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 Love In The Shadow of Freedom

In 1807, after years of fierce opposition, William Wilberforce finally persuaded Parliament to abolish the British slave trade. But the battle was far from over. Across the West Indies, hundreds of thousands remained enslaved, their lives still bound to the sugar plantations that fueled Britain’s wealth. The campaign for Emancipation was only beginning.

Prologue

Pinney Plantation, Nevis, West Indies, January 1807

Black and white. White and black. The keys always seemed to draw Stuart into a different world as they came alive under his fingers. A world far away from the dismal sugar plantation where he now lived. A world in which he felt at home.

At the age of fourteen, Stuart showed a remarkable gift for the pianoforte and played with a depth of feeling far beyond his age. He was often attracted to the minor key—perhaps his reaction to the tragic death of his parents two years previously that had torn him from the tranquil English village where he had been raised.

“Beautiful, Stuart,” encouraged Aunt Lydia, who was sitting beside him on the bench. “You certainly have my sister’s gift.” She had told him many times how much he resembled his mother, not only due to his unusual amber eyes and blonde hair, but also in his inquisitive mind and quick wit.

With a tentative smile, Stuart nodded at his aunt, then flipped to the next page of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and resumed playing. Although he appreciated Aunt Lydia’s words of affirmation, he was also embarrassed by them. His cousin Vincent, who was three years older, resented Stuart and harassed him about Aunt Lydia’s coddling.

Suddenly, the frenzied howling of a pack of dogs shattered the peaceful moment. Lydia went over to look out the window of the Great House mansion. “I wonder what is happening.”

A few minutes later, a slender, middle-aged black woman burst into the room.

“What is it, Nancy?” asked Lydia.

“It be Hector, Miss Lydia. He go down to the shore when it dark and hide in the swamp. Thought he could sneak onto a rowboat. But they caught him, and I’m scared they gonna kill him!”

Lydia shook her head as she went with Nancy out the front door. “Those boats are packed with barrels of raw sugar. Did he think he could get past the overseers?”

Stuart’s stomach lurched as images flooded his mind of the last time a slave had been whipped for trying to escape. The cruelty had appalled him, and he was tempted to lock himself in his room. To bury himself in a book and shut it all out. But his uncle, Malcolm Bartley—the manager of the plantation—would notice if he were not there. And so he reluctantly followed the two women into the glare of the mid-morning sun and down the slope along a rutted path.

By the time Stuart reached the slave quarters, a crowd had gathered in the open area that was surrounded by a cluster of thatched mud huts. The jeering white faces of the slavedrivers, laughing and relishing the entertainment. Downcast black faces, masking their pain and fear. Stuart knew they were only there because they were given no choice. Because they had to “learn a lesson.” Tense with apprehension, Stuart closed his eyes and tried to picture the piano keys. Black and white. White and black. Tried to hear the melody that he had played so recently. Tried to put some order back into his world.

But then they dragged Hector into the square and tied him to the whipping post, and Stuart knew that he could not do it. There was no order. The melody was gone, and he could not find it again. He could barely breathe as the slavedriver lashed the young slave with a whip until his back was covered with deep welts. But on the other side of the square, Vincent was shouting, “Whip him harder. Make him an example!”

Hector’s mother, Juba, moaned as she rocked back and forth on her knees at the front of the crowd. Stuart’s uncle stood behind her, his eyes cold and his face like flint. Then Lydia approached her husband and, with a gentle hand on his arm, pleaded, “Malcolm, he has been punished enough.”

Malcolm shook his arm free of his wife’s hand and commanded the slavedrivers, “Sell him.”

“No!” Stuart exclaimed, but he was quickly silenced by his uncle’s stern glare.

“No, Massa,” Juba begged. “Please don’t sell him. Please, Massa!”

As the men dragged Hector away, Malcolm strode towards the mansion without a glance at the grieving mother. Eyes wide, the terrified slave pulled against his shackles and called out, “Don’t forget me, Mama. I never forget you.”

“Let him go! Bring him back!” Juba shouted.

Lydia clutched her skirt and ran after her husband. “He’s just a youth. Juba’s only child.”

Malcolm stared at her dispassionately. “A profitable plantation requires compliant slaves. And since John Pinney is unlikely to make the sea voyage from England again with his young family, I will continue to act on his behalf as I see fit.” He looked around at the slaves who were hovering nearby and ordered, “Back to your duties, unless you want to join him.”

When Malcolm stalked away, Lydia dabbed her moist eyes with a handkerchief. Although stirred by an impulse to comfort her, Stuart held back, fearing his uncle’s disapproval—and Vincent’s bullying. Despite Uncle Malcolm’s remoteness, he had noticed Stuart’s aptitude for mathematics and was teaching him to keep the plantation accounts. Vincent’s incompetence in this area only made him more resentful of his cousin. Stuart was tall and thin for his age, no match in physical prowess for Vincent’s muscular frame. And so it was perhaps inevitable that Stuart preferred to fight not with fists but with words.

As the slaves dispersed, they cast furtive glances at Juba, who continued to wail loudly. Her grief was raw, and deep, and would not be silenced. Lydia straightened her shoulders, walked over to Juba, and squatted beside her. “Let’s go into your hut. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

Juba continued to moan and rock back and forth. Finally, with Lydia’s coaxing, she stood up and stumbled to her hut.

As Stuart walked across the square, he was startled by a young house slave who was huddled behind a palm tree near a mud hut, sobbing. Jenny. When he had first arrived at the plantation, she had still been a child, likely close to his own age. But in the past few months there had been unfamiliar sensations in his body when she came to tidy his room or passed him on the stairs. Her shy brown eyes were like velvet, and there were new curves under her stiff black uniform.

Touched by her sorrow, Stuart drew closer. But before he could reach the girl, a strong hand grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face Vincent’s sneer. “I’ve seen you watching her. But you’re too soft to take what you want.”

When Vincent shoved his cousin, Stuart pushed back. “Leave me alone.”

Vincent forced Stuart roughly towards the hut. “You spend too much time at that piano with my mother. It’s time to become a man.”

Turning towards Jenny, Vincent ordered, “Into the hut, wench. Now.”

Trembling, with a visceral expression of fear that made Stuart queasy, she obeyed. When Stuart tried to block the door, his cousin easily thrust him into the hut.

Vincent slammed the door and barricaded it with a wooden stool. Then he forced Jenny onto a sleeping mat.

Stuart gripped Vincent’s arm and tried to pull him away from her. “This is how cowards behave. Not men.”

Vincent shoved him against the wall. “Who’s the coward? Women want strong men, not weaklings.”

“You’re disgusting,” Stuart shouted as he kicked at Vincent’s leg. “Cruelty excites you.”

Vincent kicked back and punched him in the face, knocking him to the floor. “You’re all talk but no action.”

Stuart’s nose was bleeding, and he was too dazed to stand. When Vincent began what he came for, Stuart tried to protest, but his quick wit failed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and sought his place of refuge. Black and white. White and black. His fingers on the keys. The haunting melody in a minor key, floating out through the open window over the palm trees to a place far away, on the other side of the ocean.

When Jenny’s muffled cries assaulted his ears, Stuart opened his eyes and was initiated into a world that both repelled and captivated him. A world in which the black and white certainty that he sought was shrouded in murky grey. Where the music was harsh and discordant—no longer a refuge. And with a deep sense of shame, he feared that it was a moment that would change his life forever.

London, England, February 23, 1807

Lizzie Wilberforce tossed restlessly in bed, far too excited to sleep. As she watched shadows shifting across the wall, she imagined herself in the midst of a battle. A fierce duel between light and dark. “There are still dragons to slay,” Papa often told her, and she knew he meant more than the frightening creatures with sharp claws and fiery breath that hid in her fantasy world.

Her fingers ran over the image of a kneeling slave on the abolitionist brooch that she had pinned to her nightgown. Although she was only six, she was determined to do her part in her father’s battle against the Slave Trade.

Why are they taking so long? Lizzie wondered, sitting up in bed and swinging her feet to the floor. She walked to the window and pressed her nose against the frosty glass. Frustrated by the limited view, she undid the latch and pushed the window wide open. Snow was falling gently, softening the dark outline of the Parliament building that loomed across the deserted square.

“Lizzie, what are you doing?” hissed her nine-year-old sister, Barbara, throwing back her blankets on the other side of the double bed. “It’s freezing out there.”

“They should be done by now.”

“Papa said the debate could take hours.”

The soft thud of bare feet running along the hallway heralded the entrance of two of their brothers—William, age ten, and Robert, who had recently turned five.

“You’re making a lot of noise,” William whispered.

Touching her brooch, Lizzie said, “I want to see Papa after the vote.”

“You’re not supposed to wear that to bed,” Robert scolded.

Lizzie shook her head and crossed her arms. “I’m going to wear it till the slaves are all free.”

William reached over to close the window. “Come on. We can see better from the library.”

The children raced noisily down the corridor and banged open the library door.

“Shh,” scolded Barbara. “You’ll wake Sam. And Mrs. Knowles.”

For a few moments, voices were muffled to whispers as the four children peered through the French doors.

“Look,” said Lizzie, pulling open the doors and darting out onto the balcony. “I can see them.”

William, Barbara, and Robert jostled her as a noisy crowd emerged from Parliament. Barbara began to laugh. “There’s Uncle James. And Zachary Macaulay and all the others. It must be good news. They’re jumping around in the snow.”

“And there’s Papa,” Lizzie exclaimed, pointing at the familiar figure in the midst of the celebration, his face beaming with joy. “And Mama is there too.”

Barbara grabbed Lizzie in a big hug. “They won the vote!”

William and Robert clapped each other on the back. “They’ve defeated the Slave Trade!”

Their elation was interrupted as their plump, middle-aged housekeeper entered, carrying their younger brother, Sam. “What’s all the commotion? When Master Wilberforce gets back—”

“Look, Mrs. Knowles,” Barbara urged, pointing to the jubilation in the square. “They did it! Papa did it! No more slave ships!”

Mrs. Knowles was briefly speechless, then joined the children in their revelry.

As the snow dusted the drab grey square below with white, Lizzie’s heart swelled with expectancy. The world seemed different somehow. Clean, and new, and full of hope.

Chapter 1

Wilberforce Estate, Highwood Hill, England, September 1826—Nineteen Years Later

The pasture at the top of the hill was an ideal place to race, and the horses were well matched. Sam turned to laugh at Lizzie as he galloped ahead of her. But Lizzie soon overtook him on her spirited mare, Chestnut, and reached the end of the field with seconds to spare. When her brother pulled up beside her, they slowed their pace so their mounts could rest.

“I’ll miss this,” said Lizzie. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to Oxford so soon. Or that I could go with you.”

“Imagine studying at the same college,” Sam said with a smile. “I would have to work hard to keep up with you.”

Lizzie was wistful. “Do you think that colleges will ever admit women?”

“I hope so. Someday.”

“Someday,” Lizzie sighed.

As they approached a patch of purple flowers, Lizzie jumped down from her horse. “Asters. Barbara loved them.”

Flooded with memories of her older sister, Barbara, Lizzie waded into the middle of the vibrant wildflowers and fell to her knees. “We used to imagine we were in a magical world where elves and fairies climbed the stems and slept in the blooms.” Closing her eyes, she added, “It’s been five years since Barbara died, but I still miss her so much.”

“The two of you were very close.”

“Mother still aches for her. And worries about my health.”

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you, with Mother’s overprotectiveness.”

“She means well. But her awkward matchmaking attempts are so frustrating.”

“You need to get away,” Sam urged. “You could spend some time with Hannah More. You and Barbara loved visiting her Mendip schools.”

Lizzie considered her brother’s suggestion. She had been inspired by the creative approach that Hannah and her sisters used to teach poor, illiterate, rural children. “She’s a wonderful godmother, and I would love to visit,” Lizzie replied. “But Father is getting so frail. I cannot leave him now.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, and he touched Lizzie’s arm. “Please tell me if it all gets to be too much.”

“You know I tell you everything.”

“Not when your migraines get bad. Or when you sink into melancholy.”

Lizzie nodded. There had been times when she could not write at all. “I’m feeling well now. You have no need to worry.”

When a church bell chimed, Sam observed, “It’s five o’clock. William and Mary will arrive soon.”

With an affectionate smile, Lizzie anticipated the exuberance of Will, the five-year-old son of her oldest brother, William, and his wife. Will would be excited about the upcoming farewell dinner for her brothers Sam, Henry, and Robert. “Will has probably chattered all the way from the farm.”

“And he’ll be eager to see his favourite aunt.”

As they mounted their horses, Lizzie commented, “I hope William will not ask for more money for his farm. Father has already depleted his fortune helping him.”

“Father seems worried about the cost of repairs on Highwood Hill.”

“And the cost of renting a place in Bath during the winter until they’re finished.”

“You must be dreading another move.”

Lizzie shrugged. “Just promise to write to me at least every week. You’re the only one I can talk to about everything.”

Then, before Sam could reply, she spurred her horse forward with a peal of laughter. “Can you beat me this time?”

When she arrived a full length ahead of her brother, she gave him a cheeky smile.

“Your rides with Mother have paid off,” Sam said with a good-natured grin.

“She’s still a much better equestrienne than I am,” Lizzie agreed. “But she’s taught me a lot.”

As Lizzie dismounted, Will ran up and patted her horse’s flank. “Aunt Lizzie. Uncle Sam. Papa lets me ride one of the small horses on our farm. And I only fell off once. Can I show you?”

Lizzie winked at Sam, then helped him assist the lively boy onto Chestnut. While Lizzie led the horse several times around the stable yard, Will continued to talk. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to school tomorrow, Uncle Sam, because there’s a trail in the woods I want to explore. So will you go with me, Aunt Lizzie, and maybe Grandpa can come too?”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Lizzie replied. “I’d love to join you. But Grandpa may have to wait till he’s feeling a bit better.”

Will’s expression grew serious. “I don’t like it when Grandpa isn’t feeling well. We have so much fun when he can go for walks, and push me on the swing, and tell me funny stories.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened as she met Sam’s eyes. “I don’t like it either. But Grandpa loves your visits.”

“Come on, Will,” Sam urged as he helped him down from Chestnut. “I’m getting hungry.”

“Me too, Uncle Sam. What do you think Mrs. Knowles is making for dessert?”

***

The good-natured banter and bickering around the table reminded Lizzie of her childhood.

“I can always make time to help you, Sam,” offered Robert as he poured gravy onto his second helping of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. “Your final year at Oxford is so important.”

“I know, Robert,” Sam replied, with a hint of irritation.

“My tutoring duties at Oriel College will not take all my time,” Robert continued.

William swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes, then waved his fork at Robert as he mimicked his voice. “With my two double firsts at Oxford, I can tell you everything you need to know.” Winking at their youngest brother, he added, “And Henry, you should listen too, if you want to pass your entrance exams.”

Robert shook his head. “So witty, William. Are you regretting your life as a gentleman farmer?”

“You could never pay me enough to force me to sit through those tedious lectures,” William retorted. “I am much better suited to my present vocation.”

“Do you think you will ever make a profit?” Robert prodded. “Or will you continue to depend on Father’s support?”

When their father set down his fork with a frown, Lizzie averted an argument. “Robert and William, your quarrels are just as pointless as when you were boys. But at least back then you were sent outside to resolve them with a race down the lane and back.”

Wilberforce smiled. “Or mock battles with wooden swords.”

“Best of all was when you had to work together to build a fort, or a castle, or a bridge across the stream,” added their mother.

Henry exchanged a glance with Sam, then grinned at Robert and William. “And even though we were younger, you needed our help. But if you were too bossy, Sam and I would mutiny.”

“Don’t forget Barbara and me,” Lizzie said with a wink at her father. “Without us you would have been too stubborn to work together.”

Wilberforce looked around the table with a smile. “It is gratifying that you are able to work towards a consensus. I faced far too many divisive arguments in parliament before I retired.” Then, turning to his wife, he asked, “Did you say that Mrs. Knowles has prepared a surprise for dessert?”

Mrs. Knowles and her assistant, Phebe, had made a huge trifle, a favorite of everyone in the family. And Will, who had eaten the main course in the kitchen where he did not have to sit still, gave an enthusiastic description as Mrs. K carried it to the table. “It’s got honey cake on the bottom, and pears, and red jelly, and custard, and lots and lots of whipped cream on top.”

Wilberforce smiled at their faithful housekeeper. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Knowles.”

Will sat down beside his mother, Mary, and protested when she put a small serving of trifle on his plate. “Mama, I’m five and my stomach is a lot bigger.”

Wilberforce beamed at his grandson, then winked at Mary. “Well said, Will. After all, it is a special occasion.”

“I told you, Mama,” the lad nodded. “We have to say goodbye to Uncle Robert and Uncle Sam and Uncle Henry properly.”

Mrs. Wilberforce looked around the table with a smile. “A very special occasion indeed.”

But although trifle was her father’s favorite dessert, Lizzie noticed that his hand trembled as he raised his fork, and he was unable to finish even a small serving. He appeared fatigued and was not his usual witty self.

After the meal, their servants Mrs. Knowles, Phebe, Ann, and Frank came in to offer their best wishes. They had been with the family for years and suffered from a variety of infirmities, but Lizzie’s father was far too soft-hearted to dismiss them. They remained a valued part of the Wilberforce household.

When the other servants went back to their duties, Mrs. Knowles remained behind, her forehead creased with concern. She often showed her fierce loyalty to every member of the family with her sharp tongue. “Master Wilberforce, I’ve noticed that your pain has been worse the past few days. You look done in.”

Mrs. Wilberforce turned to her husband and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wilbur, you really do look exhausted.”

Wilberforce frowned slightly, then nodded. “I hate to put a damper on our celebration, but I do need to lie down.”

Mrs. Wilberforce stood up from the table. “Robert. William. Could you please help your father up the stairs?”

Knowing that her mother needed a break, Lizzie offered, “I’ll go, Mother.”

After her brothers assisted their father to his bedroom and onto the chair beside the bed, Lizzie took over. “Father, let me undo those buttons.” She helped him take off his shirt, then carefully undid the brace that supported the curvature of his spine.

“I’m sorry, Father. This must be painful.”

“I’m quite used to it, my dear,” he replied, although his face was tense. “I’m thankful for this amazing device that has helped me remain active all these years.”

Lizzie forced a smile. “Now let me help you with your nightclothes, and then into bed.”

Finally propped against his pillows, his body seemed more relaxed. Lizzie reached for a bottle on the bedside table. “I’ll give you your medicine, then let you rest.”

“Lizzie, I would like you to do one more thing for me. I need to write a letter to Tom Macaulay and one to James Stephen. To invite them to come for a visit within the next two or three weeks. There is still so much to do for the cause of Emancipation, but when I have these setbacks, I just can’t do it. I must ask for their help.”

Tears stung Lizzie’s eyes. Her father had battled his physical infirmities for years. Very poor eyesight. The spinal deformity. And a chronic bowel condition. When symptoms flared, he was often confined to bed for several days at a time. Yet despite these challenges, he and his colleagues had accomplished remarkable reforms during his career. Even after his retirement the previous year at the age of 66, he continued to participate as much as possible in the cause of Emancipation. But it was getting so much harder for him.

Pushing aside her misgivings, Lizzie went to the desk and took out ink, pen, and paper. “Go ahead Father. What do you want me to write?”

Chapter 2

Pinney Plantation, Nevis, West Indies, September 1826

It should have been a peaceful moment, as palm tree silhouettes contrasted with the fiery glow of the sun sinking over the Caribbean Sea. Nestled on the fertile lower slopes of a dormant volcano in the center of the island, the elevation of the Great House provided a welcome distance from the grim realities of the sugar cane fields below. But as Stuart sat across the card table from his cousin on the broad verandah of the mansion, he was distracted. Anxious.

“It’s your turn, Stuart,” said Vincent. “Can you beat my full house?”

Stuart tried to force his attention back to his hand, but he had lost interest. Shaking his head, he tossed down his cards.

“You’re off your game,” Vincent said with a smirk. “Worried about the voyage?”

Stuart took a large swig from his glass of rum. “Over a month at sea on Pinney’s ship, surrounded by his ‘white gold’? Not very appealing.”

“Lots of raw sugar but no women. A worthwhile sacrifice so that we can hold onto our exceptional lifestyle.”

Stuart stared at his cousin. “Exceptional? I can think of a few other words.”

“And yet, you also reap the benefits.”

With a flicker of revulsion, Stuart replied, “My passions could never match yours.”

“You think you’re better than me,” Vincent flared. “But you take your pleasure with the slave women.”

“I’m not like you—”

“Really? Does Jenny like being your doxy? Does she invite you into her bed?”

“I have needs, like all men. But I try to be gentle. And I bring small gifts.”

“Gifts? Trinkets. You always mistake pity for love.”

“Better pity than cruelty,” Stuart replied. “Jenny flinches when you enter a room.”

“You’re not man enough to take what you want. Stuck with my cast-offs.”

“Your lust is insatiable, Vincent. All your bastards. I pity Amanda Gibbons if she accepts your proposal.”

“She grew up on Nevis. She understands our culture.”

“Your culture, not mine,” Stuart spat.

Vincent narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying to yourself with your dreams of England.”

“And if I decide to stay there? Stop lying for you?”

“Pinney couldn’t manage this plantation without me. And he clearly has no desire to come here himself.”

“That might change if I tell him the truth about your embezzlement.”

“You’re neck deep as well, Stuart. You handle the accounts.”

“Just following your orders.”

“Hypocrite!” Vincent snapped. “With your gambling debts, you benefit from this arrangement as much as I do.”

Stuart tensed and glared at him. “Your father was a hard man, but at least he was honest.”

“You were desperate for his approval, Stuart. But you’re too soft. Like my mother.”

Stuart pushed back from the table and stood up. “You disgust me. Do you miss her at all?” Turning abruptly, he stomped down the stairs and into the garden.

“Don’t you dare ruin this for me!” Vincent shouted.

Stuart ignored him, but when he was out of sight of the verandah, he stopped to slow his breath and his pounding heart. Closing his eyes, he could see Aunt Lydia beside him at the pianoforte, and he could hear the music. A favourite Mozart sonata. Its beauty and elegance soothing his chaotic thoughts. Reassuring him that he was nothing like his odious cousin. But his mind was assaulted with too many jarring images, and the music did not last.

Still restless, Stuart strolled aimlessly around the property. He stepped aside as a mule-drawn cart, emptied of its load, clattered past up the rough road. When he first arrived on the plantation, Stuart had been fascinated to observe slaves load the carts with huge barrels of raw sugar that weighed over one thousand pounds and drive them down the incline to the gritty black sand and rocks of Pinney Beach. A different team of slaves would then wade into the waves to load the cargo onto sturdy flat-bottomed rowboats for transport to larger vessels. Stuart had been eager to join Uncle Malcolm on horseback to inspect more remote parts of Pinney’s estate, where the steep mountain slopes made the work of the slaves even more arduous. But after witnessing a slave crushed by a falling barrel, Stuart felt queasy when he was around such dangerous tasks and stayed as far away as his uncle would allow.

A group of slaves—mostly men with a few children—passed nearby. Shoulders slumped. Drenched in sweat. Their shift in the hellish heat of the sugar mill must have ended. Another thing that appalled Stuart about this place.

He continued to walk farther from the house. Down the slope that led towards the slave quarters. And although he was not conscious of any particular destination, he soon found himself standing outside the door of Jenny’s rickety hut.

When she opened the door, Jenny moved aside to allow Stuart to enter. As he brushed against her slender figure, she kept her expressive eyes directed at the floor and did not meet his gaze.

***

Stuart was not surprised that Vincent did not accompany him to the Charlestown harbor the next morning. As he stood on the deck of the ship, the tangy scent of the sea brought back memories of his voyage from England to Nevis over twenty years previously. Sailors bustled around him, shouting as they loaded crates, climbed the rigging, and adjusted the sails. The dock was crowded with people. Rich and poor. Slaves and free. The chaos and clamor of the nearby slave market, a horrible place that Stuart preferred to avoid, grated on his nerves. Although it was much smaller since the abolition of the Slave Trade, business was still brisk as Nevis plantation owners bought and sold their human property.

When the ship weighed anchor, the wind whipped Stuart’s hair into his eyes as they left the harbor behind. In the center of the island, there was a splendid view of Nevis Peak with a halo of white clouds around its summit. The sugar cane fields on the lower slopes of the volcano formed a lovely green patchwork—the ugliness of daily life there hidden by distance.

As Nevis finally faded from view, Stuart was gripped by a brooding sense of uncertainty. An oppressive ambivalence about his plans for the future. He did not know whether he ever wanted to return.

Reaching into his leather knapsack, Stuart removed a small packet that contained some accounting ledgers, invoices, and other important documents. An insurance policy that Vincent knew nothing about. Stuart would keep this file separate from the business ledgers and reports requested by Pinney that were packed in his trunk. Careful preparation would ensure that if Stuart ever showed the file to Pinney, the trail of culpability would clearly lead to Vincent—where it belonged.