“Beautiful,” I said. “And where is mine?”
“Over there,” he said, pointing to the west. “But come along. You must be starved.”
Alexander was already leading my horse toward the stables: beauty, pleasure, a carefree life—these were my first impressions of Valley View, and it turned out that they were truly emblematic of plantation life, at least for the planters. As I mounted the steps to the great house, it crossed my mind that I had been wasting my time in Spanish Town.
While we were seating ourselves into wickerwork chairs on the veranda, a negress was at my side with a tray containing a pitcher of rum and a glass, a bowl of sugar, and another bowl of cut limes. I had already gotten used to this manner of living, to appreciating grog, whenever or however it was served, and the delicacies that had at first been so unfamiliar to me: the turtle steaks and soup, the plantains, the shellfish. Gentlemen in Jamaica spend a great deal of their time visiting one another and talking around plates of food and mugs of drink. A visitor to a plantation may come for a few hours and end up staying three days. The women of the household—the wife and the daughters, if there are any—are more often than not out of sight. But when they appear—at dinner, for example, or at a ball—they are costumed as if for a coronation.
Soon, Richard’s father stepped out onto the veranda and joined us, cigar in hand. He was a tall man, brown haired like his son, and with observant brown eyes that seemed to catch every detail. Despite their physical similarities, his entire manner was completely opposite to that of his son, whose indolent posture and attitude conveyed disinterest in almost everything around him.
I rose as he approached. “Edward Fairfax Rochester, Mr. Mason.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “I have been interested in meeting you, young Rochester. Your father is a fine friend of mine.”
“And I in meeting you,” I responded. “My father told me a great deal about you and about Jamaica.”
“And I suppose Richard has been trying to tell you about Valley View?” he asked. “Though he is hardly a worthy instructor.”
I laughed warily. “He knows a great deal more than I,” I said.
Jonas Mason’s eyebrows rose at that, and he turned and walked to the nearest chair. “I have no doubt that Richard is anxious for the two of you to be on your way. His interests are more in the social life than in anything to do with the plantation. Always have been.”
Richard sat silently beside me; I had the idea that he had heard this type of comment before and was pointedly ignoring his father.
“You are finding your accommodations in Spanish Town to your liking?” Mr. Mason went on.
“Indeed. The house could not be more comfortable, nor more conveniently situated.”
He nodded approval to my response. “And I understand you have the same housekeeper?” He leaned forward in his chair. “By the name of Sukey, I believe?” He asked the question casually, as if he had no connection to her.
“Yes, sir, and she is a very capable person,” I replied. “I feel fortunate to have her. And Alexander as well,” I added.
Mr. Mason settled back into his chair and puffed on his cigar. “Fine,” he said, the smoke drifting from his mouth as he spoke. “Very good.” He may well have wondered about the nature of my relationship with Sukey, but I was not about to embarrass myself by trying a clarification, and I said nothing more.
A few moments later Richard rose. “We must be on our way,” he said. “Dinner will be on the table and the musicians warming up by the time we arrive.”
“And Richard could not bear to miss out on anything like that,” his father added sardonically. “But you would be wise,” he said to me, “to wait an hour or so if you don’t want to be caught in a downpour.”
“Don’t tease us, Father,” Richard said. “Anyone can see there’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“And as anyone who has lived here all his life should know, that makes no difference at all,” his father responded.
I sensed that I was in the middle of a low-level battle that had been going on for a long time, and I sat back in my chair to await the outcome. But once energized to go, Richard would not back down. “Come on, Rochester,” he said. “We have diddled here more than we should have already.”
“So?” his father said. “You have diddled all your life.”
Ignoring him, Richard was already descending the steps, and I had little choice but to follow. I gave Mr. Mason a departing tip of my hat and asked if he would be following soon. He responded that he would come when it was appropriate, which I did not quite understand, but I left him there and hurried after Richard.
It should have been less than an hour’s trot to Monteith, but twenty minutes into our journey the skies opened and we urged our mounts forward until we could find shelter under the fat fronds of a banana plant. “He is always so sure of himself,” Richard grumbled. “It makes a person want to defy him just as a matter of principle.”
I said nothing, which seemed the soundest policy, until Richard turned on me. “I suppose you think I am a fool.”
“What goes on between you and your father is no concern of mine,” I said. It was perhaps not the wisest thing to have said, but I had no interest in taking sides between them.
“Fathers!” he said in a dismissive tone. He had lived since birth in close quarters with his father; I, on the other hand, had spent nearly my whole life wishing for a connection with mine. Neither of us could fathom how the other felt.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had come, the sky was blue again, and by the time we arrived at Monteith we were nearly dry. Once inside, I could not help stopping to gaze about. I had not gone indoors at Valley View, so this was my first plantation house.
Most of the big houses in Jamaica seem built with the weather in mind. The breezes flow through the many open windows, and indoors from room to room. Roofs overhang enough to keep the sun from shining directly in and the rain from soaking the veranda furniture, and the floors are bare of carpets. A massive repast was laid out on a large table, and a staff of negro house servants was busy filling and replacing platters and bowls as the guests—who were already quite numerous—nibbled and drank and chatted. I was interested in seeing if I recognized anyone there, for I had harbored hopes of seeing at least one of my fellow passengers from theBadger—Whitledge or Osmon or, less likely, Stafford—but none was in evidence.
