Remember remember, p.3
Remember, Remember, page 3
Marion is mumbling something at the far side of the cellar in a ruby satin dress; a teardrop jewel dangles at the end of her necklace as she inspects the contents of a wooden crate. Half a dozen are piled on either side of her, and as Delphine approaches, she notices the door behind Marion – which leads to the tunnel – is open.
That door is usually locked tight. Tonight, there’s a woman in the frame.
It wouldn’t be the first time Marion has brought a potential harlot in via this tunnel – entered via the disused alley at Nailer’s Yard – but she doesn’t look like a typical recruit. With tawny skin and serious eyes, she leans assuredly on one hip.
‘I didn’t know we were expecting a new girl,’ Delphine says as gently as she can. ‘Did you need me to set up a room, madame?’
From the withering glance the woman tosses in Delphine’s direction and Marion’s tutting, she sees she’s made a mistake.
‘The next shipment’ll be in a fortnight,’ the woman says, ignoring Delphine. She pushes herself away from the door and adjusts her dark cloak. ‘Anything you ken on Lord Blandford wouldnae go unthanked.’
‘Of course,’ Marion says cordially, bowing her head. Once the woman – clearly one of Marion’s smuggling connections and not a prostitute – has disappeared down the tunnel, the bawd straightens.
‘Take one of them boxes upstairs if yuh done playing a fool.’
Delphine does as she’s told, easily lifting the first open crate from the pile. It’s stuffed with rags to keep the contents secure – which could have been anything from stolen Worcester porcelain to cut-price tins of tea. One time, it was a packet of seeds for Delphine’s rooftop garden; another time, just a sheet of parchment bearing a postal address. Tonight, it’s fruit. A coconut’s black eyes and mouth stare up at her, a hairy baby tucked in a dirty cot.
Delphine rarely sees the smuggling first hand, but it’s Marion’s preferred method of acquiring and sometimes sending goods. The bawd is halfway up the stairs when an idea strikes Delphine.
‘There’s someone here to see you, madame.’
‘Eh?’
‘The boxer, Vincent Mourière.’ Delphine conveniently leaves out the words, my brother.
Marion’s intrigued hmm reverberates down the steps before she adds, ‘Arrange the fruit then.’
When Delphine emerges from the cellar with the crate, Marion is shaking Vincent’s hand in the hallway. ‘Ah, Mister Mourière,’ she says in a voice usually reserved for genteel company, ‘an honour to meet the Freedom Fighter.’
Vincent appears to flinch from his assigned title as the bawd leads him away to the receiving room.
Delphine hastily positions two coconuts, a pineapple, some greenery and other less exotic fruit on the display table by the door. Contraband fruits are a fraction of the cost they’d be if Marion legally purchased them, but still expensive enough that their abundance varies in accordance with the house’s footfall.
It has been a good year so far.
From the rainbow of drapes and soft furnishings in each room to bright island-palette outfits worn by the women, everything in the Temple of Exoticies has been carefully chosen to match its vibrant name. It’s the only bawdy house in Britain where every harlot is darker than the rum.
Following them into the receiving room, Delphine sees Marion ushering Vincent into an armchair the colour of a perfectly ripe banana. ‘Come now, Freedom Fighter.’ Her voice takes on a clipped but soothing tone, like the end of a wave hitting the shore. ‘You rest here by the fire, young man; we’ll find a warm place for you to wet your wick.’
Delphine drags a stool over to join them, then mutters into her stays, ‘He’s not here for that, madame.’
‘Well, whydya bring him here then?’ Marion snaps. Vincent jolts back in his seat as the bawd throws herself into the one opposite. ‘They outta canary in Kensington?’
Vincent keeps his head bowed as Delphine fills Marion in on the details of the evening. She’d only heard the tail end of his confrontation with Lord Harvey but remembers how tightly their master had always controlled Vincent’s movements, much more than he had hers. Male Black servants are a more valuable possession than she could ever be. And Vincent’s famous. Lord Harvey will advertise his escape in every newspaper from Hammersmith to Greenwich. If the cash reward for his apprehension isn’t enough, he’ll send thief-takers after Vincent, too. Lord Harvey won’t stop. Every second her brother remains in London makes it less likely he’ll make it out. Which brings Delphine to the idea she had in the cellar. And the favour she must ask of Marion.
By the time Delphine’s finished, Vincent’s hunched forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes are closed, his fingers interlocked as if in prayer. There hadn’t been time to ask if this was what he wanted, but now they’re here; it feels like the only way forward. They need Marion to convince the smugglers to get Vincent out of the city as soon as possible.
Marion says nothing for a moment and crosses her legs while she thinks. Then she smacks her lips. ‘I ain’t Queen Marion of the Maroons, girl. It ain’t my burden to lead slaves to freedom.’
Vincent folds further into himself, not meeting Delphine’s gaze. She should have pulled Marion aside in the cellar and asked then.
Now, her boss feels pressured. The open fire suddenly feels too hot, too close. Delphine angles herself away from it on her stool and leans towards Marion. ‘Madame, Marion, please. You’ve helped people out of worse situations.’
Marion glares at Delphine. ‘And they paid me back. You’ve got nothing but air in those pockets of yours.’
Delphine digs frantically in her pocket to grab the few pennies she won from Vincent’s match. Her fingers brush the betting slip: she’ll keep that safe and give it to Vincent later. ‘It’s not much, but take it,’ she pleads, thrusting the coins into Marion’s hands. ‘Sell all my dresses, I’ll lose my day off. You wanted to replace the cook? I’ll do that too. You wanted me to sell my potions? Fine. I’ll work from dawn to dusk. Please, madame. Get him out.’
Vincent clears his throat. ‘And I can work. I’m strong; got a head for numbers. Anything you need.’ Though his words come out steady, Delphine sees the tightness in his jaw, the shimmer coating his eyes. They both stare at Marion, a woman who has survived the middle passage, a plantation and life beyond.
The bawd considers their offer while tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair. ‘You know, Vincent,’ she says after a long pause, ‘you remin’ me of me late husban’. He were a hardworking man, too.’ This is a lie. The girls who knew Albert have often told Delphine that he was lecherous and lazy to his dying day. Marion’s voice softens as she leans into her warped memory. ‘He freed me, you know? Brought me to England on the right deck of the boat.’ The bawd pauses again and thumbs the ruby at the end of her necklace. ‘I understand what it mean to be free. If you’re true to your word and Delphine do what she say, then I’ll see what I can do.’
Vincent’s shoulders fall like a cut thread. ‘I won’t let you down.’
Marion grins. ‘Delphine, grab the rum.’
‘Thank you,’ Delphine says, her voice cracking. She springs up from the stool and lands unsteadily on her feet, momentarily unbalanced as her mountain of worry lifts. Crossing the room to the beetroot-dyed drinks cabinet, Delphine draws out a fingerprint-smeared bottle and three tumblers. As she pours, she tries to push away the feeling they’ve all but traded one master for another.
‘It’s a shame you nuh arrive an hour ago,’ Marion says to Vincent as Delphine returns to the table, ‘I could’ve sent you with the girl from the tunnels.’
Delphine pours each of them a drink and regrets that she didn’t have that idea a few moments earlier.
‘The tunnels?’ Vincent asks.
‘Ha!’ Marion chuffs, ‘I’d wager from that accent of yours you dun know nothing about real London.’
He shrugs in admission and remains silent. A wise move.
Marion sips her drink, prompting them both to do the same. ‘Let me tell you something about this city and its secrets.’
Delphine wraps her feet around one of the stool’s legs and leans forward. Marion’s about to tell one of her stories, and the bawd’s as famed for them as she is for seduction.
She begins slowly, her words soft and enticing like a feather gliding over skin. ‘Dem say this city is thousands of years old. Conquered and damaged and rebuilt so many times, there must be hundreds of tunnels hidden beneath these streets – maybe thousands. But we forget, bury our past under bricks and mortar, and them tunnels go with it. Most we leave to the duppy. But some…’ she says, her voice a shade above a whisper, ‘… we still use.’
‘Oh?’ Vincent says, masking his intrigue with another gulp of rum. ‘Mmhm,’ Marion says, glossing her lips with her tongue. ‘Some we use for running water, others for pleasure, streetwalking whores fucked against crumbling wet walls. However, there’s also a more noble group.’
Marion flashes Vincent a coy smile like she shouldn’t be telling him this, which only makes him draw closer.
It seems even the fire has ceased crackling to listen.
‘Few know where they’re based. Dem only trade with the ones dem think worthy.’ She winks. ‘With the rebels and rabble-rousers and with me, a foreign woman tryna make a name for herself. But they don’t expect no coin in return.’
‘A poor business endeavour,’ Vincent chuckles.
‘You’re wrong about that,’ Marion shakes her head. ‘There’s more to be earned in this city than money. Wealth can buy a tapestry, but power is choosing threads for the loom. Steal or swap one, and the whole picture changes.’
‘So, these people. They smuggle goods in exchange for what?’ Vincent asks, frowning. ‘Surely you pay them with something?’
‘With secrets, Freedom Fighter,’ Marion says, tossing back the rest of her drink. ‘Because a shilling will always be a shilling, but secrets you can weave into gold.’
‘And what secret will you give them to help me?’
‘If I tell you that,’ Marion says, a flicker of amusement lighting up her eyes as she rises from her chair, ‘it won’t be much of a secret, will it?’
They all laugh then, even Delphine. The evening has turned out as well as it could have. Her brother is safe for now. The rum’s dulled her fears; tomorrow, they’ll figure out more of a plan.
With a yawn, Marion stretches out her arms and says, ‘Delphine will prepare a cot for you in the cellar. Goodnight.’
As Marion treads up the stairs, they sit in contented silence. Delphine is grateful for this moment of peace with Vincent. Thankful she can take in the way the fire gently lights the side of his face. But the second they hear the bawd’s chamber door shut upstairs, Vincent’s foot starts to tap an anxious rhythm.
‘What’s wrong?’ Delphine says.
‘I can’t ask you to do this,’ Vincent says, bolting from the armchair. A weary shadow has formed over his eyes, and he envelops himself, crossing his arms over his chest. His words are muffled into his shirt sleeves, but Delphine hears them clearly: ‘I can’t stay.’
Chapter Three
I was born in slavery, but I received from nature the soul of a freeman.
—TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE
1743-1803, enslaved 1743-1776
Vincent
Harvey Plantation, St Lucia
Hurricane Season, 1757
Vincent leans against a palm tree. One hand is balanced on the trunk, the other held in a salute over his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He scans the beach, still damp from an earlier downpour, and sees no footprints. With no messages to deliver in town, he’s been searching along the shore, his face wet from tears and sea spray.
It’s been three nights since he last saw his mama. He hugged her goodbye near the waterfall and returned home to their cabin, but his mama didn’t come back at all. Thinking about it makes his stomach ache like he’s swallowed lousy water. He is asking himself for the hundredth time where she could be when a rustling noise pulls his attention away from the coastline. It might only be the wind, but he follows it, batting pink-fingered shrubs and yellow hibiscus from his path. He runs, the sand morphing into the forest floor beneath his feet. He jumps over bits of fallen branches and rocks, praying he’s headed in the right direction. Then, a small something – a small someone – runs head to chest, straight into him.
‘Watch where you headed,’ Vincent says, shrugging the small thing off him. He’s not normally so rude, but it’s been a bad day. The girl flops to the ground with a dramatic thud, her basket of herbs tumbling into the grass.
‘You daft fool,’ she says with a scowl, sounding like she grown. She can’t be more than seven or eight. It’s her four braids that give her away, the cowrie shells threaded at the ends peeking out beneath a too-big straw hat. It’s the same sun-bleached colour of her dress.
‘Why get in the way like that?’
She swings her legs around, kneeling in the grass, and begins gathering the long green fronds and fire-coloured flowers that fell out of her basket.
‘You the one in my way,’ Vincent claps back. He glances behind her in case someone else is following her, in case it’s his mama. When no one does come, the heaviness returns to his chest and disheartened; he slumps down beside her to help. ‘What kinda pick’nee goes saying daft fool?’
‘Someone with brains bigger than you,’ she says, snatching a flower from Vincent’s hands. He decides she’s what his mama would call upty.
The girl cocks her head, her scowl fading as her eyes search his face.
‘You Abigail’s boy?’ She asks like she’s been reading his thoughts. Vincent stares at her.
Even though there aren’t many kids on the plantation, he’s not seen this girl around. The couple of kids he does know, he doesn’t know well – they spend their days in the cutting or weed-pulling gangs. Vincent is a messenger instead.
When they ask him why he gets an easy job, he tells them it’s only ‘cause his mama’s a free Carib. His daddy was a slave, and that makes Vincent a slave, too, but his mama says it won’t always be that way. He doesn’t tell the others that though, because he doesn’t believe it.
Maybe the girl just want to hear that story. Or maybe she know where his mama is.
‘Might be,’ he says, cautiously replacing the last fronds in her basket. ‘Who are you?’
‘Name’s Delphine. My mama sent me to find you.’ She puts her hand over his, and before Vincent can ask why, she smiles and says in that odd grown way, ‘Don’t fret, boy, I’m here to help.’
Neither of them knows just how much he is going to need it.
The Temple Of Exoticies, Soho
6th May 1770
‘What?’ Delphine croaks.
In her eyes, Vincent sees the weight of the world reflected back at him. He knows all too well what his sister is feeling from her shoulders, held a fraction too stiff.
Pressure.
It’s all he ever feels, too.
He wants to tell her he’s grateful for all she’s done. For helping him flee, for Marion, for the smugglers. For being his sister ever since his mother abandoned him.
It wasn’t unusual for Abigail to spend the night away from Vincent. Until the night of the gathering, he’d sleep soundly while she was away, confident she’d return to make his runny eggs in the morning. She was always a loving mother and, though they had little, generous with her time and affection.
But in the weeks before she left, Abigail had been acting strangely, disappearing for longer during the day and lavishing her son with gifts on her return. She brought colourful beads for his cornrows, a new woollen blanket and hand-carved wooden toys. He never thought to ask where they were from. Now, he assumes they were to lighten her guilt at leaving him behind.
It was months before he gave up his search. Years before he stopped seeing his mother around every corner, in every dream, every shadow.
Their neighbours supposed that, since she was a free woman, she had simply had enough of living among slaves.
Vincent never blamed her for leaving. Evidently, she’d felt the pressure, too. And when Delphine’s family took him in, he was too grief-stricken to thank them.
He wants to say all this to Delphine. But the words don’t come up. They sit in shame, a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He unfolds his arms and paces between the chair and the fireplace. ‘If I stay and they find us, you know what will happen.’
Every moment he spends here increases the risk they’re both caught. If he’s dragged to the gallows, he’ll find a way to make peace with it, but he wouldn’t forgive himself if they took her as well.
His mama was free, and it was his birth that trapped her on the plantation. He felt no guilt about this as a child, but he’s old enough now. There’s no way he can stay here and trap Delphine, too.
Delphine stares at him as if she can’t believe he’d say that. ‘I made my choice the second I entered that dressing room. And Marion knows what she’s doing. Trust her.’ She seems to mean, trust me.
Of course Vincent trusts his sister. But Marion? She is a stranger to him, and as much as he enjoyed her story, smugglers aren’t like Robin Hood. What’s to stop them arranging his passage one day and then selling his whereabouts the next?
‘I know you both want to do the right thing,’ he says, in case interested ears are still listening, ‘but the safest option is for me to leave.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘No. Delphine, you have a life here.’
Delphine scoffs. ‘Some life.’
Vincent wants to deny it, but looking about the receiving room, he finds little evidence of a life Delphine would wish for. The thriving roses beneath the windows are his sister’s handiwork, but the crudely painted urns? The gaudy furnishings? It’s a caricature of how he imagines white men view the Caribbean – a place for pleasure and business but not a home.
Maybe if they leave now, it would be enough of a head start on the slavecatchers or whichever brutes come after him.
