A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [606]
“Emmanuel, me man!” Bonnet greeted the man cheerfully, and pushed Brianna ahead of him into the house. “Look what the cat dragged in, will ya?”
The black man looked her up and down with an expression of doubt.
“She damn tall,” he said, in a voice that held an African lilt. He took her by the shoulder and turned her round, running a hand down her back and cupping her buttocks briefly through the cloak. “Nice fat arse, though,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Isn’t it, though? Well, be seeing to her, then come tell me how it is here. The hold’s near full—oh, and I’ve picked up four—no, five—more blacks. The men can go to Captain Jackson, but the women—ah, now, those are somethin’ special.” He winked at Emmanuel. “Twins.”
The black man’s face went rigid.
“Twins?” he said in a tone of horror. “You bring them in the house?”
“I will,” Bonnet said firmly. “Fulani, and gorgeous things they are, too. No English, no training—but they’ll go for fancies, sure. Speakin’ of which, have we word from Signor Ricasoli?”
Emmanuel nodded, though his brow was furrowed; the scar pulled the frown lines into a deep “V.”
“He be here on Thursday. Monsieur Houvener comes then, too. Mister Howard be here tomorrow, though.”
“Splendid. I’m wanting me breakfast now—and I imagine you’re hungry as well, aren’t ye, darlin’?” he asked, turning to Brianna.
She nodded, torn between fear, outrage, and morning sickness. She had to eat something, and fast.
“Fine, then. Take her somewhere”—he flipped a hand toward the ceiling, indicating rooms upstairs—“and feed her. I’ll eat in me office; come find me there.”
Without acknowledgment of the order, Emmanuel clamped a hand like a vise on the back of her neck, and shoved her toward the stairs.
THE BUTLER —if one could describe something like Emmanuel with such a domestic term—pushed her into a small room and shut the door behind her. It was furnished, but sparsely: a bed frame with a bare mattress, one woolen blanket, and a chamber pot. She made use of the latter object with relief, then made a rapid reconnaissance of the room itself.
There was only one window, a small one, set with metal bars. There was no glass, only inside shutters, and the breath of sea and scrub forest filled the room, vying with dust and the stale smell of the stained mattress. Emmanuel might be a factotum, but he wasn’t much of a housekeeper, she thought, trying to keep her spirits up.
A familiar sound came to her, and she craned her neck to see. Not much was visible from the window—only the white crushed shells and sandy mud that surrounded the house, and the tops of stunted pines. If she pressed her face to the side of the window, though, she could see a small slice of a distant beach, with white breakers rolling in. As she watched, three horses galloped across it, vanishing out of her view—but with the wind-borne sound of neighing, then came five more, and then another group of seven or eight. Wild horses, the descendants of Spanish ponies left here a century ago.
The sight of them charmed her, and she watched for a long time, hoping they would come back, but they didn’t; only a flight of pelicans passed by, and a few gulls, diving for fish.
The sight of the horses had made her feel less alone for a few moments, but no less empty. She had been in the room for half an hour, at least, and there were no sounds of footsteps in the hall outside, bringing food. Cautiously, she tried the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked.
There were sounds downstairs; someone was here. And the warm, grainy aromas of porridge and baking bread were faint in the air.
Swallowing to keep her stomach down, she moved soft-footed through the house and down the stairs. There were male voices in a room at the front of the house—Bonnet and Emmanuel. The sound of them made her diaphragm tighten, but the door was closed, and she tiptoed past.
The kitchen was a cookshack, a separate small building outside, connected to the house by a short breezeway and surrounded by a fenced