Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Don’t grumble. There’ll be time for that later. Now, I’m listening.”

“We talked about so much last time, I think I’ve run out of things to say.”

“So, tell me what you dream.”

#

She breezed through the door of the Weinberg legal firm. “You have news?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’d take care of things? The Drexels dropped their suit and have signed papers giving up all future claims to Greenwald Enterprises.”

“How did you do it?” Sarah seated herself on the edge of an upholstered chair. “You said a month and it’s only been two weeks.”

Simon laughed. “And during those two weeks you’ve been hounding me, wanting to know why it’s taking so long.”

“You’re not answering my questions.”

He shook his head in amusement. “The truth was my sword, my dear. I reminded the pater familias that his son was a lecher, a thief, a scoundrel and an adulterer, and that he’d have to move to the Dead Sea to escape the ignominy of it all.”

“Adulterer?”

He looked momentarily shocked that she either didn’t know or at least suspect. “I should have left that word out.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She waved her gloved hand. “So it’s over?”

“It’s over. You’re free from the Drexels forever.”

For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry, but then she smiled, stood up and extended her hand across the desk. He jumped to his feet and came around to accept it.

“Now you can get on with your life. A better life.”

“Thank you so much, Simon. Father always valued you as a friend and as a professional colleague. Now I must tell mother. She’ll be relieved.”

“And please give her my regards.”

On returning home she wrote a long letter, explained that the situation had been resolved and asked when her mother would be returning to Charleston, offering—with a moment’s hesitation—to travel there to accompany her back. Since the postal service was still very unreliable, she had her coachman take it to the stage depot to be dispatched on the next coach to Columbia

Would Buck be willing to make the trip with her? She must get in touch with him and give him the good news as well. She penned a quick note, this one to be delivered by messenger to his hotel.

How long would it take for him to respond? Was he even in town? Perhaps he’d already found a location for his medical practice here in Charleston, or maybe he’d found a better opportunity somewhere else. She would just have to wait for his answer.

In the meantime, rather than return to the big empty house that had once felt so much like home, but which now only echoed with memories, she decided a new wardrobe was appropriate. Since there were no longer any dress shops in business, she spent the next three hours rummaging through dressers and trunks of old clothing, then summoned a seamstress to alter them to conform with current fashions. Not one of them was black.

By late afternoon, she was buoyant but fatigued. Tomorrow her new life would begin, no longer in mourning. She was removing the pin from a wide-brimmed hat when the doorbell rang. Curious who could be calling at that hour, she stood by while the butler answered it.

The sound of his voice made her heart stop.

Buck.

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

“Tell me what’s happened,” he said more sharply than he’d intended.

“Our legal matters have been resolved. In our favor. I’m free, Buck. I’m no longer in mourning. I can get on with the rest of my life.”

Impulsively he pulled her into his arms. She fit perfectly there. The entrancing scent of her skin, the way her body molded to his conjured sensations and images that nearly drove him over the edge. He smothered her with kisses.

“Let’s celebrate. Can you . . . is it all right if . . . we have dinner together? In a public place. I mean—”

She laughed, a deep, throaty sound that threatened to reduce him to begging.

“We can go anywhere and eat together in front of the whole world.”

Nevertheless, before accompanying him out of the house, she insisted on bathing and changing clothes. He was shown into the drawing room to wait.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” she assured him. “There’s brandy and port. If you want anything else, ring for Oscar and he’ll see to your comfort.”

He thanked her and wandered over to a bookcase by the side of the fireplace. He wasn’t totally surprised when a few minutes turned into nearly two hours. By then he’d read a goodly part of Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. But the wait was worth it. Sarah had transformed from a lovely, charming but grieving widow to a radiant southern belle in an azure-blue and emerald-green hoop skirt with a low-cut bodice and a double strand of pearls that perfectly concealed the scar on her neck. Matching earrings rocked beneath the high elegant bouffant crown of silken black hair.

“You take my breath away,” he told her when she entered the room. “You’re beautiful.”

“Why, sir,” she drawled, “I do believe I’ve kept you waiting too long.”

“It was well worth it.”

“Shall we then to dinner?” She extended her elbow.

His hand was damp as he escorted her out into the night.

#

Sarah stretched luxuriously in her four-poster bed as the morning light sneaked through the hurricane shutters of the French windows. Last night had been exciting if not completely fulfilling. They’d dined in the city. The food wasn’t very good or generous, but they didn’t care. It was the conversation. They talked for hours about every imaginable subject, from books to politics to religion to what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives. She’d never met a man who so fascinated her. He was well-educated, highly literate, and his manners were impeccable.

The evening ended too soon, though it was after midnight when he escorted her home. Then came the awkward moment. They both knew what they wanted, how they felt about each other, yet propriety—damn propriety—kept them from following through on their desires. He kissed her goodnight outside her front door, then, hand held out behind him, bade her adieu.

As she lay in her bed alone, she promised herself not to let the next opportunity slip by.

She was sitting in the morning room, sipping hot, creamy coffee, when Oscar entered holding a salver.

“A letter for you, Madame. It was just delivered.”

“A letter? From whom?” She tore it open and read:

“My dearest Sarah. I’ve found a very nice house in good condition here in Columbia and have decided to stay. It’s not exceptionally large, but it is big enough for the two of us. If you want to stay in the house in Charleston, you may, of course, but I’m hoping you’ll come here and live with me. I miss you dreadfully. I don’t know if you can sell the house there. I’ll leave that decision to you. Write soon. With all my love.”

It was signed “Mother”.

She fell back against the chair, her hands hanging over the arms. If her mother had wanted to shock her, she’d succeeded. Sarah couldn’t imagine Ruth Greenwald living anywhere but in this bustling commercial city in the house she’d made into a small castle. And yet Sarah understood. Charleston and this house had become the abode of too many bad memories. The good ones she could take with her wherever she went. She didn’t need constant reminders of the sorrows this place conjured.

Strangely, after the initial shock, Sarah felt elated. A new life was about to start. Whether it would be here in Charleston or some other place—like Columbia—she wasn’t sure, but the challenge of a new adventure thrilled her.

She picked up the ceramic bell beside her breakfast plate and rang it. Oscar entered the room a few seconds later.

“As soon as I’ve finished eating, have Felix bring around the carriage.”

“Yes, Madame.”

#

Simon Weinberg rose from his leather-upholstered swivel chair when Sarah was shown into his office.

“I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” he said, after the usual greeting and a genteel kiss on the cheek. He showed her to a fiddle-back chair and resumed his place behind his ornately carved desk.

“Mother has decided to stay in Columbia. Apparently she’s found a house there. Knowing Miriam Grayson, I’m sure she had something to do with it. And I’m glad. I can’t imagine Mother without Father, but I think the adjustment will be far easier for her to make in a new place with old friends.”

“How can I help?”

“I’ve decided to sell our house, most of its contents, as well as the brokerage.”

“Selling the brokerage may not be too much of a problem, however, I must advise you that this is not a good time to be disposing of private property. I’ll do my best for you, of course, but it’s unlikely you’ll get more than half of what it was worth before the war.”

“I’m in no great hurry. You can wait for a rich Yankee who wants the social standing of living on the Battery.”

He chuckled.

“There is one condition, however,” she warned.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing will be sold to any member, relative or close associate of the Drexel family. I’m counting on you to insure there is no subterfuge.”

“You have my word.”

She stood up. “I want to go to Columbia to see Mother and perhaps live with her, at least for a while, but first I need to settle matters here. It’ll take me at least a month to pack what I want to keep and arrange for the servants employment. Do you think rail service will be reestablished by then. After what happened last time I can’t bear the thought of making the trip again by coach.”

“From what I’ve heard work has already commenced restoring the lines. There’s certainly enough labor available to do it.” Simon rose, came around the corner of the desk, and extended his hands. “I’ll look into this for you and let you know. In the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call on me if there is anything I can do to help you, not only as your attorney but as your friend. I’ll greatly miss your presence here in Charleston. Your parents and I go back a long time together. The future doesn’t look very bright at the moment, but you’re still young, and that’s my consolation.”

Sarah left the lawyer’s office a few minutes later and had her driver take her to the Isaac Hayne Hotel. At the desk she asked for Dr. Thomson’s room. The desk clerk tried not to impart any judgment that an attractive young woman was inquiring about a single man’s room number, but didn’t quite succeed. He hit the bell on the counter and when the bellhop arrived moments later, directed him to take “this lady” to Dr. Thomson’s suite. Sarah almost giggled as she followed the young man in the brass-buttoned red uniform up the stairs.

Buck opened the door and stepped back when he saw her.

“Dr. Thomson, sir,” the black bellhop said, “this here lady come to see you. That all right?”

Buck stared at Sarah, then replied, “Yes, yes. Just a minute.” He spun around to the table behind him and removed a coin from his purse and handed it to the boy. “Thank you.”

The lad, who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, gazed at the coin. His jaw dropped. He’d probably never been tipped a whole dollar before. As if he were afraid Buck might reconsider, he backed up, bowed, offered effusive thanks and disappeared down the hall.

“Come in. Come in.” Buck backed away from the door and waved his hand in invitation.

She stepped into the room, her hoop skirt gliding over the worn carpet, and turned to face him. He closed the door and stood speechless in front of her.

“May I sit down?” she asked with a smirk on her lips.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Of course. Please, sit down.” He rushed to the table and pulled out a straight-back chair. “Can I give you something to drink? Wine or tea or . . . something?”

“I want to tell you about my plans. Won’t you sit down too?”

“Plans?” He pulled out the chair across from her and almost tripped into it.

“I’m leaving Charleston,”

“Leaving?” He looked shocked, fearful. “Why? Where to?”

“Columbia. I received a letter from Momma. She’s decided to stay there. Told me to sell the house and brokerage. Wants me to visit her there.”

“And you’re going?”

She nodded.

“When? Not right away, surely.”

“No, not right away. In about a month perhaps, depending on how long it takes me to settle my affairs here.”

He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. “I don’t want you to go,” he finally declared.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want you to go. Not by yourself.”

“The trains will probably be operating again by then,” she informed him. “The trip will be a lot faster and safer.”

He stood up and came around to her side of the table. “I can’t let you go.”

“To Columbia?”

“From my life.” He turned and paced before continuing. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me, Sarah. I’m searching, but I’m not sure for what. Until I do I can’t make any commitments. Or ask anyone else to. But what I feel for you . . . I’ve never felt for any other woman.”

She studied him with steady eyes and waited.

He started to take her hand, then turned away. As soon as he did, she bolted to her feet and whirled around to confront him. “I’m not asking for any commitments, Buck. Would it surprise you to learn I’m as confused as you are? I’ve never been in love before, but I think I am with you.”

“You love me?”

She smiled. “I think so.”

He circled her with his arms and gazed into her eyes. “Frightening, isn’t it?”

She found her attention focused on his mouth. “Terrifying, yet I—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence before his lips smothered her words.

It would have been impossible for her to recount the series of steps that followed, except that they led to the bed in the other room. What happened there, well . . .

#

In the days and weeks that followed, Buck received only two wrinkled letters in response to his inquires about medical practices. One expressed no interest in his application. The second appreciated his interest but had already filled all their vacancies.

Now that Sarah had told him she was returning to Columbia, he wrote another letter to Dr. Meyer, expressing his interest in diseases of the mind and spirit. To his utter amazement he received a reply in less than a week. Dr. Meyer was enchanted with the possibility of having a partner who would see patients with mental problems so he could concentrate exclusively on his interest in neurological diseases. He ended his letter with “I eagerly await your arrival.”

Still clutching the correspondence in his hand Buck rode Gypsy immediately to Sarah’s house, spun her around in his arms and announced that he was going to Columbia with her. Over the course of the next few days, he helped her finalize her plans. She gave each of the servants glowing letters of recommendation and generous severance packets. The one exception was Janey who would accompany her back to the Grayson household.

Simon Weinberg had already sold the brokerage and found a promising prospective buyer for the house. Finally, on a sunny but cool autumn morning, Sarah made one last sweep through the mansion that had been her home all of her life, noted the sheets that covered the furniture her parents had accumulated through thirty years of marriage, and said a final farewell to Oscar the butler who had served the family for more than twenty years. She and Janey, climbed into the hired carriage that would take them to the railroad station. Buck followed behind on Gypsy.

Simon Weinberg had used his influence to get them the last seats in the one passenger rail car of a troop train going to Florence. From there they would have to take another train west to Columbia. The route was indirect but far safer than traveling by road.

Lulled by the clickety-clack of the iron wheels on the newly-replaced tracks, Buck’s thoughts wandered. Time was indeed a remedy. A few plantations were already being reestablished, though not with the intensity of labor they’d once demanded. The steady exodus of former slaves continued. If questioned about their destinations, they invariably answered: “Goin’ north.” Buck wondered if, like the Great Diaspora, they were doomed to wander endlessly, seeking permanent homes.

He gazed at the woman sitting in the seat facing him. No longer dressed in black, Sarah was wearing a jade-green silk dress, trimmed in ecru lace. Its tailored cut emphasized her slim waist and full bosom. Her summery straw hat had a wide brim and was decorated with peacock and quail feathers.

“It’ll be good to see Job again,” she commented. “Mother’s last letter was bubbling with praise for him. Not yet four years old and already he’s reading.”

The chug of the steam locomotive echoed off the dense growth of forest lining the raised rail bed.

“I’ll be glad when we get through this accursed swamp.” Sarah wiped her face with a white-linen handkerchief as she stared out the open window. “At least we don’t have to put up with the swarms of insects we encountered last time.”

Or redheaded assassins, Buck thought.

He wished he could erase all recollection of Cedar Creek. The best he could offer was pleasant future memories. Reaching across for her hand, he said softly, “We’ll be in Columbia before dark, sweetheart.”

She curled her fingers into his and grinned at him. sitting beside her, Janey studiously read her Shakespeare.

To their delight Sarah’s mother, Miriam and Gus Grayson were at the station to welcome them. Tears of joy filled the women’s eyes as they laughed and embraced. Buck and Gus clasped each other’s hands and shoulders and exchanged greetings.

Standing back Buck enjoyed the scene before him. The lines in Ruth Greenwald’s face had deepened during their separation, but her bearing and demeanor hadn’t changed. She hugged her daughter and visibly trembled with emotion, clearly reluctant to release her.

“Oh, Momma,” Sarah murmured between sobs. “I missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, sweetheart. Everything at home is . . . all right? The brokerage—”

Sarah nodded. “Sold, and the house will soon be as well. The Lord be praised, keeping busy kept me sane.”

“Your father would be so proud of how you’ve handled everything.” Ruth sniffled. “So proud.”

“Now, there’ll be none of that,” Miriam decreed. “This is a happy day. A joyous day.” She turned to Sarah. “My dear, you look absolutely stunning. That color suits your eyes so perfectly.”

“Come on, ladies, let’s be on our way,” Gus prompted as he motioned everyone into the waiting carriage. “It’ll be dark soon. Dinner’s waiting.”

“Men!” Miriam exclaimed. “Always thinking about their stomachs.”

The chatter among them didn’t stop or even pause for breath on the short ride to the Grayson residence.

“Momma, where is your house?”

“Around the corner and about a quarter mile from the Graysons. Smaller, of course. But I fell in love with it the moment Miriam told me it was for sale. And at a bargain price.” Behind her hand she whispered, “It was owned by a lady novelist who smoked cigars and drank straight Bourbon by the glassful. She’s dead now, of course. Eighty years of intemperate living will do that. ”

Sarah laughed. “I guess I have some catching up to do.”

Minutes after pulling up in front of the house on Senate Street, they were drinking mint juleps in the drawing room served by a young black man who was an inch or two taller than Buck and rail-thin. Overly deferential, he was trying almost too hard to please. Buck wondered what his background might be. He seemed self-conscious in his livery.

After the servant had returned to his station by the sideboard, Buck asked quietly, “A new addition to your household?”

Miriam nodded. “His name’s Gibbeon. I found him sleeping in an alley off Pendleton Street. I had him tagged as a runaway.”

“She’s got a heart of gold,” Gus reminded Buck.

“I have a heart,” she protested. “He was hungry and homeless. What was I supposed to do, leave him on the street to starve to death?”

Gus put his arm around her and squeezed gently. “I’m glad you only take in people and not stray cats. Come to think of it though, I’d love you for that too.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Uh-oh. I think I just said the wrong thing. Miriam, please, no cats.”

She laughed. “Silly man. You know they make me sneeze.”

Gus stared up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord.”

“Is Gibbeon from around here?” Buck asked.

“Born on the Hardwick plantation. Was about seven, he reckons, when his mother got in trouble. The old man, Chalmers, apparently wanted her in his bed. She refused. He wasn’t one to take no for an answer, but when she struck him, she went too far. He could legally have killed her, but he didn’t. Instead he took Gibbeon and sold him in the slave market in Charleston, then refused to tell her who had bought him or where he’d gone.”

Buck cringed. He remembered Chalmers Hardwick, the patriarch of the family, a tightfisted tyrant whose wife had committed suicide a few months after the last of their five sons was born. Over the years each of the boys had rebelled against him, sometimes violently, and been disowned. To Buck’s knowledge, none had ever expressed regret at the loss of their inheritances.

“Chalmers still alive?” Buck asked.

“Died last year,” Gus replied, “of an apoplectic stroke. His youngest boy was killed at Chancellorsville in ‘63, and I heard the oldest was blinded at Gettysburg a few months later. Not sure what’s happened to the other three. Heard the middle boy went up north and fought with Grant.” He shook his head. “Can’t say if it’s true, of course. Just a rumor. None of them showed up for the funeral. Then Sherman came through a few months later and burned the place down to the ground, including the slave quarters.”

“You said Gibbeon was sold away,” Buck reminded Miriam. “Where was he and what’s he doing here now?”

Her face sagged in sadness. “After leaving Hardwick he was sold several more times. Apparently he wasn’t very cooperative with his masters. Eventually ended up in southern Mississippi. When he got word the war was almost over, he ran away and managed to get back here.”

“Looking for his mother?”

“Unfortunately he was too late. She’d run away several times over the years, intending to find him, but it was hopeless. She always got caught and whipped when she was returned to Chalmers. Finally, about two years ago she managed to get word to me that she wanted my help.”

“The Underground Railroad?”

Miriam nodded. “It took a month of planning, but we finally got her out, bound for Canada. Whether she ever made it . . .” She shrugged. “Gibbeon’s asked me to help him find her.”

“And of course you’ve said yes.” Buck realized how proud he was of this strong, sweet woman. No wonder Gus was in love with her.

“I’ve written to my contacts in Toronto and Montreal, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. With the mail these days . . .”

“What are the chances—”

She shrugged again.

“My sources tell me,” Gus remarked, “that you’ll be joining Dr Meyer here in our fair city. I hope you’ll favor me with a special discount.”

Buck laughed. “Anytime you want my medical advice, I’ll be happy to give you a special discount on top of a friendly one. I believe added together they equal a hundred percent.”

“A bargain.” Grayson winked at his wife.

“I should forewarn you, however,” Buck went on, “that I deal primarily with disorders of the mind and nervous system.”

“No surgery? With all your experience and expertise?”

“I’ve put my bone saw, scalpels and other surgical instruments away in my saddle bag along with my pistols. Patients who require surgical treatment will be referred to Dr. Roger Jervey.”

“Why only mental disorders?”

Before he could answer, Sarah’s mother joined them. “Buck, I recently received a letter from Molly Cohen. She had the highest praise for Asa, said the young man has been absolutely selfless in attending her husband, the rabbi.”

“Asa insists the rabbi’s helped him much more.”

“Molly didn’t furnish any details, but she did mention that they enjoyed many long conversations.”

Buck smiled. “The rabbi’s willingness to listen drew Asa out of his shell. I’ll try to do the same with my patients. There’s a great need and considerable ignorance about mental illness, particularly involving casualties of war. Not all scars are visible. I expect caring, compassion and listening will be far more effective than the usual pills or potions.”

Miriam came up beside her husband. “We mothers have always known that.”

“Touché,” said Buck. He hesitated for a minute, then asked to be excused. “I want to see Emma.”

“Oh, dear me,” Miriam said. “I should have had you taken to her immediately. She’s anxious to see you.”

“Is she all right?”

“I’ll let you decide.” She motioned to Gibbeon. “Please take Dr. Thomson to see Emma.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The young man led Buck to a small room over the stalls of the carriage house. Emma lay on a cot in the far corner under a lace-curtained window. Buck tried not to show it but he was shocked by her appearance. She had withered even more than the last time he’d seen her. Her dark rheumy eyes lit up, however, when she saw him in the doorway. She reached out a scrawny hand.

“Oh, my baby’s home. At last. Now I can find my rest.” Her voice was faint and husky yet there was a strange joy in it.

He came closer. “Don’t talk like that, Emma. You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”

“Lordy, chile, the only-est dancin’ I be doin’ be in a happier place. I’s plumb wore out, Mr. Buck, but it ain’t no matter. I’s done what the Lord done sent me to do. Now I’s ready for His call.”

He went to his knees at the side of the bed and clasped her hands in his. “Don’t leave me, Emma. I need you.” She brought her hands up to his cheeks and murmured softly. “Thank you, Jesus, you let me see my sweet baby one more time.”

“Oh, Emma.”

A faint smile creased her wrinkled features and a light returned to her eyes.

“Do you ‘member how you loved to read when you was a boy? I would come out on my porch and see you settin’ in your Daddy’s rocker on the piazza with a book in your lap for hours. Mister Clay, he was always tearin’ round the place on his pony or a horse with that yellow hair flopping up and down. But you was always quiet, ‘specially after your Momma passed. Sometimes you’d be up in that ole chinaberry tree readin’ your book. One day I axt you to come and read to me and it started. I learned about King Arthur and his round table and his knights. Then you read to me from those Cooper books about Indians that talked funny and had strange names. But best of all when you commenced reading to me from the Bible I axt where God was and you moved my finger under the letters G-O-D. You ’member all that?”

Buck was unaware of the tears coursing down his face as he answered.

“I remember Emma, and I remember how you rewarded me. You would pick up a hot sweet potato with those iron tongs from your fireplace and put it in a wooden bowl so I wouldn’t burn my hands. You’d peel off the top and put a blob of churned butter on it and I would eat it all. I can taste it now.”

“Lord a mercy, you would look up and have that butter and tater all over your face. We would laugh and laugh.”

It seemed to Buck that this brief conversation had exhausted her.

She let her hands drop and closed her eyes, then whispered, “Take care of Job.”

Buck remained by her side for a while and watched. Her breathing was shallow and slow. She was resting peacefully. He quietly climbed to his feet and with one backward glance, left the room.

To his surprise Gibbeon was waiting downstairs for him. As if by instinct the young man said nothing. He simply turned toward the house with him.

“Please extend my thanks to the Graysons and the ladies. I’m going to my hotel. I can be reached there.”

“Yes, sir,” the servant replied and disappeared into the house by the back door.

#

Buck slept fitfully that night. He woke several times with images of Emma crowding his thoughts. He considered riding over to the Grayson estate and checking on the old slave woman, but he’d left word for them to send for him if he was needed, and he knew from experience that deathly ill patients could survive far longer than expected. He had no doubt that Emma was dying, but she might not pass for days. He turned over and finally fell back to sleep.

He rose with the sun, dressed and was about to go down to the dining room when there was a knock on the door. He swung it open and was startled to see Gibbeon standing there.

“Dr. Thomson, sir, Mr. Grayson send his compliments and asked me to inform you that Emma passed in her sleep during the night. I’m sorry, sir.” His eyes were misty. “Mr. Grayson is making arrangements with Jeffcoat’s to take her to Jasmine tomorrow for the funeral.”

“I thought of going to her last night and didn’t,” Buck murmured. “I should have.”

“Sir, Sophie sat with her all night. She says after you left Emma never opened her eyes again. She passed in her sleep, peaceful.” His voice was choked.

The two men said nothing for almost a minute, then Gibbeon added, “Mr. Grayson, he sent me with the buggy if you care to return to the house with me. I can wait, if you need me to.”

“I’ll come now.” Buck retrieved his coat from the arm of a chair, put it on and followed the tall, lanky black youth down the stairs.

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Franklin Drexel was enjoying his second cup of Irish breakfast tea from his secret hoard when he heard a woman scream. “What now?” he murmured to himself. Probably that new chamber maid frightened by another mouse. He shrugged and resumed reading the Charleston Courier report of cotton prices. A few moments later he heard male footsteps approach from the foyer. The butler, no doubt, to explain the disruption of the morning routine.

Without looking up, he asked, “What’s going on, Clarence?”

When the butler didn’t answer immediately, he looked up.

“Hello, father.”

The bone china cup in Franklin’s hand fell to the marble tile floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Randolph?”

“In the flesh.”

“But—”

His son guffawed. “You should see the expression on your face, dear father.”

“But . . . we were told you were dead, killed in a Yankee prison camp.”

Randolph laughed. “Surely you don’t believe Yankee lies.”

Franklin slumped against the back of the Louis Quatorze armchair. “This is quite a surprise. Why didn’t you get word to me—”

“Dead men don’t write.”