Little Ray bowed his head. “’Cause Pa told me I wasn’t to go lookin’ for mushrooms in the woods over here ’cause it was too close to your house an’ he didn’t want me bothering you or Miss Maisie.”
It wasn’t Joe’s house anymore. It never had been, really. After the Sweeneys had moved into the newly constructed big house, it had served as overseer accommodation. George had free-leased it to him as part of his employment benefits on a ninety-nine-year agreement meant to survive his eventual retirement.
“This is your home, Joe,” George had told him, “for as long as you live. I had Lyons write the contract to ensure you can stay—if you want—regardless of whether I’m still alive to run Sugar Hill or you’re still fit enough to work the land. The contract survives me, meaning any future owner or owners have to respect your and Maisie’s right to remain in the cottage and enjoy the half acre within the fence that contains it for as long as you live.”
The following day, George took his architectural acumen on the road. A few months later, Maisie arrived to transform the cottage from a place Joe hung his hat to sleep at night to a home. Now George and the cottage were both gone, taking with them any sense of belonging Joe had felt.
Shaking off his regret, he offered Little Ray a smile. “Thank you for being brave and telling us what you saw. Only next time...” He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t wait. You should have told me, and given me the lighter, right away.”
Little Ray dropped his chin to his spare chest. “I knows, sir. But Pa told me to stay away from the burnt cottage, and I...didn’t know if I could find it. What he dropped. If it would still be there. And when I did find it...” His shoulders sagged.
“You were scared,” Joe murmured. “I understand. You know the man, don’t you? Mr. Griffiths? That’s why you were afraid to tell me—”
“No, sir.” Little Ray looked up and shook his head. “Weren’t Mr. Griffiths. He was a darkie, and big, like my—” His eyes flared fearfully. Biting his lip, he ducked his head again.
Not Griffiths?
Joe frowned at Big Ray and then around the yard, as though expecting the mystery arsonist to emerge from the tree line or from behind the hedgerow. He looked back at Little Ray and immediately recognised his biggest mistake of the day.
His first mistake was the assumption that the watcher in the trees was a stranger. His second was that the arsonist was Griffiths. While his third...By looking at Big Ray and then scanning the surrounding grounds, he’d created the impression he suspected someone on the estate. And not just someone, but a big black someone. No wonder Little Ray hadn’t spoken up sooner. And Joe had just confirmed the validity of his reasoning to withhold the information.
He knelt, and grasped Little Ray lightly by both shoulders. “I know you, Little Ray,” he said quietly. “And I know whoever did that”—he tipped his head at the charred ruins—“wasn’t anyone here. I know that because if it had been, you would have told someone. Your Pa, if not me.” He looked at Big Ray, who offered a slow negative head shake indicating that this was the first time he’d heard any of this from his son.
“You know what else I know?” Joe asked Little Ray, earning a rapid negative head shake from him. “I know I can trust you because I can trust your pa. He’s as honest and trustworthy as they come, like you and everyone else here at Sugar Hill. We’re a family. And families take care of one another, which is why you wanted me to know the truth. Why you used the lighter and the sun to get me to notice you. You wanted to be caught. You wanted me to ask what you were doing so you could tell me what you knew, isn’t that right?”
Little Ray looked up. His startled surprise almost nudged a smile from Joe, but he managed to keep his expression earnest, grave—like a proud father who understood the enormity of what his child suffered. And he was proud of Little Ray. Tempering that pride was appreciation for the spot in which the boy found himself.
Between Scylla and Charybdis.
He doubted Little Ray had read about Homer’s mythological sea monsters, but that didn’t mean he was stupid—not by any stretch of the imagination. He was bright. Very bright.
Bright enough to understand that the dachshund-shaped lighter was not damning in and of itself. Bright enough to understand that without his sharing what he knew with someone inclined to take him seriously, someone who had a personal stake in the situation, what he knew was not worth knowing. But it was too awesome a burden for one little boy to carry alone.
Even if Little Ray had left the lighter in the debris and Joe found it, recognised it for who it belonged to, and made the leap to it being used to the start the fire, there was no way to say who had actually committed the crime.
The novelty lighter’s owner, with a good lawyer and even without one, could argue that it wasn’t his lighter but one like it. And if he couldn’t produce his own lighter, he could claim it had been lost or stolen prior to the night of the fire. Nothing short of an eyewitness, one without known prejudice towards the accused, could help put the canine-shaped lighter in a certain person’s hand on the night in question, at the very moment of ignition.
Joe could almost hear Lyons laying out the parameters necessary to compel legal action and see the criminal who’d burned his home to the ground arrested, if not tried and jailed.
Hanged.
He swallowed—an involuntary urge induced by the visceral feel of a noose cinching on a neck. In this instance, a coloured neck.
No wonder Little Ray had been reluctant to reveal that critical bit of information.
He’d seen the man who’d lit the fire. Seen the uniquely designed lighter in his hand. Watched him touch flame to kerosene-soaked rags. An eight-year-old boy, too young to understand the legal system as it pertained to evidentiary discovery in the criminal context but wise enough to understand the ramifications for every coloured man within a hundred miles of Sugar Hill.
A white man accused, if tried and found guilty, might get jail time. More likely a fine. But a black man accused...Like with the groundsman accused of stealing from the widow Layton, a guilty verdict would have meant the loss of not just the man’s freedom but his life. The same was true now, though not for one man. Many.
The white-led vigilantism Little Ray’s observation could spark would make the cottage fire seem nothing more than a cigarette stubbed in an ashtray. That was something Joe could not—would not—be party to.
He wanted justice, not revenge. He wanted to see the perpetrator called to account for his crime, but not at the expense of innocent men’s lives.
Between Scylla and Charybdis.
He willed a smile. “It’s going to be okay, Little Ray—”
“Joe.”
He looked at Big Ray, followed the man’s gaze, and stifled a curse. Gritting his teeth, he patted Little Ray’s shoulder before pushing upright.
“You two go on home,” he said, his gaze on Mrs. Sweeney and the sheriff, who were headed their way. He slipped the lighter in his pocket and reached for the shirt he’d tossed earlier on a clean patch of grass. “I won’t say anything about what we discussed here if you don’t.”
Chapter 20
Better to Give Than to Receive
“I’M FINE, JOE. I DON’T need help.”
“I’m just tucking you in, Maisie—”
“I don’t need to be tucked in.”
He released the quilt ends and raised his hands in surrender. “How about I read to you?”
“No.” She was propped on a pillow, the quilt to her waist, forearms folded over her chest, and chin tucked into the frills of her nightdress. Her mouth carved a hard line while the padded white bandage above her eye glowed accusingly in the lamplight. “Lisette will read to me until I can read on my own.”
There was such a note of finality in her voice, that Joe lost his. Swallowing, he bent to kiss her cheek.
She angled her head away. “Good night, Joe.”
He stared, and felt something snap loose inside. Some sort of mooring, because a
ll at once he felt adrift.
“Good night, Maisie,” he rasped, and with nod to Lisette, who stood motionless at the foot of the bed holding a copy of Huckleberry Finn, he exited the room, leaving the door open.
His room was across the hall. He left its door open, too, and stopped just inside the threshold as he debated whether to shave now or save it for morning and just crawl into the four-poster bed and stare at the ceiling.
“Close the door, please, Miss Lisette,” Maisie said.
At least she said please.
He kept his back to the hallway until he heard her door click shut. Then he turned and stared at it, full of dread and dismay more appropriate for a man staring at the cell bars he’d wake to every morning for the remainder of his life.
Was she mad he’d worked late every night through the weekend or because he’d failed to take the rug from her room before she’d hurt herself? Or perhaps it was because he’d not taken the initiative to resume conversation about her mother, something he would continue to avoid, if he could, until he had real answers for her.
Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he shook his head.
Maybe Lyons was right. Maybe she needed a mother more than he needed to be in love with whoever he married.
Massaging his face with his hands, he clenched his teeth against a confusing mix of emotion.
Anger. That was easy to identify. He couldn’t recall a time he hadn’t felt it. Frustration. Not uncommon, either. What was foreign was the other emotion twisting inside him: rejection.
Lisette will read to me until I can read on my own.
He let his hands drop and frowned when his gaze caught on the bottle and crystal tumbler on the bureau.
They hadn’t been there when he’d headed out that morning. That meant they’d been placed there some time during the day while he was out. He stifled a rise of irritation at the trespass.
Of course, whoever had delivered it—Rufus, most likely—probably hadn’t thought of it as trespass. He was used to ghosting through rooms for others, while Joe was used to fetching things for himself.
He picked up the card leaning against the bottle.
Maisie told me it’s your favourite. M. S.
He glowered at the ceiling.
What was this, a bribe? Did she think she could buy him with a bottle of whisky? Ten cases wouldn’t keep him here if he thought it best to go. He was here because...Because she...Because Sugar Hill needed him. He couldn’t leave the fields and labourers at the mercy of an inexperienced woman, especially when that woman was under threat from her dead husband’s lying, murderous nephew.
Digging in his pocket for the lighter, he slid it in the top drawer of the dresser and, snagging the bottle by its neck, exited into the hallway. He paused, poised to knock on Maisie’s door, but hearing Miss Lisette’s voice raised in animation as she read, he dropped his hand and set off down the hall.
A CRATE WAS ON THE writing desk when she turned in for the night. Frowning, she read the label, and gasped in delight when she noted the sender: Perkins Institution, Watertown, Massachusetts.
“It came this afternoon while you were out, ma’am,” Coral offered over the racket of cricket and bullfrog sounds filtering through the netting that was draped in front of the open terrace doors to deter winged insects. She peeped out around the privacy screen behind which the copper bathing tub was secreted. “Miss Alma sent it up, knowing you’d want time to sort through it before Miss Maisie learned it was here.”
“She was right about that,” she said, running her hands over the crate’s exterior like it was a magic lamp containing a wish-granting genie. Night had fallen, bringing cooler temperatures but no relief from the humidity. Eager as she was to step out of her clothes and into the bath to soak away the grime and frustration of the day, she was more eager to examine the crate’s contents.
Sheriff Klugg had responded exactly as Mr. Banner predicted—with anaemic disinterest in any possibility the fire had been purposefully set. That made her glad she’d not told him about Mr. Banner’s suspicions about Barrister Griffiths as arsonist. She’d also not told him about the divergent wills and the eviction notice. Mr. Lyons had asked that she let him work behind the scenes, fearing public comments from her about Barrister Griffiths’s potential culpability could lead to a charge of slander against her by him if not by the firm of Ascott, Griffiths, and Gowdy. Lyons had agreed, however, that she could tell the sheriff of Barrister’s threats with pistol and knife, reasoning that there were multiple witnesses to support her version of events and that it was best to have the incident on record, even if her belated report might seem like a retaliatory attempt to discredit Barrister’s claim.
To her surprise, Klugg had known about Barrister’s attempts on her life.
“He came to me the same day it happened,” he told her in his office before reluctantly agreeing to accompany her to Sugar Hill. “He told me he’d acted poorly but that it had been temporary madness born of grief over his uncle’s death and that he was sorry. I told him that if you came to see me about it, I’d relay his sincerest apologies.”
Sincerest apologies.
If anyone owed anyone an apology, it was she who owed Mr. Banner one. Along with a spot of gratitude.
He’d warned her about the sheriff. Told her he’d be less than helpful yet offered no comment to her or Sheriff Klugg beyond his initial hello during the full five minutes Sheriff Klugg deigned to remain at Sugar Hill.
One hand in his pocket, the other holding a shovel, Mr. Banner had stood idle as the sheriff roved a disinterested eye over the ashen remains, and as soon as she and the sheriff turned away to return to the sheriff’s idling motor wagon, he’d resumed heaving spades of powdery debris into a hole like it was his only purpose in life. Not a single, “I told you so” or fiery accusation levelled against Barrister. Just...silence.
Unnerving silence, to be honest, as muteness was not a characteristic she associated with Mr. Banner. If anything, she had started to grow accustomed, if not faintly appreciative, of his ruthless tendency to speak his mind.
Someone had already gone to the trouble to remove the crate’s lid and replace it with the nails hammered flat. The wrapped parcels inside appeared untouched. She tore them open and set out the wooden slates and other material she’d need to teach Maisie, her cheeks aching with the force of her smile.
Finally. Finally, she could discover how to help Maisie learn to string letters together to form words and sentences—whole paragraphs and books—with aid of her fingers, instead of someone else’s eyes and voice.
“Miss Alma said you’d be happy,” Coral said.
“Happy?” Margaret looked over at her. “I’m ecstatic. Do you know what this means for one little girl? It means she’ll one day be able to read on her own. It will open doors to her that would have otherwise remained closed simply because she can’t see what the rest of us can see. She’ll be able to go to university, maybe even become a doctor or a writer.”
“That sounds wonderful, ma’am.” Coral’s smile did not distract Margaret from the note of...envy, or want? in her voice. Which twigged an alarm deep in her teacher’s mind.
She returned the book in her hand to the crate.
“Do you read, Coral?”
She immediately ducked her head. “I don’t have no cause to, ma’am. I do what GG—Miss Alma—tells me to do. And you, of course.”
Something in Margaret’s chest clamped shut, a steel trap puncturing her heart.
Why was everything here so hard, and everyone so...damn accepting of their lot, meagre as it was? She couldn’t remember a time when she couldn’t read.
Who else, besides Coral and Maisie, couldn’t read?
Tomorrow, she’d find out. And offer tutoring to anyone and everyone at Sugar Hill who couldn’t read but wished to learn. She’d have a communal class for sighted students and private tutoring for Maisie. That was how she could best serve Sugar Hill, and in the process give herself every
reason to stay and put down roots. She’d leave the crops to Mr. Banner—provided he stayed—and do what she loved: teach.
“How would you like to learn to read, Coral?”
Coral’s eyes widened. “I...”
“Will try?” Margaret suggested. “Knowing how to read will help improve your chances of succeeding in fashion. Contracts are notoriously tedious. It’s always better if you can read the fine print for yourself.”
Coral chewed her lip before murmuring, “Yes, ma’am. I can try. I can’t say as I’ll be good at it.”
“No one is when they first start,” she assured her. “But as with anything, if you stick with it and practise and persevere, you’ll get better. Eventually, one day, just as you learned to walk with confidence but probably don’t remember any of the tumbles you suffered when you took your first steps, so too will reading become natural to you.”
“If you say so, ma’am.”
“I do.” She smiled and turned around. “If you’ll help me out of this dress, I can look after the rest—” She broke off and frowned at the bedchamber door. “Did you hear that?”
“The knock, ma’am? You want I should answer it?”
Margaret glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was almost nine in the evening. Maisie and Miss Lisette had retired to their chambers immediately following the evening meal. Mr. Banner had not yet made an appearance inside the house when she’d turned off the study light and come upstairs.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
Just in case it’s George’s insane nephew.
Not that it could be. In addition to all his other responsibilities, Mr. Banner had organised around-the-clock sentries, though he had said nothing to her about it. But she had noticed how Magnus and a couple of field hands stayed exceptionally close to the house during the day and seemed to alternate staying awake all night long.
No matter how late she went to bed or how early she arose, she found one of them doing something in sight of the long drive to the house. The leather coach traces had never been so well oiled. Nor, she imagined, had the grass and greenery around the house been as neatly and evenly trimmed.
My One True Love Page 19
