So July decided she would speak no more unless he continued to press her. The beat of the pony’s hooves clopping upon the road and the rhythm within the squeaking and creaking wooden cart made a queer sort of music as they travelled. And although July was wishing to appear as demure as a white lady touring within a carriage as she sat with her hands resting together upon her lap, she was mightily aware that the overseer’s leg was pressing hard against her own. She could feel it tensing stiff as he held himself steady with the effort of guiding the cart and pony. Once a tricky movement was complete she felt the strong muscle of his thigh ease and relax. His jacket sleeves were rolled up about his elbows and exposed the tiny black hairs upon his bare forearms to quiver with the breeze of his motion; while his hands, gripping the reins, were held dainty as if leading a woman to dance. And July did sniff a sweet scent of wood-smoke drifting from him.
But as she craftily glanced upon his face and beheld his eyelashes—which were so dark and lush as to appear like a silk fringe upon his lids—she was at once aware that if she was noticing all about him, then would not he be slyly assessing her; the badly stitched tear in her ugly grey skirt, the tatty red kerchief upon her head hiding her picky-picky hair, her still-too-broad nose, her dull-brown eyes and, of course, her black skin? July became rigid with unease as the cart bumped upon the road and gently threw them together—sometimes her against him and sometimes him against her.
When the watchman’s stone hut at the gate of Amity appeared in the near distance, July longed to assure this white man, before they parted, that she was not a rough negro. No. She was a mulatto. Even though he may see her skin to be a shade too dusky, she wished him the comfort of knowing that she was not a nigger’s pickney, but a white man’s child. So she breached that silence she had so hard determined to keep by saying, ‘Massa, you ever been Scotch Land?’
‘Scotland?’ Robert Goodwin enquired with some puzzlement. ‘No, but I’ve heard it is very beautiful. But why do you ask?’
‘Me papa be from Scotch Land,’ July was pleased to be able to inform him.
‘Your father was a Scotch man?’
‘Oh yes, he be from Scotch Land.’
‘Your father was a white man?’
‘Oh yes. Me be a mulatto, not a negro.’
‘A mulatto?’
‘Yes, a mulatto. You must not think me a nigger, for me is a mulatto.’ July then waited to witness his esteem. She was sure it would be forthcoming. But the overseer’s expression did not exclaim joy at her salvation. Come, there were those reddening cheeks, that swelling chest and pinching lips once more. But why? July was truly bewildered.
‘Did your father know you, Miss July?’
And Tam Dewar was once more called upon to step up and take his part within July’s narration. ‘Oh yes.’ July said.
‘Was he good to you?’
‘Good to me, massa?’ July faltered, for she did not want to construct a tale of that devilish man’s goodness only for Robert Goodwin to frown it away.
‘Did he give you his name?’ the white man went on, ‘Did he see you were baptised? Were you schooled?’
July nearly threw up her arms to the heavens—she felt to scream, for this man was vexing her so. What fanciful fiction she would have to weave to please him—for surely no truth could help her win this young man’s favour. So she said, ‘Him say him would one day take me to Scotch Land. Him did say him would take me . . . one day,’ while all the while examining the young overseer’s face for distress. When he continued to merely listen and nod, she carried on, ‘Him did put me ’pon him knee and him did pinch me cheeks just so.’ And she demonstrated this pinching upon her own cheeks, pulling them wide to show her papa’s playfulness. ‘And me papa did say, “One day, me little cherish,”—for him did call me “me little cherish”—“me gon’ bring you to Scotch Land”.’
And the overseer’s face did soften a little . . . perhaps.
‘What was your father’s name?’
‘Me papa name be Mr Tam Dewar.’
‘Tam Dewar,’ the overseer repeated, ‘I know that name. Was he not the overseer at Amity once upon a time?’
‘Yes,’ July said. ‘Him was a fine overseer. Him be a kind-kind massa to all.’
‘Was Tam Dewar married to your mother, Miss July?’
What sort of fool-fool question was this? Tell me, reader, did you ever, up to now, hear of an overseer upon a sugar plantation thinking to marry a slave he has befouled? A senseless liar would July be proved if she answered him, ‘Yes’. And a ‘No’ would surely see this man turn from her.
July all at once gave up the whole notion of charming this white man, for there was too much work to do within it. And what a foolish endeavour it was. She needed no glass to tell her that she was too dark and lowly a house servant for a man so fine English as Robert Goodwin to find beauty within her. So although July did not, with honesty, answer that her papa just bent her mama over several times to do his business, but that her mama did later kill him for it, there was some nimble truth-tripping within what she actually said. ‘Him pass on, massa. Jus’ as me papa was to take me mama, them both dead in the riots.’ Then, as the words left July’s mouth, she lifted her hands to her eyes. To stop her tears from flowing? No. This was just fancy feigning.
Now believing her to be crying, Robert Goodwin was suddenly concerned. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I upset you?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me,’ he demanded. Then, within a brief moment, he placed his hand tenderly upon July’s arm. And that touch did tingle upon her skin so.
Of course July fell against him as he helped her down from the cart, for she tripped her foot upon the board—it is easily done from a pony cart. And in his embrace to steady her, he held her solid and firm within his arms for a long moment. Their faces were so close that July took breath from the same air as he, while his clear blue eyes never strayed from hers.
‘Miss July,’ he said while releasing her, ‘I have a book on Scotland.’ He took a breath with which to continue, but faltered. His tongue licked to moisten his lips as he went on, ‘It was given to me as a gift.’ He glanced quickly about himself before saying with a hushed tone, ‘Perhaps you will allow me to show it to you one day?’ Then he stepped back away from July so quickly that some might consider that he jumped. And his face blushed pink as a boiled shrimp as he raised his hat to her in parting.
‘T’ank you, massa,’ July responded with a broad smile, ‘Me will.’
White muslin, July decided as he, calling for Byron to attend the pony, walked away. A white muslin dress would be her desire.
Robert Goodwin was resting within his hammock so peacefully that as July tip-toed up the steps of his veranda she motioned to two mockingbirds to hush their trilling song. They would not be stilled by her waving hand, nor by the small stone she aimed upon them within the bough of the orange tree. But their persistent carry-on was not troubling the overseer within his midday slumber. It was a week since July had last gazed on him and she stood over him a long while.
She had never before seen anyone, except perhaps a newborn, lying so tranquil upon this island. His dangling legs were splayed over each side of the hammock. His feet were bare; his tall leather boots standing patient and purposeful at the side. The white shirt he wore was untied at the neck to reveal the shy black hair upon his chest curling out from beneath the cloth. One arm was crooked under his sleeping head, while the other was thrown across his forehead with dramatic gesture. Long and straight was his nose. Thin and wide was his mouth. And so still was he in repose that, excepting for the faintest drone of a snore that hummed from him, he could have been dead.