I parked in the grass near a long stretch of sand along the river. The Demerara was smooth and calm today even with her waters filled with vessels.
On the left, the left side I tried never to see, were the flat-bottomed boats. It was Wednesday, auction day. Those vessels were filled with huddled masses of black and brown limbs.
I wasn’t close enough to see their eyes, but I imagined them to be like Kitty’s the day of her auction—bloodshot, bulging with fear, but dry from shedding too many tears.
When we lived at the Hermitage, my sister and I never came here. We never went anywhere on Wednesdays. I refused to see these boats when I walked to Foden’s Anna Catharina. I couldn’t believe I was here now.
Crissy tugged on my sleeve. “Mama, what is this? What are they doing to those people? Why are we here?”
Why were we?
’Cause I was too pigheaded to tell my children born free or almost free about the horrors of my pa’s plantation, the killing system that the planters condoned.
’Cause I didn’t want to ask Cells for help. Though he’d figure out a way to lie and make it feel like the truth, I couldn’t be indebted. That was worse than selling my soul.
Adjusting the brim of my hat, I climbed down. “Stay here, child. Don’t leave the dray.”
Fear rolled in my gut, swaying me like a drunk as I crossed to the docks. Twenty feet from the first slave boat, the foul smell of palm oil and sweat and fear clogged my throat.
Crowded. The field, the boats. Some whites picnicked like it was entertainment.
An old man poked an enslaved girl in her shoulder with a cane like he prodded a sow. He came down and stood in the grass beside me. “Look, runaways gathered too. Just joking. You look too wealthy for that.”
“Did you have to do that, poke her?”
“I’ll do what I want with my money.” His gaze swept over me like I was slathered in oil. “No ninny is goin’ tell me how to buy ninnies. That’s what I get for being civil.”
I heard his words, but he didn’t say ninnies. That was my head again, making the slights feel less like stabs. Hadn’t heard that name said to my face in years. The money I had, the money I tried to protect, had kept the ugly away.
Being here was ugly.
Owning people was worse than ugly.
I tried to think I’d be better than these white men and women. I’d clothe my enslaved people. No one would fear rape. I’d get them blankets and big provision grounds to grow the food, all they wanted. I’d teach them how to save for their manumissions.
A hundred lies filled my chest, all to convince me I was better than these louts poking and cursing as they bought men and women.
Once I bid, I’d never go away from this decision. A little bad was still bad. A good owner was still an owner.
“Woman, you going to bid? I want to make sure to drive up the price. You look like you can afford to lose money.”
No.
I wasn’t one of them. Couldn’t become one of those planters.
“You gone, dumb woman?”
From the old fool, I ran. In a blink, I was at the dray.
Crissy had stayed put. “Mama, what is it?”
“They think they’re buying slaves, child, but they’re not. They’re buying stolen dreams. These planters accept that they can’t make do any other way. I can’t be one of them.”
But I was them once. When I had Cells buy Kitty for me, that made me one.
Run to Cells. Run to him now.
I settled into the dray.
“You’re going to buy a dream?”
“No. I’m going to get an agent. I thought he might be here.”
Head down, Crissy became quiet. Maybe she accepted my lie or counted this as grown-folk business.
Come Friday, I’d secure an agent, someone to handle what I had no stomach for. One man had already proved to be perfect for the job.
My horses slowed then stopped outside of the Hermitage. My driver bounced out and helped me down. My gown of plantain yellow with a gauzy overdress the color of the creamy white flesh of mammee apples fluttered as I walked.
Moving slowly up the stairs, I tried to think of how to ask, then what to ask, and more importantly what I was willing to pay. With Cells, there had to be something in the deal for his benefit.
The music and heat hit me as soon as I entered the hall. Years ago, the Hermitage parties hosted fiddles and flutes. This tune was strange. I’d have to peer into the drawing room to find out.
Past his study, I lingered at the portraits. If I’d not pinned my turban perfectly to show off my curls, big sleek spirals, I’d doff my pale yellow hat to the lone female. I’d come to this house a servant and returned looking the part of a conqueror. The aunt must approve.
Then I caught sight of a new painting. In a thick gilded frame was the massa of the Hermitage. John Coseveldt Cells in the power and strength of his youth, clad in his favorite whites—white embroidered jacket, big cravat, waistcoat and breeches, even white leather shoes.
In a moment, I was young, in my jet maidin’ outfit setting the table, looking at all the things I’d never beheld. Then I became his Bilhah enjoying private suppers in his study, listening to Charlotte and Edward dash through the halls.
The memories brought a flush to my fifty-year-old cheeks.
Time to find the original massa before I was a sweaty fool. I stepped into the dining room and walked to the threshold of the drawing room.
All the doors and windows were wide open. A tiny breeze sauntered through, warm and spiced with heady lotus lilies and peppery fever grass.
A young woman exhibited on a boxy-looking thing that made the music.
Polk, good old Polk, in a starched black mantle, came into the dining room. He bore a silver tray. “Mrs. Dorothy, I thought Mr. Cells said you weren’t coming.”
“Changed my mind.” I put my hand on his arm. “Good to see you.”
He lowered his tray of crystal goblets filled with claret. “Here. One of his finest wines. You’re a guest.” Polk shook his bald head and made a uh-uh-uh sound. “Oh, if Mrs. Randolph could see you now, she’d bust something. The woman went to live with her children three years ago, but she’d love to see you in your glory.”
I finished one glass then took another of the fruity wine and looked at my reflection in the shiny crystal. Full-figured, thick thighs swathed in silk, ebony skin polished with coconut oil, bright light eyes filled with hope, and no silver yet in my curls—broken pieces, reworked by time and fire, clean up good.
“Join the guests in the drawing room, Mrs. Dolly. Massa is having his daughters play the new pianoforte.”
Daughters? I sailed through the threshold. Catharina sat at the chestnut box too. She’d been shadowed from my view. My heart swelled with pride as I saw her making music.
My Catharina, now twenty-three, looked calm and assured exhibiting. My palms became slick, hoping for her. A young brunette sat with Catharina, must be Cells’s other daughter. He stood near, tapping the top of the pianoforte.
Seeing him there supporting both girls made me feel good.
Then he saw me, his smile widening. I returned to the dining room and put my goblet down and wished my heart would settle.
When I looked up, Cells was at the door. His grin spread to his hazel eyes. This look of approval was for me, me alone.
Clapping broke our shared glance.
He put my palm to his arm and led me inside. “Everyone is dancing. My daughters will continue to indulge.”
Cells had never done that at any of his parties, touch me or place my arm on his. These events were scripted. Music and exhibition, dinner, then dance, but no us, just them and this world of finery and flattering talk.
The girls played again.
Catharina beamed in my direction, then bent her head to the big music box.
“If everyone is to dance, that would mean us, too, Mrs. Thomas. It’s two-four time. I’m sure it wasn’t the popular dance the last time you were in London, in eighty-nine.”
“The last time, Cells, was last year. In 1805, I’m sure I’d heard of a country dance.”
The surprise in his face, the hint of pink in his cheeks made me chuckle. The all-knowing man didn’t realize that I kept going across the sea even without a prince.
“We should join them, Dolly. I did ask everyone to dance.”
The rhythm came to me. It prickled my skin.
Cells drew me to the center, close to where his guests danced. We clapped hands and exchanged sides in rhythm to the song. Expert that he was, he’d kept us moving until we were a part of the line. The parade of turbans and headpieces—pinks and yellows and golds, with feathers and without—bowed in front of their partners. The crowd of planters and politicians and wives swayed and hopped and spun.
As I mimicked what everyone else did, I studied faces and the lack of ones. D.P. Simon wasn’t here, neither were any of the women who’d helped me. I was the only free person of color with an invite.
That hit me hard.
These people, these planters and politicians and maybe wives, too, were the folks I battled to hire free laborers. The men gaily dancing without a care plotted and made things difficult. They had no problem hiring my housekeepers or buying my huckstered goods, but growing cane or running an exquisite hotel or having dreams of being more was wrong to them. They’d smile in my face and ruin me like they had D.P.
No more twirling or giving away my cares to the rhythm. I let go of Cells. “Excuse me. I need some air.”
Head held high, I moved to the closest garden door and escaped.