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Or so she’d thought.
You’re beautiful and unspoiled, Boucher had said after her physician had verified the latter. Far too good for a brothel whore. I’ve plenty of those upstairs. Once we put some flesh back on those bones, you, my dear, are destined for better. Destined to become a courtesan, mistress to a wealthy man willing to pay dearly for the privilege of taking her maidenhead and retaining exclusive rights to her favors.
Jacqueline recalled thinking fortune had smiled on her at last, that it was better to lie in sin with only one man than countless, unwashed beasts. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Charming and handsome, Lord Fairford had seemed like a prince from a fairy tale. He’d garbed her in white, put her in his carriage, and whisked her away.
Presented with rich food, beautiful clothes, and a houseful of servants to see to her every need, she’d thought herself the luckiest of women. Alone in his bedchamber that night, he’d draped ropes of pearls about her neck, following with soft kisses that had stirred a fire in her she’d never felt before.
As expected, their first intimate encounter had been accompanied by pain—but there’d been pleasure, as well. Three weeks of impassioned lovemaking and gentle words was all it had taken to convince her they were in love and compel her to bare her heart. He’d kissed her and called her his beloved. Her heart had soared, borne on the wings of first love.
The next night saw the fairy tale’s end.
Light and painless at first, he’d called it “a bit of play.” Although shocked, she’d cooperated. She’d heard whispers about men who played such games. But within days the intensity of his “punishments” had increased until it was no longer a game and there was no pleasure in it.
Her first attempt to resist him had marked the end of the charade. All thoughts of love had been quickly crushed by nights spent lying bound an
d gagged without a drop of water to soothe her parched throat while he violated and abused her in every way, venting his monstrous rage and lust upon her flesh.
Hate swelled within her as her gaze again settled on the wrapper. Every night with him had begun with a pristine, white gown. And every night had ended with crimson stains upon it. She flexed her shoulders to ease the prickling between them. Scar tissue crisscrossing her back resisted the stretch, pulling tight.
No one had helped her. When the servants had come to tend her wounds after their master was finished, she’d begged them to either free her or kill her. None had so much as acknowledged her pleas. Every time she’d tried to escape, they’d dragged her back.
Not even the prospect of bearing Fairford’s child had earned her a reprieve. Immediately upon being informed of her condition, he’d brought in a surgeon to “rectify the problem”—permanently.
Grief swamped Jacqueline, threatening to drown her fury as she pressed a trembling palm against her flat, barren belly. The anger, however, was too strong for tears.
Desire. What had it ever brought her save disappointment and pain? The false promise of love coupled with carnal yearning had made her weak and susceptible to Fairford’s manipulations. Had he beaten her from the start, she could’ve borne it better. But he’d wanted to destroy all of her, body and soul. He’d enjoyed betraying her trust and breaking her heart as much as he’d relished the sight of her blood and bruises. He’d taken pleasure in watching the hope and love die in her eyes. He’d told her so.
Reaching out, she snatched the silk wrapper from the bedpost and cast it onto the glowing coals in the grate. A smell like burnt hair permeated the room as the silk hissed and flared bright, filling her with grim satisfaction. The waste of a perfectly good garment ought to have made her feel shame, but there was only rage.
Toward Fairford, his servants, the world in general, but mostly toward herself. Desire had no place in her life. Neither did romance.
It was the height of folly to think a man like Woodson would ever want someone like her for a wife. Even if by some miracle he could overlook her many physical flaws, the instant he learned the truth—and he would—he wouldn’t want anything to do with her. What esteem he harbored for her now would vanish like morning mist once he knew what she’d been.
Desiring Monsieur Woodson wasn’t only ridiculous, it was wrong. A genuinely good man like him deserved better than, as Fairford had called her, “a worthless baseborn trull.”
But, deep inside, the defiance Fairford had never been able to fully extinguish stirred to life. Strength flowed back into her, along with resolve.
“I am not worthless,” she whispered to the dark. The rest of the world might think so, but they were wrong. She mattered. To each and every one of the girls here, and to those still lost.
And they mattered. So many had been told they were without value, save as a source of labor, or as vessels for the lust of evil men. So many had been made to feel worthless, unwanted, unloved, and unlovable. It was her calling to open their eyes anew and make them see themselves differently.
No. Carnal desire had no place in her life. There was no room for it. All that mattered was her task. I was saved so that I might help save others.
Rising, she lit her lamps. As the dark receded, she lifted her gown and cast it aside. Looking down, she observed the scars on her wrists, arms, ribs, belly, and thighs. Some were still deep pink, others had faded. With gentle fingertips, she traced the pinkish-white lines on her arms where Fairford had cut her over and over to hear her scream and appease his fascination with the sight of her blood. She couldn’t see the marks on her back, but she felt them.
Her entire body was covered in a latticework of hate.
Meeting her own eyes in the tiny mirror on the wall, she took a deep breath. “I am not my scars.”
Despite the fact it was but the fourth hour and dawn was still far away, she began to dress herself. Any romantic notions regarding Monsieur Woodson were but a momentary lapse of reason—one that wouldn’t be repeated.
Having established a common cause and tentative friendship with him, however, she found it difficult to avoid contact. The man was everywhere.
When she came down to join the other teachers at breakfast, he was sitting with them. While his greeting was by no means effusive, it was delivered with warm regard.
During the morning respite he came to update her on Mr. Sharpton and the books. Discussing plans with him to further circumvent those who refused to sell her the required texts felt as if they were conspiring together against the world.
At lunch, the only available seat at the staff table was directly across from him. Their fingers brushed as he passed the sugar bowl, and the brief contact left her skin tingling.
