Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [10]
“The men from the Merry Bell are like to die, I think, by morning,” he advised her, dropping his weight into a wooden chair in a corner of the half-furnished room. “Except the captain—he may live. I hope so, for I rather liked him.”
“I share your wish, of course,” said Isabelle, and tapped her slippered foot in token of impatience. “But what interests me more is news of the port.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, turning toward Zabeth, who had just entered the room with a tray bearing a concoction of rum, lime juice, and sugar, and a letter from his son Paul at Ennery. He took the drink and smoothed the letter on his knee.
“No news,” he said. “You must not worry.”
“It has been weeks!” Isabelle protested.
“Yes,” Elise put in. “But you know Xavier. His routes are ever indirect.” It was the sort of thing she would normally say with fondness, but tonight there seemed a bitter flavor to it. Isabelle had noticed it too, the doctor thought, for at once she dropped her own subject and began to chatter of fabric for curtains and the possibility of imported paper for the walls.
It was the new prosperity—new security really—that had moved Isabelle to send for her children, who had these last few years been sheltered from the turbulence of Saint Domingue in a boarding school at Philadelphia. But Isabelle’s husband was not free to fetch them, and for some reason she had not elected to make the voyage herself. Xavier Tocquet, who was Elise’s current husband, had volunteered to escort the children. It appeared that he had some business with certain Philadelphia factors, whose nature was not yet precisely known.
The doctor took a long pull at his rum, then broke the seal of his letter and unfolded it. His eldest, Paul, was eight years old. His formal education had been scattershot thus far. Sessions with the village priest at Ennery. There was a regular school here in Le Cap, but his attendance was sporadic since he was often absent in the country. The doctor supervised him intermittently, as he had time. His mother, Nanon, could read reasonably well but her writing ability was negligible. However, it had been her idea that Paul must write and send a weekly letter to his father whenever they were parted.
The boy’s penmanship was passable, his spelling insecure. He conveyed the news in a sufficiently engaging manner. Their trip over the mountains had passed easily. They’d arrived at Ennery with a great supply of cassava and fruit collected along the way. Paul had reconnected with his great friend Caco, a black boy a couple of years older who lived on the plantation at Ennery. But Caco, because of the new work codes lately issued by Toussaint, was obliged to devote part of his time to either the cane fields or the coffee. Paul had followed him for a day or so. He found both occupations disagreeable, the coffee somewhat less so. There was to be a bamboche on Saturday, with pigs killed for the boucan. Paul’s younger twin siblings were well. Likewise his mother and his cousin Sophie, Elise’s child. Paul sent his kisses to his honorable father . . .
“A good report of the twins,” the doctor said, passing the letter to Isabelle, “if not especially detailed.”
Isabelle snapped the letter open on her crossed knee and scanned it rapidly for the mention of François and Gabriel, relaxing perceptibly when she had found their names. Elise cocked an eyebrow at her, but she did not seem to notice. The doctor sipped his rum. When Isabelle had read the whole letter through, she leaned to give it back to him.
“He writes appealingly, your boy.”
The doctor nodded as he swallowed. “And never mind the spelling.”
Zabeth came in, bearing Elise’s year-old baby, asleep on her full bosom. She passed the infant Mireille to her mother, who accepted the bundle absently. Zabeth turned toward the doctor’s empty glass.
“I’ll just come with