Chapter 2: An Overheard Conversation

Although we are now the best of friends, my first impression of Samantha wasn’t favourable. Despite being the mayor’s daughter, Samantha was an oddity among the well brought up young ladies of Fort Royal society. More importantly, she obviously didn’t care what people thought of her. That was what drew my attention towards her in the first place. Before long, I realised that she was the rebel that I desperately wanted to be.

In case you mistakenly believe that the elite social circles of Fort Royal society consists of wealthy women drinking tea while dressed in corsets and numerous petticoats, let me correct you. Firstly, the local climate is tropical, so anybody foolish enough to go around wearing a corset gets cooked. Similarly, dresses are invariably sleeveless and lightweight, and plunging necklines are common. That doesn’t mean fine ladies carry on like ‘filles de joie’ ... at least not in public.

As long as the public veneer of respectability is studiously maintained, then pretty much anything is tolerated behind the scenes. For example, there is the Banana Club. In addition to sugar and coffee, Martinique exports bananas. However, the club isn’t connected to the export trade, rather to the inventive things the women of the club can do with unripe bananas. They can do the same things with ripe bananas, but that can often get messy. Samantha is a member of the club, but I’ve always felt too awkward to join.

There are more mundane clubs as well, but I won’t bore you with the details of those. Suffice to say there is never a shortage of things for ladies of the social elite to do in order to amuse themselves.

I was thirteen when we moved from Saint Pierre to the much larger Fort Royal. Mama was well respected by the social elite of both towns, so the move was relatively easy for her. However, I was reaching the age where I could no longer piggyback off Mama’s social connections. I needed to foster my own friends and acquaintances if I was going to survive independently among the elite of Martinique society. I didn’t know anybody when we arrived in Fort Royal, so a long uphill battle was in the offing.

Samantha was at least willing to make friends with me, something none of the other prissy bitches ... sorry, I mean, other fine ladies ... seemed inclined to do openly. They unfairly judged me based on Mama’s reputation. I soon discovered that being well respected in social circles, doesn’t automatically mean that you are seen as a nice person. Mistress Brigitte is a name people speak with a hint of fear tainting their words. I’ve seen Mama discipline a slovenly slave, and I have first hand knowledge of what she is capable of doing. My own backside has suffered the taste of her cane on occasion, although not in recent times.

My initial lack of friends among the society ladies is partly my own fault, given my animosity towards Charity Hyacinth Howe. Charity is the daughter of the largest rum manufacturer in Fort Royal. That makes her family extremely wealthy, and very popular at Christmas when free tots of rum are handed out. Unfortunately for me, Charity attracts friends and followers like dung attracts flies. Other than Samantha, none of the other young ladies in my age group have the backbone to stand up to Charity in public. However, I know several of them don’t support her arrogant views. Regrettably, my brother Randolph is one of Charity’s closest friends, and at one time there was talk of marriage.

Mama and I live in a rented house not far from the harbour. Although Mama’s stipend isn’t large, she purchased a house slave called Annie when we moved to Fort Royal. Annie sleeps on a pallet in the kitchen. My room is in the attic, giving me an excellent view over the surrounding area and harbour. I suspect I’ve been given a room at the top of the house to deter me from sneaking out.

The building next door is undergoing extensive repairs following a recent hurricane. Mama doesn’t like me being so close to the workmen, and she has placed restrictions on my movements outside of the house. The workmen’s frequent stares and the occasional suggestive comment makes it all the more exciting in my eyes. They would never be so foolhardy as to leer at Mama, but an unmarried twenty-one year old woman is fair game.

From my attic room I can see all sorts of activity going on day and night. But I can only watch. Mama only allows me to go out alone during the day with a chaperone, and Annie is often too busy to accompany me. Only Mama and Annie hold keys to unlock the front door, so I’ve no means of sneaking out via the front door while they aren’t looking. Besides, sneaking back in would be even harder.

However, Samantha has taught me that there are other ways in and out of a building. The room we use as a reception room for visitors has a window opening above the flat roof of the kitchen. Next to the kitchen roof is an old tree with stout branches that give easy access to the ground to anyone with a bit of determination.

Mama is visiting a friend this afternoon, and Annie has been left with a mountain of work. I’m bored to tears and I want to go out. Unfortunately Annie is under instructions not to let me out of the house. There are times when I feel like a prisoner. But today I’m desperate enough to risk going out alone. I sneak out of the reception room window and over the kitchen roof. The climb down the tree is harder than I thought it would be, and I make a mental note to wear stouter shoes next time. I make it to the ground without mishap and quickly dodge round the corner out of sight of the house. My heart is beating rapidly and I take a few moments to compose myself.