Maya's Aura: The Redemptioner Page 4

  Britta was wearing a Quaker style dress that the Purser had given to her as they left Bristol. It was of gray serge that covered her from neck to ankle, and had served well to guard her modesty while aboard a ship so crammed with men. She lifted the serving dress down off the hook. It was certainly not a somber Quaker smock, or for that matter, it was not even a dress but rather a colorful full skirt with a matching bodice. She held both parts up in front of her. They were adjusted for a shorter and smaller woman than she. Shrugging, she laid them on the bed and then undressed.

  In just her bloomers she picked up the bodice and struggled to pull it down over her head. The laces were too tight and though she wriggled and let out her breath and repositioned her breasts and held her arms high, she could not pull it down. She wriggled out of it again and then held it down and stepped into it and tried to pull it up over her hips. That did not work either, so she bent over and started the long process of loosening the laces. Finally she could pull it down over her breasts and position her breasts into the shaping of the bodice.

  She was about to start tightening the lacing when she heard a deep sigh from behind her. She turned to face the sound and at the same time reached for the skirt to hold in front of her to protect her modesty. James was leaning against the wall watching her. She flushed, both in both embarrassment and anger. "How long have you been watching?"

  "Long enough," he replied, "you are very fair of face and I was curious to see if the rest of you was as enchanting."

  A fear raced through her mind. She had been warned about masters who took advantage of their bond women. There was nothing she could do but freeze and wait to see what he would do next. The very evident bulge in his britches was not a good sign.

  It dawned on him what must be crossing her mind to create such a look of panic on her face, so he looked away, and then was filled with guilt. He dropped his hand to hide his bulge and told her, "My wife would cut this off with her bread knife if ever I did more than look. I'm sorry but I just couldn't help myself. You are so comely. There is something about you, like the natural beauty of a woman from a time before mirrors. I apologize. Shall I wait outside until you are dressed."

  She was going to say yes but then realized she would need his help, which was probably why he was hanging around in the first place. "Well, you've already seen everything, so you may as well stay. I need help adjusting the laces." She stepped first into an under skirt and then into the skirt and pulled those laces tight. She tried to gauge the length of the hems, but of course that never worked when you had to bend over to see. "Mirror, do you have a mirror? I haven't seen a mirror in ages." It was shorter than she had hoped. She had the choice of showing too much ankle, or some of her tummy. Showing her tummy in public was completely out of the question.

  He stepped closer to her and she froze nervously for a moment until he picked up the end of the laces and started working at them to make them even. Tying them in the back meant she could not reach them. Wrapping them to the front to tie them meant his hands would nudge against her breasts. His hands reached around her. She inhaled sharply and then stopped his hands and took the ends of the laces from him. Was his sigh from relief or disappointment?

  She tugged and pulled at her new clothes in the way of women and finally said "I am ready." Her cleavage and her ankles were on display. In the fen's of Cambridgeshire this outfit would have been considered modest, but compared to the Quaker smock she had just taken off, it was absolutely wanton.

  "You are a goddess," he sighed, "I suppose I should start looking for another ale maid, for you will be betrothed within the week. I will have my wife make inquiries about available men. What should I tell her to look for in your future husband?"

  She walked passed him and away towards the tavern great room. "He must be wealthy, or at least have good prospects," she said immediately and then hesitated, "and he must be kind. And, and, ugh no, that is enough."

  "That is enough," he asked, "not tall, handsome, young, English?"

  "That is enough," she replied, "Good prospects and kind."

  They entered the grand tavern room together. Jon was wiping off the tables. "Your sister asks the impossible," James called out, "she wants a husband who is both rich and kind. In my experience those two graces never meet in the same man. Men don't get rich by being kind."

  "I am still very young," she laughed, "I have the time to wait."

  James looked out into the street and then called the two teens to him. "Both of you come here and listen carefully, as I must tell you something important." When they were close he began. "Serving and cleaning tables is not skilled labor, but serving ale and rum to rooms full of men takes skill. Despite it's thin veneer of civilization, underneath, Providence can be a savage place.

  We are surrounded by the wild, and so wild men gather here. Forest men, privateers, fishermen, seamen, soldiers, and worse. I charge more for my ale, so most of the men that drink here seem to be gentlemen. I say 'seem' because they can be armed and dangerous. What I mean is, that if a fight starts between two men, it can quickly escalate into a duel, or a killing."

  He looked at Britta, "What I am saying is that if a man paws you, neither I nor your brother can rush in to save your honor. That would start a fight between us and the man and we would certainly bear the worst of it.

  The skill in serving liquor is in keeping the peace. There is only one sure way. A woman must do the serving, and that same woman must be skilled enough at handling men, that the other customers will protect her. And not just any customer, because we don't want a brawl. If a man is behaving badly, it is best that his own friends control him. Do you understand?"

  There was no answer, so he said "Jon, do you promise that you will not pick a fight to protect your sister from some slight. Promise me. You are an innocent compared to the men who drink here. They will carve you up."

  Britta nodded to her brother and he said, "I promise."

  "Britta, do you understand that you must keep the peace amongst the drinkers and the drunks and those with wayward hands?"

  Suddenly Britta realized why the term of the bond was only two years. This may be difficult work for her and dangerous for Jon. "I understand."

  "Here they come. Jon, open the door," James said as shadows of moving men crossed the windows.

  As soon as the door was opened, almost twenty men filed into the great room and filled it with chatter, and laughter, and calls for jugs of ale and pots of rum. While Jon filled jug after jug from the ale barrel, James poured measures of rum, and Britta used a tray to place empty ale pots in front of each seated man. As soon as an ale jug was full, she would whisk it to a table and begin filling the pots.

  It seemed to her that all of the men wanted to share one table, so she called out that the men could join the tables together, so long as they remembered to put them back afterwards. The tavern room was just long enough to join four tables and the men crowded in around them.

  James rang the small ships bell that was beside the rum locker, and eventually there was silence in the room. "Men, these are my new helpers. Britta and her brother Jon. They are young and from a good family so please temper your language." There was laughter and applause and shouts of welcome. Most of these men had come from the docks. They had seen James bid for them. They knew they were not from good families, and worse, they were lowly redemptioners.

  For the first half hour, Britta was so busy pouring ale that she had no time for thinking of anything else. Men were placing coins on her tray as she delivered jugs, but she had no idea if the payment was correct or complete.

  James just smiled at her encouragingly when she handed the coins to him, and every time she came to load her tray with more jugs and pots of rum. This was not the time to train her in handling the money. He needed her head clear and confident otherwise her first day could end in disaster.

  And then it happened. Britta was bending over pouring ale from a fresh jug into a pot, when she felt a hand squeeze her bu
m and then linger between her legs. She let out a little squeak and looked around just enough to find the owner of the errant hand. It was the young man with fine clothes that gave her a lecher's stare every time she came to his end of the table.

  The almost empty jug slid off the tray and fell to the floor. Instead of backing out of reach of the hand, she swung the now empty tray and it hit the young man's pot of ale and pushed it over into his lap. Only then did she back away. "Oh, sir, I am sorry. It was my fault, please don't be angry."

  The man was angry. He had pushed away from the table and was trying to save himself from the splashing ale. He looked like a man who had pee'd himself. The men beside him were also moving to escape the rivulets of ale dripping off the table, but they were laughing, laughing at him. They had all seen his hand on her bum.

  Just in time James grabbed Jon's arm in a steel grip and said to him, "You promised. Now stay out of it. If she needs help, I will do the helping. She doesn't need my help yet."

  "Oh, I am truly sorry, sir" said Britta, and then smiled sweetly and asked "what is your name?" The man would not answer. He was trying to control his temper. He was getting ready to slap this clumsy wench.

  "His name is Henry," laughed the man next to him.

  "Well, I think I owe Henry a jug of ale on the house," she called out. "Do you all agree?" No one sitting close to Henry was in agreement but there were some "yay's" called out from the other end of the table, from men who had not witnessed his wandering hand.

  The dropped jug, now cracked, was on the floor by Henry's feet and she dared to move close enough to the angry man to pick it up. She feared that he was going to kick her when she bent down, but the entire table of men were watching, and he restrained himself. Once she had the jug in hand she held it up for all to see, and now every eye was on the young beauty. With a few light steps, she danced to the door and after leaving it open behind her so that they could all watch, she used the cracked jug to scoop up some horse droppings out of the gutter. Then she came back inside, and drew some ale from the barrel into the very same cracked and soiled jug.

  She danced over to Henry and put the putrid jug on the table in front of him. "From now until Henry apologizes to me, this is Henry's special private jug for whenever it is his turn to pay," she called out. "You are all welcome to share his ale with him if you wish."

  Her meaning was loud and clear. Don't drink with Henry, and don't be rude to the woman who you trust to serve you from a clean jug. The whole table of men went silent. Henry roared with anger and leaped at her.

  The men on either side of him grabbed out and caught him and dragged him back to his bench and forced him to sit down. A very tall man in a well cut uniform stood and walked slowly passed Britta, giving her a military bow as he passed and then stood towering above Henry. He said in a calm voice, "She has you to rights. If you ever wish to share drink with us here again, you will apologize to her. And sweetly."

  Henry struggled against the hands holding him, but to no avail. Then he swallowed his angry words, though there was no hiding his red face. "Wench" he began but one of the men holding him down twisted his arm cruelly so he began again. "Miss. I am truly sorry I pawed you. I won't do it again....." he looked at the young beauty and added "... until you ask me to."

  Britta reached over the table and picked up the cracked jug and threw it outside into the street. Then she walked over to Henry, who was still being held down, and bent over and kissed his forehead. "I forgive you. Do you trust me to pour you another jug." Keep smiling, she kept telling herself, keep smiling at this lout.

  He got lost in her deep blue eyes which seemed to have violet flecks, and did not answer for a moment. "Please," he said, and then pandemonium broke out as everyone ordered more rum chasers. She turned away from Henry and saw the tall gentleman in uniform still standing, so she gave him a curtsey in thanks. He clicked his heels and bowed again.

  James let go of Jon's arm and spoke over the rising noise of the tavern, "I'm going to have to raise my prices. You watch. After this story hits the town we'll be full to the gunnels for a week."

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  MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith

  Chapter 4 - Sabin's Tavern, Providence

  Maya was so angry she wanted to throw something. She picked up the netbook that she had been reading and then put it down again. She picked up the tea cup, but it was one of Nana's fine bone china ones. Nana was using all her cherished china for every day use now that she was sure she wouldn't outlive them. Frustrated, she ran barefoot down to the little beach of the island and threw its stones as far as she could into the little bay, all the while muttering angrily to herself.

  By the time Nana came down to see what was wrong, Maya was not longer hucking rocks in anger, but spinning flat ones to see how many times she could make them skip. "What's the matter, dear?"

  "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, effing tired, effing poor. What bullshit. All the time they were charging them too much to travel like cattle, and then screwing them for years and years and years by turning them into debt slaves. And with the women I mean it literally."

  She turned and looked at her great grandmother. "In school history books, like, why don't they ever tell us the truth. Our glorious country was built up by screwing the latest immigrants to arrive, by forcing them into debt as soon as they stepped off the boat."

  "Ah, so you have been reading about the redemptioner system."

  "Stupid me thought our foremother was some poor special case. Like, what happened to her was normal. She was seventeen and had to sell herself to any man on the dock as soon she got off the ship." Maya sat with a thump on the beach shingle and reeled off a litany of four letter words. "And the Irish women. Oh my God. I looked that up too. Never in all our history has anyone been so set upon, so used, and so abused as the Irish Catholic women. No wonder they hate the English so much."

  The sun had warmed the flat beach stones and she lay back on them and stretched out and closed her eyes. "Did you bring your notebook down with you?"

  "As a matter of fact, I did. Did you want to discuss my notes so far?"

  "No, I want you to make more notes. There are a bunch of memories rattling around in my mind, and you should write them down."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Britta watched through the tavern window as her boss, James, walk back from the Packet Dock where the latest packet ship from New York and Newport had arrived an hour ago. He had some passengers in tow. She and Jon had been working for him for a week and he already trusted them to be left alone for hours at a time to run the tavern. There was an ebb and flow to the customers that was tied to the ebb and flow of the business of the busy docks.

  Some rough looking men were passing on the street and stopped a moment to stare at her and smile. Though seamen and fishermen were not forbidden from this tavern, the higher price of Sabin's ale sent them elsewhere to do their hard drinking. For most of the day, running the tavern was pleasant enough work.

  Unlike other taverns, Sabin's was clean and well furnished and did not have sawdust on the floor. It even had a ladies retirement room, which drew in any women passengers were waiting for the packet ships to Newport and New York, or for the Post coach that ran north to Boston. Well over half of the passengers from each ship waited at Sabin's Tavern for the Boston coach. Those who arrived too late to catch the last coach would rent rooms above the tavern from Mrs. Sabin.

  The regulars at Sabin's Tavern all seemed to be well healed. They were the representatives of the wealthy businessmen from the area. They were the ships officers, and the port officials, and the merchants, and the warehouse managers. They were the men who did the wheeling and dealing for Providence's imports and exports.

  James had handed the passengers over to his wife, who rented rooms above the tavern, and now he came in. He was with a neatly dressed young man. Many of the younger men were lawyers or agents. Some
of them were quite gallant and handsome. Britta was impressed by them and often asked James about any she liked the look of, like this one.

  "He is a new agent, so poor. Once a lawyer becomes wealthy he stops working as an agent for someone else," James told her. "These young ones act and dress like they are already wealthy, but they are not. The fees they earn barely keep a roof over their heads."

  "Then why do they do it?" asked Britta. "Surely they could earn more from their learning than that."

  "Darling Britta, you are so wonderfully naive," he smiled and held her hand. "By being agents to the rich and the powerful, they hear things, are privy to information. Information that can make them rich in their own right. Their position of trust makes them insiders. Whatever their rich clients buy, they buy, sell, they sell, accumulate, they accumulate, trade, they trade. The rich always seem to get richer, and those young lawyers plan on getting richer with them."

  "But, but, surely that is against the law," she said.

  "Immoral perhaps, unethical surely, but insider trading is not illegal. Even if it were against the law, how could you enforce such a law. It is not straight forward like theft or fraud," he replied. "Britta, in this world there are only three ways to get rich. Inherit it, marry it, or act on insider knowledge."

  "What about being smart, or working hard, or theft, or fraud," she asked.

  "Being smart or working hard will keep a roof over your head, but they will not, by themselves, make you rich. Thieves come to bad ends unless they are insiders. Fraud is just theft by lying. Stick to your guns, Britta, and marry wealth. You have an advantage over every other young woman in this town."

  "How so?" she asked.

  "You know all the young men with prospects by name. You talk to them almost every day, and they pine for you."

  She was silent and finally she sniffed back a tear and said, "I am an ale wench and a redemptioner. They would cock their leg over me in an instant, but they would never marry me."