Served sorrel punch and a nice bottle of Rosé de Saignée, Lieutenant Governor Murray feasted at my house on Robb Street. His advisers, Mr. Van Den Velden and Mr. Brown, came, too. The henchmen smelled of politics—old cigars and rum in black jackets.
Murray wore a uniform, a showy thing of garnet with gold braiding. It was nothing compared to the prince’s, not as many medals, no sashes. As he drank my champagne, this fellow’s flat chin lifted, offering a subtle sneer that showed command, not competence.
On my side of the table, I had the finest representatives of the Entertainment Society—Rebecca, my granddaughter Dorothea Coxall, and Elizabeth Ross. Each one well dressing in red, green, and blue, each proudly wearing a bonnet with trim and lace and flowers displaying our positions as freewomen, as businesswomen, as power.
Murray sat back in his chair, licking his fingers from the ginger biscuits. “Mrs. Thomas, no one does hospitality quite like you. You never disappoint. Still, I didn’t see the tiger.”
“It’s a lion, and he only resides at my hotel. The ballroom at my hotel is for more formal gatherings. This is my residence. I wanted an honest conversation.”
He huffed and adjusted his spectacles. “I suspected that was the case.”
Mr. Van Den Velden leaned over his potbelly and refilled his glass. “Quite a house you have here. You’ve become very wealthy women. All of you ladies are very wealthy. Surprising.”
Rebecca had that glimmer in her eyes. She’d been itching for a fight since her fellow broke things off with her. “It shouldn’t surprise. We’re enterprising women.”
Murray wiped his thumbs on my starched white napkin. “Well, I don’t wish to take up more of your time. Let me begin with an apology. My soldiers were very heavy-handed. If I’d known they’d reached the Kensington, I would have stopped them.”
Dorothea sipped her glass of punch. “I’m sure they knew. Everyone knows Dorothy Thomas’s property.”
The lieutenant governor had that nervous laugh, the pained mirth of being caught in a lie.
I smiled instead of poking. A man has to have room for his ego and to hang himself. “It was quite disturbing. Have you found who started the rumors that you disobeyed the king and refused to free the slaves?”
His eyes exploded, bulging behind his glass lenses. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
Fine. I poked a little. “Those are the rumors.”
“Ma’am, a revolt of ten thousand slaves has to be dealt with.”
“Ten thousand? Are you sure it was so high? There’s barely that many slaves on the estates I know to be vandalized.”
“Thirty-seven plantations were struck by those vicious slaves,” Mr. Brown said. He had a curved nose like an iguana, like he’d been snooping on the roof and had fallen into a chair for my nuncheon fair.
Murray waved at Brown as if to settle him down. “We don’t know how many would have joined the cause if the militia hadn’t acted decisively.”
“I own the most slaves in Demerara or very close to it. The numbers you are quoting are high. Mr. Brown, I don’t think vicious is the right term, either. Angry or cheated is a better way to say it.”
Murray shook his head. “The rebellion is done. It’s put down. The numbers don’t matter.”
“Numbers are important, especially when you’re exacting taxes. You’ve levied heavier taxes on huckstering and additional property taxes.”
Mr. Van Den Velden set down his glass with a thud. “Those fees are needed. We have to rebuild. The slaves did damage.” He leaned farther over the table. “Perhaps if you held a firmer hand on your chattel, rebellions wouldn’t happen.”
I leaned, too, and caught his small gaze. “If governing bodies were more fair, there would be less reason for rebellion. The governor’s overseer, Lord Bathurst, sent you measures for amelioration. Your delay acting on his orders caused the rebellion. These brutal killings could sow the next one.”
He sputtered, and I wasn’t sure if that was because I knew about the amelioration plan or because I called Bathurst Murray’s overseer.
Again Murray wiped his mouth. “The slaves burned government buildings, men were killed. Someone needs to pay for this.”
Rebecca rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “You’re making only the free colored women of Demerara pay,” she said. “That’s not fair.”
“You ladies have it good,” the governor said and slurped my champagne. “You have means and respect. We’re just asking you to do a little more to help the colony.”
“Everyone should be asked to do more, but you’re targeting only us. That isn’t fair. My property was damaged. Thousands of pounds of damage. Will you compensate me, Rebecca, or Dorothea for our losses because of the chaos of the militia?”
After mangling my linen napkin, Murray tossed it to the table, then stood. “Ladies, thank you for the hospitality. It is very much appreciated, but the council has voted. The taxes are in place.”
“A new vote can repeal this tax.” Dorothea’s voice sounded even and patient.
I was never prouder of my granddaughter.
Murray pointed to the door, his companions hopping up like hounds. “Do you think your lifestyles escape notice? You’ve all grown rich from the kindness of the citizens of Demerara. Be grateful. Be patriotic. Pay your taxes. Good evening.”
He and his smug associates exited my house.
I waited until I heard my outer doors close, then counted to ten.
Rebecca counted as well.
“Ladies,” I said, “don’t break anything. This is my house.”
“The arrogance, Grandma,” Dorothea hissed. “They clamor to buy our goods, eat our food, stay at our lodgings. It’s no charity.”
Leaning back in her chair, Rebecca looked up to the ceiling. “This is their opportunity to hurt us twice.”
“They could hurt us more,” my granddaughter said. “They could have the militia kill at will. That flamboyant minister John Smith is rotting in jail because he taught the enslaved the Bible. Smith is a white man. Papa used to tell my brothers to be careful, to not provoke the soldiers. He feared the consequences.”
I rubbed my palms together. The smell of coconut calmed my spirit. “They can never win, and we won’t sit around until they do.”
“Let’s at least give them a fight.” Rebecca lifted her glass, but I set mine down.
Like my friend, I wanted to strike the council, but that was hard to do. They had the numbers and the guns. “What do you propose?”
“This is a job for the Entertainment Society. We’ll get both Ostrehans—Ostrehans and Ostrehan Brett—Miss Ross, Miss Blackman, Miss Delphi, and we will come up with a solution.”
“Let me get the good champagne.” I motioned to a servant. “Bring up a few bottles of the best. I fear we’ll need them.”
“I fear you will, Dorothy.” My friend gripped my hand. “You have the most connections to London. Prepare yourself. Part of any plan will involve you going to Lord Bathurst and convincing him to overturn these taxes.”
“No, Rebecca.”
“The route to fix this was through overseers. You know this, Dorothy. You must feel it.”
Part of me did, but I also hoped for another path.
“Grandma, perhaps Prince William can help. He’s your friend.”
With Dorothea’s hopeful eyes and Rebecca’s begging ones, I shrugged and tacked on Mamaí’s smooth smile. The last time I saw William, I spoke my mind and damned him for his wrongheadedness.
How could I turn to him now?
No, it would be Bathurst who’d fix things.
Yet how would I get him to listen when men felt not only entitled to the bodies of colored women, their dames de couleur, but our means too?