The duke and his guests never tired of these performances, at first only during summers, but soon on weekends all year. And so year after year the Duke’s troupe fed on lives of the realm’s youth.
Therefore, there was nothing surprising about the duke’s request one afternoon, as his clarence with matching white pair rolled through a market town in Devon. He was glancing from a window—perhaps in annoyance at the milling crowds—and looked into the face of a farm girl with a wicker gathering basket of carrots who had paused to let his carriage pass. She was tall, with a small waist that made her shoulders seem wider, and with a carriage straight to perfection. It was the untutored grace of a well-formed country girl. Her shift of rough grey wool left a bit of her shoulders and chest uncovered; both were freckled from days in the sun. She held her head with the same natural poise, her sandy hair, bleached by sun, falling over her shoulders and down her back. Her face had the beauty of an oval—yet with a broad forehead. Her nose, too, was nearly classic, but with a slight tilt and her lips not exceptionally large, but full. It was an open face, as inquiring, even interrogating, as the duke’s, but it was an interrogation of curiosity instead of imperious boldness.
For a moment, she returned the duke’s gaze with a candid stare in her light-blue eyes. It was evident from the grandness of the carriage, and its accompaniment of mounted men, that this was royalty. She had never seen a duke and did not recognize the face frowning back at her. Suddenly, she started in alarm at the apparent insolence of her gaze—and that this powerful man returned it steadily. Looking down, she hurried on her way—but it was too late.
Even as she hustled into the crowd, the duke thrust his large, bearded face from the window and called to the captain of his guard, “Follow that girl. Do not molest her. Find out who she is and where she resides. Do not be noticed, and report to me. Do not fail me, in this.”
To be a cheerful 18-year-old farm girl in rural Devon made no sense. Even in the best of times, Hannah Blake’s family aspired only to have enough bread and milk at two meals for everyone—and there were seven children, the younger ones tied at three girls and three boys, with Hannah, the oldest, breaking the tie in favor of the girls.
There had been more to eat, a little more, when times were better before Hannah’s father was lost at sea two years earlier. There had been some fish, from the boats at Plymouth, and some money, when daddy would return from sea bringing his pay. That is when they had bought the pig and the four Sussex chickens, added to the one-room cottage, and Hannah had bought one or two cotton drawers, not wool.
She had even attended the free board school for six years, baffling teachers and parents with her passion to read. Had she not learned so much, in so short a time, there would be no one, now, to help the younger children and care for them after school—when Hannah was not working in the tiny garden, doing chores, or walking to market in Torridge to scour the stalls for bargains. In winter, there was less to do outdoors and more time, during daylight, to teach the little ones letters, writing, and sums.
Now, there was not enough bread or milk, especially in winter. In summer, there was the garden, with vegetables to eat or take to market; berries, fish the boys caught, and gleanings of corn and wheat from the harvested fields. The hens gave eggs, some days, but what was there to feed them? So little that in winter the cow had to be “dried” just to survive. At harvest and holidays, the landlord might make a gift of apples, honey, and even pork; but this was not without its vexation. Hannah was a beauty, now quite old to be unmarried, and the landlord seemed to fancy that she yearned for what he would like to provide. She did not; but she thought she could parlay smiles, soft looks, and jokes into more gifts to keep the family going. It seemed to work, if she feigned naivety so total that no suggestion, no hint, seemed able to penetrate it. So far, the man had not dared ask in no uncertain terms for what he craved; this beautiful but infuriatingly obtuse lass might report it in horror and confusion to her mother or even the minister.
Of course, the mother, too, he noticed, had some of Hannah’s looks—the eyes, lips, slender legs, and a bosom that rose like a high-breaking wave from her still-slim waist. The problem with the mother, he complained to companions at the Black Pony, was that haughty confidence of a woman aware of her beauty. And, said the man, “She will wait for that sailor to come home until she is neither use nor ornament.”
But still, he brought the gifts, more than to other tenants, because he could not get enough of the attention of handsome women and because Hannah’s mother also “gave” in her own way: a little flattery, a little teasing, and a way she had of turning, or reaching to a high shelf, that made him dream of her breasts when he was bedding his own wife. He would have liked more. Someday, if things became desperate for Hannah’s family…
In truth, they already were desperate. Less food in summer, less “extra” in autumn to store, and people dying more often, and younger, it seemed, in winter. Hannah’s mother was a fair seamstress, but there were too many seamstresses, now, and not enough women who could afford their work. And she was a fair midwife, but, more and more, families who could afford to pay for her services used a “real” nurse, as they put it, or went to one of the new lying-in hospitals. And Hannah’s skills were much the same—except midwifery, of course. All Hannah had in addition, her mother knew, was the face, the desirable body—a few years of bloom, while young—and Hannah’s mother was not going to bargain that away. She had never sold her own looks, after all, though in London, when she was there, it was said thousands of women did sell themselves, legally, in the brothels or following the army camps or walking the East End after a day’s work in the factories. No, she had given her beauty, and heart, to Edward Blake for love—and that, it seemed, God had taken from her, somewhere at sea, though she never heard where or how.
Why Hannah had not married years ago, she could only guess. The girl was aware of her charms: the walk, the smiles, the confidence with men who never could stay away from her at the markets and fairs, the little hint of superiority in her voice when she talked about the farm boys or shop boys or even older men like their troublesome landlord. Perhaps she did not marry because, with her father gone, who would care for youngsters, the garden, work odd jobs about town, go five miles to market—and keep her mother company with “woman talk”? Perhaps Hannah’s mother must tell her to find a husband or at least act as though she wanted one. But then, who
would
help to keep the family going—barely going?
So, when two men, refined in dress and speech, with horses no one in the village could afford, rode up to the cottage when she was home alone, Hannah’s mother listened to their unctuous persuasion, their “pitch,” only until she got the point. Hannah was a beauty, a fine girl who could have a career in London, where there was education and opportunity—perhaps
big
opportunity at the court, in the theater, who knew? Very sympathetic to the situation of Hannah’s mother, they seemed, knowing she had lost her husband, had seven children, must be hard pressed… So, to make it right, with her, for losing Hannah’s help, they were prepared to pay—they named a sum so huge that Hannah’s mother almost laughed aloud—to secure the family forever.
Hannah’s mother could not read much, but, like Hannah, her mind drove at the meaning of things and she was not naïve. She was not, she said to herself, now, a stupid wench for men to trick. These men were offering to buy Hannah—and not because they were eager to provide her with “opportunity.” If her husband were here, she thought, he would throw them out, literally; but now that was up to her.
She stood straight, staring with blue eyes gone cold, and said: “I do not sell my daughters to brothels! Nor does England buy and sell women any longer—not even the Africans! I understand that our Queen, and Parliament, too, are cleaning the
shit
—she came down hard on the word—from the East End. Find yourselves another line of work. The days of whoremongers are at an end! Good day, gentlemen.” Long before she finished, the two were protesting, raising their hands to fend off this dreadful misconception. They were shocked that anyone could so mistake their motives, and…
“Good day, gentlemen!” The three words rang with the ferocity of a battle cry and vehemence of a curse. They stepped back and she advanced. One said, later, describing the incident, that when he saw her face, impassioned in emotion, her flashing blue eyes, and, above all, the breasts heaving with anger, he wondered if the duke might prefer the mother to the daughter. The other said she seemed to reach toward the hearth where hung a heavy cast-iron ladle.
She should have told Hannah. Those bitter words she repeated again and again—but only later, not when the two had turned and half-stumbled through the low doorway, mounted their fine horses, and rode straight out of the village. Then, she had nodded to herself, bosom still heaving with emotion, and said, aloud, “Can you fathom it? In this time, in England!”
She should have told Hannah—to warn her. Should not have mugged so proudly at her little victory. Should have warned Hannah that these men had come to buy her like a prime heifer at fair. But she did not. She had thought that to tell Hannah of this satanic bargain—her virtue, her soul, for the salvation of her family—might leave Hannah to wonder if her mother had been tempted. Or leave her to watch, if it came to that, the starvation of her brothers, her sisters, and to imagine herself responsible.
But she should have told Hannah. If she had, Hannah might be here today, with her… But she was not. She was gone, and to
what
fate her mother thought she knew—and the price had not even been paid. That final thought left her feeling wicked, almost an accomplice in what had happened to her beautiful daughter.
They took Hannah toward dusk as she hurried home from Torridge market, reproaching herself for having accepted an alcohol drink from admiring young men. She wished she could forget; she had laughed too loudly, preened herself, even fleetingly touched the arm of one handsome young man. She walked faster; she would arrive home with some bacon the young men had given her, even a small jar of jam, and the family would be excited. But still…
The black “growler” rattled up behind her on a bleak stretch of road, the two horses at a trot. She had to move to the side. But suddenly there were horsemen, too. Didn’t they see her? They were riding too close! A fierce grip was on her upper arm, a hand wrapped in her long hair, hurting her, and two men were dismounting. She screamed, but, even as she did, felt herself lifted; her precious basket of delicacies fell, spilling into the ditch.
“No!” she cried, and kicked at the figure—huge, dim in the twilight—who held her arms. He merely slipped his other arm under her thighs, as well. Now, she cried out in terror. The carriage door swung open and she was half-pushed, half-thrown to the floor. Behind her, the door banged shut. Sprawled on the floor, dazed from slamming into the far side of the carriage, she twisted, got her hands beneath her, and tried to rise. She was gasping like a sprinter. But as she pushed herself up, she felt a counter pressure on her shoulders; she sank back to the floor. “No!” she cried, “Let me…”
“Sit still.” The voice held no urgency, no sense of struggle. It was calmness itself. “Sit still and no one will harm you, girl. There is nothing for you to do. Nothing.”
Hannah jerked up her head, staring. The woman on the seat appeared massive, dressed in black, even a black hood about her face. Hannah thought first of the nuns who occasionally passed through the village. And then she thought of a great raven seizing her in its talons. Could her heart fly out through her chest, so wildly it bounded within her? She managed to say, “This is wicked”—the strongest denunciation she knew.
“Sit on the seat when you are ready,” said the raven. Hannah rose slowly; the hands did not press her down. She slid onto the seat facing the woman. The carriage rattled and swayed; they were moving fast—carrying her away. With that thought, she panicked. “I shall fling open the door and cry for help!”
The raven said nothing. Hannah seized the handle of the door and shook it violently. Nothing happened. She seized the shutters on the windows with her fingers and pulled at them. And then she burst into tears.
She demanded, “Tell me where we are going, or I shall cry for help.”
The raven said, “If you scream, I must gag you.”
Hannah did not scream; she settled back in the seat, put her hands to her face, and wept. The raven watched her and no expression passed over her face.
How long could she weep? She raised her face and examined the woman, the carriage, the darkness created by the closed shutters. No one outside could see inside; perhaps, with the rattle of the wheels, the clatter of the team, no one could hear her. She said, in a more controlled voice, “Why am I taken? My mother expects me. I had food for dinner.” She added, “I have young ones, waiting for their dinner. They are hungry, now.”
When there was no answer, she asked; “May I know where I am taken?”
“You speak well for a country girl,” said the raven, as though posing a question.
“The school taught me,” said Hannah. “Just a few years.”
“I am Cara,” said the raven. “It means ‘face,’ in the Spanish tongue. I once had a lovely face. No more.”