“I just finished a week of teaching the Freetown fishermen some sailing techniques so they can fish farther afield. It was Governor MacCarthy’s idea, and I couldn’t very well refuse. I stopped by the vicarage, and your father said you and Tenneh were here.”
“Did you come to help with the laundry?”
Chris flushed and hung his head. “I…I wanted to see you, but, of course, if you need help, I’m at your command.”
She pointed to the rows of linens drying in the sun along the river bank. “You can gather up those and put them in the baskets.”
“How are we going to carry all those baskets to the vicarage once they’re full of linens?”
With a tilt of her head, she indicated the donkey placidly munching grass beneath a nearby mango tree, next to an empty cart.
He gave the baskets and then the cart a dubious look. “Are you sure they’ll all fit?”
“Tenneh will carry some as well.”
Just then, Tenneh herself appeared.
“And how was the gossip today?” Rachel’s smile belied the tense lines around her mouth.
Since he’d already declared himself and they were officially engaged to her father’s satisfaction, Chris couldn’t see how his presence could be the cause for gossip.
Tenneh’s face bore the evidence of dried tears. “It’s Mary Potten. She works for Mrs Melville up on the hill.” She pointed behind them to one of the wooded hilltops overlooking Freetown with a large farmhouse on the crest. “She’s the wife of one of the Prize Court judges, and she told Mary it isn’t natural for Royal Navy officers like Captain Halloren to mingle with Freetown women like you.”
Rachel buried her face in her hands before turning and running back down the path toward the vicarage.
Chris clenched and unclenched his fists. Finally. Here was the ugliness he’d feared from the first night the vicar had proposed he take Rachel back to England.
Chris led the donkey down the hill toward the vicarage, pulling the cart piled high with still-damp linens he and Tenneh had gathered from atop the boulders and rocks lining the waterfall. He had to take care to keep his hand and arm far enough away from the creature’s mouth, since it seemed to have an appalling tendency to nip whatever piece of skin happened to stray near its teeth. Wouldn’t do to lose his only remaining upper limb to an angry donkey.
Matching him stride for stride, Tenneh swayed beside him with three baskets nestled inside each other, piled high above her head, containing clothing for herself, Rachel and the vicar.
He couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips and then a flood of laughter followed. He could not believe the predicament in which he currently found himself. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly where or when he’d gone wrong. How was it he could face down slavers, pirates, and the French, for God’s sakes, without flinching, yet had run afoul of simple social interactions in Freetown? And now the woman he loved had run off, leaving him with a vicious donkey and a mysterious woman of few words who kept throwing pitying looks his way.
Rachel racedinto the back door of the vicarage, scattering chickens in the yard as she went. She clattered down the hallway to the door to her bed chamber and flung herself facedown on the bed. She let go of sobs like as she hadn’t since she was a little girl. It felt good.
After long minutes, she sensed rather than felt her father in the room with her. “Rachel, Rachel.” He smoothed her hair back from her wet face and softly rubbed the place between her shoulder-blades the way her mother used to do to calm her. Finally, he pulled her back up to face him.
“What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”
“No…yes.”
“Go on.”
“I was right. I don’t belong with Christopher in England. I belong here, with you, in my home, in Africa.”
“And you found this out at the monthly laundry at the river?”
“Mary Potten…”
“Yes, Mary has an unfortunate habit of passing stories. What did she say?”
“Not her, her employer, Mrs Melville, who lives on the hill.”
“So Mary carried the tale?”
“It doesn’t matter who carried the tale, Father. It’s what everyone’s thinking. She said Christopher shouldn’t mingle…he shouldn’t mingle with a woman like me. And you know what she really meant - a woman like me with mixed blood.”
Her father did not deny her lament, but gathered her in his arms while she sniffled and swiped at tears.
