Woman Overboard

Prologue : The Outside (2)

Penelope

November 4th, 1806

(1:18 PM)

So many things had been done right. Penelope Broderick glowed with pride, looking over the winding road of food that twisted through the neighborhood of china and silver. If she had ever seen a pretty table, this would be the prettiest.

Now, for seating. Thomas would sit at the head of the table, Penelope at the center near the entree. The highest ranking council men would flank her husband, their wives sitting at Penelope's left and right.

Faces crossed her mind. Mr. Marshall, he would be expecting a very good seat. So would Sir Wentz. Oh, and Sir Baldwin, too. Only, Penelope couldn't remember if he was invited. Tom would know, of course. She would ask him.

First, she checked his steady where she found only a stack of papers stamped with tiny print that Penelope couldn't be bothered to discern. Turning away from her husband's cluttered desk, she wondered where else he could be. On the plantation, she supposed. He liked to survey the progress in the rice fields around this time of year.

She slipped into the hall, mind empty of everything but dinner parties and the walls of the house when she passed the cracked open door of her daughter's room.

Hearing voices, Penelope stopped. Who could that be?

". . . Pretty, no, gorgeous eyes. I swear, they're the exact color of the ocean. Do you know what color the ocean is?"

"No, ma'am."

"Blue. Do you know what blue is?"

"No, ma'am."

"It's like this."

Penelope heard something move, probably curtains being thrown back.

"Look up there," said Alessandra's voice. "At the sky. That is blue. As blue as it gets." She sighed. "Except his eyes, they are bluer."

She heard her daughter's long, lanky body collapse onto the bed. Something else flopped down after her, but Penelope dared not look in.

"Bluer?" repeated the other voice.

Another sigh. "Yes, bluer. So blue that looking in them is like swimming."

"Wha's swimming?"

Alessandra giggled. "You're funny."

"What is funny?"

Aless laughed some more, her giggle becoming a throaty chuckle. "Oh, I shouldn't laugh," she admitted. "You aren't more than, what, five? How old are you?"

An abashed silence followed.

"Oh, don't you tell me you haven't learned what that means, either?"

Penelope, painfully curious, allowed herself to lean closer. Through the crack of the door, she caught sight of Alessandra, her slim, sixteen-year-old limbs splayed out over her bedspread. Her golden hair fanned out around her, framing her face like the rays of the sun.

But who was she talking to? Penelope caught one last glance before stepping back. Also on Aless's bed laid a tiny negro girl, burnt so black from sunlight that she seemed to make a hole in the opposite wall.

Penelope dared not speak. She furrowed her eyebrows in silent confusion. That girl, she knew that girl. She was the one dubbed "Rebecca" by Thomas. Rebecca wasn't a house slave. In fact, she wasn't even old enough to work in the fields.

She knew the little ones had jobs, too. Most often, the old negress in the kitchen looked after them and taught the girls to make cookies and tea. When the boys reached five, they were to start work in the fields. The girls, if proven competent, remained in the house; the less domestically able ones were sent to the rice fields.

"Well, it means how many years you have been alive," said Alessandra. "I've been here for sixteen whole years. Can you believe that? What a long time it's been." She sighed like a tired old woman reminiscing on her youth.

The little girl shrugged. "Ain't so long."

"Mm, long enough to know." When she paused, Penelope peeked again. There laid her daughter, hugging her pillow with the silliest grin on her face. "Long enough to know he is perfect."

Perfect. Who?

The slave giggled. "Ma'am?"

"Hm?"

"Wha's perfect?"

Just then, something strange happened within Penelope. The answer: "Not you!" came leaping out of her throat, sinking its cruel claws into the little coal-colored child rubbing her low color on Penelope's daughter's pure white sheets. No, she was not perfect. God had bathed this child in mud and dropped her here. How dare she ask such questions?

Alessandra exclaimed, "Mother! What are you doing out there?"

Face red, Penelope slammed the door open and stomped inside. She yanked the girl from the bed by the collar of her ragged shirt. "You. Do. Not. Belong. Here."

The child's face went slack with fear. "I - I's sorry, ma'am, I's real sorry--"

"Close your mouth!" she yelled. "Do you know what happens when you go places you don't belong? Do you? You don't know anything else, so I will teach you!"

"Mother!" Aless repeated. Her hazel eyes were wide, her lips parted in a shocked O. "She hasn't done a thing wrong, I promise. I was only a bit lonely, that's all, Mother. I brought her up here. If you have to punish anybody, punish me."

Shoving the girl to the ground, Penelope felt her anger shift. "You," she growled, jabbing her finger into Alessandra's chest, "should learn where you belong! This - this vermin is beneath you! Make some friends, Aless, you're such a pretty girl, why must you have such an ugly person hiding inside? She is starting to come out, no?" Penelope struck Aless's cheek, her fingers grazing her delicate cheekbones. "You defend this piece of scum, do you? What is next? Will you marry a negro?"

Her daughter's face drained to ghostly white. Her features grew menacing, then the menace crumpled to sobs. "Why are you so horrible?" she cried. "I may be ugly, but at least I will never be a wretch like you!"

With that, Penelope's daughter gave her a firm shove and closed the door, leaving she and the slave girl to listen to her sobs from the outside.