Page 77 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

‘ B arbados is quite beautiful,’ Thamsine remarked as they rounded a bend in the road to find the thick jungle opened out onto a vista of azure sea dotted with round, green islands.

Her husband responded with a grunt. On the long horse ride from Holetown, he had been absorbed in his own thoughts, and she knew Kit well enough to know that they weren’t happy thoughts.

He blamed himself for Daniel’s fate, and although she hoped he took some comfort in the knowledge that Daniel’s lot had not been as dire as he had imagined, she doubted that it did.

It seemed incontrovertible that Daniel Lovell had died here in Barbados and, unless some new facts could be discovered at the Pritchard Plantation, that would be the news Kit had to carry back to his stepmother. Little wonder he stared morosely at the dusty, rutted road ahead of him.

The jungle gave way to fields of sugarcane, the wild, undisciplined rows rising to a height well above their heads, indicating that they were ready for harvest. A raised voice issuing orders accompanied the thud and thump and rustle of the cane being harvested.

Among the cane men worked, naked black backs bowed to the hot tropical sun, crisscrossed with evidence of the lash.

Black backs mostly but among them, browned and hardened by years of exposure, were white men.

An overseer with a whip in his hand pushed his hat to the back of his head and watched as Kit and Thamsine rode past.

Kit glanced at Thamsine as a double-storied wooden house came into view.

Perched on rising ground, it probably commanded a panoramic view from the higher floor.

Behind it were the stables and a compound of small huts.

A few scrawny chickens pecked around the driveway and a tethered goat bleated a plaintive welcome.

What had once been a pretty garden had already begun to be reclaimed by the jungle and the whole property had an air of neglect and misery.

A small black boy wearing nothing but ragged breeches ran out to take the horses.

The house appeared deserted. No sound came from within it, and it took several sturdy knocks on the door before it opened a crack. A young black woman with large, frightened eyes peered at them.

‘Who is it, girl?’ A man’s voice, heavy with a Yorkshire accent, bellowed from the rear of the house.

The girl opened the door a little wider. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘The Comte d’Anvers and his wife,’ Kit announced.

The large eyes widened and a man dressed only in his breeches and shirt came up behind her. He put a large hand on the girl’s shoulder and pushed her to one side. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, his bulk blocking any entrance to the house.

‘What did you say yer name was?’ he demanded.

Kit met the man’s bloodshot eyes. Even from where he stood, he could smell the stale stench of drink and sweat, and the man’s dishevelled clothes and unshaven chin confirmed the impression of a drunken sot.

If this was the overseer in charge of the estate, little wonder it looked neglected.

He shuddered to think of the treatment being meted out to the labourers.

‘What did ya say yer name was?’ the man demanded.

‘The Comte d’Anvers.’ Kit drew himself up to his full height, but the other man matched him for height with the added advantage of breadth.

‘The Compte d’what?’ The Yorkshireman leered contemptuously before executing a bow with a sarcastic flourish. ‘Yer grace, what is it we can do for you?’

‘Who are you?’ Kit demanded with an aristocratic curl of his lip, marking his disapproval.

‘Outhwaite’s the name. I run this ‘ere plantation.’

‘I thought to meet with a Monsieur Pritchard?’

The man ran a hand through his tousled hair. ‘Well, Pritchard ain’t up to visitors. I’m in charge. Compte or no, state your business and be gone.’

‘Is this the best of island ‘ospitality?’ Kit became more French by the minute.

‘Ye’ll get no hospitality here. We don’t like visitors,’ Outhwaite said and leered at the girl, cowering at the foot of the stairs. ‘Do we, Clara? They upsets the old man.’

A prickle of fear ran down Thamsine’s spine and she glanced at Clara. The girl gave a barely perceptible jerk of her head in the direction of the stairs. Thamsine caught the look and understood. She swayed and grasped at her husband.

‘Mon cher,’ she said in French . ‘Je me sens faible. Aide moi.’

‘What did she say?’ Outhwaite said.

She glanced at Outhwaite but he did not seem to have understood what she said. Good . It meant they could converse in French.

‘ Cherie ?’ Kit caught her as her knees buckled as if she would fall into a dead faint at any moment. ‘My wife is overcome by the heat, monsieur . At least allow us a few minutes respite from the ‘eat.’

‘I’ll be all right if I can just lie down for a little while,’ Thamsine said in English, adding in French. ‘ Quelque chose est très mal ici .’

Something was very wrong.

Kit nodded. ‘It is,’ he agreed in a low voice. ‘She says she needs to lie down,’ Kit said.

Outhwaite frowned and jerked a head at the maid. ‘Take her upstairs to the spare room.’

The girl came forward and slid her arm around Thamsine’s waist. She barely came to Thamsine’s shoulder.

‘Does the girl speak French?’ Kit enquired of Outhwaite.

‘Barely speaks English!’ Outhwaite scoffed. ‘Jabbers away in that godforsaken tongue of hers.’

‘ Dommage ,’ Kit said.

The maid left Thamsine in a small chamber at the top of the stairs. The bedding on the narrow cot smelled musty and damp and as soon as the maid returned, with water and a cloth, Thamsine sat bolt upright.

The girl’s eyes widened at Thamsine’s instant recovery.

‘You better?’ she asked.

Thamsine put a finger to her lips. ‘My name is Thamsine Lovell.’

The girl cried out, clapping her hand over her mouth. ‘Lovell? Daniel?’

Thamsine nodded. ‘My husband is Daniel’s brother, Kit.’

The girl sank onto the bed beside Thamsine and turned tear-filled eyes on her. ‘He was a good man, Massa Daniel.’

‘Is it true he is dead?’

The tears spilled over and she nodded.

Thamsine felt her heart sink.

Clara glanced at the door. ‘Tha’s what Outhwaite told Master.’

Thamsine caught her breath. ‘What do you mean?’

Clara shook her head. She had begun to shake.

‘He a bad man, that Outhwaite.’

Catching the girl’s hands, Thamsine sought her eyes and said, ‘Is Daniel dead or not?’

As the girl hesitated, Thamsine clasped the little hands tighter. ‘Please, Clara. We don’t have much time. Tell me what happened.’

Clara took a shuddering breath. ‘Outhwaite.’ She screwed her face. ‘He wanted to marry Miss Jane but Miss Jane, she love Dan’l and the Massa, he thinks Dan’l a good man for Miss Jane.’

A picture began to form in Thamsine’s mind. Daniel, young, educated, intelligent and, if he resembled his brother in any way, handsome and capable of great charm, could quite easily have won the heart of Pritchard’s daughter.

Clara’s lip trembled. ‘Just after Christmas, Miss Jane, she took sick and died. The Massa’s heartbreak to bury his girl and Massa Dan’l, he loved Miss Jane.

Massa took sick and Massa Dan’l tried to run the plantation.

’ She looked up. ‘He a good man, but Outhwaite hate him, and one day he and Massa Dan’l have a terrible fight.

Outhwaite tell him that he is not taking orders from a slave and he was in charge.

He had Massa Dan’l flogged and put in the Hole. ’

Thamsine bit back the question that sprang to her lips. Whatever the Hole was, it could not be pleasant.

‘He … ’ Clara broke off at the sound of heavy feet on the stairs. She just had time to recline back on the bed Outhwaite flung open the door.

‘How is she?’ He addressed the slave.

Thamsine’s eyes fluttered open. ‘ Ou est mon mari ?’

‘ Ici, Cherie ,’ Kit pushed past Outhwaite and held out a hand for Thamsine. ‘What did you discover?’ he continued in French.

‘He did not die of fever,’ Thamsine responded. ‘The girl knows more.’

‘Speak English,’ Outhwaite said.

‘My wife is still feeling unwell,’ Kit said. ‘And it is growing late. As a good Christian, please may we beg a bed of you for the night?’

Outhwaite scowled and opened his mouth to speak when someone downstairs bellowed his name. He stomped to the head of the stairs.

‘What is it?’

‘Trouble in one of the fields,’ an English voice responded. ‘It’s that bloody Scot again, McPherson. You’re needed.’

At the mention of the name, Kit stiffened.

‘You know this man?’ Thamsine whispered.

‘I knew someone of that name … at Worcester.’

Outhwaite swore. ‘McPherson? Have him taken to the Hole.’

He turned back to the bedchamber.

‘What is the ‘ole?’ Kit enquired. Thamsine wondered how he managed to make the question sound so ingenuous.

A twisted sneer crossed Outhwaite’s face.

‘Little invention of me own. The old man was too soft on these bastards. I had a hole dug in the middle of the slave quarters. Not long enough to lie in and not tall enough to stand, with nothing but a grate over the top. I find a floggin’ and a few days in there brings ‘em to heel pretty quick.’

The bile rose in Thamsine’s throat and her hand tightened on Kit’s sleeve.

‘That sounds a little extreme,’ Kit remarked in a mild tone of voice, while beneath Thamsine’s hand the muscles of his arm had tensed.

‘Vermin, that’s what they are. Vermin, and deserve no better. I’d better see to the troublemaker. You can sleep here but don’t expect to be entertained. Clara, you’ve got work. Get to it.’

He turned and stomped out of the room. The little maid turned one last despairing glance at Kit and Thamsine before scuttling after him.

Kit shut the door behind them. Thamsine sat up and recounted what Clara had told her. Kit’s mouth tightened, and the fingers of his left hand clenched and unclenched.

‘If Pritchard’s an invalid, he’ll be in one of the other rooms. Let’s go and see if we can get any sense out of him.’

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