I stand in the gardens of Kensington House. The students, I’m told, often come outside and sit on the stone benches. Some study the flora. Others disturb the natural surroundings to make arrangements for vases and whatnots.
There should be a cistern right here. Something sturdy and bold like a Grecian or Egyptian work of art.
I chuckle at the notion but it’s a distraction. I’m alone, tiring of two days of chatter and pleasantries. Still no word of a meeting, but my damfo is faithful and resourceful. I’m convinced that whatever problems there have been, they will be overcome. Godspeed to finding new ways.
The air is light. It’s not fresh or washed in the sea’s salt. The chill gives me shivers. Miss Smith showed me the purple saxifrage petals creeping at the edges of the emerald hedgerow and the yellow bulbs of the gorse to impress me. These vibrant colors do, and they make me think of home.
My eyes gaze again at the sowed beds. I’m searching for the yellow and red flowers of the peacock plants. The cure for a woman’s ills if she’s been abused.
I didn’t understand much when I was young.
“GaMa?”
Mary has followed me outside. I school my face, hiding my tears. “Yes, dear.”
“Why are you sad? I never see you sad. You are light, GaMa.”
“Light?” I smooth my long skirts. It’s been many years since I’ve been skin and bones. “I have a great deal on my mind, angel.”
She dimples and clasps my hand.
We twirl arm in arm. Mary was born free, but I keep her papers with me when we travel. You never know when one will need to prove their rights.
“Are you enjoying your visit, Mary?”
“Oh, yes, GaMa. You take us in carriages with the softest seats. You rent fine houses in London, but I like it here, too.”
Yes, we stay in comfort with servants trained in all the ways to treat elegant guests. I ensure all my grands dine on superb food, the best fish and beefsteak.
I can’t let the world I’m showing Mary disappear. Not when this beautiful five-year-old girl needs to be a child for as long as she can. She must remember these moments when she’s older. She’ll know her worth.
We spin faster and faster.
“Cyclone Game.” The words fling out of her all breathy and with a squeal.
Her legs lift from the ground.
She’s a swallow taking flight. Her pristine white gown billows better than a ship’s sail.
“Ma’am.”
The headmistress stands at the garden’s entrance. Her face is half shadowed by Kensington House’s roofline.
Letting my swallow ease to the ground, I catch my breath. My eyes search Miss Smith’s hands for a note.
Empty.
No word has come. No meeting with Lord Bathurst, yet.
I haven’t found the way to win.
The woman jitters, her gray skirts flutter like butterfly wings. Seems she remains on edge, expecting airs from me.
Perhaps I should expend a little.
“Miss Smith. I need a scribe. I feel like dictating a letter. Can you send one of your girls to take notes?”
A young woman of good height and nimble limbs, someone who’d be sought after at the mulatto balls, steps into the garden and stands beside the headmistress. “I can take the correspondence for Miss Kirwan.”
“It’s Mrs. Thomas, Miss Van Den Velden.” Miss Smith looks like she wants to swat the girl. Instead, she stoops to Mary. “It’s time for lessons. Come along, little Miss Fullarton. You’ll make a great student for Kensington House someday.”
Mary pokes out her lips but scoots to the headmistress when my lips offer a scold. My frowns, I’ve been told, can freeze the air. Cold was something I didn’t quite understand until my first boat trip to England.
The headmistress offers another polite scowl. “Miss Van Den Velden, I expect you to show the true Kensington spirit to our wonderful benefactor.”
The young woman nods. “I will, ma’am.”
I stretch my arms and prepare for this battle. “Miss Van Den Velden, shouldn’t you get some paper and a pen?”
“My memory is quite good. I’m sure that I can do an adequate service.”
“It seems you don’t want to take direction. I suspect you wish to give it.” I sit on the stone bench close to the tea roses. “Why don’t I get comfortable? Then tell me all you wish to say.”
Her eyes widen. My frankness has caught her off guard. I want to chuckle, but she needs to choose her path, to be a friend or a nuisance.
“My father says you are here to cause trouble.”
Ah, she chose nuisance, like one of the chigger bugs of Grenada or the ruinous ants of Barbados. A lot of cattle were killed by those ants.
But a lot of ants died too.
“Your father?” I say. “Are you sure you know who he is?”
Her eyes blink rapidly. I can see her wondering if I know something of her birth records. She huffs. “You know my father. He’s on the colony council of Demerara.”
“Yes, one of Lieutenant Governor Murray’s henchmen, I know him well. I hosted a reception for him and the governor of Barbados. He found my chef’s gelatin molds delightful.”
Her mouth drops open, wide enough for those ants to hop in, but then she says, “I look forward to having my own private chef, too, when my fortune comes in. My father will make it happen sooner if I can make you stop this folly and go home.”
The refined, almost delicate, girl clasps her elbows. Her long, lithe fingers bear no scars or roughness, nothing to show a life of working in the fields or hardship or survival.
In her smirk, I see my past, dancing in the hotels, smiling pretty for the soldiers wearing their best regimentals, touching the gold dripping from the braiding at their shoulders. They sneered, too, thinking the singers and dancers were pawns in the games they played for entertainment.
I remember myself, a girl who had to relearn her worth when everything was made bad. Then made worse.
“What are you thinking, Miss—”
“Mrs. Thomas.”
“Miss Doll Kirwan. My father calls you Dolly. He says that’s the name you used when you were a prostitute, when you seduced your own brother and had his baby.”
The white man wants to blame his sins on colored women. His depravity is our fault. If we take the abuse just to live another day, they say we are the seducers. They write the history.
“It’s Thomas, you fool. Mrs. Dorothy Thomas. In Demerara, they know my name. You haven’t lived long enough to know better.”
Miss Van Den Velden sputters. Spittle froths at her mouth. “I was just trying—”
“Yes, you’re trying.”
“My father told me who you are! He knows all about you. He’s written me quite a lot, since he found out you were coming to London. I know about the old days, about you. That’s the message I’m here to deliver. Stop your noise and pay the taxes. Your ruckus is just as bad as another slave rebellion.”
The girl knew nothing of the pain of rebellions or the power of men to humble a woman. Can’t she see that submission makes it easier for men to make new demands? Submit once and they’ll only invent worse laws to keep us under their thumb?
With poise, Lucy struts to the door. “Go back to where you come from.”
“Next time you see me, have paper and a pen. And keep those pouty lips shut tight.”
“I’m speaking the truth. You’re a harlot ball girl. An old Black woman who’s let a little money go to her head. Even if you did dance with a prince, you’re tired and used up now.”
“If you cross my path tomorrow, call me Mrs. Thomas. Unlike you, my money has already come. I’ve paid for my respect. You shall show it.”
I stare her down as I had the empty street behind Kensington House and all those who brought hate into my life. “I fight for my grands, for me, even you, you fool.”
Lucy stops at the threshold. “I don’t need you.”
“Yes, you do. Women need women willing to fight for all our rights.”
I ease back onto the bench, flattening my bottom on the cold stone. “Remember, it’s Mrsss. Thomassss. And next time bring paper.”
Shaking her head, Lucy goes inside, muttering she’ll show me.
The door closes with a shake. Then it hushes.
I look over the fence like it’s a window to count stars. I’m still hoping, but I’m not sure my patience will win.