Perchance to Dream - By Holly Newman Page 0,3

longer pined for England or desired its feverish gaiety.

The white quill pen clinked against the inside of the glass inkwell as the Honorable Andrew Montrose, third son of the Earl of Rice dipped his pen then pulled it out. He smiled as he copied the new sugar production records into the master ledger. The scratching of the quill against the paper sounded unnaturally loud; but for all that, soothing in the afternoon stillness. Again, he dipped the pen in the ink.

He added a column of numbers to verify the amount he'd entered, then he laid down his pen and leaned back in the hard wooden chair he'd drawn up before the scared old clerk's desk that stood in the center of the plantation office. Behind him stood tall wooden cabinets filled with leather-bound account books recording over seventy years of plantation history. Along the doorway wall at his right a long, narrow table held a platter of fresh fruit, and branches of gutted candles testified to the many hours Andrew spent in this room. Wide, curtainless windows predominated the walls in front of him and to his left that afforded him views of the rolling cane fields in the distance.

Though plain and practical in its furniture arrangement, the office suited him. At some time in the last three years he'd decided he didn't miss the fancy silks and damasks of London, or any other part of that life he'd led before coming to the Caribbean island. After three years on the island, three years since he'd left London's tawdry gaiety, he'd finally found contentment with life. Not the contentment he'd once thought necessary, but another deeper contentment that filled the soul as well as the mind.

In three years the plantation sugar production and export in muscovado, the coarse brownish sugar product and in the semi-refined clayed sugar had increased fourfold. They now captured the sugar of molasses, a by-product of the milling processes, and sold that besides operating their own distillery for rum. In addition, the plantation slaves were healthy and well fed, each having a plot of land for provisioning and for them to sell the excess harvests at the Sunday free market.

A chilling breeze ruffled the pages of the ledger and stirred his mind from contemplation. The room felt suddenly cool and it was only the beginning of October. He looked out the broad row of office windows. Dark clouds gathered in the east. A storm threatened. He might need a fire laid in this evening and the shutters closed. He rose from his chair and turned to grab his serviceable brown fustian jacket from where he'd casually tossed it that morning on top of one of the tall cabinets. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and shrugged the comfortably fitted jacket across his broad shoulders, something he could not have done himself if he still wore the tightly fitted jackets he'd favored during his London days.

He sat down again, straightened his plain white shirt cuffs, then picked up the pen and leaned forward to add another column of numbers.

"Excuse me, sir."

Lemuel Tauton, the estate agent, sounded aggrieved, a normal sound coming from him when he perceived someone had thwarted him. Well accustomed to hearing the tone and understanding its implications on his time, Andrew held up his hand to stem the estate agent's interruption until he could finish adding the column.

Satisfied he'd summed the numbers correctly, he turned in his chair to look at the little estate agent. "What is it, Tauton?" he asked. He leaned back and stretched one leg out in front of him.

Tauton grasped his hands together at his waist, his torso tipping forward. "Excuse me, my lord, but the Bonnie Marie, a merchant vessel from England, docked this morning."

"What? Direct from England?" Andrew straightened. "The captain risked a hurricane season crossing? Why?"

"I cannot say, sir," Tauton replied, the aggrieved tone back in his voice. He unclasped his hands and balled them into fists. "But a cabin boy is here with a packet of papers for you. He says he must personally deliver them to you, the impertinent whelp. He refuses to recognize me as your deputy in all affairs here."

"Enough!" Andrew cut in. His hand sliced the air, halting the little man's grievances.

Tauton blinked and rocked back on his heals as if reeling from a punch.

Andrew shook his head, but let good humor color his tone, jollying the estate agent. "I'm certain the boy has merely mistook his orders. But we must