Love's Fiery Jewel (4 page)

During the course of the polite conversation that
ensued, Amethyst moved in a series of seemingly endless
tasks between Damien and her mother, waging a casual,
deliberate war of interference with their conversation, and the small pinch of annoyance Damien felt at the
outset of her campaign slowly grew despite his resolve.
Finally barely able to control his anger, he abruptly rose
to his feet. Realizing he would soon be at the point of
agitating the sick woman even further by taking her
darling daughter over his knee to give her the wailing of
her life, he put his best effort into a smile and said tightly,
"Now that I'm satisfied you are recuperating well, Mrs.
Greer, I will return to my work." Was it his imagination
or did a flash of relief momentarily move across the
woman's face? Whatever her reaction, the child could
not suppress a small victorious smile which had the effect
of infuriating him even further, and shooting her a
thunderous look which appeared to have no effect at all
on her apparent satisfaction, he turned and left.

Once outside, Damien stared hotly at the door he had
just closed behind him in a supreme effort to swallow his
anger.

"Damned interfering little chit!" he mumbled between
clenched teeth. "Maneuvered that situation to her own
benefit, did she?" The small victorious smile flashed
across his mind again, serving only to incite his anger
even further.

"One day you will push me too far, little Amethyst
Greer," he muttered to the small violet-eyed image in his
mind's eye, "and when that time comes, neither Hell nor
high water will save you from me!"

Turning abruptly, he started down the hall, the true
source of his irritation the fact that he had been
outwitted and outmaneuvered by a nine-year-old child.

Crystal clear, turquoise waters gently lapped against
the Sally's hull while a brilliant morning sun bathed
her in its golden haze. An increasing warmth permeated
the gently moving air currents, enveloping the tall,
graceful ship in an aura of lethargy that was only one of the many deceptions of the wildly beautiful tropical
island of Jamaica.

Leaning indolently against the rail of the ship, sun
glinting warmly on his thick, tawny hair, Damien Straith
watched the systematic unloading of the Sally with a
keen eye that belied his casual posture. They had reached
Kingston in record time with the cargo of foodstuffs so
essential to the tropical island. Shaking his head, he gave
a low, disgusted snort. Sugar.. .the island existed
mainly for the production of the money crop that would
bring wealth to the landowners, a quick fortune to the
often sadistic overseers, and endless revenue to the
Mother Country. In the meantime the island was being
exploited with shocking ruthlessness, the land exhausted
with no thought to the future. In the present scheme of
things, when the land was no longer productive, it was
merely abandoned... there was always another section
where they could move on. As stupid and short-sighted as
this was, there were no complaints from the proprietors
in England. As long as they could count rising profits,
they would not question the handling of their estates. No
land was wasted on the planting of anything as mundane
as food, and except for the small plots of ground utilized
by slaves for their own use, food was imported from the
American colonies and Great Britain. It was cheaper
that way. Overseers hired to manage absentee owners'
lands were often cruel, merciless men. Bent on the
accumulation of a quick fortune for a glorious return to
England, they often worked the slaves until they dropped
and within the few short years that Damien had been
sailing to the islands, the insatiable demand for slaves
had raised their population on the island to over 90,000,
ten times that of the whites. An island of incomparable
natural beauty, Jamaica was unusually barbaric and
uncivilized. Unlike the other British islands where
settlement was encouraged, there was little polite society, with the small number of landowners that
actually lived and worked their own plantations the only
inhabitants even concerned about improving their
circumstances. It was a greedy, uncultured, often violent
world in which the accumulation of wealth was the
primary concern, and any and all manner of vice was
tolerated and enjoyed in a disordered, mostly ignorant
society.

With a peculiar sense of weariness, Damien watched as
his eager passengers made their way down the gangplank,
barely able to conceal their excitement with the alluring
beauty of the island. David and Margaret Douglass were
no strangers to the island.. .they knew what they were
getting into.. .but the others.. .How many would be
lambs led to the slaughter? Unwillingly his gaze lingered
on the slight woman trailing behind the small group,
tightly clutching her daughter's hand. That gentle,
fragile woman would be child's play for the human sharks
that inhabited the port. And the girl...? Walking
slowly beside her mother, Amethyst's dark head moved
from side to side in an effort to digest the unfamiliar
surroundings. Despite himself, the small sense of
disquiet inside Damien grew. He knew what it was to be
orphaned at an early age in a hostile environment. Would
she survive...?

At that moment, as if sensing his perusal, Amethyst
turned her head toward the ship, her brilliant violet eyes
raised to his as she moved almost directly below him on
the adjacent dock. Catching his glance, she held his steely
gray eyes with her own in a deliberately mocking
expression that went far beyond her years. She had not
forgiven him his high-handed behavior on the day of
their meeting, and if he was any judge of character, she
never would. A small smile hovered around his lips
despite himself.. .the girl had spirit... only to be
replaced moments later by a hard, angry line as, unknown to her mother, Amethyst pulled a deliberate
grimace for his benefit. Concluding by sticking out her
small, pink, tongue in his direction, she effectively
removed any doubts as to the manner of her final
farewell. Smiling shortly at his obvious anger, she raised
her nose in the air and looked away haughtily, sending
the blood rushing to Damien's face at the little twit's
deliberate provocation.

"Little bitch!" he mumbled, his fists clenching and
unclenching as he subdued an almost overpowering urge
to chase after her and wring her dainty little neck. "You
wouldn't try that if you knew you were within my
reach..." Muttering through clenched teeth, he
watched as the anxious group slowly moved around the
corner and out of sight. "I'd like to see how cocky you are
a year from now...."

But unhappily, the thought gave him little satisfaction. Merely a strange, inexplicable sense of loss...

1779

"Tillie, you are being absolutely stupid and ridiculous
about this!"

The exasperated cry from the lips of the slight
thirteen-year-old was unthinkingly uttered and regretted
only moments later when black eyes opened wide in
anger, and the motherly mulatto drew herself proudly to
her full, impressive height. A big woman, standing close
to six feet, she was broad of shoulder and full breasted,
more than ample in weight. Her proud but angry face was
fine featured, displaying her mixed blood boldly, and the
dark curly hair pulled tightly to the back of her head in a
severe knot was only beginning to streak with gray.
Dressed in the simple but colorful native cotton dress of
the islands, she was a handsome woman.

"Tillie tell you now, missey, not to forget this be Tillie
Swann you speak to, free woman of color, educated at the
free school. Tillie no fool... wiser than you! You mama
sick and when him sick you listen to Tillie... him in
charge of you!"

"No one is in charge of me but me, Tillie!"

Ignoring a reluctant surge of pride in the child's
vociferously defended independence, Tillie continued in
a reprimanding tone, her aging but still beautiful face
stern and unrelenting.

"You still be child, Amethyst Greer, and like or not,
you mama ask me to see to you care when him unwell!
You listen now to what Tillie say. You stay away from that man! Him obeah-man. Tillie know!"

"Oh, Tillie..." Dismissing the woman's warning
with an impatient wave of her hand, Amethyst succeeded
only in incensing her further.

"You don't be facety with me, missey! Tillie tell you
him obeah-man! How else him ship get past gunboats like
shadow? They look fe. him here, him there.. .they look
fe him there, him here! Everybody know him on island,
but nobody know where! Nigromancy! Obeah!"

Despite her irritation, Amethyst felt a flash of
amusement. Usually taking particular pains to be correct
in her grammar, Tillie was beginning to slip into the
island dialect, a sure sign of her mounting anger. But she
had no patience with Tillie's superstitions. Witchcraft
... magic... those were the answers the islanders put
to every situation they could not understand. As far as
she was concerned, it was all nonsense, and Tillie's
superstitions were not going to stop her.. .nothing was
going to stop her.

"I'm going tonight, Tillie!"

"You will not! And if you speak any louder, you mama
going to get out of bed and come right out here and say
so!"

Glancing quickly toward the door behind which her
mother slept, Amethyst frowned and continued in a
lower tone, "I don't need anyone to tell me what I have to
do, Tillie. I have to get Mama some good food, not these
achees and mangos we've been living on...or she
will.. .she won't get better very quickly!"

The welling of tears in soft, violet eyes and the child's
faltering words dismissed all anger from Tillie's voice,
but her manner remained adamant.

"You will not go!"

"I will!"

"Amethyst?" A weak voice from the next room
brought the first sign of contrition to the small, flushed face as Amethyst responded in a light voice, "Yes,
Mama?"

"Could you come here a moment, dear?"

Not waiting to answer, the child raced across the room
to her mother's summons, leaving Tillie shaking her head
in despair.

"That child gowan be the death of me...," she
mumbled, a worried frown creasing her brow despite the
unsquelchable pride in the child that always prevailed
within her.

Tillie Swann, daughter of a white plantation owner and
negro mother, automatically free by the laws of Jamaica,
had begun work for the professional troupe of actors
three and a half years before, after their first performance in Kingston. Well received by the culturestarved residents of the island, the troupe was finally
financially able to hire a woman to tend to their basic
needs while they pursued their art. Cook, housekeeper,
and laundrywoman for the troupe, and in her spare
time-and out of the goodness of her heart-nurse to the
almost continually ailing Marian Greer, Tillie was
immediately impressed by the nine-year-old's intelligence and maturity. Her respect for Amethyst's fiery
independence and unfaltering dedication to her mother's
welfare had fostered a growing affection that had turned
into a deep love for the beautiful young girl she now was.

"Him my soul child," Tillie whispered to the silent
room, a deep pride bringing a light flush to her smooth
cocoa skin.

Slight and graceful as a reed, Amethyst was a delight to
the eye. A strong, almost motherly glow swelled in
Tillie's heart at the long, glossy, unruly black curls that
streamed down the girl's slender back; the wide lavender
eyes that sparkled with undaunted spirit; the smooth,
white skin; the short, straight nose and full generous
mouth that vacillated between childish whispered confidences to her surrogate mother, and unthinking,
blatant insults such as she had uttered just a few
moments before. With the slim, almost boyish figure of
immaturity, Amethyst was unconsciously beautiful, and
growing more so each day, and Tillie alternated between
overwhelming pride and fear for the hapless child.

These were bad times in Jamaica. England's censure on
trade with the colonies during their rebellion against the
Mother Country was proving to be more detrimental to
Jamaica's stability than to the rebels'. Dependent on
imported foodstuffs that were no longer allowed in from
the American continent, the price of food had tripled
during the last years, and starvation in the slaves'
quarters on plantations was rampant. A hurricane
having destroyed the emergency crops that were planted,
food was desperately sought by all legal and illegal means.
A few American smugglers, grasping the opportunity for
quick, hefty profits, chanced the British gunboats to
smuggle food to the anxious islanders. Outlaws with a
price on their heads, they were heroes to the islanders,
and were welcomed and protected with a sense of reverence.

"But Tillie not such a fool," she muttered under her
breath as she bent to her laundry basket. "No way him
come past gunboats like shadow if him be ordinary man!
That captain.. .him be obeah-man! Him make himself
invisible and steal past ships...."