A Distant Magic (26 page)

But eventually, she awoke feeling energetic and ready to face life again. The question was, What should she do? She was staying in a guest room of Gregorio's house, sharing the same balcony that Jean's room opened on. A maid had delivered a breakfast tray with bread and fruit and tea. Adia had never lived in such luxury—in the future, she had always been the one who delivered the food, not the one who received it. She found that she didn't like being waited on. She preferred managing for herself.

After eating, she headed down to the office where Louise worked mornings. The Frenchwoman glanced up from her ledgers.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Is it that obvious?" Adia paused by Isabelle's perch to offer the macaw nuts.

"The last several times I've seen you, you looked like a ghost—gray and wan." Louise pushed her chair back.
"If you want company, you are always welcome to join my family and me for
dinner. My husband's ship has returned, and he'll be here for several weeks, and
of course you already know the children."

"That's kind. I will join you this evening." Adia began pacing the office.
"But what am I to do with myself? I've worked my whole life, I don't know how to be a woman of leisure." She stopped by the bookcase that covered half of one wall.
"What a wonderful library Captain Gregorio has. I've never seen so many books in
one place. Will he mind if I read some?"

"He will not mind." Louise's expression became bleak.
"Particularly if he never returns to Santola. Do you think that he and the
Scottish witch will return?"

"I don't know. Probably not," Adia said honestly. "You and
he are close?"

"He brought me out of whoredom and taught me that I had value. We were lovers for a time, but that was never the most important part." Louise used her penknife to carefully sharpen a quill.
"Will you stay on the island? One of our ships can take you to France or Spain
or Italy. From there, you can return to England."

"There is nothing for me in England now. My husband is a boy in Africa today. My children have not yet been born." She fought the despair that lanced through at that knowledge. She had known what she was losing when she called the magic. Though she hadn't realized quite how much it would hurt.
"Besides, I feel that I must stay here as...as an anchor for them if they are to
have a chance to return. So I must stay, and find occupation so that I will not
go mad."

"You will find no more accepting place than Santola, and there is
plenty of work. Would you like to help me? There is much figuring and
correspondence, and I could use an assistant who can read and write a fair
hand."

"I would like that." Adia pulled a volume from the bookshelf.
Tom Jones: The History of a Foundling.
She had heard of this story, but never had a chance to read it. She and Daniel didn't have money to spare for books.

"Why don't you write your own story?" Louise suggested.
"You could get it published in London. The moving tale of an innocent African
girl stolen from her home and sold into slavery could help educate people about
slavery. There is much ignorance, and people are more touched by tales of
individuals than mere numbers."

The suggestion resonated within Adia. "Perhaps you're right, but I
don't know if I can write well enough. Even if I can, how could I get such a
story published? How can I write about events that are in the future from our
time?"

Louise frowned. "There are always printers looking for exciting
tales to publish. I know of no journal that tells a story like yours, so I think
it would attract interest. Your other question is more difficult. I think you
would have to write the tale without events that could be dated easily. Write as
'An Anonymous African Princess.'"

"I was no princess," Adia protested.

"You are now," Louise said, clearly enjoying herself. "Describe
the exotic places where you have lived, especially Africa—people love a travel
tale. Tell of the great love between you and your husband and how cruelly you
were torn apart, how you risked all to be together—women in particular love a
romance. And speak of the great blessings of becoming Christian. All will
approve of that."

"I am not so very good a Christian," Adia said drily.

"You are now!" Louise smiled wickedly. "Think of this as a way to
reach people's hearts. Emphasizing certain aspects of the truth will help in
that task. You know something of Christianity, don't you?"

"I have been baptized," Adia admitted, "but we also used Christian
symbols to worship African gods."

"No white man needs to know that. The story of how you were stolen
away as a child, of how you fell in love and married—those are real, are they
not?"

"They are indeed," Adia said softly.

"Then shape them into a tale that will have truth at the core, but is also designed to make men and women weep at the horror that is slavery." Louise leaned back in her chair and grinned.
"But save your mornings to work for me."

"May I have pens and paper?"

Louise gestured toward a cabinet. "Gregorio's lap desk is in there. You might as well use it." Her expression had turned serious.
"I have a touch of seer in me, Adia, and I feel that a journal such as yours
could be important."

"I think you're right." Adia opened the cabinet and removed the lap desk. As she surveyed the contents, she added,
"At the least, it will keep me from fretting."

As she headed up the stairs, she wondered how long they would wait for the return of Jean and Nikolai before giving up. Would she eventually become so lonely that she would take an island man as a lover? Would Daniel find another woman to warm his bed? She didn't want to think of it. For herself, it would be a long time before the need for warmth would overcome the vows she had exchanged with her husband.

She set up the lap desk on the table in her room, then paused to think about where she wanted to start. Paper was expensive and should not be wasted.

Despite Louise's suggestion that she remove events like the American Revolution, she decided it would be easier to write her life as she had lived it. When she was done, she could go through and make a fair copy, removing details that might give her away. She must change names also.

After her thoughts were ordered, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and wrote,
"I have changed the names and details of those I met during my enslavement. Some are good people who were part of an evil system; I do not wish to shame them.

"The evil I leave to God's justice."

Chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT

W
hy do you wish to find a coffeehouse?" Nikolai asked.

"I don't know about other cities, but in London, they are the places where men gather to talk and discuss the news of the day," Jean explained.
"There are usually copies of newspapers for customers to read. You can learn
what engages men's minds now. If you think it appropriate, you could mention
slavery and see how others react. Adia was right when she said the slave trade
will not end until the mass of people protest it. Britain's press is very free.
The newspapers and debating societies will discuss anything. It will aid our
cause if they start talking about slavery."

He nodded thoughtfully, understanding her point. "Are women not
allowed?"

"No, which is why I will find a bookstore." She smiled. "Besides
learning what has been published in recent years, I'd like to have a book to
read in the evenings."

He studied her winsome face and the tendrils of red hair escaping her bonnet and could think of other ways of spending evenings. Though his mind believed that they must develop as individual mages before they became lovers, other parts of his anatomy were harder to convince.

Patience.

The coffeehouse was low-ceilinged and smoky, the long tables scattered with newspapers and writing materials. In early afternoon, the place was about half full. Nikolai was surprised at the range of men present. While a number were dressed as clerks or merchants, others were clearly laborers. A few men sat alone with newspapers and mugs of coffee, but most gathered in friendly groups. Half a dozen were debating a subject vehemently while others conversed with moderation. Several men looked up when Nikolai entered, but there was nothing hostile in the curiosity.

He spent a few moments getting his bearings. After hanging his hat on a peg with the other hats, he approached the only woman, who presided over a counter by the fireplace. Coffeepots stayed warm by the roaring fire. The woman poured a tall, steaming mug for Nikolai at his request.

On the counter were a pitcher of milk and bowls of cracked sugar. He gazed at the sugar a moment, thinking that it had been harvested with blood and sweat by slaves in the Indies. But he didn't intend to start a revolution today. He merely wanted to learn. He added milk and sugar to his mug, then took a seat at an empty table where a rumpled newspaper waited.

The contents of the newspaper were a shock. The tone was positively treasonous. They could print such things without being jailed? After scanning the first newspaper, he picked another one from a different table. It was even more seditious than the first.

He looked for more newspapers. A man in one of the groups noticed his gaze and offered a gazette lying in front of him.
"Would you like this, mate?"

"Thank you." Nikolai accepted the gazette. "I am newly arrived in
Britain, and I find the freedom of expression rather startling."

"Aye, we're the freest people in the world," the man said complacently. From his dress, he might have been a stevedore.
"Englishmen have our rights, even the least of us."

"Some 'ave more rights than others," another man said. "Why
shouldn't all decent workingmen be able to vote? Why only property owners?"

The others in the group laughed. "You 'ave strange ideas, Tom," one said.
"Only folks who really count are those with money."

"If enough of us say it's wrong, things'll change," Tom said stubbornly.

"Next thing, Tom will be sayin' women should vote, too." The comment set off a roar of laughter, followed by a lively political discussion. Nikolai said little, but he was impressed by the knowledgeable speech of even the most roughly dressed.

His expression was thoughtful when he left and met Jean at the bookstore on the next street.
"I see why you sent me to the coffeehouse. Are all Englishmen so independent and
well informed?"

"Not necessarily." She took his arm and they headed back toward their inn.
"Coffeehouses tend to attract those who are interested in discussion. Different
coffeehouses have various kinds of customers—there is one called Lloyds where
men meet to underwrite shipping insurance. Ship captains usually go to a
different coffeehouse. For those who want only to drink, there are plenty of
taverns and gin shops."

"I was amazed at the inflammatory writing in the newspapers. In
Paris, the editors would all be in jail."

Jean's brows arched. "I didn't realize that the French
controlled the press so tightly. Complaining about the government is normal
here."

"Are Scots as concerned with their rights as Englishmen?"

"Scots are equally independent, but there are differences." She grinned.
"The English complain about the government while Scots complain about the
English."

"This independent spirit might be why abolition will take root here," he said thoughtfully.
"Just as fear of being violently impressed into the navy might make the common
man more sympathetic to slaves. If we keep going forward in time, it will be
interesting to see how British notions evolve."

"'Interesting' is one of those all-purpose words," she observed.
"Ever since I met you, my life has become 'interesting.' I'm not sure how much
more I can bear."

He smiled teasingly. "Would you really rather be part of London
society, powdering your hair and attending too many entertainments?"

"Some days, yes." Her smile lit her eyes. "But not today."

Entrance to Falconer House was not easy for a stranger who could say little about his business. Nikolai was dressed in his sober best while Jean had gone to a used-clothing shop and bought a black mourning gown and bonnet with a veil so heavy that even Nikolai could barely recognize her.

By prearrangement, Nikolai did the talking to get them into the earl's Mayfair home. Jean kept silent, but he felt her use her magic to
"lean" on the butler and persuade the man that Lord Falconer would want to see these strangers.

Falconer knew it, too. When Nikolai and Jean were ushered into a handsome study, the earl looked up with a dangerous glint in his eye.
"You used magic to persuade my butler to bring you up, Mr. Gregory, which is
interesting. I trust you will make this worth my time."

Jean had warned him that the earl was one of the sharpest men in England. It was hard to guess Falconer's age, though he must have been near fifty. He had fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but he was lean and fit. Nikolai thought the man was wearing a wig, then realized it was his natural blond hair accented with silver. He was every inch an aristocrat.
"You will not regret this, Lord Falconer. Please allow me a moment to explain
our unusual circumstances."

"Proceed."

"Jean Macrae and I have come through time to support the abolition movement," Nikolai said bluntly.
"Jean doesn't want to know anything about her personal life, or about the deaths
of family and friends. She said you would respect her wishes in this."

"Jean?" Falconer's gaze moved to the black-clad figure holding Nikolai's arm. He was utterly still.

"Indeed it's me, Simon." She pulled back the black veil to reveal her face. She looked pale and tense at this meeting.
"As Nikolai said, I don't want to know of personal tragedies—I would rather
think that all my family and friends are alive and well even if I can't reveal
myself to them. And I don't want to hear that I'm dead, either!"

"Most are indeed well, but I shall say no more. You have come through time, you say?" He studied her thoughtfully. If he was shocked, he concealed it well.
"It must be true since you look barely out of the schoolroom. Tell me everything, starting with the identity of your companion." His eyes narrowed as he studied Nikolai.
"He is no Guardian, but he is certainly a mage."

"So I have discovered." Jean removed her bonnet and the trailing veil.
"His true name is Nikolai Gregorio, and he has a most interesting background."

"Then, we shall need refreshments to carry us through your story." The earl gave instructions to a servant, and they took seats around the fire. Jean told most of the story. Nikolai thought that there was an appealing symmetry in the fact that they were seeking the aid of a black African workingman and a pale English aristocrat. Falconer was everything that Jean had said—focused, intelligent, and radiating power.

Jean ended by saying, "Are we chasing rainbows, Simon? Adia, our
African priestess, says that a serious abolition movement will be founded in
about twenty years. Has it any chance of success?"

A line formed between Falconer's brows. "Slavery has been with us since the first tribal warrior defeated another and forced him to work. But society is changing. There are already people who think slavery is wrong, and more will come to agree. It's quite possible that the groundwork for a broad movement is being laid now." He frowned.
"Though I do not approve of slavery, I must admit I haven't examined my
investments with an eye as to whether any of them support the slave trade. I
must do so."

Jean had said that Falconer was one of the most progressive members of the House of Lords, so the fact that he hadn't thought much about slavery was significant. Would that all men were so willing to consider the subject when it was brought to their attention.
"Society has many troubles that need addressing," Nikolai said. "Can abolition
compete with issues that are closer to hand?"

"Eventually. Inventions are being developed that will reduce the need for slave labor. Will it happen in our lifetimes?" Falconer shook his head.
"That I cannot say."

"There are really two issues," Jean said. "First we must stop the
slave trade so people are no longer captured and shipped across the sea. Then
those already in slavery must be freed."

The earl nodded. "Ending the trade is a good beginning and it's
more achievable than emancipation, but powerful forces will oppose you. The West
Indies lobby is vastly wealthy, with connections to every corner of the ruling
class. One of the largest plantations in Jamaica is owned by the Church of
England."

Nikolai's lips tightened. "Not very Christian behavior."

"The good bishops would be shocked at such an accusation," the earl said cynically.
"They do not see the blood and pain and misery of the slaves who produce their
wealth. It's easy to ignore what you've never seen. They nod complacently and
tell one another that the poor Africans are fortunate to enjoy the benefits of
Christian living."

Nikolai swore under his breath. Falconer's brows arched.
"Such language in front of a lady."

Jean gave an unladylike snort. "Surely you know me better, Simon."

His gaze softened. "Indeed. You've chosen a noble crusade, Jean. You and your…husband?" His glance touched Jean's wedding ring.

"The ring is part of our masquerade," Nikolai said. "To make it
easier for us to work together."

The earl's lifted brow was eloquent. He didn't need to say a word to convey that the lady had her defenders, and anyone who injured Jean Macrae would be in serious trouble. It was just as well Jean hadn't mentioned that she had been kidnapped.

Jean leaned forward, her expression intense. "Simon, you are close
to the Guardian Council. Will they assist us in ending slavery?"

Falconer shook his head. "You know that our policy is to interfere
with the mundane world as little as possible. If the council gave your efforts
official support, it would create great dissension."

"How could anyone with Guardian sensitivity favor slavery?" she retorted.

"You'd be surprised," he said drily. "Like the good bishops
who run Jamaican plantations at long distance, most Guardians have not seen
slavery close up. Many will think it is not our business to interfere. Had you
thought much about slavery before you left for the Mediterranean?"

"No," she admitted. "But we can educate people about how evil it
is."

"For every sad tale of slavery you produce, there will be ten West
Indian planters saying how happy their slaves are. Some will start calling
slaves 'assistant planters' because it sounds better. They will talk about how
their 'assistant planters' receive food and clothing and shelter and medical
care, making them more fortunate than the poor of our own cities. They will
claim their slaves give thanks for having been removed from the heathen lands of
Africa. And they will say that blacks are born to be slaves—it is their place in
the natural order of things."