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."
