Much darker than you. There is more hair here, where you have only a little, this elegant line that descends so …” She pushed the sheet aside and down. “And his cock is, like the rest of him, powerful and broad. He likes it when I touch him, so, clasp him with my thumb and forefinger. And if I pull back his foreskin to touch him with my tongue.”

  March groaned and touched her head. “Continue.”

  “And if I stroked here, he found it intensely pleasurable.” She trailed her fingertips over his ballocks, continuing the caress as March parted his legs to her touch, inviting her to explore beyond.

  “Fetch the goose grease,” he said, an urgent command.

  She grasped the small pot, cool against her palm, and dipped her fingers into the slick, fragrant substance.

  “Yes,” he said as she returned to her caresses. Slid her fingers to penetrate him. “Oh, yes. Like that.”

  He reached to smear goose grease onto his cock, his touch sure and deft, while his gaze met hers.

  “Would you like me to do that?”

  “No. Watch me. I want you to watch me. And keep your fingers inside me.”

  He pleasured himself as though he offered her a gift with this most intimate of acts. His foreskin slid back repeatedly to expose the dark, engorged head, the moisture welling shiny in the firelight, forearm flexing as he tugged and stroked.

  “Will you come?” she whispered as though, incongruous though it might seem, they were in a church or some other holy place.

  “Would you like me to?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.” She raised her other hand to her mouth, bit into a knuckle to control her excitement.

  “You did this to him? With him?”

  “Yes. He gritted his teeth as you do. He breathed fast, so fast, and then when he came, he—”

  He pushed her away. “On all fours, if you please.” His eyes were hot, his breathing fast.

  “I—” She hesitated, fearful yet curious.

  “Do it.”

  She scrambled onto her hands and knees and waited, hearing the slight slap of his pleasure, the wet kiss of his foreskin, his fast breathing. The goose grease was cool between her buttocks, then warming and voluptuous, prompting her opening to him. Despite his arousal, he was careful, meticulous, delaying his pleasure to prepare her, to open her with a finger, and then a second, as she had done to him.

  And then his cock pushed into her, slick and heavy. She cried out a little, more from surprise than pain, although it did hurt; she supposed it could not be helped. He slowed, murmured indecent words about her female parts, touching her there while his cock pushed and opened her. The crudity was unlike March and his usual suave demeanor—it was like being with another man, an avid, wonderful stranger. Too much, she said, it’s too much; I can’t, please stop. She wanted to say it, but instead she was moaning and crooning back at him to do it, do it to her, fuck her, please fuck me, fuck me—she, too, transformed into someone crude and lustful. When she came, her orgasm was an unexpected and delightful shock: how did that happen?

  The next morning she was once again the proper governess, although still shocked and a little sore from March’s attentions.

  “We’re going for a walk,” Clarissa said to Celia.

  “It’s too hot,” Celia whined.

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’ll get dark. Dey t’ink I’m a Negro.”

  “Certainly, everyone will if you speak that way, but your complexion will be perfectly fine if you wear a bonnet and carry a parasol.” Clarissa held the aforesaid items out to the girl.

  Celia scowled but tied the ribbon of her bonnet beneath her chin.

  “I thought we could make some sketches of the plants,” Clarissa continued. “Just think, we might discover some new varieties. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  “Ladies don’ walk outside de garden,” Celia insisted. “I want to get ready for dis evening.’ Dat lazy girl Rissa. ’er disappeared.”

  “Try again,” Clarissa said. She found Celia’s dialect rather charming, but was obliged to honor March’s wish that his daughter learn to speak properly. Grasping her own parasol and the drawing tablet, she led the way out of Celia’s room, downstairs, and out of the house into the garden.

  It was warm and rather sticky, but Clarissa was certain a brisk walk would be good for Celia. She led the way along an oyster shell path to the edge of the garden where deep green foliage and twining vines lined the way, now reduced to a dusty track.

  Clarissa halted to look at a red flower the size of her hand. “Isn’t that beautiful!”

  Celia giggled. “It looks like a man’s part.”

  Sure enough the pistil of the flower thrust aggressively from the petals. Clarissa shot her a warning look as they resumed walking. “That’s not the sort of thing young ladies talk about.”

  What a hypocrite I am. I’ve spent most of the night fornicating in her father’s bed and now I’m lecturing her on propriety.

  “I don’ t’ink Papa like us to come down here,” Celia said.

  Clarissa, pausing to watch a many-legged insect scuttling away, looked up. “Why’s that?”

  “De slaves live near here.” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

  Clarissa ignored her and walked forward. Finally she would find something to report on, something of substance that no woman had yet observed. Behind her, she heard Celia heave a martyred sigh. The path wound through the forest—the walk would have been more pleasant if flies had not buzzed about them so—and Clarissa made note of some exotic ferns and vines that would be good subjects for sketches, in case March questioned her about this visit. After a few minutes, she saw the gleam of bright sunlight and she and Celia stepped into a clearing.

  A dozen or so round huts stood on worn down, dusty ground. Clarissa had seen ancient thatched cottages, rather like these daub and wattle huts, in the poorest parts of her father’s parish. Waste, human and animal, and the rinds and stalks of plants, was strewn around as though the occupants lacked the will to clean it up. Flies buzzed and a mangy dog, ribs visible, appeared, showed its teeth, and slunk away. Each hut had a small patch of cultivated ground where some sort of gourds grew and beans climbed up poles. The slaves would be expected to grow their own food as well as labor in the fields all day.

  “I want to go back!” Celia tugged at her arm.

  A sound—the whimper of a child—came from one of the huts.

  “Wait,” Clarissa said. She stepped forward and peered into the opening. The stench nearly made her gag. A baby, tethered by a piece of rope around his waist, sat naked on the floor. Flies crawled around his eyes and mouth. In the shadows, something mumbled—an old woman, her eyes milky and clouded, hands knotted with arthritis, sat behind the child.

  The baby picked something from the floor and gnawed on it. Clarissa didn’t want to think what it was.

  Celia repeated, “I want to go back!”

  So this was what happened to those too young or too old to work, or a baby too heavy to be strapped to his mother’s back. Clarissa had seen poverty in her father’s parish. She’d visited the sick in hovels much like these. But there was a particular misery and hopelessness here that appalled her.

  Celia shrieked.

  “What’s wrong?” Clarissa turned to her and shrieked in turn, as something struck her sharply on the knee.

  “’Dat devil!” Celia pointed to one of the garden patches. There, a child—at least, Clarissa thought it was a child—grimaced and flung another handful of missiles at them. The creature scuttled on all fours, cackling, and she saw he was horribly twisted, one withered leg dragging behind him.

  “Stop that!” Clarissa dodged a handful of stones and refuse.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Onslowe?”

  She whirled around. Blight, astride a mule, regarded her with bright, sardonic eyes. “Visiting the po
or?”

  His statement was so close to the truth, she felt her face redden. “Can’t you provide a better place for them to live? Where do they get their water?”

  He shrugged. “A half mile off. They don’t mind.” He looked at the creature scrabbling in the garden patch and lifted the whip from the pommel of his saddle. “Twisty Billy, you leave the ladies alone.”

  Twisty Billy whimpered and scuttled away.

  “Lemarchand wouldn’t like to know his daughter had been brought here, Miss Onslowe.”

  “I suppose not.” Clarissa went to Celia, who was in tears, with a large smear of filth on her face and another on her dress, thanks to Twisty Billy’s accuracy. “I’m sorry, Celia. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “Come to our house, Miss Onslowe. Miss Celia can wash and you can take tea with my lady. Here, miss, you may ride on my mule.”

  She really couldn’t think of a way to refuse. Blight was almost genial, and she should pay her respects to Mrs. Blight as common courtesy demanded.

  Blight dismounted and tossed Celia into the saddle of the mule. He led them on another path through the vines and strange trees, and into the working part of the estate. Here, there were several outbuildings, a carpenter’s shop and a forge. He drew the mule to a halt in front of a small stone house nestled between what looked like barns and a high fence of wooden planks.

  “Mrs. Blight,” he called. “We have guests.”

  Blight lifted Celia down from the saddle.

  The door opened and a young black man came out of the house. Clarissa noticed how he shrank away from Blight, but there was something of a swagger in his step. Clarissa knew exactly what a well-satisfied man looked like. She blinked. Surely she was imagining things?

  The slave’s gait changed to a deferential shuffle and the smirk on his lips faded away, so that he almost appeared another man.

  A maid, little more than a young girl, came to the door, Mrs. Blight behind her. “Miss Celia and Miss Onslowe! How delightful. Do come in. Sally—” addressing the girl—“you put the kettle on directly. Why, Miss Celia, what’s happened to you?”

  “They visited the slaves’ huts,” Blight said. He placed his foot in the stirrup. “I’ll leave you to tea and gossip, ladies.”