I counted my coins as I walked back to the Hermitage. The sun lowered on the horizon. The temptation to dance at the harbor was great, but the brothel owners were wary of me. I’d taken six girls out of that life and trained them in housekeeping. My business was growing. Even Thomas King employed one of my protégées for his estate, the Friendship.
“Mrs. Dolly, might I walk you partway to the Hermitage?”
“Yes.”
D.P. Simon lived on a plantation close to Cells’s. He was a nice Creole boy, a pretty mix of Sephardic Jew, Spanish, and a little Black. The swarthy young man was from a good family and seemed to have fallen for my daughter the moment he met her.
“Is Miss Charlotte well?”
“She is, D.P. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
The boy ran down the lane. Charlotte was too young, barely eleven. I doubt he’d stay in love with her eight more years.
Hearts were fickle things. Such hope one had to have on things lasting. I quickened my steps, determined to talk with Cells. We needed to settle our future.
A French officer who I’d hired a girl out to last week passed me, tipping his tricorn. His long blue jacket over bright red breeches looked smart. He headed toward the market. The French now controlled Demerara, wresting it from the Dutch. Governor Kingston, who took over from Van Schuylenburgh, had surrendered.
Salut to the French.
My Catholic faith didn’t have to hide any longer. I would celebrate, but poor Cells, he’d cast his lot with the Dutch, and he’d lost. He no longer had influence. He’d chosen the wrong side. Watching his politicking crumble stung.
He took it hard and became more withdrawn, a hermit to the outside world. This was the Hermitage’s gain. The past three months, he was Papa Cells loving on Charlotte and caring for Edward. It started slow, but there was no doubt in me. He loved our son.
Polk met me on the porch. “Miss Dolly, you’re back. We’ve been in a state.”
The drooping frown on the big man’s face frightened my soul. “The doctor just left. Massa has lil Edward.”
My heart stopped then jolted out of my chest. I ran through the hall to my bedchamber. “Cells!”
He put his finger to his lips. “He struggled to breathe, Dolly. I didn’t know what to do.”
In my rocking chair with Edward in his arms, he focused on our baby as if he could will the boy’s lungs to work right. “We almost lost . . . I prayed. God answered with a miracle.”
I fell at my husband’s lap. My son, my babe, was alive. His little chest pumped so hard, but air was going in and out. His little snore sounded like a harsh whistle.
Cells reached out and stroked my cheek. “He’s better now. Edward’s a handsome boy, Dolly. Has my noble chin.”
“That he does.” My eyes stung. I was away gloating about money, not staying where I was needed. “Good that you were here.”
He put my yawning Edward into the crib, the lovely one that once held Charlotte. “Such a sweet boy.”
Tears were on Cells’s face. He knelt and hummed the tune Mamaí sang to get me to sleep.
Rop tú mo baile.
His Montserratian Irish roots showed. He’d been a good Catholic before flirting for Anglican power. My heart broke for him, the guilt staining his reddened cheeks.
He’d lost his dream, but maybe he discovered the power of us.
Rop tú mo baile.
Rop tú mo baile.
He was on all fours and he kissed Edward’s brow. “Rest up, my boy.”
“What does that song mean, Coseveldt? It’s chased me all my life.”
He stood and lifted me; our fingers entwined. “Be thou my vision. Be thou my father, be I, thou a son. You’re a vision, Dolly. You’ve given the Hermitage a family. That’s why I built it. I guess I was blind to it.” He kissed my forehead and held me, just for a moment. “Thank you.”
Cells moved to the door. “I didn’t reject Edward because of his skin or the fool notion he’d expose me.” His voice trailed off, wet and throaty. “My first son surely died because of the lies I’ve lived.” He wiped his cheek. “I didn’t want that curse on Edward.”
“You’re not a curse. You saved him today. And look at the Hermitage and your rum business. You built those things. They are successes.”
“Forgive me, Dolly, but nothing feels like a win when I make choices that cause ruin.”
Charlotte ran and hugged his waist. “Papa Cells, is Edward better?”
“Yes, my cailín beag, my sweet little girl. He’s sleeping and his beautiful mother is here to make things perfect.”
“You make everything better, Papa. Can we read one more chapter? I’ve finished my chores.”
Cells looked hesitant to leave, but I nodded. “I’ll watch him now, Papa. Go with our girl.”
Half smiling, he took Charlotte’s hand and left.
Sinking by the cradle, I hummed to my son and put his small thumb in my palm. What were my dreams if they put my family at risk? Or if I had to choose between reaching for stars and touching my baby’s warm fingers.
On my knees, I prayed for the family I built. It had to live and thrive with my dreams, not instead of them.