Diary of an Escort Girl: Chapter 2

Threatening reigned in the first room, lit only by a night light. The large clock, which was soon to be removed by its new owners, sounded a lugubrious rattle. From the living room, whose door gaped a little, no sound came. Shivering with anguish and cold, Celia pushed open the door, which resisted her. No sooner had she slipped through the opening than a cry of terror choked in her throat. 

Mouth open, eyes closed, old Joshua lay against the door. Kneeling beside him, Celia whispered his name, in vain. He remained inert, and his black skin looked grey. Despite the panic gripping her, she managed to get up and walked over to the large sofa, only the back of which was visible. How the floor creaked in the silence under his feet! - Mom? She held her breath, not daring to speak out loud. Under the pressure of his clenched fingers, the fabric of the back sank. On the seat, one guessed the presence of a shapeless package, a heap of fabrics. Going around the couch, she saw him move, she heard him moan. Mom, oh, mom! Her mother's hand stretched out towards her, she saw the bare legs of a real Escort Girl, for her petticoats and her dress had been brutally rolled up, up to the waist, perhaps. Quickly, she folded them down completely, so that even her feet disappeared under the fabric. So Celia was able to squat beside her. “Mom, you're hurt, and Josuah isn't moving. I'll get the doctor! -No! 

Her mother's voice was weak, but she underlined her refusal with a violent shake of her head, which gave strength to her denial. “But I'm scared Mom, and I don't know what to do…” Celia felt the caress of a trembling hand on her tear-stained cheek. I don't need anything... Josuah... Go see Josuah... But the old servant, his temple sunk in, had breathed his last. 

His mother had lived through the following months in shame and horror. The despicable attempt, of which she bore the fruit, had extinguished all the flame within her. Drunk with impotent rage, despairing of justice, Celia saw her wasting away. - My complaint will remain unanswered, my darling, the authorities do not care about poor people. And then what does it matter? Northington returned to England. — But the accusation remains, I have read the documents. Life... violence is punishable by...

— An English gentleman escapes American law, he has all the powers, even that of corrupting whoever he pleases. The murder of a black servant matters little to those who govern us, they despise the grievances of a poor widow. I know the privileges of the powerful, my daughter, since not long ago, in France, my family was noble. It is useless to want to fight them. "I believe in justice, Mom!" If Northington goes unpunished, I will avenge you. “Under the two of the world, my heart never yields to its destiny! LORD BYRON 

Paris, September 2013 Celia Sinclair lived in a kind of dazzle. After the ordeal of a long wait, after the pangs of the storm during a painful crossing, she finally saw London and the glaucous but peaceful waves of the Thames. Her hands clutching her reticule, she reread in her mind the letter it contained. On these few pages depended his future, his hopes, his existence. Was the author of this letter, the godmother she had never met, in Paris, could she receive it, support it? 

During the French Revolution, the two cousins, Nabilla and Zahia Remi, had found refuge in England with what remained of their family in order to flee the Terror. Both lively and charming.