decent in theory: pay the former slaves who were willing to work the land they’d once worked for free. In practice, the situation was not far different than slavery.
Kitt went on. ‘Finding enough labour has been difficult. The plantation owners feel they’re losing too much money so they work the labourers to the bone, to death actually. As you can imagine, no one wants to work for those wages. Death doesn’t really recommend itself.’
Great, his fields were rotting and there was no one to hire. But Kitt’s next words riveted his attention. ‘Except at Sugarland and that’s what has all the neighbours angry.’
Ren let the thought settle. He tried to dissect the comment and couldn’t make sense of it. ‘You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid.’
Kitt did. ‘The plantation owners refuse to use the apprentice system fairly, except Sugarland. Anyone who wants field work, wants to work there where they are assured of a wage and safe conditions. As a result, Sugarland is the only place producing a significant profit right now.’ That was good news. Ren breathed a little easier, but just for a moment. Kitt wasn’t done.
‘Someone put it about a few months ago, at the time of your cousin’s death, that spirits were luring workers to Sugarland, that the woman running the place was in league with practitioners of black magic and that’s why the plantation was successful. Since then, the rumours have multiplied: she’s cursed the neighbouring crops, she’s put a growing spell on her own.’
‘Wait. Hold on.’ Ren grasped the information one idea at a time. Spells? Witchcraft? A woman?
Kitt took pity on him, misunderstanding the source of his agitation. ‘I know, the whole concept of black magic takes a bit of getting used to. The islands are full of it. The islands have their own names for it: voodoo, obeah. It’s from Africa. It’s full of superstitions and ghosts and spells.’
Ren thought of the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Black magic was the least of his concerns. ‘No, it’s not that. Back up to the part about a woman. There’s a woman at the plantation?’ Cousin Merrimore’s will hadn’t said a thing about anyone, certainly not a woman.
Kitt nodded and said with the most seriousness Ren had ever heard him use. ‘Her name is Emma Ward.’
A pit opened in his stomach and Ren knew with gut-clenching clarity there was no ‘they’. There was no absentee landlord syndicate to write monthly updates to. There was only a ‘she’. The other forty-nine per cent belonged to a crazy woman rumoured to be casting spells on her neighbours’ crops.
Ren was starting to rethink the merits of surprise, especially when those merits were reversed. It was one thing to be the surprise as he’d planned to be. It was another to be the one who was surprised. Ren definitely preferred the former. A more cautious man would have waited in town until he could have notified the plantation. But he’d never been one to wait and he’d never been one to shy away from a challenge. He made a habit of meeting those head on, whether those challenges were notorious females or not.
Ren leaned back on the wagon seat, letting the sun bathe his face. Ah, the Caribbean. Land of rum, risk and apparently a little insanity, too.
Waiting was driving her insane! Emma Ward took yet another long look at the clock on the corner of her desk. He should be here by now, Mr Fifty-One Per Cent. If he was coming. Emma idly shuffled the papers in front of her. They could have been written in Arabic for all she’d been able to focus on them today. Emma left the desk and began to pace, a far better use of her energies than staring at a paper.
Was she technically even waiting? Waiting assumed he was actually coming. What she really wanted to know was at what point could she stop waiting and be confident in the knowledge that he wasn’t coming at all?
Her nerves were a wreck and they had been every mail day since Albert Merrimore’s death. That meant she’d gone through this uncertainty for four months. Was this the day she got the letter saying Merrimore’s cousin was coming? Or worse, would it be the day he actually showed up? Anything could happen. His ship could have been delayed, he could have been personally delayed and that was if he’d decided to come at all. It was just as likely he could have rethought the notion of coming halfway around the world simply to see his property when his profits didn’t depend on whether he saw the place or not. Most gentlemen wouldn’t bestir themselves if it wasn’t required, especially since there was some risk involved. Who was she fooling? Not some risk. A lot of risk, starting with an ocean voyage. Ships went down even in the modern age of steam.
Emma scolded herself for such a morbid thought. It wasn’t that she wished he was dead, merely marooned, her conscience clarified. It was possible his ship could founder and he could float to safety on an overturned table. For four months, she’d got her wish. How much longer before she could safely assume her wish had been granted on a more permanent basis? She didn’t wish Mr Fifty-One Per Cent dead, she just wished he weren’t here.
She had to stop calling him that. He had a name. It had been in the will and a terribly stuffy name at that. Renford Dryden. An old man’s name. But of course, what sort of relations did dear old Merry have if not old ones? Merry had been in his late eighties. A cousin couldn’t be expected to be much younger. Even twenty years younger would put him in his sixties. Which perplexed her further—why a man of advanced years would want to make such a dangerous trip that would only serve to disrupt both of their lives? Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she would be safe on that front at least.
Emma wanted nothing more than to grow her sugar cane in peace and independence without the interference of men. After everything she’d been through, it wasn’t too much to ask. Men had never gone well for her, starting with her father and ending with a debacle of a marriage. The only man who’d done well by her had been old Merry and now she had his relative to contend with. She couldn’t stop him from coming, but she didn’t have to make it easy should that be his choice.
She’d already begun the campaign. She’d not written to him when she could have, explaining the situation when the solicitor had sent word to England. She’d feared a letter would be viewed as a personal invitation, as encouragement to come when that was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t sent the wagon into town on mail day these past months to see if anyone had arrived.
Guilt began to gnaw again. If he had arrived on this packet, she’d left an ageing man to fend for himself in the foreign heat. It was poorly done of her. She should have sent someone into town just to check. That was her conscience talking. She should tell Samuel to get the wagon ready and go to enquire about the mail. Emma glanced again at the clock, the knot in her stomach starting to ease. It was getting late. The threat had almost passed for another two weeks. If he was coming, he would be here by...
‘Miss! Miss!’ Hattie, one of the downstairs maids, rushed into the office, hardly attempting any pretence of decorum in her excitement. ‘It’s him, it’s our Mr Dryden! I’m sure of it. He is coming and that rascal Mr Kitt is with him!’
‘Kitt Sherard? Are you certain?’ What would the local scoundrel of a rum runner have to do with a man in his dotage? Sherard was the last person she’d want Renford Dryden to meet. Emma stopped before the mirror hung over the side table to check her appearance. Sherard was only one step above a pirate. ‘I hope he hasn’t got our guest drunk already.’ Emma muttered, tucking up a few errant stands of hair.
She
