‘Many don’t,’ Mauricio said. ‘Big problem, slaves dying in the boiling house. Costly.’
At last a plantation house came into view, a two-storey building made of the same yellow-white coral limestone as the palace in the town. As they approached it, Mauricio pointed to a small wooden house in the shade of a pleasant grove of palm trees. ‘Bella,’ he said. He rode on towards the big house.
Barney’s throat felt constricted as he dismounted and tied his horse to a palm trunk. Nine years, he thought. Anything can happen in nine years.
He walked up to the house. The door was open. He stepped inside.
An old woman was lying on a narrow bed in the corner. There was no one else in the room. ‘Where’s Bella?’ Barney said in Spanish.
The woman stared at him for a long moment then said: ‘I knew you’d come back.’
The voice shocked him deeply. He stared at the old woman with incredulity and said: ‘Bella?’
‘I’m dying,’ she said.
He crossed the little room in two strides and knelt beside the bed.
It was Bella. Her hair was thin almost to baldness, her golden skin had become the colour of old parchment, and her once-sturdy body was wasted away; but he recognized the blue eyes. He said: ‘What happened to you?’
‘Dandy fever.’
Barney had never heard of it, but it hardly mattered: anyone could see that she was close to death.
He leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head away, saying: ‘I am hideous.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘My beloved Bella,’ he said. He felt so overwhelmed by grief that he could hardly speak. He fought back unmanly tears. Eventually he managed to say: ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Anything.’
Before she could name it, Barney heard a child’s voice behind him say: ‘Who are you?’
He turned. A small boy stood in the doorway. He had golden skin, his curly African hair was reddish brown, and he had green eyes.
Barney looked at Bella. ‘He’s about eight years old . . .’
She nodded. ‘His name is Barnardo Alfonso Willard. Look after him.’
Barney felt as if he had been knocked down by a charging horse. He could hardly catch his breath. Two shocks: Bella was dying, and he had a son. His life had been turned upside down in a minute.
Bella said: ‘Alfo, this is your father. I’ve told you about him.’
Alfo stared at Barney, his face a mask of childish rage. ‘Why did you come here?’ he burst out. ‘She’s been waiting for you – now she’ll die!’
Bella said: ‘Alfo, be quiet.’
‘Go away!’ the boy yelled. ‘Go back to England! We don’t want you here!’
Bella said: ‘Alfo!’
Barney said: ‘It’s all right, Bella. Let him yell.’ He looked at the boy. ‘My mother died, Alfo. I understand.’
The boy’s rage turned to grief. He burst into tears and threw himself on the bed beside his mother.
Bella put a bony arm around his shoulders. He buried his face in her side and sobbed.
Barney stroked his hair. It was soft and springy. My son, he thought. My poor son.
