For Her Love by Paula Reed Read Free Book Online

at the young black girl who was loosening the laces of her gown. The bodice was stiff and tight, and Iolanthe needed to breathe. The moment she could draw air deeply into her lungs, she shoved the servant from the room, then rushed to the open window and basked in the sultry, warm air.
    Her heart pounded furiously, and she had the overwhelming urge to fly. She almost thought she could. There was a deafening hush all about the plantation. The slaves dared not speak. Even the birds and insects in the surrounding jungle had been silenced by the screams of the kindred beast she’d had tortured in the front yard. God, she loved the whippings.
    In this primitive, uncivilized corner of the world, Iolanthe might as well not even exist. She had grown up in Saint-Domingue, the French portion of the island of Hispaniola. There, her father had worked ceaselessly, overseeing shipments of Africans; disposing of the many bodies of those who had not survived the journey, assessing what must be done with those who had in order to make them healthy enough for sale. Dysentery and inactivity had taken their toll. Slaves had to be “seasoned,” taught submission and respect, without breaking their spirits entirely. Their spirits would break eventually, but they often died soon after, so ‘twas better to leave that to their masters. In all, these duties left precious little time for his family.
    Her mother had pined for France. She had filled Iolanthe’s mind with tales of handsome men and banquets, of clothes and perfumes. If there was nothing more to being a woman than to be an ornament, a possession, at least in Europe she could feel that she was one of great beauty and value. In the Caribbean, Màman had said, a woman was of no value at all except breeding. She had said the word distastefully. Breeding was for livestock, not women of culture and refinement.
    So Iolanthe had set out to be beautiful, to be the sort of woman a man might treasure and be proud of. But Màman was right. There were no grand balls in Jamaica, not even a decent city. There was no one but Edmund to see her in her European gowns, made according to the highest fashion, and he was unimpressed. Unless she took great measures to be noticed, she was invisible.
    But when an African was whipped, she was a goddess. And as with God Himself, one could beg all one liked, but mercy was seldom granted. Hadn’t she asked God for happiness? Some measure of satisfaction? She hadn’t asked to be deliriously happy. She hadn’t asked for rapacious wealth or a husband who was an Adonis. All she had asked for was some pliable, undemanding man who lived anywhere but these barbarous islands.
    From Saint-Domingue to Jamaica was no improvement, but when she had realized that her father was making no effort to seek her a husband in Europe, she had chosen Edmund. At the time, he had seemed so mild mannered, so biddable. Men were such liars during courtship. He had been polite, genteel, when he had come to visit her at her home. Once they were married, he was just like her father, always working, as obsessed with his farm as her father had been with his business.
    She lifted the cover from a little crystal dish of sugared almonds that she kept by her bed. It had ruined her looks, all the damned sugar, but what else was there? Well, besides the lash? She should know better than this, to allow herself to think too hard about how her life had turned out.
    Edmund was a bore. He was an oaf in bed, demanding and rough. So what if he slaked his lust on the slave wenches? She didn’t really care about that. She didn’t even care that he’d sired a number of children with them. But to ask her to claim one of them as her own, just because the brat was fairer than most! An animal, under her roof, posing as her daughter!
    And the wretched thing wasn’t even grateful. Neither she nor her nurse. Iolanthe’s eyes narrowed, the giddy rush of the beating fading at the thought of the two black vipers