Rufus’s name didn’t fit the pattern because Terrence hadn’t known what month he’d been born. So Terrence had named him for the reddish tint of his hair. A reddish tint, Terrence had noted in his journal, indicated severe malnourishment; he’d not expected the scrawny child to live out the month. But Rufus had lived out that month and the thousands that followed, and he was still here, while the man who’d lamented having to pay American dollars for him was dead and buried.
“Good on you, Mr. Rufus,” she murmured as she replaced the journal to its spot on the shelf and, tucking her partially written letter in a pocket of her gown, gathered the tea set and accoutrements onto the tray and took them all upstairs. She bumped into Mr. Rufus in the cross halls.
“Let me get that, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said as he took the tray from her, his white-gloved hands deft and practised as he turned towards the kitchen without so much as a delicate tinkle from the china that had clinked and clacked the entire time she’d carried it.
She fell in behind him, impressed by his straight-backed bearing and near-soundless progress.
If she ignored the snowy stubble fuzzing his dark skull and the criss-crossed crevices lining his neck above the stiff white collar of his shirt, and focussed only on his squared shoulders and the tapered fit of his black morning coat, the tails as crisp as his ironed trousers, she could not be faulted for believing him a man in his mid-to-late thirties. Yet she knew from her travails through Terrence Sweeney’s writings that he’d been brought to the plantation at approximately two years of age in 1845—in, as Mr. Banner had told her, the arms of a woman not his mother.
Terrence had named the woman Honey for the colour of her eyes. She must have been striking, for he immediately installed her in the main house as his paramour under the auspice of housemaid. More telling, he let her keep Rufus with her—a rarity, his journals revealed, as he normally sold off his slave paramours’ offspring to ensure their mothers weren’t unduly distracted when he called upon them.
Honey remained a mainstay in his life and writings over the next two decades until her death, about which he’d expressed true regret. Young Rufus, however, disappeared off the page between his arrival at Sugar Hill and 1850, when Terrence noted he’d put him to work fanning flies away from the family’s dinner table. Two years later, there was brief mention of him polishing Terrence’s shoes and other leatherwork, and two years after that, care of the household silver was added to his responsibilities. The day following Honey’s death in 1864, he was made butler, perhaps in homage to her. Fifty-two years later, he moved and spoke with the same graceful formality she imagined he’d brought to the role his first day.
Her throat closed on the enormity of his long service at Sugar Hill, and equitably stunted life.
How many times had he trod this hallway, likely carrying that exact tea set? And for forty of those years, he’d known he was legally free and innocent. Miss Alma, too. They’d known they should be able to walk out the front door. Yet they’d not been able to. Not without risking jail time—or death. It boggled her mind.
And broke her heart.
Careful to keep her voice neutral if not cheerful, she asked, “When was the last time you enjoyed a vacation, Mr. Rufus?”
A faint hitch in his gliding walk was the only indication that her question, or presence behind him, had startled him, for nary a porcelain vessel tinged. When he answered, his deep voice was smooth, if notably cautious, “Oh, I guess las’ summer, ma’am. I enjoyed an afternoon picnicking on the river bank south o’ here.”
She was grateful to be behind him so he couldn’t see the anguish on her face.
A single afternoon picnic a short walk away hardly constituted a vacation. Yet there was not even trace of sarcasm or regret in his tone, just simple acceptance.
And that was totally unacceptable.
He’d lived almost the entirety of his life at Sugar Hill, and Miss Alma had lived all of hers here. Each was as integral to the plantation’s past and present success as the sugar, cotton, and tobacco that had kept its coffers full and grounds green. They deserved far greater acknowledgement for their sacrifices and hard work than simple recognition as Sugar Hill’s longest-serving and most senior servants. They deserved to retire and live out their lives in service only to themselves. But as neither was inclined, and she’d not force them...
“How would you like an extended vacation, Mr. Rufus? Anywhere in the world you’d like to go...outside of where the war is causing conflict, of course.”
He stopped, stared straight ahead a moment, and then, easing out a slow breath that dragged his square shoulders lower, turned and faced her.
“Whatever you think’s best, ma’am,” he said with a polite nod. “I’ll jus’ give this to Miss Alma an’ get my things together, if that’s all right.”
“Your things? What—I didn’t mean right—oh. No, no,” she said, noting the faint resignation ruffling his normal stoicism. “I’m not firing you, Mr. Rufus. I meant it. I meant a vacation. A real one. Wherever, and for as long as you wish to go. You and Miss Alma both. I’ve looked over years of ledgers and found nothing to indicate either of you have ever enjoyed a vacation. Heaven knows you’ve earned it.”
He stared at her a long moment before asking with genuine consternation, “But...where would I go, ma’am?”
“Anywhere you want.”
His salted eyebrows dipped as he nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s very generous, ma’am,” he said, nodding slowly. “I’m not sure where that might be. I’ll think on it. If that’s all right?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled. “That’s exactly what I want you to do. Because once you’ve decided where to go, I’ll arrange it. At my expense, you understand. All of it. Travel, hotel, food...Your vacation, for however long you wish, will be my gift to you, Mr. Rufus, for all you’ve done for my late husband and his family.”
The faint gleam of interest and surprise her offer had inspired in his gaze winked out like a snuffed candle flame with the words “and his family.”
With a polite nod, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. You are very generous.” Raising the tea tray a quarter inch, he added, “I should get this along to Miss Alma. If I might be excused?”
“Of course, and please share with Miss Alma what I said. Let her know I’d like her to think on where she’d like to go, too.”
“I’ll do that, ma’am. Thank you.”
She held her smile as he turned away, undaunted by the scepticism—or repressed anger for all Terrence and Cyril Sweeney had put him through—muting his demeanour.
She’d speak with Mr. Banner tomorrow about organising coverage for Mr. Rufus and Miss Alma’s extended absences—which there would be, if she had to pack and carry their trunks for them.
Her heart jigged at the prospect of sending away two people who, in six short weeks, she’d already become fond of.
It skipped again at the prospect of working closely with Mr. Banner to facilitate their time away—careless excitement she immediately quashed.
“He works for you, Margaret,” she muttered as she returned to the study. “He’s your estate manager. Nothing more. That goes for his daughter, too. You need to leave them both well enough alone.”
Only that was becoming increasingly difficult to do.
The more time she spent with them, the more she liked them. And the more questions she had about them—questions Mr. Banner deftly evaded. Though she had only herself to blame for that.
She’d not yet posed a direct question to him or Maisie about their combined background. Nor had she made any subtle attempt to gather knowledge through anyone else, especially Maisie, during their afternoon socials.
So far, talk had ranged from the best shortening for pie crusts—Miss Alma swore by Crisco—to Vogue’s foray into pattern making that Coral could not be more delighted about; the barking sound tree frogs made, how grass stems tasted, and how Miss Chloe whined when she didn�
�t get her way.
One conversation had ended up in the stars, literally, and she was still puzzling out how best to describe what stars looked like to a child who’d never seen a spark from a fire or the glitter of a polished diamond in sunlight. Fortunately, Maisie had agreed to let her think on it.
Of all their meandering discourse in an afternoon, however, no one had touched on the subject of Maisie’s mother. Not even Maisie, which suggested whatever she’d learned from her father had offered her satisfactory closure. Now, if only she could find some answers.
With a sigh, she lowered herself to the chair before the study desk and slid the fountain pen free of its holder.
The partial notes she’d scrawled on the notepad that morning glared accusingly up at her.
While the current bale price of tobacco or its vulnerability to June beetle larvae and roundworms should have earned her studious attention, she’d ended up closing her eyes to better appreciate the timbre of Mr. Banner’s voice—and to better identify the different odours wafting from his clothes and skin. Horse, soil, and sunshine, all spiced with a minty hint of tooth powder and the astringent odour of lye soap that told her he’d brushed his teeth and washed his hands after coming in from the fields prior to their meeting.
His enthusiasm about the potential for expansion now that tobacco was roaring back to profitability had inspired similar excitement in her. The estate’s profit margins had plummeted into red territory between 1907 and 1911. But Mr. Banner’s determination in seeking alternate markets, combined with George’s investments and a cash infusion from his architecture business, had kept it afloat during a period of over-abundant yet poor-quality tobacco that sent prices free-falling. They’d begun a slow climb out of leveraged debt in 1912. But the outbreak of war was when the estate’s fortunes had taken a dramatic turn for the better.
Soldiers, it seemed, smoked a lot of cigarettes and cigars, and Sugar Hill couldn’t produce tobacco fast enough—hence Mr. Banner’s wish to expand by rejuvenating fields left fallow during the scarce years, and Margaret’s decision to send Elizabeth tobacco to aid in her Christmas gift-giving venture.
Rolling the pen’s smooth length against her closed mouth, she recalled how Mr. Banner had sketched the air with his sun-darkened hands, adding dimension to his verbal descriptions and estimations. She’d had to fight to keep from grasping one—or both—of his hands to feel for herself their visible strength and warmth.
“Oh, stop.” She glowered at her haphazard shorthand. “You’re not a fresh-faced debutante anymore, and he’s not the season’s catch. You’re a widowed woman and business owner. Act like it.”
Oh, Maggie, dearest. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You deserve to be happy. I want you to be happy.
The pen landed on the desk with a clattering plink as she straightened and looked around. But the diffused daylight streaming in through the tall windows to bleach the red-papered walls orange revealed no human forms, ghostly or otherwise.
Still, she stood to glance behind the door and leather sofa before releasing a half laugh.
Undoubtedly, she’d spent far too long inside the house, and inside her and Terrence Sweeney’s heads.
But the voice had sounded so clear, and so real, as if George really had been there in the room with her.
Unable to resist, she scanned the room and bank of windows once more, careful to examine the floor below the bunched drapery for toes of shoes or boots. But it seemed she was alone with the shelved books and grim oil portraits.
Checking to ensure the secret door to the archive was locked, she escaped the room through the terrace doors.
She needed fresh air and sunshine far from the visages, recorded thoughts, and ghostly voices of people past.
Chapter 12
A Request
THE SUDDEN RIGIDITY in Jericho’s beanpole frame, and his glance past Joe’s shoulder, informed Joe that they were no longer alone. He turned around.
She stood about ten yards away, her back to the shade hut, holding a black parasol angled to shield her from the sun.
“We’ll go over this again tomorrow,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “For now, continue as we’ve been doing.”
“Yessir.” Jericho snaked a long black arm, criss-crossed with puckered pink scars courtesy of a sadistic stepfather, past Joe to grab his hat off the drying table. Ducking out the doorway, he offered a polite “G’day, ma’am” to Mrs. Sweeney’s back before vanishing around the side of the hut. If she heard him, she didn’t respond, but remained facing the tobacco plants, a slender, lonely silhouette stamped black against a green backdrop.
Lonely? What prompted that estimation, other than her status as a widow?
For all he knew, she was happy. Happy to enjoy all the material trappings of marriage—a big house, money, and servants—with none of the inconvenience of having to accommodate someone else’s moods or idiosyncrasies.
Only she didn’t act happy. But neither did she act lonely. Or scared. Or unhappy. It was like her internal gauge was stuck on tepid, streaming an endless tap of British stoicism. Hell, she’d not even considered contacting the sheriff after Barrister’s pistol- and knife-waving visit but made some murmur about it being a family squabble not worthy of the local authorities’ time.
Sheriff Klugg wouldn’t have acted on her complaint anyway, but she didn’t know that—didn’t know Klugg and Barrister went back almost as far as the cradle. She’d simply shrugged off Barrister, and his mother and sisters, the way she might an itchy sweater on a hot day. And here she was, ramrod straight and silent, waiting for him to attend her like a queen waiting on a page.
Lifting the stones from the corners of the paper sheaves he’d spread on the wooden ledge top, he took his time rolling the documents before fitting them carefully inside the felt-lined leather tube propped at his feet. Latching the buckle, he slung the case over his shoulder, slapped on his hat, and stepped out into the hot sun to see what was important enough to bring his boss the half mile from the manor to the hut but not the remaining thirty feet to its interior.
More irritating than her sudden appearance in the middle of his workday was that part of him liked that she’d shown up. It was the same part that scrubbed sweat off the back of his neck and dirt out from under his nails before brushing his teeth and smoothing his hair to join her in the study each morning.
Suppressing that part, he shot a baleful glare down the rutted wagon track, expecting to see Magnus and the curricle. But it seemed she’d come alone.
The unoccupied gig was parked in the shade of tall pines, the horse attached to it resting with one hind leg cocked and its blinkered head lowered, swishing away flies with its tail.
Adjusting the position of the case’s strap on his shoulder, he eased out a slow breath and, willing a semblance of pleasantry to his voice, said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sweeney. What brings you all the way out here?”
Alone.
SHE SWUNG AROUND, A smile poised on her lips. He wasn’t smiling, but nor was he scowling. He’d done a fair job of sounding pleased to see her, too. But the faint glimmer deep in the green depths of his eyes, like embers smouldering below surface peat, revealed his mood, which at the moment seemed caught somewhere between curiosity and exasperation.
“I hope I didn’t disturb something important?” she asked.
“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.” He nudged his hat higher on his sweat-dampened brow. “Is there something important that brought you out way back here?”
From his tone, anyone unfamiliar with the short if bumpy ride from the main house, through trees and gnarled undergrowth, to the section of cleared land taken over by rows of tobacco plants would think she’d travelled by burro all the way from Brazil to the Adirondacks.
“I have something I was hoping you might help me with,” she said.
“Oh?” Wariness coloured his tone, though his blank expression hardly changed. He’d slot into any upper-class English household’s staff wi
th nary a ripple, so proficient was he at keeping his thoughts from showing on his face.
But not his eyes.
Never his eyes.
She advanced a step to see them more clearly.
“It’s more personal than professional. But I believe you’re best positioned to help me.” This time her words evoked strong emotion, just not the kind she’d hoped to see.
His gaze shuttered, and his jaw hardened. Afraid he might decline before she could make her request, she blurted it out, clutching the slim handle of the parasol so tightly she imagined the stem conformed to the impression of her knuckles.
He raised his eyebrows. “And you think I know?”
“No.” Shifting the parasol to one hand, she met his sceptical stare without flinching. “But I do believe if there is anyone who might appreciate and understand what I want to do, and help me do it, it’s you.”
APPRECIATE? WITHOUT a doubt. Understand why she felt the need to right a century of wrongs after just few months at Sugar Hill? He wasn’t sure he did. And this request, unlike the child’s burial, would likely take longer than a couple of hours. How long, he couldn’t surmise. But she was correct—he was better positioned than her to begin enquiries.
He knew the area and the people, and, more importantly, the people knew him. Odds were greater he’d find traction where she might spin her wheels indefinitely, especially if Barrister had tossed her reputation in the mud—which, he knew from Jericho, he had.
Rumours were buzzing, suggesting she had murdered George to become rich off his tobacco and land.
The Red-Headed Black Widow was the moniker floating on lips of the less judicious. A prudent few would not pass the salacious nonsense along, and fortunately he considered most of them his friends. Friends with access to the kind of information she was hoping he could help her find.
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