The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  His hands slipped up my sides, over my hips and waist, to come to a stop at my breasts. He cupped them, squeezing them, and pinching my nipples roughly before letting the right breast go and plunging his hand between my legs. I gasped and tried to squirm out of his grasp.

  “Don't,” he warned and leaned forward to press his mouth against mine and force his tongue between my lips. He tasted of wine and of something sour and rotten. He crushed me against his body, using his free arm to hook around my back and grip my waist as his other hand busied itself between my legs. The fabric of his shirt was rough against my skin and scraped over my sensitive breasts. I felt a flutter in my belly when his fingers began circling around some tiny, hitherto unexplored part of my body, and I made an involuntary noise in my throat. His kisses grew hungrier, as though he took my sounds as an encouragement of some kind.

  He released me and then roughly shoved me onto my back atop the couch behind me. “Open your legs,” he said as he knelt and worked the buttons on his flies. He whisked down his breeches and took hold my legs, hooking my knees over his shoulders, and grasped my waist. He pulled me down to him and forced his hand between our bodies again. “Dry as a bone,” he murmured before spitting into his hand. His fingers found the same spot as before and he began manipulating it, rubbing in teasing, light circles. My belly felt tight and fluttery. I shivered and closed my eyes.

  What would my mother think of this? Would she blame me somehow for allowing myself to be put into this predicament? Or would she understand that everything that had happened to me since I'd washed ashore had been out of my control? And what about my father? How would he react to Graves and Madame? Would he pursue legal action, or would his anger force him to violence? I suddenly pictured Father, Matthais, and Gunnar hunting Graves, armed with pistols and swords. I clung to the vision, despite the fact that it would never happen. They were gone, dead and rotting away at the bottom of the ocean. I was truly alone and at the mercy of fate and circumstance.

  Graves leaned over me, the sight of his ruthless face drawing me back from my hopes. His other hand grasped the back of my knee and forced my thigh up against my body, practically folding me in half. He kissed me again, more roughly this time, and I felt his finger push inside me. I squealed in pain and then screamed out when something harder and much larger pushed in right after. I felt as though I was being split in two and something inside my body tore.

  He grunted and worked his hips, thrusting in and out of me, still grasping my knee. His other hand squeezed my breast, milking it as though it was a cow's teat. His eyes were closed as he went about his business with a determined look on his face. I was crying; silent, hot tears streaked down my face and I prayed to God that it would be soon over. I wanted to call out for my mother, for Tansy, for Mr. MacIsaac or one of the planters, but I dared not make a sound for fear of what Graves would do to me. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. There was pain—sharp and shocking and the bright metallic taste of blood filled my mouth—but it was nothing compared to what Graves was doing to me.

  A few moments later, with a gasp and a shudder, the captain's hips stopped and he collapsed atop me, panting like a horse ridden hard across a great distance. He slid out of me with a sigh and pushed himself up to his knees once more. “Clean yourself up,” he said before rising, taking up my shift and wiping himself off with a corner of it. He left behind a dark smear and handed the ruined garment to me before turning away and doing up his flies.

  I dabbed gently at myself and was horrified to see the amount of blood on the shift when I was done. I sat up and crossed my arms over my breasts. I felt terrible—sore, angry, frightened, and unbearably small and vulnerable. I watched as he put his waistcoat and coat on, arranged his sword and pistol, and then left the room, closing the door behind him and sparring not a word or even a backward glance in my direction.

  I burst out into sobs and buried my face in my hands. Tansy had said that I might learn to enjoy it. How that could possibly be true? Who in their right mind could ever enjoy something so painful and humiliating? I felt dehumanized, used and tossed aside like a broken toy.

  The door opened and Tansy came in, carrying a small white crock, a stone bottle, a basin of water, and a light blue robe that had been slung over one of her shoulders. “Oh, petit,” she said softly as she came to sit next to me. “Don't you cry. Don't you give moun sa a dyab no satisfaction of breaking you.” At my blank look, she explained, “That devil man. He take what he want, however he want, from whomever stupid enough to be in between. He want you strength. He want you pride. But you promise Tansy you don't give it him, wi?”

  I nodded miserably and allowed her to take care of me. She spread the robe over my shoulders, and used a soft cloth from her apron to wipe my face. “Lay back, zwazo ti kras,” she crooned, calling me something that sounded like little bird in French. “Tansy gonna make sure you don't bear him no bastard. Ain't no body deserve that kinda Hell. Lay back and close you eyes.” She positioned me so that my backside hung over the edge of the couch and placed the bowl beneath me. Then she uncorked the bottle and the strong smell of vinegar wafted out of it. “This sting a bit, petit,” she said before she poured the vinegar over me, making sure that some of it got inside me. It did sting and my tears started anew. She started humming again, the same song she'd hummed the first time I'd met her. The song soothed me and I relaxed a bit, the tears drying up and waning off into occasional hiccoughs.

  After rinsing me thoroughly with the vinegar, she dried me off tenderly and then opened the crock. An earthy scent, like the forest after the rain, hit my nose and then she began carefully spreading something cool and soothing over my raw, sore tissues. “There be comfrey in this cream,” the slave woman explained as her strong fingers massaged me. “Take the soreness right away.” Soon she was done and helped me to my feet. “You hungry?” she asked as she led me to the door.

  I shook my head. “I just want to sleep.”

  She nodded and we stepped out into the courtyard. I glanced towards the tavern and spotted Graves at the bar, sitting next to Mr. MacIsaac. The captain didn't spare a glance at me but his quartermaster met my eyes briefly before quickly looking away. Something I couldn't understand swam in their depths and I puzzled it over as Tansy and I went up the stairs to my room.

  Once there, she knelt before me and untied my garters and rolled down my stockings, slipping them off my toes and laying them aside. Then she helped me into a clean shift and into bed. She smoothed my hair back from my brow and then wished me a good night before she disappeared. I couldn't miss the sound of the key turning in the lock again. I was once more a prisoner, despite the horrors of the previous few hours.

  I flopped over onto my side, facing the windows, and looked out. The town was more alive at night than during the day and the sounds of people and animals going on about their lives made me unreasonably angry. What I had just endured should have caused the entire world to stop spinning. People should be aware of my pain, of my heart-ache, and it was deeply wrong that they were going about their lives, heedless of me.

  I realized quickly, though, that no one cared about my pain. No one cared that I had just been raped by a man who was probably old enough to be my father. No one cared that I was an orphan, stranded far away from the only home I had ever known. I was just a thing to be bought and sold and used until my value was gone, and then I would be discarded. I now understood Tansy's advice to me. The girls—the whores, I forced myself to think, to say aloud—who enjoyed intercourse, who were skilled at it, kept their value longer than the ones who didn't.

  My virginity was gone now, and I would never again earn such an outrageous amount from a man who wanted to spend time with me. I would have to figure out other ways of extending my value. I would have to force myself to learn to enjoy the act and to become skilled. I promised myself that not only would I survive, but I would flourish and I would return to London and leave this hellish place behind me forever.

  F
or the first time since the storm sank my ship, orphaning me and throwing me to the wolves, I was glad my family was dead. They were better off not knowing what was certainly awaiting me.

  V

  House of Earthly Delights, Nassau, New Providence Island

  August, 1715

  I awoke the next morning, stiff and sore and heart-sick. There was a bone-deep ache in my belly and I loathed the idea that I would have to endure the same act again—probably more than once—in just a few hours. Surely Madame would not allow me to linger in bed, hiding from my future. Five hundred pounds was no small amount, but a woman like Madame Dupris would not be satisfied with it. She would want more. Tansy's prediction of ten guineas—which I took to mean for each act I performed—seemed on the conservative side. Madame had to realize that. She would demand more, starting this evening.

  Reluctantly, but spurred on by last evening's promise to myself, I rose, made use of the chamberpot, and slipped a robe over my shift before going to the windows. I opened them to the cool, pre-dawn breezes, and watched the sun rise over the harbor. The town was slow to wake, though the market was doing a brisk business as a few housewives did their daily buying. I turned my eyes to the ships at anchor and wondered which was the Jezebel. There were only three ships out there, a brigantine and two merchantmen. I would put my money on the brigantine, were I a gambler. Brigantines were fast and more maneuverable than most other ships, perfect for a pirate's needs.

  There was a knock at the door and the sound of a key in the lock, drawing my attention away from the windows. Tansy came in with a tray, followed by Mrs. Davies, who was once more carrying clothing and fabric samples. My brows rose in surprise when I saw her and looked at Tansy, questioningly.

  “La Metrès, she say you need more gowns,” Tansy offered in explanation. She set down a tea pot and cups on the table and added a plate of fruit and some soft-looking rolls. “Eat you dejne, and be nice for Mrs. Davies. She make you pretty for moun sa a dyab.” Tansy darted a quick look at the diminutive woman, as if to check whether the woman understood the Kreyol epithet. Luckily the woman was either truly ignorant or had decided to ignore Tansy's description of Captain Graves, because she showed no reaction. Tansy curtsied to me and then left the room.

  I sat down at the breakfast table and poured myself and Mrs. Davies a cup of tea, and while I breakfasted, the tiny woman bustled around me with her strings and asked me my favorite colors and things like that. I learned that she was a widow and supported herself and her five children by sewing gowns and other costumes for Madame's girls. She had been paid to create four more gowns for me—another formal gown like the pink one I'd worn the night before, and three everyday gowns, plus petticoats, stomachers, and two more pairs of stockings. Mrs. Davies also said a cordwainer would be along at some point to make me two more pairs of shoes. If I was going to be forced to remain a prisoner here for the foreseeable future, at least I would be a pretty one. It was difficult to take comfort in that, but I would take comfort where I found it.

  “I'm not really a lady, you know,” I confided once I'd eaten my fill and we were lingering over the rest of the tea in the pot. “My uncle is the marquess, not my father.”

  Mrs. Davies nodded. “I suspected as much. Madame Dupris likes to say that her girls are all nobility of some sort or another. They ain't. But she does have the highest-class bawdy house on the island. Her girls are cleaner and healthier and prettier than the rest.” She paused for a moment and then leaned forward to whisper in conspiratorial tones, “I hear stories of Madame Dupris being the King of France's favorite lady when she was a girl.” I arched a dubious brow and Mrs. Davies laughed. It was a delicate sound, like silver spoons tinkling together, and made me smile despite my mood, pain, and situation.

  Mrs. Davies helped me dress in a light blue cotton gown, white linen petticoats, and even helped dress my hair. Then she left, promising the gowns within three or four days. Tansy came in shortly after and cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Before she could leave, however, I took hold of her arm and asked her, “What's to become of me? When will I have to... to entertain more men?” I didn't bother hiding the desperation in my voice or my expression.

  Tansy blew out an impatient breath through her nose and shook her head. “La Metrès and Captain Graves, they make arrangement. You his and only his. You live here and be ready for when he come ashore. But no one else touch you. Oh, he hire a guard for you, too. Free man, called Ben. He be here later.”

  I stared at her in shock, her words not making any sense to me. “He bought me? He owns me now? I'm... I'm to be just his?”

  One corner of Tansy's mouth quirked up in a small, ironic smile. “Wi, he buy you, he own you. But you only work once, maybe twice every three months. And once Ben be here, you no longer prisoner up in this room. You go out, walk the town.” She patted my hand awkwardly and slipped her arm out of it. Then she left and the door closed behind her.

  I sat down at the table again, still confused by Tansy's revelation. Apparently five hundred pounds gave a man quite a bit of leverage, and Graves had used that leverage to make a rather nice arrangement for himself. If I was completely honest with myself, it was a pretty nice arrangement for me, too. I wouldn't have to see other men, wouldn't have to let them touch me or kiss me or even be near me. I would only see the captain infrequently—something that made my stomach turn, but it was a vast improvement over what I had prepared for.

  And best of all, I would be allowed to leave my room and go out and explore Nassau.

  This realization made me shoot out of the chair to my feet with joy. If I was allowed out into the streets, I could find someone to get a note to my uncle. I could be ransomed and rescued. I could soon be on my way home to London, free of this place forever!

  My excitement was brought abruptly to an end, however, when I remembered the rest of Tansy's words. A guard. A free black man she said was named Ben. If Graves had freed him, then he owed the captain quite a debt and would no doubt be quite loyal to him. There was probably no way of getting the man to look the other way so I could escape or even just get a note to my uncle. I sat down hard again with a sigh. I was still a prisoner; my cage was just a little larger now.

  * * *

  Ben arrived later that afternoon. He was a slightly-built tall man with wise eyes, an easy smile, and a wonderful, deep, rich laugh. He spoke English with only a hint of a musical island accent, and was dressed in well-tailored clothing of good cotton and linen. Amos followed him in, dragging a cot with him, and set it down near the hearth, opposite my bed.

  I stared at it and then at Ben. “You're sleeping in my room?” I demanded, outraged by the very thought of a man sleeping in my room. Would he expect things from me?

  Ben and Amos exchanged a smile before the hulking brute placed the room's key in Ben's hand and exited the room. Ben turned to me and said, “Yes, Mistress Loreley. I be sleeping in this room. For your protection, you hear? Sometimes, sailors who be here get a bit rowdy. Captain just wishes to make sure no one enter this room to take his... Well, you.”

  I frowned petulantly and sat down on my bed, my arms crossed over my chest. “His ruddy property, you mean,” I said.

  “Yes, his ruddy property,” he said with an almost perfect upper-crust English accent. He laughed at my surprised reaction and unslung a haversack from over his shoulder, storing it away underneath his cot. “Shall we go walk the town? Captain give me money for you, tell me you get whatever you want. He want you happy.”

  I snorted indelicately and threw a light shawl over my shoulders. “Then he should free me and return me to my uncle.” I slanted a look in Ben's direction and added, “The Marquess. He's very friendly with the King, you know.”

  Ben chuckled softly. “The King's arms ain't long enough to reach Nassau. Ain't you noticed? No soldiers here. No sailors. No law, 'cept what the Republic of Pirates make.”

  Despite myself, I was intrigued, and as we left my room and descended to the streets of th
e town, I asked, “Republic of Pirates? What is that?”

  “Well, near as I can figure, the pirates bribed the former governor some thirty years ago, and they took over, though the governor stayed for a bit. Then the Spanish and the French attacked and the English abandoned the island. Ain't been no formal British law in more than ten years.” I had, of course, heard my father discussing this subject with my mother occasionally. He called it the Nassau Problem, and it was proving difficult for the Admiralty to overcome.

  We left the brothel behind and fell into a very motley crowd. Pirates, housewives, small children and merchants filled the streets. It was unbearably hot, and the air was thick with humidity. I hadn't been out in it for more than five minutes before my gown was soaked through with sweat. I glanced frequently at Ben, who did not appear to be perspiring in the least. Of course, he must be used to this. I had only been in the tropics for a week; no doubt the awful weather would take some getting used to.

  As we moved through the market, I lingered at those stalls manned by the British. The rest, owned by French, Spanish, or even other islanders, didn't hold my attention for long, even if they sold things like sweeties and fresh fruit. I was listening to the British gossip, news and stories of my beloved home, hoping to make an alliance with someone who still had strong ties to London.

  “I know what you be doing,” Ben said to me as we moved away from a fishmonger's stall, where a girl my age spoke as though she was fresh off the boat from St. Giles. I had made it a point to chat briefly with her and I hoped the early seeds of friendship had been planted.

  “I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” I said loftily as we made our way out from between the close-packed buildings and market stalls, down to the beach. The white sand was covered with tents and men and fires. The stench down here was awful—smoke, roasting meat, old fish, male sweat, refuse, and near one particularly grimy tent, the sweet scent of old, dried blood. I reached into a pocket and withdrew a scented handkerchief and held it up to my nose.