“You are thinking of the old buildings you passed by on your way in. These are closer, which would be better for the ladies, do you not agree?”
Vincent inclined his head and gestured for the overseer to lead on. As they walked, Mrs. Pridmore drew even with Jane and engaged her in conversation about fashion and music, to which Jane had very little to offer, as the overseer’s wife was more than capable of carrying on nearly the whole of the discussion by herself. Due to the narrowness of the path, Louisa and Betsy were forced to walk in the grass to either side of them in order to keep the parasols overhead.
They rounded the slope of the hill and came upon a set of little white cottages, surely no more than one room apiece. Each had a small garden plot of vegetables in front, and one had pea vines trained on a trellis up the side.
Mr. Pridmore gestured broadly. “There you are. Pretty as a picture, eh?”
Jane counted ten houses and then thought of the number of slaves that Louisa had said were on the estate. There was not enough space to accommodate anywhere near the two hundred slaves she had mentioned. “And where are the others?”
“The others?”
“The other houses. I wonder if they have so pleasant a prospect.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes and strode towards the nearest cottage. “The quarters by the road are still in use, are they not?”
“Yes.…”
“Why are not all of the slaves supplied with cottages such as these?”
Mr. Pridmore laughed, slapping his hands together. “Oh ho! A romantic. My dear sir, once you have an opportunity to go over the accounts you will see that we have too many slaves to make that economical. Given the mild weather here, those are more than sufficient. Cottages such as these are reserved for the house slaves. In general, the coloured slaves are more adept than the blacks, but they are also more delicate in constitution, so cottages such as these are necessary. It comes from the mixing of the bloodlines, I fear. Their rate of births is alarmingly low.”
Vincent humphed as he walked down the row of houses.
Mr. Pridmore appeared to take that as an encouragement to continue. “I have been thinking of starting a breeding catalogue to improve the stock. After all, cattle ranchers do it to great effect. It would be a simple matter, I would think, to breed for a docile temperament. Why, take Betsy here. As calm and steady a maid as you could ask for. Why not breed her with someone like your Frank? It might improve the birth rate as well.”
“Mr. Pridmore! Remember Mrs. Hamilton!”
“I am not concerned for myself.” Jane studied Betsy, who walked behind Mrs. Pridmore with an elegant deportment but two spots of red upon her cheeks. “But a change of subject would be welcome, I think.”
The maid’s eyelids fluttered as though she was restraining the impulse to look up. In no other manner did she display that she had even heard the conversation. Jane was accustomed to pretending that servants were not in the room, in part because that social convention made it easier for them to go about their work rather than requiring constant courtesies, but she was not used to, nor comfortable with, the idea of discussing them as if they were not present.
“Ah—yes.” Mr. Pridmore cleared his throat. “My apologies. Should you like to go in one of the cottages?”
“I have seen enough.” Vincent’s hands were behind his back, and he had tilted his head down into his cravat. More telling to Jane than his habitual stance was the tension around his eyes and mouth. “The rum distillery should be next, I believe.”
“Of course.” Mr. Pridmore gave a little chuckle. “Though, to that, I really must insist that we not take the ladies. It is not safe.”
“If it is safe enough for you gentlemen, then surely it is safe enough for me.” It might have been Jane’s imagination, but she could not help feeling that his reasons for avoiding the distillery had little to do with her safety.
“I am afraid not, Mrs. Hamilton. Should there be an accident with the boiler, or simply a careless movement by a slave, your muslin would be inadequate to protect you.”
Vincent turned from the group and met Jane’s gaze. He then glanced from Mrs. Pridmore to Mr. Pridmore. Someone who was not intimately acquainted with him would see no more than that. Jane took it to mean that his next sentence would be for them, not for her. “Perhaps you should return to the house with Mrs. Pridmore. I am afraid we have business to discuss that could not be of any possible interest to ladies.”