The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  * * *

  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 th
at 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.

  Graves crossed the room to her and untied a pouch from his belt. It jingled loudly as he dropped it onto her outstretched palm. “Do you want to count it?” he asked, his tone making it plain she'd be better off trusting that the full amount was there.

  “No, Captain. I trust you.” She inclined her head towards the closed door. “Please. Make use of my private rooms. There is wine and sweeties if you desire.” She looked as though she was going to say more but thought better of it. With another inclination of her head—this one almost a bow—she backed out of the room and shut and locked the door, leaving me alone with the captain.

  IV

  House of Earthly Delights, Nassau, New Providence Island

  July, 1715

  Graves stood near the door, only turning his head to look at me. He stared at me, his green eyes hard in the dim light of the fire. I could feel his gaze; it had a weight, a presence to it, as it traveled from the top of my head slowly down to the tips of my shoes, which were peeking out from the bottom hem of my petticoats. He crossed the room to the hearth and withdrew a taper from the fire. He moved about, lighting candles and brightening the room. Then he slipped off his coat and waistcoat and carefully laid them across the back of a chair. The sword and pistol at his waist, he laid aside on one of the sideboards, the metal thudding against the solid wood with an ominous sound.

  When he was finished, he stood next to me and reached for my hand. Holding it loosely in his grip, he drew me into the middle of the room and stood me in front of the hearth. Then he slowly circled around me as I stood stock still. “Take off your clothes,” he said once he stood in front of me again. I hesitated for a moment. “If I tear them, Madame will take the cost to mend them out of your hide,” he said.

  I nodded minutely and with trembling, numb fingers, began taking off my gown, then my petticoats and the stomacher, dropping them into an untidy pile around my feet. I couldn't reach the laces of my stays and looked at the captain in mute appeal. He circled around behind me again and I heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed a moment before it sliced through the laces. I let it, too, fall to the floor and stood in just my stockings and shift.

  Graves stood in front of me again, his eyes hooded, predatory, as they moved over my body again. I knew he could see my silhouette through the thin material of my shift and heat rose in my cheeks. “Take your hair down,” he said.

  “I'm... I'm not certain I can, sir,” I said meekly. The fontage was fastened into my hair carefully, and I was terrified of ruining it.

  “Who can?”

  “Tansy. The slave girl,” I answered.

  He nodded and opened the door a bit. Through the opening, I could see Mr. MacIsaac's face. He met my eyes and the ghost of something approaching sorrow crossed his face before he looked down at his captain. The men spoke in hushed tones for a brief moment before Graves closed the door again. He turned to face me, leaning back against the door while we waited, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. I stood in front of the fire, shivering despite the heat. My eyes rested for a brief moment on the sword and pistol lying on the sideboard near me. I tried to calculate whether I could reach it before Graves reacted. If I could, what would I do with them? Shoot the Captain? Run him through? I'd be better off killing myself.

  Silent moments passed before there was a soft knocking at the door. Graves turned and opened it, allowing Tansy to come in. “Get her hair down,” he ordered.

  “Wi, mesye a,” Tansy said with a curtsy. She crossed to my side and drew me down onto the edge of the couch. I wanted to cry out, beg her not to leave me, to help me escape this place, but the look on the captain's face stole the breath from my lungs. Tansy's nimble fingers made quick work of the bit of lace and baubles in my hair, which she pressed into my hands onc
e she'd gotten them free. She flashed me a smile before rising and exiting the room just as fast as she had entered it.

  I sat still, clenching the lace and baubles, watching Tansy as she left, feeling as though she had taken some part of me with her. Graves came closer, standing just in front of me. He reached down and took the things from my hands and laid them aside on the table next to the couch. Then he took both my hands in his and drew me to my feet. Stepping carefully over the untidy pile of my dress, he positioned me in the same spot in front of the fire that I had occupied before Tansy came. He pointed at my head. “The hair,” he said and stepped back.

  I reached up and took out the braids and pins, letting my hair fall over my shoulders, nearly to my waist in soft, bouncy curls. The scent of the soap Tansy had used on it filled my nostrils with the sweet, heady smell of flowers and spices. Graves took a step closer to me and reached out, drawing a tendril of gold through his fingers. Though he didn't say anything, his approval of the color or the texture or both was plain on his face. Then he lowered his eyes to my breasts and said, “The rest now.”

  I went cold inside and I closed my eyes as I reached for the drawstrings at the neck of my shift and pulled on them. The garment slithered down my body to pool around my ankles. My skin pebbled, though less from cold air than from sheer embarrassment and shame. I leaned down to untie the tape garters holding my stockings up around my thighs.

  “Leave them,” Graves said.

  I straightened and tried to cross my arms over my breasts until I saw the warning in his eyes. I lowered my arms and curled my hands into tight fists at my sides. My gaze moved around the room, looking everywhere at everything but the captain's face.

  The room was perfectly silent except for the sound of our breathing. Graves came closer to me and I could smell him now. He smelled of salt, sweat, smoke, and something else more pleasant, spicy and citrusy. He reached out and touched me, using just the tips of his rough fingers to slide down the inside of my arm, stroking the soft, sensitive flesh there.