This week's installment will focused on character growth (a little less of the sexy stuff). Rafael and Catherine need a little bit of a cool-down after her last, rather unconventional punishment.
Let's see if they can make nice.
Chapter 9: The Master's Favorite - Rafael's Perspective
"What in God's name did you do to her?"
Despite the flock of people, Isabel has pushed her way through the masses to the front of the crowd. She stands over Ana's body.
"Isa, she invoked our mother's honor. I had no choice."
I brush my fingers over Ana's cool forehead. Even I am unconvinced.
"There is no reason you had to march this poor girl through the house naked. Just look at what you've done to her."
Ana sprawls across the bed like an angel, pillows propped up behind her. Cook found her passed out in the scullery. Despite our housekeeper's concerns, I instructed the servants to put her up in one of the West Wing bedrooms. Her long, chestnut hair spreads across the pale fabrics. Her body has been covered by the thick duvet. For once, Ana's determined glare lays at rest.
"I'm sorry, Isa. She's just so infuriating -- and I let it get the best of me."
"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to. Slave or not, she is a person under our care." Isa tries to maintain the harshness in her voice, but I can tell that she is surprised that I've ceded ground.
"Let us not forget that she is a slave."
At Isabel's request, a pair of housemaids uncover Ana, one limb at a time, scrubbing the exposed skin with washcloths and patting it dry with a clean towel. Our family physician has been called in, as well as another set of servants to tidy her room. The girl is positioned as a lady surrounded by dutiful attendants. The image is marred only by the outline of shackles beneath the covers. As much as I hate to admit it, the heavy weight around her ankles may have contributed to her current state.
"Someone remove these chains," I demand.
One of the maids sets off in search of a man to assist. The rivet guarding Ana's leg irons will need to be removed with a hammer and chisel.
I turn to the physician. "Doctor, is she going to be alright?"
"She's going to be fine. I believe the cause of her condition to be dehydration. She probably hasn't had enough to eat either."
He pauses, "At least, that's the case for most of them."
I breathe a sigh of relief. The good doctor shakes his head. Dr. Guevara is kept on-premises for my father. It is quite uncommon for him to be called in to examine the help.
"She had better be alright," Isabel snaps. "She's the only slave whose name you haven't forgotten."
I believe that I know the name of the servant who just departed, but she is far enough away by now that it would make a poor retort.
Alma approaches the bedside.
"Don Navarro, this may be my fault. I was the one who told the girl to avoid the servants' kitchen." She shakes her head, "Truly, I intended no harm. I meant only to protect her from the menservants."
Dr. Guevara interjects, "It's no business of mine how you discipline your slaves, but it does seem like someone threw her around a bit."
He gestures to a trail of scratches on her upper arm. I stare at fresh, red wounds and the bruise on the girl's forehead. As much as I would love to thrust the blame on the housekeeper's advisement, at least she had Ana's wellbeing in mind. When I lashed out at her, I don't even recall grabbing her by the arm. When we are alone together, it is like we are the only two people on this island. If I cannot make her submit to me, then I have already ceded San Miguel to the French.
"It is not your fault, Alma. Please find Ana something nice to wear when she wakes up."
"Yes, master." The words come out of Alma's mouth happily, but the poor woman looks like she's just caught a whiff of a barrel of codfish. Given the range of what she's experienced during her tenure, it's concerning. The focus of her gaze is the porter fumbling with the hammer under the sheets.
Tap, screech. Tap, screech.
It takes considerable force to chisel away at the shackles' rivets.
"Is something wrong, Alma?"
"Nothing, master," she replies but gestures with her head toward the corner of the room. I follow.
She continues in a low voice, "I would not let that man around Annalise. One of the girls saw them fighting in the hallway."
The man's fingers wrap around Ana's right ankle. A heavy instrument repeatedly strikes a few inches from her toes. From one angle, one might see a porter happily attending to his task. From another, I see him gawking at her exposed legs. A "fight" with Ana was most likely an assault against her honor. And I was the one who opened her up to it all. I singled her out, and the others descended like wild dogs. Forcing her to work nude encouraged this kind of misbehavior, and I did nothing to prevent it.
I wait until the porter has finished with his tools before confronting him.
"Excuse me, did you encounter this slave in the hallways earlier?"
The porter snorts. A throaty, mucus-filled sound.
"I did, Excellency. The little troublemaker swung at me. Pardon my saying so, but I think that someone still needs to be taught a lesson."
"I couldn't agree more," I reply, grabbing the recently freed chain and stepping behind him. The porter kicks and struggles, but the metal chain clamps down on his Adam's apple. The veins in his neck bulge. Alma turns away from the violence. The rest of the servant girls exit the room quickly.
I hold steady as he pushes against me, thinking about what he might have done to Ana if he had the chance, then goading me to punish her for it. The links bite into my hands, but I am resolute.
The body slumps onto the end tables.
Alma fetches more trustworthy groundsmen to remove the corpse and finish the rotten business once and for all. No one dares call the watchmen. Our family funds the watchmen. This porter will be dumped in an unmarked grave, and a coveted position in the house will open up.
Ana lays still, presiding over the commotion with her silence.
***
Once everyone is gone, I kneel beside the bed with a wet cloth. Much worse than the marks, the skin under the leg irons has been mauled by rusty metal. Glancing over at the door, I attend to her wounds. Slowly, brown specks of dirt disappear from her fair skin. Her reopened cuts need to be bandaged.
I unspool a length of cloth from the medical bag. I've spent enough time around my father's physician to know the correct amount of pressure to stop bleeding.
Ana seems much more at home in a four-poster bed than scrubbing floors. Perhaps I'll have to rethink her work assignment.
The pretty creature rouses. "You're removing the chains?" she asks blearily.
I quickly get to my feet.
