The Jezebel's Daughter (3 page)

I nodded and tried to curl up tighter so I could sleep, but Tansy hooked her hands beneath my arms and drew me to my feet. “
Non
. You get up.” She took a length of string out of her apron and laid one end against my shoulder and drew out the other to my wrist. “
La Metrès
want you measured for a frock. She spend good money on makin' you pretty before she auction you off.”

“Someone else will own me?” I asked, wanting to get back to the question I'd asked hours ago.

Tansy took measurements, moving around me efficiently. I'd been measured for dresses in London and knew to hold perfectly still. “
Non
. She keep you. But many gentlemen come to see you,
petit
. And
la Metrès
, she earn much from you every time. But not as much as first time,
wi
?” She finished taking my measurements and then stood back, looking me over carefully. Turning away from me for a moment, she picked up a candlestick and brought it close to my face. She gasped softly. “You eyes,” she said in an awed voice. “They so light blue.” She reached out with her free hand and pinched my cheek, hard. I shied away from her, my brows drawn down in a frown, my lower lip trembling as more tears pricked my eyes. “And such a rosy color. You wear pink for
mesye yo
,
petit
.”

“Pink is for little girls,” I said petulantly, rubbing my cheek where she'd pinched me. Must everyone I met in this hellish place abuse me so? I missed my mother fiercely, her soft hands, her warm breath, the smell of her powder.

“Well, you
is
little girl. Some men, they like that.” She turned away and put down the candle once more. “Go to bed. You have busy day
demen
. Rest is good for you,
petit
. You need you strength.” She dipped her head in goodbye and then left the room. The key turned in the lock immediately after it closed and I sighed heavily.

I stumbled to the bed and laid down on it. My backside smarted awfully and I couldn't find a comfortable position. My mind was too lively that night, filled with visions of what was to come the following day and all the days after that. Sleep did not find me until the sky was pink in the east, and even then it was a fitful rest.

III

House of Earthly Delights, Nassau, New Providence Island

July, 1715

As it turned out, it wasn't the next day or even the next that Madame Dupris came for me.  I spent three whole days as a prisoner in that room. Tansy brought me my meals, emptied my chamberpot every morning, brushed and plaited my hair, and brought me books when I complained of unabating boredom, but I was not allowed to leave. I stood at the windows for hours and watched ships sail into the harbor, spill men over their gunwales, and into tiny boats that belched them forth onto the shores of the island. I watched cargo loaded and unloaded from ships and warehouses and all the while, wondered how I could get a message to my uncle in England. I hadn't seen a single soldier or British sailor on the island, however, and despite my young years and relatively sheltered upbringing, I didn't trust anyone else to carry such a sensitive missive. I would just have to figure out some other way of escaping the brothel and Madame's clutches.

On the morning of the fourth day—just a week after the shipwreck—Madame, Tansy, and a small woman entered my room. The small woman was introduced to me as Mrs. Davies, the island's only sempstress. Mrs. Davies was carrying thread, scissors, pins and needles, and some bolts of cloth—two different shell pink silks, a deep rose silk that had been embroidered with delicate white flowers and silver thread, and a cream silk brocaded with purple and gold Chinese-style flowers and blue birds. This was the first time since she had ordered my beating that I'd seen Madame and a complicated feeling bubbled up in my chest, part terror and part sheer rage. But as Tansy had said, I was a quick learner so I lowered my eyes submissively and kept my anger to myself. I would not suffer another beating at the inhuman Amos's hands. Soon enough, someone would come to my rescue and the horrible creatures would be punished for their mistreatment of me.

The next few hours were occupied by Mrs. Davies and Tansy fussing over me as they once again measured me, tried different fabrics against my skin and finally selected the deep rose brocaded silk. Then Mrs. Davies got to work, cutting and sewing, trying pieces on me and making adjustments. Lunch was delivered by another anonymous slave woman and consumed in my room, even as Mrs. Davies continued sewing.

Finally, just after sunset, most of the work had been done on my dress and Mrs. Davies and Madame left the room, chattering about when the finished product would be delivered the next day. Tansy remained to clean up the dishes and bits of fabric and thread that had been left behind. I sat on my bed, wrapped in a light shawl, watching Tansy work and feeling a growing sense of dread.

“Does it hurt?” I asked in a timid voice.

Tansy stopped what she was doing and turned to face me. A wary look entered her eyes and she asked cautiously, “You
manman
never told you 'bout
sèks
?”

I gave her a withering glare. “I know what...
that
...is,” I said primly. “We owned horses and dogs and cats. The mares and bitches always had a look about them as if they were bored or merely tolerating it. But the cats...” I broke off, the dread in my breast growing. “They screamed and fought, like they were enduring awful pain,” I whispered.

Tansy stared at me a moment longer and then made a thoughtful sound in her throat as she turned back to her duties. “
Wi,
it hurt. There is blood. But only the first time. You bear it.” She turned once more to face me. “You don't fight, you don't cry, you don't show nothing. You let
mesye a
do his duty quick.” She paused and shrugged. “Maybe you learn to like it. Get skilled. Bring in more money for
la Metrès
. She treat you better, maybe you earn enough to buy yourself back. Then you go home to London town.”

A bright spark of hope sprang to life inside me. I guarded it jealously, though, not daring to let anyone else see it. I knew a place like this would only grind it out. I brought my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. Resting my chin atop my bent knees, I watched Tansy as she finished cleaning up. “
La Metrès
, she find
mesye a
treat you nice,” she said. “You try not to worry,
petit
. You too valuable to be ruined.
Bon swa, petit
.” She gathered up the pile of things she'd made and carried it out the door.

I laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The candles flickered in the soft breezes coming in through the open windows. I spotted the tiny green lizard once more and smiled softly. He had been my constant companion during my days of imprisonment and I enjoyed watching him prowl through my room, hunting bugs of all sizes and colors. I had watched with fascination as he ate ants, cockroaches, strange little beetles, and even a small moth.

My lids became heavy and as much as I didn't want to fall asleep and hasten the arrival of the next day, I drifted off and dreamt of a gigantic lizard who hunted and ate an ant with Amos's head just before it gobbled up a cockroach with Madame Dupris's visage.

* * *

Madame Dupris returned with Mrs. Davies and Tansy the following afternoon. The dress she brought with her was stunning, and once they got me in my stays and petticoats and made a few minor alterations, it fit perfectly. I stood and stared at myself in the looking glass and thought that perhaps this is what I might have looked like on my wedding day if the ship hadn't wrecked, if we'd made it to Antigua, if my father had selected a good match. Tears clouded my vision and I turned away from my reflection. My mother's absence struck at me like a dagger to the heart and I longed to see her, or my father, or even Gunnar and Mattie just once more. I would have given anything to be with my family again. I hadn't even been able to tell them that I loved them before they disappeared.

Mrs. Davies left, clutching a handful of coins and a satisfied look on her face. Madame ordered me stripped and Tansy forced me into a bath, where she roughly scrubbed me from head to toe with soft, flower-scented Castile soap. She even washed my hair. After the bath, Tansy rubbed a sweet-smelling cream into my skin, dressed my hair with tiny curls and elaborate braids and a fontage of lace and tiny silk roses. Then I was forced into the dress once more, given stockings and borrowed shoes, some pearl earbobs and a matching choker. Tansy powdered my face, brushed color over my lips and cheeks, and declared me done.

Tansy gently turned me so that I could see myself in the looking glass again. I didn't recognize myself at first; I looked like an adult woman, like someone who went to one of Mother and Father's salons. I wondered if all the finery would make the men pay more, and then the thought of just what, exactly, they were paying for nearly made my stomach crawl up my throat. I must have looked alarming because Tansy gently cupped my elbow and led me to a chair and made me sit down and sip a lemon syllabub until I was once more calm.

“It's time,” Madame said. “Bring her along, Tansy. And don't let her ruin the dress, or I'll take the cost of it out of her hide.” She swept out of the room, this time leaving the door standing open. The impulse to run nearly consumed me until I saw Amos lurking in the hall. I looked up at Tansy and she gave me a smile.

“It be fine,
petit
. Come along.” She reached for my hand, drew me to my feet, and propelled me to the door.

I stepped through it and out into the hallway, not sparing a glance at Amos, though the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight at his presence. “Down them stairs and to the left,” Tansy said from behind me. I turned to look at her.

“Aren't you coming?” I asked, a feeling of panic in my breast. Surely I wouldn't have to endure the evening alone.

“
Non
. Not my place. You go on. You be fine.” She made delicate shooing motions with her hands. I hesitated until I saw Amos lean towards me, then I turned tail and practically ran down the stairs.

It was the first time I'd been aware enough to take in the surroundings outside of my room, though surely I'd been carried up these same stairs when I arrived a week ago. The brothel was built around a central courtyard that had been lushly planted with trees and ferns and beautifully bold flowers I had only seen at the exotic gardens at Kew Park, in London. There was a bubbling fountain and a cage full of tiny, jewel-toned birds singing and twittering happily. Each of the three stories was fronted by a balcony that overlooked the courtyard; the second and third stories had doors like mine, behind which I assumed the other girls plied their trade.

The main floor was separated into two halves. To the right was a tavern, with a long, sturdy-looking bar along the far wall. Stools were drawn up against the bar, and tables and chairs and benches filled the rest of the room. The tavern was dimly lit and very smoky, but I could still see barely-dressed girls draped over men's laps, touching and kissing them. I shuddered minutely and turned away. Soon enough that would be my fate as well.

To the left was a closed door. Madame was standing in front of it, speaking in a low voice with a tall, ruddy-skinned man with longish auburn hair pulled back into a queue and clubbed at the nape of his neck. As I came down the stairs, he turned to look at me and I could see his breath catch as his eyes moved from my hair to my dress to my shoes. His deep blue eyes were kind and a neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard framed a mouth that was no stranger to smiles. His was the first face I'd seen since washing ashore on this hellish island that didn't look at me with pity or avarice.

When Madame spotted me, she said, “Sebastian MacIsaac, this is Lady Loreley Jones, daughter of the Marquess Weymouth.”

I opened my mouth to correct Madame—I was only the niece of a marquess and it was improper to call me a lady—but the look in her eyes warned me. Apparently she wasn't above lying to the men bidding on my virginity. I extended my hand and Mr. MacIsaac took it and bent over it with courtly manners. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old and yet he seemed to be the only person I'd met who knew how to treat me with the respect I was due, even if it was partially because of a lie. “Your Ladyship,” he murmured, his breath hot, his fingers rough and calloused.

Madame loosed her braying laughter again and opened the door she had been blocking. “Will you be bidding this evening, Mr. MacIsaac?”

He let go of my hand and turned back to face Madame. I thought I saw a flash of distaste in his eyes as he looked at her. “No. I'm just here to ensure that Captain Graves doesn't spend all the crew's money.” He nodded to the Madame and then gave me a soft smile before turning away to go to the tavern.

“Mr. MacIsaac is the quartermaster on the
Jezebel
, captained by Gideon Graves,” Madame explained as I watched Mr. MacIsaac leave. “The
Jezebel
's last hunt was quite successful. Must have come across a Spanish slave ship or some such. Captain Graves will have quite a bit of coin to spend. Come along, duck. The men are waiting.”

I reluctantly followed her into the room, which turned out to be her private suite. The room we immediately entered was set up as a sitting room. There were plush couches and chairs surrounding a large hearth, sideboards covered with liquor bottles, paintings of nude men and women engaged in acts I'd only ever seen animals performing, and a large desk angled against the far wall. A single closed door was to the right of the desk, directly across from the hearth; I assumed it was where Madame slept and probably entertained men of her own.

A small crowd of four men were sitting at the hearth, holding expensive-looking wineglasses filled with something that was only a shade or two darker than my gown. They immediately stopped chatting amongst themselves when I entered the room and came to their feet. I noticed with a shrinking fear that they each looked me over with the same expression—some complicated mix of emotions that I had never before seen on a man's face. Only years later could I identify it as intense, nearly overwhelming desire, almost on the verge of covetousness.

Madame followed me into the room and shut the door firmly behind us. She made a show of locking it and dropping the key down the front of her gown. “Gentlemen, this is the Lady Loreley Jones,” she said, standing next to me and gesturing. I suddenly felt like a prized cow on auction. “As you can see, she is young, nubile, as pretty as a sunset. Feel free to examine her if you wish, but please—hands off.” She stepped away, leaving me standing in the middle of the room alone.

The men clustered around me, leaning in and peering at my face, my hair, my breasts. They asked me to show them my teeth, my ankles, my knees. They asked questions about my schooling, told me to recite bits of poetry, sing songs, speak French, even dance. These were the most humiliating, dehumanizing moments of my life and it was all I could do not to burst out into tears.

At least I was afforded the opportunity to examine the men as closely as they examined me. Three of them appeared to be gentry, probably plantation owners on the island or perhaps from nearby islands. They were unremarkable in appearance; they wore well-tailored breeches and waistcoats and Moroccan heels. Powdered wigs sat atop their heads. They would have fit in anywhere in London's upper classes. They might have even been my father's friends and for that, I found I hated them with an incandescence that threatened to consume me from the inside out. It was a welcome change from the terror and sadness that had marked most of my time on the island.

The fourth man was different. He didn't ask questions of me or order me about. He merely stood behind the other three and watched me like a cat with a mouse between its paws. He was smaller in stature than the others, but they appeared almost cowed by his presence, deferring to him as they moved about me and apologizing when they stood in his way. He was dressed in a long black coat and black breeches tucked into good leather boots. There was a snowy white shirt under a black waistcoat that had been brocaded with silver threads. He did not wear a wig. Instead, his hair was plaited in queue that hung down to the middle of his back. His skin was olive-colored, like a Spaniard or a Greek, and something awful lurked in his green eyes. He carried a pistol shoved into the sash at his waist and a cutlass hung from a leather belt draped across his chest. I knew without asking that this was Captain Graves and that he was indubitably a pirate.

When the men were satisfied with their examinations, they retook their seats and Madame came back to stand by my side, holding the stub of a candle and a burning taper. “Gentleman, if you're ready, we'll do this auction by the candle.” She set the candle down on the table in front of us and lit it. “Please begin your bidding.”

One of the planters, dressed in a plain dark blue coat over a yellow brocade waistcoat immediately burst out with, “One hundred pounds!” I blinked in shock. That was an outrageous sum of money. My knees felt weak and I reached out to grab the back of a chair so I wouldn't swoon and fall to the floor. Madame's face showed she was having the same reaction, though her expression quickly changed to one of rapaciousness.

The bids began flying quickly after this, increasing by twenty or forty pounds each time. The man in black remained silent throughout, his attention on the candle, which was slowly burning down. It was a curious thing and I focused on the puzzle of it, blocking out the obscene amounts of money being called out around me. Perhaps when the candle burned out completely, the highest bid would be the winner. I felt breathless, suddenly certain that this was the truth. A fine trembling crept up my legs and took hold in my belly. The pirate, Captain Graves, was waiting until the last possible moment to call out his own bid, ensuring his win.

When the candle flickered, almost spent, and the pooled wax around it spat and hissed, Graves stood up and in a quiet, gravelly voice said, “Five hundred pounds.”

Madame sat down hard, as though she was a marionette whose strings had just been cut. The other men stared at each other and Graves in turn, their eyes wide, mouths working like hooked fish. My eyes fell to the candle and I mentally encouraged any one of the planters—it hardly mattered which; they were all the same, really —to call out just a ha'penny more. Anything to keep me from the terrible Captain Gideon Graves.

The candle guttered once, twice, then went out. The planters had been too stunned to react in time. Graves had won.

Five hundred pounds. For me. That amount would keep a tradesman and his family fed and clothed and pay their rent and taxes for six months. And this man, this terrifying, nearly silent man, had just offered it for a single moment with me. Some small, remote part of me wondered if Mr. MacIsaac had failed in his duty to ensure his captain didn't spend all the crew's money.

Madame bestirred herself and rose to her feet. She made her way over to the door, unlocked it and opened it. Air wafted in, scented with ale and flowers, clearing my head and settling my stomach. She turned back to us and inclined her head to the pirate. “Captain Graves has the winning bid,” she said unnecessarily. “Gentlemen, thank you. Please feel free to retire to the tavern and enjoy the ladies of the Gardens. On the house,” she said after a brief pause. She could afford to be magnanimous now.

The planters shook hands perfunctorily with Graves, kissed Madame's cheek and gave me last, lingering looks before filing out of the room and across the courtyard to the tavern. Madame looked at me for a moment and then at the captain. “You have payment now, Captain?” she asked. It was the first time I'd heard any sort of deference in her voice. I was a bit comforted to hear it, knowing that she harbored some of the same feelings towards the man as I.