Part 1 (1/2)
Slave of the Aristocracy.
On the Auction Block.
by Ashley Zacharias.
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Lord James Fortson closed the door softly; his tread was light on the tile.
Careful as he was, he could not return quietly enough to slip past Lady Irene. She had brought her embroidery into the laundry and had been listening intently as she filled areas with satin st.i.tches and accented them with French knots.
When his silhouette pa.s.sed the open door, she said, ”h.e.l.lo, James.”
Her voice was demure but her clear enunciation carried.
He stepped back to peer into the laundry. ”Lady Irene. What on earth are you doing in there?”
She hated it when her husband called her Lady Irene. It made her feel like a prop whose only purpose was to support his position as Lord of Abeis Manor. ”Embroidering a pillow for the drawing room.” She held up the hoop. ”It's an ugly duckling. I'm going to ill.u.s.trate the fable of the ugly duckling on two pillows. The other one will be the swan. I'm going to put one on each end of the love seat.”
He stepped into the room. ”No. I mean why are you sewing in the laundry? Why aren't you in the parlor? Or the library, at least?”
”Embroidering, not sewing.” Did her husband think her common that she would spend time mending clothes? ”I like the light here. The southern exposure gives me better light before noon. When the sun pa.s.ses the zenith, then I'll move to the drawing room.”
”The light?”
”I need a good light for such fine work,” she said.
He looked doubtful. ”You could use a lamp. We have lots of lamps in the library.”
”Natural light is better. It's a sunny day. I want to enjoy the sun while I can.” There were too many overcast days by the Western Sea. Sometimes she thought that she should have stayed in Calam s.h.i.+re. It was colder in the high desert, but had more sunny days.
”Where is Sud? The one who does the laundry?”
”I sent her back to her quarters. Didn't you see her out there?”
James had the decency to blush. ”No.”
At least he didn't deny that he'd been to the slave kennels. And he might be telling to truth about not seeing Sud. She was old, nearly forty, and likely to stay out of sight when James was about. That would be easy because he wouldn't go out of his way to look for her; he was far more interested in the younger slaves Cinnamon and Velvet.
After spending most of the morning with those two, he would have no interest in coming to Irene's bed tonight. As usual.
Irene sometimes wondered why she thought about s.e.x so much when she experienced it so little. Four years ago, when James had proposed, she had imagined that she was about to embark on a lifetime of s.e.xual adventure. That she would spend half her days entertaining her husband in their marital bed. She had been so naive.
The reality was the opposite of her youthful fantasies. She was no longer the virgin that James had married but she had been living a life of near chast.i.ty in her own house since returning from their honeymoon.
She knew that men who owned slaves took satisfaction from them that was the way of the world but she never guessed that women who weren't even human, just pieces of property, could push a wife's love aside so easily.
Cold marital beds weren't something that ladies discussed over coffee. Ladies didn't talk openly about s.e.x. But she could tell from glances avoided and soft innuendo that her experience was typical of wives in her social cla.s.s.
”I'm going out,” James said. ”I'll be back for dinner.”
”Are you going to the auction house?” she asked.
James looked hard at her for a moment. He had not expected such an indelicate question his wife. He decided to tell the truth. ”Yes.”
Irene wasn't surprised. James a.s.sumed a certain air for a few days before he was about to trade in a slave. He didn't keep a large kennel so he grew bored quickly and traded one in every few months. If he didn't go to the auction today, then he'd have to wait until next month to upgrade his stable. ”Velvet?” she asked. Cinnamon was the newest and youngest by a couple of years so he was less likely to be tired of her. And he wouldn't trade in Sud because she was the only one who knew how to cook and do the laundry properly. He would find the manor less comfortable without her.
But he wouldn't keep her forever. Some day, maybe soon, he would have her train a replacement and then he'd sell her, too. No man kept a slave who was over forty.
”No,” he said. ”I'm thinking about adding a fourth to the kennel.”
”A fourth?”
”There's enough cells and a man of stature needs to be able to entertain properly. I don't want Cinnamon and Velvet to be overworked.”
He was trying to shock her; answer her indelicate question with far more information than a lady should have. He knew that Irene would understand what he was saying when he referred to his slaves being overworked. He didn't mean cooking and cleaning. The slaves only served in the house when they were not hosting guests. When guests were invited to the manor for dinner, which was two or three times most weeks, temporary staff were hired to clean, cook, and serve.
On those nights, the slaves were kept in the kennel because they couldn't be trusted to be presentable in polite company.
At least, that was the fiction that was maintained so that the wives could pretend that they didn't know about the slaves' real duties the services that they offered to the gentlemen when they retired to the billiard room after dinner.
Ladies weren't supposed to know that the machines dishwashers, automatic vegetable choppers, roasters, self-propelled floor cleaners, clothes washers and dryers performed so much of the daily household tasks that a single slave could maintain an entire manor-house and still have time on her hands.
The polite fiction was that a staff of slaves all young females were necessary to a.s.sist the machines, even on days when only the lord and lady were in residence.
Irene put her embroidery aside. ”I want to come.”
James c.o.c.ked his head. ”Come where?”
”To the auction house?”
”It's no place for a lady.”
”Ladies aren't banned. I know some ladies who go and help their husbands choose slaves. Lady Annabell from Fulford does. And I think Lady Fern goes sometimes as well.” Annabell in particular liked to shock the other ladies by referring obliquely to her trips to the auction house with her husband.
James pursed his lips. ”Lady Annabell is old. Sixty, at least. She wants... She wants the best for Lord Fulford. He's made some ... unfortunate purchases in the past. She's a good judge of a slave's temperament. And Lady Fern... Well, you know Fern. She's a little... odd. She...” He paused, trying to find the right words.
Irene smiled. Fern was a s.a.d.i.s.tic lesbian who chose her own companions. She needed slaves who were robust enough to endure a considerable amount of torture. But James couldn't say that about a lady. Not explicitly. ”Don't worry,” she said. ”I'm not like Fern. I just want to see the process. See how you select someone who will be best able to help around the house. I won't interfere. I won't even offer advice. I'll keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.”
James looked like he wanted to object, but couldn't figure out how to do it. He couldn't say that he was looking for the s.e.xiest b.i.t.c.h on the block for his kennel. That he was looking for a slave who could service a half-dozen men in an evening and look like she loved being used by every one of them.
Irene walked over to her husband and took his arm. ”I'm ready. Let's go.”
He had no choice but to take her with him.
The walls were rough-hewn planks and the floor, which was worn smooth by generations of slave buyers, was littered with sawdust. The auction house had stood in the center of town for generations, a crude reminder of a barbarous past that stubbornly resisted the encroachment of the refined civilization that slowly had blossomed around it.