Caribbean Reign Ch. 05-06

I settle onto my knees, careful not to lean back too far. A horsehair brush floats at the top of the bucket. The solution is cloudy. Whatever it has been mixed with, currently drips down my face and back, absorbing into these borrowed clothes.

I aim my scrub brush at the floor, focused on making it shine. A spotless floor can be a beautiful thing in itself; I've just never been the one to make it so. Light from the kitchen reflects off the clean tile.

It comes to me like a dream. I know that beyond the kitchen is a courtyard. I recall being here once before.

A few years ago, the Navarro and the Guînes families gathered for a tense brunch in a last attempt to make amends. Maman fed me pieces of bread with marmalade, while the men fought about borders and tariffs. Eventually, I was released into the garden with the other children. The Navarro boy kept pulling on my braid. I recalling hitting him with a stick and watching him run off to his parents.

I remember my mother's face, white with measured rage. A resolution was never going to be reached, but the event was intended to present a diplomatic front.

Slowly, the sloshing of brushes comes to a halt. An imperious presence descends upon us. The girls begin adjusting their skirts to show a little more ankle. I continue attending to my section of the floor.

The master of the house is the same insufferable boy I met all those years ago. A sharper jawline. Piercing eyes. He is not completely unattractive. However, I posit that proximity to power is the true hypnosis. A viscounty as reward for all of his family's sniveling at the foot of the Spanish crown. The maids wilt as he looks down on them from the staircase. I would not be surprised if he was only staring at his own reflection.

He rests a hand on a young woman's backside. She giggles incoherently. Do these girls really think that a night with the master will transform them into a lady? The man merely loves the attention.

He approaches, "Buenos días, Ana. I thought I would give you a few hours to rest before setting you to work."

"How considerate."

I scrub with renewed vigor. If only removing the dark spots washed him away as well.

"Watch your tone. Your master expects a great deal of gratitude for saving your life."

I swing my shackles like a broken mermaid tail. The metal has already become slimy with cleaning residue. "I would be even more grateful if you would remove these leg irons."

"The chains stay on."

"Afraid that I'll run away?"

Escaping will not be easy. His staff is mostly native slaves and a handful of indentured Spaniards. I am the only Frenchwoman. Even in disguise, I'd stand out like a sore thumb.

"Perhaps I don't trust you."

He grabs my wrists and turns over my palms. "Your hands look like they've never worked a day in your life."

I pull them out of his grip. "And yours have?"

He smirks. "She heals from her branding so quickly. Clean this up if you've got so much time on your hands."

"By your own words, I have at least ten years to -"

He kicks over the bucket. Liquid spews across the floor. The other women groan, but a look from their precious master silences them.

"Back to work, Ana."

He departs to spread his misery elsewhere.

"Annalise" isn't even my name and yet, I detest how he crunches it into its smallest bits. His Excellency sees everything as either something to be owned or something to be conquered. It will take ages to clean up the mess he's made. Dirty water spreads across the floor to the work areas of the other girls. I rush to sweep it up with the fabric of my dress, but my chains make it difficult to move with haste.

"Perdón, señoritas," I mumble my apology. The housemaids angrily drag their brushes back and forth, redoing their work.

"Good job, whore."

"We'll be cleaning all day, thanks to you."

One of them spits at me.

Their hatred is clearly a byproduct of their jealousy. How anyone could lust for that pompous godling, I'll never know. I turn my attention back to my own little square, cloudy from the liquid and darkened by the master's boot prints.

As I scrub, I recall some of my own pranks on the servants. They were good-natured pranks, shoelaces gone missing, pastries in a closet, all products of an indulgent, young mind. Nevertheless, I wasn't the one cleaning them up. The most punishment I could expect was a stern warning from Maman.

Is there a chance that the real Annalise will be punished for helping her mistress abscond? She might not intend to confess. However, it will be difficult to explain away her missing traveling papers and the heirloom necklace hidden amongst her things. She may crack under the heat. If I ever return, I must take responsibility for it all, though that future seems impossibly far away.

***

Work concludes long after dusk. My wrists ache from the repetitive motion, and my skin itches from the cleaning solution. Still, as was promised, it is an improvement over the fields.

As soon as I've finished off my bucket, a girl comes around with ashes and lye, mixing the solvent for the next day.

"Tell me, does this ever get easier?" I ask.

She dumps the ashes into my bucket. The dust fills my nose.

"No. And if I were you, I'd spend more time focusing on my work and less time flirting with the master."

These girls cannot seriously believe that I welcome these intrusions. There is danger in catching the master's attention. I am not so naive to think that his interest in me goes beyond my naked form. I want no part in his games. His attention will only further turn the staff against me and make it more difficult to escape.

However, as loath as I am to give that man any gratitude, serving in the house does provide me with significantly more options. For one, I just might stay alive long enough for my parents to find me. I know they're already looking. If only I could get access to writing materials. I might be able to smuggle out a distress call. My tired fingers twitch at even the thought of my real name in ink. The shroud of Annalise Roberts grows heavy.

A bell draws the staff into the bowels beneath the kitchen. The stairs continue down another floor, but the path is sealed by a locked door.

I find myself stuck at the fringes of the servants' kitchen, unable to part the seas as everyone eats their portion. Around a few candlesticks, there is mirth and laughter, relief at a long day's conclusion. Nasty looks are squarely aimed at me.

I pick up some of the names. Marisa, the one who called me a whore, Maria, the one who implied that I would like to prostitute myself out to the master, and Marisol, who makes it known that she despises all French and would like to see us shot dead. I christen these unpleasant ones the Trio.

Eventually, a clay bowl is passed to me. It contains one ladle of thin broth, a meal that will barely sustain me until the morning. The others have bowls heaping with turnips and carrots. The groundsmen even have scraps of chicken. I refuse to let them see my dismay. I slurp down my dinner as if it is the grandest feast. At least, there is no one here to criticize me for poor manners.

As the group disperses, I swallow my pride to peek into the cavernous, black pot. Not a scrap is left.

I stumble back toward the servants' quarters on an empty stomach. All of these doorways look terribly similar. The entrance is somewhere in the East Wing.

In my weary state, my foot collides with an ankle, and I hurdle, headfirst, toward the floor. I look up to see skirts of taffeta and silk, a sure sign of damnation. I flinch to prepare for another cuff to the ear.

Nothing comes.

The woman holds her candle to my face. "You don't look like you're meant to be scrubbing floors, dear."

I blush. "I would like to think not, and yet here I am."

The tall woman's kindness brings attention to my poor appearance. She offers me a hand up. I gladly take it.

"My brother can be rash in judgment," she says. "Perhaps I can assist. One more day of scrubbing floors, and I think you'll take the skin off your elbows."

"Thank you, señorita."

"I shall tell Alma that for the next week you'll be cleaning out Rafael's armory. He never uses it, and it's become a real pigsty. More importantly, it will give you a chance to adapt to life here without someone looking over your shoulder."

Happy ringlets frame the woman's face.

"Thank you, señorita," I repeat.

"Please. Call me, Isa."

She gestures down the hallway, "The entrance to the servants' quarters is that way. Just in case you were wondering."

"Thank you, Isa," I say with a curtsey. At least one member of the family isn't completely evil.

***

Back in the attic, most of the girls have already climbed under the scratchy sheets. A few of them turn their backs as I come rattling and creaking down the row.

Expecting no other divine intervention, I crawl onto my spot on the floor, eager to get off my feet. It is just my luck to be located between Marisa and Marisol. I wad up the apron under my head. There is no sense in removing my outer skirts. I need every inch of protection between my backside and the floor.

***

Note: Our two characters have finally collided. He's a misogynist, and she's a spoiled brat. Do you find either of them sympathetic? Tune in next week for a healthy dose of banter and punishment!