The Call of Zulina (16 page)

Grace dipped her pen and added to her list:

1. Grace Winslow

2. Lingongo Winslow

Well, if she invited Grace, she would certainly have to invite Grace's mother. That didn’t mean she would have to actually talk to Lingongo, of course. But her mother was quite right. An African princess just might bring a gift of gold—perhaps even handcrafted royal jewelry, which was always wrought in solid gold. Since Reginald Witherham had refused to accompany her to Africa—“Oh my, no! Never, ever!” were his exact words—he would know nothing about such a gift, and so it would be hers alone to do with as she pleased. A delightful thought indeed.

Charlotte placed the pen back into its holder and sighed. Her last trip to Africa! No more horrendous months on the ocean. No more endlessly boring days in a cramped cabin interrupted only by storms and seasickness. And no more of those Quakers with whom anyone even remotely connected to the slave trade was forced to contend these days. Really, those people insisted on causing such a commotion on the London docks, singing and chanting about the fate of the poor heathen Africans. As though they knew anything about it! Grace Winslow was an African, and she seemed just fine. And certainly no one oppressed Lingongo. No one would dare try!

Reginald Witherham was no Quaker. And certainly no one ever accused him of possessing a social conscience. The plight of the Africans was not at all the reason he complained so about travel to Africa. With him it was a question of class.

“I shall allow you to go this one last time,” he had stated in his stuffy way, “but only because your father is there, and I believe a woman is obligated to honor her father. I shan’t allow it ever again, however, even should your father choose to remain. Nor must you ever reveal to any of my friends, relatives, or even casual acquaintances that you have ties to …
that place.”

Yes! He had actually said
that place!

Charlotte had sputtered out some response—though, as usual, Reginald Witherham paid her no mind. But to her mother she had raged that she would not be ordered around by a stuffy, pretentious man.

“Charlotte, my dear,” her mother had soothed, “this is a
marriage.
Once the wedding has taken place, Mr. Witherham will go on with his business life, and you will go on with your social life—only you will do it on the beautiful Witherham estate with servants at your side ready to do your every bidding. You will never want for anything again as long as you live. Soon you will have children to fill your life. And, my dear, you will never again have to leave England.”

“And you, Mother?” Charlotte had said. “It will greatly enhance your social standing, too, will it not?”

That question did not sit well with Henrietta. “Are you being impertinent, Charlotte?” she challenged. “It is a mother's duty to see that her daughter marries well. You should be thanking me, not making criticisms.” She had sniffed, turned away, and swept out of the room.

Charlotte picked up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell. Then she wrote:

1. Grace Winslow

2. Lingongo Winslow

3. Joseph Winslow

Entire families must be invited together. For the one evening, she would have to force herself to abide the men who worked with her father, however objectionable they might be.

They would dance at the party—though where the music would come from, Charlotte had no idea. And plenty of food-only English food, of course, not the awful native stuff. Her mother had been wise enough to bring some specialties along with them from London. Perhaps her father could send out a hunting party. Surely, there was something decent to be found in the jungle. Oh, and the gifts, of course. That would be the most important part of the party.

Charlotte put the pen back in its holder, and then she leaned back and allowed herself to daydream. Gold. Yes, that would be the perfect gift for a young English bride preparing to wed a gentleman of the highest class. Gold jewelry. Or gold coins, if they had such things in Africa. Maybe someone such as the Winslows, who owned Zulina, would even bring a block of gold.

Perhaps she should write a notation at the bottom of the invitations stating that she would be receiving gifts on behalf of her upcoming wedding, just in case someone might not understand. Just to make certain the event was worth her trouble.

I suppose it would be a bit too much to suggest gold, though, she thought. Too bad.

W
hen Joseph Winslow strode into the entry hall of the London house, he was walking proud. In his boisterous search for Lingongo, he swaggered through the inside kitchen and on to the dining room. She wasn’t there, so he marched up the stairs to her bedchamber, and when she didn’t answer his knock and calls, he made his way back down again. He found his wife pacing in the parlor. She did not immediately acknowledge him, but when it finally pleased her to look his way, Joseph grinned, puffed out his chest, and strutted back and forth. He took great pains to jangle the bag of gold coins he held out in front of him.

“Fool, is I?” he crowed. “Simpleton, is I? Ain’t wot ’em blokes at the docks is sayin’ ’bout now!”

Lingongo glared suspiciously. “Where did you get those coins?” she demanded.

“Lucky streak wi’ me dice,” Joseph bragged. “Won me the ’ole pot, I did! Wot ye be sayin’ to me now, Woman?”

Lingongo's eyes narrowed as her gaze moved from her gloating husband's rum-flushed face to the bag of coins he clutched in his pudgy fist.

“What I say is,
what of Zulina
?”

“Wha’ of it?” Joseph answered with a hiccup and a shrug. “We's made no concessions to ’at ruffian up there wot ’acked off our Grace's finger. An’ the bugger's crawled off like the coward ’e be. Soon Grace’ll be draggin’ ’ome like a whipped dog, beggin’ an’ pleadin’ fer our fergiv’ness.”

“The painful end of the whip is what she will get from me,” Lingongo interjected.

Joseph took no notice. “After ’er weddin’, Jasper Athaway's money’ll be ours. ’Tis good as done. Our troubles’ll be no more, me luv.”

Joseph crossed the room unsteadily and sank his besotted body down into the feather-stuffed cushions of the brocade settee. Just the previous month this wonderful piece had arrived from London by ship. He had intended it for his office, but Lingongo insisted on the parlor.
Jist wait
, he thought as he settled in.
Soon this’ll be in me office where it rightfully belongs, fer me an me alone!
A satisfied smile spread across his bloated face. Joseph unbuttoned the top button on his cotton shirt, folded his hands over his extended belly, and heaved a contented sigh.

“Zulina—” Lingongo persisted impatiently.

“Our storeroom ’ere is piled ’igh wi’ muskets an’ gunpowder jist so's to satisfy ye,” Joseph retorted with more than a note of impatience. “’Ad ever’thin’ toted down yeste’day. Cain’t say as I's pleased ’bout it, but it's done. An’ I won’t ’ear another word.”

“Did you—”

“Not another word!” Joseph's smile had faded, and a flush of temper quickly replaced his look of contentment.

For a moment, Lingongo considered her husband. Then she rose in silence, carried herself with regal grace to where he slumped, and stood over him. Without a word, she reached down and grasped hold of the bag of coins clutched in his hand. Joseph opened his mouth to protest, but the threat of Lingongo's face caused him to reconsider. In that one instant of indecision, he loosened his grip just enough for Lingongo to jerk the bag from his fingers.

“’Ere now!” he protested, but Lingongo had already turned her back on him and was on her way out of the room.

“An’ one more thing, Woman,” Joseph called after her lamely. “Don’t ye be makin’ mock o’ me no more! I ain’t standin’ fer it, I ain’t!”

Lingongo swept through the house along a swift, circuitous path and headed for a place in the game room known only to her. It was a foolish room, really, used by no one at all—a section cut out of the dining room because Joseph Winslow insisted every proper English home must have a game room. Bending low over the fireplace hearth, Lingongo pried a loose stone out of its position in the lower back corner of the cold fireplace. She glanced quickly over her shoulder to make certain her unsteady husband hadn’t followed her, and then she stuffed the bag of coins into the hole. Lingongo replaced the stone and used her foot to force it securely back into place. The gold would be safe there alongside the other coins she had been able to secret away. Not the royal jewelry her father had given her at her wedding, of course. That she kept in an even more secure place under the floorboards of her bedchamber along with the gold bars she had saved in the hope of someday buying her freedom from Joseph.

“Lingongo!
Lingongo
!” Joseph stumbled from room to room in search of his gold coins. The fool didn’t even have enough sense to sneak around quietly. Lingongo was in no mood to listen to him whine and wheedle. And she certainly had no intention of allowing him to gamble the coins away. Oh, no. She had plans of her own for that gold.

She hurried back through the house, taking care to avoid her husband, and headed for the storeroom on the other side of the courtyard. The storeroom was a substantial building constructed of stone and mortar, with a heavy wood-plank roof. At one time, Joseph had six field hands living there. In Lingongo's opinion, it was the perfect place for storing guns and gunpowder, and she was determined to make certain Joseph had kept his word.

Before she even reached the storehouse, Lingongo spied the gleam of new metal against the door. Padlocked! Yes, of course, it would be. And Joseph would have the only key. Irritated, she walked around the building, looking for some way to see inside. But it was impossible. The walls and door were solid and sound, and the small windows were boarded up at Lingongo's insistence.

As she rounded the back corner, Lingongo almost ran into Joseph coming the other way, red in the face and out of breath.

“Lingongo, me darlin’,” Joseph wheezed. Even though he clutched his chest, he did his best to smile. “I tol’ ye, the store’ouse be full!”

“I want to see for myself,” Lingongo stated. “Where is the key?”

“Right ’ere, me tur’ledove,” he said. He held up a ring of keys and swung them triumphantly in the air.

“Open the door!”

Joseph fumbled with the ring. His hands shook as he tried one key after another, all to no avail. When he managed to locate the right one, he jammed it into the lock, turned the latch, and shoved the door open.

Except for a narrow path down the middle, the room was filled with stack after stack of boxes and kegs.

“These be muskets,” Joseph announced as he slapped the boxes next to him. “Twenty-five to a crate, they be.” Then he gestured to the wooden barrels and said, “Gunpowder.” His face clouded momentarily. “Sure do ’ate ’avin’ it ’ere, though.” He forced his way down the narrow path between the stacked crates and then called over his shoulder. “All the balls and sech fer the guns be back ’ere.”

Flashing a smile of triumph, Joseph returned to where Lingongo waited.

“Done an’ done!” he said.

“What about the slaves who carried it all down?” Lingongo asked. “Are they dead?”

Joseph hesitated. Then he said, “I done as ye wished me to, me dear.” Then he reached out and caressed her arm. “Come now, me luv,” he wheedled. “Where's me gold, ’ey? Give a bit to yer man.”

Lingongo locked her husband in a steady gaze that belied the mockery of her words. “Since you are a master with the dice,
Admiral
Joseph Winslow, why don’t you demonstrate what a truly great man you are by bringing home a bag of gold with the help of no one and nothing but yourself?”

Color rose up in Joseph and set his face aglow. The smile vanished from his thin lips and no more sweetness dripped from his tongue.

“Damnation, Woman, them gold coins be mine!” he growled. “An’ I demand ye gi’ me wot belongs to me!”

“What belongs to you?” Lingongo shot back. “The fury of cheated
slattees—
that belongs to you! Debts to more traders than you can recall—that belongs to you! A daughter who would rather be a slave than have you as a father—that belongs to you! The most profitable slave fortress anywhere around, boiling with rebellion and slipping out of your grip—that, Joseph Winslow, belongs to you!”