Another no. Another fair offer for a vacant piece of property had been rejected by a planter who had no plans to develop it himself.
Thomas King stood at my side near the plot of land I’d picked by the shore. “I hate to keep giving you bad news, first from London, now this. I’m sorry, Miss Dolly.”
A breeze stirred the beach, lifting the creamy grains and tossing them. Loss and losing whirled, digging deeper into my chest. This had to stop. I needed to win again.
“Fullarton looks to be entertaining Miss Charlotte. And you thought she’d be bored.”
King possessed a large sense of humor, but I was pleased that his local merchant, John Fullarton, caught my daughter’s eye. They walked down the beach. She shimmered in the sun in a lovely gown of light yellow and green. My girl smiled again.
“Beach property in Demerara is very expensive. Close to the equator, hurricanes are rare. Things built here last.”
“That’s why I wanted it.” I gripped my arms, holding in my grieving breath. “I wanted to start building a hotel before the rainy season.”
King wiped his brass-rimmed spectacles. They’d gotten thicker over the years. “Have you thought about land closer to the capital? Stabroek is lovely and not far from where you live.”
“That area has mills and government buildings, not travelers, not frigates.”
“Mrs. Dolly, the landowner is being particular.”
I stared at him as if my glance could burst his lenses. “I’m not trying to open up a brothel.”
He lifted his hands. “I know. I know.”
“And I want to be called Mrs. Thomas.” Almost three years had passed since my husband died. I needed to hear his name said aloud, not just in dreams. Then maybe I’d feel his encouragement again.
Lowering my lids, I relaxed my lonely stiff shoulders. “It’s important what you’re called and what you answer to.”
King chucked a rock into the sea. “Mrs. Thomas it is.”
His little boy, my godson William, ran up and down the shore gathering seashells. That little fellow was wild, not minding the heat.
Watching someone without a care lifted my spirits. Yet how could I build a hotel to honor my stars if no one would sell to me?
I wanted to build here. Here where I could imagine Edward and Thomas in his beloved Mary sailing to me. Frances sent me a piece of that blue post of the mainsail that washed up on shore. I put it with my other treasures in my closet near my hats. “Mr. King, I have the money. How do we do this?”
“Maybe you need to be patient a little longer, Mrs. Thomas. That is, if you want here.”
Wait? Never. I saw how the British planters made D.P.’s business hard. Because of their distrust of his faith, good ole Anglicans and some Catholics limited his opportunities, charged him more for everything. They’d bankrupt him.
Not me. I wanted my way at a fair price.
Shaking my fists, I jangled my reticule. The ting-tang sound of my coin purse made a rhythm that should make the Demerara planters take notice. “King, I pay three times more than any to lease rooms off America Street. My housekeeping services are run out of my parlor. I want a shop again. I want to be the source of artisans’ goods for this colony. That’s how my businesses operate in Dominica and Grenada.”
He shook his head, then his bald head offered his blank banker’s look. “You’re doing some business here. That’s good.”
“Folks don’t need to see how I live. It gives them ideas. Are you telling me to give up?”
“Not you, Mrs. Thomas.” He pulled his hands together, not in a prayer, but like he plotted something wonderful. “Perhaps we should be more strategic. Look for allies.”
“Strategic? That sounds sneaky or costly. I don’t want men dipping into my money.”
King shrugged. “Men weren’t what I had in mind. Follow me. Fullarton, watch my boy.”
The fellow nodded, but with Charlotte’s arm entwined with the merchant’s, I wondered if either would pay attention to little William.
Mr. King took a route close to the shore to one of the existing hotels. The water lapped the sand, pushing shells and jade flotsam. That feeling of moving sideways against the water pressed.
I trusted that the financier who found ways to evade the British blockades had a plan. He’d been a friend and partner through the years. It meant something for him to make me godmother to his son. A reformed slaver now investor from London wouldn’t lead me astray, not when I had helped him find his path.
When we stopped at a brothel, I began to question my judgment. “Why are we here, King? I didn’t think you were the type—”
“No. No.” He tugged on his jacket lapels. “I’m a reformed man now, but I want you to meet some people who might help. I’ve arranged for you to have lunch with the Entertainment Society.”
He opened the door. “Go on inside. Listen with an open mind. They may have a different approach for us to take.”
It took every inch of my willpower to put my boots inside this place, a brothel like the one I’d danced and whored at upon first coming to Demerara.
“Everyone needs a little nuncheon,” he said from the doorway. “I won’t be joining you. Send for me if you have a new strategy. I’ll make sure Fullarton returns Miss Charlotte home.”
Farther down the hall, a servant, a young boy in a turban and a blue jacket and matching breeches, waved me to a room.
At the threshold, I viewed a group of women in marvelous hats, free colored and Black women. And they’d saved a seat for me.