Chapter 1

I have thought a long time about wether or not I should publish this story. I realise that these days a story about 19th century slavery is controversial. So I want to make clear that, no, I don’t condone or idealise slavery and yes, I support equality for all humans. This story is not a statement, it’s a work of fiction. The historical context only serves as a way to create an environment where I can combine the different episodes in a semi-believable manner. Please don’t continue if you think you might be offended.

For John Berrien, Philadelphia was a place that echoed with the clatter of horse-hooves on cobblestones, and the cries of its civilized citizens, so different from the oppressed voices of the working class for whom he never claimed to speak aloud. It was a welcoming city, preparing to receive its sons and daughters with its throws of snowflakes like soft winter blankets, each building adding to its geographical quilt.

He stretched out lazily on the chaise longue in the study, the rich carpet soft against his bare feet.

The oak desk he’d grown accustomed to occupying held the recently opened letter from the law firm of Davis, Ellis, and Montgomery, announcing the recent passing of his estranged uncle and, consequently, the inheritance waiting for him amid the sprawling acres of Georgian soil.

His friend Stephen Grant, the epitome of charm and wit in their affluent circle, leaned against the bookshelf. The amber light from the brass desk lamp infused the room with a cozy ambiance as a midwinter night simmered outside.

A momentary silence wedged between them, only punctuated by the distant church bells ringing every half hour.

The window behind John’s oak desk revealed a white curtain of snowflakes, softly covering the city in winter slumber. The fireplace cocooned them in warmth while the ticking of the grandfather clock brought the only reminder of life outside this small bubble of theirs.

“You know, John, fortune has shined favorably upon you,” Stephen started, arms folded, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What do you think of all that lush Georgian soil? I suppose you have quite the staff to handle everything there,” Stephen continued, lips quirking into a teasing smile.

“So, any thoughts on keeping or selling the place?”

The weight of the pending decision settled on John’s shoulders like an impending storm. He straightened up in his seat, savoring the warmth that caressed his back. “That’s a thoughtful question, Stephen. The plantation was my uncle’s legacy, his pride and joy. And yet, I’m a man of Philadelphia.”

He paused, unsure how to word the lingering tug in the pit of his stomach, the inexplicable attachment he thought he’d never have to this distant land. “I’m torn between honoring the history and preserving a family connection and what’s practical and familiar.”

Resting an elbow on the mantelpiece, Stephen stared deep into the fireplace, eyes unfocused. “A decision to keep or sell may carry its own set of complications. While selling it may grant easy fortune, something compels me to consider keeping this plantation,” John admitted, the words escaping his lips like a reluctant surrender. He didn’t want to voice the possibility of moving to Georgia aloud, knowing it would change his whole life.

“You’d be like a complete stranger in your own family’s land.”

Stephen’s voice pierced the stillness. He tapped his foot rhythmically against the polished wooden floor, lost in contemplation.

John, sensing the concerned curiosity in his friend’s eyes, took no offense. “That’s true,” he conceded, eyes tracing the dancing shadows cast by the flames. “But shouldn’t I at least get personal knowledge about the place? I have a plantation and a city house in Atlanta— no, not just real estate; these are parts of a legacy, a tangible link to my ancestry.”

Then, without warning, the conviction seeped into his voice, clearing the confusion of indecision. “I’m going to Georgia. I need to see it with my own eyes— to understand what this inheritance truly means.”

Stephen dropped his gaze from the fire, turning his full attention to his friend. “Georgia? But, my dear chap, isn’t it a little ... sudden?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of John’s lips. “No more sudden than packs of snow descending upon our beautiful city without warning,” he replied, glancing towards the window, watching the grand affair of winter’s assault.

Stephen’s hesitation gave John the seconds he needed to ensure the decision felt right. He clasped his hands between his knees, surveying the study they’d spent countless moments in, drinking, discussing politics, and deciphering the world.

“When I step foot on that Georgia soil, I’m not only making the choice to understand my ancestry, but I’m also learning about the people my uncle hopefully cared for. The lives he touched, the workers he must have known by name.”

John’s voice tapered off, his gaze landing permanently on Stephen’s face, anticipating the spark of agreement amid this unexpected journey.

“Well, John, your mind is made up.” Stephen’s words rang with sober sincerity. John absorbed the gravity of this moment, realizing his choice would impact many lives. He exhaled slowly, the resignation of purpose landing permanently in his posture.

John rose from the warmth of the chaise longue, the parchment letter crumpling gently in his grip. “You’re right, Stephen. I am determined,” adding a weight to the conversation that filled the room with unspoken seriousness.

John nodded at his friend, his fingers lightly tracing the embossed letterhead of the law firm.

In a few days’ time, the well-orchestrated bustle of Philadelphia’s city life—manicured gardens, dignified men in waistcoats, and horse-drawn carriages—would fade into the background, replaced by the vast expanse of rice plantations and waterscapes of Georgia.

The sun cast its golden rays on the streets of Savannah as John finally stepped off the train, after a five day journey. He let out a contented sigh, stretching his arms over head and rolling his neck side to side. The five-day train ride from Philadelphia to savannah left John weary and his muscles bunched together with an unpleasant tension.

Despite his weariness, John immediately noticed the difference in crowd demographics between what he saw here and back in Philadelphia. The train platform buzzed with various seniors, matriarchs swathed in sumptuous silks, the elder blacks in their worn-out frocks, and children of mixed ancestry tripping behind their mothers, their laughter a sweet symphony that brought a touch of joy to John’s heart.

And among these passengers, several fancy girls stood huddled around the platform entrance, giggling, involving themselves in hushed conversations with those among the departing travelers who promised tantalizing encounters along the way. They flaunted plunging necklines that exposed eager breasts and tapered waists that taunted John from the moment he stepped off the train. These sirens of Savannah’s underworld tempted any man’s basic instinct, and unfailingly delivered on their promises of revealing the pleasures of the city, for a price suitably parted with for the maneuverings of their sinful allure.

As John took in the lustful vibes the crowd radiated, one young woman’s intense gaze prompted a flush to seep into his pallor. Her petite frame and sensuous stance bore a message neither could deny: her company was available, ready, and willing.

She wore a low-cut dress, which exposed far more of her dark skin breasts than he’d ever witnessed. Too stunned to respond or react, John felt blood rush to his cheeks. Something about this creature’s composure hypnotized him, and even though his experience with the fairer sex was limited, John understood the pull she wielded.

The fair pelts of dark chocolate encased her like sugary decadence. They swung free, heavy and tempting against her willowy curves, making it impossible to look away. With the merest tug of her silken ties, he glimpsed the dark undertones of her flesh below, tinged by a hint of moist secrets. Her large pupils gazed ravenously at him, full lips creeping upwards in knowing amusement.

She knew the effect she had on him, and leaning in closely, whispered beneath her breath, “What say you, Mister? Fancy a taste of what they call southern hospitality?” she slyly suggested, breaking his trance.

Before he could answer, however, whistles alerted John of a horse and carriage pulling up outside. Servants descended from the carriage to gather luggage, granting John a reprieve from his mesmerizing encounter.

“Excuse me, M’am,” said John, hastily readjusting his now apparent growing attraction. A firm nod of gratitude went to the approaching horseman. This woman was indeed a sight to behold, but he had somewhere else, somewhere significantly important calling his name.

As the carriage came to a halt, John took a fortifying breath. He emerged from the carriage and looked upon the townhouse, the facade revealing a creamy white harmony against the orange and golden hues embracing the city. His new place of residence was an edifice that resonated tradition and elegance.

At once, the door swung open and a black woman in her late twenties descended from the modest flight of steps at the entrance. Her expressive hazelnut eyes mirrored a depth beyond her age, telling tales of sagacity despite her modest position as the housemaid. Following close behind, an elderly black man with salt-and-pepper hair accompanied her, appearing both weary and resolute.

“Welcome, Masta Berrien,” the elderly man greeted, his voice deeply rumbling and steady in spite of a frail exterior. “I’m Jebediah. Dis here’s Sarah, she’s come ta help ya settlin’ in, seein’ as ya comin’ straight from a long journey,” Jebediah introduced, pausing for half a beat before adding, “Masta Walker sent us last night.”

Sarah’s eyes danced with subtle mirth, as if guarding a secret, allowing an authentic smile to emerge on her full lips.

John studied her visage, memorizing every detail—how sunlight cascaded through her wavy curls, how her flawless, caramel-toned skin played perfect contrast against the townhouse exterior. Her appearance was refined and pleasing like the finest Spanish mahogany, in a way that left him transfixed.

“It’s a pleasure, Masta Berrien,” Sarah replied in a soft, clear voice. Her eyes held a depth of understanding he couldn’t explain, and a unique strength that intrigued him.

“Thank you, Sarah, Jebediah,” John replied as the older man started carrying his belongings inside.

Sarah studied John for a lingering moment before heading back inside. John couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind her gaze, but he was slowly growing entranced by her presence.

The townhouse was as charming and elegant on the inside as John expected it to be. A large crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling of the foyer, casting prismatic shards of light to dance along the matte navy walls.

To the left, a sweeping staircase led to the private quarters of the grand home, while delicate furnishings adorned the right side, including an antique writing desk and ornately framed paintings. The aroma of beeswax furniture polish blended with the faint traces of lilacs, creating an overwhelmingerenchantment within the space.

The tour through his new home brought John a strange comfort in the unfamiliar, as Sarah began informing him about the customary practices and daily routines he should be aware of as a plantation owner. Her introductions were thorough, yet gentle, as though she weighed every word to ensure no offense would be inadvertently given. Her speech was crisp, accentuating the cultivated intelligence she conveyed.

“Masta Berrien, your meals will be served in the dining room at the usual hours unless otherwise specified,” Sarah informed him, gesturing towards the wide doorway beside which an elaborately carved mahogany table expected its guests.

John carefully observed Sarah, noticing the sense of authority and intellect with which she conducted herself. The stately curve of her back and the slight arch in her neck alluded to an inherent dignity that she carried with grace. She moved delicately about the house, displaying a natural poise that drew John to overestimate, just for a moment, her status and importance within this world.

Indeed, Sarah Johnson seemed so much more than simply a slave maid - she exhibited both the courage and intelligence of a free woman. As dinner neared, she busied herself around the dining room, readying it for his meal.

Sarah served dinner with poise and elegance. Platters of fried chicken, buttery cornbread, boiled okra, and collard greens filled the table with the aroma of a thousand delicious memories. Although Sarah and Jebediah were allowed to eat humble portions of the same food, slavery dictated that they dine later, away from their master.

Despite their presence, John felt a profound loneliness in this house. Surrounded by finery and material possessions, he longed for the camaraderie and loving relationships he had left behind in Philadelphia.

John’s eyes caught Sarah’s once more, her dark, warm gaze seemingly able to penetrate the loneliness gripping him.

“Would you care for another serving, Masta Berrien?” she asked in her gentle, yet firm voice.

“No, thank you, Sarah. It was a generous helping,” he replied, the sincerity in his voice evident.

“Your cooking, Sarah, is exquisite.” John spoke the truth. He was not merely being polite in his compliment. In fact, since starting his journey, the fried chicken placed on his plate was the best he’d tasted.

“That is mighty kind of you, Masta Berrien. Well, it needs to be. You are now the master of this fine establishment, and your reputation must be hale and hearty in all aspects.”

As Sarah cleared the table, John reflected on her boldness. Slave or not, she expressed authority in her manner and her words. He couldn’t help but feel intrigued by Sarah’s poise, intelligence, and the vulnerability she wore beneath her gown.

Excusing himself from the dining room, John climbed the sweeping staircase and disappeared behind the door of his new bedroom—a lavish retreat with sturdy, dark furniture, a towering four-poster bed, and plush velvet curtains that puffed softly when a gentle breeze blew through the open window.

As John drifted into sleep, Savannah’s sultry embrace welcomed him to the unfamiliar lullaby of Georgia’s countryside. The comfortable weight of the mahogany four-poster bed swallowed John whole, wrapping him in velvety darkness but failing to dull the vivid impressions of Sarah Johnson lingering in his mind.