The Lady Who Broke the Rules
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Marguerite Kaye
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Prologue
Booth Plantation, Virginia, Fall 1805
It had been cold last night, the temperature dropping rapidly as dark fell. The initial pain of the whipping had passed. He was used to it, the searing heat of the lash as it ripped open his skin, the white-hot flashpoint as the salt water bit like acid into the open wounds, the sudden blackness which accompanied the soaking—which always accompanied it, no matter how hard he tried to remain conscious. Now the cycle of recovery would follow. He was inured to that, too, the throbbing which became a dull ache as his flesh began to heal, the stiffness in his shoulders and neck from holding himself upright.
Huddled into the corner of the tiny space of the cellar, Virgil was grateful for the cool air on the lacerations which crisscrossed his back. He must have leaned against the rough stone walls, for there was a raw pain tugging at the knitting flesh of his wounds this morning. It was almost impossible to avoid the walls in the confined space, which was not big enough for one his size to do anything other than crouch, not wide enough for him to lie down. He could only curl, foetus-like, on the hard-packed mud of the floor.
Tentatively, Virgil sought out the newly tender spot. His fingers came away wet. Unable to see anything in the pitch-black of what his fellow slaves called the hellhole, he sniffed. The iron tang of fresh blood reassured him. Once, when he was fifteen or sixteen, his wounds had become infected. He’d wondered, before then, whether death would be better than the life he was shackled to. No more after that, and now that there was Millie, what he wanted was not just any life but a better one.
Virgil winced, dropping his head onto his knees. He’d been so sure their strike would succeed this time. So damned certain! But even though the tobacco leaves ripened on the stalks, even though the clock was ticking mercilessly towards the arrival of the merchants’ ships, Master Booth had held strong and the rebellion had been broken. He’d thought they would hang him for it, but he’d been festering so long in the dungeon now that Virgil had concluded he would be sold instead.
If it were not for Millie, this would be a victory of sorts. What would she do without him? What would he do without her? The sweet, tender moments they shared were what kept him going. Lying together under the stars in the blissful aftermath of lovemaking, they wove their dreams. His insurrection hadn’t come close to making them real.
Guilt, an agony much worse than any whipping, racked Virgil’s soul and wrung his heart. Millie was everything to him. Everything! He clenched his fists tight, making the cords of his sinews stand out. He would keep their dreams alive. He would make them happen and that would be his revenge. The time for trying to right the system which kept them all in chains from within was over. Master Booth and his like would never bend. No point in bloodthirsty plans for taking revenge on them either, for bloodshed only led to more bloodshed. He would have his revenge, he would triumph over them all, and he would make his dreams happen, not by physical force but by force of will. His will. He was better than them. He was stronger. He would show them, he would prove to them all that he could be better, and he would do it on his terms. He would win his freedom. He would win their freedom, his and Millie’s. He could read and write. He knew himself smart, for he’d seen that look, fear and confusion, on Master Booth’s face when he’d presented his case before the strike. And he could work. He could certainly work. No one could work as hard as he. The interminable hours he’d worked for the larger part of his nineteen years on earth had honed his body into a powerful machine.
They’d most likely sell him in one of the northern markets, for everyone in Richmond would know him for a troublemaker. If he hit lucky, his new master would be a liberal. It was of no import. He would triumph, and no matter where he was sent to, no matter how long it took, he would win. Then he would come back for Millie. He would make sure and tell her that somehow, though she’d know—she knew him enough not to doubt that, surely? He’d come back for her. He’d tell her so. She just had to keep herself safe until then.
Deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed the tiny fingers of light slanting through the hatch of the cellar. Only as the key grated in the trapdoor lock did Virgil realise they had come for him. He braced himself for the pain as he unfurled his large frame, shading his eyes against the light, taking his first stumbling step in five days.
The plantation square was headed by the master’s residence, the other three sides formed by the huge drying rooms which housed the newly harvested tobacco leaves. His fellow slaves filled the space. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, fear made Virgil’s skin clammy. All of them, field workers and indoor servants, were there in ranks. In front of the whipping post stood Master Booth himself. Was he to be beaten again? Anxiously, he scanned the row of house servants, looking for Millie, but she wasn’t there. Fear turned to dread. The sweet, rotten smell of drying tobacco was overlaid with the sharp, tangy scent of sweat. He saw his dread reflected in the faces of his fellow slaves. A terrible premonition made him stand stock-still. Only a sharp nudge from one of the white servants urged him forward, the manacles on his ankles clanking, to stand in front of the master.
‘You will be sold,’ Master Booth said in that peculiar drawl which still held the faintest traces of his English ancestry. Beads of sweat dripped down his ruddy cheeks. His brown tied wig sat at its usual odd angle. ‘I will not tolerate insubordination. It is time you learned your place in life, boy.’
Virgil straightened his shoulders and threw back his head, meeting Booth’s gaze full-on. ‘There is nothing you can teach me about my place in life,’ he said, his voice raspy from lack of water.
In the past, such defiance had angered Booth. Today, he smiled. It was this which tightened the knot in Virgil’s stomach. Following the direction of the master’s gaze, he was aware of that smile broadening. His knees threatened to buckle as his stunned mind absorbed what he was seeing. Millie. Her hands tied with rope. Her eyes fastened on him. Pleading. Terrified. And beside her, Harlow. The overseer.
Virgil lunged, but the white men holding him strengthened their grip. Even so, he had all but escaped when his manacles were yanked, dropping him to his knees. Millie was crying now, loud, racking sobs that pierced his heart. Not this. Not Millie. Not this. The pride which had kept him silent all his life meant nothing in the face of this new horror. ‘Please,’ he yelled to Booth, ‘please.’
But the master simply scowled. ‘Too late.’ He nodded at his overseer. Millie was struggling desperately. Regina, the cook, took a step towards her, but she was pulled away by one of the housemaids. They all knew from bitter experience that interference would only result in a more brutal assault. Virgil knew it, too, but it made no difference. He continued to struggle, his muscles straining with every last ounce of their power to free himself, to reach her.
He called her name over and over. Their eyes met across the dusty courtyard. The overseer readied himself, unbuttoning his breeches. His white buttocks would have looked absurd under any other circumstances. Millie screamed. One almighty surge of energy and Virgil was back on his feet.
The two blows fell at once.
The overseer smacked Millie hard across the mouth. Silenced but still conscious, she fell onto her back and Harlow made short work of rucking up her brown sackcloth skirts.
The cosh hit Virgil hard across the back of the head. He fell, his face biting into the hot dust, into an oblivion denied Millie as the overseer set about the brief and brutal business of punishing her for her lover’s crimes.
