Ren nodded in understanding. For them both, Barbados was a place for new lives. Kitt had left London five years ago rather suddenly and without warning. He’d shown up one night on Ren’s doorstep needing sanctuary but unable to explain. He’d left the next day, slinking out of town towards the ports, leaving everything behind including his real name. Ren had been the last to see him. After that, Kitt had cut all ties with the exception of random letter to him and the third of their trio, Benedict DeBreed.
Ren had no idea what Kitt had been up to since then. A silence had sprung up between them, a reminder of the profundity of their choices. Ren steered the conversation back to the practical. ‘Were you able to bring a wagon?’ It was easier not to think about the larger scope of his decisions, but to take it all step by step. The next step was to get out to the plantation.
‘It’s right over here. I think they’ve just brought your trunks ashore.’ Kitt gestured to the returning bumboat. Ren’s questions had to wait while they loaded his trunks, but his nerves were rising. What had Cousin Merrimore done? What was wrong at Sugarland? He’d expected a bit of unease. There’d been four months between his cousin’s passing and his arrival, but surely there was enough sense in the group of investors to manage things in the short term.
In fact, he’d assumed there would be very little to handle. Most plantation owners were absentee landlords who left the running of the estate to an overseer while they lived in England. But if that was the case, none of them had contacted him. It would have been simple enough to meet if they had been in England.
Since no one had come forward, Ren was starting to believe the landlords were in residence on the island. Even so, with or without his cousin’s presence or the presence of any other shareholders, the overseer would keep the plantation going just as he always had. Ren ran a finger beneath his collar, the heat starting to make his garments uncomfortable. He shot an envied glance Kitt’s direction.
‘Take off the damn coats, Ren. We aren’t in England any more.’ Kitt laughed at his discomfort. ‘Even the heat’s different here, but you’ll learn how to cope. You’ll get used to it.’ He winked. ‘If you’re anything like me, you’ll even like it.’
Ren grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. ‘I love the heat and I don’t think London ever had a sky this blue. This is paradise.’ Just minutes off the boat and he could see the allure of this place. Everything was different: the sky, the heat, the fruit, the people.
The talk of spirits and witches didn’t bother him so much as did the fact that they were connected to his property. He’d risked everything to come here. Hell, he’d left the earldom unprotected, having turned the day-to-day affairs entirely over to his steward and solicitors. He could trust them, of course, and if he was wrong on that account he’d left his close friend, Benedict DeBreed, in charge to ensure he wasn’t. He had protections in place, but still, if he’d been Trojan Horsed...well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. He’d find a way to make it work.
Ren climbed up on to the wagon and squeezed in next to Kitt. He decided to ease into the conversation. ‘Thanks again for coming to get me.’
‘I’m glad to do it, although I’m sure someone from the plantation would have been happy to come out.’ Kitt chirped to the horse and caught his eye when Ren said nothing. ‘They do know you’re coming, don’t they?’ He paused, interpreting the silence correctly. ‘Oh, hell, they don’t know.’
‘Not exactly,’ Ren said slowly. ‘I wasn’t sure there would be a “they” out there. I assumed Cousin Merrimore was the only one in residence.’ By the time he’d rethought that hypothesis it had been too late to send a letter.
Kitt shifted on the seat next to him and Ren’s sense of foreboding grew. ‘Well, out with it, Kitt. Tell me what’s wrong at Sugarland. Are there really witches and spirits?’ Ren absently fingered the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Bridgetown was behind them now and there was an overwhelming sense of isolation knowing that they’d just left the only town on the island behind. For a city man used to having entertainments, food and anything else he needed at his fingertips or at least within a few streets, it was a daunting prospect indeed, a reminder of the enormity of what he’d chosen to do. He would be relying on himself and himself alone. It would be a true test of his strength and knowledge.
Kitt shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business out there—of course, I don’t know the half of it. I’m gone most weeks.’ Ren didn’t believe that for a moment. Kitt was the sort who knew everyone and knew everything.
‘You don’t have to sugar-coat anything for me,’ Ren said sternly. ‘I want to know what I’m up against.’ Had he taken on more than he could manage? Assumptions were dangerous things and he’d made a few about Cousin Merrimore’s property, but he’d had no choice. It was either marry the heiress or gamble on the inheritance.
Kitt gave another of his shrugs. ‘It’s the apprenticeship programme. It’s a great source of controversy in the parish.’
Ren nodded. ‘I am familiar with it.’ Slavery in the British Caribbean had been abolished a couple of years ago. It had been replaced with the notion of apprenticeship. The idea was decent in theory: pay the former slaves who were willing to work the land they’d once worked for free. In practice, the situation was not far different than slavery.
Kitt went on. ‘Finding enough labour has been difficult. The plantation owners feel they’re losing too much money so they work the labourers to the bone, to death actually. As you can imagine, no one wants to work for those wages. Death doesn’t really recommend itself.’
Great, his fields were rotting and there was no one to hire. But Kitt’s next words riveted his attention. ‘Except at Sugarland and that’s what has all the neighbours angry.’
Ren let the thought settle. He tried to dissect the comment and couldn’t make sense of it. ‘You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid.’
Kitt did. ‘The plantation owners refuse to use the apprentice system fairly, except Sugarland. Anyone who wants field work, wants to work there where they are assured of a wage and safe conditions. As a result, Sugarland is the only place producing a significant profit right now.’ That was good news. Ren breathed a little easier, but just for a moment. Kitt wasn’t done.
‘Someone put it about a few months ago, at the time of your cousin’s death, that spirits were luring workers to Sugarland, that the woman running the place was in league with practitioners of black magic and that’s why the plantation was successful. Since then, the rumours have multiplied: she’s cursed the neighbouring crops, she’s put a growing spell on her own.’
‘Wait. Hold on.’ Ren grasped the information one idea at a time. Spells? Witchcraft? A woman?
Kitt took pity on him, misunderstanding the source of his agitation. ‘I know, the whole concept of black magic takes a bit of getting used to. The islands are full of it. The islands have their own names for it: voodoo, obeah. It’s from Africa. It’s full of superstitions and ghosts and spells.’
Ren thought of the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Black magic was the least of his concerns. ‘No, it’s not that. Back up to the part about a woman. There’s a woman at the plantation?’ Cousin Merrimore’s will hadn’t said a thing about anyone, certainly not a woman.
Kitt nodded and said with the most seriousness Ren had ever heard him use. ‘Her name is Emma Ward.’
A pit opened in his stomach and Ren knew with gut-clenching clarity there was no ‘they’. There was no absentee landlord syndicate to write monthly updates to. There was only a ‘she’. The other forty-nine per cent belonged to a crazy woman rumoured to be casting spells on her neighbours’ crops.
Ren was starting to rethink the merits of surprise, especially when those merits were reversed. It was one thing to be the surprise as he’d