The Lazarus Curse by Tessa Harris

waistcoat, removed his master’s boots.
    Her husband nodded. “The devil it is!” His reply was unequivocal, but he turned his face away from her, signifying he did not wish to dwell on his discomfort. She clicked her tongue and sat down opposite him, smoothing her skirts as she did so, ready to receive the dog that waited eagerly at her feet.
    “You will call a physician?”
    Carfax propped his right arm on a cushion. “I will have to,” he replied with a resigned sigh.
    His wife rolled her eyes. “We all need a physician in this English winter,” she countered peevishly. She held out her thin hands toward the fire. “It escapes me why this visit could not have waited until spring,” she added, her thin lips curling in a sneer.
    Carfax, who normally parried such jibes with avuncular ease, was in no mood for an argument. “You did not have to come with me, my dear,” he countered, knowing that the prospect of new gowns was too much for her to resist. “You were aware my business was pressing.”
    Cato, meanwhile, had poured his master a glass of rum and now presented it to him on a tray. Despite the fact that the slave bent down low, the effort of reaching for it clearly pained Carfax and he was forced to take it in his left hand.
    Ignoring her husband’s obvious distress, Cordelia Carfax continued: “The slaves are falling like flies in this cold.” The dog was now on her lap and she was stroking him.
    Carfax shrugged his broad shoulders. “Still fewer than those lost on the estates in as many days, I’ll wager.” He smirked, knowing the number insignificant compared with that on the sugar plantations, where slaves died daily, due to illness or brutality or both.
    His wife’s back stiffened. “You know as well as I do, Samuel, that domestics live longer as a rule.”
    Her husband sipped his rum thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should give them warmer clothing while they are here?” he ventured.
    Cordelia Carfax blinked and looked askance. “You would waste our money on such trifles?” The very thought of kitting out her slaves in warmer clothing to suit the English climate was clearly an anathema to her.
    Carfax gulped down the rest of his rum. “ ’Tis up to you, my dear, but can we afford to let them die of cold? A trained one can fetch upward of twenty-five pounds, but you won’t find many for sale in London.”
    His wife nodded, as if acknowledging the notion that it was better to return to Jamaica with slaves that were already accustomed to the tropical climate and a planter’s strict regimens.
    “And we can always rely on the servants here,” added her husband, leaning his head against the back of his chair. The Carfaxes’ London household employed a skeleton staff of white servants to maintain the property in their master’s absence. There was Mason, the butler, Mistress Bradshaw, the cook, three housemaids, two footmen, and a gardener and general factotum, Mr. Roberts. Their housekeeper, Venus, always traveled with them, on the master’s insistence, together with half a dozen slaves from the Jamaican estate.
    Just then, one of the white maids by the name of Bateson entered carrying a kettle of hot water. She set it down on the table nearest her mistress, next to the open tea caddy. Mistress Carfax, however, seemed slightly agitated and craned her neck toward the door. “But where is Sambo?” she asked indignantly. She liked the boy to bring her the hot water for her afternoon tea.
    The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, madam, but he is very ill.”
    Her mistress sucked in her cheeks and took a deep breath. “What did I tell you, Samuel?” she said sharply. “The blacks are falling like flies! It is most inconvenient.”
    Carfax shot her an exasperated look and shifted in his chair but the movement obviously pained him. He winced and bit his lip. “Most inconvenient,” he replied unenthusiastically, as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.
    “What are you doing,