No adjusting of July’s red kerchief upon her head made her feel worthy to linger within the wake of this fair-skinned beauty. In her ugly grey skirt, with the rip at the knee that was stitched so badly in black, her yellowing blouse with no button left upon the fraying cuffs, and her skin, of course, so nasty dark, July was shameful as a field nigger. But then as July, with her head bowed, stepped to pass that elegant miss upon that shabby street, she heard, ‘Ah, Miss July, you walking to town this day?’
It was with revulsion that July at once realised this coloured woman she was glorifying was Miss Clara. Come, if July had recognised her haughty figure before, there would have been no meeting. For our July would have dived into the cover of near bush, or stood skinny behind the pillar of a house, so Miss Clara could not find her.
Reader, you must remember Miss Clara? I have written of her before. Miss Clara, who was once the house slave at Prosperity? Who did feign to faint away at any rough word? ‘Is it me dress you like or me pretty fair face that make you stare so,’ Miss Clara. The quadroon whose papa was a naval man from Scotch land. Yes, that one! The dreadful Miss Clara. Come, let me tell you of her.
Miss Clara did grab her freedom before many others. Not because she continued to brandish those aging manumit papers that her papa did bequeath her within her missus’s face. No. Miss Clara’s missus was pleased to watch her haughty backside sashay out of her employ for, ‘But me be a quadroon, missus,’ was all she would say to each and every task required of her. Soon the choosing of her missus’s attire for the day—or for the evening—was all Miss Clara would deign to do. The thirty-one pounds compensation money for the loss of Miss Clara as her slave was of much more value to her missus.
Then, once free, Miss Clara proceeded to flounce into town to begin a little business. Like so many other women with tinted complexions varying from honey to milk and oft-talked of papas—from England, Ireland, Scotland or Wales, fine, upstanding, white gentleman all—the cooking and selling of jams and pickles became her employ.
Her ginger preserve and lime pickle were popular, but her guava jelly . . . ‘Miss Clara’s guava jelly—oh, have you tried it?’ soon became the call of so many white people within the parish. Caroline Mortimer sent July often to Miss Clara’s little shack upon Trelawny Street. (Oh, I must call it a shop, for Miss Clara may read this volume.) And every time July entered that shop, Miss Clara’s green eyes and delicate mouth would conspire to sneer pitifully upon her. ‘Oh, Miss July,’ she would say, ‘your missus send you all this way on this hot-hot day for me guava jelly? But you must be tired out,’ before inflicting one big-big jar upon July that could hardly be lifted as she said, ‘Me know your missus love it so. Me make this just for her.’
Her make it? Cha! You think you would ever see Miss Clara’s pretty fair face leaning over a steaming pot? ‘No, me is a quadroon. But me supervise the cook-up in every way,’ was her answer. And hear this, Miss Clara’s recipe for guava jelly was her secret, she proclaimed—she would allow no one to have it. It was to be her companion within her grave.
But why should my readers have to tarry so long? Here is that unsaid recipe for you to cook-up if you so wish: Take the basket of guava and cut and boil them in the usual way until they are soft; put the mush-mush in muslin to hang till morning so the liquor will drain; add as much sugar and the juice of a lime to the liquor; then (and here is Miss Clara’s big-big secret) fish out the flies and spice up with cinnamon and rum; and boil it, boil it, boil it, until the jelly forms.
There—Miss Clara’s grave need now only carry her pretty fair bones.
With the plenty profits Miss Clara made from her preserving, and a little money she did receive from the selling of simples for the relieving of indigestion and bilious complaints, she took upon herself the arranging of a series of social dances and gatherings at the assembly rooms within the town. This society was sorely needed. For an unfortunate acquaintance of Miss Clara’s (let me not use her name, but just say that she was a mulatto woman whose papa was a lawyer-man from County Wexford in Ireland), had been pressed by a coloured man into keeping house for him. This coloured man said that his mama was a mulatto housekeeper from Westmoreland. He then swore that his papa was a book-keeper from London Town. This would make him a quadroon, and a quadroon was what this honey-coloured man avowed himself to be.
But the subsequent child that was born to this mulatto and supposed quadroon came forth dark as cocoa nut! How could this be, Miss Clara’s friend wailed? Far from raising that mulatto woman’s colour nearer to white, her offspring had taken her backwards. Yet, despite the shame of this rogue pickney, the woman refused to give up either the deceiving man or the sable child. Miss Clara could no longer be a friend to her.
But Miss Clara determined that she would lose no more from within her circle after her mulatto seamstress, believing her union to be with a mulatto man (which Miss Clara had cautioned her against, for only another worthless mulatto could result), found the smooth-tongued man to be nothing more than red negro. A sambo was brought forth into this world, and a broad-nosed one at that. Come, Miss Clara was left with no one to stitch her fine needlework.
The tar brush, reader, is quick to lick. For a mulatto with a negro, or a quadroon with a sambo, will produce the misfortune of a retrograde child. And that dusky offspring will be sent nowhere but spinning back down to sup with the niggers in the fields. A mulatto with a mulatto, or a quadroon with a quadroon, will find you suckling a ‘Tente-en-el-aire’ —a suspended child. They will neither lift forward to white, nor drop back to negro.
Only with a white man, can there be guarantee that the colour of your pickney will be raised. For a mulatto who breeds with a white man will bring forth a quadroon; and the quadroon that enjoys white relations will give to this world a mustee; the mustee will beget a mustiphino; and the mustiphino . . . oh, the mustiphino’s child with a white man for a papa, will find each day greets them no longer with a frown, but welcomes them with a smile, as they at last stride within this world as a cherished white person.
Forward only to white skin became Miss Clara’s mission.
So only white men were allowed introduction to the coloured women at Miss Clara’s Friday dances. Be he a red-haired attorney from Galashiels who talked of nothing but home; a drunken Bristol naval man with a fearsome crimson face; a handsome Irish overseer who never learned to dance; a lecherous planter from Liverpool who had many more than two hands, or a foppish merchant from Surrey with plenty missing teeth, as long as their money tinkled with the correct sound, any of these white men would be welcome to partner her coloured women for a quadrille or a scottish reel. Or fetch them some Madeira and punch. Or perhaps take their arms for a stroll in the evening air. But only white men.
It was a great relief to all. Soon, ‘Have you been to Miss Clara’s dances? Oh, you must come to Miss Clara’s’, became the call of all coloured women within the parish. And Miss Clara did puff up and puff up higher than any guava jelly did ever take her.
But do you believe Miss Clara would let someone like our July walk happily into that exalted company? For the coloured women who desired association with these white men, Miss Clara prepared a list of features that they simply must possess to be approved admittance. July advanced no more than to the door of one of these gatherings before Miss Clara descended upon her.