Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
The widow’s voice had followed me through the corridors all morning, sharp as broken glass.
“Modern sentiment,” she’d said at breakfast, each word precise as a scalpel, “has no place in a well-ordered household. A governess who cannot control her impulses is of no more use than a horse with a bad temperament. Less, perhaps—at least the horse might still be broken.”
My eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The words sank into my skin like acid, and Philippe smiled into his eggs.
Two days since Daniel’s cuts. Six days since I’d fallen through time.
Six days of trying to convince everyone I belonged in this century while learning to navigate a world where kindness could get people killed.
Cruelty existed in my own time, but not like this.
I wondered again what my friends were doing, if anyone was still searching for me?
What they thought might have happened to me?
And the last two days? Escalating punishment disguised as responsibility—extra duties, last to eat, first to rise.
The widow’s pointed comments about “unfortunate displays of weakness” all delivered within hearing of the other servants.
Philippe’s renewed cruelty, now with the certainty that his mother would not only permit it but encourage it.
And through it all, Brodie’s steady presence—watching, saying nothing, but always somehow positioned between Philippe and whatever servant the boy had targeted.
The man was a puzzle. Why protect me when he clearly thought me reckless? Why maintain that careful distance while his expression shuttered whenever our eyes met across the courtyard?
I was grateful, though. Even if the words stayed locked behind my teeth.
“Miss Carter.” The widow’s steward appeared in the doorway of the schoolroom where I’d been organizing Philippe’s Latin texts. “Madame requires your presence in the drawing room.”
The summons landed like a stone in my stomach. Nothing good ever came from that elegant chamber.
Through the house we went, past furniture worth a fortune in my time, past portraits of ancestors whose names meant nothing to me, until we reached the room where the widow held court.
She sat near the window, afternoon light painting her in shades of ivory and gold. Beautiful, the way a blade catches sunlight.
“Sit.” The gesture toward the chair across from her brooked no argument.
“I understand,” she said, “that you have been finding your duties somewhat… overwhelming.”
The denial rose to my lips, but she continued before the words could form.
“Please do not interrupt.” Her smile could have drawn blood. “I merely wish to help you adjust to plantation life. You are new to the West Indies, after all. The climate, the customs—all quite different from Philadelphia, I imagine.”
“Yes, madame.”
A sheet of paper appeared from the table beside her, unfolded with deliberate care.
“Therefore, I have decided to assign you additional responsibilities. To help you learn.” Her eyes met mine.
“You will assist in the gardens today. Margaret will show you what needs to be done. Perhaps working with your hands will teach you the value of following instructions.”
Working in the gardens. Where everyone could see me. Where Philippe’s friends from neighboring plantations might visit. Where I would be visible evidence of what happened to servants who forgot their place.
“Yes, madame. Thank you.”
“You may go.”
The curtsy still wasn’t quite right—better than my first attempts, but not perfect. The widow’s slight frown confirmed it. Another failure to catalog.
The gardens stretched behind the house, each one maintained despite the humidity that wanted to reclaim everything.
Roses struggled against the heat. Jasmine thrived, its scent thick enough to choke on.
Near the kitchen entrance, herbs grew in neat rows while ornamental plants with names I’d never learned filled the formal beds closer to the house.
Margaret waited near the tool shed, her expression carved from stone.
Perhaps forty, rail-thin, with the kind of careful neutrality that came from making yourself invisible.
Those striking green eyes that had watched me with suspicion since my first day here now studied me with something closer to vindication.
“So the widow’s finally put you to work like the rest of us.” Not a question. A statement of satisfaction.
“Margaret.” I kept my voice neutral.
She thrust a basket and a pair of shears at me—the metal worn smooth with use. “The miracle girl. The only one who lived when a whole ship went down.”
Her tone made it clear she didn’t believe in miracles.
“I don’t—”
“Doesn’t matter what you think you survived. Matters that you’re here now, in my gardens, and you’ll do the work proper.” Between the rows of herbs she moved, pointing at plants. “Cut the lavender there. And the rosemary. Take the top growth, leave enough for it to recover.”
The work was mindless. Methodical. The scent of crushed herbs rose around us, sharp and clean in the heavy air. Sweat dampened the back of my neck, trickled between my shoulder blades. The rough fabric of my work dress—the plainest of the two I’d been given—clung to my skin.
After a while, Margaret spoke. “The boy? Daniel. How is he?”
“Bess said he’d be all right. The cuts weren’t deep.”
“This time.” Her hands moved through the plants with the ease of long practice. “But there’s always a next time here. Always someone to punish, always someone to make an example of.”
“How do you stand it?”
Something almost like pity flickered across her face. “You learn. Or you face the consequences. Those are the choices.”
Silence settled between us again. The sun climbed higher, turning the air to soup. My hands cramped around the shears. Blisters were forming where the metal rubbed against my palms—soft hands that had never done any real labor.
The afternoon wore on as we finished the cutting garden.
Margaret sent me to pull weeds near the south wall, where the kitchen garden bordered the slaves’ quarters.
From there, the flow of plantation life was visible—women carrying laundry, children playing in stolen moments between work shifts, men returning from the fields.
A different world from the one inside the house. Harsher.
“I need more twine from the shed,” Margaret said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Stay here. Pull those weeds along the fence line.”
She disappeared around the corner of the kitchen house.
Alone with the stubborn weeds and relentless sun, I worked, trying not to think about Daniel. About whether Bess had managed to keep him off his feet, whether the cuts were healing, whether—
The tulip tree stood near the edge of the cleared ground, its branches spreading wide against the blue sky.
From one of those branches, a small body turned in the breeze.
The weeds fell from my hands.
“No!”
Daniel.
His feet were bare. His head tilted at an angle that made bile rise in my throat. The shirt Bess had helped him into two days ago was still on him—torn now, stained.
Eight years old. Maybe nine.
Movement caught in my peripheral vision. Several of the enslaved women stood near the washing lines, watching. Not the tree. Me. Their faces were careful, neutral masks.
One of them—older, grey threading through her hair, scars mapping her arms—set down her basket. She approached slowly, deliberately, as if dealing with a frightened animal.
“Don’t.” Her voice stayed low, urgent. “Don’t touch him.”
The words stuck in my throat.
“I know. We all know.” She glanced toward where an overseer stood with his back to us, talking to one of the field workers. “But you can’t help him now. Can’t touch him. They left him there as a warning. Anyone who interferes—”
The sentence hung unfinished.
“We’ll see to him tonight,” she continued, those dark eyes meeting mine with infinite weariness. “When the madame isn’t watching. When they let us. But not now. Not while—” A slight tilt of her head toward the overseer.
As if summoned, the man began to turn.
“Go,” she said, more urgently. “Pull your weeds. Act normal. If they see you staring, if they know you care, they’ll only make it worse. For all of us.”
“I helped him.” The confession broke loose. “Two days ago. I tried to help, and now he’s—”
“I know. But you can’t save us, girl. Can’t fix this.” Her expression softened fractionally. “He knew you tried. That matters. Even if it doesn’t change anything.”
The overseer had turned fully, scanning the area. The woman was already moving back toward the washing lines, unhurried, natural.
Down. Look down. Pick up the weeds. Keep working as if a child wasn’t hanging from a tree twenty yards away. As if this was normal. As if hearts could accept such things and keep beating.
This was my fault.
He’d spilled the water, and then Philippe had cut him. And I had interfered, drawn attention to both of them, made it impossible for the widow to let the incident pass.
So they’d hanged him.
Not for spilling the water. For accepting help from someone stupid enough to challenge the natural order. For being visible when he should have been invisible.
With my modern morality. My foolish certainty that helping a hurt child was the right thing to do.
The overseer walked past, his boots crunching on the gravel. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at the tree. Didn’t acknowledge anything unusual at all.
Because this wasn’t unusual. This was normal. This was life on a plantation in 1693 Jamaica.
Margaret returned with the twine, glanced at me, then followed my line of sight to the tree. Something tightened around her mouth, but her expression didn’t change.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re needed in the lower gardens. South wall.”
The path sloped down. Somehow my feet moved, taking me away from Daniel’s small body and the African woman’s words.
I wanted to scream. To cut him down. To burn this entire place to the ground until nothing remained but ash and memory.