Black widower buys 4 young women at auction, takes them home, and marries them to his sons…
It all began with an unthinkable act. A black widower bought four young women at a market, but what no one imagined was that he didn’t want them for servitude or pleasure. He took them to his estate and changed each of their destinies. What seemed like a story of power transformed into something much deeper.
But wait, because amidst silences, wounds, and broken gazes, there’s a hidden secret buried in a shoe capable of destroying reputations and forever changing what you thought you knew. Welcome to the Period Stories channel. Tell me what city you’re listening from and subscribe to the channel to enjoy the best stories on all of YouTube.
The dust burned, the sun cut like a knife, and the silence weighed heavier than the heat. It was 1883 in San Isidro del Norte, a town buried by oblivion, the dry wind, and the hushed glances that judge. The streets were dirt roads, the facades made of old wood. Everything in that place seemed frozen, except for the murmur of voices.
That day, the town center was taken over by a spectacle as cruel as it was commonplace: an auction of women. Four young women stood barefoot on wooden crates, wearing worn beige dresses, their hair braided, and a board hanging from their necks. It was as if the world could put a price on a life, as if they were nothing more than discarded objects.
None of them cried, none of them spoke. But the pain was evident in their posture, in the way they avoided looking at the men surrounding them, in how they clung to their silence as their only defense against humiliation. The townspeople watched from afar, some with morbid curiosity, others with guilt. No one had the courage to say, “This is wrong.”
And then he appeared, Don Aurelio Montenegro, tall, imposing, with skin as dark as a moonless night, wearing a black hat and carrying a silver cane, a widower for seven years, owner of land, cattle, and the silent fear of the town. But that day he didn’t come as a boss, he came as a man.
A man who had lost his wife to a fever. A man who had raised three children in solitude and discipline. A man who knew what it was to watch someone you love be torn away. Unable to do anything, his boots landed heavily on the dust, the murmurs ceased, and in a voice that asked no permission, he said, “I want them all.” There was a heavy silence. The auctioneer hesitated. No one usually bought them all.
“Are you sure, Don Aurelio?” the man asked, trembling. “Absolutely. They won’t be servants, they won’t be used, they will be family.” No one understood, but no one dared contradict him. One by one, the girls were lowered from their crates, their feet touching the ground for the first time in hours. None of them spoke, but one of them, the one with the most profound gaze, briefly raised her head, and for a second her eyes met Don Aurelio’s.
There was no plea, no hope, only a silent question: “What do you want from us?” He didn’t answer, only extended his hand to help her down. And that small, silent gesture split the town’s history in two. From the shadows, some women whispered, “He’s going to lock them up, he’s going to use them. No white woman comes out of a Black house unscathed.”
But Don Aurelio didn’t look back. He got into his carriage, and with the four girls beside him, he set off for his hacienda, leaving behind not only dust, but unanswered questions. The carriage wheels rolled away, and the wind, for the first time in a long time, carried not just dust, but destiny. The sun was beginning to set when Don Aurelio Montenegro’s carriage crossed through the rusted gates of the El Retiro hacienda.
It was an old, imposing house, built with thick wood, high ceilings, and stories buried in every corner. The cypress trees flanking the entrance seemed like ancient guardians, and the air smelled of damp earth, tanned leather, and broken promises. The four girls stepped out in silence. Their steps were slow, their faces even paler than at the market.
Their gazes remained fixed on the ground, as if raising their eyes might bring punishment. A woman dressed in gray, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, greeted them at the entrance. “Welcome. My name is Doña Elvira. I’m the housekeeper.” Her voice was dry, but not cruel.
She had spent too many years burying emotions to allow another one to escape. Don Aurelio gestured for them to enter. The interior of the house was spacious and cool, with waxed wooden floorboards that creaked under every step. Family portraits hung on the walls, and she was present in every one.
Doña Magdalena, the deceased wife, a woman with a sweet smile and a strong gaze, was still there in death. Her presence was felt in every wilted flower in the vase, in every well-swept corner. The girls were taken to the east wing. Doña Elvira opened the doors one by one. Each of you will have your own room. There is hot water, clean clothes, and privacy. She paused. Here
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