“Where did you encounter that term, Colonel, may I ask?” Her voice was quite normal, her tone light—but she also glanced at her brother’s turned back, and she spoke quietly.
“One of the governor’s servants mentioned it. I see you are familiar with the term—I collect it is to do with Africans?”
“Yes.” Now she was biting her upper lip, but the intent was not sexual. “The Koromantyn slaves—you know what those are?”
“No.”
“Negroes from the Gold Coast,” she said, and, putting her hand once more on his sleeve, pulled him up and drew him a little away, toward the far end of the room. “Most planters want them, because they’re big and strong, and usually very well formed.” Was it—no, he decided, it was not his imagination; the tip of her tongue had darted out and touched her lip in the fraction of an instant before she’d said “well formed.” He thought Philip Twelvetrees had best find his sister a husband, and quickly.
“Do you have Koromantyn slaves here?”
“A few. The thing is, Koromantyns tend to be intractable. Very aggressive, and hard to control.”
“Not a desirable trait in a slave, I collect,” he said, making an effort to keep any edge out of his tone.
“Well, it can be,” she said, surprising him. She smiled briefly. “If your slaves are loyal—and ours are, I’d swear it—then you don’t mind them being a bit bloody-minded toward . . . anyone who might want to come and cause trouble.”
He was sufficiently shocked at her language that it took him a moment to absorb her meaning. The tongue tip flickered out again, and had she had dimples, she would certainly have employed them.
“I see,” he said carefully. “But you were about to tell me what an Obeah-man is. Some figure of authority, I take it, among the Koromantyns?”
The flirtatiousness vanished abruptly, and she frowned again.
“Yes. Obi is what they call their . . . religion, I suppose one must call it. Though from what little I know of it, no minister or priest would allow it that name.”
Loud screams came from the garden below, and he glanced out to see a flock of small, brightly colored parrots swooping in and out of a big, lacy tree with reddish fruit. Like clockwork, two small black children, naked as eggs, shot out of the shrubbery and aimed slingshots at the birds. Rocks spattered harmlessly among the branches, but the birds rose in a feathery vortex of agitation and flapped off, shrieking their complaints.
Miss Twelvetrees ignored the interruption, resuming her explanation directly the noise subsided.
“An Obeah-man talks to the spirits. He—or she, there are Obeah-women, too—is the person to whom one goes to—arrange things.”
“What sorts of things?”
A faint hint of her former flirtatiousness reappeared.
“Oh . . . to make someone fall in love with you. To get with child. To get without child”—and here she looked to see whether she had shocked him again, but he merely nodded—“or to curse someone. To cause them ill luck, or ill health. Or death.”
This was promising.
“And how is this done, may I ask? Causing illness or death?”
Here, however, she shook her head.
“I don’t know. It’s really not safe to ask,” she added, lowering her voice still further, and now her eyes were serious. “Tell me—the servant who spoke to you; what did he say?”
Aware of just how quickly gossip spreads in rural places, Grey wasn’t about to reveal that threats had been made against Governor Warren. Instead he asked, “Have you ever heard of zombies?”
She went quite white.
“No,” she said abruptly. It was a risk, but he took her hand to keep her from turning away.
“I cannot tell you why I need to know,” he said, very low-voiced, “but please believe me, Miss Twelvetrees—Nancy”—callously, he pressed her hand—“it’s extremely important. Any help that you can give me would be—well, I should appreciate it extremely.” Her hand was warm; the fingers moved a little in his, and not in an effort to pull away. Her color was coming back.
“I truly don’t know much,” she said, equally low-voiced. “Only that zombies are dead people who have been raised by magic to do the bidding of the person who made them.”
“The person who made them—this would be an Obeah-man?”
“Oh! No,” she said, surprised. “The Koromantyns don’t make zombies—in fact, they think it quite an unclean practice.”
“I’m entirely of one mind with them,” he assured her. “Who does make zombies?”
“Nancy!” Philip had concluded his conversation with the overseer and was coming toward them, a hospitable smile on his broad, perspiring face. “I say, can we not have something to eat? I’m sure the Colonel must be famished, and I’m most extraordinarily clemmed myself.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Twelvetrees said, with a quick warning glance at Grey. “I’ll tell Cook.” Grey tightened his grip momentarily on her fingers, and she smiled at him.
“As I was saying, Colonel, you must call on Mrs. Abernathy at Rose Hall. She would be the person best equipped to inform you.”
“Inform you?” Twelvetrees, curse him, chose this moment to become inquisitive. “About what?”
“Customs and beliefs among the Ashanti, my dear,” his sister said blandly. “Colonel Grey has a particular interest in such things.”
Twelvetrees snorted briefly.
“Ashanti, my left foot! Ibo, Fulani, Koromantyn . . . baptize ’em all proper Christians and let’s hear no more about what heathen beliefs they may have brought with ’em. From the little I know, you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, Colonel. Though if you do, of course,” he added hastily, recalling that it was not his place to tell the Lieutenant Colonel who would be protecting Twelvetrees’s life and property his business, “then my sister’s quite right—Mrs. Abernathy would be best placed to advise you. Almost all her slaves are Ashanti. She . . . er . . . she’s said to . . . um . . . take an interest.”
To Grey’s own interest, Twelvetrees’s face went a deep red, and he hastily changed the subject, asking Grey fussy questions about the exact disposition of his troops. Grey evaded direct answers beyond assuring Twelvetrees that two companies of infantry would be dispatched to his plantation as soon as word could be sent to Spanish Town.
He wished to leave at once, for various reasons, but was obliged to remain for tea, an uncomfortable meal of heavy, stodgy food, eaten under the heated gaze of Miss Twelvetrees. For the most part, he thought he had handled her with tact and delicacy—but toward the end of the meal she began to give him little pursed-mouth jabs. Nothing one could—or should—overtly notice, but he saw Philip blink at her once or twice in frowning bewilderment.
“Of course, I could not pose as an authority regarding any aspect of life on Jamaica,” she said, fixing him with an unreadable look. “We have lived here barely six months.”
“Indeed,” he said politely, a wodge of undigested Savoy cake settling heavily in his stomach. “You seem very much at home—and a very lovely home it is, Miss Twelvetrees. I perceive your most harmonious touch throughout.”
This belated attempt at flattery was met with the scorn it deserved; the eleven was back, hardening her brow.
“My brother inherited the plantation from our cousin, Edward Twelvetrees. Edward lived in London himself.” She leveled a look like the barrel of a musket at him. “Did you know him, Colonel?”
And just what would the bloody woman do if he told her the truth? he wondered. Clearly, she thought she knew something, but . . . no, he thought, watching her closely. She couldn’t know the truth, but had heard some rumor. So this poking at him was an attempt—and a clumsy one—to get him to say more.
“I know several Twelvetreeses casually,” he said, very amiably. “But if I met your cousin, I do not think I had the pleasure of speaking with him at any great length.” “You bloody murderer!” and “Fucking sodomite!” not really constituting conversation, if you asked Grey.