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It was almost the same, an unknowing force that made her want both to thrust her chin out with dignity and cover her chest with one arm and grip the cloth or her dress to her thighs in misguided protection.

'As I was saying Sir John.' Richard Cunning continued in his interrupted conversation, biting each word off through a clenched jaw 'I have also taken on the Hobson land, have you been there? It makes a sizeable increase to the land we'll be farming.'

Despite her burning face and the breathlessness Phoebe felt, her mind mercilessly processed this information, increasing her horror.

Richard Cunning Senior was a self made man who had married money. While rich and getting richer, the British Sugar trade was a difficult market to navigate. She'd learnt enough at her old home that despite the constant need for growth in the market, without contacts back in Britain, a plantation owner was unlikely to get as good a deal as he'd like. The master was always trying to forge new alliances, or so the other house slaves said, courting rich and powerful plantation owners and lords with influence in the West India Company, even adopting a more genteel accent in their presence. That she had marred the process made her once again feel a sick weight sink in her stomach. She hadn't heard the end of this nor felt that last thrilling stare of Richard Cunning Jr.

Richard Henry Robin Cunning Jr placed a cigarillo between his lips and sparked a match off the barn wall. Once fragrant smoke wreathed his face, he tossed it to the ground and pinched out the flame with a pointed boot, his spurs raking the cobbled floor.

He'd left his father and Sir John talking business over whisky for the honour of his family, but mostly for his own amusement. While he waited, he stood by the heat of the forge and drank a sip or too of a spiced rum from a hip flask. It was a family brew, something they were perfecting to be shipped back to England, a taste of the Caribbean.

He took another swig and when he heard footsteps, set the silver hip flask on a milking stool.

The slave girl came in and had the decency to keep her eyes lowered when she bobbed a curtsy. It amused him that she held herself so rigid; there was nothing presumptuous in her bearing but he prided himself on being able to spot the passive aggressive tension in her frame. It happened in slaves who had more privileged positions, they almost forgot what they were sometimes.

'Where do you come from girl?' He said.

'The Jameson Plantation Sir, you know, the one on the east side of the island?' Phoebe replied.

'I know the Jameson place!' Richard said with a little more force than necessary. Even the girl's manners needed checking and his hand flexed instinctively for a crop that wasn't currently grasped below the armpit. He didn't make a habit of striking anyone, but his lean muscled height and a ready crop cowed even the most brutish slaves.

'So, you used to be Jameson's slave uh?' He continued 'That figures. I know that old meat sack for sure. Ol' Yellabelly that's what we call him, fears the lash you see. You ain't never been lashed girl, I can see that. It's in your bearings, like a horse hitched to the plow for the first time, It shrugs it's restraints. You stand there and bow, but you don't bow inside.'

He could see a sudden fear then in her eyes, as she tried to figure out whether his intentions were to actually lash her. To keep her off foot he continued talking.

'Most blackies come naturally to it, it's a submissiveness born and I suppose . . . bred.' he drawled, his boots clacking sharply as he prowled around her 'I'm surprised you don't have it instinctively, being born as a slave. Must be the white in you. What? You don't think I can see that?' He trailed a finger along the length of her arm.

'Coffee with cream.

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