didn't firm up the way Matilda said it would. Maybe it'll turn out better next time."
Hanson bravely brought a finger dripping with goo to his lips and shoved it into his mouth, licking his finger clean. He wrinkled his nose. "It tastes burned."
"How can it be burned and not done at the same time?" Gretchen asked, feeling brave and taking a taste of her own. Hanson was correct. There was a distinct undertone of char to the runny mess. She pushed the plate away. Perhaps Stella really was trying to poison them! "I'm not very hungry."
"Me, neither," Hanson said, pushing his own plate away.
Stella looked disappointed as she carried away the plates. "Perhaps the next batch will turn out better."
Gretchen looked over at her brother and grimaced at his expression. Hanson was much too soft for his own good, at times. He still didn't quite understand that their stepmother would do anything, anything, to be rid of them. He went to Stella and patted her comfortingly on the arm. "That's okay," he said softly. Then Gretchen was shocked to hear him say, "But if it's all the same to you, I'll take my chances with the witch."
* * *
Declan stood in the Arrington parlor, sipping at a crystal tumbler of Warren Arrington's best whiskey. In his wildest dreams he'd never thought to be here; not like this. A reluctant demon deep inside him waited for his plans to fall apart, for the accusations to begin. "You look familiar. I remember the name Harper. Was your father that white-trash drunk that lived down the road a ways?"
"Cigar?" Arrington offered, opening the humidor on a small end table.
"Thank you," Declan said, pleased to see that Arrington did not buy his cigars from Fox's General Store.
Warren Arrington had never wanted for anything in his life, of that Declan was certain. Born on this plantation, raised here, he'd even managed to survive the war relatively untouched. He was not a tall man, probably standing no more than five-foot-seven, and he was built like a barrel. His hair was silver gray and thinning, his nose was too large for his round face, and yet still he managed to look dignified.
Vanessa, no doubt, had inherited her fine looks from her mother.
They lit cigars and sipped appreciatively at fine whiskey. The denunciations Declan expected never came. His demons faded slowly, and he made himself search inside himself for the patience that was always so difficult for him to find. He knew Arrington well enough to know that the planter had not invited him here tonight to accuse or to entertain. The man wanted something.
"You've done well, for a young man," Arrington said as he took a chair by the window. "How old are you, Harper? Thirty? Thirty-five?"
"Twenty-nine," Declan said, taking the chair to which Arrington gestured.
Arrington raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Even younger than I thought. Impressive."
Declan took a long drag on his cigar. There was no need to respond.
"What plans do you have for the old Ashton place?" Arrington asked.
Declan smiled. At last, the real purpose behind the unexpected invitation. "Why, once I get the big house and the servants' quarters in a livable condition, I plan to work the plantation as it should be worked. The cotton market isn't great right now, but I believe it will come back."
Arrington smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. I hate to see good land go to waste." He leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. "Why, some carpetbagger bought the Keenan place over in Turner's Bend and turned that fine old home into a house of ill repute," he drawled. "Then they sold off the land a piece at a time to common farmers. It was scandalous."
"You can rest assured that won't happen to my place," Declan said, holding back a smile.
"Daddy," a sweet, Southern voice called. "I hate to ask, but I must have an advance on my allowance. There's a lovely hat..." Vanessa stopped speaking when she saw Declan.
Both men stood quickly, standing straight and tall to greet Vanessa.
"Oh, I'm so sorry,
Hanson bravely brought a finger dripping with goo to his lips and shoved it into his mouth, licking his finger clean. He wrinkled his nose. "It tastes burned."
"How can it be burned and not done at the same time?" Gretchen asked, feeling brave and taking a taste of her own. Hanson was correct. There was a distinct undertone of char to the runny mess. She pushed the plate away. Perhaps Stella really was trying to poison them! "I'm not very hungry."
"Me, neither," Hanson said, pushing his own plate away.
Stella looked disappointed as she carried away the plates. "Perhaps the next batch will turn out better."
Gretchen looked over at her brother and grimaced at his expression. Hanson was much too soft for his own good, at times. He still didn't quite understand that their stepmother would do anything, anything, to be rid of them. He went to Stella and patted her comfortingly on the arm. "That's okay," he said softly. Then Gretchen was shocked to hear him say, "But if it's all the same to you, I'll take my chances with the witch."
* * *
Declan stood in the Arrington parlor, sipping at a crystal tumbler of Warren Arrington's best whiskey. In his wildest dreams he'd never thought to be here; not like this. A reluctant demon deep inside him waited for his plans to fall apart, for the accusations to begin. "You look familiar. I remember the name Harper. Was your father that white-trash drunk that lived down the road a ways?"
"Cigar?" Arrington offered, opening the humidor on a small end table.
"Thank you," Declan said, pleased to see that Arrington did not buy his cigars from Fox's General Store.
Warren Arrington had never wanted for anything in his life, of that Declan was certain. Born on this plantation, raised here, he'd even managed to survive the war relatively untouched. He was not a tall man, probably standing no more than five-foot-seven, and he was built like a barrel. His hair was silver gray and thinning, his nose was too large for his round face, and yet still he managed to look dignified.
Vanessa, no doubt, had inherited her fine looks from her mother.
They lit cigars and sipped appreciatively at fine whiskey. The denunciations Declan expected never came. His demons faded slowly, and he made himself search inside himself for the patience that was always so difficult for him to find. He knew Arrington well enough to know that the planter had not invited him here tonight to accuse or to entertain. The man wanted something.
"You've done well, for a young man," Arrington said as he took a chair by the window. "How old are you, Harper? Thirty? Thirty-five?"
"Twenty-nine," Declan said, taking the chair to which Arrington gestured.
Arrington raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Even younger than I thought. Impressive."
Declan took a long drag on his cigar. There was no need to respond.
"What plans do you have for the old Ashton place?" Arrington asked.
Declan smiled. At last, the real purpose behind the unexpected invitation. "Why, once I get the big house and the servants' quarters in a livable condition, I plan to work the plantation as it should be worked. The cotton market isn't great right now, but I believe it will come back."
Arrington smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. I hate to see good land go to waste." He leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. "Why, some carpetbagger bought the Keenan place over in Turner's Bend and turned that fine old home into a house of ill repute," he drawled. "Then they sold off the land a piece at a time to common farmers. It was scandalous."
"You can rest assured that won't happen to my place," Declan said, holding back a smile.
"Daddy," a sweet, Southern voice called. "I hate to ask, but I must have an advance on my allowance. There's a lovely hat..." Vanessa stopped speaking when she saw Declan.
Both men stood quickly, standing straight and tall to greet Vanessa.
"Oh, I'm so sorry,
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