A woman slave named Martha, a large woman with a colourful character, had been gifted to her by one of her lovers. She missed her. Martha’s duties had not included the silent reprimands that she had often dished out or the rolling of her eyes toward the heavens whenever she had taken a dislike to one of Sarah’s escapades. But the woman had never failed Sarah. Whenever trouble had occurred, Martha had always been there to clean up the aftermath. The mess had not always been restricted to the house.
Sarah recalled Martha’s fussing. “Yu’s want your house clean or not? If’n you do, then yu’s better get them scrawny legs outta here ‘fore I clean sweep you up, too.” Sarah smiled in remembrance. Martha had never allowed her to wallow in self-pity.
Their home, a plain but imposing two-storey structure, had been built on a slight rise. The building had been designed to provide an outlook from the lower porches, while catching any breeze that might pass by. The walls had been decorated with trellises, the temporary structures acting as a guidance system for exotic plants.
The city had suited Sarah. Diversions had lurked on every street corner, if one had wanted to seek them out, and they more than made up for the general foreignness of the town.
The merry-go-round had revolved only a few short spins before her money had slipped through her fingers. Sarah had no one else to blame but the foolish man that had been her misfortune to inherit as a father. He had failed her in every way possible, and it was she who had to bear the repercussions of his gross inadequacies. There were, however, two saving graces. She was not the man’s son nor was she stupid.
The final setback had come in the form of bailiffs. The men had rejected her efforts to charm, and it had been Martha that held the intruders at bay while she had escaped out of a back window. The thought of what might have happened had she been caught still made her cringe. Debtor’s prison did not conjure the most pleasant of experiences.
Survival had demanded that she adjust to her new circumstances, and quickly. At night, the streets could be a dangerous place. Sarah wholeheartedly believed that destitution came through choice and she had chosen not to embrace it. However, by doing so, she had branded herself a whore.
Men had paid a high price for her services. Her last lover had made her suffer numerous indignities that ranged from unnatural sex to sharing him with others, both male and female. However, regardless of his somewhat negative attributes, his wealth and generosity had more than made up for his shortcomings.
Her lover had been a brutal, uncompromising man. He had governed his own society; the degradation of other human beings had been second nature to him. His plantation had boasted over three hundred slaves. Few people had ever crossed him and everyone had played by his rules. The penalties for failure were not worth considering.
Sarah’s lesson had come just as he had begun to tire of her. Lovers left her - there was nothing strange about that. In his case, she could only put her blunder down to pure bad luck.
When his visits had lessened, self-preservation had been high on her agenda. Accordingly, she had shopped for a new admirer. She shuddered. She was cursed to live with her memories and recollection always came at a price. Try as she may, she had never erased the damage that he had inflicted upon her. The punishment had been too severe.
Once her lover’s darkness of personality had been unleashed, she had known that she would suffer badly for her indiscretion. Martha had tried to help and died for her trouble, which, looking back, had counted as a kindness. A fate much worse than dying could befall a slave who had attacked a white man.
For violating an unwritten law, Sarah had soon discovered that she had been his to do with as he pleased. He had dragged her, without compunction, from her house to a waiting buggy and used the drive to his estate as a form of abuse. Pleading had not swayed him from his callous intentions, and no amount of conjecture on her behalf could have prepared her for her coming ordeal.
She was slight of body, but had fought him as one does when prompted by thoughts of death. He had quelled her ineffective attempt with his fists, but the bruising had been minor in comparison to what he had planned.
He had left her isolated for hours in a barn on his property, and when the door had shut behind him, the shadows had closed in. Cowering before her increasing terror, she had lost control of her bladder, an indignity on its own. Time allowed the hurt from her beating to surface and she had become acquainted with agony.
Moments of heart-stopping terror are often remembered with vivid clarity; nature’s way, she supposed, of ensuring that erring humans learn from their mistakes. Her moment had been ingrained in her mind and was immovable.
Two large black male slaves had preceded him, handpicked for their role, she assumed, by the size of their genitals. Stripped naked and robbed of any shred of decency, they had been prepared for their work.
Sarah had memorised every detail about her torturer while he had sat watching - urging them on. His imprint had been stamped on her being.
A large cane chair had served as his throne. The seat had been positioned to enhance his view of her degradation. The stale odour of cigars, years on, still caused her to vomit. Teeth, yellowed under the influence of the wretched sticks, had revealed themselves every time some vile behaviour had amused his perverted sexual tastes. The scene was sordid and soiled to the extreme by the use of his own hand, as he gratified himself.
She had thought she would die and could recall appealing for her own expiration. The sound of his laughter was an additional abuse that had rung in her ears.
Her final beating had come much later, a parting gift, but Sarah had not been deceived. This had been his sexual climax.
#
Lady Emily had arrived in New Orleans without any prior warning. She and Sarah were not as close as kin, but an imperfect relationship had somehow formed during Sarah’s time in her employ. Despite the circumstances of their last encounter, their self-centred views were for the most part shared.
Lady Emily had been groomed, not nurtured, for marriage. Wedlock had been designed to assist her family’s progression in status. However, the emotional obstruction they had inflicted on Lady Emily dimmed when compared to the immeasurable harm to which her husband had subjected her. Living out a farce had not been as easy as Lady Emily had been led to believe.
Looking back, it had been Lady Emily’s resourcefulness that Sarah had most admired. New Orleans surrendered freedom to any one with money, especially a woman wrapped in a cocoon of marriage with a husband an ocean voyage away. Pleasure seekers could name their perversion. Lady Emily was a tramp and that is why she had recognised the trait in Sarah.
Sarah recalled one particular conversation with Lady Emily. “Your sister spread her saintly legs for my husband, and all the time I had thought that you were the harlot.”
“I had not credited Laura with the ability to save herself. I had always imagined her starving on some dirty back street, rather than downing her virtuous knickers.”
“Your sister is a virginal bitch that continues to cause me suffering. I would far rather deal with the strumpets living in the brothels of London, than have to put up with her and her pious ways. She is unnatural and uncaring - not like you and I are.”
Sarah had always been practical about such things, and she was glad that Laura had come to see sense and derived an income from the child’s father. After all, that was the natural order in the scheme of things.
Lady Emily’s reaction to the bedding had festered and grown over time, sullying her outlook. The woman’s incessant cries of mistreatment by her husband had dominated many a dinner conversation and halted more than one man from entering her bed. Her hatred had been so destructive that even in the event of death, Lady Emily would not be cheated of retribution. Sarah could only surmise what drove the woman. Perhaps Lord Henry had loved Laura and maybe that made all the difference. A rare insight done with, Sarah moved on in thought.
Lady Emily had donated time and money to the destruct
ion of Lord Henry. Reaching into the past she had evoked dark secrets and the unveiling drew near.
The theory to which Lady Emily adhered had solid foundations. Once the details of his family’s corrupt past had been revealed, Marlbrook’s reputation would be destroyed. English society, stuffy and restricted, clung to certain rules. If anyone breached one of their sacred codes, then the throngs would gather to condemn them. Gossip caused mayhem and crossed all social boundaries. Innocent or guilty, the parties would be treated as social lepers.
English society had spawned Lady Emily and taught her well, the ability to suppress emotion mastered at her mother’s knee. Her loathing had run so deep that she had chosen to ignore the possibility of her own ruin. She cared only that the house of Marlbrook would fall.
Sarah had no intimate knowledge of Lady Emily’s plan. The subject had nothing to do with her and was therefore unimportant. It was enough that she had agreed to play her part. Sarah’s task was to deliver the lawyer’s final instructions.
Mr Eric Pritchard, a man of large bodily proportions, had achieved his prosperity by investing in trading ventures, much like her father, Sarah had supposed, but she dared not dwell on the idea. Unrefined and deficient in common manners, Eric often scoffed at etiquette. Matched with an English gentleman, he could not have competed; however, when money entered the equation, the gap lessened and, likewise, the indulgence of Sarah’s whims. He was also uncommonly easy to manipulate.
Approaching thirty years of age, Sarah had been obliged to accept that her looks could not hold out a great deal longer and meeting Mr Pritchard had been a timely event. She had not entertained him in her bed for several weeks after their first encounter, and by then he had been willing to do anything to have her. Of course, she had made the most of the opportunity.
Motherly tendencies continued to elude Sarah. She was forever wary, frightened that one day the natural feelings might emerge. Her concern had so far proved to be a waste.
She had also given thought to her sister’s circumstances. Laura owed her a debt of thanks. Self-sacrifice was something for which the woman held a fondness, and it was not every day that one was given the opportunity to practice one’s talents. Anyway, she had not come to claim the child or to see Laura.
In her hand, Sarah held the unassuming piece of retribution. The time she had spent in the New World as a whore would stay with her. The nightmares of her defilement would never desist, and she laid the debt directly at Lord Marlbrook’s feet. Lord Henry Marlbrook and his precious family would pay.
CHAPTER FORTY – Her story
Laura’s journal was dotted with questioning statements. “The sins of the fathers” was one of the sayings that crept into her erratic thoughts.
“Hope is all that matters. She has been my world and my salvation. Why destiny has decreed that it shall be my decision that will affect another generation, I fail to comprehend. I feel in my heart that the time has come for me to unfold the past. If I am successful, perhaps I can guide another to avoid some of the pitfalls of life. I shall look back in the trust that we can move forward.”
Laura held one of the old worn journals that contained her story, permitting a wave of nostalgia to pass over her as she recalled the words housed between the covers. She placed her writings on the lacquered morning table, awaiting Hope’s arrival.
Hope looked to her mother, staring through identical eyes. Laura could see the promise of great beauty in her daughter, one that would surpass Sarah's. But more importantly, she knew Hope to be free of the selfishness that her mother had displayed. As Hope began to read, Laura quietly withdrew. Soon, she would tell her daughter the truth.
Hope closed the pages of the journal. Tears fell in steady droplets, indicating the level of perception that the reader had acquired, and it was then that Laura began the story of Sarah.
Dawn arrived on the day of Sarah’s expected arrival to find a household ruled by uncertainty. Hope had chosen to remain in her room to prepare physically and mentally to greet her birth mother for the first time. Laura respected her request. She acknowledged the trial that Hope must endure, while suffocating in the recognition that there was nothing that she could do to ease the child’s pain. It was a distressing situation for any mother to find herself in.
Sarah was late. The grandfather clock in the foyer counted the minutes in regimental style until half after the hour, when at last the carriage wheels were heard skimming the gravel drive.
Laura watched the scene unfold from the upstairs landing. The large rectangular window afforded her an unrestricted view of events.
Sarah made an impressive entrance. Mysterious in a cloak cut from burgundy velvet cloth, the hood hung protectively about her features, admitting only a glimpse of the black hair hidden within its folds. Although her husband was by far the larger of the two, he appeared to be submissive. He clung to his wife as they trekked the steps to Laura’s front door.
Sarah first caught sight of her sister as Laura descended the internal stairs, and what she saw made her reel. The drab, unimaginative girl had been replaced by a sophisticate. This woman would not be so inclined to excuse the behaviour of a selfish creature, nor would she dismiss the callousness of a mother who had failed to inquire after her child.
“Dear sister,” Sarah began, “I have just this minute learned that you are a married woman. Congratulations are in order for this impressive achievement.”
Sarah made no move toward Laura nor did she take her eyes from her sister. Like a hawk, she evaluated Laura. “Your inheritance of a title appears to have had no effect on you, for I swear that you have not changed since I last saw you.”
Sarah’s words were clearly laden with spite, but she had underestimated Laura’s ability to reply.
“And I, Sarah, must congratulate you on your husband, for you appear to have not changed either, and he appears not to have noticed.”
Saddened, Laura realised that after a span of fifteen years, nothing had changed. The loving sister she had longed for continued in her opposing role. She hardened her resolve.
“Sister, let us not quarrel,” Laura began. “If you have come to see your daughter, then you find her well. I cannot convey to you my joy that you wish to finally meet with her.” Laura watched Sarah closely. “Indeed, Sarah, I am also relieved to find that you have prospered.”
Laura looked upon the lovely features of her sibling, a trifle hardened but, in general, the years had been kind. Laura waited patiently, hoping to gain some insight into why Sarah had really come home. None was forthcoming.
Hope entered the room amid silence. Her countenance was grave, but her youthful features could not entirely hide the natural inquisitiveness that presents itself when addressing one’s mother for the first time.
Hope conducted herself as any refined young lady would and let go of none of her recently acquired knowledge. For all intents and purposes, Hope greeted her “Aunt”.
During the return journey to their rented accommodation, Sarah’s loathing fermented and soured. The moment the butler opened the door to their establishment, Sarah vented her rage.
Eric Pritchard extended his hat to the maid, who waited demurely for the Mistress to remove her coat. The interval would be long but not uneventful.
Sarah focused her attention on an innocent plant perched on the morning table. Her interest in the tiny shrub was merely a brief endorsement of the object’s existence, before she threw it through the air with all of her might. Her aim was true. The plant collided with the opposite wall and supplied just the right sound effects.
Eric lived with these incidents and no longer bothered to feign surprise. Instead, he grabbed his wife in a bear hug, rendering her inactive and keeping her safe.
“My sister was his mistress, and I wanted, no - I needed her to be his whore. I deserved to see her squirm while trying to rationalise lying on her back in payment for her cherished child. How could a Lord of such distinction have married someone like her? The sick basta
rd! She goddamn married the bastard!” Sarah screamed, as she had done those many years before, over and over and over.
When the fit of rage finally receded, a rather sadistic smirk appeared. “The whore,” Sarah said quietly, “my sister, the righteous whore.” The laughter that followed in its wake mingled with insanity.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE – His story
The day had started like any other. The children were hard at their studies in the schoolroom and Lady Maureen was, as usual, locked away in her darkened room with her headache powder for company.
Thomas missed the physical side to life. Paperwork had replaced manual labour and somewhere along the way, his title had erected invisible boundaries that separated him from the servants.
The butler knocked at the study door before ushering a dishevelled messenger into Thomas’ presence. The man had travelled from London to deliver an important communication. The paper was significant in its own right to warrant his signature. Special deliveries, in the handwriting of some obscure personage and origin, bring with it a natural aversion to what lies inside. Good news has no need of constraints.
Thomas heeded his instincts that gave him warning, and he waited for privacy before releasing the contents.
Descending into the comfort of his favourite chair, the warmth of the fire failed to comfort him. He studied the article. The letter originated from a Barrister’s office, the official seal another unwelcome addition that fuelled his concerns.
Sturdy fingers tapped a steady rhythm upon the smooth surface, displaying his reluctance to unveil the contents.
Finally, Thomas gathered the courage to open the seal.
Journey's End (Marlbrook) Page 20
