Page 7 of The Summer Country

“I am sure she is all that is accomplished and charming,” Charles said politely. He tried to focus on the colonel, but there appeared to be two of him.

He was rescued by an unexpected source, a woman who came soft-footed onto the veranda from the great room. “Master John?”

The colonel went still for a moment, then turned. “Jenny. Can’t you see I’m with a guest?”

The woman didn’t flinch or falter. She wore, Charles saw, an apron over her gown, but it was of fine lawn, trimmed with lace. The candle she held obscured her face, leaving Charles with only a flickering impression of dark hair beneath a white cap. “Beg pardon, Master John. But Hamlet is in a bad way. He’s asking for you.”

“The cares of a plantation, Mr. Davenant. You’ll know them soon enough. Hamlet is our head driver. There was a . . . mishap . . . in the mill this afternoon.” To Jenny he said, “Tell Hamlet I’ll be there presently.”

Jenny didn’t budge. Only the flame of her candle wavered. “I’m afraid it might not wait, Master John.”

Her meaning was clear. The colonel bit down hard on whatever it was he was thinking of saying. “Right, then. Mr. Davenant, if you’ll pardon me for just this little while—”

“No need,” said Charles quickly. He was very aware of the woman’s—Jenny’s—eyes on him from behind the candle. “I should be getting back to Peverills.”

“Nonsense. At this hour? You’ll stay the night, of course. There’s no bother about bedchambers. As you can see, we have plenty of room.” The colonel’s avuncular smile reduced Charles to a stripling. “I’d be remiss if I let you make your way home alone on dark and unfamiliar roads. You won’t have me explain to your brother how I let you break your neck.”

Robert would probably thank him for it.

The thought sprang to his mind unbidden, and Charles was only grateful he had the wits left not to voice it.

The colonel took advantage of his silence to say, “Have another glass of port—or would you prefer punch? I won’t be long. We can find you other entertainment if you like. The girls at Beckles are counted exceptionally pretty. Just look at our Jenny here.”

The colonel’s tone was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it took Charles a moment to catch his meaning. He sounded as though he were offering the loan of a chess set, not the use of a human being.

“I—” Charles felt himself floundering, unsure what to do. Flight seemed the most sensible option. Quickly, he said, “If I must abuse your generosity, may I take advantage of the use of your coach and coachman? You’re right, of course. It would be folly to risk my neck on strange roads.”

Although he would if he had to. Every instinct screamed to get away while he could. Was he being tested? Was that it? Surely the colonel wouldn’t really prostitute his niece’s maid like that.

He’d heard the stories, of course. He’d spent his life contesting them, at Eton, at Oxford, at Lincoln’s Inn. No, he’d said, again and again. The West Indies didn’t decay men’s morals. No, Creoles weren’t creatures of uncontrollable lusts. The stories that were told—well, maybe it happened on some islands, on the French islands, the Spanish islands, but not on Barbados, not in Charles’s family. Just because they owned slaves didn’t make them monsters of depravity and decadence.

“If you’re certain . . . ?” The colonel made a vague gesture toward Jenny, who stood without moving, like Lot’s wife turned to a pillar of salt. The torchlight flickered off her modest dress, hinting at the curves beneath, here then gone, all the more erotic for being hidden.

Charles could feel his cheeks slowly heat, as they hadn’t since he was thirteen, being shown naughty etchings by candlelight with four others in Heatherington-Smythe’s rooms at Eton. He shook his head in wordless negation.

The colonel shrugged, as one man to the vagaries of another. “Well, then. The carriage it is. Paris! Paris! Have Miss Mary Anne’s carriage brought round.”

“Master John.” Jenny’s voice was colorless, insistent. “Hamlet won’t wait.”

“Yes, yes.” The colonel grasped Charles’s hand, giving it a hard squeeze. “You see how it is, Mr. Davenant. I trust we shall see you at Beckles again soon.”

“And you at Peverills.” Charles would have said anything to be done with it. “Good night, Colonel.”

Another hearty slap on the back and the colonel was gone, leaving Charles feeling like a moth who had flown into a lamp and found it too hot for his liking. His glass, he realized, was still in his hand. And it had somehow become empty. He set it down unsteadily on a table, listening for the sound of hoofbeats, wanting nothing more than his own bed. His bed in London, by choice.

He found himself missing it with a painful longing. His chambers had been cramped and narrow and always too cold, but they had been his, his alone. There had been a simplicity to them, no mosquito netting to tangle him about, no servants coming in and out without his bidding. He wanted to close his eyes and wake to the sound of the bustle from Kingsway, flower girls and costermongers and angry carters all disputing the right of way in strident London tones.

“Master Davenant?” The woman’s voice took him by surprise. Charles had assumed she’d followed her master. The night had a strange, kaleidoscope feel to it, people sliding in and out of view.

“Yes?” He felt like a nervous virgin, drawing back as she approached. “It’s—Jenny, is it?”

She didn’t respond. He might be all embarrassment, but she was as calm as any judge confronted with a bumbling barrister. “My mistress has asked me to tell you that she will be riding tomorrow, a little before noon, by the path that runs along the boundary between Beckles and Peverills. She would be pleased to help you reacquaint yourself with the district.”

Charles cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of her, I’m sure, but—”

“I was not asked to bring a reply.” That was all she said, but Charles felt thoroughly put in his place.

Below, the sound of carriage wheels clattering, the jingle of tack, heralded the approach of the promised carriage. It was an old-fashioned closed carriage, lacquered black, with lanterns on either side. To his relief, Charles saw someone had thought to bring his horse around and tether him to the back of the carriage. Not his horse, but one from the Peverills stable. He couldn’t help but think of it all, still, as being his father’s, on loan only.