“And this estate?”
Mr. Pridmore frowned and counted on his fingers. “Eleven years ago? Before my time, that. Do not let it worry you, though. My introduction of the Rock Dungeon has reduced the number of incidents considerably.”
Jane shivered and wrapped her arms around herself before remembering what it did to her gown. She lowered them quickly, hoping that the dim room hid her movement.
“Oh, you have frightened poor Mrs. Hamilton!” Mrs. Pridmore attached herself to Jane’s arm and directed her outside. “It sounds horrid. I should know, having lived here as long as I have. But there are nearly forty naval forts, so you only have to wait a little before soldiers come to put the uprising down.”
Jane extricated herself from Mrs. Pridmore’s grip. “Have you had occasion to use one?”
“No! Heavens, no. Mr. Pridmore is much too clever to allow anything like an uprising to occur. Our slaves—that is to say, your slaves—are all contented.”
They were at least silent. Louisa and Betsy both moved to stand by the ladies as they left the shade of the safe house. After her experience with the coldmongers in England, Jane could not think that either woman was content.
“How is it ventilated?” Vincent reached up to touch the low ceiling before ducking back out into the sunlight.
“Oh. I—I am uncertain.…” Mr. Pridmore frowned back into the room. “It must be—er … I, um…”
Jane walked at her husband’s side as they left the safe house behind and headed down the hill towards the slave quarters. Louisa stayed close by her, keeping the parasol in place with a diligence that was impressive. In a low voice, Jane asked, “No ventilation, really?”
Frowning, Vincent settled his hat back upon his head. He offered her his arm and glanced back at Mr. Pridmore, who was still looking for ventilation. “There is a gap at the base of the door, so it would be a simple matter to smoke someone out.”
“I should add that many of the preserves are clearly spoilt.”
Vincent gave a little snort. “And the wax seal on the rum barrel has already been cracked.”
“Mr. Hamilton! Wait—the shrubbery is this way.”
Without checking his pace, Vincent said, “I am not interested in the shrubbery.”
“But the ladies—”
“Can see well enough where it is.” Vincent tucked his chin into his cravat. The dark cloth framed his face with even more severity than his usual. “What I am interested in seeing next are the slave quarters. The ones we passed on the way in had significant decay.”
“It’s shameful, really, how lazy they are.” Mr. Pridmore took Vincent’s arm. “Allow me to show you the gardens, lovely places.”
Vincent looked at Mr. Pridmore’s hand on his arm. “Perhaps later.”
“Oh, but the ladies have no wish to see the slave quarters, I am certain. They are vulgar places.”
“Jane?”
Jane smiled at her husband. “I am not afraid of a little dirt. At least it is only dry dust here. You know how my gown gets when I go walking in the shrubbery after a rain.”
“Then we are agreed.” Vincent walked forward, but he dipped his head and murmured to Jane. “You will let me know if you become fatigued?”
“As we have thus far walked no farther than the length of the house, I am in no danger of fatigue.”
“But you will let me know.”
She sighed. “Yes.”
He pressed his hand over hers, where it rested on his arm. “Thank you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Pridmore stayed close on their heels, with Betsy and her parasol providing continual shade. As they passed through the hedge that formed the boundary of the lawn, Mr. Pridmore cleared his throat. “I must say again that this is not a place to take a lady, quite apart from the dirt. They are animals, and frequently engage in carnal acts, quite in public, that a lady should not see.”
“Mr. Pridmore!” His wife fluttered her handkerchief. “It is not genteel to speak of such things, and most especially not in front of Mrs. Hamilton.”
The overseer seemed to come to his senses about the topic he had been discussing. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton. We are so unused to being in company that I forget how such things must seem to one who is newly to our island. I do not tend to think of it as any more untoward than discussing the breeding of hounds.”
“And yet, it is quite different.”
“Of course. Of course…” He did not seem as if he quite agreed with her, but he had the grace not to argue the point further. Turning at an angle to the hedge, he gestured along a well-beaten path through the lawn “Well … this way, then, to the slave quarters.”
Vincent frowned. “I recall them being closer to the road.”