Page 9 of Murder in Moonlight
She blinked. “Then you pay your workers a living wage now?”
“Don’t allow my daughter to catechize you, sir,” Mrs. Winsom said on his other side, frowning direly beyond his shoulder at Ellen. “You are hardly responsible for the slave trade and all its ills!”
“There is an argument that we are all responsible,” Solomon said mildly. By then, he was aware of others around the table listening in without appearing to. Opposite him, Ivor Davidson was smiling with rather malicious amusement.
“Did you mistreat your slaves?” Ellen asked with a defiant glare at her mother. “Before they were freed?”
“If you mean physical mistreatment, no, I didn’t, though I know it happened elsewhere. But, of course, the whole practice was abuse.”
She seemed to accept that, a frown tugging at her brow as she gazed at him searchingly. “You are sympathetic. Perhaps you have slaves among your ancestors.”
He smiled slightly because she had, very probably, addressed the elephant in the room. His African ancestry was as obvious as his European, if one cared to look.
“Ellen!” exclaimed her mother, sacrificing the polite custom of only addressing one’s immediate neighbors at the table.
“Indubitably,” Solomon said. “My grandfather—er…freed himself, and farmed in the hills. My mother was very fiercely free, but still chose to marry my father.”
“How romantic,” Ellen exclaimed, her eyes shining.
Solomon let it go. Itwasromantic, after all. Recriminations and prejudices did not change that.
“Why did you leave Jamaica?” Ellen asked a little later.
“To see the world and to make money,” Solomon replied promptly. “There is little profit in plantations nowadays, so I moved into shipping and other ventures. London is really the center of the world’s trade.”
“That’s what Papa says.”
It was what “Papa” had to say about his time in Jamaica that truly interested Solomon. His chance came after dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn and decanters of port and brandy werebeing passed around the table. The strong scent of cigar smoke filled the room.
Solomon had hoped for a more relaxed atmosphere without the distraction of the women, but despite the alcohol and tobacco, he still sensed an edge. Whether that was because Solomon was an outsider or because there was tension among the others, he did not yet know.
Opposite him, Ivor Davidson gazed broodingly up the table to his host.
Randolph, who had perhaps indulged in too much wine at dinner and was onto his second generous port, passed the decanter on to him. “Cheer up,” he murmured. “He only does it because he can, you know. Once you’re aware of his power, he might change his mind.”
Davidson curled his lip, though whether at Randolph or the subject of his remarks—presumably Walter Winsom—was not clear.
At the other end of the table, Bolton was talking animatedly to his host, his posture both urgent and confiding, until abruptly, Winsom addressed the room at large on the subject of horse racing, leaving Bolton cut off in mid-sentence. It was the first sign of ill nature that Solomon had seen.
A little later, returning from the cloakroom, Winsom sank into the chair next to Solomon’s and poured some brandy into a fresh glass before topping up Solomon’s.
“Tell me about Jamaica,” he said. “Do you miss it?”
“Yes,” Solomon said truthfully. “I miss the sunshine and the colors. The sheer brightness. Do you?”
“I did at first, though I left in a hurry, and it was a good time to go.”
“How so?”
“It was during the slave revolt of 1831. I don’t suppose you remember it.”
“I was ten years old. I remember it vividly.”
“It must have been terribly frightening for you as a child. Was there violence at your estate?”
“Some. We were to the southwest of the island.”
“I was mainly in the east and I did not own slaves, but yes, that was when I realized there was no money in Jamaica anymore. At least, not for me. Plus, the violence appalled me, both that of the rebels and of the men who put them down. I could not see my way to deal with such immorality. I joined the Anti-Slavery League as soon as I got home.”
