particulars of Lance’s troubles to herself. “He came along to help with my brother.”
“You already knew him then?”
“He was a slave at Spivey Point Manor where my father was overseer.”
“Jeb’s a runaway?”
“Abandoned is more like it. The owners fled north soon as the fighting drew close. Left us all to fend for ourselves.”
“Never heard of Spivey Point. Who owns it?”
“Family named Lawrence. It’s a large tobacco-growing estate east of Richmond. Sits up on a bend of land overlooking the James River.” Or it once did. Was it still there with its wide porches and elegant columns? Or had the War come through and ruined the rose gardens and the grand old oak trees that ringed the house? Whatever had become of the place, it would never be her home again.
She cleared her throat of the lump that had sprouted of a sudden. “On a summer morning, before it gets real hot, you can sit out on the point and watch the barges piled with all sorts of goods and supplies, coming ’round the curve down from the terminal.”
“Heading to the bay.”
Heading to the bay and to places she’d only dreamed of seeing. Though she loved Spivey Point, she’d itched to explore beyond the estate. To touch and hear and taste new worlds, not just what she could see in a picture book.
She passed him the canteen but held onto the cap so he could take a drink. “There’s just a little bit left. And you’re right...water’s not real fresh.”
He tipped back his head and drained the contents. Sure did have a nice neck. All tanned and sleek. Except for that tiny scabbed-over nick. One she’d put there.
He lowered the canteen. “You live there long?”
So many prying questions. The nick on his neck pulsed. A moneylender calling in its dues. She prodded her stingy tongue. “All my life. Lance and I were born at Spivey Point. We’re twins. We lived in a small cabin just up from the main house.”
“You were comfortable there, I take it? Happy?”
There being no simple answer, she just nodded.
“And your father?” He gave her a questioning look. “As overseer, he managed the labor?”
“He was in charge of the slaves, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t get prickly. I wasn’t asking—”
“Sure you were. Or you were going to.” She squared her shoulders as that old familiar resentment crept up her spine. “That’s all you Northerners can see when you look at us. Haven’t met a Yankee yet didn’t think every one of us feeds on hate and mistreatment. You don’t know there are respectable folks out there, trying to do right. Good overseers who stay on, working for ignorant masters, so they can guarantee decent care of those poor souls.”
She fisted her hand around the metal canteen cap, squeezing until it bit into her palm. Nobody outside of Spivey Point would ever know of Papa’s charity or the risks he’d taken.
“Your father sounds like a conscientious man. Can’t imagine he thinks too fondly of his daughter running off on a foolish quest.”
“My father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Some days, it seemed like years ago. Other days, when the grief snuck up on her, it felt like it’d just happened. “He died this past winter.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, too. For a long time.” Tears burned in her eyes. She combed her fingers through Sock’s mane, smoothing, straightening. Tidying.
Porter gave her another quick, unnerving squeeze. “I just keeping sticking my foot in my mouth, don’t I? That leaves just you and your brother.”
“Here.” She thrust the canteen cap at him, almost striking him in the nose again.
“Kitty, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh look,” she blurted, pointing to the white-washed structure taking shape through the greenery ahead. Thank heaven for small favors. “That must be the farmhouse.”
He grunted in agreement and shifted around to stow away the canteen.
“I don’t know about you,” she added. “But I could use a
“You already knew him then?”
“He was a slave at Spivey Point Manor where my father was overseer.”
“Jeb’s a runaway?”
“Abandoned is more like it. The owners fled north soon as the fighting drew close. Left us all to fend for ourselves.”
“Never heard of Spivey Point. Who owns it?”
“Family named Lawrence. It’s a large tobacco-growing estate east of Richmond. Sits up on a bend of land overlooking the James River.” Or it once did. Was it still there with its wide porches and elegant columns? Or had the War come through and ruined the rose gardens and the grand old oak trees that ringed the house? Whatever had become of the place, it would never be her home again.
She cleared her throat of the lump that had sprouted of a sudden. “On a summer morning, before it gets real hot, you can sit out on the point and watch the barges piled with all sorts of goods and supplies, coming ’round the curve down from the terminal.”
“Heading to the bay.”
Heading to the bay and to places she’d only dreamed of seeing. Though she loved Spivey Point, she’d itched to explore beyond the estate. To touch and hear and taste new worlds, not just what she could see in a picture book.
She passed him the canteen but held onto the cap so he could take a drink. “There’s just a little bit left. And you’re right...water’s not real fresh.”
He tipped back his head and drained the contents. Sure did have a nice neck. All tanned and sleek. Except for that tiny scabbed-over nick. One she’d put there.
He lowered the canteen. “You live there long?”
So many prying questions. The nick on his neck pulsed. A moneylender calling in its dues. She prodded her stingy tongue. “All my life. Lance and I were born at Spivey Point. We’re twins. We lived in a small cabin just up from the main house.”
“You were comfortable there, I take it? Happy?”
There being no simple answer, she just nodded.
“And your father?” He gave her a questioning look. “As overseer, he managed the labor?”
“He was in charge of the slaves, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t get prickly. I wasn’t asking—”
“Sure you were. Or you were going to.” She squared her shoulders as that old familiar resentment crept up her spine. “That’s all you Northerners can see when you look at us. Haven’t met a Yankee yet didn’t think every one of us feeds on hate and mistreatment. You don’t know there are respectable folks out there, trying to do right. Good overseers who stay on, working for ignorant masters, so they can guarantee decent care of those poor souls.”
She fisted her hand around the metal canteen cap, squeezing until it bit into her palm. Nobody outside of Spivey Point would ever know of Papa’s charity or the risks he’d taken.
“Your father sounds like a conscientious man. Can’t imagine he thinks too fondly of his daughter running off on a foolish quest.”
“My father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Some days, it seemed like years ago. Other days, when the grief snuck up on her, it felt like it’d just happened. “He died this past winter.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, too. For a long time.” Tears burned in her eyes. She combed her fingers through Sock’s mane, smoothing, straightening. Tidying.
Porter gave her another quick, unnerving squeeze. “I just keeping sticking my foot in my mouth, don’t I? That leaves just you and your brother.”
“Here.” She thrust the canteen cap at him, almost striking him in the nose again.
“Kitty, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh look,” she blurted, pointing to the white-washed structure taking shape through the greenery ahead. Thank heaven for small favors. “That must be the farmhouse.”
He grunted in agreement and shifted around to stow away the canteen.
“I don’t know about you,” she added. “But I could use a
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