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Chapter 29: The New Mistress - Catherine's Perspective

There is no way he intends to go through with this.

The all-powerful viscount of San Miguel, my slave? The concept is laughable, and certainly not enough to atone for his sins. It trivializes my experience, the unjust torment I suffered under his hand. However, if Rafael genuinely believes that he can last more than an hour under someone else's yoke, I have a moral imperative to disprove his theory.

I rise from the bed. I cannot allow him to dress me. He would derive far too much pleasure from that. I must be in control. Effortlessly.

Finding suitable assistance for this arrangement has posed a real challenge. Rafael may have instructed the staff to serve at my behest, but an awkward dynamic persists. I assume they're waiting to see if my position shall last. I sometimes wonder the same thing. These matters are further complicated by the fact that the viscount has been inside most of the female staff - not that it's any of my business what he does in his personal time.

Lucia rests on a bedroll beside me. One day, she will be a wonderful lady's maid.

For now, she is taking a well-deserved rest. It is one of the few good uses of my precarious authority. Outside, the poor girl had withered to a bundle of straw. At the very least, I can repay her with a little kindness. A comfortable place to stay, warm meals. Her eyelids flutter peacefully.

For now, I've asked Alma to take care of the more intimate tasks. It's a bit below her station, but she doesn't complain. She pulls a low-necked gown with gold trim around my waist and straightens the pannier. My breasts swell over the upper seam.

Usually, I would consider this ensemble too risqué, but Rafael seems to have planned my wardrobe with his own interests in mind. I think it a marvelous time to display for him that which he cannot have. Just when he's promised not to do a thing about it. It is playing with fire, but the thought of parading under his nose is too tempting to pass up.

Two knocks. Breakfast has arrived.

My slave enters. He's followed my instructions to the letter. No shoes and clearly disconsolate in the coarse servants' trousers. The long white shirt looks better on him than I care to admit. A necessary detail. There's no way that the viscount would get the true slave experience in his tailored outfits.

I imagine that he slunk through the hallway to avoid being seen. He will not be so lucky as the day continues. Even Alma has to stifle her amusement.

"Buenos días, Catherine."

He presents the silver tray with outstretched arms, trying to figure out whether not I would want him to meet my eyeline. It's a start.

I shake my head. "En français. I know you speak it well enough."

I tap the tray with my bare pinky finger. Although he's attended to my wardrobe, I have avoided accepting any jewelry.

He grimaces, "Bonjour."

"Ah?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Bonjour, maîtresse," he adds reluctantly.

I nod my assent and accept the tray. The silver shifts back and forth in the light as I nibble on my scone. His uncertain syllables are a pleasure. He's already deceived me once over his linguistic abilities. It's only fair that I put them to good use.

A large crumb slides off my tray and onto the floor. Alma reflexively dives to sweep it up.

I hold up my hand.

"Let Rafael get it," I say in Spanish. I don't want him to miss a word.

He bends down and collects the crumb in the palm of his hand before holding it out to me.

"I don't know what you expect me to do with it," I say, flicking it away.

For a moment, our fingers touch. I shove away the tingle of warmth. This is a purely educational exercise.

He sighs, wiping his hands on his pants. "You're dangerously good at this."

"You forget who my mother is."

I decide to ignore his unsolicited outburst, though the reminder is bittersweet. My relationship with my mother is far from perfect. Her visible dismay over the event of my failed nuptials was touching but did nothing to turn the tide. I was cast out the moment that I didn't meet their expectations. As much as it pains me to admit, my parents' love for me is conditional - just like Rafael's.

Though the viscount appears to be sticking to his commitment, for now, his bowed neck twitches. His taut veins resist servicing anyone other than himself.

He'll be broken by the afternoon.

"I'm going downstairs," I announce. "Remain two steps behind."

At home, my authority is a given. I am, or rather, I was, a prized daughter and the one fated to take over my mother's esteemed place. In this household, I have a long way to go in establishing my rank. A mere few weeks ago, my limp body was yanked through the corridors without the thinnest scrap of a gown. That sort of thing is not easily forgotten.

I embark on my warpath adorned with gold, cowering even the proudest of men. The servants stop and gape at their master trailing behind his new mistress. I march proudly with an eye on Rafael's shadow. His uneven pace slogs along. At the bottom of the stairs, Marisol comes across our path.

We both hesitate.

Already, I can taste revenge, the squirt of bitter lemon satisfying my crueler natures. Marisol, along with the rest of the Trio, tormented me when I was defenseless. They were merciless in ways that required determination. Poetic justice would have me lock them up in the cellar and send someone down to periodically blast them with vinegar.

On the other hand, the viscount was the one to pit the girls against each other in the first place. These housemaids would scratch each other's eyes out to gain the favor of the master. He was strangling them with slippery bedsheets and coveted bedrooms. I wish for no part in that. Despite my grievances, it is not right for others to suffer for Rafael's mistakes.

"Good morning, Marisol," I say, as pleasantly as I can muster. If she could have, I'm sure the girl would have stuffed my bed with toads.

Marisol bites down on her lip nervously. "Good morning, señorita."

Her eyes focus on the man standing two paces behind me. I take a step back and ruffle his hair. It is strangely thick and soft.

"Oh, Rafael can't bother you today. Today, he's being a good slave. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, maîtresse," he says through gritted teeth.

There is danger to be had when poking a bear with a stick, but I simply cannot help myself. I've never professed to be a saint.

"He's having a little trouble following orders." I slide the back of my hand against his jawline. Despite his obvious discomfort, his rage only escapes as clenched fists.

"Will you keep an eye on him for me?"

Marisol giggles, "Yes, señorita."

I smile. It will be good to have another ally in the house - especially if this is to become my permanent home. Married or not, the baby is coming. My grand announcement has left me with few options. Even a small cottage by the shore would need to be financed from Rafael's pocket. And it would be the very least he could do.

"Come, Rafael," I say, and we continue our journey through the manor.

He pauses at the entrance to the veranda. Outside, numerous advisors gather in his courtyard, dragging their feet along the red tile, eager to begin the proceedings. Not all of those who attend these public audiences are well-off. Several farmers travel all this way by foot just to have their concerns heard.

"Is there something wrong, slave? Is this not the day the viscount usually holds his audiences?"

Rafael shakes himself out of his stupor. "Yes, well, I didn't think you'd want me to be holding audiences today."

He gestures to his makeshift outfit.

"Of course not. That would be incredibly improper. I will conduct the meetings in your stead."

I stand unflinching, daring him to refuse. It is one thing to be mocked by the slaves, bodies he owns in perpetuity. As soon as his current situation changes, he may make them suffer at his convenience. It is another thing entirely to embarrass himself in front of his people. There is no way this charade means that much to him.

Rafael's jaw twitches, "As you wish."

I allow him to open the door, suppressing a shock of my own. I had no plan for actually conducting one of his audiences. This was to be the moment when I enlightened him to the limits of his so-called love. His is a people that despise me, a people that have watched me grovel and crawl, my back bent in shackles. More recently, they watched me nibble fruit from the palm of the viscount's hand. I can only imagine that this is the true reason he assented to such an agreement.

Unfortunately, showing weakness is not an option.

I arrange myself on the largest chair and tilt my hand toward the chair beside me.

Rafael would have his slave on the floor. Surely, I can afford to be a bit more gracious.

A well-dressed gentleman is announced. He kneels with a quick bow, like the others, confused by the apparent chain of command.

I clear my throat. "Do you have a complaint, señor?"

"Sí, señorita. The French, have uh - "

He pauses not knowing whether his next comment will offend. It will not. I gesture for him to continue. In some way, these are my people as much as any. Saint-Michel has wholly abandoned me.

"Well, señorita, the damn French have been eating into my profits. They barricade the harbor, blocking my supply from coming in. And last night, they sliced my lone vessel's cords."

Murmurs flutter amongst the group. French sabotage is a common topic for these meetings. Luckily, I know my family's pressure points well.

"It is true," I say, "the main harbor is currently a French stronghold. However, the land route through the lily coves is of equal importance. Their route starts from a much lower altitude so I believe that would make an excellent bargaining point for equitable harbor access. Until we manage to secure the coves, we can offer a limited amount of vessels spaces at the private harbor. Don't you think, Rafael?"

A single olive branch for my subject.

The viscount sits up in his chair. "I believe mademoiselle is quite right. Please bring your vessel to the port and we will see who we can accommodate."

I cringe. A hidden dart.

If they hadn't guessed my origin, they are certainly aware of it now.

To my surprise, the information bubbles up in whispers and quickly settles down. The townspeople are more concerned with the outcome of their claims than the person making the ruling. Nearly anyone would be a more generous benefactor than the one to which they are accustomed.

"Yes, thank you for bringing this to our attention," I reply. "Next, please."

***

Marisol brings me fruit wedges to maintain my strength. I eat without involving Rafael.

The rest of the audience continues smoothly, the two of us resolving issues from a more varied perspective. On occasion, he tries to speak for me, but a stern glance is enough to reintroduce our arrangement. The last thing he wants is for the letters of our agreement to be spelled out for his subjects. Short of that, they might be willing to write off their curious observations as a topsy-turvy game played between lovers. However confusing our relationship, the gentry fears Rafael enough not to ask questions.

As the sun slips over the roof, the crowd thins. Even in the shade, heat settles like a wet blanket. My stiff pannier stuffed between so many layers has become heavy and pliable.

I dismiss the remaining subjects.

Rafael follows me inside. His stomach lets out an unholy growl. I can barely suppress my laughter. The evening meal is approaching, fetching its own set of challenges. One pleasant afternoon does not align our stars.

"Rafael, have my dinner brought into the dining room. You may be dismissed to eat with the servants."

He nods, "Yes, maîtresse."

An interesting experience awaits him in the kitchen. Eating hunched over on a wooden stool, struggling to get down that horrible, brown stew. Hopefully, Marisol will report if he deviates from my commands. Even if the others are too scared to comment, their idea of him as Lord of All Things shall be marvelously ruined.

I retreat to the dining room for my own sustenance. Isabel joins me.

"I see that you have him eating out of your hand," she says.

I exhale, "Yes, to the point that it's exhausting."

As much as I love chipping away at Rafael's pride, maintaining my distance requires constant supervision of my own actions. It is all too easy to slip into more treacherous territory. A touch here. A glance there. How much longer can I keep him subdued, all the while playing the part of an aloof but fair mistress? The last thing I want was a large puppy, relentlessly following me around. I only narrowly escaped that with Benjamin.

Without Rafael to aggravate our tempers, we sit quietly, pecking at our plates, each lost in our thoughts.

Isabel sits up a bit straighter. She clinks her soup spoon on the porcelain.

"Cate and Rafa," she proclaims, "What a domestic couple you two would make."

"Isabel!"

She relinquishes her silverware and stuffs it back into the stew. "A mere suggestion. No harm intended."

"None of this means I forgive him. What he did to me cannot be so easily be undone by a silly game and a couple of nice gowns."

"You have no reason to forgive him before you're ready. But there is a time when old wounds must come to rest. Would you have acted so differently given the circumstances?"

Before I can answer, Isabel pushes her chair away from the table and leaves the room.

Infuriating. The woman is infuriating.

I half-understand why her brother is always complaining. She does, however, articulate an uncomfortable line of reasoning. Six months ago, if I had been in charge and Rafael had arrived in chains, I probably would've sent him to the fields.

If I took him in, it would only have been for my own amusement, to taunt the once-proud viscount - much in the way I am doing now.

Have I become unreasonable in my anger? Sebastián used all of his energies to reduce my credibility. At first, Rafael tried to defend me, but that letter was damning in itself. In a flurry of rage, I don't know that I would have known the difference. On a personal level, it's not so easily rationalized. I've always known that the viscount could be cruel. In the first few days, he stripped me nude and left me to the wolves. But this was different because first, he was kind. He saw past my presumed social status. I thought he saw me. And then, he shattered what little light I had to give. I opened my heart, and his touch turned to poison.

I cannot bear to see the viscount again tonight. The servants can find plenty of tasks to keep him busy.

***

I spend the rest of the evening in the library, combing through the pages of my favorite legends. I find great comfort in the volumes written in my native language. It's odd to find them collecting dust on his shelves. I'd have expected them to be burned.

My storybooks have always been clear on the subject. Honorable and chivalrous, a good man cares for his lady. The white knight is noble even at his worst. No matter how bad things get, he would never imprison the supposed love of his life in a basement.

A much different character fits that description. The villain is the black shadow inciting fear amongst the villagers. No one dares cross him or lest they risk his rage. The description fits both Sebastián and Rafael. One traitorous and the other cruel. Of course, the villain never makes the princess moan or bares his neck in submission to the princess's father.

I shut the thick pages with a puff of dust.

Back in my chambers, Alma unlaces the enormous gown into its component parts. Once released, I crawl under the covers, shuffling around in the largeness of the mattress, unable to find the right position for slumber. Every wrinkle in the sheets abrases my skin and jolts an uncomfortable itch.

As much as I wish to feign ignorance, I fear that I crave the touch of my black knight. I only pray that he's having an equally fitful night.

Chapter 30: A Warm Bath - Rafael's Perspective

"Master."

A hand rouses me from the pile I've formed on the floorboards from my clothes.

Catherine made no special exceptions for my sleeping arrangements. To the servants' quarters with me, not even a bed cleared for their master.

My skin is riddled with sunken lines. This coarse clothing provides little protection from the hard, wooden slats.

"Master," the servant continues, "the er, mistress has sent for you."

Sent for.

The great lord of the Navarro estate - commanded by a power-tripping she-devil. I offered her the keys to the kingdom, and she went about her task with inordinate glee. At least, she did a good job with my people.

I groan, untwisting my muscles from their cramped positions. I said I'd do anything to earn her forgiveness. I would have much preferred to buy another set of expensive gowns. Especially with those magnificent breasts parading through the halls.

Oh, it would have been so easy to get the servants to acquiesce. They have no loyalty to her. They understand that it's me they need to keep happy. They could have fed me my evening meal in secret, prepared one of the guest rooms for me.

And yet, I am a man of my word. If she wishes to play this game, I shall endure it.

I set off for the kitchen to fetch her breakfast, but Alma stops me at the bottom of the stairs.

"Master, I believe she wants you down there." Alma gestures to the West Wing.

"In my chambers?"

"No, master. In the washroom."

I sigh, and head in the direction of my torment. Catherine probably plans to have me scrub the floors with my bare hands.

Despite all my efforts, she still can't bear to look at me. I thought we were making good progress at the public audience. However, the moment it was over, she sent me away. The housemaids particularly enjoyed watching their master do their evening chores. Only a fool would accept a feather duster in pursuit of love. And Catherine has left me a fool.

The washroom door is ajar. I pause with one foot inside. A lacy, white shift breezes around Catherine's body. Her hair has been knotted in a loose bun, and the dark ringlets bounce at the nape of her neck.

"Good morning, maîtresse," I finally manage.

I have been keeping this negligee in the back of her wardrobe, hoping for a chance to use it in the future. Now, steam wafts off the surface of the porcelain tub, ensconcing her limbs in a tantalizing mist. The fabric clings to her every curve.

Catherine turns toward the door, her nipples poking the fabric. "There you are, slave. It's time for my bath."

I look around the room. Someone has already drawn her bath. "Is there someone you wish me to fetch for you?"

"No," she says.

"You wish for me to see you without your clothing?"

Catherine's eyes sparkle. She slides her finger along the rim of the tub. "Why, will you not be able to control yourself?"

Her pouting lip begs me to rip off the negligee and dive into its contents.

"Of course," I lie, hungrily drawing closer.

Catherine touches a finger to her lip. "I don't believe you're suitably dressed for this task."

"My apologies, maîtresse."

I tear the shirt over my head and drop it straight into a pile of water. What is she getting at? One minute she can't bear to look at me, and the next, she wants both of us naked.

Either way, my trousers are soon crumpled at my ankles, nearly catching on their way down.

Her eyes narrow, but she soon slips back into her unnerving calm. She places her feet in the tub and raises her hands over her head.

"You may proceed."

I strain to remove the silky fabric without running my hands over her body. Moisture clings to the divots between her breasts. The inverted shift pulls her hair back to reveal a marble-smooth neck. She twitches when my cock brushes against her. Absolutely maddening. I want to toss her over the tub and kick her legs open.