She’d gasped because she knew how men—and women—obtained scars like that.
“Was Mr. Gaines born in London?”
Mary furrowed her brow. “I believe he comes from Wapping. He has stores and an inn there.”
Raeni didn’t think Gaines came from Wapping any more than she came from Mayfair. He’d been a slave somewhere at some time. And he’d been whipped. More than once.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your dinner and your filing,” Mary said when it became obvious that Raeni didn’t intend to tell her any more.
“Thank you, again,” Raeni said. “Please tell Mr. Gaines thank you.”
“I’m sure you can tell him yourself.” Mary left the room, leaving the door open behind her. The sounds of the men working in the storage room floated up to her, reminding her a little of home. Not that London was anything like home. London was damp and cold, while Jamaica had been all sun and wet heat. She’d been born the third child of her father and his slave mistress. As such, she’d lived in a sort of between world, not a slave but not free. She’d overheard the story of her birth. Her father had planned to name her Jane, but when he’d taken a look at her, he’d slapped her mother then walked away. Where Raeni’s brothers had been light-skinned, she was dark. Her father had barely looked at her the first five years of her life. Her mother had been allowed to name her, and she’d chosen Raeni. Her mother said it meant like a queen.
Her older brothers had been educated by tutors, not an unusual occurrence in the West Indies. Raeni had been allowed to learn along with them, and her father, pleased that though her skin was dark she was intelligent, had allowed her to help him with the running of the plantation.
Like the filing she now did for Mr. Gaines, she’d filed her father’s papers as well. All of her father’s affairs passed her fingertips—shipping schedules; orders for food and material; bills of sale for sugar cane or for men, women, and children. She hadn’t liked to look at those. She hadn’t liked to think of her own mother being bought and sold like a bolt of muslin. Her mother had always treated Charles Sawyer like a king, but when he wasn’t looking, Raeni could see the flash of resentment behind her eyes.
Raeni hadn’t understood it when she’d been a child. Her father was generally kind to her mother. But when she’d become a woman herself—when she’d seen her own bill of sale slipped in among so many others—she had understood.
Whether because of her memories or the sudden onslaught of food on her empty belly, her stomach roiled and she pushed away from the table. There was no point in thinking of her mother or her home. It was across the ocean and might as well be a different world. Raeni was here now and she would make her own way—as a free woman.
Three
Raeni woke early, the hard floor of the church making her back ache. She was not alone. An assortment of women and children slept on the floor. Some were black, some white, and two came from a place called China. She knew this because she’d seen sailors who looked like them in the harbor in Jamaica, and her father had told her they’d sailed from a place called China.
Raeni realized she had woken because of a small child’s cry. His mother lifted him into her thin arms, her dirty blond hair falling over her forehead as she tried to calm him. He was probably hungry. Though the church caretaker allowed this needy group to sleep on the floor of the choir room, he could not afford to give them much to eat. Raeni usually gave any food passed to her to one of the children. She reached into her pocket now, withdrawing a piece of bread she had saved from Mr. Gaines’s tray, and handed it to the mother.
“I can’t take this, Raeni,” Alice, the child’s mother, said.
“It’s for George,” Raeni insisted. “I have a position now. I can buy more.”
Alice took the bread and gave it to George, who stuffed a bite of it in his mouth and ceased crying. “How will you buy more? Surely you haven’t been paid yet.”
“I’ll be paid Saturday, and that’s not long.” It was two days away. Surely, she wouldn’t make any more mistakes before then. And when she was paid, she’d take her earnings for the four days she’d worked and buy food and a night at an inn. There was one not far from the church, and she could have her own room for a shilling or two. It was an extravagance she probably could not afford, but she was desperate for privacy and a soft place to sleep.
“And now I had better get up or else I’ll be late.” She had to walk almost an hour to reach Bond Street, and she liked to give herself plenty of time in case she wanted to slip down a side street and away from the groups of men she often saw. Upon arrival, she’d quickly learned London was a dangerous place. She hadn’t been here a day before she’d had her purse stolen. She hadn’t even known it was gone until she’d reached for it and found her pocket empty.
She’d held onto her valise of clothing and keepsakes a little longer. But one day when she’d been tired, she’d set it down and turned to look at a man who played an instrument with a small monkey who danced. When she’d turned back, her valise and all she’d had in the world was gone. Now she owned the blue serge dress she wore and this turban and that was all.
As though she had read her mind, Alice said, “What about your dress?” She fed George another bite of bread.
Raeni considered the dress as well. She’d cleaned the spilled chocolate and milk as best she could, but she couldn’t afford to have it laundered and she didn’t have any way to really clean it here. “I suppose it will have to do,” she said. The stains were mostly on the skirt and she could pull the fabric to hide them somewhat.
“Here, take this.” Alice lifted an apron from her small pile of things and handed it to Raeni. The once-white apron was gray from use and many washings, but it would cover the stains. Raeni took it gratefully.
“Thank you. I’ll bring it back tonight.”
An hour or so later she was almost to Bond Street Coffee & Tobacco. She had arrived before it opened, so she stood across the street and pretended to read an old copy of The Midnight Cryer she’d found on a bench. In reality, she studied the shop. Bond Street was still relatively quiet at this hour, although carts full of goods disturbed the quiet when they rumbled past.
Someone had arrived even earlier than she and washed Mr. Gaines’s stoop and windows. Everything glittered in the morning sun. Although it was autumn now, it had not turned cold enough to kill the flowers in the boxes and they were an orange and yellow contrast to the white exterior. Her gaze lifted to the first floor window. She wondered if Mr. Gaines was in his room now, lying on his chaise, one powerful arm slung over his head.
She shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the sight of him shirtless had affected her—not simply because of the scars he bore from the lash. She was filled with more lust than sympathy. She’d seen men without shirts many times, and she had always admired the male form. But something about Mr. Gaines was different. Her belly tightened and her cheeks heated. She wanted to touch his hard biceps and run her tongue over the powerful ridges of his shoulders. Even more than that, she wanted to step into the comfort of his arms and know she was safe.