Page 167 of The King's Man
She sat up, putting the broadsheet to one side. ‘Well?’
‘Much as I expected,’ he said. ‘He confirmed what he wrote.’
He divested himself of his coat and flung it over the back of a chair, pulled at the suffocating folds of the linen kerchief he wore around his neck, and with a sigh, sank onto the bed next to his wife. He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head.
Thamsine slid an arm around his shoulders and laid her head against his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Kit,’ she said.
Kit could find no words to express his feelings at that moment.
‘My dear Monsieur le Comte,’ Thamsine continued in French, ‘you have done all you can. We have satisfied ourselves that Daniel is dead. Let’s go home.’
Kit shook his head. ‘I am going out to the plantation.’
‘Hmm,’ Thamsine closed her eyes, and the head against his arm became heavy. ‘The plantation?’ she added drowsily.
‘Yes. I want to speak to this man, Pritchard, although Willoughby says he was struck by the palsy. Hopefully there may be someone there who can tell us more.’ Kit nuzzled her hair. ‘You smell nice,’ he whispered.
She pushed him away. ‘It’s too hot!’ she said but even as she said it, the nuzzling became a gentle nibbling and they collapsed backward onto the bed.
Chapter 62
‘Barbados is quite beautiful,’ Thamsine remarked as they rounded a bend in the road to find the thick jungle opened out onto a vista of azure sea dotted with round, green islands.
Her husband responded with a grunt. On the long horse ride from Holetown, he had been absorbed in his own thoughts, and she knew Kit well enough to know that they weren’t happy thoughts. He blamed himself for Daniel’s fate, and although she hoped he took some comfort in the knowledge that Daniel’s lot had not been as dire as he had imagined, she doubted that it did.
It seemed incontrovertible that Daniel Lovell had died here in Barbados and, unless some new facts could be discovered at the Pritchard Plantation, that would be the news Kit had to carry back to his stepmother. Little wonder he stared morosely at the dusty, rutted road ahead of him.
The jungle gave way to fields of sugarcane, the wild, undisciplined rows rising to a height well above their heads, indicating that they were ready for harvest. A raised voiceissuing orders accompanied the thud and thump and rustle of the cane being harvested. Among the cane men worked, naked black backs bowed to the hot tropical sun, crisscrossed with evidence of the lash. Black backs mostly but among them, browned and hardened by years of exposure, were white men. An overseer with a whip in his hand pushed his hat to the back of his head and watched as Kit and Thamsine rode past.
Kit glanced at Thamsine as a double-storied wooden house came into view. Perched on rising ground, it probably commanded a panoramic view from the higher floor. Behind it were the stables and a compound of small huts. A few scrawny chickens pecked around the driveway and a tethered goat bleated a plaintive welcome. What had once been a pretty garden had already begun to be reclaimed by the jungle and the whole property had an air of neglect and misery. A small black boy wearing nothing but ragged breeches ran out to take the horses.
The house appeared deserted. No sound came from within it, and it took several sturdy knocks on the door before it opened a crack. A young black woman with large, frightened eyes peered at them.
‘Who is it, girl?’ A man’s voice, heavy with a Yorkshire accent, bellowed from the rear of the house.
The girl opened the door a little wider. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘The Comte d’Anvers and his wife,’ Kit announced.
The large eyes widened and a man dressed only in his breeches and shirt came up behind her. He put a large hand on the girl’s shoulder and pushed her to one side. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, his bulk blocking any entrance to the house.
‘What did you say yer name was?’ he demanded.
Kit met the man’s bloodshot eyes. Even from where he stood, he could smell the stale stench of drink and sweat, and theman’s dishevelled clothes and unshaven chin confirmed the impression of a drunken sot. If this was the overseer in charge of the estate, little wonder it looked neglected. He shuddered to think of the treatment being meted out to the labourers.
‘What did ya say yer name was?’ the man demanded.
‘The Comte d’Anvers.’ Kit drew himself up to his full height, but the other man matched him for height with the added advantage of breadth.
‘The Compte d’what?’ The Yorkshireman leered contemptuously before executing a bow with a sarcastic flourish. ‘Yer grace, what is it we can do for you?’
‘Who are you?’ Kit demanded with an aristocratic curl of his lip, marking his disapproval.
‘Outhwaite’s the name. I run this ‘ere plantation.’
‘I thought to meet with a Monsieur Pritchard?’
The man ran a hand through his tousled hair. ‘Well, Pritchard ain’t up to visitors. I’m in charge. Compte or no, state your business and be gone.’
