“Such beautiful eyes you have,” he said in a soft voice. I was so surprised by his actions and words that I remained static in my seat without uttering a word.

He pointed at my fake facial hair. “May I?”

I nodded and he gently pulled the beard and mustache off.

“It’s a little irritated,” he said, staring at my chin. “And your cheek is already swollen. You’re going to get a bad bruise from that punch.”

The last thing I cared about at the moment was getting a bruise. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch, by having his attention. I’d never imagined him to be so kind. At the same time, I thought about my husband and how disloyal I was being by sharing this intimate moment with another man.

Martin opened the tin, filling the area with a sharp menthol scent, and with the tip of his finger rubbed the waxy texture into my face. I breathed in the peppermint and alcohol from his fingers and flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing softer. “You’re going to have to wait for this to dry before you put your beard back on.”

This was surreal. To think that Martin, the plantation administrator, who should have more allegiance to the family than to a stranger, like myself, was helping me out. Why was he doing this? I was somewhat dazed by his proximity, by his smell, by his body leaning over me, that I couldn’t think straight.

Nervously, I ran my tongue over my dry lips. He stared at my mouth for a few seconds.

“I have to say,” he said, holding my gaze, “you are much prettier as a woman than as a man.”

I tried to suppress a smile but didn’t succeed.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked.

“Because I like you.”

He was so nonchalant he made it seem as though there wasn’t anything awkward about the way we’d met or gotten to know each other. I tried hard not to think about what he meant by “like.”

“But what about my sisters?” I said after a long pause. “You must not care about the family at all.” And if so, what did that say about his character? As far as I understood, he’d worked for my father for years. Had he no loyalty? Not that I was complaining about having his help, but it was also worrisome.

He pulled up, gathered his things from the table.

“Not any more than they care about me. Ours is a professional arrangement. I’m a free man and can switch jobs or bosses if I want.” He returned the menthol to the drawer. “Land can be sold, acquired, or passed down from one person to another, it doesn’t belong to one person or one family until the end of time. We don’t live in a monarchy.”