Watchful Eye

-The Cartagan Orchard. Early morning, 2 DSTR-

Cordelia watched carefully, his eyes roaming over every woman. It wasn’t the way that a man normally looked over them- he held purpose in his gaze. When his eyes landed on her, she stiffened and looked at him with a raised brow, as if to tempt him to say something he otherwise wouldn’t. When Tyreth dropped his head, she began to recognize his features. It was strange, seeing him in broad daylight versus a candle lit parlor room. Refusing to drop her eyes from his face, she cocked her head slightly when he looked her up and down again.

A pang of disappointment and embarrassment circulated as he shook his head once more. "Go and take those ridiculous costumes off. This is not a brothel, and proper clothes will be worn from here on out. Dress ready to work, you will all be going outside to help." Cordelia raised her brow in surprise, but then immediately turned into the open doorway, where the rest of the women followed suit. As they all jogged upstairs, the thin gold chains dancing with their movements, she felt an overwhelming wave of relief. Finding her way back to her room, she breathed in a deep sigh and closed the door.

Slowly taking off the garment, she shoved all of its fabrics and chains into the furthest corner of one of her drawers. Never again would she have to wear that, or so she hoped. Opening the second drawer to her left, the wood creaking as she did so, she pulled out her field dress. Many of the house women would have to wear their house clothes, as for they were suited for one thing the old Master would have said. Cordelia on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed working in the field. The dress had buttons along the front of the dress from the hem, to her neckline. Her neckline came down just below her collarbone, but covered her chest entirely. Unbuttoning the first six buttons, she pulled the dress over her head, shoving her arms down into the long sleeves. Buttoning the dress back up in the mirror, she smiled in her reflection, curtseying towards herself. The dress was of a cream color, easy to wash the small stains out of, and soft from so many washes. Walking over to the furthest bedpost, she stood on her tippy toes as she yanked her handmade straw hat off the bedpost.

Her attire was rather appealing in the most innocent of ways. The fabric clung to her curves, as there weren’t many dresses that wouldn’t, and loosened at her hips. Her thin waist, wide hips, and voluptuous bust defined in a classic way.

Placing the hat on her head, she started out of her room. Some of the women, who never worked in the field, looked nervous at the labor that they would soon endure. Heading down the stairs, a few women trailing behind, the hem of their dresses just grazing the hardwood, she caught the tail end of a beginning conversation. ”How can I help you?”

Cordelia wavered at the foot of the steps, curiosity begging for her to peak over Tyreth’s shoulder. She was unsure if she should wait to see if she could aid her Master and the new guest. Instead of loitering, she began down the hall, back towards the dining room, with the other women. Looking over her shoulder, now having a courteous view of the guest, she rested her eyes upon a familiar face. Mr. Cartwright, she thought. There was an exit from the house to the back part of the orchard in the kitchen. Her walk containing an unusual amount of confidence for a slave, she strolled through the dining room, pushing the swinging kitchen door open. A few women remained in the kitchen, cleaning it thoroughly from their work that morning.

“Ladies,” Cordelia said softly, with a tip of her hat. Some of the women waved in response, where others just threw up a hot rag in acknowledgment. Giggling to no one in particular, she opened the back door, and padded her way down the three brick steps.

Her bare feet hitting the field, she wiggled her toes in the grass that was still damp from morning’s kiss. Her eyes scanned the land that she used to tend to, taking in every view. There was a field house, one where the slaves slept, ate, danced, and kept their baskets. It was of a quaint size, normally two or three to a bed, but had a multitude of rooms. It was approximately a half mile from the main house. The old Master wanted to not hear a word from the slaves, didn’t want to be bothered by the fieldworkers smells and voices. It was a plain house. No porch, just two steps up to the front door, which clung to the hinges for dear life, and a couple of windows on the front. Age pulled at the exterior of the house. But the interior, oh the interior. Never was it known for the Master to enter the field workers slave quarters, so they were able to change their interior as they wished- and they did. The walls were largely plain, but they made their own rugs, they made their own fireplace and chimney, along with tables and chairs. It was a home that the slaves built together.

Many of the women were busy picking apples from the ground, whatever was left on the tree, and the few men that worked there did their best to shake the tree. Grabbing a basket from the side of the house, she headed towards the front and began to notice that only one woman was pulling at the weeds. Susan, her name was. Susan was just as old as Cordelia, but not nearly as much of a looker. Most likely, that was the reason she was put to work in the fields. Susan was pulling at weeds at the base of one of the trees closest to the house. There were multiple rows of apple trees in the front, on both sides of the house, and in the back. There were surely enough slaves to get the job done, but Cordelia wondered about the daylight, and if there would be enough sun to finish the job today. Staying in the front of the orchard, the porch of the main house in view, she strolled towards the second closest tree to the house. Placing her basket on the ground, she got down on her hands and knees, and began to place apples in the basket.

Picking an apple up, she took in the beautiful colors, and realized that they weren’t the right shade. It was a sickly shade for their apples. Pouting her lips slightly, she tossed it in the basket, where she could hear a slight mush beneath the skin of the apple. Going through the motions of tossing an apple into her basket, she began to yank a weed if it were in her line of vision. No need to have to come back to the tree and pull all the weeds separately, might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Cordelia occasionally let her eyes trail over the men that Cartwright had brought with him, and his carriage. He must be here to claim the debt owed to him. Whistling to herself as she worked, she occasionally looked up at the house beneath the rim of her floppy straw hat.