The Fancy (4 page)

gently, lowering her eyes, praying that he intended to

keep her, he seemed gentle; he also liked to talk,

even to her.

That was new, unfamiliar - her original white

master had never spoken to her and her mother

other than to tel them what to do. She was the last of

her mother's daughters, there had been six in al -

sent off to masters of their own, or sold away to

someone who dealt in fancies. Bred especial y to

accompany her new owner and warm his bed, taking

her to do whatever he saw fit.

Her original purchase had been so she could

be auctioned off for a higher price - she had been

the best - saved for last from the other eight she'd

been col ected with. Now it would seem, she might

not be auctioned, if this man chose to keep her. "I - I

would stay – wit’ – wit’ you masta', not be send

away. I'm strong, won't be no burden - promise I

won't masta'." Again her voice was soft, timid.

"I am not your master - this state is a free one,

you are forced to remain with no one. I especial y

see no reason to own you - perhaps I wil find a

better place for you."

She glanced up, panic in her eyes, "Please -

ain' no better place - I beg you - put me to any task, I

see it through - but don't send me off." She pleaded,

she'd heard him, the things he had said to the
fancy

breeder, to the slave keeper. She remembered the

shock of being lifted in his arms, how he’d cradled

her close as if he cared for her being. It didn’t seem

to her reasoning, that someone capable of beating

you, harming you, would care for you the way he did,

rebuking others for the way he’d found her. He was

different. It was stuck in her mind how he spoke to

her every step of the way, bringing her to his home.

No grumbles, no threats, no lecherous behavior or

leering, no cruelty – nothing of the sort. There was

something about him, different from the others.

Besides, he was not old; he was in fact pleasing to

the eyes, his looks not so offensive she would have

to force herself to perform whatever acts he would

come to demand.

She knew that her placement could be far

worse, and she also knew what it meant to be who

and what she was; she knew that she could end up in

the hands of someone who had not a care for

whatever suffering or pain he might inflict upon her.

This man had cared, carried, bathed her, and talked

to her as if she were a flesh and blood human with

feelings – he showed concern, as if it mattered how

he treated her, how she was treated, how she felt.

Thus began her silent prayer, that she be

granted the privilege of remaining in his possession.

Quinton backed away from her and stood his

height of 6ft. Leaving her for a moment, he returned

with a plate of bread, "Eat as I've said, here - bread,

fil your bel y. Once I've cleaned we can-..."

"No masta please - I'ah clean - not you!" She

cried as if in a panic, standing, she had tears in her

eyes, "Res', I'ah see to it." She was swaying, and

fighting to stay on her feet – she hadn’t eaten in

days.

"Don't panic - my God, what have you gone

through? What is it that you fear?" He couldn't help it,

he found his hand once more there with his fingers

caressing her skin, her looks commanded an

audience, even if an audience of one, himself, "... I

can only imagine." He went on, "... I ask you, do not -

whatever things have transpired to bring you here,

do not fear me. I would do you no harm - no never.

Do as I say - you are barely standing, let alone with

strength enough to clean the mess I've made."

"For me though masta', that mess mine." She

tried again.

He pushed her back to the stool, "You are not

my slave - sit - eat."

"I got - to be somebody slave - rather be

yours." She murmured softly, with her head

swimming and ears buzzing, with white lights

flashing before her eyes, she quieted. He was

saying nothing more, simply gazing at her silently,

until final y, he turned from her and left the room.

With no other choice, she did as she was told;

however, it was not easy getting the food down, she

felt queasy, her head felt heavy with fever and

pressure - what she wanted most, was to lie on the

floor before the fire and sleep – but if she was going

to be any good to him, she had to get stronger,

better – thus, she was able to finish al the food.

By this time Quinton had emptied the bath,

refil ed it, stripped, washed, rinsed himself off and

dried. He donned a nightshirt for her sake, not his

own - he preferred sleeping bare fol owing a bath;

this could not be - with a woman about. When al was

done, he returned to the room - total y exhausted -

realizing she had disappeared.

"Where now have you gone to, my little rat-

slayer? You have a knack for tucking away." He

spoke out loud looking about the room, and then,

seeing a flash of white, the sheet he gave her to

cover herself - there it was, on the floor, hidden

behind his chair among his books. Stepping closer

to it, he realized she was stil within it, bal ed up on

the floor; sound asleep as if a weary dog by the fire.

He couldn't believe his eyes. With a sigh, he

muttered, "You'l be the death of me - you wil ."

He worked to move books aside, his chair and

other things that stood in the way of getting a good

hold of her. Once more, he hefted her high. She was

shivering again, teeth chattering, feverish. "Wench, if

you are my gift - you must break this fever, I would

have my gift at ful health - I haven't a plot within which

to bury you just yet. Come, I've no choice but to keep

my eye on you, and I can't very wel do so with you

here, bal ed up on the floor." He continued on,

thinking out loud. He made his way to the stairs and

slowly up them, his slow pace showed how close he

was to col apsing himself. His sigh was due to

gladness at seeing his bedroom, where there too

he'd lit a fire for the night. Carrying her to the bed, he

pul ed his covers back and laid her there.

Moments later, he lay beside her - she'd curled

into a bal once more, her back to him, her body tight

and tucked into the fetal position - close to him,

oblivious to her surroundings.

As exhausted as he was, he stil could not drop

off to sleep and so, carried out his normal routine

before the night took him, he turned the lantern up

beside his bed, donned his spectacles, and began

reading - however he could not concentrate - his

eyes kept wondering over to the young woman who

lay beside him, in
his
bed. As if in a trance, his eyes

remained fixed upon her while his mind went over

the events of his evening.

He'd acquired a slave - a fancy.

Although sick, he could not deny that she was

lovely to behold. He was a bachelor - with no interest

in having a wife, but she - was different - she - could

possibly be his servant. He did need some

assistance even though having travel ed in great

adventures; he was accustomed to taking care of

himself. He'd started out with a companion, a man

servant who'd been kil ed unfortunately by a bul .

They'd wondered into a field not seeing the animal

until it was too late - due to the age of his servant,

he'd been unable to outrun the animal - and Quinton

had been unable to distract the animal from its

course. It had taken days to find the owner to retrieve

his dead manservant, his body broken, twisted and

fly blown. Once he'd been buried, Quinton had

travel ed alone. His travels were about gaining

knowledge of medicines and various ways in which

cultures treated the human body to heal it of injury,

il ness or disease.

Suddenly he stood from the bed, taking his

lantern with him to his writing desk within the room,

there he found his journal and ink wel . Taking his

seat, he opened the book picked up his feathered

quil and began an entry into it

1830, in the year of our Lord, it is October -

second Saturday of that month, to my surprise, I've

acquired a most astonishing possession. Tucked

away in the bowels of a ship - a mere slip of a girl I

am certain has not seen many years at the most I

would deduce, perhaps 17. This gift, was mine to

take - for I'd aided in healing the mother of Henry J.

Bancmen and as a show of his gratitude - thus his

offer of, the fancy.

She was found to be in a terrible state of

uncleanliness and health - and yet - there was

enough strength and self-preservation that we'd

found the wench in a battle with rats - I daresay,

proudly, she was the conqueror. Hours later, I must

admit, this still brings a smile to my face.

I have many thoughts plaguing my mind.

I do not approve of slavery.

Coming from England, having dealings with

the Moors and their great contributions to our

nation - I have firsthand knowledge that these are a

people of great successes and intelligence; they

are

planners,

problem

solvers,

scientists,

physicians - with a scholarly aptitude often

challenging those of my ilk to compete with. Yes -

this is certain.

Thus, I find slavery of these nobles - an

abomination!

Yet - the girl - for now - is mine.

I have contemplated finding a place for her,

where she is to be free - as to this land where I dwell

- they are free.

Subsequently there is the matter of her being

a young woman. African and I detect perhaps a mix

of Native Indian decent, without guardianship of a

father, direction or protection of a mother, what

might befall her should I turn her over – and to

whom shall I do so? Where might she find herself?

She is one that I must admit, is very pleasing to the

eyes – that in itself could mean trouble for one

such as she - now fearful of what might be.

These thoughts are ever on my mind since

taking ownership - dreadful word - but that is as it is.

For now, she is mine - and her fate rests with me.

The truth in this matter is that I am now responsible

for her wellbeing. To be put in such a predicament,

I am challenged, my conscience is challenged - in

truth - I find there are more reasons to keep her,

than there are - to - free her. There it is.

Once more, it cannot be missed, she has

feared. Great fear - and I stand clear as to the

reasons why, yes - I have seen - yes - I have heard

and yes - I have knowledge of deeds that even now

I cannot bring my mind to conjure this hour before I

make an attempt at rest. It is due to her cause of

fear, that I have cause to keep her - here - with me –

where she will be safe. Is that, however, my only

motivation for doing so? Am I being charitable?

Dare I play the knight, saving her and her honor?

Or am I no better than those I accuse of deeds in

which they must explain to the Maker upon the

meeting?

Our Creator?

My Lord, it has not escaped my notice that

you have constructed her well. Already my tired

soul - I must confess to you, felt a stirring at the feel

of her skin. It is certainly always a wonder to me how

you made us all in such great variety. Silken

sable? Such a luxurious brown - I find it insulting to

your genius to use the descriptive, brown - it does

not somehow fully describe how beautiful I find

such skin – proof that all that you do, is done to

perfection. Should I tread carefully less I sin with

the things that went through my mind? Yet, what I