A Mercy Read Free

province of Maryland allowed trade to foreign markets. Good for planters, better for merchants, best for brokers. But the palatinate was Romish to the core. Priests strode openly in its towns; their temples menaced its squares; their sinister missions cropped up at the edge of native villages. Law, courts and trade were their exclusive domain and overdressed women inraised heels rode in carts driven by ten-year-old Negroes. He was offended by the lax, flashy cunning of the Papists. “Abhor that arrant whore of Rome.” The entire class in the children’s quarter of the poorhouse had memorized those lines from their primer. “And all her blasphemies / Drink not of her cursed cup / Obey not her decrees.” Which did not mean you could not do business with them, and he had out-dealt them often enough, especially here where tobacco and slaves were married, each currency clutching its partner’s elbow. By sustained violence or sudden disease, either one was subject to collapse, inconveniencing everybody but the lender.
    Disdain, however difficult to cloak, must be put aside. His previous dealings with this estate had been with the owner’s clerk while sitting on alehouse stools. Now, for some reason, he had been invited, summoned rather, to the planter’s house—a plantation called Jublio. A trader asked to dine with a gentleman? On a Sunday? So there must be trouble, he thought. Finally, swatting mosquitoes and on the watch for mud snakes that startled the horse, he glimpsed the wide iron gates of Jublio and guided Regina through them. He had heard how grand it was, but could not have been prepared for what lay before him. The house, honey-colored stone, was in truth more like a place where one held court. Far away to the right, beyond the iron fences enclosing the property and softened by mist, he saw rows of quarters, quiet, empty. In the fields, he reckoned, trying to limit the damage sopping weather had wrought on the crop. The comfortable smell of tobaccoleaves, like fireplaces and good women serving ale, cloaked Jublio like balm. The path ended at a small brick plaza, announcing a prideful entrance to a veranda. Jacob stopped. A boy appeared and, dismounting a bit stiffly, he handed over the reins, cautioning the boy.
    “Water. No feed.”
    “Yes, sir,” said the boy and turned the horse around, murmuring, “Nice lady. Nice lady,” as he led her away.
    Jacob Vaark climbed three brick steps, then retraced them to stand back from the house and appraise it. Two wide windows, at least two dozen panes in each, flanked the door. Five more windows on a broad second story held sunlight glittering above the mist. He had never seen a house like it. The wealthiest men he knew built in wood, not brick, riven clapboards with no need for grand pillars suitable for a House of Parliament. Grandiose, he thought, but easy, easy to build in that climate. Soft southern wood, creamy stone, no caulking needed, everything designed for breeze, not freeze. Long hall, probably, parlors, chambers … easy work, easy living, but, Lord, the heat.
    He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his hairline with his sleeve. Then, fingering his soaking collar, he remounted the steps and tested the boot scraper. Before he could knock, the door was opened by a small, contradictory man: aged and ageless, deferential and mocking, white hair black face.
    “Afternoon, sir.”
    “Mr. Ortega is expecting me.” Jacob surveyed the room over the old man’s head.
    “Yes, sir. Your hat, sir? Senhor D’Ortega is expecting you. Thank you, sir. This way, sir.”
    Footfalls, loud and aggressive, were followed by D’Ortega’s call.
    “Well timed! Come, Jacob. Come.” He motioned toward a parlor.
    “Good day, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Jacob, marveling at his host’s coat, his stockings, his fanciful wig. Elaborate and binding as those trappings must be in the heat, D’Ortega’s skin was as dry as parchment, while Jacob continued to perspire. The