Queen of Exiles, page 16
Madame Christophe, ci-devant Empress of Hayti, is about to take up her residence at Blackheath. It is generally understood that she has saved about £1500 per annum from the wreck of her deceased husband’s fortune.
20
1822 Blackheath, England
Staring through the sheer curtains, watching carriages and gigs go by, had become part of my morning routine. With everyone but the servants sleeping in their beds, I’d had a cup of tea and counted wheels of vehicles passing down the lane—two-wheeled gigs, four-wheeled carriages, and one wheelbarrow.
Our leased town house—well, that’s what they called these things, buildings that shoot upward instead of sprawling across acreage—sat off King George Street. This residence afforded a nice view of a park with beautiful trees and ponds with daylilies.
One could get lost in there.
I often did.
With the warmer weather, it was a treat to walk alone, just me and my thoughts. In another hour, I’d don my bonnet and do just that.
The girls, particularly Athénaïre, were upset at leaving the friends they’d made in Ipswich and Suffolk. The Thornton daughters’ visit to Blackheath next week would brighten everyone’s spirits.
“Maman?” Améthyste came down the stairs to the parlor. “Why do you still get up so early? Ladies here don’t breakfast until ten.”
“When the sun comes up, I’m up. Old habits.” I waved her to come to me, but then I saw her bare feet. “Améthyste, we both can’t keep getting sick. You need your slippers.”
She sat on the light-blue sofa and curled her bare toes into her embroidered pink nightgown. It was something we brought from home . . . Le Cap . . . Cap-Henry . . . Cap-Haytian. Self-correcting my thoughts was a point of gloom.
“Your face. Whenever you made that face, Père . . .”
“Non. Dearest, you can talk of him. The fact that he’s chosen not to be with us doesn’t matter.”
Her face wrinkled; her eyes became wide. “That’s an odd way to put what happened.”
It was.
My anger or hurt at Henry not being here—not guiding us, not humming, or telling me all will be well—escaped. I covered my face with my hands. “I mean if he lived, he’d want your feet covered, too.”
“Maman.” Améthyste put her arms around me. “I don’t mean to make you sad.”
“Then let’s not be. I won’t dwell on thinking of the king gone. I’ll focus on his benevolence. My dearly departed husband provided for me and his princesses.”
The archbishop was good to his word. The nine thousand pounds was safely deposited in my bank account. Henry’s former money managers were now mine. Reid, Irving and Company would continue to invest this sum, advise us on financial matters, and look into Henry’s holdings in the United States. It seemed there might be much more money being held because of the way Henry died. No will. No directives.
“Maman, is there money enough for charcoal and some canvases?”
“Of course. I’ll have Zephyrine get some for you.”
A huff blasted from her lips. “I ran out and was fretting. I want to draw so badly, but I didn’t want to take our last penny.”
This time I drew her into my embrace. “I need you to listen. We have access to money. That’s why we no longer have to stay and burden others. We have our own again. There’s enough for supplies.”
“Then why don’t you smile more, Maman?”
Maybe the many false ones I wore exhausted me too much, but I couldn’t say that. Easing from her, I took the teapot and refreshed my cup. “There’s beautiful red sorrel in the park. I wonder if local honey here will be tangy.”
“Maman, confide in me. Let me help. I’m almost twenty-four. Not a little girl. Not being demanding or difficult, but I’m no delicate princess, either.”
Oh, the arguments the word difficult had spawned. How many times did I tell Henry I wasn’t that, when my attitude and stance said I was? “Améthyste, we’ve enough to live on for several years, maybe tens of years. But dowries, and things I know your father wanted for you, we don’t have.”
Her dark eyes hadn’t moved from mine. “Thank you for the truth. I want you to depend on me. And we’re doing good. Blackheath is good.”
“I wish it had water.”
“What, Maman?”
“It’s a silly thing to miss. But when you’ve seen rivers and the sea, the beautiful sea, almost every day of your life, you don’t understand how you’ll miss it.”
She sat again on the sofa. “I miss the salt in the air.”
“Améthyste, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. And it’s not as if we could return to Hayti—”
“Never, Maman. Not until everything changes.”
Carrying my teacup and one for her, I sat beside her. “What if nothing changes? What if it gets worse? How do we help? Those are still our people.”
“Are they?” She shook her head and clutched her robe as if caught in a windstorm. “They murdered my brothers and all of Père’s allies while others who could help stood by and did nothing. If they think money made it out of their clutches, those Haytians could send someone after us.”
We were at risk.
With our every movement and the disposition of our money printed in the papers, I wasn’t exactly sure how we’d remain safe. I blew into my tea, making little waves in the clear brown liquid. “You’re right, but I wish things could be different. You could be married now. Maybe Athénaïre, too.”
My daughter peered into her cup, not at me. “I don’t think I want to marry. It would be an unhappy affair.”
“You don’t want a family of your own?”
“To bear another target? Non.” With a shrug, she sipped her tea.
My tongue soured. Bitterness filled me. Having lost her father and her brothers, Améthyste knew the consequences of our loss of power. A leaf floated in my tea. It must’ve escaped the pot. Would my daughters and I have been allowed to flee, if the traitors knew we’d have money?
Packing away my questions, I caught the leaf with my spoon and carefully flicked it onto a saucer, a common porcelain set I bought for our use. Modest, dependable, but nothing like what we’d had. The bad taste in my mouth returned.
“Sir Home, the Admiral Popham proved to be honorable,” I said and set my spoon aside. “He took the money Henry gave him and deposited it with the archbishop. Honor among English gentlemen, I find that appealing.”
“Appealing for me or you, Maman?”
That was a ridiculous question. “I’m a settled widow. No one can ever mean more to me than your father. But you and your sœur are young. Love is for the young.”
“It’s for the healthy and lively. That’s you.”
We finished our tea in awkward silence—me wanting her to have the world, but a realistic picture of it. We were here, not in our homeland where beautiful Black men were plentiful.
Yet this made me face my future. I, too, would grow old alone. That stung. And as unfair as it was, I blamed Henry for leaving me.
Clinking her cup on the small table, Améthyste stretched. “I forgot. We received a note from Madame Clarkson. Monsieur Clarkson is bringing some friends to visit us today.”
The Clarksons were dears, but tonight? That was very soon. “Then I should go take my walk now. Have Zephyrine prepare.”
She nodded and turned to the stairs but came back inside the parlor. “Is there anything you miss, besides Sans-Souci?”
I missed the palace and how my whole family lived there. “I miss Cécile. I miss a sky with low clouds.”
“If we ever go back, Maman, it would be for our family, nothing else. The people didn’t stand up for the king. They didn’t have Popham’s honor.”
I listened to her receding footfalls, then pulled on a coat and bonnet, headed outside, and prayed that I’d live to see to all the threats against my family gone, and that I’d never have to acknowledge the ones who betrayed my trust.
Tying the strings of my bonnet, I hurried on my walk. If the Clarksons were coming for an earlier visit, the news they’d bring couldn’t be good.
PINK, CRIMSON, EMERALD GREEN, GREENWICH PARK BLOOMED IN colors. This warm season was unusual, with intermittent rain showers springing up, but today was vibrant with sunshine.
I walked to my favorite path of red sorrel. The arrow-shaped leaves pointed with the light breeze to a young couple. Hand in hand, with a chaperone or maid not too far behind, the young people promenaded.
The party passed me, and my thoughts drifted to walks with Henry. Then I pondered if Améthyste and Athénaïre would ever know the joy of love, of lovers strolling in each other’s confidence.
My heart raced. I glanced at my empty hand balled tight at my side. My eyes stung. I headed back to my town house knowing I’d never again have that feeling of an intimate shadow covering me.
Refusing to slow down or listen, Henry had chosen this path for us. That was the truth I’d keep forever.
WHEN I RETURNED TO THE RESIDENCE, A CARRIAGE AND DRIVER were stopped outside. The sadness I’d been feeling changed to confusion when I heard high-pitched giggles.
Up the steps, I pushed inside.
Then I stopped.
The archbishop and Monsieur Clarkson were having tea with my daughters.
I dipped my head to the priest and clasped Monsieur Clarkson’s hands. He greeted me, then said, “I’ve come with news.”
My breath slowed. “The church wants the money back? But Sir Home gave it to you for my benefit.”
“No, Madame Christophe. That’s not why we’ve come.”
Tall and portly, wearing a long dark jacket and breeches, the silver-haired archbishop of Canterbury, Monsieur Charles Manners-Sutton, was not a fussy man. I knew him as being direct and to the point. This silence and stillness must mean another setback or tragedy.
“Let me . . . let me send the girls away. Then tell me the bad news from Hayti.” The words barely came out, but I suspected these men were here to reveal the names of more dead. Tears puddled in my throat. “Send them upstairs, then tell me the worst.”
“It’s not that, Maman.” Améthyste opened a silky sack and dumped the contents onto the white table near the sofa. Out rolled gold and sparkling gems. Then I saw my bracelet, my emerald bracelet.
My knees gave way. I dropped to the pine floor. I’d been complaining and feeling sorry for myself, and here was proof of the good love that Henry and I had shared.
Clarkson helped me stand. I lunged toward the table, stretching my fingers toward the emerald as if it, or I, would disappear.
My daughters led me to the sofa, but I gawked at the jewelry the maids had stolen from the Osborne Hotel. Each piece held a memory, a moment of laughter and grandeur and love.
“It’s not all returned,” the archbishop said, “but a good portion of it.”
I reached for the table and, as if it contained fire, tapped the bracelet with my finger. When lightning didn’t strike, I greedily scooped it up onto my arm.
“What happened to the thieves?” Athénaïre seemed angry. Her eyes fixed on the fireplace poker. She wasn’t going to grab it and use it as a weapon acting out the last scenes of our kingdom. My youngest girl wanted to seize it and beat a villain.
“Will the maids pay for this crime?” She asked in a voice clogging with tears.
The archbishop lowered his chin. “The one that confessed will be spared imprisonment.”
He didn’t mention the others who hadn’t confessed. I wondered if the British dealt with such crimes as Henry would—capital offenses worthy of death.
Or did offenses against exiles mean nothing because a handful of things had been recovered? The lump in my throat became three sizes bigger.
Monsieur Clarkson picked up a brooch, a gold one with Henry’s crest. It wasn’t the one the king always wore, just an old one that had French inscriptions. I had left his favorite in our bedchamber.
“This is beautiful, ma’am, solid gold. The diamonds you described were sold off. I’m sorry we were unable to retrieve those.”
The necklaces, the earrings, even the small tiaras we’d smuggled out were gone forever. I’d been hinting that Améthyste should move forward. Yet these treasures were symbols of our past, all the things lost.
Rolling the bracelet about my arm, I forced a smile. “We have something. Monsieur Clarkson, I’d like you to sell some of these, as we’d discussed before.”
“I’ll work with your solicitors at Reid, Irving and Company to invest the monies.”
The emerald necklace I slipped over Athénaïre’s head. The pearl one I offered to Améthyste. A little shaky on my feet, I took my time scooping up each remaining jewel. Putting twelve pieces in the sack as if I were counting stars, I handed it to Clarkson. “The jewels that mean the most are the ones I’ll keep. Please take these and make good investments. It was good to see them again. Give the first hundred pounds to benefit the church.”
The archbishop clapped his hands. “Thank you, but you should think about this. I know these mean a lot to you. You agonized over their loss.”
The times I spent looking in a mirror after Henry had draped gold along my neck had passed. That image of our love would be what I’d keep in my heart. “The pain of the theft was immense. My fledgling peace had been violated. You’ve restored it, but I need to focus on our future, not the past.”
I paused. “But the note said you were bringing friends. I thought it would be the Thornton girls.”
Monsieur Clarkson stuffed the bag into his leather pouch. “My plans changed when I learned of the recovery of your stolen items. Madame Clarkson and the Thornton girls will arrive to our London residence this weekend. We’re having dinner with some interesting characters. Why don’t you and your daughters join us? Then all the young ladies will travel to Blackheath for their extended stay.”
Back to London? Except for my walks along the river, my time in that city hadn’t exactly been the best.
“My wife is looking forward to taking tea with you. And Marianne and Patti Thornton can’t wait to amuse your daughters.”
I didn’t have to look back at the girls to know they wanted to go. With a nod, I acquiesced. “Of course, sir. We’ll be delighted.”
Full of smiles and offerings of blessings, the gentlemen left. I turned to Améthyste and Athénaïre, who were admiring each other’s necklaces. They would have pretty jewelry to wear and be admired at the Clarksons’ dinner. It was enough. Hopefully, selling the rest of Henry’s gifts would generate enough money to protect my girls’ future.
21
1822 Tonbridge, England
Our in-town visits went so well that against my better judgment, I allowed my friend Catherine Clarkson to convince me to accept an invitation to Wilberforce’s Marden Hall, an estate about an hour and a half away from Blackheath.
We hadn’t seen much of Wilberforce last winter. His firstborn girl, Barbara, had died. The family grieved deeply. I understood mourning and loss. I looked forward to seeing him and offering solace.
In new dresses of light muslin instead of thick bombazine, my daughters chatted on the carriage seat. I’d have loved to see them in bright colors, but they wore shades of light blue. I wore gray, which was appropriate for half mourning, according to the customs Zephyrine had learned. Just about two years had passed since I became a widow. This was well beyond the British period of grieving, but I mourned a king. He deserved more.
“We’ve had intimate dinners with friends,” Athénaïre said in a giggly voice. “But this will be our first social excursion. Peers, politicians, and abolitionists, the ones in the newspapers, will be in attendance.”
Athénaïre hummed and swished her skirt along the tufted seat. She craved society. She wanted to dance.
My big talk with Améthyste about moving on with life seemed embodied in Athénaïre. When she had Zephyrine straighten the curls gracing her face, I believed my younger princess might be willing to marry a British . . . a Blanc.
Blanc men had been in the kingdom. They’d been employed by Henry; they’d come as part of military engagements. They’d been his trading partners. Though the king had granted citizenship to Blancs who married Haytians, how would I truly react to having a Blanc son-in-law or Colored grandchildren?
Yet who fought for us now? Who worked to secure our welfare? Who offered friendship?
Blancs.
Coloreds killed Victor.
Blacks and Blancs both stole from us.
Skin color was no indication of honesty or kindness.
Améthyste’s pearls set off the silver pins in her chignon. Her thick hair was natural and curly above her cream-colored shawl. She coughed and covered her mouth with a handkerchief. “Sorry, the damp air. Summer should be a warmer time.”
It wasn’t in Britain. Blackheath was greener and more spacious than London but still had the same wet and cold climate. It was beginning to look more and more like this wasn’t the place for us.
Warm-blooded Athénaïre wore half-sleeves, baring her café-au-lait arms, as a young gentleman had described her warm brown skin in conversation when he thought no one overheard. Améthyste had a darker complexion than Athénaïre or me but was often pale from being sickly.
“Are we almost at Monsieur Wilberforce’s residence? I don’t want to miss a moment.” My younger daughter fidgeted. “I’ve read many papers this week. I’m ready to talk to the politicians.”
“You’ll get to practice your manners and your English,” I said. “Peers don’t interest you, my dear?”
“Interest? You must mean marriage.” She shrugged and twirled her emerald necklace.
Hopefully that was the non I wanted. We didn’t have the finances to attract and sustain such an alliance. We weren’t like the wealthy princess of Gonaïves, who had enough riches and land to sway a royal prince, like my nephew Jean.
“Well, you have time to choose,” I said, not actually looking forward to such associations. High pairing would bring our names again to the newspapers. I hated the press as it continued to print lies about Henry.
