Emily draws on the colorful past for background whenever she writes. Patient and painstaking research of the Connecticut probate records gave a detailed description of indenture in American colonial society. The private diary of a Connecticut farm woman disclosed a turbulent tale of endurance and hardship and gave a peek at a passionate heart’s intense inner struggles to conform.
These brief and forgotten vignettes of a turbulent period in American history were the inspiration for Emily French’s latest exciting historical romance novel.
To my parents: Emilie Le Feuvre and Samuel Beattie
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Princess
Connecticut, August 1757
“Are we really going to buy a man, Mama? If so, ’tis best it not be that one by the auction block. He looks desperate.” The boy’s high-pitched young voice was as sweet as clear water running over smooth stones on a summer day—and as piercing as the winter wind.
Charity Frey smoothed the ribbons of her bonnet and allowed herself a wry smile, directed downward. “Hush, child. Such candid observations should be made in an appropriate tone of voice. A lowered tone.”
“I heard tell there was a convicted felon who escaped the gallows on account of his friendship with General Pakenham. Will Sutcliffe says that the magistrate at New Haven considered those serious defects of character the prisoner exhibited could be overcome through servitude. Is that true, Mama?”
“I know not, Isaac, but if a man’s soul can be saved, and he be prevented from committing further atrocities or pernicious acts through such a concession, then the Lord be thanked.”
“What has faith got to do with per-pernicious acts?”
The blue green eyes that met hers looked so serious. A soft warmth welled up in Charity. It was all very well encouraging children to work things out, answering their questions honestly and helping them develop their powers of independent reasoning. Only every now and then it led to something like this, and the views of an outspoken nineyear-old would lead to a complaint at meeting house that Charity Frey was an unfit parent.
“More than you might imagine, Isaac. However, the poor creature has enough humiliation to bear, and ’tis impossible to avoid hearing your hurtful remarks even twenty paces away.”
“A convicted felon has no rights.” Isaac’s lowered his voice, but his expression was unyielding. He might be only nine years old, but he had his own ideas of right and wrong.
Charity lightly patted her son’s springy, auburn hair. “Hush, child. ’Tis not seemly that you should speak so unkindly.”
Isaac moved back, not wanting to be touched. “But, Mama, there be evil demons in that one’s eyes. Milk would curdle in the pail if that man were to watch it the way he is watching you.”
Charity clenched her hand and took a deep breath. “That will do, Isaac. ’Tis not the way of a gentleman to make rude comments,” she said crushingly. “You should be profoundly ashamed of such odious statements.”
Isaac seemed a little taken aback at her vehemence. He flushed and hung his head. He stood passive, but there was a suggestion of resistance about him notwithstanding.
“I’m sorry, Mama, but I didn’t think you’d want to invest in one of Lucifer’s minions.”
Charity made a sharp, involuntary movement, then restrained herself. She felt it best not to acknowledge such an ignoble gibe. Out of the mouths of babes…Her mouth flexed faintly. In spite of herself, she slid a glance toward the bound prisoners and indentured servants waiting to be sold.
And went utterly still.
The man shackled to the auction block was nearly naked. The ragged garment that served as his shirt was so torn, so tattered, so full of rents that it hardly served its purpose, scarcely covering the solid chest or the muscular arms that showed through the holes. Even his breeches were almost indecent.
Behold the lilies in the field…
Charity colored a guilty scarlet, realizing where her eyes were drifting. Wicked creature! Using the Bible to clothe her own wanton imagination! Her gaze shifted to the felon’s face.
The man’s unshaven, weather-beaten visage had an untamed, primitive look about it, as of one born to the wilderness. He was looking straight at her, his expression cold, composed, a study of hatred and defiance. His scowling focus was unnerving.
Through a tangle of hair, dark brows lifted arrogantly as he faced her. Tawny eyes met hers, bored into her with a concentration that seemed to pierce straight through her.
Intensely alive, they were not the eyes of civilization, but glowed with some deep, primitive emotion. Charity felt as if they saw too much. They made her vividly conscious of her flushed face and the indelicate familiarity of her scrutiny.
Still she did not move. She was not sure she could have if she’d tried. Her spine was poker stiff, and her legs refused to obey her commands.
Sheer fascination immobilized her as she regarded the disheveled creature before her with shameless curiosity. She felt paralyzed—a rabbit confronted by a mountain lion.
He was magnificent even as he stood there before the block in provocative disrepute, wrists locked in iron fetters, legs braced for balance, an insolent Lucifer brushed by dark, invisible wings.
Charity experienced a queer and unbearable weakness, as though something deep inside her had come undone. A throb of excitement, as intense as a sudden realization of the presence of an enemy, coiled in her belly.
He made no movement, but it seemed his whole body was tensely strung to combat, unseen, the ripple of muscles contracting for a spring. Though he stood motionless, he seemed menacing.
His legs are as pillars of marble…
The blaze of color that overspread Charity’s pale face at the thought faded as rapidly as it rose. Wicked, sinful creature that she was, she was doing it again! Using biblical words to express her own secret sentiments. She glanced at him again, under fluttering lids.
No. She was not mistaken. There was something dangerously lynx-like in the smoldering regard, something so deliberately intent that it seemed formidable. Those golden eyes shone with an intimacy and connection that she felt throughout her being, with a flush of painful pleasure.
Once again Charity’s eyelashes flickered. Unspeakable images roared in her head. Thoughts she had locked away securely tore from their moorings, whirling upward in chaotic disarray. And with them came doubt.
She should not have come.
She should have heeded the elders.
Pride and independence were fine and proper, but in striving so much for worldly things, was there a danger that she might forget the eternity that awaited her? Each day she sinned in so many small ways.
These poor creatures were to be sold like horses to the highest bidders, to become pieces of property and used as forced labor until the expiration of their sentences. In purchasing such a man, even if he were an indentured servant and not a slave, was she not simply gathering to herself an even greater burden of sin?
Every fiber of her being cried out to her to retreat, to give up her foolish