The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  I had no idea where I was. There were many such towns in the Caribbean. I could be anywhere from Bermuda, to the Yucatan, to French Guiana. The sounds from the rooms around me gave the distinct impression that I'd been stashed in a brothel. Rhythmic banging, grunting, and girlish laughter and squeals assaulted my ears and I dropped to my knees on the filthy floor, overcome with grief, with anger, with utter hopelessness.

  I was trapped, a prisoner in a strange land, with no hope of rescue or escape. I would never see my beloved family or London again. I would not grow up in an idyllic Caribbean paradise, surrounded by friendly Negros, eventually engaged to a plantation owner or naval man, the proud mother of handsome children who would be equally successful in their lives. I was stuck in a brothel in a lawless, uncivilized town, where I would live out the rest of my days, performing acts I'd only ever seen horses and dogs do.

  When my sobbing died down to sniffles and the occasional hiccough, a slight Negro woman dressed in a brown calico dress and a yellowing cotton apron came into my room, carrying a tray. She took one look at me and shook her head as she closed the door behind her, the tray carefully balanced on her hip. I sprang up and rushed to the door just in time to hear it locked from the other side. The woman chuckled as she made her way to the table to set down her burden. “They no let you out. La Metrès Dupris, she own you. You live here now, petit.”

  “I am not a horse or a... a slave to be owned,” I said, standing with my arms folded over my chest.

  Her mouth thinned into a straight line. “Non, you is no horse. You a noble lady, and you flè bring la Metrès many customers. Now you come sit and manje.” She set out a teapot, a cup, and a plate with some fruit and a bun on it.

  She spoke some strange patois that sounded mostly French. I could understand most of her words, but some were confusing. My stomach rumbled and she chuckled again. I sidled closer to the table, my mouth watering, and slid into my seat. Tentatively, I reached for the bun, expecting the lady to smack my hand, but when no reproof came, I snatched the bread and stuffed it into my mouth. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted. Light and airy, but chewy and sweet with something I'd never tasted before. “What is this?” I asked, my mouth full.

  “Tansy's rum raisin bun. You eat up. Get you strength. You gonna need it.”

  “It's delicious.” I finished the bun and took a sip of tea. I was shocked to find it perfectly brewed and sweetened with just a touch of sugar. “Where am I? What is this place?” I asked.

  “You in Nassau. New Providence Island.”

  “And the name of this... this establishment?”

  The woman chuckled softly at my characterization of the brothel. “It be called The Garden of Earthly Delights.” She raised her brows and added, “It be a whore house. Madame Dupris own it.”

  “I gathered,” I said with a touch of irony.

  She smirked and took a hairbrush out of her voluminous apron, setting to work on my hair. I tensed in anticipation of pulling and tugging and pain; I'd seen my reflection in the room's looking glass and my hair looked as though an entire family of rats had taken up residence in it. But the woman's touch was gentle and soothing. She hummed softly, a sweet melody that brought to mind a meadow in the spring, filled with butterflies and wildflowers.

  “Such bèl hair,” she said, almost as if speaking to herself. “You a lady. Dress you up pretty. La Metrès get ten guinea each for you.”

  “She's going to sell me to someone else?” I asked as picked up a slice of the fruit. It was round with a hole in the center and a pale yellow color. I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled tart, like strawberries. I loved strawberries. I took a careful taste and was pleasantly surprised. It was sweet and tart and my mouth burned a bit where it was cut. I hungrily devoured the other slices, my hands, mouth, and chin sticky with the fruit's juices.

  “You ain't had no pine before?” the woman asked, sidestepping my question. I was annoyed and grateful for the distraction. I wasn't certain I wanted to know whether or not I would be sold like livestock.

  “Pine? Is that what this is called?” I held up the last remaining piece of the fruit.

  “Wi. That the pine. It outside look like cones come from trees.”

  “What's your name? I'm Loreley Jones.”

  “They call me Tansy,” she said as she put the brush down on the table next to me and skillfully plaited my hair and tied it with a bit of green ribbon.

  “Where are you from? You talk strangely.”

  “Saint-Domingue. I am Kreyol. You finish you dejne then la Metrès come see you.”

  “What will she do? Is she going to sell me?”

  “Non, petit. She no sell you. She sell you flè. Pretty little tifi like you bring in lots. You do as Tansy say, petit. Eat up.”

  “My flè?” I asked as I finished the last of the tea in the pot. “What is that?”

  “You maidenhead.” She gathered up the brush and went to the door, knocked three times and then stepped out into the hall. The door shut behind her and was locked again.

  I sat stunned, staring at the door. My maidenhead? Someone was going to pay money to...to... I shot up off the chair and ran to the ewer, where I promptly vomited up all the lovely food and tea I'd just eaten. I heaved until my stomach as absolutely empty and my ribs felt as though they were cracked clear through. I collapsed on the floor next to the ewer, my cheek pressed against the rough wooden floorboards. I sobbed and called out for my mother.

  * * *

  I laid on the floor, next to the stinking ewer, watching the sun move across the walls. As night fell, a tiny green lizard emerged from behind the armoire and picked its way over the floor, stopping every once in a while to bob its head up and down or cock it from side to side. Once or twice, it inflated some sort of pouch of pinkish skin beneath its chin. It made me smile, and for a moment, I forgot my situation.

  Once the sun went down completely, my room was plunged into utter darkness and I lost sight of the lizard. I was cold and stiff and tired of smelling my own vomit, so I pulled myself up off the floor and prodded the ewer into the furthest corner of the room and retreated to the bed. There was no fire in the hearth and no way to light the candles in the room so I sunk down onto the bed, curling up in a miserable ball.

  The house around me came to life once more. I laid in bed and listened to men's voices, women's laughter, and the rhythmic pounding coming from the walls on either side of my room. Moans and grunts and squeals of pain or pleasure—I couldn't be sure—intruded upon my misery and from the streets below, shouting and cursing, raucous singing, and the occasional scream of pain or terror. Nassau was louder by far than London ever had been and I wondered how I would survive living here.

  The door burst open and two figures entered. I sat up with a shriek of fright and a woman's voice said, “Calm, lass. Lay a fire, Tansy. 'Tis bloody dark in here. Where are ye, girl? And what's that stench?”

  “She be on the bed, metrès,” Tansy answered. A flare of light showed me her face as she lit the tinder in the hearth. “She be afraid.”

  I saw a flash of light-colored skirts next to Tansy and then another burst of light as someone began lighting candles around the room. The room slowly brightened and I saw the brothel's owner, Madame Dupris, for the first time.

  She was a short, fat woman who wore outdated clothes made of cheap fabrics, a ridiculous powdered wig, and too much rouge on her cheeks and lips. There was a hard look in her eyes, alien and appraising as she looked at me. I shied away from her glance, looking past her to Tansy. The lines of the slave's body and face screamed out in submission.

  “Get up, girl. Come here.” Madame pointed to a spot on the floor in front of her with an imperious finger. I stared at her, despite a rising feeling of fear. There was no way on earth I would allow a...a slattern like her to order me about. I was her better in every way imaginable and it was about time she understood this.

  I slid out of the bed and drew myself up to my full height, which I was grati
fied to see was taller than Madame's. I squared my shoulders, raised my head so I could look down on the woman even more, and said, “I am the niece of a marquess and you will address me as such. I will not be ordered about by a low-bred, common slattern!”

  The woman blinked in surprise and then let loose a braying laugh that would have been better suited to a donkey. Tansy's eyes grew wide and she fisted her hands in her apron. A look of terror crossed her face and she darted a glance towards the door. “Amos!” Madame called out, with an evil glint in her eye. “Bring the tawse.”

  A cold finger of terror drew itself down my spine and I felt ice water settle into my bowels. While I had never been disciplined with a tawse, Gunnar and Mattie both had been and I remembered the tears and screams of pain while Father had been administering it. I backed up until I hit the wall behind me and then held on tightly to the bedpost.

  A huge man with coal-black skin and horrible facial scars entered the room. He was so large that he had to duck under the lintel and go through the door sideways. He was shirtless and displayed muscles that would have impressed even the royal anatomists. He inclined his head submissively to Madame, who pointed at me. He turned and lumbered forward.

  I screamed and tried to back up even more but ended up stumbling over my own feet and fell to my knees, still gripping the bed frame. Amos picked me up by the scruff of my neck and hauled me up, despite my kicking and squirming and screaming. Then he sat on the bed, lifted my shift above my waist, and forced me face-down across his lap. I screamed and fought, but he held me with a single arm across my upper back.

  “Just enough to make her rosy, Amos,” Madame said. The door opened and closed as Tansy took the ewer, ostensibly to clean it out, but in a remote part of my mind, I branded her a coward for leaving me here to suffer this alone.

  Amos grunted and then the most excruciating pain I had ever felt in my entire life exploded across my backside. I cried out, begging for it to stop, but the first was quickly followed by four more strikes in slow succession. Each blow was equally painful and I screamed myself hoarse. Tears and snot streaked down my face and still I begged for it to end, promising to be good, to behave, to do as Madame asked of me. Through it all, Amos went about his duty with workman-like precision and never made a sound.

  When he was finished, he picked me up gently and laid me back on the bed. I could feel my pulse in my backside and my throat ached from my screams. “Well,” Madame said as she leaned over me. “She pinks up nicely.” I heard the door open and close again and Tansy's face swam into view.

  “You learn quick, tifi. You do as la Metrès say now, wi?” She settled a bowl of water on the floor at our feet and brought a cloth out of her apron. Dipping the cloth into the water, she gently washed my face. The water smelled of flowers, sweet and a little spicy, and I submitted to her ministrations even as my cheeks burned with indignation and shame. Whippings were for small children. I was not a small child, hadn't been a small child in years. But Madame made me feel like one, made me feel terror like I'd never known, made me feel small and helpless and vulnerable. And I hated her for it. “She own you,” Tansy said. “She make you life good or bad. But you choose which.”

  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?”<
br />
  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.