The Gilda Stories Read Free Page A

learned that they, too, could be as dangerous as their men.
    Gilda shook the Girl whose eyes were now open but unseeing. The night was long, and Gilda did not have time for a hysterical child. The brown of her eyes darkened in impatience.
    â€œCome on, gal, what you doin’ in my root cellar?” The Girl’s silence deepened. Gilda looked at the stained, torn shirt, the too-big pants tied tightly at her waist, and the wood-handled knife in the Girl’s grip. Gilda saw in her eyes the impulse to use it.
    â€œYou don’t have to do that. I’m not going to hurt you. Come on.” With that Gilda pulled the Girl to her feet, careful not to be too rough; she could see the Girl was weak with hunger and wound tight around her fear. Gilda had seen a runaway slave only once. Before she’d recognized the look and smell of terror, the runaway had been captured and hauled off. Alone with the Girl, and that look bouncing around the low-ceilinged cellar, Gilda almost felt she should duck. She stared deeply into the Girl’s dark eyes and said silently, You needn’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you. The night hides many things.
    The Girl loosened her grip on the knife under the persuasive touch of Gilda’s thoughts. She had heard of people who could talk without speaking but never expected a white to be able to do it. This one was a puzzlement to her: the dark eyes and pale skin. Her face was painted in colors like a mask, but she wore men’s breeches and a heavy jacket.
    Gilda moved in her small-boned frame like a team of horses pulling a load on a sodden road: gentle and relentless. “I could use you, gal, come on!” was all Gilda said as she lifted the Girl and carried her out to the buggy. She wrapped a thick shawl around the Girl’s shoulders and held tightly to her with one hand as she drew the horse back onto the dark road.
    After almost an hour they pulled up to a large building on the edge of the city—not a plantation house, but with the look of a hotel. The Girl blinked in surprise at the light which glowed in every room as if there were a great party. Several buggies stood at the side of the house with liveried men in attendance. A small open shed at the left held a few single, saddled horses that munched hay. They inclined their heads toward Gilda’s horse. The swiftness of its approach was urgent, and the smell the buggy left behind was a perfumed wake of fear. The horses all shifted slightly, then snorted, unconcerned. They were eating, rested and unburdened for the moment. Gilda held the Girl’s arm firmly as she moved around to the back of the house past the satisfied, sentient horses. She entered a huge kitchen in which two women—one black, one white-prepared platters of sliced ham and turkey.
    Gilda spoke quietly to the cook’s assistant. “Macey, please bring a tray to my room. Warm wine, too. Hot water first though. Not breaking her stride, she tugged the Girl up the back stairs to the two rooms that were hers. They entered a thickly furnished sitting room with books lining the small bookshelf on the north wall. Paintings and a few line drawings hung on the south wall. In front of them sat a deep couch, surrounded by a richly colored hanging fabric.
    This room did not have the urgency of those below it. Few of the patrons who visited the Woodard place—as it was still known although that family had not owned it in years—had ever been invited into the private domain of its mistress. This was where Gilda retreated at the end of the night, where she spent most of the day reading, alone except for a few of the girls or Bird. Woodard’s was the most prosperous establishment in the area and enjoyed the patronage of some of the most esteemed men and women of the county. The gambling, musical divertissements, and the private rooms were all well attended. Gilda employed eight girls, none yet twenty, who lived in the house and worked