When he reached them, Frank looked down at Mr. Pridmore. His face remained guarded, but his right hand tightened a little. Looking up, Frank inclined his head. “What may I do for you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Two things. First—” Vincent looked suddenly and unaccountably bashful. “First … would you—I should take it as an honour if you would call me Vincent.”
Frank’s mouth hung open a little at the invitation to such familial intimacy. He shut it and turned to look back at the white planters and then at the wagon drivers, his brows drawn a little together. Putting his fist to his mouth, he stood for a moment before saying, “Thank you.”
In spite of his resemblance to Vincent, Frank’s position as the estate’s steward, the colour of his skin, and his very demeanour had made it too easy for Jane to think of him as only a servant. It was easy to forget that he was Vincent’s half brother. The fact was, of all of Vincent’s blood relations, Frank was the only one who had never played them false. He had been loyal to his own family first but honest about it, and that was as it should be. Jane held out her hand to him. “I am Jane.”
He stared at her hand for a moment, then again at the planters. He murmured, “You know they are watching.”
“Am I mistaken that being claimed as a Hamilton relation will help your role?”
Frank took Jane’s hand and bowed over it with the precision of any gentleman. “Thank you.”
Breaking into a smile that looked genuine, Vincent clapped Frank on the shoulder and held out his hand, turning them both so that the handshake was obvious. “Good. I am sorry. I should have offered much sooner than this.”
Clasping it, Frank shook his head. “You did not know me.”
“And that is a cause for regret,” Jane replied.
Frank looked down at Mr. Pridmore. “Yes.… Now, you had two things. What was the second?”
Sobering, Vincent scrubbed his hand through his hair, staring with distaste at the man who still lay sprawled in the dirt. He bent down and felt in Pridmore’s coat, coming out with a heavy purse. Scowling, he straightened. “Get him off our land.” Vincent looked to the hill. “After we have seen to our wounded.”
Twenty-five
Old Scars and New
The badly burnt woman lost consciousness on the ride to the great house, which was the greatest possible blessing for her. Vincent stayed behind at the rum factory to deal with matters there, while Jane and Frank returned with the wounded.
When they arrived at the great house, Nkiruka and Dr. Jones met them at the door, faces tight as the first of the wounded was carried from the carriage. There was little for Jane to do. With quiet competence, Nkiruka and Louisa had organised the glamourists as nurses. Together they had prepared the spare rooms to the best of their abilities, assigning the rooms according to the severity of the injuries.
As the wounded were carried through the door, Dr. Jones took a quick look and told the bearers where to take each patient. Louisa met the pallet bearers at the end of the hall and helped them settle the wounded. They had to be placed two or three to a bed, and on pallets on the floor, but she found space for them all. Jane’s experience in tending to her mother turned out to be of practical use, for though her mother’s ailments were frequently imaginary, the methods which their family doctor had prescribed for treating them were real.
She soaked torn linens in rainwater and placed them on Sukey’s fevered brow and Julian’s angry, blistered skin. She helped arrange pillows so that Fidelia could rest more comfortably while waiting for Dr. Jones to come to her. She sat by Letitia’s bed and held her hand while she wept. Her husband had been stoking the furnace when the boiler blew, and no one had seen him since. She stayed there until Zachary brought Letitia’s mother, and then moved on to the next bed, and the next, and the next. Through their injuries, Jane met Jos, Bodelia, Thomas, Smart Martin, Jeannette … Jeannette had been one of their glamourists and now had blisters over her forearms.
As Jane walked across the hall to the next room armed with her linens and rainwater, she saw Frank coming down the passage. Jane waited until he drew near. “Has Sir Ronald arrived?”
Frank sighed. “I am sorry. I could have saved you the trouble of sending for him. He does not work on Negroes.”
For a childish moment, Jane wanted to stamp her foot and throw a tantrum. That hateful, odious man. She swallowed her anger, trying to keep her voice low so that that she did not disturb those patients who had managed to find a troubled slumber. “What about Dr. Hartnell? The gentleman who runs the school that we are holding the charity ball for.”
“The wrong sort of doctor, I am afraid. He is an historian of sorts. Jane—” Frank stumbled over the new familiarity “May I speak with you for a moment?”