“No!” I cried.
I rushed over to her, gathering her into my arms. Martha stared up at me dumbly, unable to comprehend what had happened. I knew the poor child was demented, her mind finally pushed over the edge by all the horror she had had to endure.
“Get away from her, Danver!” Coleman roared.
“She—she’ll ill. You had no right to hit her like that—”
“I said get away from her!”
He seized my arm, pulling me away from the girl. I glared at him defiantly, my eyes blazing. Angie rushed over to Martha, took her hand, and led her into the tent. Coleman stared at me with flat gray eyes, his face a hard, brutal mask.
“You’ve been asking for it for a long time, Danver. Seems to me you need to be taught a lesson.”
“Go to hell!”
Coleman flushed, unable to believe his ears. He was accustomed to total obedience, a brutal tyrant who relished his power and the fear he inspired. He slapped me across the face so hard that I lost my balance and toppled to the ground. When I looked up, he was uncoiling the whip he wore fastened to the side of his belt. It was like a long brown snake slithering on the ground beside me. He cracked it in the air, smiling when I flinched. I saw him draw his arm back and heard a loud hissing noise. I closed my eyes bracing myself for the slashing pain.
“I wouldn’t, Coleman.” The voice was soft and pleasant.
I opened my eyes to see a tall blond man in buckskins standing beside Coleman, holding his arm in a tight restraining grip. Coleman looked startled, then furious. He tried to pull his arm free. The man in buckskins smiled an amiable smile and tightened his grip, applying so much pressure that Coleman let out a curse and dropped the whip.
“That’s mighty wise of you,” the stranger said. “I’d ’ve hated to ’av to break your arm.”
“This is none of your affair, Rawlins!”
“Ain’t it? I’m thinking of bidding for this one, and I wouldn’t want to be buying damaged goods. A whip can do a lot of damage, man. Run on about your business, now. Leave the wench alone.”
“Now, just a minute, Rawlins! You got no right to—”
“Easy, fellow,” Rawlins said. “I don’t like your tone. You do what I say now—run along. Oh … one other thing. If you so much as lay a finger on the wench before the auction, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? You know I don’t make idle threats.”
Coleman muttered something unintelligible and stalked into the tent. The tall blond looked down at me and grinned, and then, reaching down for my hand, he pulled me to my feet.
“Jeff Rawlins, ma’am,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
His voice had that soft, slightly slurred accent I was to learn was typical of people who lived in the southern part of the country. It was a lovely, melodious sound, extremely pleasing. Jeff Rawlins grinned, as though the two of us had just shared a delicious joke.
“I suppose I should thank you,” I told him.
“Not particularly. I’m afraid I acted from purely selfish motives. A bullwhip can leave pretty bad scars, and like I told Coleman—I wouldn’t wanna be buying damaged goods. I reckon you’re gonna cost a pretty penny. A woman like you’ll have every man in sight losin’ their senses and biddin’ like crazy.”
“Indeed?”
“You’re a magnificent wench. Don’t know as I’ve ever seen another one as appetizin’ as you on the block, not in all the years I’ve been comin’ to these here auctions.”
I stared at him, any gratitude I might have felt quickly destroyed by his casual, matter-of-fact manner. Jeff Rawlins was superbly built, lean and muscular. Though not really handsome, he had pleasant features. His dark-brown eyes were warm and amiable, his wide, full mouth made for merry smiles. His sandy hair was decidedly unruly, spilling over his brow in a heavy fringe. He was undeniably virile, yet there was a curious boyish charm that seemed entirely out of keeping. Coleman had been frightened, and I had the feeling that this tall, friendly fellow in his fringed buckskins was quite capable of carrying out the threat he had made so nonchalantly.
“Like what you see, wench?” he inquired.
“I—I see a backwoods savage.”
“Oh? Probably smell one, too. Afraid we ain’t got the refinement a lady like you’s accustomed to. Satin breeches, lace shirtfronts, perfumed handkerchiefs—we haven’t the time for such folderol. We’re a crude rough lot over here.”
“I’ve noticed,” I told him.
“You’ll soon get used to it,” he said. He grinned. “Matter of fact, you’ll soon get to liking it. I’ll see to that.”
Those warm brown eyes held mine, and all the while that boyish grin played on his wide mouth. Jeff Rawlins exuded an aura of sexuality no woman could help noticing. His raffish, amiable manner, his little-boy charm merely emphasized it. One automatically thought about bodies and bedrooms. Against my will, I acknowledged the attraction. Rawlins seemed to be reading my mind, and the grin spread, his full lips turning up at the corners.
“I always did have a fancy for red-haired women,” he remarked. “I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna bankrupt me, wench, but I reckon it’ll be worth it. Auction’s about to begin. See you later.”
He gave me a friendly nod and then sauntered away, nimbly stepping over the rope surrounding the area. Angie hurried over to me, her mouth wide open as she watched him disappear into the crowd.
“Gawd,” she exclaimed, “who was ’e?”
“His name is Jeff Rawlins.”
“I’ve never seen anyone like ’im! Lord, just lookin’ at ’im made me melt all over. Any women able to curl up in bed with th’ likes of ’im should thank ’er lucky stars. Them eyes—” She shook her head. “Is ’e gonna bid for you?”
“I imagine so, Angie.”
“Keep your fingers crossed, luv. Let’s ’ope ’e ’as a pile of gold.”
“You two,” Coleman said harshly, “into the tent! The auction’s gonna begin in a minute, and I don’t want the crowd gapin’ at you two while I’m gettin’ rid of them dogs. You two are the prize goods, and I’m savin’ you for last.”
“I think ’e’s payin’ us a compliment, Marietta. Fancy that. ’Ey, Coleman, just who is this Jeff Rawlins?”
“He’s a bloody whoremonger,” Coleman retorted, “th’ blackest villain in all of Carolina. Murderin’ rogue like that oughta be strung up. He probably will be one day. I hope he buys you, Danver. I really hope he does.”
Angie and I stepped inside the tent, and a few minutes later the others were ordered to gather up their belongings. Most of them were excited, making the best impression possible in hopes of attracting the men. As they were led outside, Martha Roberts moved as though in a trance, gripping her pitiful bundle of clothes, clearly unaware of what was happening to her. I prayed she would find a kind, sympathetic master.
Alone in the tent now, Angie and I could hear the auction beginning. There were loud, excited voices and raucous laughter. Coleman’s voice was robust and encouraging as he presented first one woman, then another, lauding her virtues, calling for higher bids. Angie and I exchanged looks. She shook her head, and I could tell that she was apprehensive and depressed, but she refused to give in to it. She made a face, pushing a strand of silky blond hair from her temple.
“It’s in’uman, a-course, but—’ell, I reckon I’ll be better off than I was back in London, screwin’ for pennies, diggin’ in th’ garbage bins for a scrap o’ mouldy bread. I’m ’opin’ that ’usky farmer’ll buy me. I’ll ’ave ’im eatin’ outta my ’and—”
“It’s going to be all right, Angie.”
“I ain’t nothin’ if not optimistic. I just ’ave to serve seven years. When that’s over I’ll still be in my twenties. Both of us are goin’ to do just fine, Marietta. I can feel it in my bones.”
Stepping over to the large, broken mirror propped up against one of the tent poles, I examined myself critically. My coppery-red hair fell in lustrous waves, and my sapphire eyes were h
ard. Despite the patrician features, I looked exactly like Meg Danver’s daughter now, a wench created to serve ale in a barroom and tumble in the hay with lusty males. My white blouse was the type Italian peasant women wore, the short sleeves puffed, the neckline low, revealing half of my bosom. My leaf-brown skirt was of coarse, heavy cotton, tightly belted at the waist and cascading over several petticoats. I thought about my father, glad he couldn’t see me like this, knowing it would have been far better for me had those years at Stanton Hall never occurred.
“Thinkin’ about that Rawlins fellow?” Angie asked.
“I—no, I wasn’t.”
“For a minute there you looked so—well, ’ard, like you was mad at th’ world. Ain’t no use grievin’ about th’ past, Marietta. It’s over an’ done with. It’s th’ future what counts.”
“You’re right, Angie.” My voice was cold.
“Bearin’ a grudge against th’ world—’ell, that don’t do no good. Me, I learned that years ago. It’s just a waste-a time. I’m too busy lookin’ out for Angie to look back on what might uv been. You’d best devote all your energies to lookin’ out for Marietta, luv.”
“I intend to,” I replied.
“Us, we don’t ’ave nothin’ but our brains an’ our bodies, ’an we ’ave to use both. Think I liked sleepin’ with that bleedin’ sod on board ship? ’Ell no, but I knew it was something I ’ad to do. Like you an’ that ’andsome sailor. Men are damned fools, Marietta, an’ they’re th’ ones with all th’ power. A woman ’as to know ’ow to manipulate ’em.”
Both us of looked up as one of the guards stepped into the tent.
“You,” he said, pointing at Angie. “He’s ready for you. The others’ve already been sold.”
“I guess this is it,” Angie said. “You remember everythin’ I said, luv. Gawd, I hate partin’—”
Her enormous brown eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and she grimaced, angry with herself for displaying such weakness.
“Hurry it up!” the guard called.
She threw her arms around me and gave me a tight hug, and I clung to her, as moved as she. She sobbed just once, and then she drew back, a wry resigned look on her face. She stepped over to the corner of the tent to pick up the bulky blue bundle that contained her personal belongings, and then she shook her head, her lips turning up in a brave little smile.
“Well, ’ere goes, luv. Keep your fingers crossed for me. I’m gonna go out there an’ dazzle that bleedin’ farmer till ’e’s ready to spend ’is last penny on me. I—I ain’t gonna say goodbye. I ’ave a feelin’ you an’ I’ll see each other again someday—”
Angie left with the guard, and I had never felt lonelier in my life. I had grown very close to the scrappy, amoral little ragamuffin with her stoic outlook and wicked tongue. I could hear them bidding for her, hear Coleman shouting encouragement. I heard Angie, too. “Come on, luv, you can do better’n that!” she shouted, and the crowd roared with laughter. There was more bidding, more laughter, and then the guard came for me and I picked up my bag and followed him out into the brilliant sunlight.
I climbed the steps up to the wooden platform and stood beside Coleman, setting my bag down. An excited murmur ran through the crowd. “Marietta!” Angie called. She was leaving with the husky young farmer, and she waved, wreathed in smiles. I waved back, and then she and her new master disappeared around the side of a tent. I was happy for her. Angie would get along nicely. The young farmer would be putty in her hands.
“Biddin’ starts at two hundred on this ’un,” Coleman announced. “It’s a bit steep, yeah, but take a good look at her. She ain’t only one of th’ most fetchin’ wenches you’ve ever seen, she’s edge-acated as well. Speaks like a bloomin’ swell. Say somethin’, Danver.”
I stood perfectly still, my chin held high, staring straight in front of me. Coleman flushed, frustrated, but he was afraid to do anything about my disobedience, perhaps because Jeff Rawlins was standing a few yards away. Rawlins grinned.
“Two hundred!” he called.
“Two twenty,” shouted a husky lout with shaggy black hair.
“Two fifty,” Rawlins said.
“Three hundred,” the shaggy-haired man called eagerly.
There was a moment of silence, and then a cool, bored voice was heard. “One thousand,” the new bidder said.
“One thousand!” Coleman was beside himself with glee. He received a hefty percentage of every sale made. “One thousand pounds! That’s more like it.”
“Too steep for me,” the husky man grumbled, stepping away from the platform.
“One thousand—” Coleman said. “Going, going …”
“Eleven hundred!” Rawlins called.
“Fifteen hundred,” the cool voice said.
Rawlins turned with a frown, staring at his competitor. “Hawke, is it? Thought I recognized that voice. What’s got into you, fellow? You ain’t got that kind of money to toss around.”
“Fifteen hundred,” the man repeated.
“Sixteen!” Rawlins said quickly. “Come on, Derek, you don’t really want the wench. You got all kinda niggers on your place. What you need a gal like this for?”
“Seventeen,” Derek Hawke said calmly.
He stepped forward, and people moved aside to make room for him as he approached the front of the platform. As the two men confronted each other, people moved back, clearing a space around them, and a hush fell over the crowd. The air seemed to crackle with tension.
Derek Hawke was even taller than Rawlins, long and lean and muscular. He was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, his features perfectly chiseled, with strong and broad cheekbones. His windblown hair was black, his eyes gray, grim. Dressed in high black knee boots, clinging black breeches, and a white linen shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrist, he looked like an aristocrat pirate, icy, remote. Men would be instinctively wary of such a man, women automatically fascinated. He gave Rawlins a curt nod. Rawlins responded with an amiable grin.
“I aim to have the wench, Hawke,” Rawlins said.
“So do I,” Hawke replied.
“Seventeen!” Coleman cried. “Come on, gentlemen. Eighteen? Who’s gonna make it eighteen?”
“Eighteen!” Rawlins called.
“Two thousand,” Hawke said.
“Two thousand!” Rawlins protested. “That’s all the money I have with me. Come on, Hawke, be a sport. I have a terrible hankerin’ for the girl. You don’t need her. You—”
“Twenty-one hundred,” Derek Hawke said coldly.
“You son of a bitch,” Rawlins muttered, though without malice.
“Twenty-one hundred! Twenty-two? Anyone gonna go for twenty-two? Anyone? Rawlins? No? All right, then. Going, going … gone! Sold to Mr. Derek Hawke for twenty-one hundred pounds!”
Coleman slammed his gravel. The crowd applauded. I picked up my bag and moved down the steps to stand beside the man who had purchased me. Coleman joined us a moment later, waiting patiently while Hawke counted out the money. Coleman pocketed it, then gave Hawke the Articles of Indenture that officially made me his property. Hawke folded it up and thrust it into his pocket without so much as glancing at it. Jeff Rawlins lingered nearby, looking disappointed but, ultimately, good-natured about his defeat. He extended his hand, and Hawke shook it somewhat reluctantly.
“No hard feelins, Derek,” Rawlins said. “You got yourself a prize there.”
“Indeed,” Hawke replied. His voice was cold.
“You ever wanna get rid of her, you just let me know, mate. A wench like her—th’ bucks in New Orleans’d go outta their minds. If I’d had more money with me—” He shook his head regretfully. “Oh, well, you can’t win ’em all. You takin’ her back to Shadow Oaks?”
Hawke nodded crisply. Rawlins muttered something unintelligible, shook his head again, and strolled away. Hawke curled the fingers of his right hand around my elbow, clasking me lightly but firmly.
“It’s a long drive back,” he told me. “
We’d better start at once. Come along.”
He led me through the crowd toward the wagons at the end of the clearing. A straw-haired lad with freckled cheeks was watching the horses. Hawke gave him a coin, then helped me up onto the front seat of a rough wooden wagon with muddy farm tools and bags of grain piled in back. Swinging up beside me with lithe grace, he took the reins and clicked them. The two sturdy chestnuts began to move away from the clearing. As we left, I saw a plump pleasant-looking woman in a pink calico dress leading young Martha Roberts away from the clearing. Martha moved as a blind person might, frequently stumbling, and the woman wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist, speaking to her in a gentle voice. I was relieved to see that her new mistress would obviously care for the girl.
The wagon creaked and groaned, wobbling from side to side as the wheels passed over deep ruts in the road. We soon left the settlement behind and seemed to be heading directly into the wilderness. The trees grew thick on either side of the road, tangles of heavy underbrush twisted about their trunks. Birds cried out shrilly. I had never seen such woods, wild, tangled, formidable. I kept remembering what Angie had said about Indians, and, instinctively, I moved closer to Hawke, unnerved by the gathering shadows. I imagined redskinned savages lurking behind every trunk.
At least an hour passed. It was growing darker. Derek Hawke had not said a single word to me since we had climbed in the wagon. He might have been alone. I glanced up at that handsome profile, wondering what made him so cold and aloof. He couldn’t be more than thirty, yet he had the demeanor of a much older man.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” I remarked.
“Only when I have something to say.”
“I’m not a criminal, Mr. Hawke. I was working as governess for an English lord. He—he wanted me to perform other services as well, and when I refused he planted an emerald necklace in my room—”
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