He did not mention the contract or Lord Harvey lowering the odds of Vincent’s boxing matches. Has he forgotten to add those salient points to his speech? Or has he left them out on purpose?

  The Chief Justice peers at Nick over his spectacles. ‘Are you quite finished, Counsel Lyons?’ His tone is soft but stern, like a grandfather who has witnessed a child steal a treat from a confectioner’s bowl.

  No, Delphine wills him to say.

  ‘Yes, your lordship,’ he says. Delphine curses under her breath.

  ‘In that case, the court is now ready to make its ruling.’

  At this, Delphine looks to Vincent, who seems to be staring above the crowd into nothingness.

  She wonders what he would have said, if he was allowed to make a closing statement of his own. Perhaps he will tell her after the ruling – or perhaps, if the verdict is in Lord Harvey’s favour, she will never have the chance to ask him.

  ‘A little over six months ago,’ Lord Mansfield continues, ‘Vincent Mourière was forcibly removed from 35 Carnaby Street and chained aboard Lord Reginald Harvey’s ship, the Ann and Mary. From there, he was set to be transported back to the West Indian island whence he had originated. It has been the argument of Lord Harvey and his counsel that he has the right to assert where and how Mister Mourière’s days are spent, as from birth, it has always been. This power of dominion, exerted by a master over his slave, is so extraordinary that it could only be permitted if such a right were recognised by the law of the country where it is used: England.’

  He pauses, now addressing the black-coated West India merchants who are standing angrily in one corner of the courtroom – the individuals have varied over the course of the trial, but they’re easily identifiable by the way they raise their noses as a Negro passes them, how they rub imaginary stains from their jackets. ‘I am aware of the economic consequences that pertain to this ruling, but this court is beholden to the law of this land, not to the masters and plantation owners who dwell in it. Nor is it beholden to the slaves—’ he looks directly at Vincent, here, ‘—no matter how educated and well-presented they may be.’

  ‘This case has been complicated, not least due to improper displays of emotion on the part of both the defence and the prosecution. In addition, the testimonies of certain parties have been proven to be calculated falsehoods.’ The Chief Justice looks sternly at Vincent again; Vincent’s brow creases for a moment. Is he thinking what Delphine’s thinking – that she was wrong to get his hopes up?

  ‘It is, therefore, on the presentation of that evidence and the arguments exhibited in this court these last months that I now give the following rulings…’

  Delphine leans forward on the bench. Silently praying one last time for Mansfield to make the right decision.

  ‘Though the tradition of slavery has been upheld in England for centuries, tradition is not the same as law. What’s more, this court finds the state of slavery to be so outdated, so odious that nothing can be suffered to support it. Therefore, whatever inconveniences may follow from this decision, the court agrees to uphold the 1596 ruling that a slave shall be free as he sets foot on English ground, that the transportation and selling of slaves is not legal on these shores. Therefore, the Black must be discharged.’

  Stunned silence lingers in the courtroom as the spectators take in the monumental impact of the words that have just been spoken.

  Delphine’s heart soars, lifting her to her feet. The eyes drawn to her are unimportant. They do not matter. Neither does it matter whether or not Nick delivered the contract, the score tallies or the betting slip to the court. All that matters is this: every Negro in England is now free.

  She claps once, twice, three times before the cheering starts, before the man beside her rises to join in. Then the brown-skinned woman next to him, the olive-toned man next to her, and on and on – wave after wave of unrestrained jubilation.

  Some dance on the benches, some weep into their kerchiefs. Delphine makes eye contact with a white gentleman she’s encountered at the Exoticies. Since becoming the housekeeper, she’s more familiar with his face than other parts. However, his blushing recognition still adds to her joy before they both return to their celebrations.

  Within this sea of triumph are the indignant shouts of the red-faced sugar merchants and chattel traders. But their words cannot hurt Vincent now: they are hurling abuse from the wrong side of history.

  The Chief Justice must have banged his gavel at some point because the ushers begin to beckon for quiet. It’s at least a minute before the court settles down, and even then, there’s not quite silence.

  Vincent remains seated, luminous, with a cheek-aching smile.

  He has changed the world.

  Evidently realising this happy hum is as quiet as the assembly will get, the Chief Justice projects out to the courtroom. ‘Then there is the matter of the contract. I had been willing to overlook Mister Mourière’s testimony that such a document existed until this morning, when I found it directly before me. The signatures thereon are undeniably and verifiably those of Lord Harvey and Mourière.’ A grateful shiver passes through Delphine – like she’s stepped into a fire-warmed room after being caught in the rain. From the way the colour has returned to Nick’s cheeks, she can tell he’s relieved too. Perhaps Mansfield hadn’t outright agreed to take the evidence into consideration when Nick presented it.

  ‘Vile snake!’ Lord Harvey spits, twisting his head towards Nick. ‘Insolent thief!’

  His nephew ignores him. As does Mansfield.

  ‘And on the matter of the contract,’ Lord Mansfield continues, holding the document aloft for the court to see, ‘this document clearly states that Lord Harvey was to pay the sum of one hundred and sixty pounds to Mister Mourière upon his earning that amount through boxing matches. Mister Mourière has not only earned but exceeded this sum, despite Lord Harvey’s best efforts to conceal that fact—’ Here he holds up the score tally and betting slip, ‘—by various fraudulent and deceitful means. This court upholds that contract, and orders that Lord Harvey settle his debt to the defendant, which now stands at two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Ludicrous!’ Lord Harvey shouts, face turning the same shade of vermillion as his jacket.

  ‘An outrage!’ cries another white man. But the outrage is drowned out once more by the thunder of applause.

  As Mansfield rises from his bench with a weary grimace, Delphine reasons that this decision was not easy for him. The retaliation he’ll face from the gentry will be significant. But at this moment, those ramifications feel all too distant from her to dwell upon.

  Next, the other Justices stand to vacate the court, and hosts of Black and brown spectators bow to them from their pews. Delphine joins in, for once lowering her head out of choice – these men have earned her respect.

  She badly wants to leap the barriers and embrace Vincent, but it’s already too late – he is gleefully allowing the ushers to guide him towards the clerks’ exit. She watches him take his first steps as a freedman.

  A free man.

  The light from the honeycomb window glints in his eyes, and he clutches his heart, tipping his head to Delphine before ducking out of the courtroom.

  Lifting a hand to her cheek, Delphine finds it wet with warm, happy tears.

  Then she startles – somehow, Nick has clambered over the barrier and is by her side, grinning.

  ‘We did it,’ he says.

  She returns his smile. ‘We did.’

  Looking at Nick in this moment, she is drawn back once again to that day at the docks. When he asked for her trust, and she gave it. Those first attempts at friendship felt so unnatural then.

  Delphine may not be able to hug one brother right now, but she can embrace a friend.

  Before she can extend her arm towards him, Nick is tugged away by his robe. He stumbles backwards into the crowd and Delphine comes face to face with another man – a man who is now one slave down and two hundred pounds poorer.

  If Vincent was shining with joy, Lord Harvey is all shadow. The absence of emotion in his voice frightens her far more than his rage ever did.

  ‘A reckoning is coming, girl,’ he says. ‘And you will be the first to feel it.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  My freedom is a privilege which nothing else can equal.

  —VENTURE SMITH

  1729-1805, enslaved 1735-1765

  Vincent

  Free.

  Vincent is free.

  It’s as if an orb of light has bloomed inside him, beaming through his body, tingling down his arms and cheeks, spilling out in golden steps as he is led from the courtroom. It is eleven o’clock on the twenty-second of October, 1770. The start of the rest of his life.

  ‘Free,’ he whispers, savouring the word on his tongue.

  It is a breeze through a wheat field.

  Cool water gliding over skin.

  It is heaven.

  Walking along the corridor, he mentally rehearses his thanks to Nick, his compatriots, and his godparents.

  Before Mansfield gave his ruling, he’d been riling himself up to ask if he could speak to the court. To tell his story – in the way he wanted to, at last – before he learned his fate. But something stopped him. It wasn’t fear or doubt but acceptance. A calm sense that no matter what he said, it would not change the trial’s outcome. That he would survive, no matter what came next.

  Perhaps one day, he will voice those words. But first, he needs to find his sister.

  Make plans for their adventures to come in Somerset.

  Buy all the lemon bonbons they can eat.

  And give her the letter waiting on his desk at the prison.

  So she can learn exactly who visited him in his cell the other day, and also what he’s learned from that bird.

  He wonders what she will do with that information.

  But such conundrums can wait. For the first time in Vincent’s life, he does not look down as he walks. That effortless confidence he’s seen in so many men and women of paler complexion is his now. Finally, he’s been granted the sense of autonomy he’s been reaching for since birth.

  His mother was right, after all, when she told him he wouldn’t always be a slave.

  He slips a hand into his pocket to touch the little wooden bird. The court usher is guiding him towards the small back room where he, Nick and Delphine have all but taken up residence these last months. But when they arrive there, the usher walks on.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asks, every syllable said with a smile.

  ‘The Lord Chief Justice requests an audience with you.’

  Requests. Not demands. Not orders. With every heartbeat, he finds something new to celebrate.

  The usher raps on the arched door to Mansfield’s chambers with his ringed fingers. ‘Good show, Mister Mourière,’ he says softly to Vincent, then a clerk opens the door and bids Vincent to come inside.

  Entering the room, Vincent looks down at the white wainscoting – Lord Harvey had the same style on the lower drawing room walls at 20 St James’s Square. Perhaps one day he’ll own a home with something similar – if only to delight in tearing off each panel with a crowbar.

  Lord Mansfield is sitting in front of the fireplace at the far end of the room in one of two forest-green jacquard velvet armchairs. He still wears his robe but has removed his wig and spectacles. They perch neatly on the small Pembroke table beside him.

  ‘Sit with me if you will, Mister Mourière.’ He gestures to the unoccupied chair.

  To suppress a grin, Vincent purses his lips together. How long will this elation last, he wonders?

  The lord gives a little nod as Vincent sits down, then narrows his eyes slightly and takes a deep breath.

  Evidently he is considering what he will say next carefully.

  In the beat of silence, Vincent’s left leg begins to shake up and down in his seat. He’s restless for his new life to begin.

  ‘Now,’ the Chief Justice says, picking up his spectacles to clean them on his robe. ‘Mister Mourière. May I call you Vincent?’ He glances up briefly to seek Vincent’s agreement before continuing. ‘This divide we men have made between ourselves. Black and white. Master and slave. I have come to learn recently that it is entirely of our divination.’ Vincent waits for the lord to continue. If the rumour about his mulatto niece is true, perhaps that’s what gave him this newfound perspective.

  But to assume anything about the man would be a mistake – Vincent senses there’s more complexity to Mansfield than that.

  ‘It is significant, this ruling,’ the Justice says. ‘Not only for slaves in England, but throughout the world. For England has long been a tastemaker of what is done, and now that we have definitively declared domestic slavery to be wrong… Well, one can imagine what might come next.’

  His glasses cleaned, he tilts his head to examine his handiwork and, seemingly satisfied, places them back on his face. He blinks and makes a little ah noise, like he is only just seeing Vincent for the first time.

  ‘When you have ruled on as many cases as I have, Vincent, when you have had a career as long and if I may say – not so humbly – as great as my own, you come to learn a few things about human nature.’ He briefly approaches the fire, warming his hands before returning them to his lap. ‘And so, to my point. There will be many who are upset by what has happened here today. You would do well to remain inconspicuous until the newspapers and nobility have something else to gossip about.’

  Fame, or rather infamy, is not what Vincent seeks. It is fickle and fleeting, another kind of chain. He’d not sought it while boxing. Nor does he want that attention now. Vincent is content with his mark upon the world, to let the rest of his story belong to him alone.

  ‘A wise suggestion, my lord.’

  The Chief Justice smiles warmly. ‘Once they have moved on, I have no say over what you do with your time, but I would implore you to use the freedom you have been given. That is not to say you cannot have a small life, if peace and quiet are your greatest wishes. But grasp this ruling and do something with it.’

  He rises, joints creaking as he accompanies Vincent to the door.

  ‘I cannot promise you an easy life, Vincent.’ Lord Mansfield turns the handle, and rests a familial hand on Vincent’s shoulder before using it to urge him over the threshold. ‘But the one you have now is your own.’

  When the Chief Justice has pressed the door shut, Vincent lingers in the corridor to lean against the wall, thinking of the future and of Somerset.

  So this money he has earned will be put to good use. For him. His future children. For now, at last, Vincent permits himself to imagine them.

  A cottage. An orchard. To reap what he sows, create and cultivate new life.

  On exiting the courthouse, Vincent lifts his face to the sun, basking in its warmth.

  Delphine and Nick are in the middle of the yard, conversing with who he assumes to be a newspaperman. He attempts to hurry towards them, but on his first step forward, he is swarmed by well-wishers.

  ‘Congratulations!’ one Black man cheers.

  ‘Freedom Fighter!’ another calls out.

  ‘The best of men,’ says another, seizing Vincent’s hand. ‘The very best.’ Unsure what to say, Vincent allows his hand to be shaken. Again and again and again. He stammers words of thanks. Even kisses a baby’s head when the child is thrust in his face.

  A white man nudges his way to the front of the crowd, takes off his tricorne and holds it to his heart. ‘You must come to my tavern to celebrate, sir! It’s The Dolphin on Red Lion Street.’ The man grins with crooked teeth.

  ‘Of course,’ Vincent agrees. He feels tears spring in his eyes, unsure if it’s from gratification or from the man’s rancid breath. In a dozen steps forward, he’s invited to twice as many parties and dinners. The crowd doesn’t look like it’s thinning out, and as wonderful as it is to be inundated with pleasantries, he would very much like to go and hug his sister.

  Craning his neck to see over his new friends’ heads, he gives her and Nick a little wave.

  They wave back. His sister mouths for him to enjoy this moment before throwing a triumphant punch in the air.

  The jubilation continues. Vincent is heaped with praise and congratulated for being exactly what this country needs. Most of their faces are Black or brown, but paler ones are growing in number among them. He reaches out to shake one of their hands – but soon regrets it. The white man’s grip is too firm. Just overexcited, Vincent thinks. There is a lot to be excited about.

  Another white man appears, this one wearing a grey highwayman mask. Vincent is on edge now: the man’s forehead and eyes are covered, exposing a crooked nose, and his broad shoulders are arched with menace. The masked man takes a step towards him, followed by two more. He stops a foot too close for polite conversation, and Vincent retreats to diffuse the tension but finds himself backed up against another masked individual.

  ‘What cheer, sirs?’ His voice wavers as he lifts a hand half in greeting, half in self-defence.

  A dark cloud descends over the sky; goose pimples prickle on Vincent’s skin.

  ‘What cheer indeed,’ the first man croaks, scowling at Vincent with his beady black eyes. The man behind grabs at Vincent’s coat, pulls it off him. As Vincent staggers forward to get away, his little wooden bird flies from his pocket, past the first man’s boots, before clattering on the cobblestones. Vincent’s chin hits the ground a moment after, sending his skull rattling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ someone in the crowd shouts.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Help!’

  The kick comes anyway. Then another thud. A scream. Next come the pain and four more men.

  Strange purple and red lights sparkle in Vincent’s vision. He blinks and Westminster falls away.

  He’s in the countryside, collecting the last apples of autumn.

 

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