Free The Pull Of Freedom by Brenda Barrett

Floyd,” Hilga curtsied and then picked up the whip and rubbed it.
    The slave girl started to howl harder as she backed away toward the stable door. “Please no,” she screamed, “not her the spawn of Satan.”
    Kes looked again at Hilga who was laughing at the screaming slave.
    “Lady Braithwaite,” the overseer whispered. “The last time you punished one of the slaves he died from the beatings. We are short as it is.”
    “Shut up,” Hilga’s eyes looked unfocused, “get back to work.”
    Morton grunted and jumped back on his horse.
    Kes was slowly getting over the shock of the events that just unfolded before his eyes. He had seen slaves being beaten before, he was even beaten once but never before had he seen such pleasure anticipated at another’s pain. It’s as if they weren't there and Hilga was alone with her last meal.
    “Miss Braithwaite,” Kes said feelingly, “if you subject that slave to more punishment I'm leaving right now and the money promised to your father will no longer be an issue.”
    Hilga gazed at him still stroking the leather of the whip. “Why Mr. Kesington, I was just saving the poor girl's life, she looked at the sobbing slave. I hate the abuse of these cretins as much as you and Uncle Garfield, God rest his soul.”
    Kes looked away from the insincerity in her washed out blue eyes. She was staring at him shrewdly as if she had been testing him. He sighed in relief. She couldn’t suspect that there was no Uncle Garfield could she?
    Ibo breathed out beside him as if he too had felt the full-blown assessment that Hilga Braithwaite had just made him endure.
    She dropped the whip, daintily curtsied and went back across the grounds to the house.
    “Watch that one,” Ibo mumbled, “she is trouble.”
    “Remember to tell Nanny tonight, we stand to gain much more by me staying than if I leave tomorrow.”
    Ibo nodded and said loudly, “yes sar, massa sar.”

Chapter Eighteen
     
    “How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,” Elizabeth was looking in the mirror and frowning, her skin was looking slightly leathery and weather worn, the poem by John Milton seemed to apply to her now.
    Robert came behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, “stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!”
    “My hasting days fly on with full career,” Elizabeth brushed her hair and grinned at him. This was the husband she knew and loved.
    “But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.” He took the brush from her hand and ran it through her ink blank strands.
    “Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth.” She picked up the other line of the Sonata seven and closed her eyes. She missed London so much.
    “That I to manhood am arrived so near;” Robert’s eyes were swimming with warmth, regret gripped him at the way he had left her earlier.
    “And inward ripeness doth much less appear,” Elizabeth finished the last line of the first stanza and sighed, “I'm happy that Father had me tutored with my brothers.”
    “That was what I found so fascinating about you at first,” Robert placed the brush on the dressing table and stared at her. He was taught that wives were helpmates who should ensure that husbands were happy. His wife wanted it all. She demanded equality in their relationship. This he blamed on Lord Howard, the indulgent father, who taught her how to be one of the boys. Now he was stuck with her, his freedom severely hampered by her liberated presence. She was probably waiting for him to apologise for shouting at her earlier.
    “Robert I … ” Elizabeth did not like it when she was stared at for long periods of time and now her husband was doing it, a look of resignation in his eyes. She cleared her throat; “I think I am going back to London.”
    Robert straightened up from his crouching posture on her dressing table and glared. “You are not taking Mark.”
    “I will send him back when he is of age,” Elizabeth said stressed, her green eyes were filled