We buried Jonas Mason on a hill overlooking his beloved Valley View. We had sent a notification to his son, but there was not time in that climate to wait for him to return from Madeira, and Bertha refused to leave the house in the daylight. Daniels returned from his new position in Trelawny, which was kind of him, but despite our earlier rapport, he gazed across the grave opening at me as if I had been to blame, as if in his presence Jonas would never have left this mortal coil. After the burial he shook my hand brusquely, stared at Osmon appraisingly, and left. The neighbors who had come for the service followed me into the house, and we ate and drank the day away, sharing reminiscences of Jonas. Sukey came and stood in the background, and it only served to remind me that there had not been, as far as I ever saw, any relationship between the two. Is that what it becomes? A man fathers a child and has no sense of connection with her—or him—except perhaps to make sure she does not work in the fields? That she is not subject to the blows of the whip? That the child’s life is at least not as bad as it might have been?
But no, in Sukey’s case, he gave her to his business partner. Or sold her; I did not know which, and did not care to know. But I did wonder about her. She had never spoken of him; I had no idea what she thought of him, or if she thought anything at all. Yet she had come.
When all the guests had left, I walked silently into Jonas’ chamber. A few articles were neatly placed on his desk; his riding crop leaned against the wall in a corner, though I could not remember when I had last seen him ride; his boots stood beside the chair.
The next day I sent Alexander for my horse, and I mounted her and rode into town. The house was quiet when I entered, but I could smell pepper pot, and I walked into the kitchen. Sukey was there at the stove. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “except that I am sorry.”
“Sir,” she said softly. “He was a man; that’s all.”
She said no more, and I could not bring myself to state the obvious, but her words hung in the room between us. Then I said, again, “I’m very sorry.”
She gazed at me across the room, and I could not tell what was in her eyes, but I left for my office, where I had papers to sign. And from there, even though it was late, I returned directly to Valley View.
*
Once again it was crop time—Jonas’ death could not stop time, or our responsibilities to the land. Work continued around the clock; we slept when and where we could. I kept imagining Jonas’ voice in my ear, telling me that it was not my job to oversee the operations, that that was what we had an overseer for, but I wanted more than anything to throw myself into it and to lose sense of all else.
After crop-over time, when things had once again quieted, I realized that I should have informed my father of the passing of his erstwhile partner. Hesitantly, I sat down one evening and wrote to him. It was an uncomfortable letter to write, as I had not forgiven him for the part he had played in encouraging my marriage, for I had become well convinced that he had known of Bertha’s inclinations. But I did not mention Bertha. Let him wonder, I thought.
*
Richard returned with the spring, ready to be the master of the estate, riding up the valley in grand fashion on an enormous black stallion. It was evening, and I was on the veranda, and I watched him come, at first curious as to who it might be and, when he was close enough to recognize, curious as to what would transpire. In the short time that Richard and I had been friendly before my marriage to Bertha and before he left for Madeira, I had come to understand that his father’s blunt assessment of him was, sadly, most likely correct: though there was nothing malicious in him, he was shallow minded, somewhat lazy, and prone to exhibit the trappings of wealth, as if they would convey a kind of distinction. I wondered if Madeira had changed him, but it did not appear so.
I descended the steps to greet him, and he was all smiles as he dismounted. “Everything looks fine,” he announced. “Is the crop over?” As if he could see any canes still to be cut.
“It’s over,” I said. “It was a good crop. Your father would have been pleased.”
“Ah then, I am pleased as well.”
He gave a flit of his hand, as if his absence at the funeral couldn’t have been helped, which it couldn’t have been. Had we waited for him for the burial, Jonas’ body would have been ripe indeed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I am pleased you have kept up your end of the bargain until I could arrive.”
“Yes?” I did not know what exactly he meant by that.
“You have already moved into a house on your own property, I presume.”
I paused, and he filled the silence: “Oh? You have not yet done so?” A breeze from the east blew just then, ruffling his hair, and I should have taken it for an omen. “It is time, don’t you think? You and Bertha cannot always live under the roof of the big house. It is mine now.”
“It is not the usual kind of marriage,” I said, although, truly, that was not his business.
His eyes hardened. “It is nothing to me what kind of marriage you have, though God knows my sister was a woman whom any man would have been happy to have as his wife. Where you live is not my affair. But this house”—he looked beyond me toward it—“is mine now. And that is my affair.” He pushed past me and mounted the steps, and I understood then that Richard actually believed that he could so easily replace his father, with whom, during his father’s life, he could barely exchange two pleasant words.
I could have let him go. I could have packed a bag and mounted my horse and left him with Bertha and his precious house. If I had known what was to come, I might well have, for in a few years’ time slavery would be abolished in Jamaica, and even if Richard had not already run Valley View into the ground, he couldn’t have dealt with slavery’s end.
But Bertha was still my wife and I had a responsibility to her, no matter what else. And I had a responsibility to Jonas as well, and I knew what his plan had been. “It is not that simple,” I called after him.
He had already reached the top of the steps, and he paused, not turning around.
“There is an entailment,” I said.
He turned then and gazed at me, his eyes still hard, though I saw a question take root in them.
“You should speak with his solicitor,” I added.
“You tell me,” he said.
“I think you should speak with his solicitor, Mr. Arthur Foster. I’m sure you have met him, and you must have heard from him since your father’s passing. You can spend the night here and ride back to see him in Spanish Town in the morning.”
“I have no interest in riding to Spanish Town,” he countered. “Send for him, if you must.” And he walked into the house.