Now Face to Face
soldier, a soldier and a gentleman. Rudeness was unknown to him or to my grandfather.”
    “I am a lieutenant colonel of the Virginia militia.”
    “The militia…a jest, yes?”
    Klaus Von Rothbach, watching, thought, My uncle has not frightened her at all. There is strength beneath that beauty. And anger. Such anger. You intrigue me, Countess.
    “My offer, Lady Devane.”
    “I will write to my grandmother of it.”
    “Seven years; it takes seven years to make a good tobacco man. And even then, the rain, the worm, the stupidity of one’s slaves may interfere. Will you whip the slaves, Lady Devane, when they refuse to work? Will you ride the fields to watch over the tobacco as it grows? Will you know when the leaf is cured? There is a certain texture, a spotting. A good tobacco man knows it. In seven years he has the feel, if he is fortunate. And the hogsheads, Lady Devane. There’s a trick. Too much leaf inside, and the staves break open. Not enough, and the tobacco crumbles away to dust. And if the rain doesn’t rot your crops or the slaves ruin it or the hogsheads break, there is still the merchant in London with whom to deal. Charges for freight, Lady Devane, which you pay. Duties at customs, which you pay, cheats upon the drawbacks, which likely you will never discover. They go to line someone’s pockets. No rest for the weary, Lady Devane. No letting up, ever. Not for a good tobacco man.”
    Odious, burly, bearish man, thought Barbara, do you think I cannot do it? I can do anything I set my mind to. This last year has taught me that, if little else. I would like to knock you off that horse. How dare you come here and try to bully and frighten me? The muscles of her face set, showing themselves through the soft flesh. Those in England would have seen that she resembled, not her famous grandfather, as everyone so often observed, but her grandmother.
    “I will write my grandmother. I will report your offer.” She said the words very slowly, very deliberately.
    Like a hundred small slaps, thought Klaus.
    Bolling snorted, a contemptuous, impatient noise that made Barbara even angrier.
    “Amuse yourself, then. It makes little matter to me. But not for too long, or this plantation won’t be worth my first offer. I assure you, I never pay more for something than it is worth. Good day to you, madam.”
    He spurred his horse, and before she could speak he had galloped from under the giant pines and out onto the road.
    “Pig!” Hyacinthe called after him, in French. “Bully! Barbarian! I saw, madame. I followed. He would not come into the house. I went out to him with cider—I told him you would be with him, very soon, that you begged his pardon, but he would not come into the house. He told me to go away and leave him be. ‘Let’s see what damage she’s done,’ he said, and he and this man”—Hyacinthe pointed to Klaus, who sat atop his horse a respectful distance away but close enough to hear every word—“they went to your fields. I had to run so hard to follow, but I did run, and they talked with the overseer. Your overseer, now. I saw them.”
    Hyacinthe was angry enough for both of them. Barbara saw him whirling out of the house, running into the stallion for her sake. He might have been hurt. Hero.
    “Please forgive my uncle.”
    Klaus had dismounted and was walking forward slowly, hands extended in a gesture of peace, as both Barbara and Hyacinthe watched him warily. There was not a penny’s worth of difference in their expressions.
    “I must apologize for him. His behavior becomes worse with each passing year. He quarrels with everyone. For his sake, let me say he was quite fond of his nephew Jordan, and he has no children of his own, so that Jordan was his child. It was a shock to him, both Jordan’s death and the loss of this plantation. He has been fretting over it since it happened. For all his harsh words, he really would not harm you.”
    “No, he would only allow his horse to trample

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