A Certain Latitude Read online

  Elizabeth Blight, somewhat pink in the face and disheveled, led the way into a parlor, apologizing for the house’s state of disarray. The house appeared to be little more than two rooms separated by a passage leading to a back door. She closed the door to the other room smartly, but Clarissa had glimpsed a very rumpled bed. Well, well. So Mrs. Blight took her pleasure with the slaves. She wondered what Blight thought—he’d had no discernable reaction to the sight of the young man leaving the house.

  The parlor was sparsely furnished and with whitewashed walls and a stone floor. Mrs. Blight fussed over Celia, scrubbing at her stained clothes, and gently cleaning her face. “Just muck. I don’t believe you’ve bruised.”

  “Papa will be angry,” Celia said.

  “Then don’t tell him, my dear.”

  “I shall tell him,” Clarissa said.

  Mrs. Blight raised her eyebrows knowingly.

  “I wouldn’t keep an animal in conditions like those,” Clarissa continued. “He should know.”

  “I expect he does know, my dear. It’s best not to interfere. More tea, Miss Celia? I hear you have some new gowns.”

  Celia, cheered by a favorite subject, chattered on about what she was to wear that evening, and how her father wanted her to attend an assembly in St. James, the main city of the island some fifteen miles away. Mrs. Blight countered with a comment on handsome officers, since the city served as a harbor for the Royal Navy.

  As the two of them chattered away, Clarissa gazed out of the window. The parlor looked out onto a narrow alley between outbuildings and an open space that she thought must be some sort of yard. Chickens pecked in the dust.

  A sound reached her ears, a low, agonized moan.

  “What was that?”

  Mrs. Blight and Celia stared at her.

  “There’s someone out there—someone hurt.” She rose to her feet. “Mrs. Blight, is someone in your household ill?”

  “No. Miss Onslowe, where are you going?”

  Clarissa ran to the back of the house and out of the door, looking around for the source. In a small shed nearby a boy chopped wood—it wasn’t him, then. In a lean-to against the house, Sally tended a fire, stirring something savory in a large pot.

  “Sally, who was that crying?”

  “Dat Rissa, milady.”

  Nerissa? What had happened to her? Clarissa dashed into the yard. In the center stood a wooden contraption—a stocks—a crude cross, with holes for a miscreant’s wrists on the cross bar. Nerissa hung there, her body drooping, stripped naked. As Clarissa paused in horror the girl gave another moan and moved her head feebly, as though to dispel the flies around her mouth and eyes.

  Her back was striped oddly—and then Clarissa realized the glittering lines were more flies clustered on the open wounds of a beating.

  “Miss Onslowe—” Mrs. Blight had followed her out.

  “Let her go!” Clarissa said, and then as Mrs. Blight hesitated, “Now, if you please.”

  She ran to Nerissa’s side. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you down in no time.”

  Mrs. Blight, lips in a thin line, unbolted the cross piece of the stocks. “Mr. Blight will not like it.”

  “And I don’t like her being punished so.” Clarissa caught Nerissa as she collapsed. “What has she done?”

  “Tell Miss Onslowe what you did,” Mrs. Blight said.

  “Fetch her some water. See how parched her lips are. She can’t speak.”

  Mrs. Blight nodded at the two young slaves, who had abandoned their woodcutting and cooking to watch the drama unfold. The girl, Sally, ran up with a cup of water that Nerissa gulped down.

  “Tell her, you wretch,” Mrs. Blight said.

  “I sorry, ma’am.”

  “Tell Miss Onslowe.” Mrs. Blight’s voice was threatening and cold.

  “I steal,” the girl sobbed.

  “And what did you steal?”

  Clarissa bent to comfort the slave, but she shrank away.

  Mrs. Blight gave a huff of annoyance and picked a cotton gown from a pile of firewood, handing it to Nerissa. “Get dressed.” She reached into her pocket and handed Clarissa a length of silver and red ribbon, now faded and tarnished. “Yours, I believe, Miss Onslowe.”

  Clarissa looked at her, and then at Nerissa, who struggled to pull her gown over her injured back. “Yes, it was mine. I gave it to her as a gift.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Blight looked at her with active dislike. “I would never have given you such an item if I had known you were to hand it over to a dirty black slut.”

  “It’s a lovely ribbon,” Clarissa said, “but I’m too old to wear such a thing. It’s best suited to a younger woman, such as yourself. And Nerissa seemed to admire it so, and she’s done some splendid work repairing my gowns, and working on Miss Celia’s. I wanted to reward her.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Blight didn’t believe a word Clarissa said, it was quite obvious. “That’s what she said.” She poked Nerissa contemptuously with her foot. “But she’s a lazy, nasty thing, Miss Onslowe, and you’ll spoil her. I suppose you’ll want to take her away. Blight wanted to leave her there for the rest of the day as an example.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you both,” Clarissa said. She bent down and took Nerissa’s arm. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nerissa stumbled to her feet and knuckled her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Clarissa whispered to her.

  Nerissa did not reply. In the slave’s world, Clarissa realized, such injustices happened all the time.

  “Go to the kitchen of Mr. Lemarchand’s house, Nerissa,” Mrs. Blight said, her eyes bright with contempt. “You won’t have to act as nursemaid, Miss Onslowe, although I’m sure you’d like to. They’ll give her something for her stripes there.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Blight,” Clarissa returned with icy civility. “I shall take Miss Celia back home now.”

  “It is unworthy of you!” She was fairly sure she was red in the face from her time in the sun, as well as her righteous indignation. She leaned over March’s desk—mahogany, highly polished, as beautiful as its owner—and pointed her finger at him. “You—they call you the king of the island—you are in a position to make a difference. I know, you insist that slavery is necessary to your trade, but cannot you go about it in a more decent way? Could you not at least dig them a well closer to their huts? Must you—”

  “Clarissa, I do not think this is the concern of my mistress or my daughter’s governess. Neither is it appropriate for you, in whichever role you choose, to burst into my study and make wild accusations. If a slave misbehaves, he or she should be punished. And I leave that to Blight.”

  “Blight is a monster!”

  “On the contrary, he is a useful and hard-working member of my estate.” March, too, was somewhat red in the face. “He knows his place.”

  “And I don’t?”

  There was a long pause. “Sit down, Clarissa.”

  She remained standing.

  “Sit down.” The words were no longer a request.

  She sat.

  He did, too.

  So few nights they’d had together, she thought in some misery, and now they were shouting at each other.

  “Clarissa, I have run this estate for most of my life. I know our ways may seem uncouth or harsh, but believe me, there is no other way. Many are shocked when first they come out here, but they learn. You will, too.”

  “I hope not.”

  “As my mistress, you must and will. Come, Clarissa, you knew when you boarded the Daphne, well before you entered my bed, that you were seduced by the wealth of the sugar trade.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. She swallowed. “I am aware that I must make some compromises. I hope my conscience allows me to do so. Otherwise …”

  “Quite.”

  She continued, again close to tears, not daring to look at his face. “If I were to leave you I could not bear it. I must tell you this now, for if you wish to send me back
to England I must speak before I go.”

  “My dear,” March said and reached for her hand across the desk. “I—”

  She heard footsteps outside the study and hastened to finish what she had to say.

  “I do not expect you to tell me you love me. It does not matter. Say nothing. I shall speak only of it this once. I …”

  She looked up to see March stare past her, his face transformed. He looked younger, unsure of himself, full of hope—as though he too could not contain his feelings.

  Oh God, do I look like that when I look at March? Am I so vulnerable, so transparent?

  Her hand slipped from his as he rose to his feet.

  CHAPTER 15

  Allen suspected he’d interrupted a rather tense scene in the study—March had been particularly pleased to see him, as though evading some sort of unpleasantness. Clarissa was merely polite, and that was hardly surprising after the last time she’d seen him, when he’d made his idiotic proposal. He noticed how she looked at March most of the time, while playing the part of the attentive hostess.

  Of course she hadn’t broken Allen’s heart. He had recovered. And what a relief it was to be with friends—or the closest to friends that he had here—after the days spent with his maudlin father.

  Now it appeared he was to entertain Celia, who giggled and insisted he dance with her while one of the slaves played the fiddle. Clarissa occasionally corrected Celia’s steps. “Third position, if you please, and keep your head up.”

  March smiled at his pretty daughter and invited Allen to dine.

  Celia and Clarissa left to change their gowns for dinner and Finch, March’s valet, escorted Allen upstairs to the room in which he’d previously stayed, and offered him hot water and a clean shirt and neck-cloth. When he came downstairs again, he and March were alone for the first time, other than a slave who waved a palm branch to keep the mosquitoes away.

  “I’m most glad you came to call,” March said.

  Allen shrugged. “To tell the truth, it was entirely unexpected. I found myself close by with a lame horse, so I decided I should throw myself on your hospitality. My father went to St. James unexpectedly on business.”

  March caught his eye in a knowing, man-to-man sort of way. So he knew that the grieving Earl sought consolation in the arms of a mistress of many years’ standing. Probably the entire island knew—it was a small place, after all. Doubtless it was common knowledge that March had a new mistress.

  March continued, “Thank you for taking an interest in my daughter. She’s not used to company, as you know.”

  “She reminds me of my eldest niece.”

  “I hope to present her in London society when we return to England. It’s important she makes a match befitting her wealth.”

  Allen nodded, aware that he was being warned off as a suitor.

  At that moment Celia entered the room. “Papa, Mr. Pendale, look at my new gown!”

  “Very fetching, my dear.” March patted his daughter’s hand.

  “Most stylish,” Allen responded. He found himself, to his annoyance, looking round for Clarissa.

  She entered the room wearing the gown he had ripped, but now repaired with a piece of the same blue silk that Celia wore; the inserted scrap of color at her bosom drew attention to her pale skin and her breasts. In her ears were the earrings March had given her.

  Another civilized dinner in March’s dining room, eating with silver cutlery from French china on the mahogany table, attentive slaves filling his glass again and again. March and Clarissa matched him glass for glass, although she shook her head after Celia, becoming even more giggly, had consumed her second.

  The ladies withdrew. March and Allen, passing a decanter of brandy, made desultory conversation on horses—were they both relieved at the neutrality of the topic? But how neutral was it? Allen remembered March’s declaration in the stable, the brush of their mouths, their cocks pushing together through layers of cotton and wool. He stared at March’s finely made wrists and hands, not wanting to meet his gaze. This man desires me. Do I desire him?

  It’s a hanging offence, a cautious, lawyerly voice said. Only if you’re caught and admit to it, answered the voice of another sort of lawyer, the sort he sometimes was.

  “We must not keep the ladies waiting,” March said. Swaying slightly, he took the brandy decanter in one hand and gripped Allen’s shoulder with the other. His touch was neutral and friendly. “I trust you’re not too drunk to dance with my daughter again.”

  “My pleasure.”

  When they entered the drawing room, however, Clarissa was alone. She sat at the pianoforte, her head bowed, and picked out a few chords. “I’m afraid I shouldn’t have let Celia drink that second glass of wine. She sat here and yawned her head off, poor girl, so I sent her to bed.” She frowned. “The instrument is out of tune again. I suppose it’s the damp.” She looked up and smiled at March.

  She used to smile at me that way. That lovely smile, like sunrise over a calm sea.

  Clarissa stood with a swish of muslin skirts. “I’m too drunk to play, sirs. Shall we take a stroll in the garden?”

  “You don’t fear the light of a full moon?” March offered her his arm.

  “Too late. I am already struck by madness. Possibly I am not the only one.”

  March made no comment to her cryptic remark. It must be some sort of joke between them. She reached for a couple of cheroots from a slave who stood nearby, silver platter in hand. The ease with which she leaned to puff them alight at a candle suggested this was a service she frequently performed for March.

  Allen accepted the cheroot, still warm from her lips.

  To his surprise she slipped her hand through his arm, and so linked together, they made their way outside onto the portico and onto the lawn. Their shadows stretched long on the silvery grass.

  Clarissa bounded ahead of the two men, stretched her arms wide and declaimed, “The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

  When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,

  And they did make no noise, in such a night,

  Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls,

  And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,

  Where Cressid lay that night.”

  She whirled around, lost her footing and giggled.

  “I’ve never seen you drunk before,” Allen said, emboldened by his own tipsiness to address her directly.

  “Not as drunk as this. How very debauched we are.” She leaned against March, rubbing her face against his sleeve, and then danced away again. “Which way is the sea, March? I want to see the moonlight on the water.”

  “Come then.” March caught her hand. “Let us take this madwoman to the shore, Pendale. I’ll show you the way I discovered through the mangrove trees when I was a boy.”

  They seemed to disappear into the dense thicket of greenery—shadow and silver by moonlight—that edged the lawn. But Allen, when he followed, found a winding narrow path. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle. For a fleeting moment he wished he were back in England on a summer’s night, before the path plunged steeply downward into a grove of trees that stood in brackish water. A bird, disturbed by the clumsy humans, gave a harsh call. The oyster shells of the path were long gone—now it was a matter of finding footholds among twisted tree roots as the scent of salt became more evident. A cool breeze arose, welcome after the humidity of the garden, and the slope flattened out into tall grasses interspersed by palm trees. The sea lay ahead, a glimmering track laid upon its surface by the moon.

  Clarissa gave an exclamation of delight and ran forward onto the white sand, toward the creamy fringes of breaking waves.

  “She is … she is quite remarkable,” March murmured.

  The remarkable woman, unsteady on one leg like a drunken stork, peeled off her stocking, and then the other, having kicked her shoes aside. Lifting her skirt to her knees, she ran into the water.

  “It’s warm!” She splashed in the s
hallows and waded forward.

  “Do you fancy a swim, Pendale?”

  He knew that sardonic tone, the challenge in March’s voice.

  “A swim only, my lord.”

  “Very well.” March tossed his cheroot aside and unbuttoned his coat. “I wonder if we can persuade Miss Onslowe to divest herself of her garments also. It could make for an interesting night.”

  “Certainly, although I’d say that was her choice.” Allen pulled his shirt over his head and turned away to unbutton his breeches. No point in flaunting himself at March, although now he wondered whether March had been merely toying with him, trying to shock him.

  March, already stripped, ran past him and plunged into the water, splashing Clarissa, who gave a loud squeal.

  Allen raced for the water and, ignoring March and Clarissa, waded in. He dived through breaking waves and out beyond, where the water was smooth and gentle. He’d never swum in water so warm and buoyant. He turned onto his back to float, gazing up at the stars, arms and legs spread wide, drunk and content.

  “Don’t fall asleep.” March’s voice tickled his ear.

  “I won’t.” He plunged beneath the water, seeing the moon distorted and wavery, and below waving weed and pale sand. A small shoal of fish passed by as he swam down, until pressure in his ears forced him upward again. He rose to the surface, shaking water from his hair, and met March’s gaze.

  “Damn you, March.” His breathing was fast, faster than it should have been after the relatively short dive. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” March, treading water, regarded him gravely.

  Allen lunged toward March, not sure of his intent, or the other man’s. Do it, put an end to the tension, do something, you cannot let this go further or even stay where it is, damn him—his hand closed on March’s shoulder, their legs tangled together underwater.

  The kiss was clumsy and intimate, unexpected in its ferocity: he tasted sea, tobacco, brandy, and a darkly pungent arousal. He was shocked enough that he forgot to keep himself afloat, and the two of them sank, entwined, below the surface, where they writhed briefly before surfacing, both of them spluttering.