The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “Can you shoot if you have to?”

  Mews swallowed, then firmed up his jaw. “Yes.”

  “Toby, you stay close to your father now. If it comes to a fight, keep his pistols primed for him. We’re not going to confront them unless we have to. We’re just going to wait them out. Sooner or later, they’re going to get drunk enough to pass out; then we’ll keep watch until morning. They’ll probably leave peacefully then. You two stand watch over by the summer kitchen.”

  Toby followed his father, the two of them making a wide arc around the slave traders, keeping to the shadows. Horne faded into the darkness in the opposite direction, taking his sons with him. Connor inched forward, intent on placing himself between Turnbull’s men and the house. They’d have to deal with him before they’d touch Isabella, Miss Leah, or Mr. Bartholomew.

  “Papa!”

  Connor’s heart lurched in his throat at the sound of Isabella’s scream. He spotted her running from the house at the same time he caught a glimpse of Mr. Bartholomew rushing toward the slave traders. He sprinted, catching Isabella around the waist, pulling her back into the shadows.

  “Let me go.” She kicked and clawed, and it was all he could do to hold on to her and the pistol at the same time.

  “Quiet, lass.”

  Mr. Bartholomew’s bullwhip cracked, the tip jerking the pistol from Turnbull’s grasp. Isabella froze, shocked into immobility at her father’s brazen daring.

  Turnbull’s men barreled to their feet. Connor pushed Isabella behind him and surged forward, praying the night wouldn’t end in bloodshed. The whip snapped, and another slave trader screeched in pain, the knife he’d pulled flying into the darkness to land with a thud on the ground. Mews, Horne, and the others stepped into plain sight.

  Mr. Bartholomew stalked into the circle of light cast by the fire. Turnbull’s men, as well as the slaves, fell back as the light played across his distorted features. Isabella’s father didn’t pay them any attention. He kept going until he was nose to nose with Turnbull. The slave trader backed away, looking as if the very devil had materialized before him.

  “I’m Matthew Bartholomew, master of Breeze Hill.” Mr. Bartholomew bowed, every inch the stately plantation owner. “My daughter gave you leave to stay here tonight, sir.” He pointed the whip at Turnbull, his hand trembling. Connor knew it to be from lack of strength, but to the slave traders, it seemed to stem from a terrifying rage. “And you saw fit to abuse that privilege by treating your slaves like dogs. I will not put up with such treatment on my property.”

  Turnbull recovered himself and held out both hands. “We meant no harm. We were just having a bit of fun.”

  “Gather your belongings and leave at once. All of you.”

  “As you wish.” Turnbull bowed, but not before Connor witnessed the pure hatred that rolled over his features. Isabella’s father had made an enemy out of Turnbull tonight.

  Mr. Bartholomew shifted his attention to the tall, stoic slave who stood between his fellow captives and the violence before them. For a long moment, he stared. “I’m sorry there is nothing I can do for you and the others. But know that your plight is not what God intended for man.”

  The two men measured each other, the Negro’s eyes wide as he assessed Mr. Bartholomew’s puckered face. Finally he nodded, indicating that he understood. Mr. Bartholomew turned, shoulders slumped. The night’s rage had taken its toll on him, and he shuffled toward the house.

  “Connor, Mews, see that they leave the property.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Isabella’s worried gaze met Connor’s before she took her father’s arm and escorted him inside.

  Isabella’s father sank into a chair in his sitting room, his head in his hands.

  She lit a candle and knelt in front of his chair, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. He shook, whether from anger or weakness, she couldn’t tell. Had he been injured?

  “Papa, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He took a deep, shuddering breath before pulling his hands away from his face and gripping the arms of his chair. The candle cast shadows across his haggard face, but to Isabella, each welt, each pucker, was a testament to his love for his family.

  His battle scars.

  Isabella clasped his hands, feeling the chill from his damaged skin. “Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?”

  “No.” He looked past her, his vision turning inward, seeing something only he could see. “I watched that slave stand there holding on to his dignity. And I watched Turnbull goad him. Then he started shooting. I knew it was only a matter of time before Turnbull lost all reason and shot the Negro out of pure rage. I couldn’t let that happen. Not here, not at Breeze Hill.”

  “Of course not, Papa.”

  “I wanted to help them, but there was nothing I could do.”

  Isabella remembered the look in the slave’s eyes. “He understood, Papa. He knew you wanted to help.”

  Papa had never said much about slavery, but she remembered traveling through Natchez with him once. He’d viewed the auction block with distaste and made an effort to avoid the area ever since. What drove his aversion to slavery? What made him different from most of their neighbors, who felt the only way to prosper was on the backs of others?

  “Papa?” She tried to think of a way to broach such a delicate question. “What makes one man embrace slavery while another shuns it?”

  “Short of greed?” He arched a brow, the look ferocious on his lopsided face.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know, Daughter. Some have probably never thought about it. They were born with slaves at their beck and call, and they don’t know any different. It just is, and it’s never occurred to them that it’s wrong to own another human being.”

  “When did it occur to you that it’s wrong?”

  Her father looked at her, his eyes glittering in the light. “The day I found out my grandmother was born into slavery.”

  Isabella withdrew her hands from her father’s and searched his face. How could her father have descended from a slave? His pale skin and blue eyes belied the fact. And she’d gotten her dark skin from her Spanish mother. Or so she’d always been told.

  “A slave? But—”

  “An Irish slave.”

  Connor’s thick brogue came to mind, how the cadence of his words wrapped themselves around her heart every time he drew near. Even though she hadn’t known she carried the blood of an Irishman, did her heart yearn for that connection? Or maybe she just yearned for Connor.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “English warlords captured thousands of Irish children in the 1600s and shipped them off as slaves to Barbados. My great-grandmother Maggie McKinnion was one of them.”

  Isabella struggled to understand. Since they owned no slaves and she’d visited the other plantations on rare occasions, she’d never thought much about it. The balls she had attended hadn’t brought to light the plight of slaves with cruel masters. The house servants were well dressed and spoke respectfully. She’d heard stories, whispers of cruel masters and overseers, but she’d had such little contact with anyone other than a few house slaves that she hadn’t seen much difference in them and the men and women who worked at Breeze Hill.

  Until tonight. Until Turnbull had tried to force a man to choose between indignity and death.

  “Great-Grandma Maggie had one child while in the bonds of slavery. A girl. My grandmother. Sadie McKinnion.” Her father’s eyes took on a distant hue. “When Sadie was a young girl, she was sold off and never saw her mother again. She became her master’s mistress and bore him three daughters. In exchange for his name and protection, he forbade her to speak the McKinnion name ever again. She complied to gain her freedom and that of her daughters. But that didn’t stop her from filling her daughters’ heads with tales of Ireland and where they had come from.”

  “And your mother, my grandmother, passed the stories down to you?”

  “Yes.”
>
  “Then why wasn’t I told?”

  Her father reached out and rested a hand on her hair, his eyes filled with sadness. “Cruelty isn’t just confined to slavery, Daughter. My father was a hot-tempered British soldier, and my mother a redheaded half-Irish wench who gave as good as she got. They fought like wild dogs from as far back as I could remember. It could start over anything, but it always ended the same. He hated that she was Irish. She hated that he was British.

  “When they both died of a fever epidemic, I joined the militia and never looked back. This is my country. I won’t be labeled British or Irish or any other blood that I have in my veins. I was born here in the New World, and their fighting means nothing to me. Every man has the right to prove himself regardless of race or creed or his bloodline.”

  “Or the fact that he’s a slave or a descendant of one?”

  “That too.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “I’m not sure what my father hated worse: that my mother was Irish or that she was descended from a slave.”

  “Were you ashamed? Is that why you never told me?”

  “It was over a hundred years ago. I didn’t think it mattered. I wanted the Bartholomews to start fresh here at Breeze Hill, be respected, and not be looked down on because we were once slaves or Irish or, in your case, Spanish. We are the Bartholomews of Breeze Hill. I thought that was enough.” Her father clasped her hands in his. “Please forgive me for not telling you.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Papa. You did what you thought was right.”

  He kissed her forehead. “You’re a good daughter.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Isabella’s father rested one hand on his pistol. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Connor, sir.”

  “Come in.”

  Connor entered the room, tall and commanding. His gaze landed on Isabella, moved across her face, then swept over her as if to assure himself she was unharmed. A wave of awareness shot through her, and she looked away.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Turnbull and his party are gone, sir.”

  “Thank you. Do you have guards posted?”

  “Yes, sir. I doubt they’ll return, but the men thought it best to be prepared just in case.”

  “I agree. Thank you. Isabella, could you ask Martha to make some coffee for the men?”

  Isabella struggled to her feet. To her embarrassment, she discovered that both feet had gone to sleep. She braced herself against the table, trying not to grimace at the tingling sensation shooting up her limbs.

  “Coffee, Papa?” Procuring and grinding coffee was expensive and time-consuming, and Papa only indulged on rare occasions.

  “Yes. They’ll need the fortification for the long night ahead. And use the coffee beans, not that awful cornmeal concoction Martha drinks.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Isabella forced her feet to move. Connor opened the door for her and followed her out into the hallway, holding a candle to light the way. She focused on walking, not wanting to make a fool of herself in front of him. She eased her right foot down and winced. Then the other. The feeling was gradually coming back, and it felt like ten thousand tiny ants were attacking her feet.

  Connor reached out a hand to steady her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Heat surged up her neck.

  “You’re limping.” He turned her to face him, the candle held high so that he could see her clearly. Eyebrows lowered, forehead creased, he searched her face. “Are ya hurt, lass?”

  “No.” She pulled her arm away. Would the man not allow her a morsel of dignity? “My feet are asleep. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Sorry, lass.” A hint of laughter threaded through his voice. “I could rub the feeling back into them, if ya like.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks at his teasing comment, and she took the candlestick from him and pointed to the door. “Out. We’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready.”

  He left, the sound of his chuckle teasing her ears.

  Isabella mounted the stairs to her rooms to find a barricaded door. She knocked. “Martha?”

  A scraping, bumping sound greeted her and Martha opened the door, her round face pale under her mobcap. “Is all well?”

  “All is well.”

  “What happened?” Leah sat on the settee, Susan’s arm around her.

  “The slave trader and his men were drinking and it got out of hand. They’re gone now. Papa told them to leave.”

  Martha plopped her hands on her hips. “Good riddance. It was obvious from the outset they were an unsavory lot.”

  Isabella couldn’t agree more. “Papa wants the men to stand watch. Martha, I’ll need your help in the kitchen.”

  “Does he think they’ll come back?” Leah’s voice wobbled.

  “No, but it’s best to be prepared.”

  Leah expelled a shaky breath. “What a fright.”

  “Yes, it was frightening, but it’s over now.” She turned toward the door.

  While Martha ground the coffee beans, Isabella stoked the fire and assembled an array of tin cups, all the while wrestling with what her father had told her.

  He’d never said much about his past or where he came from, other than that his parents were dead. She knew he’d been a soldier and was awarded a land grant here in Natchez. She’d been so focused on her Spanish heritage to wonder about her father’s side of the family.

  Somehow, she’d assumed Papa just . . . was. That his parents had immigrated to the New World, produced a son, then left him to fend for himself after they died. It wasn’t such an uncommon occurrence.

  But being descended from Irish slaves was uncommon.

  Or at least she thought it was. She’d never heard of such a thing. Maybe it was more common than she thought, but no one mentioned it because they were ashamed.

  She reached for another cup, but her hand paused in midair as something her grandfather had said about her grandmother came back to her.

  What bothered Papa the most about his heritage?

  The fact that he was part Irish or that he’d descended from a slave?

  A candle flickered on the front porch, and Connor saw Isabella and Martha setting out a tray. He hung back as they poured steaming cups of coffee for Mews, Horne, and the boys.

  “Coffee, miss?” Horne’s voice was incredulous.

  “Papa insisted. He’s grateful.” Her gaze swept the men, landing at last on Connor. “To all of you.”

  Horne raised the cup to his mouth, sipping the hot brew appreciatively. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor.

  Toby sat on the porch steps, sniffed the coffee, then took a tentative taste. His mouth twisted. “’Tis bitter.”

  “Drink it anyway,” Mews instructed. “Mr. Bartholomew has bestowed a rare gift on us, and it shan’t be wasted.”

  “Here.” Isabella added cream and sugar to Toby’s coffee, and he tried it again. “Better?”

  “Yes.” The boy grinned. “Thank ya, Miss Isabella.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She ruffled Toby’s hair, then headed Connor’s way, cup in hand. His fingers brushed hers as he took the coffee. Connor lifted the cup, savoring the dark, earthy aroma.

  “Should I fetch the cream and sugar?” Teasing laced her tone.

  “No cream and sugar.” He winked at Toby. “I’m no’ a milk-faced lad.”

  Isabella laughed, then moved away, refilling cups. Connor strode to the end of the porch, attention on the shadowed tree line that bordered the property. All was calm and peaceful, as if Turnbull and his men had never been here.

  One by one, the men finished, thanked Isabella and Martha, and drifted away, going back to their posts keeping watch over the main house and the outbuildings. Martha picked up the tray and headed inside just as Connor drained his cup and returned to the center of the porch. Isabella held out the pot. “There’s a small amount left. As Mews said, it shan’t go to waste.”

  Connor held out his cu
p, and she refilled it.

  “Isabella?” He willed her to look at him.

  She glanced up, wary, one eyebrow lifted in question.

  “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. It was uncalled for.” He looked away, then berated himself for being a coward. He turned, faced her head-on. “You did nothing wrong. The problem is with me, not you. Please, will you forgive me for acting like an eejit?”

  She wiped down the table, studiously ignoring him.

  “Truce?” He dipped his head, trying to catch her eye.

  Finally she nodded. “Truce. And you were an eejit.”

  He laughed, drained the last of the tepid coffee, and held out the cup. “Now that we’ve established I’m an eejit, you’d better head back inside and get some sleep.”

  “Connor?” A frown marred her forehead. “What was life like in Ireland?”

  Connor thought back to the nights so cold they all huddled together for warmth, to the days he and his brothers foraged for peat to keep the fire going.

  “It was a hard life, but we had each other.” He shrugged. “Winters could be harsh, but we always knew the long summer days would come. The sun would still be shining this time of night.”

  “Truly?”

  “Fíor.” He nodded. “Mews would be in hog heaven with eighteen hours of daylight to work the fields.”

  “I don’t think Lizzy and the Horne girls would like that overmuch.” Isabella walked to the edge of the porch, wrapped her arms around her waist, and stared at the sky. Her attention shifted back to him. “If Ireland is so wonderful, why did you leave?”

  Her question twisted like a knife in his gut. He couldn’t tell her the truth. But what could he tell her? That he’d sacrificed his family for a woman who wouldn’t wipe her dainty kid boots on him in public?

  “Everything is no’ so rosy in Ireland. ’Tis a beautiful land, and roots run deep, but for the poor, the only opportunity lies in the New World.” He frowned. “And what, pray tell, has brought on this sudden interest in me homeland?”

  “Something Papa said.” She shrugged and turned away. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “It’s all right.” Connor breathed deeply, enjoying the slight breeze that stirred the moss trailing from the cedars. “What did he say?”