First Meeting

L ike many others in Barbados, the Marchant sugar mill consisted of three buildings: the mill proper where rollers crushed the sugar cane to extract the juice, the boiling house and a still house. These were aligned on a slope so the sugar juice could flow downward from the mill to the still house.

Thorne worked mainly in the stifling hot mill which he considered preferable to the boiling house. Worked was a misnomer. His sole responsibility was to make sure the slaves never stopped in their labors. Their task was to feed the cane into the rollers. On windy days, a windmill turned the rollers. If there was no wind, the slaves were pressed into service. Like cattle yoked to a windlass attached to the rollers, they spent hours trudging round in a circle. If they didn't move fast enough, they were to be whipped. Thorne couldn't bring himself to use a whip on another human being. He walked away, pretending not to notice when a young black boy faltered.

"You are a kind man," a deep voice said .

He recognized the lilt of the head slave, a man he'd learned had been born free in Africa. Captured by African merchants, he'd been sold to European slave traders and transported to Barbados at the end of the last century. His fate reminded Thorne all too clearly of the crime he and his brothers had intended to perpetrate on Niven King. "Bussa!" he replied to the giant who towered over Thorne's six feet. "How are you today?"

"Very good, Master," he said. "Today, Governor Leith come from Guadeloupe with the free paper."

"Paper?" Thorne queried.

"British Parliament abolished the slave trade years ago. Now come the freedom for us in the Caribbean islands."

Thorne had been a young lad in England when the act to end the slave trade in the British Empire was passed in 1807. His father's disgust of slavery had led him to decree no Withenshawe ship would ever transport slaves. However, it was a far cry from abolishing the slave trade to the emancipation of those already enslaved. As the ranger , Bussa had to look after boundaries and fences, a responsibility that allowed him to travel freely. He had evidently heard rumor of impending emancipation. Thorne hoped he was right. He wasn't afraid of Bussa, though the slave could crush him like a bug if he'd a mind too. There was a gentleness about him, but Thorne sensed the black man had a will of iron that two decades of slaving for the whites had failed to temper. Rebellion had been beaten out of most of the other brutalized slaves Thorne came into contact with. "You'll be driving Mr. Marchant today?" he asked .

"That right, Master Halstead. He go to the House of Assembly."

Though the slave addressed him as Master , Thorne always felt inferior to the African. He suspected Marchant had no idea of the pride that still lurked in the heart of the giant he'd appointed as headman over all his slaves.

In the late afternoon, Goliath told Queenie that the Barbados Assembly had voted against establishing a registry for Caribbean slaves. It would have been a first step to improved conditions. Resentment was certain to boil over.

She decided to go to the beach to confront the white man. He'd only recently started coming to watch the sunset, so she assumed he hadn't been on the island very long. She sensed the burden he carried had to do with his discomfort with slavery. If she was right, he should be told of the trouble brewing. It was rumored the rebellion would be led by a slave from Marchant's plantation.

The newcomer seemed like a thoughtful young man and she didn't want him to be caught up in the coming violence. Anyone who sought solace in a sunset was worthy of protection.

"You've decided to come out from hiding," he said, without turning around when she approached.

His words took her by surprise. She'd been careful not to alert him. However, the deep timbre of his voice wound tendrils of warmth around her. "You knew?" she asked.

She would never know what made him swivel his head to look at her. Perhaps the slight Scottish lilt to her speech that she and her kin had been determined to preserve? His voice had enthralled her, but his face threw her completely off balance. Fair hair, full lips, high cheekbones and a strong chin made him the most handsome white man she had ever seen. But then he ruined the magic. "You're a gypsy," he exclaimed.

Thorne had obviously said something amiss. The exotic girl's beautiful smile fled.

"I'm Romani," she retorted.

"I'm afraid I don't know what that is," he confessed.

"We call ourselves Roma , not Gypsies, not Tinkers, not Pikeys," she hissed.

"I apologize if I've offended you," he said. "I don't think I've ever met a Romani before."

He didn't mention that the gamekeeper at Rochevaux Abbey invariably chased gypsies off the Withenshawe estate.

"You are from the south of England," she said.

"You've a good ear. I'm from Berkshire."

He kept to himself the fact his family also owned a London townhouse. She'd probably scarper if he revealed he was the son of a duke. "What's your name?" he asked, anxious to keep her talking. Life in Barbados had been lonely .

"Queenie," she replied. "Queenie Gordon."

"Sounds Scottish," he said, thinking of Niven. "I'm Thorne Halstead."

"That's an unusual name."

"It's short for Hawthorne," he explained, relieved his family name meant nothing to her. "My mother named all her children after trees."

"The Roma have naming traditions too. My ancestors were from Scotland. They were transported to Barbados almost two hundred years ago."

As far as Thorne knew, only criminals were sentenced to transportation. "I see," he said.

"They did nothing wrong. The government decided it didn't want gypsies wandering all over Scotland."

"That's terrible," he exclaimed. "I hear a slight trace of a brogue in your speech."

"We try to remember the old ways," she replied. "And we still speak Scottish cant."

"Cant?"

"It's slang, a mixture of Scots and Romani."

"Fascinating," he said, genuinely intrigued.

"You came here recently," she said.

Most of the noblewomen Thorne knew would never be so direct. He liked that about her. "Just a few weeks ago."

"I've come here every night for five years," she said.

"And I've intruded."

"We can share."

He wanted to share time with this exotic creature. She was clearly intelligent and incredibly beautiful—dusky skin, glossy, jet black hair, eyes as wide as saucers with the longest eyelashes he'd ever seen. "I'd like that," he said.

Queenie was nervous. She'd never shared anything with a gorgio before. Like most Roma , she avoided contact with people outside her community, but she was drawn to Thorne. There was an alchemy between them and she felt comfortable with him. He bore a burden—a circumstance her gift wouldn't allow her to resist. "Why do you come here every night?" she asked.

"It's peaceful," he replied with a shrug.

"True," she agreed, reminding herself to go slowly. Men often had to be coaxed into sharing feelings and fears. "The sunset helps to calm me when I've had a difficult day."

He turned hooded eyes to her. "I know what you mean, though I can't fathom such a lovely creature as you having difficult days."

"Then you don't know what it is to be Roma ," she retorted, disappointed he was like most white men who used flattery to get what they wanted.

"I apologize," he said. "I know nothing of your existence."

"No, but I probably know something of yours."

He turned his whole body to face her. She hadn't expected the anger in his dark eyes. "Going to tell my fortune, are you?" he hissed.

She gritted her teeth and decided a more direct approach was needed. "Do you approve of slavery?"