hard. Her mother’s dark eyes met hers, wide with fear but something else that made them shine. Hope?
“Mama, tell me.”
“Where do I start? There’s so little time. First I must tell you about your father, about what Stephen did for me when—”
“Shut—your—mouth!”
Unheralded in their distraction, Hezekiah Parrish had returned. He crossed the room, snatched her mother’s arm from Tamsen’s grasp, and with the sound of tearing seams, yanked her to her feet.
“You swore to me, Sarah. Why are you breaking your word?”
Pain thinned her mother’s lips. “We were speaking of Mr. Kincaid’s slaves. I was explaining to Tamsen—”
“You were speaking of Stephen Littlejohn .” He spat the name as if it tasted foul. In its wake fell a silence so complete Tamsen heard her heart slamming against her tight-drawn stays. She stared, a coldness in the pit of her belly, as her mother smiled.
“I made you no promise never to speak of my husband,” she said with a calm that raised the hairs on Tamsen’s arms—in the seconds before Mr. Parrish drew back his fist and hit her mother full in the face.
Her fall toppled the chair on which she’d sat, her heavy petticoats tangling with its legs. The crack of her head hitting the hearth was audible over the chair’s crash.
For an instant Tamsen couldn’t move, so cruel was the blow, so shocking its results. She gaped at her mother, sprawled and still. “Mama?”
Sarah Parrish made no sound. Blood spilled from her nose, running rivulets across her mouth and chin.
“Stephen Littlejohn is dead,” Mr. Parrish shouted at her mother. “You are mine, and you will do as you are bid. You and your daughter are mine .”
While behind her Mr. Parrish raged, Tamsen stared at her mother’s blood, a red stain that blossomed until it filled her vision. Filled her soul. With a screech of rage, she flew at her stepfather, fingers clawed to rake his face, gauge his eyes, tear him into a thousand pieces.
She never even scratched him. He caught her neatly, thick fingers closing over her wrists with appalling strength. Their faces were inches apart, his dark with fury. He freed one hand and clouted her, just above the ear. Where a bruise wouldn’t show.
Tamsen plowed into the bed. Grasping the coverlet, she pulled herself onto the tick and rolled over, head ringing. Her stepfather hadn’t pursued her.
“Repair your hair. Put that on.” Issuing orders as though his violence against them had affected him not in the least, Mr. Parrish shoved a finger toward the gown hanging from the bedpost. “Ambrose Kincaid will see you. You’re to apologize for your previous indecorous behavior. If he should offer again, you will accept his proposal of marriage.”
“I won’t.” It came out a sob, not the blazing defiance she’d intended. “He’s the one who should apologize.”
Mr. Parrish advanced to the bed. Leaning over her, he grasped her chin with squeezing fingers, forcing her to look at him. To her humiliation, a whimper escaped her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“I am not the one who cares to hear that lie out of your pretty mouth.” He released her and withdrew, leaving behind a cloud of stale breath. “You will make your apologies—convincingly. You will give him every encouragement to repeat his offer of marriage. Every encouragement.Should he do so, you will answer him with an immediate acceptance. Am I clear?”
Tamsen risked a glance at the hearth. Her mother hadn’t moved. “Yes sir. But … Mama.”
Hezekiah Parrish was already at the door, too consumed with the fly at the edge of his web to concern himself with the one long caught. “Let the maid see to her. You’ve an hour to make yourself decent.”
Unsteadied by the ringing in her head, Tamsen lurched across the room before the front door had shut. “Mama!”
Conscious now, Sarah Parrish’s mouth sagged as she gasped in breath, a wet, labored sound, more alarming than the blood seeping from her
“Mama, tell me.”
“Where do I start? There’s so little time. First I must tell you about your father, about what Stephen did for me when—”
“Shut—your—mouth!”
Unheralded in their distraction, Hezekiah Parrish had returned. He crossed the room, snatched her mother’s arm from Tamsen’s grasp, and with the sound of tearing seams, yanked her to her feet.
“You swore to me, Sarah. Why are you breaking your word?”
Pain thinned her mother’s lips. “We were speaking of Mr. Kincaid’s slaves. I was explaining to Tamsen—”
“You were speaking of Stephen Littlejohn .” He spat the name as if it tasted foul. In its wake fell a silence so complete Tamsen heard her heart slamming against her tight-drawn stays. She stared, a coldness in the pit of her belly, as her mother smiled.
“I made you no promise never to speak of my husband,” she said with a calm that raised the hairs on Tamsen’s arms—in the seconds before Mr. Parrish drew back his fist and hit her mother full in the face.
Her fall toppled the chair on which she’d sat, her heavy petticoats tangling with its legs. The crack of her head hitting the hearth was audible over the chair’s crash.
For an instant Tamsen couldn’t move, so cruel was the blow, so shocking its results. She gaped at her mother, sprawled and still. “Mama?”
Sarah Parrish made no sound. Blood spilled from her nose, running rivulets across her mouth and chin.
“Stephen Littlejohn is dead,” Mr. Parrish shouted at her mother. “You are mine, and you will do as you are bid. You and your daughter are mine .”
While behind her Mr. Parrish raged, Tamsen stared at her mother’s blood, a red stain that blossomed until it filled her vision. Filled her soul. With a screech of rage, she flew at her stepfather, fingers clawed to rake his face, gauge his eyes, tear him into a thousand pieces.
She never even scratched him. He caught her neatly, thick fingers closing over her wrists with appalling strength. Their faces were inches apart, his dark with fury. He freed one hand and clouted her, just above the ear. Where a bruise wouldn’t show.
Tamsen plowed into the bed. Grasping the coverlet, she pulled herself onto the tick and rolled over, head ringing. Her stepfather hadn’t pursued her.
“Repair your hair. Put that on.” Issuing orders as though his violence against them had affected him not in the least, Mr. Parrish shoved a finger toward the gown hanging from the bedpost. “Ambrose Kincaid will see you. You’re to apologize for your previous indecorous behavior. If he should offer again, you will accept his proposal of marriage.”
“I won’t.” It came out a sob, not the blazing defiance she’d intended. “He’s the one who should apologize.”
Mr. Parrish advanced to the bed. Leaning over her, he grasped her chin with squeezing fingers, forcing her to look at him. To her humiliation, a whimper escaped her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“I am not the one who cares to hear that lie out of your pretty mouth.” He released her and withdrew, leaving behind a cloud of stale breath. “You will make your apologies—convincingly. You will give him every encouragement to repeat his offer of marriage. Every encouragement.Should he do so, you will answer him with an immediate acceptance. Am I clear?”
Tamsen risked a glance at the hearth. Her mother hadn’t moved. “Yes sir. But … Mama.”
Hezekiah Parrish was already at the door, too consumed with the fly at the edge of his web to concern himself with the one long caught. “Let the maid see to her. You’ve an hour to make yourself decent.”
Unsteadied by the ringing in her head, Tamsen lurched across the room before the front door had shut. “Mama!”
Conscious now, Sarah Parrish’s mouth sagged as she gasped in breath, a wet, labored sound, more alarming than the blood seeping from her
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