As John was examining Pa, not realizing how long he'd been watching the man, Pa turned and made eye contact. Pa’s arresting eyes, eyes that had always seemed to know if John had committed even a slight transgression, looked very serious.
He said, “You're a lucky man, John. That girl out there is striking.”
John nodded without looking any closer. Her appearance didn't matter. She wasn't to be his in anything but legalities.
Henry opened the door and, despite Henry’s cool exterior, the older of the two women threw her arms unceremoniously about his neck.
“Henry!” she cried, a choke of emotion.
“You look not a day older than when you left, little miss,” Henry said with the ghost of a smile into her hair.
“I am older, Henry. I feel it in my bones some days. And I see it anytime I look at my beautiful girl over there,” the woman said as a means of drawing attention to her daughter, the lady of the hour.
Oh, my. John stopped that thought as he tried to redirect his mind to something more appropriate than staring at the younger one’s beauty. However, it was hard. Damn hard. His mind bounced to the book of Shakespeare lying in his bedroom upstairs. He knew the line by heart but had never seen someone embody it so completely. He saw her and thought of it, “April hath put the spirit of youth in everything.” She looked like she was the avatar or spring; warm skin, eyes the green of deep water, hair darker than fresh turned soil but as shiny as the midday sun. And all that was not to be outdone by the more base things he couldn't help but notice. She was thin, yes, but her bosom was high and tight under her thin gown. The gown did nothing but show the long musculature of her legs and rounded ass, just as sweetly athletic as her chest. Some men, he knew, liked their women softer, more curved. She was the perfect size to him. There wasn't an inch extra on her and what there was had been shaped and pulled taught by exertion. He could imagine her gleaming sweat, each muscle defined under than perfectly sun kissed skin.
John he scolded himself with a militant inner voice stop this. She is not for you. She's not even free to choose you if she so wanted. These thoughts will not help your cause.
John quickly looked away from her form, gloriously outlined in the southern sun coming through the windows.
John could tell the texture of her skin would be perfect if touched. He pictured it, despite his efforts not to. He could see his hands, a bit paler than hers, flitting up her body in a caress barely stronger than a tickle. He would use just the tip of his tongue to taste the swell of her breast, his hand to cup the rounded underneath. John, while not a violent man in any way, thought that her smooth skin looked good enough to eat. He wasn't violent, but that didn't mean he wouldn’t mind applying his teeth in a controlled scrape over her bare, flat torso.
It's not to be, John. Stop.
The older woman had turned to greet Pa. He swept an arm out for her as if she were a lady of standing instead of a free woman of color and his former property. She, to the apparent surprise of everyone in the room, greeted him with the same warmth and lack of etiquette she'd bestowed on Henry. Unlike Henry however, Pa returned the embrace with enthusiasm.
After she pulled back she motioned to her daughter who hadn’t said a word yet. She was so still John wondered if she breathed. He caught himself looking at her chest to find out. Goodness John! Get a hold of yourself!
The older woman said, “This is my daughter, Fleur. I am most proud to note she's grown into a beauty and a fine companion for a gentleman.”
Pa said, his rough voice warm, “In fact, I was thinking she resembles her father a bit. Handsome indeed.”
The young woman's, Fleur's, eyes never left whatever spot she had fixed them on. She didn't take the bait to engage with Pa. She didn't even glance at her mother looking for a sign suggesting how she should take that last comment.
She probably thought she was in a roomful of barbarous beasts and he the worst of them.
Seeing her there, so unresponsive, made him certainly feel like one. The feeling only increased when the contract was brought out, laid across the table with ceremony, and signed by his steady, quick hand. There was no need for Fleur to sign.
Goodness, did she even know her letters?
Fleur looked around her new cottage, right in the heart of the city. She could hear the foot traffic and voices outside, letting her know that people came and went about her. The noises only served to remind her that she was all alone.
She was in a predominantly quadroon neighborhood and many of her neighbors were in similar arrangements. However she'd spied the family next door to her, an older woman, what Fleur assumed was her quadroon husband, and their adult children. A whole family of free people of color! They'd been sitting on the landing of their neat and bright cottage, the mama preparing okra with a daughter. The two men had been smoking and looked at ease. They laughed together in comfort. They'd raised their hands in greeting when the hackney dropped Fleur and her few possessions off. She'd returned the greeting, flashed a quick smile, but couldn't be distracted away from her thoughts.
John would show up sometime during the day, take his place in the twin cottage next door, and then come for a visit and expect certain intimacies. She knew almost nothing of those expectations. For so long it had only been Mama and her. Men in general were a bit of a mystery.
She knew that in her roll of clothes there was a lacy, barely there kind of garment meant to show his eyes her long, lean hills and valleys. The idea of wearing it confounded her, but the notion of not putting it on was worse. Then he'd have to undress her, take the time to unwrap her from her scarlet gown, pull the chemise up over her head, lifting her hair in the process and watching as it spilled down over her exposed breasts. Better to make it easy for him and get the whole thing over with.
Not that John was off putting to look at, if she was completely honest with herself. She assumed he knew the appeal of his sharp, angular cheekbones since he kept his face clean shaven. Those rather harsh lines were in complete and enticing juxtaposition to the full lips that he'd kept in a frown at the signing. He was tall and thin, but his shoulders were broad. He had yet to really put on his man’s weight, but she could imagine that when he did he'd be big as a house. She wasn't opposed to the notion.
John hadn't even looked at her at the signing though and she'd wondered if he found her person distasteful. There were plenty of white men who thought people of color were inferior, were like animals. The way he'd seemed so cold and distant made her fear he was one of them. She knew the type. His eyes hadn't seemed to ever flash in her direction, although he had looked rather fondly at Henry. Wonderful. Righteously white and with preconceived notions on the place of women.
Yes. It'd be best to just put on her nightgown and get the first time over with.
She was sitting by the window in her receiving room with a few of her paints, made scrupulously from mixing Mama's fabric dyes with eggs, laid out on a small table in front of her. The cottage was minimally furnished, providing its new resident with all the necessaries but leaving the manner of décor completely up to her. She imagined she'd be provided a furnishings budget and would be expected to make the house comfortable for John. She knew nothing about what he liked, disliked (except for perhaps the idea of her), or was used to. Instead of giving herself a headache and succumbing to another bought of nausea, she pulled out a bit of Mama's scrap fabric, stretched it tight, and began to paint. She let her brush dictate the movement of her hand, using quick swiping motions to create mostly straight lines. Before long the sharp contours and soaring spires of St. Louis Cathedral became apparent. The way the lines wavered just a bit made it look as though the Cathedral was standing strong in the middle of a monsoon. The paint, like always, matched her mood.
She heard John's arrival before she saw it, her head bent over her painting in blessed distraction. When she looked up she saw him leave the carriage and lead the way inside his neighboring quarters as the driver followed him laden with two
suitcases. Two. Did that mean he meant to stay for some time?
Fleur shrugged out of the serviceable shawl she'd donned over her slip of a nightgown. Goosebumps raised on her skin though the air was pleasantly warm. How was she to greet him? Should she lay out some refreshments? Was that idea ridiculous, that he would want to sit and chat over tea before leading the way into the bedroom much, she imagined, the same as he led the driver into his cottage, all business? Were there even provisions in this house yet? Her hands shook and she laid the paint brush down with care.
An hour passed. Then two. She waited, he didn't come, and for the second time in the day her agitation caused her to empty her stomach. She made it out on the lawn, bent over in the bushes. To her horror the young man, her quadroon neighbor, witnessed her scamper to relieve her nausea. She'd managed to pull the shawl back on, but there was still much more of her person bared to the eye than she would choose. He didn't hesitate to come over to her, to ask if she needed help, to wrap a strong, supporting arm around her shoulders. It was a breach of every kind of etiquette she'd ever been taught. It was sweet as could be.
"I'm so sorry, so sorry," she apologized again, a reminder of the atonement she'd offered to her mother than morning.
"Well, Sorry, I'm Elijah. It's a pleasure making your neighborly acquaintance. Rather unfortunate name for such a charming seeming woman," he said.
"If I hadn't just messed the shrubs between our houses, I'd think you were flirting with me Elijah," Fleur rose to the occasion.
He handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket. She used it to wipe her mouth and folded its soft corners. She had every intention of returning it to him at a later time, after it was laundered.
"Are you well, Sorry?" Elijah asked, his face serious.
"Well enough. It's just nerves," Fleur answered.
"Nerves? Must be something mighty terrifying," he prodded as much as good manners would allow.
"I had my placage contract signed today," Fleur answered simply.
"Placage huh? Well, let me tell you something my mom always said to her little ones when we were growing- no storm can last forever. Even the strongest winds blow themselves out eventually," he said.
"Quite an odd way to say congratulations, Mr. Elijah," Fleur said, putting some verbal distance between the two of them.
"Quite an odd way to celebrate, out here messing the shrubbery," he said with a shrug and a smile.
"I'm Fleur, Mr. Elijah, and I'll make sure to get your handkerchief back to you. Thanks for your concern today," Fleur said to him, head bowed.
"Come by for some lemonade when you're free. I'm sure our mom would love to get better acquainted," he said as he turned back to his own home.
Fleur didn't say anything. She heard what he really meant. Come visit when your handler leaves. Come visit when you are your own again, when it's your turn to have your body.
She went into her new house, a place that she couldn't imagine would ever really feel like home, and waited. The sun began to set on the least romantic day of her life and she vacillated between being foolishly relieved and sickeningly eager to get the first act over with.
John had spent the day pacing and peering. He paced back and forth in the little cottage which, though not even a tenth the size of the estate he was used to inhabiting, felt like a welcome invitation. He was invited to make it all his own, to furnish or leave bare and open as befit his own preferences. He had never had a place of his own, not even at the College of William and Mary, where he roomed with another Southern gent, He'd seriously disliked David, his roommate who insisted on reading his every assignment out loud multiple times until he felt his pontificating was perfect. David was bound to go on to become a fantastic lawyer if someone didn't punch him as he deserved first.
He had peered more than once at his new left hand wife's cottage, though his peering only led to more pacing. He had to go see her, he knew, but there were expectations. After his very carnal reaction to her, completely unexpected as it was, he wanted to make sure he was well and truly in control of his thoughts. He imagined her there, waiting for him, wondering what sort of intimate secrets would come to life between them. He didn't know how to tell her he didn't want to be a threat when, in an effort of internal honesty, he realized he did want everything from her body that he was supposed to.
She couldn't tell him no. He kept coming back to that. It was enough to cool his desire.
Finally, as the day was coming to an end he knew the time had come to visit her. She'd want to go to bed soon, and keeping her waiting up for him was quite rude. He straightened his shirt, took one deep breath that tasted of the sultry New Orleans air and nerves, and marched over to her door.
After a single knock the door slowly opened, as if a hesitant hand pulled it. He walked in and searched for her. His eyes widened when they caught her, half concealed by the door she'd just opened for him. He felt a very real fear that his eyeballs might fall out of his head or otherwise dry up from the lids' refusal to ever blink again. She stood there and the sliver of her sylphlike body he could see was wrapped seductively in the most transparent silk he'd ever set eyes upon. Like a handmaiden of Artemis she looked tall, lean, and strong. She also looked as if she owned her near nudity absolutely and dared any man to look at her lest he be shot by an arrow through the heart like unworthy prey.
"Dear heavens woman! Put on some clothes!" John heard himself order in a rough rasp. He assumed she could hear the raw need in it, but there was nothing for it. He had never expected to face his every fantasy so openly. Control, John. Gain some control over yourself.
She moved quickly away but in doing so showed more of herself to him. He couldn't stop himself from looking. The swoop of light over her arched back was as devastating to his senses as a bullet. His pants had suddenly become very uncomfortable.
He did the only thing he could do except stand and hope that she came back attired exactly the same and fall into his lap. She wouldn't, he knew, because he had issued a command. She'd probably been groomed all her life to not disobey a man of his color and class. He immediately hated that he'd done it even if it was in both of their best interests. He sat in one of the chairs in her receiving room and listened to the noises of her rustling around in the private part of the cottage.
She came back into the room as if she were entering the arctic. A full skirt, much more cumbersome than the pretty scarlet concoction she'd worn at the signing, covered her from naval to foot. A high necked shirt which, despite great seamstressing, couldn't hide that it had been cut from flour sacks swallowed her thin torso. Her beautiful dark hair was secreted underneath a patterned tignon, and that simple garment changed the air entirely. She had dressed as if she were going out into the city for errands, not as though she was cozy in her home. The woman even wore gloves.
"Fleur, I..." he said, not knowing whether to apologize, attempt to explain, or make a point of introducing himself.
"I understand, sir," she said, cutting him off. How could she understand?
She moved over to the other chair, close to which she'd pulled a small table. She paused before she sat, and her back became ramrod straight.
"May I sit as well, sir, or is there something you would like me to get for you?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"No. No. I'm fine, thanks. This is your home, Fleur," he reminded her.
"You provide the home. It's good manners," she answered as she took her seat, smoothing her skirts away from her bottom.
He had to stop noticing these things.
She sat, fidgeted with her gloves, did everything but look at him. After some time she picked up what was a rather sad, splayed looking paintbrush and began to make smooth brushstrokes over the fabric on the tabletop. Within minutes of her starting to paint he realized she'd tuned him out completely.
"You are a painter?" he asked, grasping for anything to break the thick silence.
"I have painted before if that's what you mean," she answered.
"That's a wonderful undertaking," he said, making polite conversation.
Not looking up she answered, "I'm much prouder of the undertakings I learned from my mother, sir. Cooking, farming, and patching threadbare clothes are the past times of a field hand’s daughter. I am proud of that legacy."
"What of reading," he'd asked the question he'd wondered that morning, "is that part of your skillset?"
"I was raised to be useful and a placee, Sir John. My mother can't read and scarcely knows her numbers. Who would have taught me and how would such a thing serve me in my role as your companion?" she answered, clearly not interested in polite conversation.
He stood, feeling her resentment. Was it because he'd been late? Was it the entire arrangement which took her away from her mother and set her here, in this unfamiliar house? Was it because he made no move to force himself on her? She couldn't possibly want that.
"I'll return tomorrow, Fleur. I feel I need some rest. Have a good night," and he all but ran to the door.
Once back in his own cottage John reinstituted his pacing. There was nothing to peer at outside since dark had fallen while he'd been making mistake after mistake in Fleur's house. However, he could hear the voices of the neighbors, and it sounded as though they were enjoying themselves. The music was lively and the voices were many.
He needed to fix things with Fleur. Despite the fact that he was going to dissolve their placage he didn't want her to have a bad opinion of him. He didn't want her to think she'd been used as just a stepping stone. Was he using her as just a stepping stone to his money and donation to the cause of equality? He couldn't grapple with that just yet.
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