What kind of man sold his wife?
“She agreed to this?” he asked.
The man next to him shrugged.
He supposed it did not matter. The laws were that Mrs. Clay was the property of her husband to do with as he wished.
“She keeps a clean tent, does well with the laundry and is a mediocre cook, but does well considering she was raised with servants who did these chores prior to her marrying me.”
Did she come from a titled family or was she an heiress? If so, why had she married a lieutenant in the cavalry?
“At one time she was even an excellent bed partner.”
There were jeers all around and disgust layered in on the anger filled his being.
“She will at least keep you warm on those cold nights.”
Mrs. Clay’s cheeks had pinkened and if he was not mistaken, fury and hate filled those usually kind blue eyes.
As the bidding started, Orlando remained and watched, unable to stop himself. The urge to protect her grew stronger as the price rose and when Lieutenant Clay called, “You certainly could do better than seven shillings. That is barely a day’s pay when you are getting your own personal servant and…” He cocked his head and smiled, indicating what he thought the most important thing to be.
“Ten shillings,” one man called.
“Twelve,” another yelled. That man stood beside another and the two had their heads together since the bidding began. Did they intend to share her?
That thought had sickened him more than the bloody auction and he could no longer in good conscience remain silent as this travesty unfolded.
“Fifteen shillings,” he called.
The two men who had been bidding glared at him.
“Sixteen shillings,” the first man called.
“Seventeen,” the other countered.
He was not going to stand here all day when Orlando had already decided that she would be his. Therefore, he would bid an amount that would force the other two to drop out, or so he assumed.
“One pound.”
The first man shook his head and turned away.
The second glared at him. “One pound, ten shillings.”
“Two pounds,” Orlando returned.
He was not a rich man by any means, nor was he paid more than anyone else in a similar position, he simply did not spend his funds, other than to assist his sister with food and necessities. He had been saving every shilling that he could since he became a doctor in Wellington’s Army in hopes of supporting himself once he returned to England and began practicing medicine in a village somewhere.
The two men leaned close, one shaking his head.
They did not have the money to outbid him.
The man finally shrugged.
“Sold for two pounds to…What is your name, sir,” Lieutenant Clay called.
“Dr. Orlando Valentine.”
Chapter Two
