Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey, Nicole Cody, Nikoo McGoldrick, James McGoldrick
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doomsday and send his
bill on to the family bankers once a month.”
“You’ve been with his lordship
since before the accident. Do you think he would have been content to live this
way?”
“Not for a minute,” the steward
said passionately. “I know if he could do it, he would have ended his life long
before now. I think his refusing to eat is part of it. ‘Tis the only thing he can
control. If we let him, his lordship would starve himself to death as sure as
we’re standing here.”
“We cannot let that happen.”
Millicent’s gaze drifted toward the
door. The valets had left it open when they’d gone out. In the hallway, she saw
Ohenewaa, standing silently, staring at the sleeping form of the earl. The old
woman had kept her distance for the entire week, and Millicent had not pressed
her. She had simply let her know that she was welcome.
Ohenewaa’s gaze drifted from the bed
and came to rest on Millicent’s face. A moment later, like an apparition, she
disappeared from the doorway.
“And we shan’t let him spend his
life in a stupor, either,” Millicent whispered to the manservant. “There must
be other ways of dealing with this condition. We just need to find the right
kind of medicine and the right kind of doctor.”
****
Instead of going downstairs, she
walked to her own bedchamber and closed the door. The sight of a person’s
suffering was nothing new to Ohenewaa. For more years than she cared to count,
pain and death had been all that surrounded her. On board slave ships, on the
sun-scorched fields of the sugar islands, inside the walls of the rat-infested
shacks she had seen the unspeakable; she had experienced the unimaginable.
Ohenewaa knew it was fate that she
had been sold to Dombey, a doctor of mediocre skill and the deepest
self-loathing. She had spent more than forty years with him, until his death.
In that time she had always been at his side, assisting him in the islands and
on the slave ships as well. She had learned the Englishman’s medicine, what
there was of it. But on those long, horrible trips from Africa, she had seen
the rituals of okomfo and dunseni and the B onsam komfo and had carried deep within her the ways of the Ashanti priests, and the
medicine man, and the witch doctor.
Ohenewaa had gathered this
knowledge and kept it safe, like the most precious gold, and with it she had
tried again and again to help her people.
Her people. The whites didn’t trust
her ways, and she let them be. When Dombey himself had been sick—even though he
knew she had gifts—he had sent for his own kind. Ohenewaa didn’t know if she
could have helped him. Cures lay in the hands of the goddess. But he did not want her, so she had let him be. Why bend her ways? Why touch the ice?
But with this woman, Millicent, she
could feel the ice inside her melting. Since her arrival, Ohenewaa had spent
many nights visiting with the black families at Melbury Hall. The stories they
told of Squire Wentworth were horrifying. His brutal handling of the people here
was much the same as what she had witnessed on the plantations in Jamaica. His bailiffs had obviously been the same brutes he brought back from there. While
telling her all of this, however, every person’s account had been filled with
praise for the mistress. Though they had suffered terribly under Wentworth’s
cruelty, so had she—and often for her open support of them.
Ohenewaa had seen many white women
of Millicent’s station during her time on the islands. Whether they were a
plantation owner’s wife or a pampered mistress, the women there saw the slaves only
when they were issuing a command or gathering for the entertainment of seeing a
black man whipped, often by other blacks who had sold their souls to serve as
overseers. In Jamaica, at a place called Worthy Plantation, she had seen a
slave stripped and flogged while a group of white women stood with their
children and stared openly at the
bill on to the family bankers once a month.”
“You’ve been with his lordship
since before the accident. Do you think he would have been content to live this
way?”
“Not for a minute,” the steward
said passionately. “I know if he could do it, he would have ended his life long
before now. I think his refusing to eat is part of it. ‘Tis the only thing he can
control. If we let him, his lordship would starve himself to death as sure as
we’re standing here.”
“We cannot let that happen.”
Millicent’s gaze drifted toward the
door. The valets had left it open when they’d gone out. In the hallway, she saw
Ohenewaa, standing silently, staring at the sleeping form of the earl. The old
woman had kept her distance for the entire week, and Millicent had not pressed
her. She had simply let her know that she was welcome.
Ohenewaa’s gaze drifted from the bed
and came to rest on Millicent’s face. A moment later, like an apparition, she
disappeared from the doorway.
“And we shan’t let him spend his
life in a stupor, either,” Millicent whispered to the manservant. “There must
be other ways of dealing with this condition. We just need to find the right
kind of medicine and the right kind of doctor.”
****
Instead of going downstairs, she
walked to her own bedchamber and closed the door. The sight of a person’s
suffering was nothing new to Ohenewaa. For more years than she cared to count,
pain and death had been all that surrounded her. On board slave ships, on the
sun-scorched fields of the sugar islands, inside the walls of the rat-infested
shacks she had seen the unspeakable; she had experienced the unimaginable.
Ohenewaa knew it was fate that she
had been sold to Dombey, a doctor of mediocre skill and the deepest
self-loathing. She had spent more than forty years with him, until his death.
In that time she had always been at his side, assisting him in the islands and
on the slave ships as well. She had learned the Englishman’s medicine, what
there was of it. But on those long, horrible trips from Africa, she had seen
the rituals of okomfo and dunseni and the B onsam komfo and had carried deep within her the ways of the Ashanti priests, and the
medicine man, and the witch doctor.
Ohenewaa had gathered this
knowledge and kept it safe, like the most precious gold, and with it she had
tried again and again to help her people.
Her people. The whites didn’t trust
her ways, and she let them be. When Dombey himself had been sick—even though he
knew she had gifts—he had sent for his own kind. Ohenewaa didn’t know if she
could have helped him. Cures lay in the hands of the goddess. But he did not want her, so she had let him be. Why bend her ways? Why touch the ice?
But with this woman, Millicent, she
could feel the ice inside her melting. Since her arrival, Ohenewaa had spent
many nights visiting with the black families at Melbury Hall. The stories they
told of Squire Wentworth were horrifying. His brutal handling of the people here
was much the same as what she had witnessed on the plantations in Jamaica. His bailiffs had obviously been the same brutes he brought back from there. While
telling her all of this, however, every person’s account had been filled with
praise for the mistress. Though they had suffered terribly under Wentworth’s
cruelty, so had she—and often for her open support of them.
Ohenewaa had seen many white women
of Millicent’s station during her time on the islands. Whether they were a
plantation owner’s wife or a pampered mistress, the women there saw the slaves only
when they were issuing a command or gathering for the entertainment of seeing a
black man whipped, often by other blacks who had sold their souls to serve as
overseers. In Jamaica, at a place called Worthy Plantation, she had seen a
slave stripped and flogged while a group of white women stood with their
children and stared openly at the
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