Troubled Soul

T horne Halstead braced his bare feet in the wet sand and watched the sun sink below the horizon. He couldn't stay long lest the sandflies attack his ankles, but he'd come to this place every evening at the same time since his arrival in Barbados six weeks ago. The beach at dusk provided a chance to enjoy a brief respite from the unrelenting heat. He shouldn't complain. At least the island was buffeted by a refreshing sea breeze, whereas in Egypt…

He closed his eyes to shut out the memories and felt the last rays of the dying sun on his face. The same sun rose and set on Rochevaux Abbey—maybe one day he could go home.

Recalling happy times growing up with Rowan, Ash and Willow, he wondered where his siblings were now, and what they were doing. Had Rowan succumbed to his horrific injuries? Was Willow married to Niven King, or had his father convinced her otherwise? And what of Ash? The last Thorne had seen of his brother in Paris, he'd worried about his growing habit of consuming too much wine and bedding too many women.

He opened his eyes, realizing sadly he could never go home, especially if Rowan had died because of his failure to control his horse at Waterloo.

His penance was to stay in Barbados where slaves were treated like animals, where overseeing workers in the sugar mill was mind-numbingly tedious and the hours long.

He should be grateful. Here he was afforded even greater respect than in England. Not because the people with power knew he was the son of a duke, which they didn't, but because he was a white gentleman and English. His employer's only complaint was that Thorne should make more use of the whip with which he'd been provided.

Barbados sickened his soul but, as he retrieved his boots, he acknowledged he deserved every painful, lonely minute of this existence on an isolated rock thousands of miles from home.

Concealed in the rocks that skirted the beach, Queenie Gordon shivered as she watched the white man. He came here every evening to stare at the sunset. It was her special place and, at first, she'd resented his intrusion. However, she sensed he was a troubled soul and she was never wrong about these things. Her fellow Roma accepted and honored her gift of divining what was in a person's heart .

Let him seek solace in this sacred place, she reasoned, though he left the beach every night with head bent and shoulders stiff. Something preyed on his mind. She could help him, but he'd probably dismiss her with the disdain all whites held for the Roma . She wasn't a slave, but Tinkers were considered the lowest of the low.

She didn't care. Her people had their own community, customs and language. They were her family and nothing was more important. She was proud of her heritage. Two hundred years ago, all Scottish Gypsies had been banished to Barbados to work as indentured servants in the plantations. Her eight times great grandfather had slaved for five years to be finally rewarded with his freedom dues of ￡10 and five acres of land. Her life had its difficulties but she thanked the Goddess every day that she wasn't a slave. The blacks and Irish were treated like dogs by the English plantation owners. Rumor had it the parliament in London was working on schemes to improve the conditions of slaves in the Caribbean. This news had raised hopes but increased resentment. The slaves thirsted for the freedom she enjoyed. Freedom to laugh, to dance, to make merry, to rule their own lives. There'd be hell to pay if the Barbados House of Assembly failed to follow England's lead. If the slaves rebelled, the Roma would do their upmost to help them.

Thorne left the beach and made his way to the plantation owner's house where he was billeted. As an employee who was an English gentleman, he was expected to live with the Marchant family. At first, he'd deemed it a wonderful idea and preferable to living alone or in some rented hovel.

Attendance at dinner was mandatory. As it had every night, the conversation turned to the unreasonable expectations and poor performance of the slaves. Adolphus Marchant voiced his displeasure at the exorbitant amount of money he'd been obliged to pay for his hundreds of slaves.

"Mr. Halstead should lay on the whip more vigorously when the wretches complain," ten-year-old Samantha opined.

"Or when they don't work hard enough," Samuel, her twin brother, added.

Thorne lost what little appetite he had.

The Marchants were rich, their home spacious and comfortable. Thorne's family was wealthy, their houses grand, yet he didn't consider himself a spoiled brat. He and his siblings were privileged but they didn't flail the skin off a servant's hide if he or she didn't come up to snuff.

It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest a stint in the army for the twins, but he thought better of it. He'd mentioned Waterloo only once. Marchant had spent the next hour singing the praises of Napoleon Bonaparte. "Forward thinking, that's what he was. Elijah foretold his coming, but the Pharisees of the world did away with him, just like they murdered our dear Lord and savior. We need more men like the French Emperor."

Amusing at it was to think of Wellington in a Pharisee's robes, memories of the horrors perpetrated in Portugal and Spain by Napoleon's troops clogged Thorne's throat. However, he remained silent. If she were present, Payton King's Spanish wife would likely set Marchant straight in no uncertain terms.

As for the rumored British schemes to improve the lives of slaves, Adolphus was quite certain the Barbados House of Assembly, of which he was a member, would never agree.

Once the sun had gone down, Queenie returned to her family's encampment. She joined her uncle beside the fire in the center of the clearing. The tempting aroma of roasting meat filled her nostrils.

Without Goliath, she would often have gone hungry. He carried a heavy burden, providing food and shelter. From time to time, he earned money as a tinker, cutler and general laborer. The white plantation owners looked down on gypsies , but they were only too willing to make use of Goliath's skills and brute strength, though he was always paid a pittance for his labor.

Adolphus Marchant was a particularly parsimonious hypocrite who spouted Bible verses, all the while meting out cruel punishments to the male slaves whose wives and children he raped regularly. She never offered her services as a laundrywoman at the Marchant plantation, though it was the closest to the Gordon smallholding.

"Rumblings of discontent over at the Marchant place," Goliath told her as she shared out the meat of the hares he'd roasted.

A knot of dread tightened in her belly. His words bore out what she'd sensed. Soon, there'd be a revolt.

As they ate, her thoughts drifted to the man who frequented her beach at sunset. She prayed he didn't work for the Marchants, but chances were he did.