Captive Innocence (18 page)

The sun dipped low, only long burnished shadows, slanting through the draperies. Hours had passed, and it was with relief that she heard the Baron's deep, even breathing, signifying sleep.

Alicia crept out of the bed and quickly threw on her dressing gown and raced down the stairs to the parlor. Her hand clutched the brandy bottle to her breast for a moment before she brought it to her lips. There was no way she could have poured the desired liquor into a glass, not when she was shuddering from the scene she had just been through. Coughing and sputtering, she downed a second hearty swallow.

I should kill him. Kill him for what he's done to Carl, to me!

When Alicia peered intently into the clear bottle, she wondered how it could be empty so soon. In her drunken state she reasoned that the idea of killing Carlyle Newsome was the only logical method of freeing herself, freeing Carl. Muttering softly to herself, she tottered down the dark corridor to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, she found her weapon. Holding the butcher's knife in her slender, shaking hand, she was shocked at the length and weight of the wicked-looking blade. No matter where this knife went in, the Baron would breathe his last breath. He had to die, she thought vehemently, imagining the soft sink of flesh beneath the shining blade.

With stealthy determination, she climbed the stairs, quietly covering the distance between the door and the bed. She was surprised at how steady her hand was as she brought the weapon above her head. One quick plunge and it would all be over. Forever.

“I wouldn't if I were you, darling Alicia. Did you think I would allow you to murder me in my own bed?” The thought struck him as funny and he laughed loudly, a mean and ugly sound. “I smelled the brandy as soon as you reached the door. Put it away and get into this bed. I have other ways to make you behave. What a precious little pigeon you are, darling Alicia. And what a fool!”

Forcing her down onto the bed, he held her with his weight. His lips trailed between her breasts, moistly covering her throat and then down again. “I'm doing this for Carl,” he whispered. “You aren't half good enough for him, you know. You're not a woman. A woman could excite me, propel me to a climax. I knew I made the right decision when I forbid Carl to marry you. You're going to have to try harder, Alicia darling. Try and try until you succeed. Now, lay very still and listen to me while I tell you that I've sent Carl on business to Belém. He won't be coming back for quite a while. And when he does, lucky boy, he's going to marry my little ward, Royall Banner.” On and on his voice droned, talking to her as though in ordinary conversation. And all the while his hands were on her, demanding, coaxing, exploring. And with each touch Alicia died a little, her flesh growing cold, her body stiff. There was no more pretending, no afterglow from the brandy. She should have turned the knife on herself. As much as she hated the Baron, she hated herself more!

Royall sat in her room at Reino Brazilia, contemplating her next move with the Baron. Exasperated because her efforts to have the children rejoin their mothers at Regalo Verdad had been thwarted, she was determined to find something with which to bargain, something that would sway the Baron's thinking.

Opening the valise that contained her father's papers, she examined them, searching for the title rights to the Reino. There were phrases she hadn't understood when she had looked at them last, and she had decided to bring them to Father Juan in the hopes that he could shed some light on them. It wouldn't be to her benefit to ask the Baron or to inquire of his lawyer. They would just put her off and tell her not to busy her pretty little head about it. No, Father Juan would be the best one to answer her questions.

Placing the papers back in the valise, her hand brushed against a hard-bound book—her father's ledger.

Pushing aside the flood of renewed depression, she opened the ledger. Instantly, she thought of Mr. Morrison, the lawyer who had written to her father and informed him of ... what? What exactly did Mr. Morrison tell her father that induced him to repudiate the Baron? Surely it was not only because Princess Isabel's Ventre Livre law was being ignored. No, there were hints of something that Richard Harding could not forgive. Her eyes glanced over the words “cruelly beating the slave till his death.”

Royall felt cold waves race up her spine. Behind those glinting, steel gray eyes was a killer.

Carefully, she replaced the ledger and laid the valise on the floor of the clothespress. She intended to go to the kitchen and speak to Elena. Perhaps the housekeeper would be able to tell her where she could find Mr. Morrison.

The kitchen was dim and cool, shuttered from the heat of the day. Elena appeared to be busy, instructing the Indian cook and sorting through the pantries, making a shopping list. Noticing Royall, she lifted her dark head and faced the intruder with aloof hostility.

“Elena, I'd like to speak with you a moment if you have the time. I need some answers to a few questions. Now, Elena!”

Elena set aside her pen and approached Royall, her manner coolly respectful. Royall modulated her voice, slightly apologetic for the harsh tone she had used.

“Yes, Senora Banner, how may I help you?”

“Just last evening I remembered my father speaking of an old acquaintance, a Mr. Morrison. I was wondering if perhaps you might know where I can find him. I understand he was a lawyer and has since retired.”

“I may be able to help you, Senora,” said Elena, her black eyes glinting with unspoken curiosity. It gave Royall some satisfaction to know that Elena's facade of seeming indifference could be pierced.

“Senor Morrison was once barrister to the Newsome family, when the Baron's father was alive. He was a frequent visitor to the Reino when the Baron held residence in the old Casa Grande. Since the old man's death and the burning of the original Casa, I've not seen him. It has been years since I've heard his name mentioned in this house. The Baron does not welcome Senor Morrison here; he had a falling out with the gentleman soon after the death of his father. I assure you, Senora, the Baron would not take kindly to the idea of your seeking Senor Morrison.” At this last, Elena's voice grew stern with warning.

“I don't much care if the Baron takes kindly to the idea or not, Elena. He has no jurisdiction over whom I may or may not see. Now, answer my question, Elena: do you know where I can find Mr. Morrison?”

Elena's eyes were guarded and she lowered her voice to a degree above a whisper. “You will find Senor Morrison at his townhouse in Manaus, Vengar de Soltero, the Avenue of Bachelors. It's the large house with stone lions at the foot of the stairs.”

“Thank you, Elena. Please have the groom saddle my horse; I'll be going for my ride today as usual.”

 

Royall spurred the horse forward. It was time to inspect the living quarters of her Indians and blacks. Sebastian hadn't said the words aloud; still, she knew what he meant. “Go look and compare. See where your living comes from.” Well, she would see and she would see now! She allowed herself to remember the day he had pulled her off her horse and into his arms. She could feel herself flush, knowing the hot sun had nothing to do with the warmth that spread over her body.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't notice Jamie until he rode in front of her and startled her. Quickly, he reined in his mount and laughed. “I'll give you a penny if you tell me what you're thinking,” he teased.

Royall smiled. “Just about my costume for the ball.”

Jamie's face lit up at the mention of the ball and costume. “What are you wearing, Royall?” he coaxed.

Royall wagged a finger. “You'll have to wait and see, Jamie Newsome,” she teased back. “Jamie, does Elena know you're out riding? You know your father has forbidden—”

“I'm a grown man and I'll do as I please. I don't have to listen to anyone!” he told her, sulkiness distorting his handsomely carved face. Then Jamie smiled secretively. “Tell me where you're riding to this morning.”

“I plan to look over the workers' compound. Would you like to come with me?” She decided not to press him about his disobedience. He would have to answer for his own actions.

Jamie looked shocked. “Does my father know where you're going?” he asked nervously.

“No, Jamie. I didn't think I needed permission to inspect land that is half mine,” she said, her tone bitter.

Jamie looked at her and seemed to be at a loss for words. Nervously, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“It's not far now, just around the ...” As they approached the small village, Royall could hear voices. She strained higher on her mount to see into the clearing.

As they rode nearer, she couldn't believe the sight that met her eyes. She had never seen such squalor. At the sound of the horses' hooves, the noise abated. Children, as well as men and women, stood quietly; they wore rags; their faces were blemished with sores. They huddled together, staring with hate-filled eyes at the two mounted figures. The open hostility was so obvious that Royall wondered how Jamie could sit so still and quietly. The hostility was for him. Of this she was sure. The men had blank, hopeless looks on their faces. The women stood mute; their children whined in hunger. Royall felt physically sick as her eyes wandered around the village. The sanitary conditions were so inadequate, the stench made her eyes water. God in heaven! The blacks, separated across the compound from the Indians, were in the same circumstances. The only difference was that they looked ill, physically very ill. A mound of dirt behind the squalid thatched huts caught her eye. She knew immediately what it was. A grave! As her eyes continued to wander, she noticed two more fresh mounds. A tall black walked into the middle of the clearing, and Royall closed her eyes in shock as the lash marks and welts on the man's back glistened in the bright sun. She took fast hold of her composure and demanded to know how many people were sick. No one answered her. “Jamie,” she called. “Come here. Ask them how many are sick. Immediately!”

Jamie looked angry for the moment but obeyed her command. “A dozen or so,” he replied shortly.

“What is being done?” she demanded furiously.

Again Jamie spoke. “The overseer was here,” he said shortly. “He says they are just lazy, they're not sick,” he said happily.

“Not sick! They all look sick to me,” she said, her voice rising shrilly.

Again, she spurred her horse forward to observe. In the far corner of the clearing she noticed a penlike enclosure. She spurred her horse toward it and looked at the dozen or so small children sitting on the ground playing in the dirt.

“Why are these children in this pen?” she demanded of Jamie, her eyes shooting sparks.

“We're breeding them. They're the best. They get the best food and the best clothing. They're the pick of the litter,” Jamie giggled.

“They're nothing but babies,” Royall gasped. The women were standing quietly about, hate and fear rode rampant across their faces. Never in her wildest imagination had she ever seen such misery and human suffering. These were human beings without a glimmer of hope, and there was nothing but hard labor and squalor for them on their horizon. She thought of Sebastian and his village, and understood why he hated the Reino and its owners; the difference was night and day.

“Why are you so angry, Royall?” Jamie pleaded.

“Don't you think I have a right to be angry, Jamie?”

“Why, Royall?” Jamie said, snapping his fingers. “They're just slaves.”

“Don't you ever snap your fingers at me again, Jamie. Do you hear me? Not ever,” Royall shrilled as she spurred her horse from the clearing. “Not ever again!” she shouted.

Royall ached with a physical as well as a mental pain as she pondered the problem. She felt nausea wash over her when she thought of all the fine things she had in life and that all the advantages were bought with the sweat and the deaths of these downtrodden people. She took solace in the thought that her father had had no knowledge of where his fortune had come from. She was sure that if he had known he would have made complete revisions. Her heart heavy, she thought how like her father she was. If he would have done something, then so would she. But at the moment she was helpless! Being Richard Harding's daughter and MacDavis Banner's wife had taught her that the only way to meet opposition was from a position of strength. First, she had to learn exactly what her position was and find the only man who could help her learn exactly what that was—the lawyer, Mr. Morrison.

While Jamie led the panting, sweating horses to the stable, Royall climbed wearily up the veranda and fell into the rattan chair. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when her attention was caught by the sound of voices. Momentarily confused, she listened to the voices coming from indoors. It appeared that Jamie and Elena were arguing over something. She knew she should get up and leave; she didn't like eavesdropping, but the heat stifled her and she sat mute. It was impossible; Jamie's high-pitched whine could not be ignored.

“They say they're too busy to play, Elena,” he complained. “Father and Carl are too busy and you don't have the time. Royall is angry about the Indians in the compound and she doesn't want to talk to me. What's there to do? You gave Moriah and Nessie too much work to do, and I'm lonely,” he pouted.

“Jamie,” came the tender reply, “why don't you get your soldiers and set them up on the veranda? Soon it will be cooler and I'll bring you a drink.”

“I don't want to get out the soldiers! And I don't want a cool drink! I want someone to play with me!”

“The servants are all busy. You know they have many chores, Jamie. You must understand that this is a very busy plantation, and the work load is heavy. Everyone has to do his share. Besides, boys should play with boys.”

“There are no boys to play with,” Jamie sighed logically. “Moriah is so pretty and she feels so soft.”

Elena paused. “Have you touched her? Jamie, answer me. Have you touched Moriah?”

“I just pinch her arm,” Jamie pouted.

“Jamie, how many times have I told you? How many times have I warned you that Indian fathers get angry when you want to ‘play' with their little girls.”

“Stupid Indians! No one cares, and no one sees me!” A loud crash followed the petulant outburst.

Royall sat quietly, her mind racing at the strange conversation taking place between Elena and Jamie. Her heart chilled as she began to recall the times she had seen Jamie playfully tug at Moriah's fat braids or the hair of one of the other girls. She also remembered the frightened expressions on the girls' faces at his seeming playfulness. She had thought it was because he was the Baron's son and that they were afraid to offend him. Now ... she shuddered; she knew differently. Jamie was a little boy who couldn't or wouldn't grow up, imprisoned in a man's powerful body.

She could hear running feet; Jamie ran down the steps ignoring the heart-rending cry from Elena. “Jamie, come back. Come back, Jamie.” Royall sat quietly and didn't move. There was no need for her to intrude into a family matter. Now she was beginning to understand many things as she listened to Elena sob heartbrokenly from inside the Casa.

 

Elena slumped into the hard wooden kitchen chair and wept as she hadn't done in years. But these tears weren't healing; they were tears that raked up the past from the still graveyard where she had buried it. Jamie
had
to learn,
had
to understand, must see that his lack of self-control and self-discipline were leading him into danger. They might even take him away.

She sobbed anew as she thought of what her life would be without Jamie. He was all she lived for, and life without him would be unendurable. Wiping her tears on the hem of her apron, she thought how strange it was that she had come to love him as though he were her own son, but there had been a day when she hated the fat, pink-skinned baby. And it was all Carlyle Newsome's fault! She loathed the man who pompously named himself the Baron, taking for himself the title that the people had bestowed on his father with great love and respect.

Thinking of the Baron brought a natural progression of thought to his dead wife, Senora Catarine. When Elena had first come to Reino Brazilia, Carlyle had brought her, bringing her from Rio de Janeiro to his home on the Amazon. He had taken her as his mistress, and she believed she loved him. She also believed him when he told her he no longer slept with his wife. Then the English, white-skinned wife had become heavy with her second child, and Elena was ordered to become handmaiden to the Senora. She was ashamed when she remembered the coldness and lack of sympathy she had shown Senora Newsome, and she remembered the vague little cruelties she had shown on the day of Jamie's birth, when the Senora had been in such agony to bring the lusty second son into the world. But in spite of Elena's indifference, the Senora had recovered and had transferred the newborn's care over to Elena.