Paxton's War (29 page)

Later that afternoon, back in her guest bedroom, Colleen regained her composure. She had been weeping uncontrollably for Ephraim Kramer and the two black boys. At some point, though, her sobbing had ceased. What good were spilled tears? Enough of the Tory politics of Buckley Somerset and the hopeless equivocations of Jason Paxton! it was time to get to work. Slowly but deliberately, she began composing a verse about the Wisp's daring escapade. The first draft was rough, and so she wrote a second, and a third, and a fourth, until she felt satisfied enough to start considering ways to have the broadside printed. She'd have to make inquiries about other printers, make other contacts. The thought frightened but thrilled her at the same time. Finally, her courage was back. How good it felt! There was something worth fighting for, something worth dying for, and she could no longer hide in her aunt's sewing shop until the war had ended. Aunt Rianne was right. Work was the best antidote to melancholy, but meaningful work, patriotic work, work for the revolution. Reading over her lyrics, she grew more excited. The people needed to read this. She needed to get back to Charleston immediately.

It was sunset when she came downstairs and asked one of the slaves to locate Buckley. Impatiently, she paced up and down the central hallway as she waited. At one point she glanced into the mammoth library and caught a glimpse of a pathetically palsied man peering at a book with the aid of an enormous magnifying glass. Through the lense, his left green-gray eye appeared larger than his head. This, Colleen assumed, was Miranda's husband. The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention back toward the entrance of the house, where Buckley bounded through the front door.

“An envoy of the major's just left,” he said to Colleen, his voice filled with excitement. “Embleton was certain that the Wisp was hiding north of Charles Town, and consequently had concentrated his efforts to capture the swine in that territory. That's why we received no notification of the escape. But now they've picked up a trail heading south, in this very direction. I've alerted my full work staff, and at sunrise tomorrow I'll be going out with a dozen of my best men, Windrow and Simkins among them, to search these swamps for the slippery rebel. I intend to find him myself. I want to be among those cheering when he's strung up like a common criminal.”

“He'll be impossible to catch,” Colleen couldn't help but blurt out.

“You delude yourself, my pet. If he's within twenty square miles of Marble Manor, he's as good as dead.”

“I want to go back to Charleston tonight.”

“That's impossible. I can spare no men to accompany you home. Besides, you've just arrived.”

“I'm being held against my will.”

“Come, come, let's not exaggerate,” Buckley said, changing his tone to one of salacious delight. Slowly, he looked over Colleen and spoke in a low, sultry voice. “After all, it was you who asked me to the ball. Finally, I'm beginning to understand you, Colleen McClagan. There are women who give in easily, those who give in not at all, and finally those who derive a degree of pleasure by merely postponing the act. I've come to see that you, my dear, fit into the third category. Yes, you'd have me wait, and wait, and wait again. You've sensed that I delight in a certain measure of subtle teasing. But of such games we've had enough. Tonight,” he announced decisively, a sneer dancing across his lips, “there'll be no more waiting. You and I alone will dine at eight. Then, after our long night together is finally consummated, if you aren't too exhausted to travel tomorrow, I'll see that you're safely escorted to Charles Town—but not, mind you, before we take the pleasure that we've denied ourselves for far too long.”

The strangely intense manner with which he spoke these final words alarmed Colleen. She realized that no matter what she did and said, there was no getting out of Marble Manor till the morrow.

Back in the bedroom, she put on a nightgown and tried to nap, but sleep wouldn't come.
I must escape. I must find a horse and hurry back to Charleston. Somehow, I have to flee this dreadful place
. But common sense told her it was impossible. Where were the stables? Who would help her locate a horse and saddle? She didn't know the territory well enough to find her way back to Charleston, and, even worse, traveling alone in the dead of night was treacherous and foolish. She was trapped. A loud rap at the door snapped her away from her reverie.

“Master Somerset says I needs to give you this dress, ma'am.”

Colleen opened the door to a short, bright-eyed young black girl who spoke with a lisp. “He says you gotta wear this here dress, an' I needs to take all the other clothes away to make sure you wears it. He says I gotta do it, so please let me do it, 'cause if I's don't, Master Buckley, he gets mean, an' when he gets mean he likes to take out that whip o' his. Lord, have mercy, when he takes out his whip!”

“Come in,” Colleen instructed the slave, “and do as you were told to do.”

Appreciative of Colleen's cooperation, the girl placed the black dress carefully on the bed and busily gathered up the contents of the armoire and bureau, putting the clothing into a large box just outside the door.

“But the undergarments, you're leaving me with no undergarments.”

“Sorry, ma'am, but Master Buckley hisself says there can't be nuthin' in here 'cept that there gown and some petticoats I's leavin' you an' a pair o' shoes. You gotta wear jus' what I's leavin' you, an' I can't say nuthin' more 'bout it 'cept that when it comes to things like this with ladies an' clothin', Master Buckley is mighty funny, an' ev'ryone 'round here knows 'bout it, so we listen an' don't say a word.”

Colleen thanked the girl and closed the door behind her. What choice had she? She couldn't wear a nightgown. Yet, how could she submit to the humiliation of dining without undergarments?
What if I refuse to go downstairs at all? What if I simply remain in this room?
Colleen answered her own question: Buckley would refuse to allow her to return to Charleston. He'd keep postponing the day of her return until she finally subjected herself to this foolishness. More and more, she was seeing a clear-cut pattern to his perversions. The picture of dining with him under such conditions made her flesh crawl, and yet, greater than that repulsion was her desire to leave Marble Manor.

At seven-forty-five she put on the petticoats and pulled the gown over her head. The luxuriant black velvet garment was exquisite, but the daringly low-cut bodice was far too tight. It forced her small breasts up and out, exposing at least half of Colleen's hard, round nipples. She had to admit that the feeling of the fabric against her skin was provocative. The gown fell to the floor and trailed a few feet behind her. The absence of undergarments, the feel of air against her legs, thighs, buttocks, and pubis also aroused her, in spite of Colleen's best efforts to resist.
For the revolution
, she told herself.
My job is to get back to Charleston and fight for freedom. If even this must be endured in order to realize that goal, so be it
.

Buckley was already at the table, and as soon as she entered the dining room, he stood and, with lascivious relish, inspected her from head to toe. He, too, was dressed in a black velvet suit—did he wish to match hers?—tight at the waist, with rows of tiny cultured pearls stitched around the floppy lapels. His gray perfumed wig was coiffed in pageboy style, and his tall black boots shined to a mirror finish. Momentarily forgetting her state of partial undress, even Colleen had to admit that he struck a dashing pose.

“You look divine,” he told her in a sensual whisper, “or should I say devilish? Mother herself never looked more ravishing in that gown.”

“This gown belonged to your mother?”

“Indeed it did,” Buckley reflected as he seated Colleen at the table and sat beside her. “I still remember seeing her wearing this very garment. I was a young lad no older than twelve or thirteen, and she seemed …” Realizing he was revealing a bit too much, he cut himself off.

“Won't your mother be dining with us?” Colleen asked.

“I'm afraid not. She's in a separate house on the plantation we call Miranda's Retreat. For her own good, we have to keep her there for a few days until she's rested enough to return to the normal world. Mother has a tendency to fly off the handle. As a young woman, though, I can assure you that there was no more seductive female in all the Carolinas.”

Colleen saw that there was something different about Buckley. It was as if he had drunk a strange potion. His eyes were glazed. He twitched slightly. His usual habit of touching the bridge of his broken nose was intensified. Her stroked his wig as he delighted in the daring position of Colleen's breasts. For a moment, she was fascinated by this mysterious change in his mannerisms, but the draft beneath her dress brought her back to herself, remembering that she was furious with him.

“Never have I been put in such an insulting and demeaning position,” she said angrily as she noticed the perfect elegance of the table—the white linen tablecloth bordered with Irish lace, the delicate bone china and exquisite silverware reflecting the eerie, flickering light of long tapered black candles.

“And never will you regret a moment of this marvelous evening. Tonight, my sweet pet,” he continued speaking in a throaty whisper, “you will learn the difference between shallow pleasure and deep ecstasy.”

“If you have the slightest intention of …” she began warning him.

“My intention is to bring you joy—penetrating and fulfilling joy, joy such as you've never tasted before.”

“And if that sort of joy holds no interest for me?”

“You've only to let me know.”

“Then be so advised. First thing in the morning, I want to …”

“You speak of tomorrow,” he said with a growing sense of confidence, “before you've allowed yourself tonight's delectable delights. At least enjoy your meal. We're dining on a plump goose prepared in a sauce certain to sweeten your sour disposition.”

A liveried slave carried in a carafe of wine. Were it not for the dim candlelight, Colleen might have seen that the liquid was slightly strange in color, more orange than red. The taste, too, was a little foreign to her palate. It was pleasing, however, and to get through this dreadful evening, she told herself, a glass of spirits might be just the thing she needed.

The meal commenced, and as soon as she had drained the first goblet of wine, she noticed a subtle alteration in her perception. The change was not unpleasant, nor was it the usual light-headedness that came as a result of drinking. Her thoughts fogged as her senses sharpened. The food tasted noticeably succulent. She was especially aware of her tongue, and the feeling of naked skin beneath her gown. After a few sips from her second goblet of wine, a warm flush of eroticism spread as she watched Buckley watching her. He smiled slyly and brought his own goblet to his lips.

“You're enchanting,” he continued speaking in whispers, “and worth these many months of waiting.”

Suddenly the fog within her mind thickened as her skin seemed to sizzle with heat. She knew it had to be the wine. She had been drugged.

“What is it you've …” she began asking, but then lost her train of thought as she felt the toe of his leather boot lift her velvet gown and caress the back of her left calf. Feeling a thrilling chill pass over her body, she shivered as the boot slowly moved up to the softness of her thigh. The chill turned to a wave of warmth washing over her limbs. Involuntarily, moisture flowed from her pubic flower. Again, she struggled for reason. “No …” she started saying. “I've read of these aphrodisiacs, and no one will …” But by then Buckley was standing behind her, blowing on the back of her neck, kissing the lobes of her ears, allowing his perfumed fingers to tingle the tops of her breasts. She found herself breathing harder, felt herself slipping further away, falling from the even plane of reason into an abyss of forbidden bliss.
No
, said her former self,
this is horrid, this is wrong, this horrible man is using me. Stop! Stop!
But the sensation of his lips on her now exposed areolae, the way in which his flicking tongue traced the outline of her stiff, pointed nipples had her faint with desire. He had only to take her hand and lead her from the table. Then, with one swift movement, he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the great staircase toward his bedroom, one hand cradling her back, the other working busily beneath the petticoats of his mother's gown.

He kicked the door open, and through semi-conscious eyes Colleen saw a room darkened by black velvet drapes. The thick smell of burning incense hung heavy in the air. A variety of swords was nailed to the wall, and strewn across the bed were two large black leather whips. The sight of such instruments of pain was nearly enough to awaken Colleen from her sensuous stupor, when suddenly he pressed his mouth upon hers, his tongue probing, pushing, pleading. “Say no,” he begged her. “Deny me as you've always denied me. Make me wait, my pet. Please, prolong my agony, prolong my pleasure. Not yet, not yet.”

Confused by his sexual histrionics, she wasn't prepared to act out a drama. Seeing that, he grew angry, throwing her on the bed, lifting her gown and petticoat to her waist and placing a whip in her hand. “Let me just look at the beauty of this sight,” he said, his voice shaking like a little boy's. “Now!” he shouted. “This is how I've always wanted you! This is how I shall take you!”

And take her he would have, were it not for a gun blast from downstairs as loud as the boom of thunder. Leaving Colleen on the bed, he charged from the room and ran down the hallway to the top of the staircase. There below him were Jack Windrow and Sam Simkins walking through the main doorway of the house, their hands tied behind them. Following the overseers was a line of a half dozen other white men who worked as plantation supervisors and guards. They, too, had their hands tied. Finally, pushing them all on with a rifle-barrel Kentucky pistol, was a masked man in a flowing gray cloak who, to disguise his voice, spoke through a short tube. Spotting Buckley at the top of the stairs, he aimed his gun at Somerset's head.