INTRODUCTION

It is generally assumed, in the days when slave-trading was commonplace between Africa, England and America (as well as in other parts of the world), that those enslaved were always coloured. Certainly that is how the vast majority think of slavery in the States and, of course, there is no doubt that most of those who were bought, sold and used rather like cattle were coloured. There have been plenty of books, pictures and films to make that evident.

However, what is not so generally known is that, in the Southern States (the heart of slave-land), whites could be enslaved, too. Admittedly, it was unusual ... but it did happen. And, under the laws of those Southern States it was not considered particularly illegal. Even if someone tried to make out that it was - in a Court of Law - there would be politicians, Judges, even a governor, prepared to make sure the case would be thrown out. Influence and bribery were rampant. If you were rich and powerful enough, you could get away with murder. Literally.

You could also get away with slavery.

Because it suited the upper crust. Those who ruled.

Nobody, of course, gave a damn about the blacks who were enslaved. There might only be ructions if whites were involved. However, such ructions became mere ripples on the pattern of society. People who mattered turned a blind eye to goings-on which would be considered monstrous today. Because, as it has already been said, it suited them.

It is easy to understand how blacks were enslaved. They were shipped from Africa by the British and simply sold to Americans. But what about whites? Well, business being what it was (and still is) in the States - that is to say, viciously competitive - men, and their families, could lose fortunes overnight. In order to avoid disgrace, bankruptcy and utter ruin, it was not unknown for a man to barter his wife or daughters (maybe both) in order to escape the clutches of a demanding creditor. Once bartered, those women became the property of that creditor. Legally. Just as if the man had bartered goods against his debts and not human beings. Amazing today ... but not so then, when America was really a rugged country.

This story concerns an estate upon which a number of such bartered white slaves have been assembled - consigned to an existence of cruel servitude.

CHAPTER ONE

Mrs Gloria Vance sat at the small but ornate desk in her bedroom wearing a pale green negligee - and a smile of smug satisfaction. She was reading a letter. In fact she was reading it for the fifth or sixth time. It was from her husband, from whom she was separated but with whom she kept on very good terms and in regular contact. Charles Vance had very considerable interests throughout the Eastern States and resided in New York. Also, though in his late fifties, he had a bevy of young mistresses to keep him amused.

As will be seen, his wife Gloria, who had just reached her fortieth year, also had considerable interests of her own, so that the arrangement suited both parties well.

The letter read as follows:

My dear Gloria,

You will, I am sure, remember the Fanshawes whom we met socially on several occasions a few years ago. You may also remember that Ralph Fanshawe and I did some business together.

It was not long before he was deeply in debt to me and he gave me a lien on his property in order to gain time to pay up. Unfortunately for him, his cotton crop was burnt for a second season running (those black varmints!) so he was left without a dime.

Naturally, this left me no option but to foreclose upon his property and possessions. As you may know, under State laws, those possessions to which I am entitled include not only his servants but also members of his family. The only family he has is his wife Lucinda, so she is now my property. Ralph pleaded with me desperately not to enforce this part of my entitlement but, always considering you, my dear, and knowing your wishes in cases of this kind, I refused to make an exception.

Today I am having my attorney draw up the legal papers which will assign ownership of Lucinda Fanshawe to you. I trust she will make a satisfactory addition to your household entourage.

Yours affectionately.

CHARLES.

Gloria Vance tapped the letter against her mouth. She was a striking woman rather than a beautiful one and exceedingly well preserved. Her skin was as smooth and soft as that of a woman in her twenties. Green-blue eyes complemented her russet-coloured hair. Her nose was well-formed; but the thin lips of her wide mouth gave an appearance of hardness.

It was an appearance which was justified. For Gloria Vance was a hard woman. Very hard. She had not come up the easy way, her father having been in 'trade'. But Gloria's fortunate marriage to the wealthy Charles had got her into Society and there she had clung like a leech ever since.

Yes, reflected Gloria, I remember Lucinda Fanshawe well. The woman was six years younger that herself and she had never liked her, though she had made a pretence of doing so. Lucinda was always putting on airs; constantly referring to her Boston background. Gloria was aware of why she did this. It was to contrast their upbringings. The one humble, the other upper crust.

And the woman not only looked arrogant, she acted it. Treated servants like dirt and those she considered inferiors with contempt. Gloria had also got the impression that Lucinda was unfaithful to Ralph, for it could not be denied she was exceedingly attractive and had had many admirers. That had not particularly endeared her to Gloria, either! No woman likes to see men fawning over another whilst she is virtually ignored. No, all in all, it could not be said that Gloria had taken kindly to Lucinda Fanshawe.

So it is little wonder that Gloria Vance was smiling that morning. For now she owned Lucinda Fanshawe. The woman was now legally one of her slaves. And, although Charles had made her similar gifts on previous occasions, this was indeed a prize - a pearl among pearls.

There came a knock on the door.

"Enter ..."

Though Gloria Vance was not looking at her, the girl curtsied. She was a pretty little thing of around twenty with light brown eyes and hair to match.

"You rang for me, Madam?"

"I did, Rosie. What kept you?"

There was a moment's hesitation. "I ... I had to report to Miss Bridget first, Madam." Another pause. "To get a couple of 'stingers', Madam."

"Ah ... why so?"

"Dust left on the mantleshelf in one of the bedrooms, Madam."

"Well, Rosie, if you don't do your duties properly, you must expect to suffer for it."

"Yes Madam," came a meek reply.

"Now come over here, girl, and brush my hair."

Rosalind Carver - now rather derisively called Rosie - was the daughter of a once-wealthy stockbroker. He, too, had fallen into the financial clutches of Charles Vance and, as part of a deal, his pretty and pampered daughter had been consigned to Gloria.

She now moved across the room to the dressing table where her Mistress had seated herself and picked up a hairbrush. She was palpably nervous, knowing how short-tempered Gloria Vance was ... and what consequences might follow if she displeased her. Her bottom was still hot and smarting from the two 'stingers' she had just received from Miss Bridget, one of the so-called maids who were in charge of all household slaves.

Any maid, or manservant for that matter, was empowered to administer up to five 'stingers' on any single occasion. There were strokes from a single-thonged strap of a fairly lightweight variety. As is implied, it stung rather than anything else. The marks left usually disappeared after five or six hours. Such on-the-spot punishments, or 'reminders' as they were often called, were quite frequent and were handed out with the girl, having raised her three-quarter length skirt, bending over and receiving the allotted strokes over the thin white drawers she would be wearing. Sometimes a girl would be made to kneel on the floor, or in a chair, to get her 'reminder'.

Carefully, Rosie brushed Gloria's long, russet hair. It was always frightening to be so close to the woman who owned you body and soul. Who could do virtually what she liked with you. There was no one to appeal to. Authority was indifferent. It was a conspiracy ... which suited the rich and powerful. Then, of course, one dare not, protest anyway. She recalled vividly, the terrible birching Kate had received for daring to protest and plead with some State politician who happened to be a guest at Mrs Vance's. It had been a birching beyond all reason, but certainly no one had ever done anything similar since.

"You are improving, Rosie."

"Thank you, Madam."

"Far more gentle than you used to be."

Rose had been a slave on the Lauderdale Estate, as the vast Colonial-style mansion and grounds were known, for nearly six months but had still not accustomed herself to her mistress's arbitrary changes of mood. You could never feel safe with her even if you were being praised. Her mood might change in a moment.

"That will do, Rosie. Now put it up for me ..."

Thus began the long process of pinning up Gloria's hair on top of her head, in the style she liked. While it went on, Gloria looked with satisfaction into the mirror. Not bad, not at all bad, for her age. Skin still clear. Breasts sagging very little ... and not at all when her corset was on. Were there some lines at the corners of her mouth? Maybe a few. Well, cream and rouge would hide those.

Will Lucinda Fanshawe have weathered, she wondered. Doubtless pretty well. That was a good thing. The better she looked, the more enjoyable it would be. One day, she would be standing where Rosie was, doing her hair. Standing there as her slave. It was an exquisite thought.

But what a welter of seething emotions there were going to be before that day arrived!