‘No, massa,’ July said, ‘me come to see the book.’

Still dazed as a small boy roused before sunrise, he asked, ‘The book?’

‘With picture of Scotch Land?’ July reminded him.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. The mockingbirds—there are two in that tree—they were singing so beautifully I just fell asleep for a moment.’

‘Yes—them does surely like to sing,’ July said. While he, as if perceiving her for the first time, passed one long gaze over her—from the tip of her unclothed toes to the top of her well-dressed head. Then he managed to repeat the words, ‘The book,’ before all his breath and most of his sense left him.

At once he began looking around himself as if searching for someone to rescue him. So awkward did he become that he could no longer regard July’s face, and speak. As his mouth opened to say, ‘Are you . . . are you . . . ?’ he examined his bare feet. As he attempted to begin once more, with a little more clarity, ‘Miss July, are you . . . ?’ he sought to catch sight of the mockingbirds within the tree. And as he gulped to say finally, ‘Are you alone?’ it was his wringing hands that held his attention. When July answered with a gay, ‘Yes’, come, the man nearly swooned.

Suddenly he turned to walk into the house saying, ‘I have it somewhere in here. It may take me a little while to . . .’ before turning to gaze once more upon July. His barefoot stride continued only after he bit his lip to summon his fortitude.

July followed him through that door, very close behind.

‘You have plenty book on Scotch Land, massa?’ she asked as she strolled around his small withdrawing room. She stopped to look upon a side cupboard on which rested a draggletailed posy of pink periwinkles within a blue vase. And by its side was a miniature portrait within a metal frame, no bigger than a missus locket that was worn about the neck. The picture showed a severe-looking white man with bushy whiskers staring back upon her. July leaned in close to view the fine details—there was a cross at his neck and a ring upon his hand, but she saw no more for she straightened again when the overseer said, ‘No, I just have this one. It was given to me by my last employer. I do not now recall why. But it has pictures of that country. Scotland. Ahh, here it is.’

He took the book from the bookcase with very slow care—inching it out only a little piece at a time. July soon realised that he was fretting that a suddenly awakened cockroach might fall from it. She held her hand to her mouth so he did not witness her amusement. ‘Yes, this is the one,’ he said. And he took the book over to his desk to lay it out upon it.

‘Do you know where your father was from?’ he enquired.

‘Me father?’ July asked as she walked across the room to stand so very close behind him.

‘Yes, you said your father was a Scotch man.’

‘Oh, me papa,’ July said. She could see her breath fluttering the curling black hair at the back of his neck as she spoke those puffing words.

‘Yes, your papa.’

‘Yes, me papa be a Scotch man.’

‘Well, let us see what we have in here,’ he said.

He flicked quickly through the book and as July leaned in closer to look over his shoulder her breast, by chance, pressed against his arm. For a brief moment he stalled in his browsing but then carried on. He stopped at a drawing of a castle.

July, moving closer, squeezed her body up against his as she pointed at the picture saying, ‘Be that where me papa live?’

His voice stammered as he responded, ‘I . . . I . . . I doubt it as that is a castle.’

The little laugh he gave to follow these words rubbed her further against him. ‘There are many castles in Scotland, but I doubt that any are home to overseers from the West Indies.’ And as he turned to look at her, his lips nearly stroked her cheek.

He immediately began to rifle through the pages again in a businesslike manner. Most of this book was not pictures but dense black printed words. But there came a sketch of a small house with some sheep about it. ‘This is probably more the thing,’ Robert said, lifting the book a little so July might see it more clearly. July ran a finger along the roof and up over the chimney saying, ‘This be me papa house?’

‘Well, not actually this house . . . but . . . but,’ Robert was now staring intently upon July as she perused the picture.

‘And what be these?’ she asked, pointing at the sheep.

‘They are sheep,’ he said.

And July, who did not know these woolly creatures, turned her face full on to his to ask, ‘What be sheep?’

The book dropped back on to the table with a thump. The overseer’s hands could no longer hold it, for they were shaking and limp. Like a rushing wind July felt his breath coming faster and quicker as he clasped her with a ferocity like anger. He was kissing her upon the mouth before she realised. His wet and loose tongue licked her like he was gorging upon greasy chicken.

July was overjoyed. Miss Clara, Miss Clara, boil up some water, for Miss July Goodwin is coming to take tea! The swelling of his private part began pressing hard upon July, and she knew that what she must do now was lead this tender young white man around by it.

But at once the overseer pulled sharply away from July. ‘I am sorry, I am sorry. Forgive me. I am sorry,’ he said, as he moved quickly across the room. Some might consider that he ran. Certainly, July thought herself to be chasing him when she followed behind him urging, ‘No, no, it be right, massa.’ But every time she approached upon him, the man would take a stride backwards away from her. What sort of dance was this? She stepping forward and he jumping back? Around and around that room they went in this manner. Come, it was quite comical.

But July, skilled in the catching of rats, soon trapped this man within a corner. He held out his arm to keep her from him, as he kept repeating upon a panting breath, ‘My father, my father, my father,’ before finally completing the plea with, ‘My father would not approve.’

‘But your papa not here,’ July said softly.

‘My father,’ he carried on, ‘has the highest contempt for white men who abuse their position with negroes.’

‘Me is a mulatto, not a negro. It not be wrong, massa.’

‘My father sent me here to do good. He is a righteous man.’

‘Him will never know,’ July said, almost gaily. But when he glanced full upon her, July recognised the anguish stricken within this white man’s face.

‘I can see my father before me and I must not.’ He lifted up his head to plead heavenward saying, ‘I will not give in to this temptation, Father, I will not.’

And July, looking up to that same spot where he could see his papa said, ‘But there be no one there.’

‘Please go, Miss July.’

‘Your papa want you to be kind to negroes, massa.’ July said as she moved a long step closer toward him.

‘No, Miss July. Please leave now. Please, please, please, I beg you. You are too beautiful, you are too good . . .’ The rest of his words were muffled and lost as he covered his face with his hands.

It was now July’s turn to feel all her breath leave her. For this white man thought her beautiful. This white man thought her good. She lunged at him to catch him about the shoulders, for this prize was just too close for July to give up upon it now. But he pushed her off so fiercely that she nearly fell.

‘Please, Miss July, please just go now.’ Then clenching fistfuls of his own hair as if to wrench it from his head, he howled, ‘Help me, Father, help me, Father,’ before sliding down to sit in his corner and sob like a child.

CHAPTER 24