A Simple Deception

II

"As you grow older, you'll see white men cheat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something and don't you forget it—whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash." Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

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II.

Alexander Whitfield had decided that tea was his drink of choice shortly after arriving in England almost a year ago. Never before had he been able to enjoy a hot drink. And particularly as this country seemed to think that summer weather was brief sunshine, warm beverages were necessary.

He had never been able to stomach coffee. He had become what they called gens de couleur libres six years earlier at the age of twenty-one after the revolution but being brutally forced to farm coffee for most of his life had made him feel ill at even the smell.

Alex pushed those thoughts from his mind, unwilling to entertain them for even a moment. Instead, he focussed on his tea. His one simple pleasure.

But this simple pleasure was quickly disturbed as the door to his room at the inn was pushed open without so much as a knock.

Len Bishop entered proudly, holding a rolled-up piece of parchment in his hand. On his face was a very excited grin. Len thought of himself as an entertainer, the showman Leonardo, and he worked across the country, and the world, thrilling audiences with the freaks he collected. It just so happened that the freak Len currently paraded about was Alex, or Diego, as Len called him during the show.

There wasn't anything particularly wrong with Alex. He wasn't missing any limbs, nor was his body covered with spots of fur. He was black, and apparently that was enough to thrill and shock the audiences on this side of the world.

It didn't bother Alex that they stared, gaped and gasped. It didn't bother Alex that Len pretended he was a wild savage who had never seen a fork before. Alex had his reasons for participating in the show, and earning a wage was something that he couldn't quite pass up.

Len grinned as he sat down at the small dining table beside Alex as he placed his teacup back on its saucer. Len was a smart man in a worldly sense. Alex wasn't quite certain how he had survived all these years, but he had. Len was always thinking, always scheming, and always manipulating, out to earn any money that he could.

Len unrolled the piece of parchment that he was holding, and placed it down in front of Alex, his brown eyes dancing with delight. Alex peered down at the paper to see a small, miniature portrait of a woman.

She was a young woman, and either the artist had been very kind to her, or she was naturally that pretty. She was pale and delicate, with golden hair and crystal-clear eyes. Alex had no idea who she was, but he could deduce from Len's excitement that she was someone he would be making the acquaintance of soon.

"Cette femme, qui est-elle?" asked Alex curiously.

"English, please, Alex," Len insisted. "I didn't spend months teaching you for my health. Your accent is at least comprehensible now."

Alex bit back a short reply. "Who is she?" Alex asked again, this time in English. While French was his mother tongue, and he still needed to think sometimes before he spoke in English, Alex was much more comfortable with the language. This last year in England had helped him considerably.

"Her name is Susanna Beresford," replied Len. "Lady Susanna Beresford."

Alex frowned. "Is she important?" Was he supposed to know who Susanna Beresford was? Surely Len did not forget that Alex had grown up in a very different world to the society that he had observed in this country.