22

Chapter 21: Returning to Her Place -- Catherine's Perspective

"Mademoiselle has returned to us," Guadalupe announces.

Unfortunately, word of my notoriety has spread even to the lowest corners of the estate. Guadalupe runs her calloused hands over my body. Her bones pinch my flesh. She thumbs the areas left sensitive by Rafael's whip.

"Were you not good enough for the master?" she asks.

Heat rises in my cheeks, lighting an itch under my skin. And yet, my discomfort is hardly distinguishable from the general misery of the fields.

Her slap follows swiftly.

"I asked you a question, puta!"

"No, señora Guadalupe," I reply.

The woman bares a toothless grin, content in the knowledge that her name has been burned into my mind. Such are the lone pleasures of a slave, the screaming desires to be remembered, to exist beyond the whims of one's superiors.

"Well, off you go, then." Her firm hand pushes me toward the green stalks.

Verbal assault is only the beginning of my shame. The sharpness of the ground bites into my feet. That monster allowed me not even a day to lick my wounds, not even a moment to rest my tired body. After a fitful night of cowering for warmth on the cellar floor, his men marched me out to the sugar fields. Even rotting away in his dungeon is a fate too kind for a traitor.

I am to work in the hot sun, bleeding onto his unfertilized ground. A pair of shackles has returned to its place on my ankles, matching the pair around my wrists. The glinting metal has already started heating up and burning itself into my flesh. This set can be removed by key, no anvil is required. I imagine this to be an explicit choice. How else is the viscount to spread my legs?

I am to be an example. My shame cannot be hidden with even the modestly of slave garb. My body bears the mark and rumor of the master. He is only one nightmare away from this endless expanse of slashing and cutting. I spit on my hands to keep them moving. My limbs are still sluggish from being suspended for so long, and my back aches from the wooden stool. I follow behind the others with a woven basket, sweeping up their felled crop. Now, that I've been revealed as a French traitor, I cannot be trusted with a machete.

If I had expected kinder treatment for my genteel background, I would have been wrong. The men slaves leer cruelly at me. The women are disgusted. There is an aching hunger amongst those at the bottom to see the high and mighty brought low. It is a thrill to see an heiress dragged through the muck and mire. Somewhere, their people are suffering in my family's name. Is it not cause for celebration that I suffer the same under their master's whip?

There is also a second anger, I sense. That I, a foreigner, could escape our shared circumstances, only to return in chains and disgrace, slaving along beside them. I cannot speak to them of the pains of misguided love, the shattering earth of betrayal. They would see only a failure of gratitude for fine dresses, hot food, and a good life. Any attempt at solidarity would only be fuel for more spite.

So, they shall stare, seeing justice where none is due. I have no aim but to make it through the day.

A force slams across my ankles, shoving my face into the jagged ground. A spray of dust glances over my back.

"Stupid whore," one of the slaves calls out. The overseer laughs from a distance.

The house servants were merciful by comparison. My filthy hands can do little to brush my skin free of dirt. Perhaps it is for the best. The long, brown lines will protect me from the sun. After a while out here, sunlight bites at the flesh like a scourge of mosquitos. Only out of fear of being whipped do I continue working. I have no presumption of protection from the viscount. The hungry look in the overseers' eyes suggests that if the viscount has not marked me as his, I shall soon be communal property.

I gather the crops as quickly as I'm able and rush to empty my basket. The cuts on my feet burn. They are still too soft for this kind of work. I've heard that callouses take time to form. I fear that they won't, and I fear that they will. My agreement with the viscount promised me a sentence of ten years under his yoke. Now that I pose a political risk, there is a good chance that I will never be set free. Unmarked and virginal, perhaps my parents would be able to negotiate. I have little worth as what he's made me.

"Señorita?" The voice is soft but wonderfully familiar.

I throw down the basket. "Lucia, my goodness, how have you been faring?"

"As well as I can, señorita. I am sorry to see you back here."

"Not as sorry as I am."

My dear friend's skin clings to her bones. If anyone is deserving of sympathy, it is Lucia. She is easily fifteen pound lighter. I imagine life on the plantation to be much rougher than her old position in Madrasa. Even as we return to work, I continue to watch her out of the corner of my eye. The lines on her back aren't too severe. It seems that she has remained in Guadalupe's favor, yet her hands scarcely move faster than mine. In her brief time here, she has weakened considerably. The overseers have no compassion for anything beyond the viscount's ridiculous quotas.

A swift kick to my rear further establishes my assessment.

"Back to work, slave," the overseer barks.

"Yes, master," I reply through gritted teeth.

This is my life now. A moment of concern for a friend is rewarded with physical remand. I shuffle to keep pace with the slaves who are better suited to this type of work. If I had more energy, I would pray for vengeance.

***

By the time the sun falls below the horizon, I am covered in mud. The dirt has mixed with sweat to form a cakey mixture that is plastered all over my front. The stench is intolerable and yet, the relief of a bath is a lifetime away. At least I've managed to avoid more than a boot to my rear. The viscount's half-hearted strokes almost rendered me unconscious. I know I could not take a slave whipping. It is bad enough that the sun has cracked me open like a potato skin.

I move toward the slave quarters for my share of the soupy gruel. Guadalupe is waiting outside. She is flanked by Sebastián's men, who all turn their noses at the sight of me.

"Not so fast, princess," says Guadalupe. "The master wishes you sprayed down and prepared for the night."

I allow myself to be dragged toward the house, grateful at least that the guards do most of the work of forward motion. They keep me at an arms' length and tighten their grip as we enter through the main entrance. My feet leave a dirty trail on the nicely polished floors. It could easily be avoided, but this is spectacle. I am to be a warning to all those who venture to act against the Spaniards.

Sebastián's men take me down to the basement and wordlessly lift my shackles to the hook. Have they been commanded not to speak to me? Am I allowed not even the smallest kindness, the smallest apology as they crank my chain a notch too tight?

The two doors clang shut, first the cage, then the cellar. I find myself dreading the night even more than the day's suffering. Darkness brings with it an urgency for people, warm bodies buffering against the cold. There are some warm bodies I could stand to do without.

Shortly after my confinement, Maria and Marisol bound down the stairs with candlesticks and buckets. It must be lovely for them to see me strung up like this.

Without even opening the cell door, they blast me with the contents of their buckets. Freezing, soapy water pours off my body and into the abscesses of the cellar. The pair giggles as I contort and shiver. My eyes burn from the stinging water dripping down my forehead, but I relish any treatment that might relieve me of the viscount's scent.

"Not so high and mighty now," says Marisol.

Maria laughs. She locates the crank on the wall and yanks one extra notch. I yelp in pain.

"Higher?" she suggests. It is clear from their devious grins that they want me to grovel. To pay for occupying their place in the master's bed. For the sake of my shoulder blades, I shall beg. At this point, what good is my word? One lie is no more sinful than another.

"No, señoritas, please. This lowly slave cannot take any more. But she thanks you for your kindness in removing her filth."

Satisfied, my tormentors return to the surface world, without damaging me further.

I am left to wonder what the viscount has planned for me. Despite the Trio's vague attempt with the buckets, I still carry an odor that a person of dignity might hesitate to be around. Then again, such a thing is no match for his boundless anger.

The rats wait with me. Their scurrying is all I have by way of a clock.

My arms grow weak. My head feels light. I pray for a dream without any of the qualities of my reality.

***

I wake to a warm hand on my back. Not searching or grabbing, just the comfort of the presence of another. Slowly, my wrists are brought down to my head, and then to my shoulders. The chain unwinds in stiff clicks. I squint into the lamplight while shaking the blood back into my arms. A gentle figure stands at the crank.

"Isabel?" I murmur. The woman's broad yellow skirts peek out from under her cloak. "Why are you helping me?"

She carefully releases the rest of the tension in the hook. I stumble for my bearings as she works to unlock the shackles. She tosses the keys to the side. Who but the viscount's sister would dare defy him?

I fight the pinch of thorns running through my veins. The weight of my suspended body has left angry marks on my wrists. Isabel holds my hands and brushes her thumbs over the indentations.

"I love my brother, but right now, we must keep you from him."

I nod. I would be more suspicious of her change of heart if her earlier cruelty wasn't so out of character. Temper runs deep in the Navarro clan, and I am in no position to turn down assistance.

Isabel removes a parcel from under her cloak. "Rafael is preoccupied in his study. We need to go now."

She places a familiar blue dress and a set of undergarments into my arms. The bundle of linen feels heavy enough to sink me. Memories of kindness from one who deserves only my hatred come flooding back. They are the memories of one who would turn on a friend, one who would look upon a lover with murderous intent.

I push the clothes back towards her. "He will kill you." I cannot allow someone else to incur the viscount's wrath. Isabel merely glances at my swollen back, sunburnt from the heat of the fields.

"Better one of us than both of us," she concludes. In truth, neither of us can be certain of her brother's limits.

"Now, save your strength. I'm taking you home."

I am too weary to protest further. It is madness to think that the viscount won't catch us before we step off the property, but Isabel seems determined to go on.

She unfurls the shift and works it over my head. She is the only gentlewoman I know who insists on dressing herself in the morning. While she tightens my stays, all I can think about is her brother's parting words.

See if any other man would want you now.

The viscount's claim is emblazoned on my rear. Even if I did manage to escape, my time at the Navarro estate cannot be easily forgotten. I cannot restore my maidenhead, and worse yet, the darkest parts of me still long for the man who stole it. I am deranged. I am hopeless.

No, I cannot allow him to make me feel ashamed. It was he that took advantage of me. He violated me more times than I can count. I was a person under his care, and he tricked me into a feeling of safety. I was defenseless against a man with no honor. I have nothing of which to be ashamed.

I place my hand in Isabel's. We climb the cellar stairs and sneak through the kitchen. A few maids turn their heads, but they are unwilling to confront their mistress. Hopefully, the sprawling chain of gossip will leave us with a buffer of time. I haven't missed having my every movement watched and reported up the ranks unto my mother. I had not a true friend in our entire estate.

Then again, I much prefer to face spittle in my soup than to be the one scraping the pot.

Dusk casts an orange glow over the foyer. It spills in from the tall, parlor windows. Prisms of light scatter across the porcelain tiles. I am amazed that the world keeps turning. Day after night and night after day, it is untouched by my rise and fall through this household.

I follow Isabel's harried movements. If we escape, all that I experienced here will be rewritten. The viscount will rage and shout and eventually fuck his housemaids. If my father offers a large enough sum, suitors will come to my door once again.

Besides the inevitable collision of our two houses, there shall be no consequence to the suffering I've endured. It shall be blotted out. Spilled like a pot of ink and replaced by a fresh sheet of stationary.

***

A carriage waits for us beneath the marbled steps. The horse, a solemn grey mare, whinnies at our presence. A footman bows his head before opening the door. The door's crest matches the marks I carry beneath my skirt.

"Do you intend that I make my escape in your family's carriage?" The gesture is kind, but I was expecting something slightly more inconspicuous.

"Worry not, you will be protected by the almighty real." Isabel jingles a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. "Although I'd expect you to be more familiar with bribery, mademoiselle."

Oh, what natural friends I could be with Isabel. Two wealthy daughters with strong opinions. Equally unlikely to inherit. If not for our differences in ancestry, we would be attending the same parties, laughing at absurd attempts at flirtation.

I climb into the carriage.

Isabel presses coins into the coachman's hand and climbs in after me. With a kick, the carriage stumbles toward the main road.

"And where are you going at this hour?" I ask.

A sly smile appears on her face. "I'll be joining you, of course. I wouldn't miss an opportunity to see those famously overgrown de Guînes gardens."

"You're absolutely mad," I sigh, "but I suppose this is your carriage. And your noose to hang upon."

Isabel nods.

We pass through the gates without incident. The manor house grows smaller and smaller in the distance. Once again, it becomes a place framed by a fabric interior, neatly tucked away in the recesses of my mind. As the fields turn to ungroomed hillside, a clouded vision tumbles out once more.

"Do you remember sharing a meal between our families? It was terribly unpleasant. You would have been about six at the time."

Isabel squints at the sun setting over the horizon.

"I do seem to remember a very sullen girl ruining my tea party."

She leans back, "Perhaps I should have been the first one to discover your ruse. What other little monster would have been terrorizing us with a stick from our own property?"

"Me?" I pull away in mock indignance. "All of my stick-manship was in self-defense. Even armed, I couldn't keep my perfectly coiffed hair away from Rafael - "

His name hangs in the air. The unspoken force driving our journey forward.

At the end of this road, there will be a decision. To incriminate or not to incriminate. It isn't as if our families could hate each other any more than they already do. Even the faintest camaraderie between Isabel and myself is a line dared not crossed.

And yet, so many lines have already been crossed. Which marks the start and which the end?

***

Three hours pass with chatter about European fashion, exciting foreign lands circled on maps, and petty adventures. Without intending it, I stumble upon a mention of my previous fiancé and the circumstances of my arrival at her family's estate. It sounds so foolish, so easily avoided.

Isabel only nods and lends her own stories of romantic failures. While Rafael seems to reluctantly accept her choice not to marry, her father was constantly surprising her with men. In the drawing room, in the parlor, during his public audiences, they were everywhere.

"Once," she says, "I found a strange man peeking into my bedroom, lovingly staring at a lump of covered pillows.

Such is the burden of our kind.

In her, I sense no longing for true love or any companionship beyond friendship. It is admirable to be so assured of one's self-worth. And yet, she is overflowing with concern for the affairs of men. I believe Isabel to be the rare heart that flutters for others even while her own remains still.

As we prattle on, my ancestral home rises in the distance. Its proud, white columns settle on the last haunches of dusk. I am grateful that our fields have been abandoned for the afternoon. I don't think I could bear to see so many poor souls toiling over my family's plot.

The carriage stops in front of the main gates. My foot lands upon French ground once more.

"It has been a pleasure to know you, Catherine," says Isabel, a small tear forming in the corner of her eye. Our connection will not stand across a trade embargo.

I take her hand, "You will not be forgotten."

My promise is not without price. I begin up the trail to my family's home, letting the wind overtake my hair one last time. The role of dutiful daughter will take some settling into, though it is leaps and bounds better than the alternative. From this distance, our fields appear identical. While I wasn't able to send aid for Lucia, I vow to be a better mistress. This nightmarish experience cannot be a total waste.

The doors of the main entrance stand before me. My parents will ask where I've been.

Where have I been?

The truth could push this island into an all-out war. Despite my hatred for the viscount, thoughts of bloodshed and violence curdle my appetite. Both of our houses have been stockpiling men and artillery. Many people could be severely hurt. Peace may well have been one of Isabel's motivators for helping me to escape. Peace is as valiant a motivator as any. Then again, she was kind to me even as a lowly penal slave.

With a deep breath, I tug on the grand silver knocker. The servant girl answering the door erupts with delight.

"Mademoiselle, you have returned!"

She rushes me into the parlor and sends for someone to prepare fresh clothes.

The restoration of a lost de Guînes will result in days of festivities. I nod politely as the chatter whirs beneath the high, arched ceilings. Benjamin's portrait still gleams above our mantle, the same flat jaw and clean-shaven upper lip. Everything is precisely how I remember it. However, there are notably fewer wedding decorations than when I left.

Maman descends the stairs, freshly powdered and attired in a black, silk gown. A long, lace veil floats behind her. In my absence, she seems to have adopted a widow's ensemble in its most fashionable styling.

She embraces me at the foot of the stairs. "Dear God, Catherine, we thought you were dead."

"No, Maman, I'm fine. I'm safe."

This is not the truth. If I stand still for too long, I feel his hands around my waist, his tongue driving into my mouth. I force myself instead to remember the sting of the whip.

"Come, we must go see your father."

My mother leads me toward Papa's study. We pass a man who looks remarkably like my fiancé in the halls.

"Catherine?" he says.

"Benjamin?"

What on Earth is he doing here?

I must have been gone at least six months, far past the date of our wedding. Surely, his parents would have assigned him to someone else by now.

Her mother presses a hand to her forehead. "Benjamin, dear, you really shouldn't see her like this."

Benjamin dutifully averts his eyes with a laugh. "Lovely not to see you again, Catherine."

"And you, as well, Monsieur Dupré."

It appears that the marriage is still on. I cannot imagine what other business he would have here. I can tell my mother is debating sending me to wash up before presenting me to my father. The unkempt state of my person taxes her sensibilities.