BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS
MARCH, 1872
I recognize a pregnant woman when I lay on one. Discovered it when I visited her. First time in months. Lost interest for a while. Whiskey gives me more satisfaction than two minutes of thankless sex with a long-legged pot licker. There’s no pleasure in love-making when she just lays there, legs stiff, holding her breath until it’s over. English, Irish. The same. Why don’t they lay back and enjoy it?
The deceit incensed me. Who does she think she is? Living under my roof, eating my food, carrying my child. Did she expect I’d never notice? Set her straight the next day. An unmarried pregnant maid is a disgrace to this home. I told her. She’s off to Ireland after the birth. The child stays here. No child of mine will grow up barefoot in a mud hut.
My instincts told me to be aware. Rose concocted a plan to deceive me. I’m sure of it. The girl slips into her room and they gossip until sunrise. They think I’m in a whiskey stupor, but I hear the whispers. I wasn’t surprised they plotted against me. Rose delights in acting contrary to my wishes. It’s what brings her pleasure these days. She’s destined for the streets.
Sure enough. I was right. It was a bitter cold night late in January. Something was happening. I knew when William avoided me at dinner. He’s my only company. I settled in my library for the evening. Went soft on the whiskey to stay alert. The first of the scuttling began close to midnight. Bided my time and checked the kitchen. Water boiling on the stove confirmed it. The girl was in labor. Etta shuffled into the kitchen faster than usual. Went white when she saw me. Eyes near jumped right out her head.
I understand Rose being in on the ruse. She hates me. Etta, she’s only a slave woman. What should I expect? But William? After letting him work for me all these years? Giving him a place to sleep in the kitchen. That’s disappointing. I imagine they planned to sneak the baby and girl out of the house and back to Ireland. A fool’s errand for sure.
I waited in the kitchen. They were caught. My plan was back in place. The child stays here. The girl goes to Ireland. Before long, Etta brought me good news. A stillborn. Saw it myself. I make girls. It’s my third one. Might have cared if it was a boy. Stupid Mick couldn’t even push out a live baby. I celebrated with some whiskey and retired to my bedroom. One problem solved. Now I just had to get the girl out of my house. I slept well. Control of the household shifted after that night. Rose, a different Rose, came out of her room. She took charge of the house. Her voice, strong. She even looked taller than I remembered. I decided to let it go until I got the girl out of the house.
I planned to put her on a boat back to Ireland a week after the birth. It’s easy to recover from a stillborn. No baby to care for. She stayed three months. Rose’s doing, of course. Out of my hands. Something about losing too much blood. I watched her and the girl come and go from the house. Talking, making plans. Rose doesn’t speak to me. Her defiance is securing her fate.
The business keeps me busy. Beacon Antiques is growing. I spend less time collecting old furniture to concentrate on global trading. My collection of mercury glass doorknobs is fetching a pretty penny. French birdcages are the rage. The wealthy fashion them as lanterns. Not my taste, but imported and sold dozens of them. My hand-painted drawings from India are in vogue. I’m expecting a shipment of fine Japanese porcelain and hand-blown Venetian glass this month.
I was successful, making money. A reward for Charles Brennan seemed due. Now, I’m a sexual man. Rewards of the flesh please me. Can’t help myself. Etta came into my mind. I’ve never been with a Negro. The notion of lying on a big black woman with large bosoms intrigued me. I’m used to small-breasted, bony whites.
This feat took careful planning. Rose might be anywhere these days. The Irish one roams the house at all hours. I stayed sober Monday and waited in my library until after midnight. Intending to surprise, I took off my boots. In my stocking feet, I tiptoed to Etta’s room. Her door was unlocked. I crept up to her bed, already aroused. She was deep in sleep. Her snores, loud as thunder. Stepping closer to the bed, dropped my pants. I pounced. Poor Etta. Her mouth and eyes popped. I moved fast, lifting her gown. I inserted myself and felt the pleasure. She tried to howl. I muffled her voice with my hand. The fight delighted me. More fun than the sex. She flailed her arms, punching my chest. I held them down. She kicked me. I thrust myself into her and pressed my weight on her legs. She smashed her forehead against mine. Stars floated in front of me. She cursed me to burn in hell. The pain of her punches and kicks, mixed with the euphoria of penetrating her, excited, no, exhilarated me. I finished in spite of her protests. It was glorious. Best sex I’ve had. I won’t be wasting my time on stiff-legged white girls. I’ll be back for more Etta.
The next day the spring sun brightened my mood. I thought Rose was leaving me when I saw her Italian leather valise by the front door. Even better, it was the girl. I’ll let the valise pass in favor of a smooth exit. It’s another sign of Rose’s rebellion against me. I’ll tend to her later. For now, I look forward to morning when the livery takes Miss Katie O’Neil to the port. Later, Etta and I will celebrate with a spirited tryst.
I’ll spend this evening in my library in the company of a glass of whiskey. Dear Etta, must have liked it as much as I did. She refreshed my antique Victorian glass decanter with my finest scotch whiskey.