“No. But I am in charge of managing the estate. Your father approved of my methods.”
The woman with braids stared openly at Jane as she slipped past the taller driver. The driver made a grunt of surprise and stepped back a pace, as if uncertain what to do with the white woman who had suddenly appeared in their midst. She knelt by the young man who had been whipped. The damage to his back was worse when viewed at close range, and worse too than her memory of Vincent’s wounds. Not for the number of strokes, but for being fresher.
At least, these marks were fresher. They were laid over older scars that made it very clear that this was not his first time being whipped, nor even his second. Jane had to swallow hard at her rising gorge. Blood ran freely from the rent skin of his back. The flesh beneath was raw and bright red. The wounds shifted and stretched wider with each pant.
Jane looked up to the woman with braids. “Will you bring me some water?”
Again, the woman looked to Mr. Pridmore, but made no effort to move.
“What the devil—Hamilton, what is your wife doing?”
As calmly as she could, Jane tore a strip from the bottom of her chemise. “I am seeing to these wounds, since no one else was.”
“Those wounds are of his own making, and—”
Vincent cut in. “That, they are not.”
“Of course they are. He broke the rules, knowing full well the consequences.”
“Gentlemen! I need water.” Jane lifted her head and glared at Mr. Pridmore. “If you will tell me where to find it, I will fetch it myself.”
“There ain’t none.” The woman’s voice startled them all. The woman with the braids had stepped a little forward from the other workers.
“Sukey!” The tall driver snapped his whip so that the tip just touched her bare forearm, leaving a stripe. “Don’t talk to the master without leave.”
“I wasn’t talking to the master, I was answering the la—” She cut off with a cry as the whip caught her again.
“Stop!” Jane staggered to her feet and stepped in front of the man. The fields pitched around her, greying at the edges. Jane fixed her gaze on the horizon and pulled on the resources that she used to keep from fainting when working glamour. Her stomach heaved as if she were on the ship still, but she would not faint. “I asked a question, and Sukey answered me. You do not have leave to … do not have leave to use the whip. You do not…”
She did not faint, but she did vomit, with a force that bent her double. The driver stepped back as her sick spattered his shoes. Strong arms braced her shoulders as she was ill a second time.
“Jane!” Vincent ran to her. His hands replaced the ones currently holding her. As Jane straightened, Sukey stepped back and gave something like a curtsy. Vincent’s features were tight with fear. “Are you—”
“Only hot and angry,” Jane interjected before he could ask if the baby was all right. Marshalling a smile, Jane squeezed his hand and tried to appear calm. “May I have your handkerchief?”
He fumbled in his pocket for it. “Mr. Pridmore, please send a messenger to the house to ask for the carriage, and another to fetch the doctor.”
“At once, Mr. Hamilton.” His tone had lost its mocking edge and presented only an earnest concern. “Julian, house. Smart Martin, doctor. Thomas and Sukey, make up a litter under the wagon for Mrs. Hamilton so we can get her out of the sun.”
In moments, the field workers jumped to their assigned activities. Two of the younger boys dashed off in opposite directions on the road. Vincent had Jane in his arms and was halfway to the wagon before she could protest. She twisted around to look behind them. “What about the man who was whipped?”
Vincent’s hands tightened, and he made his small whine of distress. “Muse, you are not well.”
“I was not whipped.” Raising her voice, she said, “Mr. Pridmore. Please, let him into the shade at least.”
Mr. Pridmore stared at her, and then he sighed. “Against my better judgement, because it distresses you so. Thomas and Sukey, when you’re finished with the litter, drag Octavio into the shade, but not too close to Mrs. Hamilton. There are limits, madam, on what is acceptable on Antigua. It would be easiest for everyone if you and your husband learned that this is not England.”
Jane hardly needed to be told that. Still, she held her tongue. She had at least won the point of having Octavio tended to. That it had taken being ill gave her a better appreciation for her mother’s methods, though she still did not like them.
When Vincent had set her down in the shade of the wagon, she caught his hand. “Vincent … would the tamarind tree not be better?”
“I think this has more shade.”
“Yes, but … for later.”
He sat back on his heels and studied her with that perfect and almost indifferent calm. “We are going back to the house as soon as the carriage arrives.”
“Truly, Vincent. I have walked farther than this so many times.”
“But not in this heat.”