The Bargain Revealed Part 2

 

The rest of the evening passed in a strange sort of suspended animation. Father bustled around the house, distributing his mysterious bounty with the manic energy of someone trying to distract himself from his own thoughts. Jamie threw himself into the excitement with the wholehearted enthusiasm only children could manage, exclaiming over sweets and new toys as if Christmas had arrived early.

Mother accepted the gifts with gracious efficiency, but I caught her watching Father with the same careful attention I'd been giving him. We were both waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the truth to emerge from whatever web of half-lies and careful omissions he'd woven around his windfall.

I tried to participate in the artificial cheer, tried to smile at Jamie's delight and express appropriate gratitude for the fine wool that would make warm dresses. But every time I looked at Father's hands—still trembling slightly, even hours after his return—I felt that familiar twist of dread in my stomach.

The packages were real enough. The food was real, the fabric was real, the coins that clinked in Father's pocket were genuine. But the story behind them felt as insubstantial as morning mist.

"Did he give you this?" I asked, fingering the edge of a particularly fine piece of blue wool. "Your mysterious benefactor?"

"He was... generous," Father said, not quite meeting my eyes. "Insisted that we take what we needed to establish ourselves properly in Ravenwood."

What we needed. As if a stranger could possibly know what our family required, could judge the exact amount of charity that would salve his conscience without being inappropriate.

"And you're certain he expects nothing in return?"

This time Father did meet my gaze, and what I saw there made my blood run cold. "I'm certain he expects exactly what I promised him," he said quietly.

The words carried a finality that killed any further questions. We finished distributing the gifts in relative silence, Jamie's chattering the only sound that prevented the evening from becoming completely oppressive.

That night, I lay awake in my bed listening to the familiar sounds of our house settling around me. In a few days, we'd be gone from this place forever, transplanted to a remote Welsh estate where we'd be neighbors to mysterious benefactors who handed out fortunes in exchange for unspecified services.

Services. The word kept circling in my mind like a vulture. What kind of services could a ruined family provide to someone wealthy enough to bestow such gifts casually? What did we possess that someone else might want badly enough to pay for it so handsomely?

The answer, when it came, felt like ice water in my veins.

Us. We were what he wanted. Not our labor, not our gratitude, not our friendship. Us, in some capacity I couldn't yet fathom but instinctively feared.

It was past midnight when I heard Father's door open, followed by the soft sound of footsteps in the hallway. I slipped from my bed and crept to my own door, pressing my ear to the wood.

"...can't tell them," Father was saying, his voice low but urgent. "Not yet. Not until we're settled in Ravenwood."

"Charles, what have you done?" Mother's voice carried a note of desperation I'd never heard from her before. "What kind of bargain did you make?"

"The only kind I could," Father replied. "The kind that keeps us alive."

Alive. Not comfortable, not secure—alive. As if our very survival had been in question.

"And Catherine?" Mother asked. "What does this mean for Catherine?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. Whatever Father had promised, whatever bargain he'd struck, it centered on me. I was the currency he'd used to purchase our temporary salvation.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door, fighting waves of nausea that had nothing to do with the rich food we'd shared at dinner. Father had sold me. Oh, he'd probably found prettier words for it, dressed it up in language about duty and family obligation and necessary sacrifices. But stripped of euphemism, the truth was simple and stark.

I was no longer my own.

"She's strong," Father was saying. "Stronger than Eleanor, stronger than me. If anyone can... adjust to the situation, it's Catherine."

Adjust. Another carefully chosen word that revealed everything and nothing.

"How long?" Mother asked.

"A month," Father said. "Maybe two. He'll send word when he's ready."

He. So our mysterious benefactor was male, at least. That narrowed the possibilities, though not in ways that brought me any comfort.

I crept back to my bed and lay staring at the ceiling, my mind racing through implications and possibilities. What kind of man lived in a remote Welsh castle and bought women with gifts? What kind of services would he expect from someone like me?

The answers that occurred to me ranged from unpleasant to horrifying.