As Lettie made her way along the path in the golden sunlight of morning, a calico cat came to meet her, winding itself about her skirts. The warm air was laden with the smells of bacon frying, coffee brewing, and something being baked in the oven. There was also a resinous tang lingering in the area, and from not far away could be heard the rattling whacks of someone chopping wood.
At the door of the kitchen, Lettie paused to peer inside. A large black woman with a white kerchief wrapped around her head and a starched apron over a faded blue dress moved back and forth between a cast-iron stove, a brick oven, and a heavy wooden table with a scarred top that had been scrubbed so hard and so often that the wood was white. To one side was a huge, smoke-blackened open fireplace with spits and racks in it that looked as if it might still be pressed into use when the stove was crowded, though for now it held only ashes. On another wall was a dish cabinet with open shelves displaying great serving platters and bowls and tureens and enough china and glassware to serve an army of guests.
The black woman turned. “Don’t you come in my kitchen!”
Lettie blinked and retreated a step. “Excuse me.”
“Lord, miss, you oughta know I didn’t mean you! I’m talkin’ to that cat. That rapscallion tries to sneak in a dozen times a day, though I’ve chased him out with my brush broom till I’m plumb wore to a frazzle.”
“I hope I’m not too late for breakfast?”
“No, ma’am. The biscuits are ‘bout ready to come out of the oven now and the gravy’s near made. You eating in the kitchen with Mast’ Ranny?”
“I … Yes, if you don’t mind.” The courtesy and the decision were instinctive.
“Mind? Why should I mind?”
Lettie clapped her hands at the cat, shooing it away before stepping inside the door. “Is there anything I can do?”
The cook, who must be the Mama Tass that her hostess had spoken of, sent her a glance of frowning surprise. “Why, no, ma’am, you’re paying company.”
Lettie shook her head with a smile. “I don’t like being idle while other people are working.”
Mama Tass, holding a spoon poised in the air in one hand, looked Lettie up and down with a frown on her round face. “You talk funny. You ain’t one of them radical Republican abolitionists?”
“No,” Lettie said warily. She had never approved of slavery in any form, but this didn’t seem like a good time to say so.
“Good. I don’t hold with them folks, coming around here and making trouble. But if you really want to be a help, you can step around to the woodpile back of here and tell Mast’ Ranny breakfast is nigh ready.”
Lettie, feeling a little as if an honor had been conferred upon her, and at the same time that she had made a lucky escape, did as she was told.
Ransom Tyler was splitting wood for the stove. He stood the rounds of oak on end on the chopping block and, with a single mighty stroke of the ax clove them apart. Again and again, he lifted the gleaming blade of the ax and brought it down. He had removed his chambray shirt and cast it to one side. With each powerful stroke, the muscles of his back and shoulders bunched and stretched under the sun-bronzed skin. As he leaned to prop the wood for the next cut, his trousers clung to the hard length of his thighs and the tight curve of his hips, outlining the muscles that gathered and lengthened there. The stack of wood in manageable sticks was growing, while beside it lay a pile of pine kindling that had been splintered from a large stump rich with resin.
Lettie had come to a stop in a swirl of skirts at the corner of the kitchen when she saw that the man called Ranny was half-naked. Uncertain whether to retreat or to ignore his state, she did neither. She stood watching the way the sun caught golden gleams in the fine hair that fell over his forehead, the way the sheen of perspiration on his skin highlighted the sculpted bands of muscle that wrapped his upper body and glistened in the fine triangle of golden hair on his chest and along the ridged hardness of his arms.
There was something fascinating about the ease with which he worked, the precision of his movements, the concentration he brought to his task and the grace with which his body performed it. It affected Lettie strangely, causing a drawing, knotting sensation in the lower part of her abdomen. It was impossible to believe, watching him, that his mind was damaged, that there might be some danger in allowing him to wield the lethal tool in his hands.
Ransom was aware of Letitia Mason from the moment she rounded the end of the kitchen. What she wanted he could not imagine, but she looked so flustered at the sight of him and so proper in her gray morning dress with the buttons fastened right up to the standing collar at her throat and a cameo brooch as a reinforcement for them that he bided his time, waiting to find out. It was no hardship. She was very pleasant to look at, with a pink flush from the heat across her cheekbones, her hair in a thick, gleaming coronet of braids around her head, and her breasts straining against the material of her bodice as she breathed. Her presence at Splendora looked to be a major impediment to big activities, but there might be compensations.
Lettie half expected the owner of Splendora to look up and acknowledge her; she would have sworn that he knew she was there. As time passed and he gave no sign of it, she grew uncomfortably aware that she was staring. To go away without speaking seemed suddenly priggish, if not an act of unkindness. She cleared her throat. What to call him? If she must err, let it at least be on the side of good manners.
“Mr. Tyler?”
He straightened and gave her a slow smile, inclining his head in a nod that was like a small, gallant bow. “Morning, ma’am.”
“I’ve been sent to say that your breakfast is ready.”
“So am I,” he said, and set the ax aside. Without haste, he brushed the wood chips from his shoulders and reached for his shirt, which was draped over a log. He suppressed a grin as she turned away while he shrugged into it. Teasing her was unfair, perhaps, but very nearly irresistible; she was that prim. He banished amusement from his face with an effort and knelt to gather a load of stove wood in his arms. Rising in a single smooth movement with the burden, he made a brief gesture to indicate that she must precede him.
Lettie led the way, though she was acutely conscious of the man behind her. She searched her mind for something to say. “It’s a lovely morning, but warm already.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words were solemn enough, but their very solemnity gave them the faintest of mocking edges. Lettie turned her head quickly to stare at Ranny. He gazed back at her, his eyes clear, the expression in them guileless. Perhaps he had meant only that he was much hotter than she after his exertions at the woodpile?
Ransom let his breath out in soundless relief as Letitia Mason looked forward once more. She was a sharp lady. He was going to have to step more carefully around her than he had suspected.
Breakfast was on the table. The biscuits were as light and fluffy as clouds, the gravy rich, the bacon in crisp brown curls. Mama Tass had fried three eggs for Ranny and offered to cook as many of them, yard fresh from their own hens, for Lettie as she wanted, any way she wanted. One, scrambled, was all that Lettie could face, though it was deliciously creamy and perfectly done, almost like a small omelet.
As the cook stood at the workbench washing dishes, she spoke to Ranny about various tasks that needed doing about the place. His answers, couched in short, simple sentences, were intelligible enough. Some of the jobs seemed rather menial to Lettie, such as taking the kitchen scraps to the hog pen. He made no complaint, however, and she assumed the request was not unusual.
Mama Tass moved to the door to throw out her dishwater, then stepped outside for a moment. A small silence fell. As it stretched without the return of the cook, Lettie said, “Where is your aunt this morning?”
Ranny glanced up, then looked down at his plate. “She’s gone visiting.”
“Oh?” The questioning inflection was deliberate. It was not that Lettie was curious about the movements of her landlady, but simply that she w
anted to hear Ransom Tyler talk.
“She went to Elm Grove. Walked. They have the summer sickness there. She took them some chicken broth.”
“I see. That was kind of her.”
The big man across the table from Lettie gave her a level look that made her suddenly feel that her comment had been as inane as it sounded in her own ears. She went on in some haste. “Elm Grove, is that a place, a town?”
“A house. My Uncle Samuel’s house. Just down the road.”
“I see. And the boy Lionel? Where is he?”
Ranny smiled and the slashing crease that was not quite a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Lionel’s asleep. If he gets up early, Mama Tass finds jobs for him.”
“I thought he was supposed to — that is, I thought his job was being your companion?” Surely if this man was as backward as Aunt Em had indicated, he might not realize what she had started to say, but a flush mounted to Lettie’s cheeks regardless.
Ransom, watching the color rise under her clear skin and wondering if it was sensitivity that caused it or annoyance with his supposed slowness, almost forgot to answer. “Sometimes.”
Lettie pushed her plate back. After a moment she said, “Could you tell me what would be the best way to get into town?”
“There’s a horse and buggy.”
“Do you think your aunt would mind if I used it? I would be glad to pay.”
“She won’t mind,” he said with a smile. “I could drive you.”
“I can drive myself, but I would be glad to pay for the use of the buggy.”
“No need to pay. And it would be nice to drive you. My pleasure.”
There was exquisite courtesy in his words, a briefly caught echo of what he must once have been. Lettie, acknowledging both, chewed the inside of her bottom lip. She did not know if it was possible for him to do what he suggested and his aunt was not there for her to ask. Certainly it took more strength than knowledge to drive a horse and buggy, but there were rules of the road and some responsibility was required to follow them.
“I won’t overturn you. I promise.” Ranny waited.
It appeared he considered the prospect a treat. There were several things Lettie needed to do in town, a few small purchases she needed to make, but her main object was to discover the whereabouts of the headquarters of the Federal occupation troops and begin her inquiry into her brother’s death. It could wait a little while, however, at least until her landlady returned. She summoned a smile. “Perhaps later.”
Mama Tass came back inside carrying a handful of young green onions from the knot garden. Their pungent smell filled the kitchen as she began to clean them. Watching the black woman’s swift, sure, movements as she stripped the outer leaves and cut off the roots, Lettie wondered if they were for some strange Southern breakfast dish or if the cook was already preparing the next meal.
The black woman was not as intent on her work as she appeared, for the moment Ransom Tyler put down his coffee cup, she glanced over her shoulder. “If you through, Mast’ Ranny, why don’t you show the young lady around the place? She’ll be wantin’ to know where everything is, and I bet she’d like to see Miss Emily’s flowers.”
“There’s no need, really,” Lettie protested. “I’m sure Mr. Tyler has other things to do.”
But the owner of Splendora was already on his feet and moving to draw out her chair as she rose. “I like this job better. And you can call me Ranny, if you want.”
There seemed to be little choice. She would see Splendora. Her tone dry, she said, “Thank you, Ranny.”
Splendora was built in the style known as a planter’s cottage. It was not actually two stories tall but rather had one main floor that was built on top of a so-called raised basement, a brick-walled storage area constructed above the ground due to the high water table in the area. Its hipped roof was pierced by three dormer windows that gave light into an enormous open room in the attic, a room that before the war had been used for everything from dancing in wintertime to sleeping space for visitors. The upper and lower verandas on both front and back shaded the house from the sun, helping to keep the summer heat at bay. The columns of the lower verandas were of brick to match the basement walls. Those on the upper verandas were of heart cypress cut four-square, in keeping with the cypress planking of the house.
The front entrance was reached by a wide set of high, railed steps that led up to the veranda, also edged with railing, at the level of the main rooms. Through the heavy, double front doors surrounded by side lights and a transom was the great hallway. There were six large rooms opening from it. To the left at the front was the parlor, a room furnished in rosewood and frayed brocatelle that remained in perpetual gloom from closed shutters to prevent further deterioration of the furnishings. Beyond the parlor was a dining room filled with heavy mahogany pieces while behind that, with access to the back veranda through jib windows, was the bedchamber where Ranny slept. Across the hall was Aunt Em’s room. Next to it, in the middle of the right side, was an empty chamber, and after that was the room Lettie had been given, which opened onto the front veranda.
The so-called raised basement, the lower floor, also had a central hall. Leading from it were a variety of storerooms and also the room where Mama Tass had slept for years as a trusted house servant, though she now had a cabin of her own. Only Lionel used it at present, in order to be close if Ranny needed him during the night.
There was a drive of rust-colored sand dotted with potholes that led from the road to the front of the house, then curved around it to the left in order to reach the stables and carriage house. Farther along that drive was a blacksmith shop and a few other outbuildings, with a double row of what had been slave cabins stretching beyond them.
The ravages of war, and of some nine years of neglect, were everywhere. The whitewash of the house had faded, leaving it the soft silver-gray of weathered wood that gave it a look of decay. The split-rail fences that had closed off the fields were gone, burned as firewood by the troops of two armies. The iron tools from the blacksmith shop had been confiscated, along with the mules, most of the horses, and as many of the chickens, ducks, beef cattle, and hogs that could be caught. A cotton barn still lay in blackened rubble where it had been burned by the Confederates to keep the white gold from falling into the hands of the enemy. Fields close to the house had been planted and were showing the tender green of rows of new cotton, but others farther away lay fallow, taken over by sweet gum and pine saplings, by choking weeds and wild morning-glory vines. Smoke rose from four or five of the slave cabins where sharecroppers lived, but most had sagging porches, missing doors and steps, and were festooned with the twining vines of honeysuckle and Virginia creeper.
One of the fences around the house had been replaced. It was the picket fence that protected Aunt Em’s flowers from her chickens and also the livestock. Cows and rooting hogs were beginning to be replenished but were allowed to range free throughout the countryside, living off the land for lack of other feed. Inside that barrier, the yard was bare of grass and the sandy soil raked into geometric patterns. But clustered around the edges and on either side of the front flight of steps were beds of sweet william, verbena, daisies, and blue salvia, along with rows of irises and jonquils that were no longer in bloom. There were sweet olive shrubs in the corners, plus glossy camellias, snowball viburnums, spireas, and monthly roses. There was a running rose with rampant canes decked with glossy green foliage growing beside the front gate. Its pale pink blooms tumbled in profusion over the arbor that arched above it, giving off such a sweet scent in the morning sunlight that it drugged the senses.
Ranny came to a halt at the rose arbor. Lettie stopped beside him and closed her eyes, breathing deep of the incredible fragrance. It was so quiet that she could hear the humming of the bees among the flowers and the soft rustle of a breeze through the glistening rose leaves.
How very peaceful it was here compared to the town she had left with its wheeled traffic and cursing drivers and
shouts of street vendors. It was difficult to think of death and vengeance, difficult to remember that this pleasant land had been torn by war and was still being made hideous by nighttime violence. And yet she must.
There was a small snapping sound near her shoulder. Lettie opened her eyes to see Ranny breaking a delicate pink rosebud from an arching cane. His face absorbed, he removed the lower leaves, dropping them to the ground, and with a callused thumb flicked off the thorns one by one. He stood holding the bloom for a moment, then, inclining his head in a slight bow, presented the tight, half-open flower to her.
“For you, Miss Lettie.”
“Why?” There was suspicion in her tone. She was not used to gifts from men. The offer of the rose and the use of her name, even with the title of respect, gave her a disturbing sense of unwanted intimacy.
“It looks like you.”
She searched his face, her senses alert to some faint undercurrent of meaning. Finally, she said, “With or without the thorns?”
“What?”
There had been sincerity in his gesture and a cavalier’s grace. It was ungracious of her to question the token so carefully prepared for her. Nor could she refuse it without offending him. Lettie accepted the rose, lifting it to inhale the scent even as she watched for some indication of the reason it had been given to her. But if there was one beyond the impulse of the moment or some half-remembered fragment of the art of flirtation, it was not apparent.
Ransom Tyler was a good guide, explaining in brief, uncomplicated phrases the uses of the rooms and buildings he pointed out, answering her questions promptly if in scant detail. He knew the house and grounds well, which was not surprising since Splendora was his home. She wondered if he managed to communicate as easily when he was away from it.
There was something about this child-man that caught at her imagination. She could not seem to stop looking at him, at the sheer masculine beauty of his face and body. There was such confidence in his bearing, such pride, a holdover from other days, no doubt, though now and then there was a wariness in his manner and a flash of uncertainty in his eyes that was painful to see. His voice was deep and soft, and the slow smiles that creased his cheeks gave her an odd feeling in her chest. The knowledge that she found him so interesting should have made her feel foolish, and would have, if she had not realized that it was because he posed a study in the ability to learn, or rather the loss of that mental process. As a teacher, it was only natural that her curiosity should be aroused.
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