Page 5 of The Summer Country

“I see,” said Mr. Turner, as though he didn’t see at all. To Adam he said, “You mean to sell it, I assume.”

“Naturally,” said Adam.

“I mean to do nothing of the kind,” said Emily. Both men looked at her as though she had run mad. “Surely, it would be unwise to arrive at any conclusion before I’ve seen it.”

“You mustn’t expect too much. Peverills isn’t what it was.”

“With the price of sugar what it is . . .” Adam ventured.

“The price of sugar has come down again—it won’t command as much as it would have, say, ten years ago,” Mr. Turner conceded, and Adam looked relieved, having feared to betray his own ignorance. “Mind you, a plantation’s not a bad investment, provided one knows what he’s getting into. I have two of my own. But Peverills . . . Had I known, I would have advised your grandfather against the purchase.”

“Is there something wrong with the land?” Adam asked.

“Only neglect,” said Mr. Turner. He looked at Emily, at her modest skirts, her white lace collar, her snub nose, her mid-brown hair looped in bunches over her ears, and Emily could feel herself bristling under his scrutiny. “But it will take time and care to put right again.”

“And there’s the ghost, of course,” contributed Dr. Braithwaite from his post by the curio cabinet.

“Ghost?” said Emily.

“It’s just a local story,” said Mrs. Turner soothingly, with a reproachful look at her nephew. “People do make up stories about old houses. And Peverills is one of the oldest on the island.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Turner interjected, “you might escort our guests, Nathaniel. You are the most familiar with that area.”

Dr. Braithwaite lost his casual lounge. “I have obligations at the hospital.”

“Not on Thursday,” said Mr. Turner pleasantly. “You’re often that way on a Thursday, aren’t you?”

There was suddenly something in the air that made the hairs at the nape of Emily’s neck prickle, a tension between the two men like the charged calm before a storm at sea.

“Is it so very near, then?” asked Emily. “It seemed rather far from Bridgetown on the map.”

“Ours is a little island, Miss Dawson,” said Mr. Turner genially. His eyes never left his nephew. “You mustn’t judge it by England. Everything is more immediate than one would imagine.”

It sounded as though he was speaking of more than distance. Emily bit her lip. “We shouldn’t wish to trouble—”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Turner, still smiling, but there was something in that smile that made Emily see why prosperous Bristol merchants blanched at the sound of his name. “We would not wish to be behindhand in our obligations to the Fenty family. Would we, Nathaniel?”

Beneath the mustache, Dr. Braithwaite’s lips had compressed into a thin line. His eyes met his uncle’s and he gave a terse nod. “As you wish. Miss Dawson, I shall be honored by the pleasure of your company on Thursday.”

This, thought Emily, wasn’t how she wanted to see her plantation, accompanied by an unwilling guide. But there was nothing to say but “Thank you, Dr. Braithwaite.”

“Shall we go through to supper?” said Mrs. Turner.

Chapter Two

Christ Church Parish, Barbados

February 1812

“I can’t remember when I’ve dined so well.” Charles gripped the table with both hands, raising himself to his feet with difficulty. Mostly he had drunk well, his glass filled again and again by a silent servant who seemed to have no other purpose but to see him foxed. “Miss Beckles. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Miss Beckles dropped a curtsy. He could see her only as a glimmer of pink silk and crepe, hovering headless in the gloom, her dark hair blending into the wood paneling of the dining parlor. Her voice was low and throaty, a soft burr. “Good night, Mr. Davenant. Uncle.”

Charles should bow, he knew. But he was afraid he might overset himself if he tried. That would be one way to introduce himself to the neighboring gentry, tumbling flat on his face.

Too late. He blinked and Miss Beckles was gone, her maid following soft-footed behind her.

“Come, come.” Miss Beckles’s uncle linked arms with Charles, hauling him forward. “Now that the womenfolk are safely away, you’ll share a drop of port with me?”