Chapter 4 #3
“Has she now.” Brodie reached for the servant’s clothes on the hook, began changing with his back to Thomas. The casual intimacy of shared quarters was familiar from shipboard life, but this felt different. Fraught with danger.
“Weeks,” Thomas confirmed. “Specific instructions about what she wanted. Young, handsome, educated, skilled with weapons. You fit the bill better than she probably hoped.”
“And what bill is that?”
“The kind that looks good standing behind her chair when she has guests. The kind that makes other wealthy women envious of her possessions.” Thomas’s voice carried no particular emotion. “Welcome to the collection, MacLeod. We’re all beautiful things here.”
Brodie turned to face him. “How long have ye been here?”
“Two years. Transported from London for debt—my father’s, actually, but the law doesn’t much care about details.
The widow bought my contract when I arrived, said she needed someone who could read and write and look presentable.
” He pushed off the doorframe. “Come on. If we’re late, Cook really will have both our heads. ”
They descended the back stairs together, Thomas explaining the house’s layout as they walked. The hierarchy of servants, the schedule, the unspoken rules that kept the household running.
“You said ‘we’re all beautiful things,’” Brodie said as they reached the ground floor. “What did ye mean?”
Thomas glanced at him, and something almost like sympathy crossed his features. “You’ll see at supper. The widow has a type. We all fit it, one way or another.”
They reached the servants’ dining hall—a long room off the kitchen where a wooden table could seat perhaps twenty.
Only half the chairs were filled now, but Thomas had been right.
The men and women gathered there were all young, all attractive in different ways.
A red-haired Irish woman with striking green eyes.
A Frenchman with features that could have been carved from marble.
An African woman whose beauty was undeniable, her bearing suggesting she’d been someone important before finding herself here.
Conversation died when Brodie entered. Eyes tracked his movement as Thomas led him to the food line.
“That’s the new one?” someone whispered.
“Another for her collection,” came the response, laced with something bitter.
Brodie took his bowl—hot stew that smelled better than anything he’d eaten aboard ship—and sat beside Thomas, who seemed content to eat in silence. The stew was filling, with more meat than he’d seen in weeks, with chunks of sweet potato and herbs he couldn’t name.
Around the table, talk gradually resumed. Someone complained about a guest who’d knocked over a vase. Someone else shared news from Port Royal—ships arriving, merchants setting up shop, a Spanish vessel rumored to be carrying gold.
Brodie listened but didn’t speak. He was studying faces, cataloging who might be an ally and who might be a threat. Four years at sea had taught him that every new crew had its politics, its hierarchies, its unspoken rules.
This crew might be on land, but it would be no different.
“You’ll start in the library tomorrow,” Thomas said eventually, breaking his silence. “The widow’s expecting important guests next week—some official from Port Royal and his wife. You’ll be serving during dinner, so best mind your manners.”
“I can manage manners.”
“Good.” Thomas set down his spoon. “One more thing—the son, Philippe. The widow mentioned teaching him to fight?”
“Aye.”
“Be careful with that.” Thomas’s voice dropped. “The boy’s got his mother’s temper and twice her ambition. Cross him, and she’ll make your life hell. But coddle him too much, and he’ll never respect you. It’s a narrow path.”
“I’ve walked narrow paths before.”
“Not like this one.” Thomas stood, collecting his dishes. “Get some sleep. Day starts at dawn, and the widow likes her household up and ready when she takes her morning tea.”
Back in their shared room, Brodie stripped off his new servant’s clothes and washed at the basin.
The water was warm from sitting all day, but it felt good against his skin.
He studied his reflection in the small mirror above the washstand—still recognizably himself, but harder now than the boy who’d left Edinburgh.
The sea had tanned his skin and lightened his hair.
Work had broadened his shoulders and left calluses on his palms.
A fine acquisition, the widow had called him.
He touched the black feather still tucked in his discarded shirt, then moved it to his bag of belongings.
Tomorrow he’d begin this new servitude. He’d serve wine and teach violence to a ten-year-old boy and play whatever role the widow required of her newest beautiful thing.
But in five years—or sooner, if chance allowed—he’d be gone.
No attachments. No faith. No trust.
Just survival, one day at a time, until freedom finally came.
If it came.
Thomas returned and began his evening routine—trimming the lamp, checking the window latch, laying out tomorrow’s clothes.
He moved with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times before, and Brodie found himself noting the details as he tucked his dirk under his mattress.
How Thomas positioned his boots just so by the bed.
How he kept a small knife tucked under his pillow, hidden but accessible.
Smart. Everyone here had learned to protect themselves, one way or another.
“The widow wasn’t lying, you know,” Thomas said as he settled into bed. “About treating us well compared to other places. The food’s good, the work isn’t backbreaking, and she doesn’t beat us unless we truly deserve it.”
“How generous.”
“Compared to the alternative? It is.” Thomas blew out the lamp, leaving only moonlight filtering through the window. “Welcome to the Delacroix estate. Try not to break anything expensive. Including yourself.”
Then darkness, and the sound of insects singing outside, and the weight of another prison settled over Brodie’s shoulders like a familiar cloak.
He closed his eyes and waited for sleep that didn’t come, counting the days in his head.
One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days until his contract expired.
To freedom.
If the widow let him buy his way out. He might not have the gold now, but he knew the rumors. There was gold buried on the island.
If he survived that long.
If fate didn’t have other plans entirely.