barrels are loaded?”
“I don’t know, Klaus.”
Even though he was angry with him, Klaus put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, for there was grief in Bolling’s face, resignation in his voice. Klaus was going to say, Yes, I miss Jordan, too.
“It is a good creek I’ve lost,” said Bolling, “a good, deep creek, and the last decent place on the river that ships can sail to without going aground. What the devil does she think she is going to do? Manage a two-thousand-acre plantation with two worthless dogs and a French maid to help?”
Bolling laughed, genuinely, darkly, amused, and the laughter was so spontaneous, and so unexpected, that Klaus, in spite of himself, began to laugh, too.
B ARBARA AND Hyacinthe picked peaches. Gone were the patches on her face, the beautiful gown and hoop, the stockings of silk. She’d borrowed a gown from Thérèse, for she possessed nothing plain enough, unless Thérèse took intricate laces off and laboriously unpicked embroideries. She wore a large straw hat with fluttering ribbons down the back, one she’d worn to fêtes on the grounds of Richmond House, outside London. There the Prince and Princess of Wales summered; there they would be at this very moment.
Her mind was on Bolling. He looked like one of those beefy overfed merchants who drove up in their coaches to call upon her in her grief. How sorry we are, madam, they had said, for your loss of Lord Devane, madam. They had soft faces and softer hands, but hard eyes, to assess loss. Theirs, not hers. Our deepest condolences, madam, they said, but there is the fact of Lord Devane’s debt.
The shafts of grief were silver-white and sleek, stabbing her. If she closed her eyes, it was a year ago, and she sat in a garden; Roger was still alive, so hope that they would at last make things right between themselves was still alive, dancing in her like a candle’s flame. Devane House was being finished, equaling the South Sea stock speculation in excitement, rising stone by stone to keep all awed and gossiping. He builds it for you, Barbara, friends said.
It was love, Philippe had told her. Roger loved me. And I him.
Barbara shook her head and looked around the orchard, as if she might see Philippe stepping out from behind a peach tree. But Philippe was in England, and she was in Virginia, wasn’t she?
“You might have been hurt, running under that horse the way you did,” she said to Hyacinthe, thinking, How tired grief makes one feel.
“You might have been hurt, also, madame. The Duchess said I was to look after you.”
Grandmama, overseeing from England. Barbara smiled. “Tell me what you saw and heard.”
Hyacinthe was just waiting for her command. “They went to the overseer. I don’t like that man, madame, and he doesn’t like me, this Mr. Odell Smith.”
“How do you know?”
“His eyes. It is in his eyes. The overseer was talking about us, describing us. And they were talking about barrels.”
“Barrels? What kind of barrels?”
“I don’t know. Barrels.”
“What did he say about us?”
“Just that we were here.”
“So we are.”
Her feeling of desolation was lessening somewhat in the late afternoon’s sun, in the movements of reaching up to pick, bending over to put away, in the satisfaction of seeing peaches begin to fill the basket. The trees in this orchard had not been pruned or grafted or cared for properly in a long time, longer than a year and four months. Jordan had been careless about more than cards.
She would send her grandmother peach brandy made from these very peaches. I’m homesick, she said sternly to herself. I’m far away from all that is familiar, and in a wild place. This will become home with time. There will be friends here, with time, won’t there?
“I am a slave, yes, like those here?”
Like those here? No and no, again. Never would he be locked into a house at night to sleep, never would he eat out of a communal bowl like an animal at a trough, or
“I don’t know, Klaus.”
Even though he was angry with him, Klaus put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, for there was grief in Bolling’s face, resignation in his voice. Klaus was going to say, Yes, I miss Jordan, too.
“It is a good creek I’ve lost,” said Bolling, “a good, deep creek, and the last decent place on the river that ships can sail to without going aground. What the devil does she think she is going to do? Manage a two-thousand-acre plantation with two worthless dogs and a French maid to help?”
Bolling laughed, genuinely, darkly, amused, and the laughter was so spontaneous, and so unexpected, that Klaus, in spite of himself, began to laugh, too.
B ARBARA AND Hyacinthe picked peaches. Gone were the patches on her face, the beautiful gown and hoop, the stockings of silk. She’d borrowed a gown from Thérèse, for she possessed nothing plain enough, unless Thérèse took intricate laces off and laboriously unpicked embroideries. She wore a large straw hat with fluttering ribbons down the back, one she’d worn to fêtes on the grounds of Richmond House, outside London. There the Prince and Princess of Wales summered; there they would be at this very moment.
Her mind was on Bolling. He looked like one of those beefy overfed merchants who drove up in their coaches to call upon her in her grief. How sorry we are, madam, they had said, for your loss of Lord Devane, madam. They had soft faces and softer hands, but hard eyes, to assess loss. Theirs, not hers. Our deepest condolences, madam, they said, but there is the fact of Lord Devane’s debt.
The shafts of grief were silver-white and sleek, stabbing her. If she closed her eyes, it was a year ago, and she sat in a garden; Roger was still alive, so hope that they would at last make things right between themselves was still alive, dancing in her like a candle’s flame. Devane House was being finished, equaling the South Sea stock speculation in excitement, rising stone by stone to keep all awed and gossiping. He builds it for you, Barbara, friends said.
It was love, Philippe had told her. Roger loved me. And I him.
Barbara shook her head and looked around the orchard, as if she might see Philippe stepping out from behind a peach tree. But Philippe was in England, and she was in Virginia, wasn’t she?
“You might have been hurt, running under that horse the way you did,” she said to Hyacinthe, thinking, How tired grief makes one feel.
“You might have been hurt, also, madame. The Duchess said I was to look after you.”
Grandmama, overseeing from England. Barbara smiled. “Tell me what you saw and heard.”
Hyacinthe was just waiting for her command. “They went to the overseer. I don’t like that man, madame, and he doesn’t like me, this Mr. Odell Smith.”
“How do you know?”
“His eyes. It is in his eyes. The overseer was talking about us, describing us. And they were talking about barrels.”
“Barrels? What kind of barrels?”
“I don’t know. Barrels.”
“What did he say about us?”
“Just that we were here.”
“So we are.”
Her feeling of desolation was lessening somewhat in the late afternoon’s sun, in the movements of reaching up to pick, bending over to put away, in the satisfaction of seeing peaches begin to fill the basket. The trees in this orchard had not been pruned or grafted or cared for properly in a long time, longer than a year and four months. Jordan had been careless about more than cards.
She would send her grandmother peach brandy made from these very peaches. I’m homesick, she said sternly to herself. I’m far away from all that is familiar, and in a wild place. This will become home with time. There will be friends here, with time, won’t there?
“I am a slave, yes, like those here?”
Like those here? No and no, again. Never would he be locked into a house at night to sleep, never would he eat out of a communal bowl like an animal at a trough, or
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