"I am a victim, I have no qualms with this word, only with the idea that it is all that I am." Chanel Miller, Know My Name 

----

I.

Fast. Faster. Be faster.

The wind howled. It was a more vicious wind than Belle had heard in a long time. It was more than a storm. It had to be a hurricane blowing into Saint-Martin.

Rain simultaneously pelted the earth with unyielding aggression, soaking the dirt beneath her feet. Belle was nearly sinking into the mud, her bare feet frozen, and she could hardly see three steps in front of her as she trekked through the fields in the dead of the night. Her hair was plastered to her face, and her dress was completely soaked through.

But she wouldn't stop. Belle ought to have been afraid of dying in such a storm. Any normal person would have been afraid to be out in such weather. But she was not afraid. She could never fear death. She knew that there were far worse fates than death.

Faster. Be faster. Belle willed herself to be faster with every step she took. Every step was one step further away. Her rapid heartbeat rivalled the sounds of the thunder above as she pushed herself to keep going.

This was it. It was now or never. Belle had waited years for an opportunity like this. She had waited, suffered, endured her life for years without ever having a moment to run. It had taken a hurricane coming for Belle to have a chance.

And she did see trekking through a hurricane as a chance. She would rather die here, die now trying to escape during this storm, then remain behind and wish every day that she were dead.

A loud clap of thunder startled Belle awake, and it took a moment for her to grasp her bearings. She was not in Saint-Martin and had not been for a long time. She was in England, in a little Hertfordshire village called Ashwood, the place that had been her home for the last three months. The thunder that she had heard was from a summer thunderstorm which had appeared out of nowhere and had done quite well at frightening off any of the usual shoppers who would be out and about in the village. That same thunder had triggered her memories of a time that she so longed to forget.

"If you've got nothing better to do than sleep on the job, girl, then I'd sooner lease that space to someone who was going to make me a penny."

Belle looked up to see Ashwood's grocer, Mr Andrews, standing by a display of baked goods. He was a man of about thirty or so, with light coloured hair and pale blue eyes. He wore an apron over his white shirt, his sleeves rolled up out of the way as he cleaned, as evidenced by the broom he held in his right hand.

"I'm sorry," Belle apologised. "It won't happen again." She knew why she was tired. She was up most nights sewing Susanna's wedding dress. She would never begrudge making Susanna's gown. In fact, she was honoured to have been asked. Designing gowns, like the one that she was creating for Susanna, was exactly what Belle loved and wanted to do. She had always loved drawing, and her own imagination for these sorts of things had helped her create an escape for herself long before she had ever been free.

If her circumstances were different, Belle would have loved to do what she was doing for Susanna for other ladies. She would have loved to be able to create and make beautiful wedding gowns, ball gowns, and debutante gowns.

But they weren't, and Belle would never allow herself to feel ungrateful for even a moment. She might not have had her own shop, but she was working, and she was sewing. It did not matter that the sewing she was employed to do was fixing buttons and hems.

The dowager duchess, Cecily, had arranged it all. Really, she had bullied Mr Andrews into agreeing with her. She was a hard woman to refuse.

There had once been a tailor in the village of Ashwood, quite a long time ago, Belle understood, and he had been the father of the young duchess, Grace. The shop he had once leased had long been occupied by another vendor, and so Cecily had persuaded Mr Andrews to give Belle space at the grocer to establish herself as a seamstress.

Mr Andrews had been amenable to the idea, just not the seamstress. Belle was used to apprehension, mistrust ... and disgust. Her appearance was startling to many.

Her eyes, Belle found, often made people uncomfortable, wary, or uneasy. She was quite used to this, as there were many people where she had grown up who were raised to be fearful of witches. Belle was uncertain how possessing golden coloured eyes made her a witch, but such was the assumption of someone who had such a startling feature, made even more prominent by her cool, dark complexion. Belle had become accustomed to looking down whenever she engaged with a white person.

She was one of three black people in the village of Ashwood, who were all still quite getting used to the fact that there were people beyond their village borders who looked differently to them. Lady Susanna Beresford's engagement announcement to Alex Whitfield two months earlier had caused quite the stir. A stir, really, was an understatement. Many thought Susanna mad, though they would never dare insult a lady of her rank by saying so to her face.

Belle heard the gossip in the shop. People didn't watch their words in front of her. Perhaps it was because she spoke with a heavy French accent and so they thought she would not understand, or perhaps it was because they thought her invisible or insignificant.

Belle could not be wounded by either. Words could never hurt her. She knew pain, and this was not it.

Belle quickly returned her attention to the spencer coat that she had been in the process of mending before she had nodded off. As much as she could dream of the sorts of gowns she would like to create, once again, Belle would never be ungrateful for paid work, even if she was only able to keep thirty-five percent of what she earned.

That had been Mr Andrews' condition upon allowing Belle to operate within his shop. He would take sixty-five percent of her earnings as compensation for any lost business he would suffer for having a black girl work from within his store.

Thirty-five percent was more than Belle had ever thought possible for her. Paid work was a blessing. Belle was grateful for her blessings.

As she sewed, the sound of the storm outside did cause her mind to wander, as it had done when she had fallen asleep. It had been more than a year since her flight from Saint-Martin.

Belle had been almost certain that she would have been caught trying to escape. People were caught, and shot, for such crimes all the time. Had she been caught; she would have wished for such a fate. After all, she did not fear death.

But just because she did not fear death, it did not mean that Belle was fearless. Quite the opposite. Belle feared greatly. She could be sick with it. She could induce night terrors from her own memories. But memories she could survive. It had been more than a year since Belle's fears had been her reality.

Belle was determined that what she had endured on Saint-Martin would never be her reality again. Never would she speak of it. Never would anyone know. That life, and the person it had belonged to, was dead, as far as Belle was concerned.

But sadly, ghosts always lingered.

Belle spent the rest of the day mending the garments that had been left for her, and she ensured that they were neatly folded ready for their owners to collect them the following day. What with the weather, Belle did not expect anyone to venture out.

Peering out the shop window, Belle observed that the rain had eased, but there was still a good, constant drizzle falling from the sky. She could hardly believe it considering it was July. She was certainly not in the Caribbean anymore, and thank God for that. Rain, Belle decided, was just another kind of good weather.

Despite the fact that the rain had let up, it was still a fair walk back to Ashwood House, so Belle knew that she should have thought to have brought an umbrella with her. Mr Andrews sold them, but after Belle had passed on what she owed to Mr Andrews, she really could not afford it today.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, did the shop door open, and the little bell above chime. Belle smiled as she saw Alex Whitfield cross the threshold, carrying exactly what she needed. An umbrella.

If it was possible, Alex looked as though he had grown even taller in the three months they had been in England. Perhaps it was that he had grown wider in his brawn as he regained much of the muscular strength that Belle remembered seeing on him when they had first met on the smugglers' ship.

No, she decided, he was definitely taller. He stood taller, prouder, as an honest working man.

The moment that Alex and Susanna's engagement had been announced, it was then quickly decided that it was highly inappropriate for the engaged couple to be living under the same roof. Susanna's brother, the duke, then decided on gifting Alex and Susanna their wedding present early.

Land.

Belle knew that she could understand best what land meant to Alex, what it meant to be his own master. And he now carried himself with that pride.

Belle was not entirely certain what had drawn her to Alex when she had first encountered him on the ship. Of course, she was concerned for his health, but something within her told her that this man was safe. Such a feeling was entirely foreign to Belle. She had never known a safe man. She had never felt safe with a man.

Even now, sharing a space with Mr Andrews, Belle did not feel at ease, even though she knew in her deepest soul that nothing bad was going to happen. It was something that was now intrinsically ingrained into her. It was how she had survived. Men were not safe.

But Alex was. Belle looked upon him as an older brother, a protector, which was someone that she had never had. Belle had been abandoned as an infant. She had never known family, and yet she had felt the connection of family for the first time with Alex. Their shared experiences bonded them in a way nobody else could understand.

Even now, Alex really did know very little about Belle. This was because she didn't share. This was because she wouldn't share. But Alex knew not to ask.

"Are you finished for the day?" Alex asked her. "I had thought I had better walk you back, what with this weather."

"Yes, I am," Belle confirmed, nodding. "Thank you."

"How do you do, Mr Andrews," Alex greeted the grocer politely.

Mr Andrews nodded his head. "Be on your way now," he urged stiffly.

Belle pocketed her money tin and left the shop, followed closely by Alex who put up the umbrella as soon as they were out in the street. They walked together in the middle of the road, which was abandoned, of course, due to the weather. There were still people about, however. Belle could see them at the windows, looking out, and down, on their new black neighbours with mixed expressions of curiosity and distrust.

People seemed to distrust and dislike those they did not understand. In a way, Belle was glad for them. If they did not understand, then it meant that they had never known the life that she had once lived. She would never wish that on her worst enemy.

Stares she could live with. Stares she could cope with. Because while they stared, Belle walked the street as a free woman. That feeling alone was worth more to her than they would ever know.

"Are you alright?" Alex asked Belle as they walked. "You seem very lost in your thoughts today."

Belle immediately nodded as she met Alex's dark eyes. She smiled to reassure him, though she could feel it in her own facial muscles that it was not a convincing smile. "Just a bad dream," she murmured dismissively.

Alex nodded knowingly. "I have those dreams sometimes," he replied.

Belle didn't reply. She couldn't. She did not want to have such a conversation, and Alex knew that about her. He didn't ask. He didn't expect her to say anything more.

"Do you think the news will have reached Ashwood today?" he asked, changing the subject. "Were there any letters before you left this morning?"

The Beresfords were anxiously awaiting the news of the birth of Jack and Claire's second child. The last letter had arrived not a week ago with the news that the birth was imminent.

The dowager duchess had been very put out when her son had specifically asked that the family stay away for the birth. Belle understood that the birth of their first child had been quite traumatic. The letter had stated that once Claire and the new child were both well enough, they would visit.

"I left before breakfast," replied Belle, "so I did not see if there had been any letters delivered."

"Before breakfast? Did you eat?" queried Alex.

"Yes, of course," retorted Belle. Her thin appearance was frequently commented on, and it bothered her greatly. It made her feel very self-conscious. Belle had been naturally slender and small all her life, and when she looked in the mirror, she resembled the size and weight that she had been before being starved on that smuggling ship. She knew that her cheekbones protruded, but they always had, and they, along with her strange eyes made her face very startling to look at. Belle had never had a womanly figure, even if she was only nineteen. Her waist and hip measurements were nearly identical. She disliked her bony arms and wrists, and how people liked to collect them and wrap their hands around them to demonstrate just how little she was.

She hated to be touched when she was not expecting it. It made her panic inside. It made her feel unsafe.

Belle understood that to be fuller was to be attractive, and that the way she looked was very unattractive. She didn't like to be reminded that she was unattractive. Despite not wanting to care, she did not like to think that no one would ever find her desirable, even if the very idea of a man thinking that way frightened her to death.

"Alright," Alex replied, leaving the subject there, clearly observing that Belle did not like to discuss it. "Come on," he urged. "Faster. Before either one of us catches our death."

And with just the mention of the word, Belle could vividly feel her bare feet trudging through mud once more, as she willed herself to move faster. How powerful were nightmares when they could haunt a person while they were awake?

----

Hope you enjoyed it!! And I hope you are ready for another drama filled ride as I make my characters WORK for an ending! I cannot wait to tell you Peter and Belle's story. I've had this planned for at least a year and I finally get to write it yay! I actually just checked my notes up and I wrote this plan on the 6th of June last year!

Now, I really want to emphasise a big SA trigger warning for this story. I want to assure you that I will NEVER write scenes of graphic SA, but sadly the stories of many black women of this time, particularly female slaves, is that they were victims of SA, and my beautiful Belle is no different. I will allude to SA, and I will mention it, but as I said, I will never write any graphic descriptions of it. 

If this is still too much for you, and you aren't comfortable, that is completely okay! You do what you need to do to feel safe xxxx I ALWAYS ALWAYS want my stories to be a safe place for people to come and it would break my heart if someone didn't feel safe here. 

I hope you're able to join me for this story! 

Please let me know what you think!! Vote and comment!