Page 29 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 29

S CARLETT —T ELMA’S P ICNIC -B ALL

T he evening sun lowers, making the blue sky appear orange. Standing on the stone patio of Stephen’s aunt’s Cheapside home, I overlook a grand picnic. The chapel service took hours, but I wasn’t that hungry. Rose water will now forever steal my appetite.

Stephen didn’t recognize Chrysanthemum. I’m not sure she recognized me. Guess we all clean up well.

“Dear, you eat like a bird.” Mrs. Smith, whom Stephen calls his Tantie Telma, has a large green lawn full of people feeding themselves on exquisite food and sipping fine beverages.

“I’m not that hungry, ma’am.”

“You seemed very moved by the service. I’m glad Stephen has a girl with a faithful calling.”

Well . . . okay. I have a calling and faith, but I’m not sure what that means among this community since a few have noted we stay across the Thames. The more ill Mama became, the more it became known we have the chronic sickness in our blood. One can feel when we’re not welcome.

“Can I get you something to eat? Stephen usually runs around the whole time not eating. I’d hate for you to feel you can’t partake. You’re not ill, are you?”

The fear in her voice is real. “Ma’am, I’m fine. You have hundreds supping with you. Your lawn is filled with people on picnic blankets listening to sweet music. You needn’t fret about me.”

“Good. You are well.” She smiles. “But you must eat, but later. Enjoy the violinists. They are easy to hire. The banya players, or what they call the banjo here, are more difficult. We must stick to our culture. We have it, you know, even if we dress like the rest of London, we still have our own.”

Mrs. Smith sips from something made with hibiscus and honey. She abandoned her hat for a brightly colored turban. “I hope you’re not upset Stephen’s spending so much of his time doing errands for me, visiting with everyone. He’s a friendly boy. I think these celebrations help him relax.”

“No, ma’am. He’s been a wonderful guide, almost too wonderful, making sure I’m comfortable.”

“He’s my late sister’s only son, though he acts like my son and one to all the aunties.” She claps and he hears it from the other side of the yard. I watch his ears crane up. “That boy’s very attentive. He’ll make a good husband.”

She points to him and then me. “Get her a coupe of sorrel.”

“Please, ma’am. I am fine. I’m not thirsty.”

“Nonsense, you must drink. It’s the least you can do to let me know you will try and participate.”

The woman is not subtle. But who can blame her? She wants to know if I will force Stephen to leave his community. The way he loves it, it’s a part of him, part of the deal; like concessions in a wedding contract. I nod. “Sorrel is fine. I’d love some.”

Tantie Telma smiles and offers more signals to Stephen. He dashes off. His coat is somewhere. His cravat has loosened but is still hanging on for dear life. I’m not sure what happened to Mrs. Cantor.

While I’m not the most overdressed, I give that distinction to a couple in silver. She’s in her bridal gown, I’m sure. And her fellow has large silver buttons on his tailcoat and waistcoat.

A young pregnant woman waddles over to us. It’s Stephen’s cousin, Maryanne Teresa Halland, Mrs. Smith’s daughter. “Miss Wilcox, are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes. This is lovely.”

“That’s why she hasn’t moved from the patio, she’s here holding up the wall,” Mrs. Randolph says to Eveline as they enter the area. Eveline looks at me with a sympathetic gaze. Mrs. Randolph sneers a little and makes it clear I’m an outsider. They keep going into the house. “Oh, Stephen. Great sorrel. Thank you.”

That’s Mrs. Randolph’s loud voice, greeting him as she takes the sorrel Stephen meant for me.

“Overwhelming.” Mrs. Halland rubs her belly. “It can take a little getting used to. And Mama loves parties. You should’ve seen the t’ing Mama threw ten years ago. I was just ten when she gave a ball to celebrate the passage of the first slave trade–banning bill. The patio where we stand had white linen–covered tables with all kinds of food. She hired footmen.”

Mrs. Smith comes and puts an arm about her daughter. “Since then, I like these long picnics. It’s a little fussy, but still happy and free flowing.”

Stephen saunters over as he has every twenty minutes, this time with a coupe. “Hey, pretty lady, I have sorrel and a bowl of pepper pot.”

I take the beverage and sip. Then put it on the patio ledge. “Delicious.”

He’s about to put a spoon in my hand when he slowly drags off one of my satin gloves and then the other, stuffing them into his waistcoat pocket. “Be careful, this is not ice. It’s spicy.”

“Does she not like spicy?” Mrs. Smith lurches a little. “We love spice.”

“Ma’am, I love spice and flavor. Your nephew likes to tease. You see, we came to a new understanding over a bowl of sweet pineapple ice.”

His aunt smiles and seems more at ease. “Come, Maryanne. Let’s get you seated comfortably in the parlor before that baby falls out of you.”

“My daughter needs to leap out,” she says, and waddles into the house. Mrs. Smith look back at us, then follows.

Stephen’s smile disappears. “That baby does need to come. It’s been days of early contractions, and he hasn’t turned. The accoucheur should’ve tried to induce.”

I lift his chin. “All will be well.” It’s very quick, but I see his true feelings dissolve, hiding behind lips that have a caramel and coconut smell. I want to draw the light Stephen back. “Perhaps you need to go get that novel and read a bit.”

“Guess you understand why I like to escape into books. I love a little whimsy.” He sighs. “My fault though. I can’t go a whole day, or even a half of one, without thinking of people and their conditions.”

“I guess you really do understand the lengths that I go to to help.”

“That, my darling Scarlett, I do.” He dips into the bowl and then brings the spoon to my mouth. “A little okra, flavorful peppers, and delicious cinnamon, thyme, and cloves. My aunt makes it the best, though she has to substitute wiri wiri for Jamaican Scotch bonnets. Hot, fruity, tangy peppers.”

I take the spoon and the small bowl from his fingers. “It does smell good, but have you eaten, Stephen? I seem to recall that you often forget to take care of yourself doing for others and passed out on me. It was most embarrassing.”

“Meh t’ink you can find a way to keep me awake. I’m sure you did not try hard enough, last time. Perhaps you need another opportunity to try.”

The gaze he offers makes me hot, but he shifts around acknowledging this one or that one. Stephen acts all innocent as he slips his free hand under my cape about my waist. “The spice makes you swoon, Scarlett. Let me hold you up.”

Wanting to laugh and forget that people are watching, I feed him and then take the same spoon to my mouth. The heat of the remnants of the pepper pot burns going down. “Wow. That’s good. Very warming.”

“See,” he says. “Much bettah.” His accent is on full display. I love it. I love the freedom he has here.

“Oh, it’s better. But do make sure, sir, you can deliver on the promises your brown eyes offer.” I feed him again. “Then I’m sure I’ll be very satisfied.”

“Dah standards are low if mere satisfaction is what yuh want.”

His aunt tugs on his shoulder before he kisses me. “Stephen, I see you’re making Miss Wilcox too comfortable on the patio. I need your assistance. I want meh daughter to rest.”

“Yes, Tantie Telma. I live to serve.” He pulls away from the lean he’s had over me. I remain still, supporting the Grecian column at my back.

“Duty calls, my dove.” Stephen backs away and goes with his aunt. She swats him as the two go merrily inside.

It’s picturesque here.

I’d love for my sisters to be here. We’ve missed being part of a community. We have customers in Cheapside and a few family friends who visit from time to time, but nothing like this. I wonder what our lives would have looked like if this had been our world and not the other side of the Thames.

It will be dark in another hour, but couples are still coming. A few get up and dance to the violinist’s song. Some sing what sounds like a hymn.

People with filled plates, cooked meats that smell of garlic, flit past my solemn stance. Black cake and coconut bread is being served. It all smells wonderful.

Yet, I stay at my post next to the Grecian-styled column.

One lady says hello. Another says that they were once a customer of Wilcox Coal. Many conversations are animated, louder at times than the musicians.

A man passes with a plate full of johnnycakes. Those were my mother’s favorites. I’m sure that someone has salted cod or herring to go with the fried dumplings. A lady squeals when he presents her the tasty offering, and I hear my mother’s dropped consonants in this lady’s pronunciation of her Jamaican “betta.”

Stephen dances near. “Your chaperone is asleep in the parlor, but not before hinting to my cousin that we are very affectionate creatures.”

“An indiscreet nurse who may feign sleeping. Stephen, I’m shocked.”

“Two glasses of the claret have made her quite the chatterbox.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. He smells of rich sweet blackberries. He might’ve had a bit too.

“I don’t have to return you to Anya House until two. Unfortunately, people will still be here. No one likes to leave Tantie Telma’s party early. Usually, I stay and help tidy her lawn. Put away things, and of course take as much cassava pone as I can.”

He dips his head close again, like he wishes to whisper in my ear, but I think he wants to kiss. “In case you were wondering, Benny is now full of roast pork.”

“Save it, lover boy, until we are alone, and I’ve forgiven you.”

“What have I done wrong, Scarlett?”

I put a hand on my hip. “What do you think, friend? Or is there another F word for me?”

Tantie Telma comes to us. “You two make a beautiful couple. When will you be married? Do it soon, so you’re young enough to play with your children, Stephen.”

I smile at the bundle of energy and nod like I agree.

“Get her to mingle, Stephen. People have questions.”

He smiles at me and then goes into the house with his aunt. The music is good. I think I hear Handel’s Messiah on the banya.

Then my ear picks up Stephen’s lengthy bettah . My Trinidadian expatriate comes again from the house. This time he has another punch goblet. “For you, sorrel.” He looks at the half-drunken one on the ledge. “Oh, I didn’t forget. You just haven’t . . . Sorry.”

His head dips to mine. “Make an effort, Scarlett. I need you to be a part of this world.”

“What do you want me to do? Ask them why they put so much effort in gathering and socializing and yet condemn the same thing in the ton?”

“Scarlett.”

“I’ve heard three talk of my sisters’ marriages and wondering why I don’t want one of them Mayfair types. Should I saunter about with you and be on display? So I can hear more whispers of the illness that plagues the Wilcoxes?”

He bites his lip.

I shut my eyes. “I need to be bettah at being demure.”

“Scarlett.”

“See, I haven’t forgotten your list. You should’ve added lustful, hard of hearing and stupid. That would be the perfect woman here.”

“While I want the former, you will never be the latter two.”

“This. From the same person who said when we arrived, ‘I must have you . . . free.’ Why? You’re not.”

Putting the goblet on the ledge, he puts his hands on my shoulders and removes my cape. Tossing it to the ledge as well, he bows. “Dance with me.”

He takes me into his arms and swirls me to the music. Relaxing against him, I smell caramel and peppers in his clothes. “They need to meet you, Scarlett. If they talk with you, they’ll see how wonderful you are.”

“Why don’t they see how good you are? They say a prophet is without honor amongst his kin and country. Is that why all your good work, your dreams are ignored?”

Stephen steps away. He pours sorrel from the first goblet into the other. “You don’t understand my community, Scarlett.”

“What’s not to understand? I’ve been standing here doing research. I’ve listened to dozens of conversations, especially from Auntie Theodora. Your Tantie Thelma hired an accoucheur to deliver her first grandchild. You deliver babies every week. I know that it pains you when something goes wrong, but you’re the best. I see how dedicated you are. But they chose someone else, some stupid man with a membership to White’s.”

He knows what I am saying. Some of our Blackamoor communities will always want the ton’s peers, those with the whitest of skins, to be missionaries and healers to the browns everywhere. They trust their medicine, their physicians, not one of their own.

“You are good,” I say to him. “You have nothing to prove. Your life doesn’t need to be ordered by what the aunties think.”

Stephen drinks from a goblet, draining it. “You’re right. It’s bettah yuh stand here looking uncomfortable. The woman of my dreams, that’s who I think you are. Yet, I must be wrong, for you’ll not take a simple risk for me and be social. Why is there no resistance to taking an insane risk but you become a pile of bricks for an easy one? You’ve built a wall or tower and refuse to come down and participate in this gathering?”

“Risk? You mean like the ones you’re unwilling to take because it will upset someone? Does being a part of this community mean giving away your power? How can you be a master of yourself and fearful of being snubbed?”

“It’s a blessed picnic. You should be eating and dancing and enjoying yourself. Can’t you live a little?”

“What is living? Am I to be more like the aunties—snubbing women and making them not be honest in their skin? Why wear a gown if they think I’m rubbish.”

“Do breeches make you powerful, Scarlett? No, I think you’d still be here on the wall acting like a little girl waiting for everything to be perfect or for someone to come enable your thoughtless behaviors.”

“Thoughtless? They are called dreams. Shouldn’t someone help mine come true?”

Clamping his lips, he turns from me. “There’s my aunt’s maid. Let me go help Mrs. Ellis. She might need me.”

“Go, Stephen. Leave knowing I see you. I always have. I’ll only stop seeing the true you, brave, selfless, stupid . . . stupidly loyal you, when you turn away.”

His footfalls stop for a moment. Then he presses forward.

Wishing to leave, I hold the third glass up and empty it swallowing all the sweet sorrel. Then I remain on the patio watching time and people go by.

Mrs. Randolph is arm and arm with Chrysanthemum. The older woman is looking at me again, waving her arms. I think the auntie wants her to confront me.

I have no fear about what they can be saying. Chrysanthemum or Eveline is a decent woman. That shouldn’t change because we’re outside a brothel, wearing different disguises in Cheapside.

“There you are.” Mrs. Cantor has awakened. “Mrs. Halland, Mr. Carew’s cousin, wanted you to visit with her. She’s in her mother’s parlor.”

“I’ll do so. Thank you. If you want to hold my spot . . . Never mind.”

Mrs. Ellis, the aunt’s maid, is arranging more platters on the table. I want to tip my hat to her. No one will be hungry here. “Ma’am, which way is the parlor?”

She stops what she’s doing and takes me into a yellow-painted room. It’s sunny and happy, filled with sofas, but not that many people.

“Mrs. Halland, Mrs. Cantor said you wished to see me.”

The lady is lying back with pillows. “I heard you weren’t moving about. I can’t. Perhaps we cannot move about together.”

I sit, and from the open window, I see Mrs. Randolph chatting with Stephen, drawing Chrysanthemum into the conversation. The three of them look happy.

And I feel like I’m on the other side of the Thames.