Guarded, lowered voices wafted toward her from the kitchen herb garden. The grass surrounding the garden muffled the sound of her steps, and she interrupted what appeared to be a deep, intimate conversation between Mrs Chelly and a tall, older man Rachel had never seen before.
When he noticed Rachel before the cook did, he pushed past her with a rough shove and disappeared toward the orchard. Mrs Chelly whirled, and for a second, fear and uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“Who was that man?” Rachel demanded.
“Why do you ask?” The woman’s self-assured tone returned.
“I’ve never seen him here before, and I’m worried about Tenneh’s safety.” Rachel stared back at her cook with an unwavering gaze. “I’ve been concerned ever since someone tried to lure her from the marketplace.” She paused for a long moment. “Why did you leave her alone that day?”
“Why do you have so little faith in her ability to manage her own life?”
Rachel frowned. She hated the way Mrs Chelly always twisted her questions against her. “I have great confidence in Tenneh, but she’s been in Freetown only a short time. She’s a beautiful young woman who, I’m sure you realize, would bring a fine price in one of the slave markets up north.”
“You think too much like a frightened white woman, not a strong woman of Africa. You’re afraid of every little shadow out there.”
Rachel fumed at the woman’s goading comments. “You dare to use my blood against me? I’m as strong as any woman at the mission. I’m as strong as I need to be. I’m strong enough to see through your scheming, and I’m not as forgiving as my father.
“Now, I’m going to ask you again. Who was the man who just pushed his way past me?”
“He’s a member of your father’s mission flock.”
“Why have I never seen him in class or at worship?”
“He’s not a man who puts himself forward. You wouldn’t notice him.”
“You haven’t answered my question. And don’t give me another one of your evasive questions.”
“Quassir. His name is Quassir.”
“What is he doing here at the mission?”
“He’s looking for wives for the men in his village.” She paused for a telling second, as if anticipating Rachel’s reaction. “It’s customary in his tribe for families to use an intermediary.”
“The women of Freetown are allowed to choose whomever they please for husbands.” Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Freetown is a community where tribal laws don’t hold sway. Forcing women into marriages they don’t want is just another form of slavery.”
“You know so little about life outside the walls of the mission.” Mrs Chelly shook her head. “I suppose the deal your father is making with the English captain to take you away isyourchoice?”
Rachel refused to argue with the woman’s assumptions. Instead, she turned on her heel and fled from the kitchen, back to the parsonage.
Chris inspectedthe small crew of men he’d chosen to man the shore boat for the picnic outing with Rachel and her students on the tiny island in the center of the Sierra Leone river.
He’d had his man Drake brush his uniform and polish his boots. He flushed at the sure knowledge that all of his men now knew he was courting Rachel, since he’d made so many preparations. He’d even bought lemons in the marketplace and had asked the ship’s cook to prepare a cask of lemonade to take to the island picnic.
The day was as bright as a new shilling, and the West African sun already hurled heat down onto the shore boat’s deck, even though they’d chosen an early hour to embark for the island, directly after Vicar Berry’s morning services. He shielded his eyes against the glare and peered up the street leading to the mission church.
Within a few minutes, a line of young men and women filed down the street, led by Rachel and the Vicar Berry. Mrs Chelly and a young man brought up the rear with a cart filled with baskets of food and piles of yellow-skinned melons from their garden.
Once he caught sight of Rachel, he lost track of the rest of the details of the group. She was wearing the light blue muslin dress that matched her eyes perfectly. If she were ever his to love, he’d make sure she had a chest full of frocks, for every possible occasion, in that precise shade of blue.
“Good morning, Vicar Berry, Miss Berry.” Chris doffed his wide-brimmed straw hat and bowed low. He’d finally decided on his shore work hat based on the heat of the day. “Welcome to our little ship.” His men scrambled down the gangplank at his signal and began assisting in the loading of the picnic viands and settling all the mission students onto benches on the sloop’s deck.
Rachel wore short, airy lace gloves as well as the beribboned hat and blue muslin dress he’d grown inordinately fond of. Her female students all wore what were probably their Sunday best white dresses, and the young men and boys wore the trousers and shirts Rachel’s sewing circle had been laboring over.
Once everyone was aboard, he ordered one of his men to raise the craft’s single main sail, and he pushed them away from the quay while stepping onto the sloop himself.
At the look of uncertainty on some of the students’ faces, he realized with a guilty start their last experiences aboard a sailing ship had been horrific. So, he assured them. “You’re as safe on this ship as if you were on England’s shores. We will allow nothing bad to happen to any of you. You have my word.” He feared his attempt to reassure them might have fallen flat, but the chattering and laughing commenced as the breeze freshened out in the harbor and the small ship lifted toward the distant island.
Rachel wincedat Christopher’s attempt to reassure her students. He meant well, but he had no idea of what they’d been through before the Royal Navy ships had rescued them. However, she did credit him for realizing, albeit a little late, what setting foot on another sailing ship would mean to them. Rachel remembered, even though she’d been a small child. She’d never forget what she and her mother had endured after her father had sold them to another slaver.
