The Bargain (4 page)

"Running in the middle of the night is a foolish thing, Jewell. I didn't know my words would affect you so."

"Anyone ever take your freedom with a word?" She covered her mouth and bowed her dizzy head. "I should remember myself."

A strong chuckle left him, so much so that she lifted her head to view him.
 

Shaking off his cape, she saw that the arm hidden in all the flowing velvet still bore her apron. Hurt, he came after her. Did property mean that much to him?
 

"Jewell, do you need a doctor?"

"No, sir."

He picked up a shiny tray holding his brandy bottle and two glasses. "Do me a favor and pour us each one."

 
Her reflection on the metal showed a wild urchin; braids everywhere, red marks indented on along her throat, a bruised cheek. Her shaking fingers poured a half glass for him, but none for her. "You don't need more. You're so much better not under its influence."
 

A lazy smile and his other missing dimple bloomed as he picked up the drink and took a sip. "I'll keep that in mind. You remember that if that blackguard had succeeded in … you would have little redress.”

"Yes, I'm property. No one goes to jail for damages to property."

"No, people do swing from the gallows for theft. A black or mulatto has little relief from the law. It might not be allowed for you to testify. So when I am gone, be very careful. You and I have made an enemy."

Fingers tangling in the righting of her loosed braids, she wanted to be out of her master's sight, but one thing stood in the way. Punishment. With a swallow, she stared at him. "May I have my due for runnin'?"

His face pinched as if he didn't know what she talked about. He shook his head. "Don't know if you're prepared for more wrath. Go to your room; I'll think of it tomorrow."

 
She backed out of his study, nodding, half-curtsying. This kindness felt odd. Why did he treat her so well with all the trouble she'd caused? Foolish English.
 

Not owning any others, he must not know the customs for doling out punishment. Or maybe he knew she'd pay soon enough at Old Jack's hands.

   
N
othin' worse than preparing for a caning and having to wait for it, waking every morning with dread in her belly, all day walking on tiptoes. Yet, no punishment came for Precious. Three days passed and no whip or stick befell her backside. It was as if she hadn't run, hadn't needed rescuing by the master. Had he been so drunk he'd forgotten?

That couldn't be it. He was lucid, with eyes that sparked. Well, they possessed a brave fire before he started drinking the brandy again.
 

 
She shook her head and put her mind to Little Jonas. Her skinned knee stung as she knelt four paces in front of the boy, but the thick carpet of the nursery offered some cushion. Smiling, she held her hands out to him. "Come on, little man. Take another step."

The boy giggled and tottered, then stopped when he wobbled and almost toppled to the floor.

"Try again, little man."

He puckered his lips. "Uh uh."
 

Patting the thick brown carpet, she tried to entice him, but those rosy cheeks weren't havin' it.
 

"No, Mama."

"You want me to wait? Waitin's no good." Waitin' was bad. Had she gotten the courage to confront Lord Welling sooner, she could take back a year of dreams. Thinkin' you're free, only to be put back in a box; that was no good.

Jonas started to laugh. "Mama funny."

"Sweet child, I'm not. Mammy, some say in Charleston. I—

Before she could finish, the door to nursery creaked open. Precious barely lifted her gaze, expecting Mr. Palmers or a lower floor maid, but the sight of her master made her jump. "Yes, sir."

"Mama, eh?" His eyes held a smile as he stepped closer to his son.
 

Cringing, she felt an extra lash would be added to her for this. Wiping her brow, she spoke with muffled voice. "I always correct him, Lord Welling. I meant no disrespect."

He waved at her as if to stop the explanations. "He's walking now? Time keeps moving."

"How much you'll miss when you venture off to Africa." The words flew out of her mouth before her good sense started her brain to workin'.

Folding his arms, his shoulders tugged at his dark blue coat. "The plan was for his mother to be here with him as I went about my duty. With her gone, I don't have other options. My inheritance… " He looked away, half-pivoting, so all Precious could see was his ramrod-straight back and a freshly bandaged hand pulled to his buff breeches.

Little Jonas moved and waddled forward, lunging at his father's boots. The child was all giggles, clutching the master's leg, fallin' upon the highly polished Wellingtons.

The baron bent as if to hug the boy, but his arms stayed fixed.

Maybe a little encouragement would set things right between Jonas and the baron. "Pick 'im up, sir. A child needs to know his father's love."

Lord Welling lifted his head, a dimple peeking like he'd swallowed a laugh. "I thought you said the whisper of it was fine."

Gall swam in the back of her throat, but she knew it was better not to say her thoughts on his tweaking. Moving forward, she lifted the child and swung him around. Maybe the jokes would keep Jonas from knowing his pa's rejection.

But the boy stuck his arms over her shoulder toward the stupid man. Poor baby wanted to know his pa's heart.
 

"Papa." The child's sweet voice sounded strong and sharp, enough so it cut at hers. "Hug."

"Stop, Miss Jewell." Lord Welling came behind her and patted his boy's head.
 

She pivoted to face him and rotated Jonas so that they could both see the sight of the baron shifting his stance.

Was it fear? No. Something kept him from loving this little boy. What?

Since she'd already earned punishment, pushing the man a bit more couldn't make things worse. Precious snuggled Jonas then shook her head at the baron. "He won't break, sir."

Wide blue eyes seemed to penetrate her skull. The man looked well, sans the alcohol. He raked an index finger through his dark brown hair. "I was never very good with children. I was my father's only."

Encouraged by the small smile hovering on his lips, she pattered forward and stuck Jonas against his waistcoat. The boy latched onto the large bone button at the top of the silk beneath his bright white cravat. "Take 'im, sir."

Hesitation ripped across his face, firming up a mouth now pressed into a line.
 

This near, the woodsy scent of him gripped her nose as surely as if he'd stroked it with a feather, but she forced her expression to be as blank as his.
 

He couldn't know the silliness of her thoughts or that she'd already begun rethinking her boldness.

His hand whipped backward and for a second, she'd tensed as if the baron would slap her, but then his palm clapped about Jonas's middle. The grasp was awkward, but it didn't seem like the boy would fall. In fact, he grabbed fists full of his pa's waistcoat like he'd seized reins.

Backing away, she headed to the door. "I'll let you two alone."

"Jewell, no." His voice sounded rushed, as did the pounding of his boots along the floor. "A young child needs a woman's care."

He deposited Jonas into her hands, popped to the threshold, twisted the doorknob, then stopped. "I've some thinking to do about Port Elizabeth. Maybe Jonas will visit. You will have to attend him there, too."

Before she could ask his meaning, Lord Welling pried the door open and shot through to the other side.
 

Had she heard him clearly? In case he returned, she plastered on a fake smile and spun the boy to the window. Did the master want Jonas and Precious to visit his mysterious city in Africa? When and for how long?

Staring out at the sea of townhomes, she wondered if this Port Elizabeth looked like London, thick and overcrowded. Maybe it had rolling hills and wide spaces like Charleston. What were the people like? Maybe they were kinder, and she would be away from all the things that put fear in her bosom.
 

Through the glass, she watched Lord Welling don his top hat and climb into a carriage. He surely didn't fret another moment about this invitation.
 

Africa? Didn't her people come from there? Weren't her people scooped up from a village and sold like meat at the docks? That's what her ma had said had happened to hers. Cold sweat moistened her palms. Precious would have to be extra careful and not run too far from the baron's protection. She could get caught by a slaver and end up in worse straits. The thought of someone like Old Jack owning her made her toes feel numb again, just like in the rain.

 
She shrugged. The baron's offer couldn't be a serious one. It was just something to say to hide his awkwardness with Jonas. Her heart fumed again. It was meanness to taunt the part of her that still dreamed of living and doing on her own.
 

Jonas kicked and made an impatient pucker with his lips, so she set him down on the thick carpet. He took a few steps then toppled over, laughing.

Precious smiled and tried to focus on his joy, not the sense of hope and dread warring in her lungs. Coming to England from America had given her new privileges and a taste of freedom. What would a visit to Africa bring?

After a day at his solicitor's, a reward of beefsteak smothered in onions should've brought a sense of accomplishment to Welling's gut. It didn't. The food went down, as did the crusty bread of the hasty pudding, but he didn't feel satisfied. No, every bit dropped into the pit of his stomach, like a rock sinking in a pound.
 

Watching Miss Jewell, with Eliza's eyes, playing with his son, showing love to his boy, bothered him more than it should. By leaving Jonas for Port Elizabeth, was he again choosing his uncle over his late wife?

And what of the fussy maid? Until Eliza's death, he'd always thought of Jewell as her baggage, her slave. Yes, that was a nice and tidy way to keep what he'd seen happening to the blacks in West Africa, the slave ships, the breaking of men and women, out of his mind. Those trips with his uncle were supposed to enlighten. What light can be seen in such brutality? Port Elizabeth was down in the southern tip of Africa, so it would be different. Under his control, it had to be.

He poked at his plate. His hands weren't so clean anymore, but letting the last traces of Eliza go was out of the question. How would he… Jonas get on? Pushing a sliver of meat across the blue Wedgewood dish, he stared at the carmine-red walls. How long he'd sat there wasn't apparent until he blinked and saw that the candles along the dining room mantle had diminished to a couple of inches. Wiping his mouth, he wrenched out of his chair.
 

Perhaps, a drink would do. He never allowed himself to indulge in alcohol as a way to end his day, but on the anniversary of Eliza's death, he gave himself leave to swim in fine brandy. Right now, he felt the same edge, the same rawness in his soul. One glass of brandy would help. It had to.

With his palm still raw from the last time he indulged, he plowed through the door. The muted sound of an argument stopped him.

Whipping to the left, he saw Palmers hovering over Miss Jewell. In the darkness of the hall, he heard the butler's sharp tone. It sounded accusatory. What had the minx done?

Palmers gripped her by the shoulders. "Your apron was found in the master's bedchamber. It's bloody. You have a bruise on your black face. What has occurred, Jewell? Did you attack Lord Welling? Have you forgotten your place?"

The girl straightened her carriage, though her arms vibrated. "No, I haven't. How could I forget? You remind me daily."

Something primal stirred inside, seeing Jewell shudder, but he was proud her wits were sharp. Though he felt like throttling the old man for putting angry hands on a woman, Welling marched to him at a steady pace. "Let her go, Palmer. She's done nothing untoward. I had an accident, and the young lady bandaged me up with her apron."

Like his fingers had touched fire. Palmer released her. "Sir, I suspected—"

"Not that I would harm a woman, but it never crossed your mind that
I
might be the villain?"

"Sir, it's not in your blood to be savage."

Miss Jewell took her apron from the man. Her head shook side to side, and her almond eyes held daggers. "But it's in mine, right, Mr. Palmer?"

The old servant straightened, his nose twitching as if smelled a skunk. "Watch your tongue. I am your superior."

Welling hated the haughty tone of the butler, so like the gentry when he'd introduced Eliza, his American heiress bride. Gall and spittle filled his throat. Jewell and Eliza deserved better. "You are in charge, Palmers, but superiority is a matter of opinion."

Folding up the stained apron into a neat square, the spitfire stared off into the distance, but her voice sounded deep like she gargled with marbles. "The old bird likes threatening me. Mr. Palmers, don't you have silver to count, a room to check to see that I've cleaned?"

Sarcasm and pride, two things he didn't believe a slave would possess. What other things was she capable of? Remembering his position, he waved her off. "None of that, Miss Jewell. Wait for me in my study."
 

She lifted her chin and swept down the hall. Grace filled her agile limbs. She didn't shrink like a servant or slave, for that matter. Must be the American part of her aiding her boldness.

Chiding himself for watching her a little too long, he whipped his head back to Palmers and counted the seconds until he heard his study's door slam. "Why do you think so little of the girl?"

Palmers straightened his onyx livery, his wrinkled palm latching to the jacket. "The bruises to her. She's a slave, a savage."

"Seems to me, since you were the one manhandling a woman, there's a savagery in your blood." He hardened his countenance and stared at the old bird. "Don't touch her or any other female like that again."