Caribbean Reign Ch. 07-08

"Get her to work," she declares.

Cook understands that this is some sort of game but cannot see that it is being carried out at both my expense and hers.

Soon enough, a heavy pot is thrust into my arms. I carry it to a basin, trying with all my might not to let the hot grease drip onto my bare skin.

The other girls balance their loads more gracefully. In perfect harmony, seasoned water pours over pans and skates over the rims. No one here is fluffing their skirts trying to impress the master. These girls are younger and more industrious. One of them will eventually rise to Cook's position. Perhaps they will grow used to my presence.

I plunge my brush into the pot with mustered enthusiasm. The hot water burns my hands.

I recoil, allowing the pot to careen back and forth in the basin. Wastewater sloshes onto the floor and licks my ankles with its heat. There is a great deal of pouring and testing before I find a temperature that my skin can tolerate.

I scrub slowly and painfully. My stagnant pace gains the attention of the others. Over time, dirty vessels pile up around my workstation.

"Keep those skinny arms working!" says a girl of no more than fifteen. She plunks another pot down beside me.

A towel snaps across my backside. The heavy material stings the branded area. Marisol has ventured into the scullery to gloat.

"Bet she thought she was the master's favorite."

Instead of responding, I try to keep my eyes on my work. I have no interest in the prize she's chasing. My fingernails scrape at baked-on scraps. My stomach grumbles. A desire for this torment to end fills all recesses of my heart.

Again, and again, my brush plunges into the soapy water. After a while, my hands become numb to the pain. The rhythm of scrubbing helps me to block out the banging of pots and hollering of orders. The humid stench of the scullery brings water to my eyes.

"Watch out!"

The warning barely makes it through the noise. A kettle, fresh off the fire, has been overturned. Steaming water cascades onto the floor and scorches my bare feet.

I jump back, allowing the pan I was working on to clatter to the floor.

The cook marches toward me. She knocks my head forward with the back of her hand.

"Stupid girl. Keep your eyes on your work."

"Yes, señora."

It is the only thing I am permitted to say.

I take a moment to nurse my singed ankles before returning to my workstation. The snickering suggests that the spill may well have been on purpose.

***

Work picks up as the family is served different courses. Some of the dirty trays hold fragrant remembrances of warm meals. Roast ham, thick soups, all spiced within an inch of the diner's life. Anything salvageable goes to the serving staff, the most presentable of the bunch.

My insides ache. It was difficult enough for me to keep up while scouring the floors. Now, my mouth grows dry watching as inedible scraps are flushed down the gutter.

A bell rings, and the staff leaves for their mid-afternoon meal.

I stumble down the hallways of the West Wing. Alma advised that I avoid the kitchen. With everyone occupied, perhaps I can find an inkwell and mark my fleeting existence. I don't expect to last in this condition.

I shuffle into a small bedroom on the first floor. An inkwell sits atop the flat-paneled desk. A treasure more valuable to me than a mountain of gold. I leaf through the drawers for stationary. I find a clean sheet.

With a dipped quill, I begin.

Dear Maman and Papa,

The Spaniards are utter fools. I have been taken prisoner in the guise of my lady's maid, while my true identity remains a secret. Still, I caution that there is no greater danger to Saint-Michel than the Navarro family. Don Navarro is an evil man, hell-bent on destroying anything of civilized value. He has already violated my body once. I pray that he is not given another opportunity. If this letter reaches you, we must do whatever necessary to bring them to ruin.

Your daughter,

Catherine Eleanor Marguerite de Guînes

Maybe a little dramatic but nothing that the bastard doesn't deserve.

A bead of sweat slips down my temple. Work will resume any minute, and the scullery will be expecting my return.

I fold down the edges of the stationary and tuck the letter in the bottom of a drawer, beneath a multitude of other pages. Without proper funds for bribery, there's no way that I'll be able to smuggle the letter out of the house. I shall have to bide my time. My parents deserve to be able to bury their daughter's corpse.

***

As I step into the hallway, a sharp tug at my ankles knocks me to the ground. My forehead slams to the floor. I spin around to find a boot straddling my chain. Attached to the boot is the porter, a miserable crank of a man who apparently patrols the West Wing for fun.

"Up to trouble, are we?" He yanks me to my feet and stares me up and down. His yellowed teeth lurch inward.

I take a deep breath.

"No, señor. Just returning to my post in the scullery. If you'll allow me on my way."

I lean out of his grip to no avail.

"I don't believe you," he croaks. His breath is a meaty fume.

He pulls me closer, fingers ready to choke the life out of my arm. The bristles of his beard assault my neck. His other hand reaches for my breasts. With as much force as I can muster, I swing my arm backward. The tip of my elbow catches his groin. He releases me with a gasp.

"You, bitch!"

I run in the direction of the scullery, tripping more than a few times on my leg chain. I arrive at the dish room flush and out of breath.

"You're late," Cook barks.

"Perdón, señora."

She sneers at my heaving chest, no doubt imagining that I've been involved in an improper dalliance. In her position, I would guess the same. This assault has removed all outward signs of a genteel demeanor.

As I fall into the rhythm of scrubbing, light drains from the small windows of the scullery. Tiny stars trickle into view. I lean forward to secure my footing. My grip on the counter weakens.

Someone grabs my shoulder. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

I raise my hand to shoo them away.

Cook's voice echoes from the doorway, "Alert the master."

Everything goes black.

***

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