With no other choice, she did as she was told; however, it was not easy getting the food down, she felt queasy, her head felt heavy with fever and pressure - what she wanted most, was to lie on the floor before the fire and sleep – but if she was going to be any good to him, she had to get stronger, better – thus, she was able to finish all the food.
By this time Quinton had emptied the bath, refilled it, stripped, washed, rinsed himself off and dried. He donned a nightshirt for her sake, not his own - he preferred sleeping bare following a bath; this could not be - with a woman about. When all was done, he returned to the room - totally exhausted - realizing she had disappeared.
"Where now have you gone to, my little rat-slayer? You have a knack for tucking away." He spoke out loud looking about the room, and then, seeing a flash of white, the sheet he gave her to cover herself - there it was, on the floor, hidden behind his chair among his books. Stepping closer to it, he realized she was still within it, balled up on the floor; sound asleep as if a weary dog by the fire. He couldn't believe his eyes. With a sigh, he muttered, "You'll be the death of me - you will."
He worked to move books aside, his chair and other things that stood in the way of getting a good hold of her. Once more, he hefted her high. She was shivering again, teeth chattering, feverish. "Wench, if you are my gift - you must break this fever, I would have my gift at full health - I haven't a plot within which to bury you just yet. Come, I've no choice but to keep my eye on you, and I can't very well do so with you here, balled up on the floor." He continued on, thinking out loud. He made his way to the stairs and slowly up them, his slow pace showed how close he was to collapsing himself. His sigh was due to gladness at seeing his bedroom, where there too he'd lit a fire for the night. Carrying her to the bed, he pulled his covers back and laid her there.
Moments later, he lay beside her - she'd curled into a ball once more, her back to him, her body tight and tucked into the fetal position - close to him, oblivious to her surroundings.
As exhausted as he was, he still could not drop off to sleep and so, carried out his normal routine before the night took him, he turned the lantern up beside his bed, donned his spectacles, and began reading - however he could not concentrate - his eyes kept wondering over to the young woman who lay beside him, in his bed. As if in a trance, his eyes remained fixed upon her while his mind went over the events of his evening.
He'd acquired a slave - a fancy.
Although sick, he could not deny that she was lovely to behold. He was a bachelor - with no interest in having a wife, but she - was different - she - could possibly be his servant. He did need some assistance even though having travelled in great adventures; he was accustomed to taking care of himself. He'd started out with a companion, a man servant who'd been killed unfortunately by a bull. They'd wondered into a field not seeing the animal until it was too late - due to the age of his servant, he'd been unable to outrun the animal - and Quinton had been unable to distract the animal from its course. It had taken days to find the owner to retrieve his dead manservant, his body broken, twisted and fly blown. Once he'd been buried, Quinton had travelled alone. His travels were about gaining knowledge of medicines and various ways in which cultures treated the human body to heal it of injury, illness or disease.
Suddenly he stood from the bed, taking his lantern with him to his writing desk within the room, there he found his journal and ink well. Taking his seat, he opened the book picked up his feathered quill and began an entry into it
1830, in the year of our Lord, it is October - second Saturday of that month, to my surprise, I've acquired a most astonishing possession. Tucked away in the bowels of a ship - a mere slip of a girl I am certain has not seen many years at the most I would deduce, perhaps 17. This gift, was mine to take - for I'd aided in healing the mother of Henry J. Bancmen and as a show of his gratitude - thus his offer of, the fancy.
She was found to be in a terrible state of uncleanliness and health - and yet - there was enough strength and self-preservation that we'd found the wench in a battle with rats - I daresay, proudly, she was the conqueror. Hours later, I must admit, this still brings a smile to my face.
I have many thoughts plaguing my mind.
I do not approve of slavery.
Coming from England, having dealings with the Moors and their great contributions to our nation - I have firsthand knowledge that these are a people of great successes and intelligence; they are planners, problem solvers, scientists, physicians - with a scholarly aptitude often challenging those of my ilk to compete with. Yes - this is certain.
Thus, I find slavery of these nobles - an abomination!
Yet - the girl - for now - is mine.
I have contemplated finding a place for her, where she is to be free - as to this land where I dwell - they are free.
Subsequently there is the matter of her being a young woman. African and I detect perhaps a mix of Native Indian decent, without guardianship of a father, direction or protection of a mother, what might befall her should I turn her over – and to whom shall I do so? Where might she find herself? She is one that I must admit, is very pleasing to the eyes – that in itself could mean trouble for one such as she - now fearful of what might be.
These thoughts are ever on my mind since taking ownership - dreadful word - but that is as it is. For now, she is mine - and her fate rests with me. The truth in this matter is that I am now responsible for her wellbeing. To be put in such a predicament, I am challenged, my conscience is challenged - in truth - I find there are more reasons to keep her, than there are - to - free her. There it is.
Once more, it cannot be missed, she has feared. Great fear - and I stand clear as to the reasons why, yes - I have seen - yes - I have heard and yes - I have knowledge of deeds that even now I cannot bring my mind to conjure this hour before I make an attempt at rest. It is due to her cause of fear, that I have cause to keep her - here - with me – where she will be safe. Is that, however, my only motivation for doing so? Am I being charitable? Dare I play the knight, saving her and her honor? Or am I no better than those I accuse of deeds in which they must explain to the Maker upon the meeting?
Our Creator?
My Lord, it has not escaped my notice that you have constructed her well. Already my tired soul - I must confess to you, felt a stirring at the feel of her skin. It is certainly always a wonder to me how you made us all in such great variety. Silken sable? Such a luxurious brown - I find it insulting to your genius to use the descriptive, brown - it does not somehow fully describe how beautiful I find such skin – proof that all that you do, is done to perfection. Should I tread carefully less I sin with the things that went through my mind? Yet, what I scribe, you have already seen, discerned, gathered - yes - you are aware of my sin - there is no reasonable means of which I could hide it; thus my confession and acceptance. My God, Lord, Father - her curves, the firmness and beauty of her bare breasts beckoned me so that I fought all within - not to give in to lustful stirrings, yet - …
I must admit to testing the reactions of my fingertips upon her nipples - they are dark and distended to a hardness at my touch.
Quinton sat back and closing his eyes, gulped. He felt himself jump, stir, lengthen. Replacing the quill into the well, he dusted his entry and left it to complete later. Standing from the chair, he had a decision to make, climb back into bed with her and fight his urges for sleep? Or return to the room below, making the best of resting on the sofa?
"You must see about her needs, not your own!" He scolded himself. Returning to his bed, he sat, sighed, prayed, blew out the lantern and laid upon his bed for rest that did not easily come.
Deep into the night, the wench woke him three times with her fever, with whimpers, nightmares - terror in her cries. Yet and still, all while she struggled, her voice weak, she came to enough to plead, "I be betta' masta, I be betta' - don't - give me up - I be betta'."
Bathing her brow, forcing her to drink more of the special tea he'd m
ade from herbs he had collected while in the Orient, his murmur to her was gentle, "Sleep, don't be silly - you are a gift - one - it is best - that I keep... sleep." There, he said it; he knew that it was true, that he would, keep her. He wondered if he'd known all along, that he would keep this gift, and make the best of it – her? At one moment in the night, her feverish eyes stared into his; he smiled for her, to reassure her and suddenly realized he didn't know her name.
"Tell me - if you can - what name your mother announced upon your birth?"
Licking her chapped, cracked lips to moisten them before she spoke, "Suga ... my name - Suga."
Once more, taking himself by surprise, Quinton chuckled out loud; he shook his head in wonder.
Her eyes drifted closed, and again she slept; it was her final interruption of rest. All was quiet once more, he returned to his place beside her, closing his eyes, before drifting off to sleep, a smile spread across his face, for in his mind, her name repeated itself, over and over until the final mention and version of it, brought his smile, 'Suga Caine.' Life was not so terrible after all. Quinton had a feeling the Lord was saying to him, “Life – is not so bad. There – your day has ended - better? Quinton?” For him to answer the Lord, “Yes Lord, yes - better.”
Chapter III
For their own reasons, both were at the height of being fully drained. They slept late into the next day and through it, only rising for a bit of privacy to relieve themselves via the chamber pot, Quinton leaving her to take care of it, returning to dump it despite the distress it caused her at having him do it. He smiled and proclaimed, “You are a silly little rat-slayer, back in bed, I am not above this. Do as I say, grumble no more.” Upon his return, again he found her fast asleep, despite her fight to try and do what she felt her chore, she was exhausted – drained. Aware of that, Quinton returned to bed and together, they slept. Even in her condition, she made every effort to keep her distance from him while lying within reach – this Quinton noticed as he would wake, check on her, giving her soup, water, cheese, tea and a bit of bread.
No matter how tired himself, needing to recover from days of being in attendance to sick ones, he didn’t shirk his responsibility to see to her, he rose with scratchy, bleary eyes, making more sustenance for her, for himself where in silence they ate and drank – the entire time her eyes were cast downward, as if ashamed of herself for allowing this, as if it were an unspoken rule that she not look him in the eyes.
Quinton sighed, he would address her fears later, but for now, they both needed more rest, thus he continued to check on her every time he stirred and immediately upon finding her okay he went back to sleep.
Side by side they remained; becoming more familiar with one another – in that time of rest and healing; Suga learned all she needed to know about the man she considered, her new master, she lay in his bed and not even one night, had he made an attempt to take her against her will. It was early upon the third morning when their rest and peace was interrupted with a banging at his door. Startled awake, Quinton blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to opening and staying that way; stumbling from the bed, he yawned going to his window, his bedroom was right above the front door; opening the window he looked out, yelling, "Calm down, enough of that banging - look up young man - up!" He called down to the anxious male wringing his hands and then banging once more; he caught himself, stopped and looked up, "Please sir! My apologies, tis urgent - it's me brother - I've taken off two of his fingers - he's bleedin' awful! I didn't mean to do it - twas an accident - hurry sir, please - he could die - blood is everywhere!" Just like that, he was alert, awake, refreshed, and ready to go! "Very well - I need to wash, get dressed, sit there, wait for me, I haven't a clue of where you live, we shall take my carriage to hasten the journey."
The young male nodded, rubbing his midsection that was tight with worry, he was wishing to tell him hurry, but kept it back - sitting on the doorstep, he rocked and waited. Closing the window to and turning back to the room, Quinton looked to the bed, it was empty. "Where has she gone to now?" He blasted, whipping his night shirt up and off of his body, standing nude – displaying to no one in particular a body lean, strong with whipcord muscles.
Going straight to his clothing, he began dressing hurriedly, watching his door for her return. Due to the emergency, he had little time to locate her as he rushed through his home - going for the remedies he would use for blood loss and closing off wounds, tossing all into his medical grip. In a hurry and impatient with wondering where she'd gone to; he called out, "Suga?! Suga?!" Still there was no sight of her, "Blast you Suga Caine, where have you gone to?!"
There was no answer, he could not wait, nor worry. He rushed out his back door, heading for his small stable barn when once more, he was brought to a stop – straight ahead was his horse and carriage being led from the barn, by none other than - Suga.
"All ready masta, I do it for you - you gots to go - I tol' this horse, hurr'up now - masta ain't got time for no foolishness!" She'd hurried and was out of breath, her voice was sweet, feminine, sultry, low - he couldn't believe his ears, he couldn't believe his eyes. She was sweating, wrapped in the sheet with it knotted about her as best she could and bare foot; his horse, carriage, ready to go.
"Suga, are you mad!? Back inside with you! I can do such things myself!" He scolded.
"I got's t'do my bit! You don’ enuff now, gone - don't worry 'bout me - he waitin' - gone!" She ordered him in her sweet concerned way. Just like that, head down, she dashed off back into the house, so that he could climb into his carriage and be off. Quinton suddenly smiled once more, he was breaking a record, he’d smiled more since having Suga than he had that year. Driving to the front for the young man, who hurriedly leapt on board and they were on their way.
Sure enough, Quinton arrived to quite a mess, and true, the man he was to treat had lost a great deal of blood – the family had also collected his fingers, as if he could put them back on.
Cleaning the wound, Quinton wondered if the body could heal itself back in such a way, as to reknit the appendages back following such a severing. Even at his thoughts, he’d heard of no success as of yet for such a procedure; being honest, he explained that unfortunately, it was impossible. To do so, would endanger him further with gangrene and worse.
The family and the young man, had little choice but accept his advice and he carried on with cleaning all areas of the two finger stumps, and then painstakingly sewed them closed, pulling the skin over to stitch them. Two or more hours later, the deed was done, the fingers bandaged with him warning, if infection set in – to contact him immediately.
Afterward, the mother fetched warm water for him to clean up; her husband asking what they could possibly give as payment. Giving it some thought, Quinton informed them, “I'm in need of cloth, cloth for garments, I’ve a new servant who has come to me with little, in fact, nothing. Have you cloth which can be made into something decent? What can you offer to that end?” he asked. “What size of a servant sir?” One of their young daughters asked, wishing to contribute.
“She's small, just a little more of her than you, but not much.”
“I can spare a chemise, a gown, one of my older ones, will that do?” She asked, moving quickly to fetch them, “They're clean, not yet threadbare.”
“It will be better than her current state, that will be fine, thank you.”
“We can spare you a couple of laying hens, young ones; don't want to be owing you, sir, Dr. Caine.” The husband spoke up. Quinton smiled, “Two young laying hens, and the garments, sounds fair.”
“Pa, throw in one of them mongrel pups, we got three left.” A son spoke up.
“Go get'im one, pick that big chubby one – it's gone be a moose in the en’ I'm thinkin'.”
Quinton sighed, he didn't really care for the idea of a dog, but he couldn't turn them down, they were anxious to settle their debt with him. He wanted to get moving, his mind on Suga – she was in his home alone, he’d been in possession
of her only in a better part of a week, and already he worried over her.
By the time he drove his carriage back into his barn, chickens squawking behind him from their crate, the fat, big paw puppy whimpering below his seat, he was eager to get inside and check on her, hoping she'd fared well in his absence. He'd barely cleared the barn door when out of the house she came rushing, straight into the barn, “I'm here masta', I'll do that for you.” She went straight for the harness of his horse.
“Suga Caine! Where inside of your head did you hear me call for you to do such a thing? Get back inside – back at once!” He ordered.
“Can't masta', gots to help – gots to do my bit.”
“Stop calling me that blasted title! Master – I have gone to great lengths to avoid the bowels of hell in my passing – I’ll not let the treating of you send me there! This is not your bit! Inside right now – wait – here, these are for you – and uh – I suppose this is too.” He passed her the garments and then held up the grunting puppy, “We’ll both starve with the feeding of this one, he'll be everywhere if we leave him out here, until we have a place to confine him, he'll have to stay inside. We have hens as well, laying hens. They'll stay in the crate here in the barn until I get a coop built I suppose.” He went on, speaking to her as if she’d always been in his life. Her look of surprise at the clothing and then the puppy made him smile, “There you are once more, that look upon your face, I can't very well have you around in that sheet can I? Take them and the pup – get inside.”
She nodded, took the clothing in one arm, the hefty puppy in the other and holding onto to both, she informed him, “Made food for you, know you be hungry masta'.”
The Fancy Page 3