A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [125]
It was gloomy and smoky inside. Ten or twelve people sat on benches and wooden chairs drinking from tankards and pottery cups. Some were playing cards and dice, others smoking pipes. The click of billiard balls came from the back room.
There were no women and no blacks.
Mack followed her in but stood back, by the door, his face in shadow.
A man came through a doorway from the back room, wiping his hands on a towel, and said: “What can I bring you, sir—Oh! A lady!”
“Nothing, thank you,” Lizzie said in a clear voice, and the room went quiet.
She looked around at the upturned faces. Lennox was in the corner, bent over a shaker and a pair of dice. The little table in front of him had several piles of small coins. His face showed resentment at being interrupted.
He carefully scooped up his coins, taking his time, before he stood up and took off his hat. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Jamisson?”
“I didn’t come to play dice, obviously,” she said crisply. “Where is Mr. Sowerby?”
She heard one or two approving murmurs, as if others in the place would like to know what had happened to Sowerby; and she saw a gray-haired man turn in his chair and look at her.
“He’s run off, it seems,” Lennox answered.
“Why haven’t you reported this to me?”
Lennox shrugged. “Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I want to know about such things, all the same. Don’t do it again. Is that clear?”
Lennox made no reply.
“Why did Sowerby leave?”
“How should I know?”
The gray-haired man piped up: “He owed money.”
Lizzie turned to him. “Who to?”
The man jerked a thumb. “Lennox, that’s who.”
She turned back to Lennox. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why did he borrow money from you?”
“He didn’t, exactìy. He lost it to me.”
“Gambling.”
“Yes.”
“And did you threaten him?”
The gray-haired man gave a sarcastic laugh. “Did he? I’ll swear.”
“I asked for my money,” Lennox said coolly.
“And that drove him away.”
“I tell you I don’t know why he left.”
“I believe he was frightened of you.”
A nasty smile crossed Lennox’s face. “Many people are,” he said, and the threat in his voice was hardly veiled.
Lizzie felt scared as well as angry. “Let’s get something clear,” she said. There was a tremor in her voice and she swallowed to get it under control. “I am the mistress of the plantation and you will do what I say. I shall now take charge of the place until my husband returns. Then he will decide how to replace Mr. Sowerby.”
Lennox shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m Sowerby’s deputy. Mr. Jamisson has told me quite particularly that I’m in charge if Sowerby should fall ill or anything. Besides, what do you know about tobacco growing?”
“As much as a London tavern keeper, at least.”
“Well, that’s not how Mr. Jamisson sees it, and I take my orders from him.”
Lizzie could have screamed with frustration. She would not let this man give orders on her plantation! “I’m warning you, Lennox, you’d better obey me!”
“And if I don’t?” He took a step toward her, grinning, and she smelled his characteristic ripe odor. She was forced to step backward. The other customers in the tavern sat frozen to their seats. “What will you do, Mrs. Jamisson?” he said, still coming toward her. “Knock me down?” As he said this he lifted his hand over his head, in a gesture that might have been an illustration of what he was saying but could just as easily have been a threat.
Lizzie gave a cry of fear and jumped back. Her legs came up against the seat of a chair and she sat down with a bump.
Suddenly Mack was there, standing between Lennox and her. “You’ve raised your hand to a woman, Lennox,” he said. “Now let’s see you raise it to a man.”
“You!” Lennox said. “I didn’t know it was you, standing in the corner like a nigger.”
“And now that you know, what are you going to do?”
“You’re a damn fool, McAsh. You always take the losing side.”
“You’ve just insulted the wife of the man who owns you—I don’t call