Chapter 5: Humiliation and Hunger

After getting Caleb’s promise, my father no longer restrained Lillian, letting her do as she pleased. Even when, because a maid failed to steady the boiling tea and spilled it on her favorite skirt, she slashed at the maid’s hands with a kitchen knife, leaving her maimed.

The incident was hushed up so quickly you’d think it never happened. The kitchen was scrubbed with bleach, and the housekeeper told everyone the maid had run off to Atlanta. But I saw it all: the white-hot look in Lillian’s eyes, the scream echoing through the marble halls, the way blood spattered onto the antique rug. Even in Savannah, where money buys silence, the truth stains everything.

I stood by, frozen in shock. She wiped the blood from the knife, ignored the maid’s screams, and pointed at the damp spot on her skirt, looking down at me.

“Lick it clean.”

I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I licked it clean.

My cheeks burned, but I kept my eyes on the floor. Swallowing shame was easier than tasting blood. The taste of metal and humiliation stung my tongue. I could feel the eyes of the other servants boring into me, some horrified, some relieved it wasn’t them. Lillian’s laugh bounced off the high ceilings—cruel, unrestrained. I pressed my lips together and finished the job, wishing I could disappear through the floorboards.

She laughed so hard she nearly fell over, saying I was like a dog. I could only endure it and smile. Before you have power or status, all pride and temper are death sentences.

I straightened my skirt, forced a smile, and let her words slide off me like rain on old brick. This was Savannah: you swallow your pride until you have something sharp enough to bite back with. I learned to smile through my teeth, to make my humiliation invisible.

Conveniently, I fell gravely ill, burning with a persistent fever. At the same time, on Main Street, the mayor’s son held a martial arts competition. The winner, Derek Sloan, not only shot arrows at a hundred paces but was also a master swordsman. Though born a commoner, he defeated all the rich boys. He won with flair, and a bold girl among the crowd confessed her love to him. He remained unmoved, calmly replying, “My heart belongs to someone else—I can’t marry you.”

The fever came and went in waves—one minute I was sweating through silk sheets, the next I was shivering under quilts. Meanwhile, the whole city buzzed about the competition downtown. Folks lined the sidewalks, lemonade in hand, watching as Derek Sloan—a boy who’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks—showed up the sons of every family with a trust fund. Savannah loves an underdog, but loves a scandal even more.

When the girl asked who held his heart, he answered, “Lillian Foster of the Foster family.”

At that, admiration and envy for Lillian soared. The world always measures a woman’s worth by how many men desire her.

By sunset, every beauty salon and country club was whispering about Lillian. Her name fluttered through the air like the banners strung up for summer festivals. I lay in bed and listened to the city build her legend, brick by brick.

Lillian loved swordplay and was never satisfied with her sparring partners. The instructors dared not fight her for real—her temper was unpredictable, and she had hurt people in anger before. She rode out to find the man who dared declare his love for her in public. Since her engagement to Caleb Foster, every man in Savannah kept his distance. She had never encountered someone so bold. Her curiosity was piqued.

I watched from the window as she saddled her mare and galloped off, boots thudding on the porch steps. The housekeeper muttered a prayer, and I wondered if Lillian would ever find a match who could keep up with her recklessness.