Yellow Wife(37)

“You have my word.” He kissed me on the mouth, and it took everything in me not to gag.

On the march up the stairs, my insides turned and knotted. I had to hold onto the banister to keep from turning back. In his sleeping quarters, a single candle burned next to the poster bed. I entered on shaky knees, then sat trembling on the edge of the bed. He fumbled with his trousers and then closed the door with his foot.





CHAPTER 17




Splintered

Shame rained down on me like angry piss from Missus Delphina’s chamber pot. The wetness of dishonor clung to my skin. I had made a vow to belong to Essex until the end of time, but I had given myself to another. I was not sure which crushed me more—the weight of the Jailer’s meaty arm across my belly, or my betrayal. The bed creaked as I untangled my body from his girth. I gathered my undergarments from the floor, closed the door behind me, and slipped down the back stairs as quietly as possible.

The jail felt calm that time of night. Even the dogs were silent, but I knew the ones locked inside were suffering just a few feet away. Monroe was snuggled in July’s arms on her pallet and I decided not to disturb them. Instead I watched his chest rise and fall, the tight curls on his head bathed in his sweat. Would my sacrifice protect him? Once in bed, I searched for sleep, pleaded with it to put me out of my head, my misery, but it would not come.

When I rose the next morning, it felt like I had spent the night in a boxing match. My insides were sore, and my belly knotted with self-loathing. I stood at my washing basin and scrubbed every inch of my skin, but I could still feel his breath, fluids, and fingerprints all over me.

July was nibbling on a biscuit with jam, and I sat sipping lukewarm tea when Abbie found us at the servants’ table in the house shed.

“Morning, Abbie.”

“Mornin’, Miss Pheby.”

“Why you being so formal with her?” July laughed with her mouth opened.

I looked up from my cup, surprised, but Abbie avoided my gaze.

“Miss Pheby, Marse asked me to move your things to the bedroom ’cross the hall from him.”

“Abbie!”

She kept her face cast down to the floor, not meeting my eye like usual. The message traveled on the silence between us. The Jailer had told Abbie to address me as such. Sharing his bed had separated me from the others, and I would be treated differently going forward. My face grew hot with embarrassment. July looked from Abbie to me and slowly her jaws closed. “I will gather up Monroe’s things.”

“Marse wantin’ Monroe stay down wit’ you.” Abbie put her hand on July’s shoulder.

“What?” My voice rose, startling Monroe, who slept across my lap. I patted his back but he would not be soothed.

I pushed back from the table, screeching my chair hard across the floor. My son and I belonged together. I would not leave him downstairs. How would I attend to him if he cried in the middle of the night? Monroe continued to fret in my arms, as if he understood our new fate. My bargain with the Jailer seem to already fall short.

“It is what he say. Marse don’t like to be question’t. Best make haste.” Abbie retied her beige apron and then limped ahead of me.

I sat on the bed and nursed Monroe as Abbie gathered my things from the chest of drawers and placed them in a basket. When Monroe settled on my chest, I opened the closet and dug under the chest for my diary. Discreetly, I slipped it into my pocket. Mama’s red calico dress hung from the center of the rack. Even though I had washed, repaired, and starched it the best I could, the dress would never return to its regal glory, but I needed it with me. I gathered it in my arms, and Monroe craned his face to feel the fabric. I tried to rest in the notion that he would be just a floor away from me. In the mornings, I could tie him to my back and take him to the sewing shed. We would only be separated in the evening. The split had been ordered to give the Jailer full access to my body at night.

My new bedroom proved more spacious than the one downstairs, by at least a quarter of the size. The four-poster bed draped in lace and the white-and-lavender floral wallpaper made the room feel dainty. A white dressing table stood opposite the bed, with an oval mirror attached, and a cushioned stool. Everything about the room echoed fit for a lady. The wide-plank floors creaked beneath me while I crossed to the window. As I pushed back the heavy curtains, I took in the cobblestone courtyard; a side section of the tavern, not twenty-five yards away; and a full view of the two-story wooden jail. I dropped the drapes back into place. Abbie entered with a water pitcher.

“Who lived here before?”

“Marse’s mother use to take this room ’fore she got ill.” She poured a glass of water and held it out to me.

“Abbie.”

“Make peace with it, Miss Pheby.”

“But I—”

“Be best for everyone. ’Cluding Monroe.”

I took the glass and drank.

“Needin’ anything else?”

I shook my head no, and she limped out, closing the door behind her.

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying my best to take in my new situation. When I stood to leave for my shed something caught the corner of my eye: a dusty leather-bound book on the nightstand near the far wall. I had not been near a book since I arrived at the jail. I listened for footsteps. My heartbeat increased as I turned the book over in my hand. The cover read OLIVER TWIST BY CHARLES DICKENS. When I opened it, I had to press the leaves down a few times at the front and then the back for it to fully spring to life. Mama’s voice nagged in my head, cautioning me on the dangers of reading. I returned the book, but as I moved through my day in the shed, I wondered what words I would find on those grubby old pages.