The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (33 page)

“Thank God you are here. I’ve waited and wondered, I don’t mind telling you, my lor—Master Ryder, that we’ve trouble here, big trouble, and I haven’t known what to do, but now you’re here and, oh dear, as for the heat, you’ll accustom yourself hopefully and then—”

Mr. Grayson’s voice broke off abruptly and he sucked in his breath. Ryder followed his line of vision and in turn saw a vision of his own. It was a woman . . . really, just a woman, but even from this distance, he knew who she was, oh yes, he was certain this was the woman who dangled three men so skillfully. When she bade them dance, they doubtless danced. He wondered what else she bade them do. Then he shook his head, too weary from the seven weeks on board the comfortingly huge barkentine,
The Silver Tide,
that he simply didn’t care if she were a snake charmer from India or the whore of the island, which, he supposed, she was. The intense heat was sapping his strength. He’d never experienced anything like it before in his life. He hoped Grayson was right and he’d adjust; that, or he’d just lie about in the shade doing nothing.

He turned back to Grayson. The man was still staring at her, slavering like a dog over a bone that wouldn’t ever be his because other bigger dogs had staked claim.

“Mr. Grayson,” Ryder said, and finally the man turned back to him. “I would like to go to Kimberly Hall now. You can tell me of the troubles on our way.”

“Yes, my lor—Master Ryder. Right away. It’s just that she‘s, well, that’s Sophia Stanton-Greville, you know.” He mopped his forehead.

“Ah,” said Ryder, his voice a nice blend of irony and contempt. “Onward, Grayson. Pull your tongue back into your mouth, if you please. I see flies hovering.”

Samuel Grayson managed it, not without some difficulty, for the woman in question was being helped down from her mare by a white man, and she’d just shown a glimpse of silk-covered ankle. To render men slavering idiots with an ankle made Ryder shake his head. He’d seen so many female ankles in his day, so many female legs and female thighs, and everything else female, that he by far preferred an umbrella to protect him from the relentless sun than seeing anything the woman had to offer.

“And don’t call me master. Ryder will do just fine.”

Grayson nodded, his eyes still on the Vision. “I don’t understand,” he said more to himself than to Ryder as he walked to two horses, docilely standing, heads lowered, held by two small black boys. “You see her, you see how exquisitely beautiful she is, and yet you are not interested.”

“She is a woman, Grayson, nothing more, nothing less. Let’s go now.”

When Grayson produced a hat for Ryder, he thought he’d weep for joy. He couldn’t imagine riding far in this heat. “Is it always this unmercifully hot?”

“It’s summer. It’s always intolerable in the summer here,” said Grayson. “We only ride, Ryder. As you’ll see, the roads here are well nigh impassable for a carriage. Yes, all gentlemen ride. Many ladies as well.”

Grayson sat his gray cob quite comfortably, Ryder saw, as he mounted his own black gelding, a huge brute with a mean eye.

“It’s nearly an hour’s ride to the plantation. But the road west curves very close to the water and there will be a breeze. Also the great house is set upon a rise, and thus catches any breezes and winds that might be up, and in the shade it is always bearable, even in the summer.”

“Good,” Ryder said and clamped the wide-brimmed leather hat down on his head. “You can tell me what’s been happening that disturbs you so much.”

And Grayson talked and talked. He spoke of strange blue and yellow smoke that threaded skyward like a snake and fires that glowed white and an odd green, and moans and groans and smells that came from hell itself, sulfurous odors that announced the arrival of the devil himself, waiting to attack, it was just a matter of time. And just the week before there’d been a fire set to a shed near to the great house. His son, Emile, and all the house slaves had managed to douse the flames before there’d been much damage. Then just three days before a tree had fallen and very nearly landed on the veranda roof. The tree had been very sturdy.

“I don’t suppose there were saw marks on the tree?”

“No,” said Mr. Grayson firmly. “My son looked closely. It was the work of the supernatural. Even he was forced to cease going against what I said.” Grayson drew a very deep breath. “One of the slaves swore he saw the great green serpent.”

“Excuse me?”

“The great green serpent. It symbolizes their primary deity.”

“Whose primary deity?”

Grayson actually looked shocked. “One forgets that Englishmen don’t know about these things. Why, I’m speaking of voodoo, of course.”

“Ah, so you believe all this the work of the supernatural then?”

“I am a white man. However, I have lived in Jamaica for many years. I have seen things that would make no sense in a white world, perhaps things that could not exist in a white world. But the strangeness of the things happening, sir, it gives way to doubts.”

Ryder had no more belief in the supernatural than he had in the honesty of a gaming hell owner. When Grayson paused, Ryder was frowning. “Forgive me, but I have no doubts. Simply mixing certain chemicals would produce the smoke and the strange-colored flames. It is a flesh and blood man, no great green serpent behind this. The question we must answer is why and who. Yes, who would do this?”

But Grayson clearly was not convinced. “There is another thing, Ryder. After the French Revolution, there was a revolt on Haiti led by a man named Dessalines. He butchered all the whites and forced many priests and priestesses of voodoo to leave Haiti. These people are powerful; they spread throughout the West Indies, even into America itself, and with them they took their demons.”

Ryder wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. It was obvious that Grayson felt strongly about this voodoo nonsense. And Grayson was right about one thing: a white man couldn’t accept such things as being real, particularly not if he’d lived his entire life in England. He said, “We will see soon enough, I imagine. Ah, I didn’t know you had a son.”

Grayson puffed up like a proud rooster then he fidgeted with his light gray gloves. “He is a good boy, sir, and he does a lot for me—for the Sherbrookes—now that I am getting on in years. He is waiting for us at Kimberly Hall. He didn’t wish to leave the plantation house unprotected.”

They passed dozens more children, all of them ragged, all of them black, children of the slaves working in the fields, but these children were silent at the sight of the two white men riding in their midst.

Grayson said, pointing to the right and to the left of the narrow rutted road, “We are in the mangrove swamps now. Take care whenever you ride this way for crocodiles come out of the swamps and many times appear like fat logs lying across the road. They will normally eschew the presence of humans, but there have been stories where they didn’t, very unpleasant stories.”

Crocodiles! Ryder shook his head, but he kept one eye on the sides of the road. The smell of the fetid swamp water was nearly overpowering. He urged his horse forward. There came a flat stretch, the Caribbean on their left and field after field of sugarcane on their right, even climbing the hills that lay in the distance. And there were goats everywhere, sitting on low stone fences, chewing at flowers left on graves in the church cemeteries. There were egrets sitting on the backs of cattle, cleaning them of ticks, Ryder knew. And there were black men, tall, their bare upper bodies oily with sweat, working in the sugar fields, wearing only coarse trousers made of stout osnaburg. They didn’t seem to notice the heat, their rhythm steady, as they plowed or pulled weeds or dug deeper trenches between the sugar plant rows. And there were women as well, their heads covered with bright bandannas, bending and straightening like the men in a steady rhythm. Not far away sat a white man on a horse, an overseer, sitting under a lone poinciana tree, its feathery, fernlike leaves shimmering in the sunlight, to see they didn’t slack off. The whip in his left hand ensured their continued work.

It was utterly foreign to Ryder. It was exotic, too, with the thick, sweet smell of the frangipani trees that were thick alongside the dirt road, and the startling blue of the water coming into sight at unexpected moments. He was pleased he’d done reading on the voyage here. He wasn’t completely ignorant of the local flora and fauna. But he hadn’t read about any damned crocodiles.

“We are nearing Camille Hall,” Grayson said suddenly, his voice falling nearly to a whisper.

Ryder raised an eyebrow.

“It’s her home, sir. Sophia Stanton-Greville’s home. She lives there with her uncle and her younger brother. There is one plantation between Camille Hall and Kimberly Hall, but as I understand it, her uncle is soon to buy it and thus add substantially to his holdings.”

“Who is the owner?”

“Charles Grammond. Some say he wishes to move to Virginia—’tis one of the colonial states to the north—but it is a lame reason, one with little credence, for he knows nothing of the colonies or their customs and manners. He has four children who haven’t become a father’s pride, all of them sons, none of them ambitious or willing to work. His wife is difficult, I’ve heard it said. It’s a pity, yes, a pity.”

Ryder was certain he’d heard the man’s name in the tavern. He said slowly, “I understand that this woman, this Sophia Stanton-Greville, has three men currently in her bed. I seem to recall that one of them is this Charles Grammond.”

Grayson flushed to the roots of his gray hair. “You have but just arrived, sir!”

“It is the first topic of conversation I heard at the coffeehouse, the Gold Doubloon, I believe the name is. And I heard it spoken of in great detail.”

“No, no, sir, she is a goddess. She is good and pure. It is all a lie. There are many men here who are not gentlemen.”

“But it is the gossip, is it not?”

“Yes, it is, but you mustn’t believe it, Ryder. No, it’s a vicious lie. Don’t mistake me. Customs, the local mores, if you will, are different here. All white men have black mistresses. They’re called housekeepers here and it is considered a respectable position. I have seen men come from England, some to work on the plantations as bookkeepers, some to earn their fortune, and most change. They take wives and they take mistresses. Their thinking changes. But a lady remains a lady.”

“Has your life changed, Grayson?”

“Yes, for a while it certainly did. I was my father’s son, after all, but my wife was French and I loved her dearly. Only after her death did I succumb to local custom and take a mistress or a housekeeper. Life here is different, Ryder, very different.”

Ryder subsided, letting his body relax and roll gently in the comfortable Spanish saddle. He closed his eyes a moment, breathing in the salty fresh smell of the sea, the coastline no longer obscured by thick clumps of mangrove. “Why is Grammond selling out then, in your opinion?”

“I’m not completely certain, but there are, of course, rumors. It was a sudden decision, that I do know. He and his family are leaving next week, I have heard it said. The plantation is quite profitable. It is said he lost a lot of money to Lord David Lochridge, a young wastrel with whom you must avoid gambling, sir, at all costs. It is said he has sold his soul to the devil, and thus his incredible luck.”

Ryder turned to face Samuel Grayson, saying in a meditative voice, “There is every bit as much talk here as there is in England. I had believed to be bored. Perhaps we will have some mysterious manifestations this very night, to welcome me here. Yes, I should enjoy even a ghostly spectacle, if it is possible. Isn’t this young Lord David reputed also to be one of her lovers?”

Ryder wondered if Grayson would have an apoplectic attack. He opened his mouth, realized that his employer was seated next to him and closed it. He managed to say in a fairly calm way, “I repeat, Ryder, all of it is nonsense. Her uncle, Theodore Burgess, is a solid man, as we say here in Jamaica. His reputation is good. He is amiable, his business dealings honorable. He loves his niece and nephew very much. I imagine that the vicious rumors of Miss Stanton-Greville’s reputation hurt him very much. He never speaks of it, of course, for he is a gentleman. His overseer, however, is another matter. His name is Eli Thomas and he is a rotten fellow, overly cruel to the slaves.”

“If Uncle Burgess is such a fine man, why does he have this crooked stick as his overseer?”

“I don’t know. Some say he must have Thomas else the plantation wouldn’t make any money. Burgess is too easy on the slaves, you see.”

“And this Charles Grammond is selling out to the woman’s uncle? This Theodore Burgess?”

“Yes. Perhaps Burgess feels pity for Grammond and is simply buying the plantation to assist him and his family. Burgess is the younger brother of Miss Sophia and Master Jeremy’s mother.”

“How do the girl and boy happen to be here on Jamaica?”

“Their parents were drowned some five years ago. The children were made wards of their uncle.”

“I haven’t heard the name Stanton-Greville. Are they English?”

“Yes. They lived in Fowey, in Cornwall. The house and grounds are in a caretaker’s hands until the boy is old enough to manage for himself.”

Ryder was silent, chewing over all the facts. So the girl had been raised in Cornwall. And now she was here and she was a tart. His thinking turned back to the problem that had brought him here. Ryder strongly doubted the supernatural had anything to do with the problems occurring at Kimberly Hall. Oh no, greed was the same all over the world. Gaining one’s greedy ends evidently conformed to local custom. He said, “Did Mr. Grammond have any problems before he agreed to sell to this Burgess?”

“Not that I know of. Oh, I see the direction of your thoughts, Ryder, but I cannot credit them. Burgess, as I said, has a fine reputation; he is honest; he gives to local charities. No, if Grammond were having financial problems or if he were being besieged as we are at Kimberly, Burgess certainly wouldn’t be behind it.”