Dangerous Waters (26 page)

“Why is it lit at this time of day?”

“Is a charm lamp. To make a wish come true.” Abba's tongue snaked over her lips. But when she spoke her words were cold and clear. “I burn it for massa.”

Jowan walked past the four-poster and threw open the window to release the foetid stench. Any physician working in a sailor's hospital quickly learned to recognise that smell. Inhaling deeply to cleanse his lungs he turned. It was hard to reconcile the man shifting restlessly beneath a single soiled sheet with the handsome smiling image in the miniature Phoebe had shown them at the beginning of the voyage.

Observing hair that had once gleamed like gold and now lay lank, matted and dark with sweat; closed eyes sunk in deeply shadowed sockets, cheekbones stained with the hectic flush of fever above an untidy beard, he fought down fierce exultation.
Phoebe could not possibly marry him now.

Treatments involving arsenic, bismuth and mercury
sprang to mind. He instantly dismissed them. It was far too late. The swollen arthritic knuckles and the small coppery spots peppering Rupert Quintrell's arms and visible at the open neck of a filthy nightshirt were confirmation that years of wild excess had not only caught up with him but were exacting a terrible price.

Rubbing his face, the stubble rough against his palms, Jowan turned toward the window once more. What in God's name was he going to tell her? That the uncle she loved and respected had agreed to marry her off to a syphilitic libertine? What would that do to her treasured memories?

But he would have to tell her something, and she too intelligent to be fobbed off with lies. Nor would she thank him for trying to spare her feelings. He had made that mistake once and knew better than to repeat it. In any event, considering her profession and the fact that she had grown up in a port where on certain streets every building was either an inn or a brothel, it was surely inevitable that she would have some knowledge of the results of licentious behaviour.
But this wasn't some anonymous sailor or wharf-rat. This was the man to whom she was betrothed.

“Who the hell are you?” The rasping whisper held an arrogance that instantly banished any thoughts of pity.

Concealing his warring emotions, Jowan turned. “My name is Crossley. I'm a physician and surgeon, and the guardian of Miss Phoebe Dymond.”

“Is that so? How nice for you.” Rupert coughed weakly. “But it still doesn't tell me what you're doing in my house or in my room.”

Reminding himself that this man was no longer a threat Jowan clung grimly to courtesy. “I'm here because your father made Miss Dymond a proposal of marriage on your behalf which she accepted.”

Rupert's gaze widened. “Good God.”

“As ship's doctor aboard the packet that brought her to Kingston I was made responsible for her safety and well-being.”

“Against your will?”

Startled by the shrewd question Jowan thought quickly. Had he somehow betrayed the conflict that had been tearing him apart since he first laid eyes on Phoebe Dymond? Rupert Quintrell might be mortally ill but it would be very foolish to underestimate him.

“Yes.”

“Is she such an antidote, then?”

Images of Phoebe: white-faced with fear at the bottom of the companionway, wind-blown and laughing at something Romulus Downey had said, frowning in concentration as she dressed a wound raced through Jowan's mind.

“No.”

Rupert stared at him for a moment. Then his mouth twisted and his shoulders began to shake.

The sick man's expression was so akin to anguish it was a moment before Jowan realised he was laughing. “Have I said something amusing?”

“It all depends,” Rupert rasped. “One thing's as clear as the pain in my bones. You've fallen for her. Have you told her?”

“Certainly not.” Jowan couldn't entirely hide his anger and instantly regretted it, instinct telling him that emotion of any kind would be used against him.

“Oh dear. An honourable man,” Rupert mocked, then caught his breath. For an instant the agony that racked his body was vivid on his face. As it loosened its grip he sagged against the stained pillows cursing under his breath as fresh beads of sweat trickled down his temples. He moistened fever-cracked lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Where is she? In Kingston?” His eyes glittered as he frowned. “No, you wouldn't have left her there by herself. So she must – She's here isn't she?”

Jowan gave a curt nod.

“Go and fetch her,” Rupert ordered. “I want to see what my father chose for me.”

Clenching his jaw so hard his teeth ached Jowan shook his head. “Later perhaps.”

“For Christ's sake –” a paroxysm of coughing seized Rupert and shook him like a terrier shaking a rat.

Pouring water from the carafe on the bedside table into a smeary glass, Jowan masked his revulsion for both the man and the disease that was destroying him and slid his arm beneath Rupert Quintrell's shoulders, startled at the sharpness of the bones.
How long was it since this man had eaten?

Rupert only managed a couple of sips, then choked. “Throat – sore – can't –” Weakly shaking his head he sank down onto the pillows as Jowan removed his arm and opened the door to Quamin's knock.

“Put the water down over there. Take those away,” he pointed to the carafe and glass, “and tell Abba to give you clean ones.” As Quamin retreated, closing the door quietly, Jowan allowed his gaze to roam as he washed his hands. The room stank. The sheets and pillows were stained and damp. The man in the bed had not been washed, shaved, or fed for several days. Why, when there might be a dozen slaves in the house, had he been left in such desperate straits?

“They're afraid,” Rupert rasped, once again startling Jowan with his perception. “And so they should be. Damnable cowards the lot of them. They want me dead. But none of them has the courage to do anything about it. Not even Abba. And God knows she has reason enough – “he broke off, stiffening as his face twisted. As the agonising spasm passed his grimace softened into exhaustion and he gave a harsh croaking laugh. “I know what they are doing down there. I see them in the shadows, waiting. But I'm still here.” His gaze was far away, his face haunted. “Can't live, can't die, cursed…”

Jowan cleared his throat. “Mr Quintrell, under the circumstances – “

Rupert turned his head, studying Jowan through half-closed eyelids. “Circumstances?” he mocked.

“Your condition,” Jowan kept his face expressionless. “And the uncertainty of – “

“Doctors,” Rupert sneered. “Always so mealy-mouthed. We both know what's wrong with me. And that I'm too far gone for cure or recovery. What neither of us can be sure of is how long it will take me to die.”

“Exactly,” Jowan said quietly. Predisposed by everything he had heard and by his own impressions to loathe this man, he was astonished to feel a brief flash of admiration. There was something almost heroic about Rupert Quintrell's disdain for slaves who lacked the courage to take advantage of his physical weakness and kill him.

Yet by leaving him lying helpless in his own filth, without food or clean water, they were exacting a slower and far crueller revenge. Doubtless he fully deserved to experience the same degree of suffering he had inflicted on so many others. But if they hoped to break him, or make him beg for mercy, Jowan knew they were doomed to disappointment. Rupert Quintrell would defy them to his last breath.

“So,” Jowan was relieved that his voice emerged in exactly the tone he had aimed for: off-hand, bordering on irritation that the long journey had been such a waste of time and effort. “Presumably you will release Miss Dymond from the engagement and send her back to Cornwall?”

Rupert's eyes opened wide. Though his gaze was as merciless as a bird of prey his cracked lips curved in a cynical smile. “Do you really imagine she would go? Oh, doctor. How little you know of women. The instant she is informed of my condition she will insist that we are married at once.”

His words hit Jowan with the shock of a musket ball or sabre thrust. “Don't be ridiculous!”

“You doubt me? Then you are even more of a fool than I thought,” Rupert retorted. “From bride to wealthy widow in what may be a matter of weeks, perhaps days? Few women would turn down such an opportunity.”

Jowan didn't even try to hide his disgust. “Among your circle perhaps.”

“In any circle. You don't believe me? Then we must have a wager on it.”

“Certainly not!”

“You know you'd lose,” Rupert crowed, eyes bright with malice. “That's why you won't bet.”

“To hold such a cynical view of women,” Jowan said, “is in my opinion as sad as it is distasteful.”

Rupert gave a bitter laugh. “Obviously you've had very little experience of the so-called fair sex if you still hold such foolish notions. Women's affections are bought and sold as easily as sugar or rum. And as cheaply,” he added.

“That would depend on one's choice of company,” Jowan retorted, turning away as the door opened to reveal Quamin.

“You think so?” Rupert mocked. “Wait and see. Now go and fetch her. She is, after all, my affianced bride. I have a right to meet her.”

“Not in that state you don't.” Jowan's stomach knotted with rage and a fear he didn't dare acknowledge as he beckoned Quamin forward.

“Ah. So will you leave me like this?” There wasn't a trace of anxiety in the question. It was both a challenge and a simple request for information. Jowan knew that whatever his reply, Rupert would simply shrug. He didn't care. And that gave him an unbeatable advantage.

“No,” Jowan forced the word through gritted teeth. While he and Phoebe remained in the house he was required by the oath he had sworn as a physician to do everything possible for this man.

Rupert grinned, enjoying his victory. “Clean me up if it appeals to your sense of propriety. I will not deny I shall feel more comfortable. But I tell you this, had you left me in my squalor it would make no difference to her.”

Every instinct urged Jowan to find Phoebe and take her away right now. But he couldn't. He didn't have the right. Nor would she listen if he tried. She had insisted on coming here. Though she had not known and still did not know the state of Rupert Quintrell's health.

But in a very short time she would have to be told not merely the fact that his illness was terminal, but the nature of it. And being the woman she was she would insist on seeing the man who whom she was betrothed. Her integrity – and her courage – would demand it.

Then what?
Undermined by Rupert's cynicism, overwhelmed by anxiety for Phoebe, and fear that Rupert Quintrell would be proved right, though not for the twisted reasons he stated, Jowan remained silent, clinging with grim desperation to his façade of professional detachment.

“Get on with it then,” Rupert taunted. “Sweeten me up for my bride.”

Chapter Twenty One

As Phoebe followed Abba through a door that separated the domestic quarters from the rest of the house, the savoury aroma of frying meat and onions made her mouth water. Her growling stomach and hunger pangs reminded her it was hours since she had eaten. She pushed the thought from her mind. She had work to do.

The sounds of heated argument grew louder: the source of the altercation becoming evident as Phoebe paused to glance through the open kitchen door. Several women were busy. One stood at the iron stove stirring and shaking a large skillet, two more were seated at one end of a big wooden table chopping vegetables. Opposite them with floury hands resembling white gloves against her dark skin another slapped and shaped corn bread dough. Two more lingered by the back door, one with an old basket full of vegetable peelings on her hip, the other leaning back to balance the weight of large pot of water.

Though their complexions varied in colour from ebony to bronze, all wore dresses of the same coarse blue linen. Glimpsing her they fell instantly silent. Phoebe's tentative smile wilted beneath their sullen suspicion and quickly turned backs.

As she moved on Phoebe heard whispers grow into a hum of murmuring. She couldn't understand their dialect but it was probable they were speculating on who she was and why she had come.

Abba opened a door. As warm foetid air wafted against her face Phoebe heard a moment of breathy low-pitched crooning before it was cut short by a hiss of indrawn breath then a shrill voice began to scold. She was definitely not welcome.

In the gloom from a grimy cobwebbed window Phoebe saw a slight figure sprawled between the gnarled knees of an elderly black woman hunched in the corner.

Startled to see the girl's face was even lighter than Abba's, Phoebe's gaze swept past slender limbs to the swollen belly beneath a chemise of fine white lawn whose quality contrasted with the old woman's garment. Her heart lurched in shock and alarm. “She's just a child.”

The girl moaned, her legs twitching as another contraction began. The old woman continued berating Abba, waving them both away with a scraggy arm.

“She twelve,” Abba stated, adding with caustic irony, “old enough.”

Putting her medicine chest on the floor Phoebe crouched to open it. “What's her name?” She could smell the girl's fear, hear the terror as her breathing quickened with the increasing pain. The moan rose to a hoarse yelping scream.

As she rocked the girl the old woman screeched in fury, her lined face contorted. She jerked her chin at Phoebe, ignoring all Abba's attempts to explain. Losing patience, the housekeeper began shouting back.

The noise was deafening in the small stuffy room. Phoebe's head began to pound. “Abba, please don't. It's not helping.”

Grabbing the old woman's arm the housekeeper pulled her roughly to her feet, heedless of the girl who tumbled sideways and curled over, drawing up her knees as she keened, sobbing for air.

The wizened old crone struggled and fought but was no match for Abba who spat a warning as she thrust her out through the door.

“Is she a relative?” Phoebe asked.

Abba's face was stony. “One time she have power. Now is gone. What you do with this girl?”

“I'll do my best.” Phoebe's glance swept over broken furniture piled against one wall. The shelves lining another held old boots, shoes, baskets and other indefinable bundles. A low cupboard stood beneath the window. The girl lay on a makeshift bed of palm fronds covered with old straw mats between the cupboard and the wall. Conditions were far from ideal, but no worse than some of the rural cottages she had attended back in Cornwall.

“I need more light. Oil lamps rather than candles. Two buckets or iron pots, clean rags, soap, towels, scissors or a sharp knife, thread, a jug of hot water, several cups and a small spoon.”

Abba gave a brief nod and started for the door

“What's her name?” Phoebe repeated.

The housekeeper looked down at the girl. The light was too poor for Phoebe to read her expression. “She called Chalice.”

Abba brought the items Phoebe had asked for then left again. Talking softly, hoping that even if Chalice did not understand the words she would be reassured by a soothing voice, Phoebe washed and examined the labouring girl, telling herself that the knots in her stomach were due to hunger rather than anxiety. In the distance she could hear Abba's voice overriding protests from the women in the kitchen.

Minutes ticked by. Each time the door opened as Abba came and went the volume of on-going argument accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans increased then subsided again. Unwilling to help she still kept returning, watching in silence, snapping fiercely at any slaves who dared open the door.

An hour passed, then another.

While she drew on everything she had learned, Phoebe's mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Though she hadn't been sure what to expect, she had been shaken by the silent animosity of the kitchen slaves. They did not want her here. Yet had things gone as planned; had she intended to stay; had meeting Jowan Crossley not turned her life upside down, they would have been her responsibility.

Romulus Downey had told her they viewed kindness or compassion as a weakness to be exploited. But surely there had to be a way to obtain their obedience that did not depend on violence or cruelty? It was a task of such enormity she felt both guilt and relief that she didn't have to face it.

She tried different herbal infusions to ease Chalice's pains and speed the process. The half-empty cups had long since grown cold. None had worked. But there were no more screams. Chalice was too exhausted even to moan as the contractions racked her slim body.

Her back and knees aching, Phoebe knew she dared wait no longer. Lathering her hand with soap she felt for the baby's head. Trying to shut out the echo of Abba's voice,
too long, too long
, she reached in, fingers probing, trying to discern features. Another contraction began. Using it, Phoebe hooked the baby's chin.
Oh no.
She must not panic. She might be mistaken. Concentrate.
Gently, gently.
Her shoulder muscles burned and trembled in protest. Her gown clung, hot and clammy. Beads of perspiration slid into her eyes making them sting. She blinked hard.

Then at last: “It's coming. There, that's the head. Now –” Her voice dried in her throat. She had so hoped she was wrong. But that brief touch had warned her. The tiny face was dusky grape-purple above the silver–blue coils of umbilical cord wrapped tightly around the baby's neck.

Chalice grunted and the rest of the little body slid out into Phoebe's hands, inert, lifeless. “A little girl,” she said over her shoulder.

Abba did not move from her position near the door. “Dead?”

Phoebe nodded. “I'm sorry.” Though Aunt Sarah had warned her and she had quickly discovered for herself that for every five healthy babies she delivered there would be one stillbirth she still felt a wrenching pang of sadness when it happened.

“Better this way.” Abba said.

Phoebe opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking. Who was she to argue? What did she know of their lives? As she lay the child between Chalice's slim legs she was struck by the contrast between the congested face and the colour of the tiny body. “How pale the baby's skin is. She could almost be –” She stopped in confusion.

“Chalice got white blood,” Abba said. “She Massa William's child.”

Because she was bent over the exhausted girl Phoebe was able to hide her shock.
Chalice was William Quintrell's daughter?
But as she sat back on her heels her head swam. She sucked in a deep breath, her hair prickling where it clung to her temples and neck.
Chalice was William Quintrell's child?
She reminded herself she was in Jamaica not Cornwall. Everything from climate and countryside to people's behaviour was totally different. She needed to remember that the conventions governing respectable society back home did not apply here.
Home. Where was that? Where did she belong now?

Plunging her blood-smeared hands into the bucket of water she washed them thoroughly before drying them on a fresh towel, Aunt Sarah's insistence on cleanliness instinctive to her now.

In this country white people “owned” black and were allowed by both law and church to treat them cruelly. All she had heard and the little she had seen disturbed her deeply. But to say so would invite derision.

Maybe she was foolish and naïve. As an outsider she could not possibly understand the problems facing the ruling class of plantation owners responsible for producing the sugar, rum and coffee demanded by the rest of the world. Yet even allowing for all that, she knew in her heart that no matter how many people explained, excused or justified, certain things were just plain wrong.

But such thoughts were for another time. Right now Chalice needed her. Bending over the comatose girl she pressed down on the flaccid belly to stimulate contractions that would deliver the afterbirth.
Twelve years old. An almost-white baby.
Phoebe recalled Mr Matcham describing Rupert Quintrell's house parties and the entertainment arranged for his guests. …
young slaves brought in from the fields.
But as a mulatto Chalice would have worked in the house, not the fields.
She'd be wise not to keep any young girls in the house.
Ellin's words echoed. Despite the heat and stuffiness, despite the perspiration beading her face and trickling between her breasts Phoebe's mouth was dust dry.

“Abba, the baby's father –”

“You don't ask 'bout him.” Scooping up the little corpse Abba moved away to wrap it in a rag.

“But Chalice is still a child. Whoever is responsible –”

“Course she a child. That why he wanted her.”

Phoebe was appalled. “
What?
”

“You a midwife. You not
know
men think if they go with virgin girl it make them clean again?” Abba's incredulity stung.

Yet Phoebe hadn't known. For who would have told her such a thing?

Sick men? A dead baby so light-skinned she could have passed for white?
A rush of heat flooded through Phoebe followed by icy chills that goose-pimpled her skin. Her stomach clenched with foreboding.
If only she hadn't asked
. But she had. And though she suspected – and dreaded – the answer, it was too late now. She had to know. She moistened her lips.

“Who, Abba? Who is the baby's father?”

Abba looked up. “Who you think, Miss?” She sounded impatient.

“I won't guess. Tell me his name.”

“Massa Rupert.”

“You are sure? Because such an accusation –”

“Ain't no doubt.” Abba's stated flatly. “Massa Rupert father this dead child.”

Phoebe swallowed. “But – but if Chalice is William's daughter, that makes her Rupert's half-sister. Surely he didn't – I mean, he couldn't have known?”

“He knew,” Abba said. “I try to keep her away. But one day he see her. He tell me –” Her expression was as cold and flat as her tone. “He tell me he will have her.”

“I don't understand. Why tell you?”

Abba's chin rose. “He say I too proud. He want break me like he break his horses.”

“No, I meant why tell
you?
Where was Chalice's mother?“

Abba's brown gaze held Phoebe's. “You looking at her. Chalice is my child. Born on me by Massa William when I was thirteen.”

“Oh dear God,” Phoebe whispered. Her head whirled and dark spots danced in front of her eyes. She shut them tightly, wishing she could as easily shut out what she had heard and all its dreadful implications. Queasy and faint she swallowed hard.

“I beg him, not Chalice.“ Abba continued. “What for he want her? I still pretty. But he just smile,” she said softly. “Give her beads and ribbons and lies. She laugh at me. Say she his woman now.”

Trying to shut out the horrific tormenting images that filled her head Phoebe had gradually increased the rhythmic pressure of her massage. But it was having no effect. She glanced up. “Help me, Abba.”

The housekeeper looked down at her daughter. “No hope for her.”

“Don't say that –” Phoebe began.

“No, you listen.” Abba grasped her arm, hauling her upright with surprising strength. “You tried for her. But better she die.”

Chalice's smooth young features contorted in a grimace as her body tensed. Blood gushed, thick and dark, from between her thighs.

Phoebe tried to break free: to reach for rags to staunch the flow, but Abba held her fast.

“Let her be.”

Chalice's breath fluttered out on a soft sigh. Her head sagged, her limbs relaxed and she looked suddenly boneless, like a discarded rag doll. In the silence Phoebe barely registered the sounds beyond the little room.

“Why, Abba?”

The housekeeper drew herself up, dry-eyed and formidable. “Chalice done got away. She free. And that baby girl be no man's slave.” She gripped Phoebe's shoulder. “Now you go. Lamp is burning.”

Before Phoebe could ask what she meant brisk footsteps approached. Phoebe heard Jowan's voice. As Abba released her and turned away he rapped on the door and opened it. Ignoring Abba who was crouching to cover her daughter's body with an old blanket, he frowned at Phoebe. “How much longer – ?”

“It's over,” Phoebe said softly. “The baby was stillborn and the mother did not survive.” A short simple explanation for a situation infinitely more complex and tragic.

“Ah. A pity. I know you will have done your best. But now you must leave.”

“Doctor is right, miss,” Abba said.

Giving her a brief quelling look Jowan turned back to Phoebe. “Mr Quintrell has a virulent fever. Quamin is presently upstairs making him comfortable.” His glance flicked to Abba. Phoebe had sensed anger boiling beneath his controlled façade. Now it spilled over. “Call yourself a housekeeper? You should be ashamed.”