A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  None of that. You’re not thirsty. Keep awake.

  With infinite, delicate slowness, the light beneath the door faded to gray and then disappeared, leaving him in total darkness. He had endured one day.

  You’re not thirsty. Keep awake.

  If he slept, the rats were kind enough to wake him with their teeth.

  Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee.

  Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call answer me speedily.

  He was dying, or would die soon in the stifling, cruel heat.

  My heart is smitten, and withered like grass.

  When the gap beneath the door became visible once more, he heard the thump of hoof beats outside and, for a moment, thought rescue had come, before he recognized Blight’s voice easing his mount to a halt.

  The harsh metallic sound of the bolt being drawn back filled Allen with unreasonable hope.

  Blight, whip in hand, leaned from the mule’s back and regarded him with a sneer. He reached for the cropper of the saddle and tossed something toward Allen.

  Water. Allen caught the scent of it, the sweetest smell in the world, and saw an arc of precious silver in the air before the leather bottle landed and spilled its contents into the dirt. Allen flung himself at the bottle, getting a precious mouthful before it soaked away. Enough water, at any rate, to moisten his mouth and rasp a stream of obscenities at Blight.

  The door slammed shut, the sound of the bolt shoved home terrifyingly loud.

  The bar of light brightened and later, much later, began to dim again.

  “Not so much of a gentleman, now, are you?” Blight said.

  Allen blinked at the light. A lantern.

  “Fuck you, Blight,” he said, or tried to say. His mouth was too dry, his lips cracked and bleeding, to say anything.

  Someone, either Castor or Pollux, hauled him to his feet. His knees buckled and he fell down, but outside, thank God, where he could see the last flare of the setting sun. He lay on coarse clumps of grass, wondering what Blight had in store for him next, but not caring. Not any more, now he’d seen the sky.

  A crack and a line of fire across his ribs roused him.

  “On your feet, damn your eyes!” Blight’s voice. “Give him some water.”

  Water cascaded onto his face and into his open mouth, running into his hair—what a waste—but this surely had to be the best moment of his life, even though someone kicked him quite hard in the ribs and forced him onto his belly. One of them fumbled behind him and undid the shackles, causing instant pain as his arms fell free.

  Weak and stupid, he stumbled to his feet with a vague idea of running, but was manhandled efficiently by Castor and Pollux who shackled his arms in the front, fastened a rope to the iron and tossed the other end to Blight.

  Blight mounted his mule and tied the rope to the pommel of his saddle. “Run, boy.”

  He kicked the mule into a trot and Allen followed—he had no choice but to stumble, weak and sick, behind him. More pain as his feet were cut on stones and his strained shoulders cramped in agony.

  But he was alive. “Fuck you, Blight,” he whispered, “and may you burn in hell, Lemarchand.”

  How ironic that now she and March were no longer lovers, Clarissa slept even less. He frequently demanded her presence in the night, and often during the day too, as though she alone stood between him and annihilation. She hated to see March, once so cool and arrogant, helpless and afraid.

  “Ma’am, Mr. Finch ’im say you come.” Nerissa, yawning, held a candlestick over Clarissa’s bed.

  “Does he live?” She was afraid, so afraid. She wondered that she had slept at all.

  Nerissa held a wrapper out. “’Im not well.”

  “Give me the candle!” She snatched it from Nerissa’s hand and set out at a run for March’s room, one hand shielding the flame. Her shadow bobbed along, huge and ungainly, her feet pounding on the wooden boards.

  Finch waited at March’s door for her.

  “Have you sent for the physician?”

  Finch shook his head. “He said not to, but he asked for Father O’Brien. He’s in there with him now.”

  She shook her head in exasperation.

  The door opened. “Miss Onslowe, Mr. Lemarchand would like you to come in, if you would,” the priest said in his soft brogue.

  It was the sight she dreaded above all, March propped against his pillows gasping for breath, the air of the bedchamber thick with the smoke of burning pastilles. The punkah rose and fell, swirling scented smoke around the room.

  “March!” She clutched his hand. “We must send for the physician.”

  March shook his head. His fingers closed on hers. “Nothing he can do.” His voice was hoarse, breathing labored.

  “Please, don’t die.”

  He smiled a little at that. “Not … not my choice.”

  She raised his hand to her cheek and kissed his fingers. “I would do anything to have you well once more.”

  “Must talk.” He gestured over his shoulder.

  She understood and plumped the pillows, her arm supporting him. Was it her imagination, or did he feel frailer in her arms?

  He took her hand again and spoke in a hoarse, wheezy voice, pausing frequently to gasp in air.

  “I fear for Celia. I may not live long enough to travel to England. She’ll be alone.”

  “But you have family. She has godparents, does she not? Your family is there?”

  “Not the same. They don’t know her. She’ll be in a strange place. Needs friends.” He coughed and Clarissa offered him a sip of watered wine. “She needs you.”

  “If I accompany her as her governess, which I shall do, then—”

  “No!” His fingers tightened, dug into her wrist. “No … no status. No say in how her life shall be. My family can’t …”

  “March, what do you want me to do to help? I can write letters for you. I can …”

  He shook his head. “Not … not good enough. Not enough. Not what I need, what she needs.”

  “You’re exhausted,” she said. “I’ll stay with you until the morning, and when you’re rested, we can talk more of this.”

  He raised himself, a flash of the old arrogance and charm showing. “All very well, if I have until morning. I may not see the sun rise again.” He sank back, and pity and love brought tears to her eyes. “Help me and my child, Clarissa. Marry me.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Run, boy.

  Allen would kill Blight, he swore it. Meanwhile he had to keep alive, and that meant running, putting one foot down in front of the other, breathing, keeping going. Never mind the pain. Keep alive. Keep running. He fixed his eyes on the rope at his wrists, looking ahead at the ground, trying to spare his feet on the rutted track. He wasn’t sure where they were going. Wherever, it was could not be good, but anything would be better than being entombed alive. There might even be some water—no, he couldn’t think that. Even if he felt he could abase himself, sell his very soul for a mouthful of water, he would not weaken.

  Meanwhile one foot in front of the other, dust and blood, smell of the mule, smell of himself, thud of the mule’s hooves, the clatter of an occasional dislodged stone. Pain in his side, his head, everywhere. The clatter of hooves on cobbles, then, and he slowed to a walk, the rope slackening, and fell face down in the muck of a cobbled yard.

  The fanged bird whistled and tore fire across his back.

  “Get up!” Blight shouted.

  Black spots floated in front of his eyes as he staggered to his feet. The whip caught him again as he was shoved into another place, a beaten-earth floor beneath his battered feet, and he tumbled down, retching and sick.

  Someone kicked him in the ribs and tugged at his manacles. He wondered if he were to be freed, but the steel scraped across his wrists, and he heard another metallic sound, that of chains. He really didn’t care. The blissful relief of lying down was enough. H
e would examine his surroundings later.

  A door slammed.

  He slept.

  Allen awoke in a gray light that he thought was probably dawn, swiping wildly at rats, except there were none in this place. He was chained to the wall of a small room with a window, high up, and a bucket in one corner. It looked like a storage room, a place to store goods, and that was what he was now. In the other corner, a jug and a bowl stood. He lunged for the jug, manacles and chains dragging and clanking, and drank. It was some sort of thin beer and he swallowed it all in greedy, desperate gulps. The bowl held porridge, or something equally tasteless and sticky, and he gobbled it up, eating with his fingers.

  He was becoming an animal. That’s what people said about slaves, wasn’t it? Had he thought that, too, even if he’d never actually said it aloud?

  He went back to sleep.

  “Mr. Pendale!”

  He woke with a great jangling of chains and clapped his hands over his genitals. “Mrs. Blight. Forgive me if I don’t get up.”

  She stood in the doorway, bright sunlight streaming in, and for one single, idiotic moment he thought she looked like an angel.

  No, he reminded himself, she was a former whore.

  “This is dreadful, dreadful,” she continued. “What can Blight be thinking of? What shall I do, Mr. Pendale?”

  He’d found her feminine flutter attractive before; now it was only an irritation. “Unlock these chains, if you please, ma’am, and have word sent to my father.”

  “Oh dear. I regret Blight carries the keys and he is out in the fields. I could send one of the slaves, but…”

  Best to keep Blight out of things. “Send word to the Earl of Frensham, then.”

  She nodded. “You must be thirsty.” She snapped her fingers and a female slave appeared, picked up the jug and bowl, and ran out with them. The slave’s demeanor suggested Mrs. Blight was not a kind mistress.

  “I’ll send a boy to the Earl’s house, and perhaps you should…” Murmuring of hot water, she left, closing the door behind her.

  Mrs. Blight expected Allen to wash, with his hands chained together? And of course shaving would be out of the question; he could feel the bristles itchy on his face. On the other hand, he didn’t want to face his father looking like a slave, even if, technically, he was one—a filthy, dirt-encrusted, naked one.

  The female slave returned with more beer and a large hunk of bread for him. He wolfed them down while she looked at him with large, scared eyes, and then she ran off with the empty utensils. Perhaps she’d never seen an Englishman in shackles before. Or perhaps living in fear was normal for the slaves in this household.

  Allen stood, the chains dragging on the floor and the manacles rubbing against his wrists, and took inventory. Every bit of him ached, throbbed, or stung. He hobbled like an old man to use the bucket in the corner, and then investigated the ring to which the chains were locked. Although the ironwork looked too solid and well-constructed for him to be able to damage, he tried swinging his manacles at the ring and gained more bruises on his wrists as a reward.

  Like it or not, he was going to have to rely on Elizabeth Blight’s goodwill, and he wasn’t sure that he trusted her.

  He heard the door swing open again, and a rumbling sound, which turned out to be a large wooden tub rolled in by two slave women. Mrs. Blight followed, carrying a large basket from which she took a length of cotton. She unfolded the fabric to line the tub, and snapped out orders at slaves bearing large buckets of steaming water. Two more dragged in a pallet. How long did she expect him to stay here?

  He meanwhile stood aside, manacled hands crossed over his genitals, and hoped his humiliation was not too obvious. Mrs. Blight remained while the slaves trooped out.

  “I will help you wash.” Mrs. Blight dabbled her hand in the water, as though inviting a reluctant child to bathe.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He shuffled over to the tub and lowered his aching body into the water and for one long, glorious moment his pain and embarrassment faded away.

  Humming quietly, Mrs. Blight soaped his feet and calves. He lay back, eyes closed, wondering at his return to infancy.

  “If you please, Mr. Pendale…” He understood. He leaned forward, head on his knees, as she washed his back and shoulders, scrubbing with a kind efficiency.

  As Allen sank back into the water Mrs. Blight patted his feet dry and applied salve to them—he could smell the tallow and some sort of pungent herb.

  “You are in such a state, Mr. Pendale,” she cooed.

  He was indeed, although not as she meant, and he hoped the water, opaque with grime, hid his condition. The warmth and comfort, as well as the touch of female hands, had given him a monstrous erection. He was half dead, exhausted and aching, covered in bruises and scrapes; but his prick was alive and well and begging for attention.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blight,” he murmured. “You’re very kind.”

  “Can you stand, Mr. Pendale?” She held out a linen towel, eyes modestly averted.

  He stepped out onto another towel she had laid on the floor, grasping the linen in front of him.

  “We haven’t washed everything,” she murmured, pulling a bucket of water toward her.

  The slut, he thought, appalled and lustful. “I don’t think…” His attempt at polite demurral was pitiful. Once again he was letting his prick make the decisions.

  “If I may, Mr. Pendale…” But she wasn’t asking for permission. She was behind him, soaping his arse, running her fingers between his buttocks to nudge his ballocks, stroking the inside of his thighs. Her intention was absolutely clear. He found himself, to his alarm, stepping his feet apart a little to allow her better access.

  “My, you have a big one, Mr. Pendale.” Her hand appeared at the base of his cock—of course he lifted his bound wrists so he could see. The words of a practiced whore, uttered with breathy gentility, almost made him laugh aloud.

  She resumed soaping his arse and thighs, rinsed, and then, with a lewd trail of her hand across his buttocks, stood in front of him. She actually licked her lips.

  “And now, I must wash this big fellow,” she simpered, grasping his cock with a wet, soapy hand.

  Allen didn’t protest. Far from it. He pushed into her hand, bringing his manacled wrists over her head so her bosom tickled his chest while she pinched and squeezed with a bright, professional air. He was alive, damn it. He had not been eaten by rats or died of thirst—he would become Allen Pendale, English gentleman, again, and if this woman wanted to take advantage of him, well, it was something in the nature of a celebration. A fleshly feast. He would thwart Blight by fucking his wife, a fine revenge, particularly as she was the one instigating the act.

  “May I reciprocate, ma’am?” Damn these manacles.

  “If you would be so kind, Mr. Pendale.” Mrs. Blight turned, presenting her back to him so he could unbutton her gown and unlace her stays.

  He hoisted up her shift and observed her round, white arse. Very nice. Fleshy. If he’d had a hand free he would slap her to see the skin pinken. As it was, with his wrists encumbered, he couldn’t get a good swing at her.

  He admired the sway of her large, pink-tipped breasts, the slight wobble of thighs and bum above blue garters and cream stockings, as she arranged herself on the pallet.

  Her hand wandered idly to the burst of dark blonde hair between her thighs, touching the pink, wet flesh within, parting herself, exposing her sex to him. It was crude and vulgar and just what he wanted. Oh, yes, Elizabeth Blight was skilled at her profession.

  With a jangle of chains he limped over to her and thudded to his knees before her. Above her, manacled wrists over her head, yes, biting her mouth and neck and those big breasts. Like an animal. He plunged inside her, growling, while she emitted small shrieks and cries in that silly genteel way, while her hips pumped as vigorously as his own, heels locked behind his back.

  She had an orgasm—at least, he thought that was what happened when she stiffened,
arched and clutched his arms—but he didn’t care if it was real or not. This was for his pleasure, his release, his future liberty. Yes.

  He collapsed on her and she pushed him off with an annoyed grunt and stood. He heard the scrape of wicker on the floor and imagined she fetched something, some sort of feminine device maybe, to rid herself of his semen. If she’d asked him he would have withdrawn; he was a gentleman. Or possibly he wouldn’t have. Let Blight have a cuckoo in his nest. A coal black cuckoo, maybe? His thoughts drifted to litters of puppies and kittens. You never knew how they would turn out, whatever their dams and sires looked like. He listened to the rustles, the pop of a cork released from a bottle, and caught the scent of rum.

  Then he heard the rattle and creak of the door opening.

  “Why, Mr. Blight, Mr. Pendale and I are most gratified that you have been able to join us.”

  Clarissa sat with Celia in a shady spot in the garden. A footman waved a palm branch to create a breeze; another stood by with lemonade in case either of the ladies were thirsty. If Clarissa turned a little, away from the house and the manicured lawn, she saw sinuous vines and bright blooms, the island trying to take back its own. Every day a gardener had to cut new growth back.

  Celia had fallen asleep, an open book in her lap, lulled by the heat.

  Clarissa referred to her penciled notes, her writing slope, paper, and pen at the ready.

  Lucy, kitchen slave. I cannot tell her age, and she does not know. She may be as young as twelve, at the most fifteen, born on the plantation. Bore a child which died. The father is one of the overseers, but she does not know which one. Blight gave her to them. Asked if King Wilberforce would make her free. Had heard of Wilberforce from the conversation of some naval officers who dined with March.

  A woman, a slave, marched purposefully toward them. Clarissa stiffened, wondering whether she came with bad news about March, and then relaxed as she realized the slave did not approach from the house. The woman stopped to talk with a gardener, and gave a low rich chuckle—Clarissa started. For a moment she was reminded vividly of Allen and found herself looking round for him, before acknowledging that worry and interrupted sleep made her imagine things. He might have sailed for England by now, and neither she nor March had mentioned his name since they had last seen him.