Fairer than Morning (13 page)

When they approached the group, Mrs. Burbridge welcomed Ann with a regal if somewhat tremulous sweep of her arm. “Miss Miller, we were just about to go in to dinner. Won't you accompany—”

But even as she indicated Allan, and he moved as if to offer his arm, Amelia Holmes fluttered between them and seized him by the elbow. “Why, thank you, Mr. Burbridge,” she said.

Allan smiled at her, as a gentleman would, but the look he gave Ann over Amelia's shoulder was rueful. Dr. Loftin stepped up and offered Ann his arm with an air of amused sympathy, while Mr. Miller escorted Mrs. Burbridge. They all proceeded into the velvet-dark dining room with its rich, patterned wallpaper and softly glowing tapers.

They dined first on a creamy crab bisque, then little Cornish squabs, and finally a steaming succulent half pig, carved at the table by the manservant. Susan and Mabel were models of demure girlhood. Ann might even have begun to relax and enjoy herself, were it not for her creeping anxiety about the conversational cuts and parries of the Holmeses.

“How exquisite your gown is,” Mrs. Holmes said to Ann. The Southern matriarch took a sip of wine and peeped over the rim of her glass. “I have been telling Amelia for weeks that fashions earlier in the decade were much more attractive than what Paris is offering us now. And now you prove it for me beyond a doubt.” She sighed. “You see, Amelia. The higher waist is more becoming.”

Ann's face burned. There was no chance that she would be able to retort; she had little experience with other women, and certainly not women like these, who could present a glass full of poison so it smelled as sweet as ambrosia.

“Miss Miller is indeed a vision tonight,” Dr. Loftin said.

“Well said.” Allan turned to Ann. “But, beautiful as the gown may be, I believe it is not the dress that transfixes us but the timeless beauty of the one who wears it.” The corner of his mouth quirked. He lifted his glass in Ann's direction. “A toast to classical grace.”

“Hear, hear,” said the doctor. He and Allan grinned at each other and then at the company. Mr. Miller, Mrs. Burbridge, and even Mr. Holmes raised their glasses with genuine goodwill, but Amelia's mouth was pursed and sour.

Her mother also looked vexed before hiding it with an overly bright smile. “And perhaps a toast for your daughter, Philip?”

He honked. Even in her discomfort, Ann wanted to laugh. Mr. Holmes finished clearing his sinuses and lifted his glass once more. “To a radiant daughter, possessed of all the feminine virtues her mother could bestow upon her.”

Now she thought Allan would really lose his composure, because his shoulders convulsed for a moment before he quickly changed the subject.

“Mr. Holmes, have you had any success in business here?”

“My runaway slave is apparently hiding somewhere here in town, as I suspected.”

Mrs. Holmes gave her husband a disapproving look, but he appeared not to notice.

“In a part of town known as Arthursville, which is infested with free blacks who harbor fugitives.”

“How do you know his whereabouts?” Ann's father asked mildly.

“Oh, I have my means.” Mr. Holmes waved at his glass, and the silent servant stepped forward to pour him more wine. Mr. Holmes watched the ruby liquid trickle into the glass with satisfaction.

“And it was worth it to you to travel all this way?” Her father surprised her with his persistence.

“It's the principle of it, you see.” Mr. Holmes had lifted his glass, but thumped it down on the table so the wine trembled in it.

Did the man not see Mrs. Burbridge frowning?

“When my other slaves see one escape, they are emboldened to try the same thing themselves. Consequently, it is of great importance to bring runaways back and make an example of them.”

Ann disguised a shudder, wondering what such an example entailed.

“I do not have to do it myself, of course,” Mr. Holmes said. “There are men for hire who will bring back fugitives. But a planter of my acquaintance suspects that my slave ran away with one of
his
slave women, and I feel some responsibility to ensure that my friend's stolen property is returned too.” Mr. Holmes patted his lips with a lace-edged napkin. “The best of it is that we have laid a little wager.”

“Indeed?” Dr. Loftin's face was neutral.

“Yes,” said Mr. Holmes. “He has sent a hired man to find his fugitive, and I have come to find them myself. If I find them first, my friend owes me his best thoroughbred mare. Should his hired man find them first, I owe him a year's supply of port. And that's a goodly amount of port, I assure you.” He laughed gustily and then honked again. “Well, I must excuse myself for a moment.” He pushed back his chair and got unsteadily to his feet.

Mrs. Holmes murmured something and rose to follow her husband. Ann had no doubt that Mr. Holmes was about to be read a lecture on the mingling of wine and politics.

As the Holmeses exited toward the parlor, Mrs. Burbridge spoke into the vacuum. “Tell us about your ministry, Mr. Miller. You must gather so many stories, riding about as you do.”

The company embraced the new topic with evident relief, and when Mr. Holmes returned, he did not attempt to raise the subject of his fugitive again.

The rest of the dinner passed in more cheerful conversation, with only an occasional acerbic glance from Amelia. Allan was charming and attentive, and as he escorted Ann out into the hallway, he asked if he could take her to see some of the sights of the city soon. She agreed, grateful that the Holmeses were far enough behind to miss this exchange.

“Then I will see you this week?” he said.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I have no pressing engagements.”

“I'm a lucky man.” He pressed her hand and turned to take her coat from the butler, who stood behind him.

“Your bag, miss.” The butler spoke with a hint of an Irish brogue. He held her fur bag in one hand and the leather portfolio in the other. She took both and handed the leather case to her father.

“Why, thank you, Ann,” he said. She was touched to see that he appreciated even this small gesture of help. But she shook off the tender feeling, remembering his harshness the day before. She could not trust him.

They set off in the coach. The girls were tired now, and they all rode in silence. Ann reflected on Allan's attention, smiling to herself. He was very entertaining. She smoothed her skirt and laid her handbag on the seat. It crinkled with the sound of dry paper.

The letters. The memory of the apprentice returned, along with a rush of guilt.
I have been prancing about enjoying myself and eating fine food, while he lies injured in a freezing barn
.

She must give the letters to him as soon as she could. But she could not afford to give Master Good any reason for suspicion. She would have to wait and watch for her first opportunity.

Twelve

M
ISS MILLER HAD BEEN AVOIDING HIM ALL WEEK.
Will was sure of it. He had glimpsed her several days before, as she stood at one of the upstairs windows of the doctor's home, gazing out at the Goods' home with a preoccupied look. When she noticed him watching her from below, she started and stepped back, dropping the curtain into place over the window. He had not seen her since then.

He stood by Dr. Loftin's pig enclosure, where the pigs were now eating their morning meal. Perhaps she might come out to talk to him if he stood here long enough. But the longer he stayed, the more likely it was that Master Good would see him. And there was no sign of Miss Miller yet, not even a twitch of the curtains.

He clucked to the pigs, savoring this stolen moment of peace. Lucy raised her head, sniffing his hand with a moist, grain-flecked nose, then went back to her meal. The little piglets grunted and squealed as they shouldered one another aside at the trough. He put his arm through the fence and stroked a piglet on her rough, warm back. She pointed her tiny snout at him for a moment, her little pink nostrils working, button eyes bright. Then she flicked her curly tail and skittered down to the other end of the trough.

The back door of the doctor's house opened. To his disappointment, it was Mr. Miller who emerged on the stoop, a bag slung over his shoulder. The saddler raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning,” he called across the yard.

“Good morning to you, sir.”

“Have you some time to assist me this morning, young man?” Mr. Miller asked, walking toward him over the gravel.

“Yes, sir.”

Master Good had told him that he must drop all other duties if Mr. Miller asked for his help. He had been working for Mr. Miller every day now for a week. It was far more pleasant than his other tasks. But poor Tom was working twice as hard to keep up, and guilt nagged at Will as he watched the younger apprentice staggering back and forth on various errands of animal tending and wood gathering.

Mr. Miller reached Will, and they fell in step, headed for the work area in the Goods' barn.

Once they were inside and the door fastened against the cold, Mr. Miller laid out his tools on the workbench. Will admired the craftsmanship of the large awl, its sharp metal head set flush and solid in the wood handle. Years of fine work in Mr. Miller's hand had lent all his tools a subtle gleam, a patina of history. Compared to their graceful lines, their aged wood and bone, Master Good's newer tools were crude and gaudy, like children's toys.

The model O'Hara saddle rested on one of the wall racks. Now that the tree and padding for the new saddle were ready, Mr. Miller no longer needed the model saddle's measurements. Will had been cutting stirrup straps and billet straps yesterday, but the master saddler cut the saddle flaps in order to assure the correct curve. Now a smooth piece of leather lay over the saddle seat, ready to be stitched into place.

“Will, if you would be so good as to begin the pommel stitching, I will start the embossing for the flaps.”

He could not believe that Mr. Miller would entrust him with such an important task. Pleasure rushed through him, carrying with it slight anxiety. He did not know if his hand would be steady, with his nerves drawn tight by the need for perfection. He was glad Mr. Miller had already cut the stitching channel, so all Will had to do was sink the stitches.

He picked up his two needles and the awl and seated himself on the stitching horse. Hole by hole, thread by thread, he pulled the smooth hide taut into the desired position. He grew a little dizzy and had to remind himself not to hold his breath for each stitch.

Will paused and straightened up for a brief rest, hands still resting on the pommel with the needles and awl. Mr. Miller was deep in concentration a few feet away at the work table, bending over the saddle flap with a half-moon blade. Will marveled at the deftness with which the master saddler wielded the knife, his wrist rotating smoothly, the blade perfectly vertical as it etched a design of fine petals into the damp leather. He carved with astonishing speed, first one perfect rose, then another.

Mr. Miller must have noticed Will's fascination out of the corner of his eye, for he smiled down at his work as he finished the lines of another flower. “Would you like to approach and observe?” he asked without looking up.

Will was chagrined to be caught lollygagging, as Master Good would call it. “Oh no, sir.” Then he realized that his master would want him to observe as closely as possible. “Or perhaps just for a moment.” He laid his needles on the saddle seat, careful to keep the threads straight. Rising and swinging his leg over the bench, he crossed to where Mr. Miller still bent over his work.

“It's very fine, Mr. Miller.” He said it with wonder, still absorbed by the sight of the knife flitting across the surface with such accuracy.

“Thank you, Will. The result of many years of apprenticeship under a demanding master.” For the first time, the saddler lifted his knife away from the leather, turning his head to look Will in the face. “Not as demanding as yours, perhaps.”

Will shifted his gaze, looking back at the saddle flap. Miss Miller must have told her father what had happened. It was humiliating, and yet part of him was relieved that someone, anyone, knew of his master's true nature.

He would say nothing. Mr. Miller seemed a decent man, but Will did not know if the saddler might repeat anything he said to Master Good.

The saddler laid his knife aside. He stroked his chin with one hand, then picked up the beveller and wooden hammer, scanning the floral design closely as if checking for any minor flaw. “My wife was particularly fond of this pattern.”

“Was, sir? Is she no longer living?” Will would not usually ask such a question, but the camaraderie of their shared craft put him at his ease with the saddler, who was so different from his own master. Perhaps he had gone too far, even so.

But Mr. Miller did not seem offended, only a little sad. “Lost in childbirth with Mabel, my youngest.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Mmm.” The saddler applied the beveller to one of his fine cuts and began a series of small taps with the hammer. A delicate channel emerged in the flower pattern, bringing the line into relief so that it was more visible. “My two youngest don't even remember her. It's my eldest daughter who has borne the burden of her mother's passing, for some nine years now. I fear she has taken it too hard and will lose her youth in raising her sisters.”