Chapter Text
“2,000 green backs,” Captain Presley muttered more to himself than for your benefit, “that’s how much you cost me, little lady. That’s a months wages for the boat and near a year’s worth for one of Lady Marmalade’s girls. The Colonel’s gonna have a fit.” He chucked at that.
You didn’t venture an answer, loath to give him reason to repent his purchase and intent on sticking close to him for fear of getting separated in the human quagmire that was the French quarter under a full moon. People were behaving half beast that night, and under garish lamps, hung outside brightly colored establishments, the whole of New Orleans seemed a demented, frothing mass of iniquity just slobbering at the chance to rip you apart. Only his broad back and shiny set of pistols stood between you and a brilliant career as street strumpet, so you couldn’t stick close enough to him for your liking. He parted the throngs of people easily, a smile on his lips and a loose set to his shoulders that belied his readiness to mow down anybody that made themselves a nuisance. When they pressed in close, you latched onto the billowy cotton of his shirt and held on, keeping it fisted until he stopped before a picketing rail, starting to untie the bridal of a beautiful bay.
“You can let go now.” He said gently enough, and you slowly uncurled your fist from his shirt. He turned around to face you and again you were stuck by the cold shock of his beauty and the sheer amount of vigor radiating from him. It had been ages since you’d seen such a well favored man.
“Thank you.” You offered sincerely, your uncertainty as to the future hardly dimming the relief you felt at being free from that awful man’s designs.
“Mmm, don’t mention it,” he declared after scrutinizing your face for a moment, “I’m certain you’ll find a way to earn your keep.”
He mounted the horse, long and sturdy thighs gracefully bracketing the beast and offered you a large, warm hand. You placed your tiny slippered foot on top of his boot and let him haul you up to sit in front of him, the saddle horn pressed against your lower belly and your backside wedged firmly against his pelvis. You knew this would be the arrangement when he offered his hand but that hardly prepared you for the heated shock of a masculine form enveloping you, reaching ‘round you for the reins, surrounding you with the smell of musk and sandalwood, his hips insistently nudging against yours once the horse started to move to the gentle clicking of his tongue.
“Whatcha good at, honey?” He asked you, his tone was gentle and familiar as it had been from the moment he walked up to the auctioneer tonight and informed him that he’d match and raise any and all offers on you.
Just before that gracious motion of his, you had made a scene of dissuading Mr. Trelwany from purchasing you, insisting until you were blue in the face that you were a frigid, spinsterly virgin who would make his crotchety wife’s bed feel warm by comparison -you were no mistress material, you had argued, there was not a sensuous thing about you. Captain Presley had eyed your well developed bosom with a dubious eye and walked over to the auctioneer to begin his bid.
Now that Mr. Trelwany was not in imminent possession of you, you had begun to regret your hastily abandoned carnality.
Not that you had any sudden desire to have your most tender parts plundered by this riverboat Captain -according to your sources the entire experience sounded painful and humiliating in the extreme- but he was whole. And a whole and entire man was hard to find in the post-war south.
When near all surviving sons of the glorious confederacy came back from war withering from dysentery, missing a limb or else so defeated they could barely move fork to mouth: a man who looked like he had some spark of life in him was a rare commodity. And a man who looked capable of defending what was his, putting a baby or nine into you and then keeping said babies and yourself fed and clothed -such a man was more precious than rubies. And just such a man had you in his lap and you had no notion how to retain your place there but you were determined to do so.
For near a decade you’d kept body and soul together, taken care of all your dependents only to get stabbed in the back, and now the feel of a sturdy forearm tucking you into a warm chest had you thinking that for once, you’d like to be taken care of. Yes, even if it was by a river boat captaining, no good gambling, woman buying, gun slinging criminal. A man who made and spent that kinda money would certainly have enough lying around for your purposes and you swore you’d get your hands on it. He smelled clean and spoke softly to you, and preserved you from the ordeal of loosing your maidenhead beneath the perspiring bulk of Mr. Trelwany.
Laying beneath this beautiful fellow and letting him rip you wide open seemed a steep but worthy price to pay. You just weren’t sure how to manage that, coming on too strong might put him on high alert that you were gold digging, acting too frigid might deter him, and acting nothing at all so far had inspired some honorable part of him to govern himself from taking advantage. Because he did seem to have some honor left to him, which was a wonder of wonders in this city, and that wouldn’t do at all for your ambitions. You remembered your mother’s advice regarding men, advice for an entirely different sort life but it came from a place of understanding what men truly want in a woman, whatever the circumstance. Naïveté.
“Well,” you drew out your answer, making sure to sound a little breathless and abashed, “my mother always said I was was a wonder at the quadrille. Had a few beaux who might have complimented me the same.”
His soft chuckle vibrated along the whole of your back and as you neared the river the pervasive wet chill made you shiver. “Mm, I can picture that. Anything else? Not that we don’t have the occasional dancing aboard but I was hoping for something a little more practical. Something to keep you away from ogling.”
Now that was an interesting admission. You sat up a little, making your posture more prim in his lap and declared proudly, “In more recent years I’ve become rather famous for making river turtle soup taste like chicken and leak le pottage.”
“The hell is a nice girl like you you eating turtle soup for?” His breathing seemed to have quickened at that of all things you had said.
“If you ever cared to disembark there you’d find Memphis these days is rather desolate of all poultry or vegetation…Captain Presley.” you tacked on his rank in a bid to remain respectful.
The river itself came into view, a dark and lazy serpent cutting through the flatlands, every light that blazed from the docks and passing boats, along with a pale cream moon, reflected atop the crest of each ripple on its surface. It was a scene that was both magical and ominous all at once, and your courage nearly failed you here. It was only the keen awareness that you had nothing to lose or anywhere else to flee to that kept you held fast in the arms of dangerous man.
“Point taken.” He chose to reply to you after a long moment, perhaps anticipating you needed a moment to take in the sight of the river. “I thought you had lied to me, honey.” He added the last part real easily and you stiffened, cold dread mixing with the cloying river mist to turn you to ice.
“Beg pardon?” You laced as much offense in your tone as you dared.
“Why, only folks I know who make a regular habit of imbibing turtle are whores and their costumers. Pardon my language, but, that’s the only reason Sister Rosetta keeps some chilled aboard.”
You knew you ought to take the out he had just provided and inquire as to who Miss Rosetta was, what was her station and how did the whole boat work anyhow, but some childish part of you really needed to know why he thought you had lied and what it had to do with whores.
“What is its use, sir?” You asked meekly.
He cleared his throat a little more loudly than necessary, guiding the horse through the maze of streets leading down to the docks. These were slimy and criminal infested blocks and it did not go unnoticed by you that he let go of his grip around your middle to rest a light hand on his revolver. “You spent how many hours locked in the most prestigious whore house in New Orleans and you didn’t hear about no turtles?” He sounded dubious. Maybe teasing. Would such a man bother with teasing when he could just take?
“I was locked in the basement, captain, and I was fed whatever they brought me and spent my time counting dust mites.”
“So nobody came down and bothered you?” His question sounded a little urgent and you couldn’t imagine why.
“No sir, I was left alone. Until the auction.”
“And before that,” he pressed eagerly, his body leaned into yours as he looked over your shoulder to study your profile, “no one hurt you before that on the way down? Or during the war? No man has had his way with you? Truly?”
His investment in your virginity gave you pause as to how best to use this for your advantage but no strategy appeared to you in a timely manner, so you figured with his apparent eagerness to have you intact the truth would serve you well this once, “N-no sir.” you whispered.
“What’s that?“ he barked
“I said no, sir,”
“No sir, what?” he demanded and you realized then that he didn’t always speak so softly.
You eyed the approaching river and knew that fast as your approach was it wasn’t close enough to save you or distract him from his interest.
“I am untouched, sir.” And even to your own ears your reedy voice sounded pleading and embarrassed
The rigidness of his body melted behind you and you could have sworn you heard him take a deep, calming breath, his voice soft and easy again as he hummed “Mmm, good.” and looped a hairy arm around your belly again.
Every part of you was on high alert now, shame and not a little bit of relief over your success in pacifying him, serving to make every nerve in your body alight and conscious of his grinding sway behind you atop the horse.
You nearly jolted in fright when he resumed conversation in a normal tone, voice cracking bright and clear through the hush of the river slums; “Turtles, my little one, have an aphrodisiac quality to them.” he supplied this knowledge in the casual tone of a unabashed schoolmaster and you could have died from the shame of it all then and there. You hadn’t known. But he didn’t heed your cringing form, he went on, “Ingesting them serves to make men harden for longer and for gals, well I suppose it makes them slippery as hell, or maybe they’re able to reach a dozen peaks…” he trailed off as if deep in thought over which it was, and you wished the heavens would swallow you up or alternately you wouldn’t mind knowing what a peak was and why having a dozen would be desirable. And the fact that men harden was also new information, but it slotted into your mind like a perfect puzzle piece. So that’s how it works, that’s how they manage it. That’s why it hurts.
“I didn’t know that.” You ventured softly, as it had become apparent he liked it when you answered him and you in no way wished to displease him now, so close to his watery kingdom.
He chuckled again and squeezed you firmly, and you weren’t sure if you found his near constant good humor obnoxious or comforting. “Sure, sure, darlin’” he soothed, “I’m sure you did whatever you had to survive.” his voice turned melancholy there at the end.
“Yeah, I did.” You croaked, thinking of the warm splatter of blood on your face, the hours of hoeing the worthless acres of mudland, that bloated Dutch speculator who arranged your abduction you down here, and the entire ruse you were now living. Turtle soup was the least of your hardships but he didn’t need to know that, he just needed you to be pathetic enough for him to want to take care of you, to keep you close.
And your pitiful little admission worked, he pulled you impossibly closer and pressed his pursed lips against your temple, hot and plush and swift as he murmured “Well, you’re gonna have steak and oranges whenever you wish it, from now on until I get you back home, just as it should be.”
You had no intention of returning home, as it wasn’t your home anymore, but you did have intentions to eat your fill and so your blithely responded, “Tell me now, who is this Miss Rosetta, the turtle keeper? One of your whores?”
“Haven’t got any whores.” He protested
“Really, captain?” You laughed, disbelieving.
“No, the girls on the boat work on commission and they draw enough passengers that I’m the one who ought to be paying to have them on. And don’t you call them whores in that tone of voice,” he sounded genuinely upset, “they’re good girls and they’ll take care of you so long as you don’t act like you’re some fancy Plantation heiress. ‘Cause you that ain’t anymore.”
“I’ll be nice!” You swore vigorously, “I just feel sorry for them is all, it’s a shame that’s how they have to make ends meet.”
“Some of them enjoy it.” You could feel him shrug behind you.
“I’m sure that’s what they tell you, captain,” you warmed to the teasing since he seemed to like it, “It’s part of their job description to pretend they are enraptured by your skill.”
“Sure, sure but I don’t sample my friends.” And he took the liberty of pinching your side at that, “Besides, between the two of us, who’s kept the company of whores more often, hmm? You or me? Yeah that’s right, bet you never so much as talked to one in your whole dainty life before today.”
In actuality you had shared a jail cell with twenty prostitutes a mere month ago but you held your tongue as that anecdote wouldn’t serve your narrative of being a displaced Memphis belle.
“So promise you’ll behave.” He pinched your side again, and you were bitterly angry that you had not been supplied a corset during your captivity, as you could feel him all too well and were sure he was savoring the feel of a plush, unconstrained waist beneath your cotton dress. He was so familiar and handsy with you that you were nearly certain he meant to use you for himself. But then again, you’d been too busy scraping for food during your formative years to bother with learning much about how men go about seducing a woman. “Be-have.” He repeated one again.
You behave you gambling, woman pinching whoremonger…“I swear it, Captain.” You were the soul of earnestness. “Anything to repay you for your kindness.” You let the insinuation of your willingness hang there in the humid night air.
“Good girl.” He patted your waist again before finally removing his hand as he tugged the reins, guiding the horse down the ramp which led to a lower water level, serving as a cargo hold for the riverboat. The shiny side of the boat loomed above you and you could make out the red lettering declaring her to be ‘The Sweet Marie’.
“Miss Rosetta is my quartermaster,” he answered you at last, “and if you show her an ounce less respect than you do me I’ll whoop your ass, you hear me? Though I reckon there wouldn’t be much of you left once she was done with you. A fearsome angel, she is, and you’d best stay on her good side.”
“You sound a little enamored with her.” You jokes as he had seemed to enjoy it when you played at being relaxed. You swallowed down your shock that a man running a criminal gambling operation had a colored woman as his quartermaster. Or was she a nun? Sister Rosetta…Still, you had spent the past few years making a plantation of free blacks, deserters and no good relations work together as an efficient unit. You were rather certain you’d be able to read this Sister Rosetta clearly and adjust your behavior accordingly.
“Oh I am enamored.” He declared, pulling the horse to a stop. “Just from a safe distance.” And he laughed softly at his own witticism.
There was a solitary man standing by the ramp’s end, holding up a lantern though it’s light was hardly an addition to the bright torches that burned along the rails of each of the boat’s three decks. Despite it being past midnight you could find a needle were you to drop one on deck, and through all this glare you could discern inside the belly of the boat the sleek coats of half a dozen horses munching hay and lounging between feed sacks. He really brought his entire world on this boat.
“Evening Jerry,” Captain Presley greeted the man.
“More like morning, EP.” The other drawled, a thick layer of familiarity covering the interaction.
“Yeah well, I got caught in town.”
Captain Presley swung himself off the horse and your back was left moist and bereft without his warmth.
“I can see that.” Jerry eyed you critically and you held your chin as high as was humanly possible without your neck snapping backwards.
“Yes, well…” Captain Presley’s hand came up to rub at his stubbled jaw, a nervous tick you suspected, “Well,” he repeated, “we’re off to see Sister Rosetta, she’ll find a place for the little lady.”
“Yeah, I reckon she will.” Jerry couldn’t have sounded more skeptical if he tried.
You got the overwhelming sense that everyone aboard knew your place would end up being splayed beneath the captain, but that was a flagrant assumption on your part nevertheless, and if life had taught you one lesson so far it was that nothing came to you easily. Immediately becoming the mistress to a man of this much security and wealth really was a dream too far. You’d have competition for sure. Or at least, some scared part for you still hoped for that, although every rational thought urged you to snag him and make him certain of you. The coward in you hoped he’d drop the amiable disposition which must have been an act, and finally end your suspense. Just take you and be done with it. Maybe not in front of Jerry, however.
With an awkwardly coughed out “ ‘Night Jerry” Captain Presley pressed a firm hand to your back and propelled you down the side deck and towards the red painted stairs that led to the upper decks.
From far above you on the top deck came the sounds of revelry mixing with the pulsing rhythms of brothel music and the shrieks of the guests merry making. You had to steel yourself against being scandalized, arguing with yourself that if you flinched at the mere sound of it all how could you hope to acclimate to it and make it your home? Life on the plantation had been quiet and lonesome, a desolate haze of months running into years with only the occasional scare of one band of soldiers or another coming to raid your meager pantry. There had not been music in the halls or games in the front paddock since before the war. So much boisterousness and verve trapped on this floating carnival spooked you a little and so it was a comfort when upon reaching the second deck the captain urged you away from the next flight of stairs and down a beautifully wainscoted hall.
“The offices and bedrooms are down here,” he explained, suddenly, “we like to be away from all the racket.”
“Your boat is exquisite.” you murmured truthfully, realizing just how long the silence between you had grown. If you didn’t know better you would think him nervous after his encounter with Jerry.
At your praise he perked up, raising his head and grinning over at you boyishly as you tried your best to keep up with his long strides. The man had a magnificent pair of legs on him, but that was neither here nor there.
“Right, well here we are.” He said, stopping so abruptly before a shiny mahogany door that you nearly ran into the back of him. He took such a long pause, avoiding your eyes and clenching his fists that you feared he might send you in to face Miss Rosetta on your own. But he gathered his courage and rapped twice in a confident manner. A rich voice from inside didn’t so much answer the knock as command you to enter.
“Evening, Sister Rosetta.” He smiled at her real sweetly and you were reminded of a naughty child trying to butter up their mother. The farce on a mature man, firmly in his thirties, was comical but unfortunately effective. Dangerous men could afford to be sweet on occasion.
Even the stormy face of Miss Rosetta when she caught sight of you lingering behind his broad back smoothed for a fraction of a second to give him an indulgent smile. “It’s well into the morning, Elvis” everyone on this boat seemed to share the same joke, “Is everyone alright, Captain?” she then inquired respectfully, “Is the young lady hurt?”
“Naw, she’s alright, just a little shook up. This, sweet Rosetta, is Miss Savannah Beaumont.” He pronounced the name you supplied to him beautifully, and for a painful moment you wished that it were the genuine article, not the persona of your dead misses that you’d been hauling about for years like a loadstone around your neck. You wished that if he were to take you to bed he’d at least be calling you by your true name. But it couldn’t be helped.
“You got her down at the French markets then?” Miss Rosetta may have phrased it as a question but it was statement.
“Yeah, they took her from her plantation in Memphis, hauled her over land through Mississippi and tried to sell her down here.”
“They succeeded in selling her,” Sister Rosetta pointed out from her comfortable chair behind a ponderous desk. The office was real lovely and the lady most remarkable but you were starting to feel every bit a piece of merchandise under discussion. “I mean, you bought her didn’t you? How much?”
“1,000”
“What?”
“Greenbacks, not silver.”
“That’s still steep.”
“I know. But she’s safe now.” And his tone was one of a man firmly convinced of the rightness of his cause. He finally turned to you and threw an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side. Your face flamed a bright red in the face of Sister Rosetta’s unimpressed scrutiny.
“Miss Beaumont is it?” She addressed you at last.
“Yes’m.” You tried your best to sound eager, pleasing.
“Tell me, Miss Beaumont, did your daddy ever go down to the homes of his employees and consort with a Mrs. Hodgkins, the overseer’s wife?”
Your blood ran cold and beside you Captain Presley visibly stiffened and his arm fell heavy arm from your shoulders. “What are you on about, sister” he demanded.
“Tell me, true,” Miss Rosetta remained merciless, “doesn’t it strike you as odd, captain, that Mr. High and Mighty Beaumont’s daughter here is the spittin’ image of your dead girl, when we both know your Maddy Hodgkins weren’t no heiress. Somebody’s daddy weren’t their rightful daddy.”
Captain Presley stared straight ahead, almost seeing through Sister Rosetta, motionless save for the frantic, tremoring muscle of his clenched jaw. If you’d eaten a proper meal today you’d have puked it up by now, fluttering dread settling at last like a lead weight in your chest.
Of all the offices on all the riverboats on the wide Mississippi River…you just had to run into one of the Beaumont’s original servants, one who would know you were lying through your teeth claiming to be the Beaumont heiress. But you could salvage this, if she were familiar with the Hodgkins that meant she was enslaved at the Tupelo property, and as a result the Beaumont ladies would have seen her infrequently. You’d come too far to lose your cool now, or lose the grip your reminiscent face had on the captain.
It was sordid to use the resemblance of his dead girl against him but buying women in a market was sordid too, and you didn’t see anyway looking down their noses at him.
“You lived on my fathers land? At Bellemead?” You asked him, spinning your lie, knowing what the truth was before he spoke it. You remembered him as a sandy haired boy with tattered pants and a guileless smile who had taken a fancy to your elder sister, Miss Maddy. Impossibly tall now with a mane of jet black hair and a velvet waistcoat there was still something hauntingly familiar about him, his short beard did nothing to harden his childish mouth and for a man so masculine in bearing he remained more a beauty rather than strictly handsome.
“No, we was on the place he owned outside Tupelo.” He’d taken to clearing his throat while he talked and you supposed he relied on the gritty quality it brought to his voice to mask his emotion. “I-I, didn’t mention it to your earlier, Miss Savannah, as I don’t wish you to feel awkward over it.”
“Tupelo?” You said, “Papa always said that land was the most worthless investment of his life.” That wasn’t a total lie, you’d heard Mr. Beaumont say just such many times.
“If it weren’t a couple hundred acres of dust it turned into a couple hundred acres of mud.”
His sad eyes betrayed his easy grin and you knew he must not have much affection for Mr. Beaumont or you, his supposed daughter, considering the way Beaumont and your real father -his overseer- treated the poor white folks who came through begging for whatever work the field hands couldn’t manage.
It was a wonder the captain rescued you from the market at all -only a dead sister’s face redeemed you, and you feared you’d miscalculated on your chosen story most dreadfully. One look back at Miss Rosetta confirmed this. But you wouldn’t cower, you had the captain looking you over fondly again and so you raised your voice and addressed her, “I’m supposing you were situated in Tupelo as well, Miss Rosetta, in which case we would have rarely met, my father keeping myself and my mother in Memphis most times. So as you see, I would be unaware of any indiscretions on his part with any of the poor white folk. In what capacity did you serve, anyway?”
“I was your housekeeper, Miss. Beaumont, in Tupelo that is.”
“Well, it’s been an awfully long time since I saw you last. It’s a pleasure to be reunited.”
“Last time I saw you you were blonde.”
“I reckon I only came up to your waist, too.” you didn’t bat an eye. You had gauged a federal officer’s eyes out with your thumbnails -Miss Rosetta wouldn’t find you easy to crack. “A lot has changed Miss Rosetta, and it’s a mercy I didn’t turn grey considering the hell we’ve been living in the past years.”
Captain Presley watched you two peck at each other with a strangely detached air. You could feel his eyes roving over your face again and again, doubtless savoring the chance to feast on each familiar feature long since lost to him.
“I want you to find a position for her, Sister.” He spoke up at last, arm firmly back around your shoulders and a smile on his face that was almost fatherly, so gentle was it in fact that for a wretched moment you are tempted to believe he genuinely cared for your well-being.
“What is a Miss Beaumont good at?” Miss Rosetta would not be put off the scent and you got the distinct feeling that she had protected the captain from many a gold digger before you.
Rightfully assuming that the pithy replies you gave captain Presley when rubbing against his lap regarding quadrilles and turtles would not satisfy this paragon of justice, you confessed to her that you had some skill at numbers.
“How fortunate then that our purser was recently shanked.” The captain drawled, clapping his hands warmly and Miss Rosetta looked mollified upon hearing you might be of some use. “Still,” he reached a hand over and chucked you gently under your chin, “even if you weren’t no go with numbers, having that pretty face around would be worth 2,000 greenbacks.”
That’s a big fat lie. And you hate him for this charade of generosity.
“You said you spent a thousand on her.” Miss Rosetta groaned.
“Did I?” Presley gasped, the silliest pretense of innocence morphing his face into cherubic guilelessness. “Heavens I can’t remember now.”
“Which is it?” She demanded, struggling to remain vexed in the face of his act.
“I dunno—“
“You’re the new accountant,” she jabbed a prompting finger at you, “what was it?”
“2,000 greenbacks, ma’am.”
“You foolhardy man…”
“Hush, hush Rosetta,” he waved her temper down with both hands, “I’m satisfied with my deal. And God knows we aren’t hurtin’ for money like others, doesn’t hurt us to be kind.”
“No, it don’t.” She agreed, looking at you hard and you were certain she meant it for you. “Be good now.” She said gently, directing her gaze back to him, impossibly tender and with a little hint of warning. She rose from the desk and approaching him, took his face in her hands with surety, “God’s watching you, keep Him pleased, dear boy.”
Dear boy? You were left alone in the corner for a moment to wonder over the connection those two had, realizing that she just might be the one who kept this godless man on the straight and narrow. She seemed to be reminding him of something far graver than the importance of being good, and in this moment he seemed an entirely different man from the one who had swaggered into the gaudy brothel lobby and started placing bids on your innocence. You’d seen him happily kiss each one of those hopeful hookers who had thrown themselves at his tantalizing frame. Yet here and now you had a sinking feeling your virtue was safer aboard the Sweet Marie than you could have ever imagined. Twisting him to your will by carnal means would prove harder with a Sister Rosetta washing him in the gospel day and night.
“Captain Presley has been the means of saving many souls,” she addressed you, finally letting go of his face and turning to you as he just stared down at his boots, seemingly aware there was no stopping her, “and all who pull their weight here find a safe haven and a loyal family. Let me wish you a warm welcome now, I don’t bite unless I see a wolf amongst the sheep.” The toothy smile and clap on the shoulder she gave you was the opposite of reassuring, but you had your course set and were certain that with diligent application and impeccable behavior you could win her over. Doing so before the boat stopped at Memphis and he put you ashore was the only true challenge here.
“Thank you, ma’am.” You saw that the way to him will be through her, so you swallowed down your animosity and you made your eyes sparkle and your mouth quirk up. “I’m determined to repay you both and intend to become indispensable.”
You meant every last word of it. and you didn’t care if Miss Rosetta looked like she’s trying to decipher the riddle of your ambition in the context of your supposed return home. Upon hearing your declaration, Captain Presley got a silly little glimmer in his sapphire eye that you would usually have read as joy -or maybe hope.
You won’t be going home, in your mind it was either staying here or feeding yourself to the gators. You would not let that bloated bastard win, not again.
“Well it’s getting late.” Presley patted Rosetta on the shoulder in a preemptive farewell.
“Yes.” She looked you over, “You’ll find we keep long hours aboard this ship, Miss Savannah, and it all begins at dawn with a hymn sing in the boiler room. Make certain you’re there or else you’ll miss coffee and damn the ship all at once.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” You had never once heard of floating brothels conducting Sunday school to start each day. It struck you how little you knew about your new home or what it’s entertainment was comprised of.
“Good.” Miss Rosetta sounded pleased for the first time tonight. “I’ll have a room made up for you straightaway.”
“I want her in the nook adjoining mine.” Captain Presley spoke up from his place by the door, one large hand engulfing the doorknob, past ready to be done with this interview.
Sister Rosetta looked aghast that he had already forgotten and forsaken the principles of the brief sermon she just gave him on being “good.”
You were not surprised by his request at all, it was what you’d been bracing for all night. All your life in fact. He was like any man.
“That’s not a request, Sister.” He cut in sharply when she drew a large breath to commence a counter argument. His low tone shut her up immediately and you got a glimpse into the side of the man who somehow managed to illicit enough fear and respect to run this establishment.
The three of you made took awkward trudge down another set of gilded halls, Captain Presley pointing out rooms of interest on the way as you made your way to a beautiful suit with an adjoining little room that sister Rosetta commanded a drowsy laundress to furnish with a bath and cot.
A nightgown was laid out on the chair and the promise of a clean dress for the morning was made by a frazzled Sister Rosetta before she laid two meaty hands on your shoulders as she bid you a goodnight, a look of searching and concern flitting across her face. Damn hypocrite acting concerned only to leave you here to your fate. She couldn’t leave soon enough for your liking.
“Goodnight.” You wished her, sickeningly sweet.
She departed from the suite with one last glare sent at the captain who remained the picture of bemused indifference.
“God keep you in the night, Sister.” He patted her back on the way out.
The soft click of the door latch shutting was perhaps the most ominous sound you had heard in your young life.
He watched intensely you for a heavy few seconds, motionless and with an expression strangely akin to grief. “Well… goodnight.” He said to you, from his position by the sliding rataan doors that separated your abode from his room with the giant, crimson bedecked poster bed.
It was the second time that night he had spooked you by merely speaking in his natural voice when you’d expected his tone to drop, menacingly, threateningly. The hell is he playing at?
“Goodnight?” You questioned, your patience and stratagems wearing thin from hours of expecting pain and shame and the forgone conclusion of him taking you. You wonder if this is the sort of agonizing anticipation Christ felt when he was waiting to be crucified. He sweat drops of blood in the garden of gethsemane. You’d bleed tonight, too, you were sure of it.
“Yeah, you all set?” And while he appeared perfectly solicitous he made no move towards you at all.
“I- I suppose.”
“The bath’s hot, don’t you waste it, now.” He pointed to the lovely, copper tub shoved in the corner or your niche.
You watched the steam lick the air and the salivating prospect of getting clean suddenly made you snap. “I’ve no one to undo my fastenings.” You informed him, determined to get this ordeal over with.
“Ah.” He momentarily pinched that luscious mouth between his fingers and glanced at the door Sister Rosetta had long ago retreated from. He then made his way towards you. “Well, spin ‘round now, I can’t get to you like that.”
There was something terrifyingly harmless about the way he carried himself in such close proximity to you, it could drive you to scream from frustration and confusion. You wished you had interviewed those whores when in prison, asked them how to know if a man wanted you. How to make him want you if he was slow. What if he already had a girl? That wouldn’t do at all, you’d have to throw your rival overboard and - Lord, he was humming gently behind you as he patiently tugged each hook and eye of your bodice open. You recognized the plaintive tune as one used by the field hands. Something about Moses and freedom and the usual dreams of betterment.
It certainly did not set the mood for a ravaging.
You could feel the warm backs of his fingers on your skin, hear his little exhales with each tug. He started to push your bodice off your shoulders when he must have noticed you wore no corset beneath, a mere threadbare shift covering you. “This loose enough for you to manage, honey?” He asked you ever so gently, a little gust of his breath fanning against your cheek.
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright, then.” And he cleared his throat hard and stepped back two paces. You turned round to watch him go, holding your drooping dress to your breasts, wanting to confirm with your own two eyes that he really was not going to press his rights. “Enjoy your bath. And goodnight. I’ll see to it that you’re roused before hymn sing, don’t want to start the day with Sister Rosetta disappointed in either of us.” He winked at you then and you could have smacked him in sheer, frustrated bewilderment.
After he left and pulled the deciding doors, you spent a silly amount of time vacillating between eyeing the doors -making sure they didn’t fly open again- and the steaming bath that was starting to cool. The prospect of comfort won out and you shucked off your dress and shift entirely, stepping into the verbena scented water with an embarrassingly loud moan of satisfaction. It had been ages since you’d had such a luxury and the prospect of ever having to do without it again made you frantic to do something -to secure him somehow!
The fact he wanted you near had to count for something unless he really was onto your lies about who you were and wanted to keep an eye on you personally.
Either way you were pleased with this arrangement. It was a lovely little nook with floor length curtained windows that doubtless opened up to a balcony with its fresh river breezes. In fact you could see the lights of the town on the opposite bank as you pulled back the curtain to peak. It also provided immediate access to the Captain should you ever work up the nerve to simply present yourself to him one night.
You were in the midst of struggling as to how one went about such a seduction and if you should get it over with tonight when the hollow noise of two cracking gunshots broke the still night air, followed not a second later by shards of glass from the punctured window falling around you and into the tub. Dear God, there really was no getting away from the Dutch carpetbagger, was there?