Parting

T he storm raged for another day. Bussa fed them cold porridge and brewed several pots of tea. It took a long time for the ancient kettle to boil on the wood stove, but Bussa insisted a good cup of tea was worth the wait. Queenie had always found tea to be a great restorative, so she agreed with their black friend. It was tempting to read the leaves, but she was too much of a coward to attempt it. Their clothing eventually dried, more or less, and they were able to dress.

When the wind lost strength and the deluge turned to light rain, the men set off to help Goliath. Sipping tea to calm her nerves, Queenie waited impatiently, almost dropping her cup when the flimsy door burst open. Marchant stood on the threshold. Instinctively, she reached for the dagger in the sheath tied to her thigh, thankful it hadn't been lost to the storm.

"Well, well," he crooned. "What have we here?"

She brandished the weapon, her heartbeat slowing when two children appeared behind him. Surely he wouldn't attack her with his children watching?

"She's a filthy tinker, Papa," the little girl said.

"I fancy that dagger for myself," the boy said.

Clearly, the disgusting pair who looked alike enough to be twins would be no help, but Marchant evidently decided not to press his advantage. "As the Bible says, there's a season for everything," he said with an evil glint in his eyes. "Her time will come."

Queenie breathed again when he closed the door and the trio left.

When the men returned an hour later, she rushed into Thorne's arms. "Marchant was here," she rasped. "I was afraid."

Thorne was elated Queenie ran to him when they returned, despite the presence of her scowling uncle. It felt good to hold her in his arms. "Did he threaten you?" he asked.

"I was more afraid of his children," she confessed. "But my dagger deterred him."

"I know what you mean," he replied with a chuckle. "Bloodthirsty little horrors."

"He's evil, that man," Goliath said. "You mustn't go near him, but our wagon is a lost cause."

"You can stay here for a little while," Bussa replied. "I have to go away in any case."

"We can head for the hills in the Scotland District," Goliath said. "The Roma there will take us in. "

"Scotland District?" Thorne asked.

"Yes," Queenie replied. "In St. Andrew's Parish."

"I might have to travel with you," Thorne said. "Obviously, I can't go back to the Marchant house."

"Better not to go to the mill," Bussa agreed. "Trouble coming."

Thorne decided to at last stand up for his principles. "Can I help in any way?"

Bussa eyed him for long minutes, clearly weighing whether to trust him or not. "It is dangerous for you to get involved. It is enough to know some whites understand our struggle."

"Will it begin soon?"

"The hurricane delayed us. I go to meet with my comrades, so we'll see."

After Bussa's departure, Queenie and Goliath spent two days resting to prepare for the trek to the Scotland District. Since most of their belongings were still in the wagon, they would have to go by way of the wreck to collect what they could carry.

Thorne brooded.

She didn't blame him. Confined in a small space under her uncle's watchful eye, they were unable to share the kisses and intimate touches she craved. Goliath made it clear Thorne would not be welcome to accompany them.

She couldn't fault Goliath either. There was no point encouraging a relationship with a gorgio who'd soon be leaving the island, leaving her behind.

After watching Thorne at close quarters for days, she was convinced he was of noble birth. His speech, his mannerisms, his bearing, all spoke of nobility. They ate what little food there was with their fingers, yet he performed even this simple task with refinement.

She loved and admired these things about him, but they underscored the immense differences in their social standing. Even his beautifully clipped fingernails and elegant long fingers stood in sharp contrast to Goliath's grubby stubs and dirty nails. She doubted people in England were any more tolerant of her kind than the whites of Barbados.

"I will miss you," she said hoarsely when the day of their departure dawned.

"I wish I was coming with you," he replied, taking her into his embrace when Goliath stepped outside.

She melted into his strong body. " Me mangav tut ," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he replied.

"But there can never be anything between us," she said sadly.

"I refuse to believe that," he countered, stroking her hair. "You and I belong together."

"Not in this lifetime," she replied.

"Go with God," he whispered. "You are taking my heart with you."

"I am leaving mine with you."

Their parting kiss was chaste, but spoke of the loss each would endure.

It took another day for Thorne to summon up the energy to set out for the docks in Bridgetown. Anxious though he was to at last go home, he simply couldn't fathom a life without Queenie. In a short time, she'd become essential to his happiness. Torn between taking ship and traveling north to the Scotland District, he finally decided it was useless to pine for what could never be. He opted for Bridgetown, hoping his name alone would be sufficient to secure him passage away from Barbados.

With a last look around, he opened the door, startled to be confronted by Marchant and a group of uniformed men he recognized as the local militia.

"You're under arrest, Halstead," Marchant declared.

"Arrest?" he exclaimed. "On what charge?"

"Aiding and abetting the rebellion."

Thorne's gut twisted. "What rebellion?" he tried.

"Don't play the innocent," the planter hissed. "Here you are in Bussa's hut. He's dead, by the way, killed in the battle."

"Battle?" he asked, grieving for the black man. He'd sacrificed everything for his freedom. Death was likely preferable to slavery.

"Where's the gypsy whore?" Marchant demanded, peering into the shack.

Thorne clenched his jaw, tempted to spit in the man's face. "The Roma are gone."

Certain the scowling militiamen would beat him if he resisted, he allowed himself to be manacled and led away.