Chapter Twenty-Six

You may wonder, Hannah, why Harry chose Barbados. It was because of the sugar plantations, which were run by wealthy landowners while all the work was done by slaves. Harry’s opinion was, with all that wealth concentrated on one small, isolated island, it would be easy to filch a goodly fortune in some manner or other.

“If we go as gentlefolk,” he said, “we’ll meet others of the kind. Many of the fools will play at cards and gamble, for what else have they to do? I’ll get their money or land from them at cards.”

We had no money to outfit ourselves as members of the gentry, and for a time this drawback stymied Harry. But then he heard of a clever forger, and after some wheedling and bargaining, the man equipped us with papers bearing a new name. When the forger asked us what name we’d like, Harry looked across the square at the old Red Dog, where we had trod the boards many a night.

“Heyo, Molly!” he chortled, slapping me on the back. “Look ye at Red Dog! If a bloke spells it backwards, it becomes a fine name!”

“Clever fellow!” wheezed the old forger. “Godder it is!”

“Your Christian name should be Hargrove,” I cried, getting into the spirit. “For that’s the theater in King’s Square where you first played a gentleman, so you’ve told me.”

Harry was highly pleased with the notion, so he became Hargrove Godder, and I became Mrs. Hargrove Godder.

Once we had papers bearing our new names, Harry borrowed a silk shirt, fine woolen trousers and jacket, and a smart cane from the theater and entered a banking establishment bold as brass to obtain credit. He came out with a wad of borrowed banknotes and silver coins, and my eyes nearly popped out at the sight of them. I’d never seen that much money.

The next day we arranged for passage to Barbados, and during the intervening week, we purchased the items necessary to turn ourselves into gentry. Harry bought trousers, jackets, cravats, shirts, and waistcoats; and I collected muslin day dresses of light airy fabric, dinner gowns, silk underclothing, shawls, boots, and even a bit of fine jewelry.

I was delighted with my new wardrobe! Harry and I strutted our stuff to each other, and as we did, a strange eerie thing happened. We became Mr. and Mrs. Godder! We began to believe in the fantasy, and by the time we boarded the Marchioness Grabe bound for the Caribbean, we were determined to never again be Molly and Harry, penniless actors in the Red Dog Theater! We were Mr. and Mrs. Godder of the gentry, and Mr. and Mrs. Godder we would stay!

Unable to pause, with a pounding heart, Hannah seized the next sheet.

In July 1823, Harry and I boarded the Marchioness Grabe and began our journey. It was a smooth crossing. The ship stopped to load and unload cargo in Hispaniola, and we were astounded at the color of the water! And the palm trees bending over the white sand seemed too wonderful to be real.

We stayed several days in Hispaniola and were treated like gentry wherever we went. When it was time to sail on to Barbados, we were surprised to find that real English gentry would be joining us. A young family—mother, father, and little daughter—and an English lord were also traveling to Barbados from Hispaniola. We learned the family lived on the island of Barbados, but the lord had arrived a month ago from Bermuda on a voyage of business.

Hannah caught her breath at this passage, and Parton looked up. But she continued reading, so he turned back to his own page.

If I had not befriended the young mother, perhaps none of the evil events that happened later would have occurred. But we were two young women on a ship full of men, and we naturally sought each other’s company. She was a delightful woman, warm and sweet, and very gentle in her ways. She adored her little daughter and was very kind and patient with the child. The lady’s name was Cassandra Winstead—Mrs. Edward Winstead—and the little girl was named Hannah.

Because we were so much together, our husbands were thrown together also. Edward Winstead had rust-colored hair and green eyes. He was as good-natured a bloke as ever lived, but he was naïve and trusting to a degree that made him unfit to live in the world. Harry took every opportunity to question him about life on Barbados, his plantation, and himself. He answered openly, never realizing Harry was digging for some way of getting his money from him.

By the time the Marchioness Grabe docked in Bridgetown, Harry had the seeds of a plan. While we were packing up our clothing, he asked me, “Molly, did you tell Mrs. Winstead any sort of tale as to why we wanted to go to Barbados?”

“No, Har…Hargrove. You told me not to.”

“Aye, good. Last night at cards with the captain, the fool Winstead told me an odd tale, a very odd tale indeed. He and his wife, by some strange quirk of fate, are the last surviving members of their families. They received word a month ago from a solicitor that her father had died of malaria in India. Winstead’s parents died when he was young, and his wife’s mother died giving birth to her. Neither has any brothers or sisters.”

“How sad! Mrs. Winstead never mentioned anything about it to me.”

“That’s because she hasn’t the loose tongue of her fool of a husband. He said he and his wife were anxious about who would bring up their daughter if they should both perish. Does that not give you an idea, Molly, my love?”

“Harry, I like the Winsteads. Leave them be.”

“Oh, aye? And how do ye suppose to make our fortune then?”

I had no answer to that question, and after glaring at me a moment, Harry said, “I want you to tell Mrs. Winstead we are come to Barbados seeking your long-lost brother. Tell her everyone believes him dead, but you’re not convinced. Shed some tears. And lead her to believe we have endless pots of money for the pursuit of ‘poor Johnnie.’ ”

“No, Harry! I can’t lie to Mrs. Winstead!”

Harry’s hand came toward me so fast I had no time to blink before his open palm struck my face. I staggered across the tiny cabin and fell against the hammocks. He watched me fighting to regain my balance, and then he seized my arm and pulled me up. He stared into my face, grinning as the tears ran down my cheeks.

“If you ever say no to me again, you’ll get a beating you’ll never forget!”

That was the day I learned to obey my husband.

Hannah passed the sheet to Parton. She was crying as he took the pages slowly from her hand.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Yes. It’s difficult…but I want to know all.”

Parton immersed himself in the paper she had handed him. Hannah picked up the next sheet, shifted in her chair, took a sip of coffee, and resumed reading.

My conversation with Mrs. Winstead had just the result Harry wanted—she invited us to stay with them. Her husband readily seconded the invitation and soon we were driving through Bridgetown in a barouche, four fancy aristocrats and one little girl.

Bridgetown was the prettiest place in the world! The town was just on the shore, with palms and strangely hued shrubs separating the strand from the main roadway. The little shops lining the road were a mix of wooden English structures and stucco buildings like the ones in Hispaniola, painted colors that matched the flowers and the sea. Ladies and gentlemen strolled about wearing light cotton garments, for the sun was very hot. The ladies carried parasols and their dresses were shortened to show their ankles. Sleeves were short and necklines were cut in a scoop both front and back. Most of the men were in shirtsleeves.

It was a long drive to the Winsteads’ plantation, which they called Highland, and night was coming on when we arrived. A night in the Caribbean is not like a night in England. The moon seems to fill the sky, and the air is so warm, you don’t need so much as a shawl about your shoulders.

As we trotted down the drive toward the house, several black slaves appeared. I was frightened of them, but they smiled and greeted their master and mistress. One of the women picked up the little girl and swung her in the air. The child laughed happily and threw her arms around the woman.

The black slaves were dressed in simple cotton garments, and the women wore cloths wrapped round their heads. One of them had a babe, which she carried strapped to her back in a wide cloth. I thought it was very ingenious to carry a child that way, for it left her with both hands free and the babe appeared contented against its mother’s back. Poor thing, I mused, as I looked at its dark little face. It does not even know it was born to be a slave!

The house was a wide stucco structure, and we entered through a portico that was like a garden. Inside, I was amazed to find the house was built round a central courtyard. Inside the courtyard were beautiful plants and flowers and a pool of water with lotuses floating on it. All the bedchambers opened onto the courtyard, and Harry and I, when we were alone in our suite, sat on a little balcony shared by our rooms and stared at the tropical garden. It made me feel like I had died and entered Paradise!

“When we get back to England,” I said. “I want a garden as pretty as this one!”

Harry grinned. “Be a good girl and do as I say, and ye shall have it—and more!”

For a few days, we went about with Mr. Winstead to see the plantation. It was vast beyond any imagining! The slaves lived in huts near the fields, and every morning the overseers—white men from England and other countries as well—would rouse them up and set them to work in the cane fields. The slaves would sing as they worked, a strange, hypnotic, rhythmic singsong. Some of the slave children would beat out the rhythm with sticks, and they sometimes danced to the music.

Mr. and Mrs. Winstead were kind slave owners, and they treated the black men and women well. But the overseers were sometimes cruel, and Winstead told us that he must be alert for trouble in that area.

“It’s difficult,” he confided one day as we rested beneath an immense tree called a baobab, “to keep the right balance between kindness and cruelty. If we’re too kind, they won’t work, and if they don’t work, there won’t be money to feed them. But if the overseers are too harsh, there will be whisperings of revolt and attempts to escape. Slaves who attempt to escape are hanged, and I don’t want that to happen at Highland Plantation.”

Mrs. Winstead hated the entire idea of slavery, and she did all she could to ease the lives of the plantation slaves. She confided to me she wanted to return to England so her little girl would grow up a proper Englishwoman. When I casually told Harry of our conversation, he was interested immediately.

“That is good, very good indeed!”

“Harry, why do you say so? What scheme is in your mind?”

“I’ll tell you in good time,” he replied.

After a few days, it was necessary for Harry and me to make a pretense of looking for my brother. We borrowed a gig and horse from our hosts and made the two-hour journey to Bridgetown. But our errand was a much simpler one. We ordered dinner and a room at the inn, and then Harry set about finding a card game. I walked about the town and then waited for him at the inn.

Harry returned very late, but he made no scruple to awaken me. In the light of the lantern he was holding, I could see by his expression something was amiss. I shrank back, fearful now of the power of his anger.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I won, and we’re flush again.”

“Then what is it?”

“That English lord was in the game.”

“The one from the ship?”

“Aye, Earling is his name.”

“And?”

“And? Nothing. My back was prickling as if it was sensing danger I couldn’t see with me eyes. There was something about the way he looked at me…”

I felt panic. “Did he recognize you?”

“From the ship, of course.”

“But from home, from England?”

“I don’t bloody know. I caught him looking at me queer a few times.”

“We must stay away from him! Harry, Harry, let’s take a ship and leave this place!”

He laughed. “We’ll leave,” he whispered, as he slid into bed next to me, “when I’m the owner of Highland Plantation!”

Sick at heart, Hannah seized the next sheet.

The next day we returned to Highland. We spent a pleasant evening playing at lottery tickets with our hosts, and we slept well in our comfortable guest suite. The next morning Harry and Winstead went riding out to see if they could shoot a wild boar, of which the island has many. Mrs. Winstead and I sat in the courtyard, and the child played about nearby, watched by her black nanny. I had never been one to do needlework, but having nothing else to do, I toyed with some tatting. This was a skill I had learned in the theater so I could play a gentlewoman.

Cassandra didn’t seem quite herself, and she sat listlessly in her seat, finally falling into a restless sleep. I worried that she was ill, and I was about to send the nanny for her maid when another servant entered the courtyard and said, “Madam, a caller has come.”

Mrs. Winstead opened her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it.

“A caller?” she said. “That’s unusual, especially in the heat of the midday.”

We left the courtyard and entered the parlor, expecting a lady to be shown in. But a lady didn’t enter; Lord Earling did.

Mrs. Winstead rose and curtsied, but I sensed she wasn’t happy to see him.

“Lord Earling, good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Winstead, Mrs. Godder.”

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Winstead said, “Pray be seated. I regret to say my husband has gone a-shooting and will probably not return for some time.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I rode out specifically to see him.”

There was another pause, during which it seemed to me Mrs. Winstead was considering how to politely not invite him to stay until her husband returned. But Earling didn’t wait for an invitation.

“I wonder if you’d mind terribly if I stay and wait for Winstead. I’ll be no bother to you. A glass of tea in the courtyard will suffice for me. I have newspapers and letters to read, all lately arrived from England.”

“Of course you may stay,” my hostess replied. “You’ll have luncheon with us. It will be charming to have a third, will it not, Mrs. Godder?”

“Indeed it will,” I managed to say in utter dishonesty.

Harry and Winstead returned shortly after luncheon. It had been the most tedious meal I had ever endured! I was used to gentlemen liking to talk of themselves, but here was one who simply could not hear enough of his own voice. Mrs. Winstead’s polite questions evoked lengthy answers, all seemingly calculated to impress us with his business acumen and knowledge of the world. How glad we were to hear a horse’s whinny and espy our husbands riding toward the house.

The two men looked so companionable as they entered, it was easy for me to convince myself Harry’s talk of acquiring Highland for himself was nothing more than an idle boast. Surely he wouldn’t want to harm these kind friends!

Winstead didn’t look any happier to see Earling than his wife had been. Earling said he had a matter of business to discuss, and they went off together to Winstead’s study, where they remained for some time. Harry entertained us with stories of the boar hunt until they returned. Neither man looked happy as they walked into the parlor.

“Ma’am,” said Earling, “thank you for your hospitality. I’ll be on my way.”

“But, Lord Earling, it will soon be dark. Pray take a bed here for tonight.”

“No, I thank you.”

He then walked out, and the four of us remained in the parlor staring at each other.

Winstead didn’t try to hide his anger at Earling’s calling at Highland. “Ever since you refused him, my love, he’s been looking for some sort of way to make trouble! The blackguard!”

“My dear, please don’t speak of it,” rejoined his wife.

“And why not, Cassandra? It’s not your fault he wanted to marry you!”

“That was six years ago. I’ve endeavored to forget it, and I do wish you would also.”

I rose. “Mrs. Winstead, pray excuse me. I believe I’ll read a little in my own chamber. The heat has fatigued me.”

Harry took the hint. “Winstead, thank you for a fine morning! As my wife says, the heat is fatiguing.”

We quickly exited to give the Winsteads privacy for their dispute. As soon as we reached our suite, however, Harry began wishing that he’d stayed.

“Imagine! The Earling bloke wanted to marry sweet little Cassandra!” Harry exclaimed. “Upon my word, Molly, the three of them acted on board ship as if they barely knew each other!”

I was as surprised as Harry. “It must have happened before the Winsteads left England, for Mrs. Winstead told me they’ve been in Barbados four years.”

Harry regarded me. “What else has she told you? How did they get ownership of the plantation?”

At that moment, we heard a cry and running feet. We left the suite and hurried back to the parlor. Servants were running in from everywhere, but we pushed past them.

Cassandra was on the floor, and her husband was kneeling at her side.

“She fainted!” he cried, seeing us enter. “She’s warm; she seems to have a fever!”

I dropped down next to Cassandra and felt her face. She was indeed hot!

“Can someone go for a physician?”

Winstead gave rapid instructions, and then he and Harry carried Mrs. Winstead to her chamber. She didn’t regain consciousness, but we were not yet frightened for her life.

The physician arrived early the next day, and he looked grave as he examined her. “Was she well yesterday?” he inquired.

Winstead looked at me, and I answered she had seemed rather tired but nothing more. The physician then gave us some draughts to break the fever.

For the next three days, I attended Mrs. Winstead. She regained consciousness a few times but could not speak coherently. On the third day, she seemed better, and she seized my arm and whispered, “Please…bring my child to the door of my chamber. Do not bring her inside…but…I long to see her…before I die.”

That was all she could utter. Without consulting her husband, I did as she bade. She was able to look on the face of her daughter, who hung in the doorway clutching the skirt of her nanny.

By the next morning, Mrs. Winstead was dead.

Hannah could not now stifle her emotions, and she covered her face with a handkerchief and wept. Parton could do nothing except hold her hand. Struggling to regain control, she passed the sheet to him and picked up the next.

“I wish, Hannah,” he said kindly, “we could take refuge in a more private setting than this.”

“Yes, but there’s nowhere. Pray, read on. I can’t stop now. I must know all, no matter how terrible.”

Winstead was inconsolable at his wife’s death, and he wasn’t the only one. I was nearly as grief-stricken myself. And Lord Earling, who demanded to be admitted to view Cassandra’s body before it was placed in the ground, was silent in his misery. However unpleasant the man’s character, he had sincerely loved Cassandra!

Harry played his part of friend to a grieving husband magnificently. But in our private hours, he was restless, pacing about and talking to himself. It was easy for me to see he felt not the slightest pain at Cassandra’s death. To Harry, every event was an opportunity to be used, and he cogitated for hours on how best to use this one.

One evening, he said he was going to take a stroll. Winstead was writing letters in his study, and I was playing with the child in the courtyard. About fifteen minutes after Harry set out, the child begged me to take her out to the garden “where Mummy sleeps now under the flowers.”

Feeling sorry for the motherless child, I stepped outside with her in the warm, fragrant tropical night. The moon was not out, and it was very dark. I called to the watchman to bring a candle, and we strolled toward the little family graveyard where Cassandra had been buried only two days before.

As we slipped through the gate, someone moved in the shadows. It was Harry, and he was not alone. Next to him stood a black man swaddled in bright cloths, with his arms, neck, and head adorned with feathers and beads.

“Harry?” I called softly.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. The black man slipped away into the shadows, and Harry moved into the circle of our candlelight.

“The child wanted to visit the grave.”

Harry paid no attention to the little girl. He had a packet of something that appeared to be wrapped in a large leaf. He stuffed it into his pocket.

“What’s that, Harry?”

“Herbs,” he replied. “The witch doctor said they’ll keep off the fever.”

“Witch doctor! You shouldn’t take herbs from a witch doctor! They are evil, those shamans!”

Harry laughed. “You can catch fever if you desire, Molly, my love, but I intend to protect myself.”

The next day at breakfast, Winstead appeared calmer. He was starting to think rationally again, he said, and he wanted to speak with us about an important matter. I thought he would ask us to leave, and I prayed it would be so.

When Winstead spoke of what was on his mind, a shiver went through me.

“My wife is dead,” he began, “and I have a motherless child to rear. I ask you, if I should come down with the fever and perish myself, will you take my child to England and raise her as your ward?”

To my astonishment, Harry replied, “Winstead, you’re hale and hearty and will live to be a hundred! But if it eases your mind, my wife and I will of course agree to do as you ask.”

“Certainly,” I concurred, barely able to speak so great was my surprise at Harry’s statement.

“Thank you,” Winstead rejoined. “It is what I expected you to say, for you have been very kind friends to my dear wife and myself. Rearing the child would not of course be a financial burden on you, for the estate will support my beloved Hannah handsomely.”

“We would be most happy to take charge of Hannah,” replied Harry, “if such a contingency occurred. But I hope and trust that it will not.”

Winstead thanked him, and then Harry continued.

“My wife’s sorrow at not finding her brother was consoled by her friendship with Mrs. Winstead. But now, my dear Winstead, it’s time for us to go away and leave you to the peace and quiet of Highland. I only beg you’ll write and inform us if you journey to England at any time in the future.”

“Leave?” cried Winstead. “No, pray don’t leave right away! Mrs. Godder, I appeal to you, stay for a time until my little girl has become accustomed to the sad change in her life.”

With a suitable amount of hesitation on our parts and insistence on Winstead’s, we arranged to stay a month longer, but no more.

For the next few weeks, we were all very anxious because of fear of the fever. Two servants contracted it, but they both recovered. Harry, Winstead, and I, however, continued healthy until the third week of our month’s extended stay.

After dinner one evening, Winstead went to his study, and Harry and I began amusing ourselves at cards. We were not playing a game, but rather perfecting our cheating strategies. The child had been taken to bed by the nanny, whose name was Helena. She passed the parlor on her way back to the kitchen. Feeling a presence, I looked up and saw her standing in the hallway watching us. She had a strange look on her handsome, dark face, as though she were trying to solve a perplexing mystery. My eyes met hers, and she walked quickly away.

A few minutes later another servant came by. This was an older woman, and Cassandra had told me she was the mother of Helena. Her name was Annie Maine.

Annie Maine! Hannah gasped as the memory of a dark, rainy morning filled her mind. Her governess, Miss Dawkins, appeared before her, the serious gray eyes probing hers.

“Remember this name, Hannah. Annie Maine!”

Hannah, engrossed in the memory, became gradually aware that Parton was watching her.

“What is it?”

“A memory…I’ll explain later.”

“Very well.” He resumed reading, but Hannah sat back in her chair, her mind in a perplexity of questions and emotions. Annie Maine! How had Miss Dawkins come to know of the existence of Annie Maine? And what did that knowledge have to do with her disappearance? Hannah shivered.