Chatham put his fork down slowly and then wiped the comers of his mouth with his napkin. His eyes met James Cornwall’s directly as he spoke.
“I found the medical community to be ambivalent towards us. It was as if they thought of us as poor wandering children, rebelling against a stern but beneficent parent.” Chatham paused as his mind raced ahead, preparing his words carefully, not allowing himself to become committed to any one path yet. “Although there were a great many who believed what we did was right, there are many more who felt anger towards us for depriving them and their children of their rightful due.” Chatham stopped and, lifting his glass of wine to his lips, sipped it slowly.
Cornwall cocked his head to the side. “How did you feel about that?”
“I accepted their feelings as justified, as I would accept our reasons for independence as just.”
Several at the table nodded assent at Chatham’s words, while others muttered to themselves. James Cornwall frowned and began to probe deeper.
“But you personally, how did you feel? Surely a man of your intelligence and experience must have some opinion.” Kira, attempting to stave off the crisis she could feel developing, suddenly interrupted. “This is all so terribly boring! Why not enjoy the sweets and then, when you gentlemen retire to your cigars and brandy, you can discuss your politics in privacy.”
The women seated around the table echoed Kira’s remark, and Chatham subtly smiled his thanks to her. The servants cleared away the dishes as two women pushed the dessert carts down either side of the large dining room.
When the meal ended, the seven gentlemen retired to the library for cigars, brandy, and politics. Kira led the women into one of the sitting rooms where coffee was served. Fashion, love, lovers and children formed the talk of the women. While Kira sat listening to their various tales, she heartily wished—and not for the first time—that she were a man. She wanted to be able to use her mind, to speak and to question without being looked down on and to argue about her political beliefs.
Sitting here in her Uncle James’ drawing room, Kira felt the constraints of her womanhood—but the women around her could not understand her needs or the longings she felt. They would not be able to comprehend her desire to control her own destiny. Her life would never follow the patterns of these women, especially Abigail Montague’s. To this witless girl, marriage meant everything.
Kira almost laughed out loud at the thought, remembering her own plans to find someone to marry to free her from New Windsor. Am I so different? She fervently hoped so.
The door to the drawing room opened and the majordomo put his head inside, announcing that the gentlemen had finished their cigars and requested the ladies’ presence. The elegant black man, dressed in solid black with a red sash indicating his rank, bowed low to the women and opened both of the drawing room doors. Kira stood, smiling at the women as though she were truly one of them. Then she led the way out.
The remainder of the evening was spent on the veranda. A small group of Cornwall’s slaves, trained as musicians, played quietly in the far corner. When the guests began to leave, Kira found Robert Chatham standing alone, looking down at the gardens, which were illuminated by the soft moonlight.
She walked up behind him. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
“Most certainly. It has been a wonderful evening, among the nicest I’ve had since arriving in Charleston.” Chatham’s disarming smile and soft speaking voice made Kira warm to him. It made the job she had chosen easier. As she looked up at him, she let her expression become flirtatious, and she smiled seductively.
“I do hope I’ll see more of you here at New Windsor.” Kira invested her words with more warmth than was necessary to be a good hostess. It felt strange to her to play-act like this when what she really wanted was something entirely different.
Chatham arched an eyebrow at her and started to say something serious, but changed his mind.
“Thank you. I do hope to be here more often.” Chatham nodded as he continued. “Your uncle has invited me back in two days to discuss some business in which he feels I might take an interest.”
His words weighed heavily on her. She had hoped that her intuitions about him were right—that he was not like Uncle James’ other cronies. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Chatham saw the disappointment fill her eyes, but said nothing.
“Perhaps your uncle would like to have me as one of the family physicians,” he offered. He understood Kira was upset, but he could not take the chance of letting her know who he was. He was still unsure of her, no matter what Sean felt. Together, they walked to the front door.
“I’ll say goodnight now, Mistress Cornwall, and I sincerely want you to know how much I enjoyed this evening.” Chatham finished talking just as James Cornwall appeared from the hallway.
“Glad you could share the evening with us, Robert. I am looking forward to your return in two days,” Cornwall said enthusiastically.
“It was a pleasure, James.” Chatham paused as he turned to look at Kira. “May I add that your niece is a superb hostess?”
James Cornwall ignored the compliment. “By the way,” he asked, shaking Chatham’s hand, “how is that new slave working out?”
Chatham hesitated only for the barest second before he replied. This was not the time he would have wished to discuss the matter, but his objective was James Cornwall’s confidence, not Kira’s. “Excellent. You were right. Abraham will make a perfect majordomo.” Chatham heard the sharp intake of Kira’s breath as he spoke the slave’s name, but he did not acknowledge it.
“Good night, sir,” said Chatham to Cornwall, and before turning to leave, the doctor gave Kira a slight bow. As he walked from the door to his waiting carriage, Robert Chatham felt Kira’s intense gaze burning on his back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Kira as soon as the door had closed behind Chatham.
“All I have to do, my dear, is to account to you when you reach twenty-five!” Cornwall’s face held a complacent smile, but his eyes, and the darkness within them, were the real reflection of his words. “If you had stayed at the auction as I had instructed you, you would have seen each of the people who purchased your precious slaves. You chose to leave, or did you forget?”
“I forgot nothing!” Kira spat the words at him as she whirled away and fled to the veranda. She could not stand to be at her uncle’s side another moment. She had to be alone to collect her thoughts.
Why—why is everybody against me! Robert Chatham had seemed an honest man and not the type to play up to her uncle. How wrong she had been! The discovery that he was Abraham’s new master dashed her newborn hopes that perhaps he was someone who would help her.
With these disheartening thoughts weighing upon her, Kira returned to the main salon. Crossing it, she saw her uncle deep in conversation with the last remaining guest, Allen Tathers, the businessman from Massachusetts. But when they noticed her, they fell silent at once. Kira noticed her uncle’s flushed cheeks. The glass in his hand was almost empty. James Cornwall was well on his way to becoming drunk again, and Kira had no desire to be around him under the circumstances.
“Gentlemen, goodnight,” she said sweetly as she curtsied before them.
“Goodnight,” said Tathers. “My compliments to you. You are a marvelous hostess.”
“Thank you.” She favored him with a falsely radiant smile, and left without another word. Kira could feel the eyes of Cornwall and Tathers as she climbed the wide stairway to the upper landing. When Kira reached her rooms, she found Ruth already inside, waiting to help her mistress with her toilet. Briefly she told Ruth about the evening—of her success as a hostess as well as her fruitless attempts to find a potential ally among the guests. Finally, she told her about Abraham.
Then exhaustion finally overtook her. Kira lay down on her bed and, as her eyes closed, she said a silent prayer for her future and for those of the slaves who had been a part of Haven.
James Cornwall spent t
he next several hours with Tathers. Tathers’ business was an excellent cover for his real occupation. He was a British spy. The two men talked of commerce and politics, and of the future of both England and America. Tathers spoke of his true allegiances, and then gave Cornwall some orders. After all, Cornwall could only be assured of his future if this country were retaken by the British. The promise was an offer to be made a member of the nobility. Tathers pleaded exhaustion at about two A.M. and retired to his room, but Cornwall remained in his seat, drinking. Things seemed to be going well for him. Why, Tathers had even given Cornwall a letter of encouragement from Aaron Burr himself.
Cornwall lifted his head drunkenly, looked at the large clock set to one side of the room and saw its hands reading three. He lifted his glass to his lips, but found it empty. His eyes darted about, looking for a servant, but the household was silent and still.
“Damn!” he muttered, hauling himself to his feet. When Cornwall turned around, he saw a slave standing in a corner, sound asleep. Cornwall walked over to him and, with a vicious swing of his arm, slapped the man across the face.
The slave’s eyes opened instantly. One arm went out to keep him from falling, fear showed in his eyes as he cowered in front of his master.
“If you ever fall asleep again while attending me, I will have your eyelids sewn open!” He staggered away from the slave. “Get me another bottle!” he yelled, not even waiting for the slave to obey his order. He had something else on his mind now.
James Cornwall’s drinking had affected him differently tonight. It had not made him sleepy as it usually did; instead, he was awake and more alive. And now he felt no need to lash his servants in order to demonstrate his power over them. Tonight had a different desire. He glared at the slave and his words were slurred.
“Bring me Jasmine.” The slave’s eyes widened.
“She be heavy wid chil’, master. She be having dat chil’ any day.”
Cornwall nodded impatiently; he had forgotten. But still, he needed the release of a woman. He felt his desire surge, and he wanted to ride tonight, to mount a woman’s soft flesh.
“Get out of here!” ordered Cornwall as a new thought blazed in his mind—the memory of a lust he had long harbored. James Cornwall knew exactly where his release lay. He mounted the stairs slowly and purposefully.
When James Cornwall reached the top landing, he turned left, away from his rooms and those which served his wife, and went toward the rooms of his niece. Cornwall found himself stiffening with anticipation, as he remembered the sight that had greeted his eyes that day on the road, when Kira had been captured and attacked by the seaman. He had seen her clothing in disarray, with one of her perfect breasts almost completely exposed. Now, Cornwall thought of her lying helpless beneath him. When he reached her doorway he had already opened his jacket. He was very excited, knowing his pleasure was near.
Ruth had been lying on her mat in front of Kira’s doorway for more than two hours, unable to sleep. Kira had told her everything as soon as the party was over. Now Ruth knew where Abraham was, and she was filled with a wild, new hope. He was nearby, at least; he had not been sold away to a far distant plantation. That small bit of news had done more to help Ruth than all the promises of the future that Kira had given her. Ruth knew that Kira would find a way to unite Abraham with her when her own troubles were solved. This thought enabled her to find a little peace in her own sad situation, and she only wished she could give Kira a bit of the serenity that she was beginning to know.
Ruth felt, rather than heard, the heavy footsteps of her new master. She kept silent, hoping that in his drunkenness he would pass by without speaking or bothering her. Then Ruth felt James Cornwall’s booted foot at her side, as he urgently prodded her with his toe. She sat up, pretending grogginess.
“Yes, suh?”
“Get out of my way!” he commanded. His voice betrayed both his drunkenness and his lust.
“Mistress Kira be sleeping,” said Ruth anxiously, as she fully realized what Cornwall was after. His state was evident in the tautness of his breeches.
“She won’t be asleep long,” he blustered. Ruth was genuinely afraid for her mistress. If she did not act quickly, Kira would suffer for it. She opened her mouth to scream and wake the house, knowing that the scream would cost her dearly. Still, it was the only way to prevent this terrible man from destroying Kira completely.
As the first sounds welled up in her throat, Cornwall’s fleshy hand covered her mouth while his other hand grabbed her throat.
“How dare you, you rotten black bitch!” Cornwall’s face turned into a mottled ugly mask. He pulled Ruth up violently and then pushed her away. As she fell backwards, Cornwall caught her nightdress in his left hand and swung his right in a sharp arc. The sound of flesh against flesh echoed dully in the quiet house. Cornwall released her, Ruth fell again, landing semi-conscious at his feet.
Cornwall saw her smooth, satiny thighs exposed under the rumpled sleeping dress. The candlelight from the walls glistened over Ruth’s ebony skin, distracting Cornwall from his original plan. He bent and clumsily lifted the silent woman, then carried her to a room farther down the hall. The door stood ajar and as he-staggered in, he threw Ruth on the bed, turning to lock the door behind him.
Ruth opened her eyes with the knowledge of being trapped. Cornwall stood over her, undressing. Fear washed over her in sickening waves as she tried to speak, but he cut her off sharply.
“If you so much as whisper, I will do two things. After I gag you, and before your dear mistress awakens, I will have you taken away from here and sold! Then I will have her!”
Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. She had heard the awful stories from Jasmine and knew he would do exactly what he said. She fought to control her tears and fright. “Yes, suh,” she whispered. She was a slave, after all. She had no rights.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” leered Cornwall, who now stood completely naked before her.
“N…no, Master,” said Ruth.
“You stupid black whore!” he shouted, reaching for her and tearing her dress down the middle. She tried to fight him, pulling her body away from his hands as he ripped the material, and then when she saw it was hopeless, she tried to pull the dress together, to hide her breasts from his eyes. He laughed uproariously, grabbed the tattered pieces from her hands, and threw them on the floor. His belly jiggled obscenely and Ruth found she could not take her eyes from the sight of it. She saw his manhood standing rigid, and he stood over her, laughing with pleasure at her fear.
He stared at her, raking her body with his eyes—dark eyes set so deeply set in his fleshy face, devouring her. His lips hung slackly, spittle gathered in their corners. He looked like an old dog that had not eaten in a week with fresh meat waiting. She could no longer watch her own humiliation reflected back at her, and shut her eyes, balling her hands into tight fists as she waited for what must happen.
James Cornwall stood transfixed by the black woman’s body. The lust that coursed through him would soon be released, and he was now glad that fate or luck had placed this slave in his path. Her body was the best he’d ever seen on a slave woman; her large breasts were accentuated by her slim waist, and their dark tips, firm and inviting, pointed skyward. Her stomach was flat and smooth, like polished teak, and her hips flared out fully. Ruth’s rear gave the support he always wanted from a woman, and her firm, full-fleshed thighs would give him the ride he wanted].
Cornwall moved onto the bed, grabbing the girl and slapping her angrily. “Look at me!” he demanded harshly. “Look at your Master! Please your Master!” he cried, as he forced himself between her thighs and pushed roughly.
A scream caught in Ruth’s throat at his tearing entrance. His hands gripped her breasts as if they were merely handles to be used to hold himself on top of her. She watched him, as he had commanded. While he rode her, pounding harder with each thrust, she stared into his eyes with hatred.
Ruth felt pain, but the humiliat
ion was worse. She cried silently, watching the beast above her. She could only pray that her husband would never learn of this. It would have to end soon. But, in a small corner of her mind, Ruth admitted to herself that the expression on Cornwall’s face meant that tonight would not be the last.
CHAPTER 14
Sean paced his sister’s bedroom, explaining his plan. She would be leaving for London within two days to join Lord Albert Ramsbotham, the man who would be helping her in England. He was one of the few highly placed American sympathizers, and his title made contacts considerably easier.
“You will masquerade as Lord Albert’s fiancée,” Sean was saying, “since that ploy has worked for us many times before.”
“No.” Francine brushed a lock of her raven hair from her face and sat higher up in the bed. “I don’t think that would be clever this time. He’s not just somebody who can walk into a room and introduce me as his fiancée. Sean, he’s a Lord of the Realm. London society would never accept that.”
“Why?” he asked impatiently, ceasing his pacing to sit at the foot of the bed. “Lord Albert travels extensively. Perhaps he just didn’t choose to inform his acquaintances that he had met his new love.”
“No, Sean. There are certain proprieties. He would have to have given his close friends notice of his upcoming wedding!” she declared. “It would be better if I were to go as his mistress.”
“I know what I’m doing, Sean,” she went on when he was about to protest. “I’m sorry if I bungled everything in Charleston, but I have no intention of doing that again. It will work better if I’m his mistress. Besides, I’ve had enough experience in that.” When Francine said these last words, she turned her face from him so that he would not see the pain in her eyes. But Sean did see it, and he felt it as keenly as she did.
A Whisper Of Destiny Page 12