Pretty Persuasion (19 page)

"I don't understand," Georgie said. "If it was so dreadful, why did you stay for seven years?"

If only she knew how many times he'd asked himself that. "I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I somehow felt it was my duty to stay. Thought, foolishly, that I could make a difference."

"How?"

She fixed her inquiring gaze on him. No vague explanations would satisfy her. The urge to quit her presence tugged at him. What should he tell her? How much of it?

Of course he did not have to tell her everything. However much he wanted to get it off his chest, he could not reveal it all. She'd despise him for it, regard him with the disgust that he deserved. What little respect she had for him was too precious to jeopardize by telling her the sordid details she didn't need to know.

And so he began a censored version of his "adventure." When he reached the part about his angry letters and his father's doubt of their accuracy, Georgie let out a soft gasp. "He thought you were lying?"

Robert gave a grim nod. He had been stunned that his father, whom he had always held in the utmost admiration, should even entertain such a notion. "He also expressed the wish that I return to England. When I refused, mainly for the sake of defying him, he revoked the little authority he had given me when I first set out, putting full control back into the hands of that… monster."

For a few seconds, she stared at him with mute solemnity. "Monster?" she said in a small voice.

"Hugh Chadwick. The plantation's manager." Robert's hands clenched at the memory of Chadwick's squat form and reptilian eyes. "There is a price to pay for appointing the management of a faraway estate to another man, especially if he is left to his own devices. Chadwick's family had run Elysium for the duration of its existence, the position as manager passing from father to son as would a title of nobility."

"He perceived himself the owner," Georgie guessed.

"Yes." The bastard had made no effort to hide his resentment at Robert's presence. Chadwick had the advantage of knowledge and experience. Which, combined with a veneer of gentility that gave him social admittance among the other plantation owners, seemed to have given him delusions of grandeur. And without his father's support, Robert could do little to quell the manager's notion of supremacy.

"Since my father would neither sell nor trust me to make changes that would improve the slaves' treatment without loss of profit, I could only apply to Chadwick for permission."

The futility of that attempt had become apparent the day he observed the manager order a young man flogged for disobedience only to throw a temper tantrum the next moment when one of his own sons took a riding crop to a horse. The only way to approach the issue was to speak a language the man understood—revenue. Robert had argued that treating the slaves better must be more profitable in the long run, but it turned out Chadwick had made his own calculations and concluded that the price of amelioration far exceeded that of their "losses."

"He could not stress enough the importance of punishment as the only way to run the plantation. Slaves, in his experience, were lazy and insolent and too stupid to listen to reason." Chadwick had repeatedly declared that "The whip alone can make the Negro work," to which Robert, God help him, had found no objection that the monster paid even the slightest attention to.

It took Robert no more than a couple of years to make himself universally disliked. Chadwick saw him as a would-be usurper of his authority, and to the slaves, he was tantamount to their owner. And his open inclination towards amelioration aggravated the island's grandees, making them fear a revolt. Slaves outnumbered them three to one, and the consequences of a revolt could be devastating.

Finally growing tired of the tug-of-war with Chadwick over control, Robert did the unthinkable: he grabbed Cameron and took to the fields. They planted, fertilized, and weeded. During the harvest they helped with cutting the canes and carrying them to the mill. The work was heavy, and they labored from dawn until dusk under the often-stifling heat of the Caribbean sun. In many ways, the ultimate test of his willpower, but every moment of toil had been worth the effort.

"Why did you do it?" Georgie asked, head tilted.

Robert sighed. "Because I was frustrated and could do precious little else, except leave, which was not an option. And because I wanted to aggravate Chadwick."

"Did it work?"

He couldn't help but smile. "He was outraged, to say the least." Robert's amusement faded immediately, leaving only the dark cloud of his memories. "He was not the only one. A few of the owners even called on me to voice their objections, and soon after began the… accidents."

Georgie froze, her eyes wide as they met his across the five feet of space between them. "What accidents?" she asked sharply.

"Trifling incidents," Robert said, waving dismissively. He told her about the tampering with his saddle and the small fire in his wing of the manor house. He even mentioned the poisoned bottle of claret. But he omitted the part about the house slave blamed for it—a man who was punished in a way that rendered him unable to tell the truth, should he even get past his fear of Chadwick to do so.

"Someone was trying to kill you?" she said, eyes lit with horror. "Who?"

"I never found out for certain, but I still refuse to believe one of the slaves was behind it. I trusted no one but Cameron, but I did sense at least a small change in the way the slaves regarded us, and I even managed to befriend one of the educated slaves who assisted with clerical tasks. Through him I learned it was the general belief that Chadwick was trying to be rid of me, possibly with many of the other owners' support."

Robert had finally been convinced when Chadwick one day uttered vague hints that because he had a younger brother, Robert was not irreplaceable. It was the most obvious warning he had ever received from the man, and it had been enough to make Cameron favor the idea of leaving the place once and for all. The Scotsman had declared that Robert's reasons for staying were noble but hardly worth dying for. And yet Robert had stood firm.

"Time passed," he said with a shrug. "Chadwick maintained his ruthless way of management, and Cameron and I continued to spend our days in the fields as well as doing what we could to improve conditions behind the monster's back."

He paused, carefully measuring his next words. "When news of my father's accident reached us, I gave Chadwick his walking papers. I sold the plantation, packed up, and went home."

It had been the only alternative he could live with, both financially and morally. To free just one slave cost two to three hundred pounds plus an annuity, and the total price Robert faced for freeing all of them would have exceeded twenty thousand pounds, an amount he quite simply did not have readily available. And he could not stomach the thought of carrying the title of "slave owner" for the rest of his life—or however long it took before the vile institution was abolished.

And still, he carried the bitterness and guilt of knowing he had given up. It was a feeling he expected to take with him to the grave, although, hopefully, the pain of it would fade before that time.

Georgie remained silent for a while.
Oh, Robert…
It was much clearer now, what had happened to the lighthearted, even-tempered Robert of her youth. She ached for his sake, for his troubled conscience. Ached to cross the gap between them and take him in her arms, to offer the comfort he so sorely needed.

But something held her back. Why had his tone become so distant all of a sudden? He could not seem to sit still now, switching his position with subtle shifts every few seconds, his knuckles white where he gripped the chair's arm. Something was not right.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"Yes."

His reply was too short, too dismissive, and Georgie shook her head. "But your father died last summer. Why did it take you nearly a year to return?"

"It took some time to settle all my affairs."

"But—"

"There's nothing more, Georgie." He straightened in his chair, and his gaze fell to her lap. "Is that me?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh. Yes, it is." She lifted the pencil from the paper as she looked down at her creation. "You don't mind?"

"That depends. May I see it?"

"Of course." Georgie kept her eyes on him as she held out the sketchpad. He met her gaze without wavering. For a little while, she had dared to let herself go back in time to when they were friends. She had almost let herself believe they could be so again. Acknowledging that his friendship was something she wanted did not gall as much as it ought to.

No, it simply hurt. As if the Robert of her youth could somehow fill a void she had long since decided didn't exist. But he was gone, and it was time she accepted that once and for all. Which was hard to do while she felt connected to him, possessive of him, drawn to him in a way she'd never experienced with another man.

Her heart lurched as he rose from his chair and settled a mere arm's length away from her on the settee. Regardless of the distance his silence had created, his nearness now opened the lid on a well of physical awareness. Her skin prickled, her senses coming alert. When his hand reached out to take the sketchpad, she nearly jumped, thinking he would touch her and knowing she'd fall into his arms if he did.

She held her breath as she awaited his reaction. She wished she'd had her watercolors when she'd done the drawing. It would have been a challenge to mix colors that'd accurately reflect the olive-green of his eyes, the walnut-brown locks of hair, and the slight shade in the faded tan of his skin where is chin dimpled.

Robert perused the sketch, his eyebrows drawn together. "Your skills have improved," he said finally. "There is great likeness."

Her stomach clenched. "But?"

He shook his head and handed the pad back to her. "But nothing. It is quite good."

She huffed. "Don't patronize me, Robert. I am more than able to handle the truth."

His gaze fell on the drawing again. "There's something not quite right, something about his countenance. That man looks as if he has not experienced a single moment of joy in his entire life."

"Perhaps he has momentarily forgotten it," she murmured. "He may need something to remind him that happiness only comes to he who welcomes it."

He looked at her then, his gaze intense and penetrating. He sat so close the scent of him filled her nostrils, and the warmth of his body teased her, tugging on her to inch closer and absorb it all.

Raising his hand to her face, he brushed his thumb across her cheek. "Perhaps he has," he said in a near whisper. "And perhaps he does."

Georgie's heartbeat quickened. She had never wanted anything so much as she wanted to kiss him. Forget crawling all over him; she wanted to crawl inside him.

The sheer force of this desire shook her, and the sliver of unease lurking in the recesses of her mind pushed its way to the forefront of her thoughts. The words "destiny" and "inevitability" swirled before her, despite the contempt she had grown to feel for them.

How to stop herself from following her body's demands? Perhaps it was impossible to retain the control she wished for. The control that had seemed effortless in Phillip's presence but which eluded her in Robert's.

"Would you like to see the others?" she said in an effort to change the subject.

His hand fell away. "The others?"

Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound deeper, almost hoarse? "My other drawings." She reached over and grabbed the brown leather-bound folder on the table next to the settee. "I don't often think any are good enough to keep, but I've done so many, there's quite a few in here."

"Of course I want to see them," he said, as if suggesting otherwise were a grave insult.

Self-conscious about pressing him to look at her sketches, she passed him the entire folder instead of handing them to him one by one. He flipped it open and pulled out the handful of papers from within. There were scenes she had observed and others spawned purely from her imagination—mainly sketches of people, since she had never quite mastered the art of depicting landscapes.

Robert studied each drawing in turn, his expression alternately solemn and amused, depending on the picture. A series of three in particular elicited his quiet chuckles. They showed a cricket match taking place right there at Kingsworth, during one of the annual house parties.

"I remember this. It was the summer before I left." He was looking at the drawing of her brother as bowler, weighing the ball in his hand before throwing it at the wicket, guarded by Tony as batsman. He set it aside to eye the next one, a drawing of a gentleman well past the blush of youth, his side-curled wig askew as he stormed across the lawn to score a run.

"Albermarle!" Robert exclaimed, laughter rumbling in his chest. "Never saw a man his age with such impressive stamina. Didn't he tear a hole in his breeches that day?"

"Oh, yes," Georgie said with a giggle. Much to Louisa's grief, her father didn't have an inhibited bone in his body. "And he finished the game that way, too, not giving a fig that all the world could see his drawers."

The last sketch showed Robert as bowler, just as he threw the ball. "Who is this?"

"It's you," she replied, pressing her lips together. How could he not see it?

He shot her an inscrutable look. "The proportions are wrong."

Georgie took the paper from him and examined it more closely. Oh, very well. Perhaps Robert was not quite so tall, nor had he, at one-and-twenty, been quite so broad-shouldered.

"I was only thirteen—" she started, halting when she saw that he had found the secret slot in the folder and was fishing out her most private drawings. "Oh no, don't—"

But he had already pulled out the first sketch. And naturally, it had to be the one of Robert and Lady Ferrers in the maze.

"Robert leaves for Barbados in a matter of days, and to-day he called on Southwell House to make his farewells. Mamma was furious when I refused to say more than "good-bye." She does not know what a Faithless, Despicable Rat he is, and so I shall forgive her for insisting that I be confined to the nursery until I have written him a letter of apology. However, I shall hang before I beg the Rat's pardon."