by Londyn Skye
Love was hardly Bella’s motives for her contrived passionate exchanges with Atticus that night, nor in the intimate sessions she was forced to have with him as the weeks rolled passed. While scouring her skin raw in the bathtub after every unwanted encounter with Atticus, Ryla’s words played on a continuous loop in Bella’s head: Don’t leave here until you’re absolutely certain you have a far betta’ option than bein’ sold to a filthy whore house. Though it was emotionally daunting, Bella took her words to heart. But she indeed had all intentions of escaping to that far better option that Ryla spoke of … as soon as humanly possible.
During her first month in the Atkins’ residence, Bella discreetly learned the layout of the mansion. As she slyly strolled through the house, she noted a den, decorated in eighteenth century style antique furniture. Atticus’s desk and books stood out to her far above any of the other fanciful decor in the room, though. Bella filed that information away in her mind and began paying keen attention to Atticus and Evelyn’s daily routines. She mentally noted the days that they were absent from the house the longest. Every Wednesday, Bella had learned that there was a four-hour window of opportunity to put her devised escape plan into action.
Two months in, Bella was now confident about her Wednesday, four-hour window of opportunity. She could hardly sleep the Tuesday night before she planned to make her move. She lay tossing and turning, trying to summon the courage to move forward with her idea. Having not slept a wink, she got out of bed at six a.m. and went about her morning chores as usual. She could not even bring herself to eat. With nervousness eating away her insides, she waited with great anticipation for Evelyn to traipse off to her meeting with a women’s affairs committee, and for Atticus to go to work. As predicted, the pair left the house precisely at nine a.m. With the four-hour countdown ticking, Bella tiptoed upstairs. She cautiously looked over her shoulder to be sure nobody saw her as she made her way into Atticus’s den, a place she knew full well was off limits to her. Perspiring and jittery, Bella shut the door, and frantically made her way over to the desk. She then began going through the drawers, looking for a blank sheet of paper. When she found one, she sat down and picked up a pen from the corner of the desk. With a shaky hand, she dipped it in ink and began to write a letter, one that she was certain would lead her to that far better option that Ryla had spoken of.
The tick tock of the grandfather clock in the corner of the den had never felt so significant in Bella’s life. She swore the ticks and tocks were chiming far faster than they should be. The loud countdown caused her hand to shake so hard that her words looked as though they had been scripted by a child. But her horrible handwriting was the least of Bella’s concerns. Finishing her two letters quickly, and finding two very important public addresses, was all she cared about. She hoped the leather-bound encyclopedias lining the walls of the den held the particular addresses she sought. Her shaky hands were eager to begin thumbing through every single nonfiction book in Atticus’s collection to find both addresses. She did not care if the feat took her months. She planned to leave no page unturned.
Despite sweat pelting the page, Bella finally finished her first letter. Silently, she read it to herself and was satisfied that it would suffice. She then pulled out another blank piece of paper to begin writing an identical copy. “What the hell’re you doin’ in here?!” she heard, just as her pen touched the paper. Bella’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach when she turned to find Atticus standing near the door. She sprang to her feet and hid her papers behind her back. She glanced to his right and saw Lola’s head visible just over his shoulder. The smirk on her face spoke volumes.
Atticus stepped inside of the den and slammed the door, leaving Lola outside. He walked up to Bella slowly, never once taking his eyes off her. “What you got there?” he asked, reaching behind her and snatching her papers away. He took a moment to read the contents to himself. He looked coldly at Bella when he was finished. “You can write … very eloquently, I see.” His eyelids then lowered into angry slits. “But I don’t remotely like the subject matta’,” he said, crumpling the papers and throwing them into the fireplace. Atticus’s extreme obsession with Bella caused the contents of her letter to instantly catapult him into a blinding rage. He suddenly grabbed her by the chin. “Haven’t I treated you well?”
Atticus was squeezing her chin so tight, she could not move it to respond.
“HAVEN’T I?!” he snapped, finally easing his grip.
“Y-yessa’,” Bella stammered, tears flooding her eyes.
“Then what’s your rush to leave here?”
“I-I don’t b-belong h-here,” she boldly replied, tears now rolling in streams down her cheeks.
“I own you,” he replied, penetrating her with an icy glare. “Accordin’ to the law, you belong where I say you belong.”
Bella lowered her head in despair, closed her eyes, causing another tidal wave of tears to rush down her cheeks.
Atticus suddenly grabbed her hard by the wrist and gripped her fingers tightly. “If I catch you so much as pickin’ up a pen and paper in this house again, you’ll be diggin’ your fingers outta the ashes in that fireplace.” He tilted her chin up and forced her to look at him. “And if I eva’ find you in my den again, I’ll write to your little friend on your behalf. I’ll even be kind enough to provide the address to the morgue where he can retrieve your corpse.”
Now trembling uncontrollably, Bella nodded as a waterfall of tears saturated her dress.
Still gripping her wrist tight, Atticus yanked her hard and ushered her out of his den. As Bella was whisked away, she passed by Lola, who was still standing outside the door with a smirk on her face, not even bothering to hide her betrayal. Lola initially just planned to tell Atticus that Bella had been fiddling around in his den when he returned home later that day. But in a stroke of luck, he had returned to the house to retrieve a briefcase he had forgotten in the kitchen. Lola took that opportunity to let him see Bella’s misdeeds with his very own eyes.
Lola had been just as eager for Bella to leave as she was. However, she had no desire for Bella’s next residence to be a better place than where they were now. For weeks, Lola had watched Bella, hoping to find some reason why Atticus should sell her to a brothel. After witnessing her blatant disregard for the house rules, Lola was confident that Atticus would immediately take Bella straight to a whore house. But such a thought never once crossed Atticus’s mind. Lola’s jealousy-driven betrayal only served to make Atticus far more possessive over his new prized slave. That very day, Atticus bought a mailbox with a lock. The gates were locked any time he and Evelyn were off the premises. Windows were sealed shut, double-sided deadbolts were added to all doors … including on the door to Atticus’s den. Pens, paper, stamps, and envelopes were four things that Atticus now knew were as valuable to Bella, as jewelry was to his wife. Their value led him to store them in his safe next to expensive diamonds and gold. The four things that had the power to take Bella on to that far better life were now kept under lock and key … and so too was her hope.
Bella had given herself a deadline of only dealing with her circumstances for six months. However, Lola’s betrayal turned that six months into a year, then two, and then four. As the years rolled by, Bella was overcome with grief. Atticus’s threats and prison warden ways doused her inferno of hope, leaving it as a tiny smoldering ember. Now feeling like a true prisoner, Bella reluctantly submitted to the fact that this was her life now, and there was not a thing she could do about it. Her sadness grew exponentially every time she looked out the window and saw the postman in the distance, knowing that he was the key to her salvation.
… Despite knowing she deserved a far better life, Bella carried on for years performing mundane duties, submitting to Atticus intimately, and serving meals to Evelyn’s guests at her monthly grand dinner affairs. On this random day in February 1865, Bella was doing the latter. Mindlessly, she went from person to person at a massive dining room table, placin
g dinner rolls on the plates of the rich guests at one of Evelyn’s social events. It was a boring task that Bella had done countless times while her mind wandered to another world, so much so that she could have been serving rolls to cows and never noticed the difference. On this particular evening, however, a gentleman speaking to Atticus from across the table indeed noticed her. The gentleman halted his conversation mid-sentence just as Bella placed a roll on Atticus’s plate. The sudden way his mouth gaped open, as he stared wide-eyed at her, made it seem as though she had suddenly cast a hypnotic spell on him. The befuddled look on the man’s face made Atticus wonder if his heart had stopped beating, or if he had taken an interest in one of his pleasure girls … or perhaps both. He knew all too well that Bella had that sort of power over a man.
Lost in the beautiful world of her mind, Bella did not notice the way she was being gawked at, until she turned to walk back to the kitchen, and suddenly heard a word that she was convinced she would never again hear in her life. “Lily?!”
Bella froze … and so, too, did the music she was composing inside her beautiful mind. She immediately spun around and met the bewildered gaze of a man who knew her face all too well. Her face was one that he had walked by every single day, while going about his duties as the curator of the Manhattan art gallery. Her face immediately brought back the heart wrenching memory of overhearing a distraught James Adams at his gallery, weeping over the devastation of losing her. That face, hanging as the centerpiece of the music themed exhibit, had stirred emotions in thousands of visitors, and had brought his good friend, William Werthington, to tears.
“Lily Adams?” Preston Mills repeated, still gazing at her in utter disbelief as he rose slowly from his seat. “My God, it is you!” he exclaimed, the sight of her portrait-worthy face now causing a glisten of tears in his own eyes.
The look on Preston’s face, and the tone of his voice, had completely ceased all conversation and movements in the room. Every guest stared at Bella and Preston as they silently gazed at each other, both looking equally entranced. The guests were stunned by Preston’s raw emotion and the hint of tears they now noticed in his eyes, all stemming from the presence of a mere servant. Atticus was intensely watching the odd exchange too, getting more and more angry at the way that Preston was gazing at his most prized pleasure girl. His anger could not eclipse Evelyn’s, though. As she stared at both of them in confusion, she was unable to hide the devilish facial expression she was known for. During her social events, Evelyn demanded that her servants be as transparent and inanimate as wine glasses. This situation, therefore, had her instantly irate. She did not want her party overshadowed by the rampant speculative gossip, as to why a powerful white man had risen to his feet on behalf of a menial slave. Evelyn’s furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips clearly indicated her displeasure over the unwanted attention that might now be brought to her husband’s harem of illegally purchased whores. She feared this bizarre exchange between Bella and Preston would ignite the sort of salacious gossip that had the potential to tarnish her family’s pristine image.
Bella had yet to notice the devilish glare on Evelyn’s face, though. The ironclad memory vault of her mind was far too busy flooding her with a plethora of beautiful memories, all unlocked by the face of a man she immediately recognized as well. As she stared at Preston, she swore he was still holding the tickets to the Dream Symphony, as he auctioned them off to the audience in the ballroom of the Manhattan art gallery. The memories were so vivid, she swore she was standing at the podium in the art gallery’s ballroom, reading the queen’s invitation to perform at Buckingham Palace. In Bella’s mind, the guests at Evelyn’s party had turned into the student orchestra, chanting “say yes!” in response to the queen’s letter. The memories had her heart racing, as an intense need to cry began to burn her eyes.
“My God, Lily, is this where you’ve been all this time?” Preston suddenly asked, his words finally pulling her back to her current surroundings.
Her visions of James wrapping his arms around her, as they celebrated her decision to sail to the Old World, instantly faded away. Through a blur of tears, she looked around and finally noticed all of the bewildered eyes pasted on her, especially the cold glaring eyes of Atticus Atkins.
“Lily, William’s been looking f- …”
With Atticus’s threats terrorizing her mind, she discreetly shook her head at Preston to halt his words.
“You must be mistaken, Mr. Mills,” Atticus interjected. “Her name is Bella.”
“But I’m certain that…”
Bella subtly shook her head at Preston again.
Preston was confused, but finally accepted Bella’s cues this time. “Oh, my mistake,” Preston replied, still trying to read the expression on her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m horribly embarrassed. It’s just that umm … she, umm, looks exactly like another young lady that worked as a house slave for a friend of mine.”
“I see,” Atticus replied, staring intensely at Preston, easily sensing his lie. “I certainly unda’stand how easy it can be to confuse one Negro with anotha’. Happens to me often. They all look so alike,” he said, attempting humor.
“Or perhaps my wife is right to hound me about having my eyesight checked,” Preston tried to joke in return. Now sweating profusely from the heat of true embarrassment, Preston sat back down just as slowly as he had risen. All the while, he kept his eyes on Bella as she scurried into the kitchen. The moment his posterior hit the seat, everyone slowly returned to their meal … everyone except for Atticus.
After reading the scowl on his wife’s face, Atticus knew she was silently demanding that he begin damage control. He guzzled what was left of the alcohol in his glass, wiped his mouth, threw down his napkin, and then got up from the table once everyone was distracted by conversation again. He stormed into the kitchen and grabbed Bella her by the arm when nobody was around. She gasped after being startled by the sudden force of his grip. He dragged her into an empty room, shut the door, and turned her loose with a slight shove. “Do you know that man?!” he asked in a harsh but hushed tone.
“No sa’!”
“Don’t lie to me!” Atticus erupted.
“No sa’, I-I swear I ain’t lyin’. H-He said he had me confused with someone else.”
“You’re a liar! Do you think I’ve forgotten?”
“Forgotten what, sa’?”
“Lily … that’s the name you had written at the bottom of that letta’ you were writin’ to ask some man named William for help all those years ago. And now that art gallery lunatic just so happens to mention both names!”
Bella - or rather Lily - lowered her head and remained silent. She knew she had no way to defend such a coincidence.
Atticus stepped closer to her. “Who are you?”
Lily began trembling as he closed in on her, tears now forming in her eyes. “B-B-Bella,” she replied.
“Wrong!” Atticus snapped, causing Lily’s tears to suddenly careen down her cheeks. “I said, who are you?”
“I-I-I’m y-yours.”
“I’d highly advise you to rememba’ that. Or do I need to remind you again of the only way you’re leavin’ this house?” he asked, burning her with a glare that was just as devilish as his wife’s.
“N-no sa’.”
“Good,” Atticus responded softly. His devilish facial expression faded into one of lust as he suddenly began gazing at his prized pleasure girl with hunger in his eyes. Lily flinched when he suddenly reached out to touch her face. Atticus smoothed his fingers down her cheeks and wiped away an escaping tear. “I’ve dressed you in the finest linens. You’ve known nothin’ but the softest of mattresses against your back. I’ve purchased nothin’ but the most expensive soaps and lotions to soften this skin,” he said, still caressing her face. “This tongue…” he said, kissing her on the lips and grazing her tongue with his, “has tasted nothin’ but the finest of wines and the fanciest of foods. You’ve lived a life fit for a queen. Which of those has
given you reason to wanna leave here?”
“N-n-none of them, s-s-sa’,” Lily stammered, her body mercilessly trembling.
“Good. I want you to be as happy and satisfied as you make me,” he said, now speaking tenderly to her.
Lily nodded.
“Your work is done for tonight. Go on downstairs and draw yourself a bath and have a glass of wine to help soothe your nerves. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” He gently kissed her lips again. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?” he whispered lustfully, caressing her tear-stained face.
“Y-yessa’,” she forced herself to say.
Atticus then took her by the hand and guided her to the servant’s stairway. He kissed her tenderly on the lips again before allowing her to make her way to her room. Lily somehow got her feet to carry her to her bed. She collapsed onto the mattress, curled up in the fetal position, and erupted into a shoulder-heaving fit of tears. She lay there crying over the ironic fact that it was Preston Mills she had intended to send her second letter to, during her failed escape plan. She had never thought to learn William’s personal address during the time she resided with him. Knowing there was no way to find it, she felt the next best thing would be to scour through all the Encyclopedias in Atticus’s den, in hopes that she could find the address of the popular Manhattan Art Gallery. Wilson and Emerson would also have received a correspondence, if she could have located the address of New York University, where the twins worked as professors. She wanted to send them all letters, hoping that one of them would pass the message on to William as to where to find her. It was Lola who had prevented Lily from rescuing herself all those years ago, but now she only had cowardice and fear to blame for not going upstairs to beg for Preston’s help.
While Lily was crying uncontrollably downstairs, Ryla was upstairs watching the way that Atticus and Evelyn continued to glare at Preston throughout the evening. Their forced smiles and disapproving glances in his direction easily proved that they wanted him gone, sooner rather than later. Ryla saw the way Atticus lingered near Preston as the evening went on. She was convinced that he was intentionally trying to absorb every word of his conversations, and to make certain that he did not interact with any of his other pleasure girls.
