The Violet Hour (17 page)

He sits by me once again, gathering both my hands in his. I can’t help but notice the shocked expression on several of the men’s faces.

Brighton’s lips press together and his nostrils flare. “I need you to listen very carefully.”

I nod and wait, unmoving.

“My father…is a pitcher plant.” His eyes are pinched, as if the words are painful. “Do you know what that is?’

I smile, trying to assuage that look.

“Do not laugh, Allegra. This is not a game. A pitcher plant attracts pretty bugs,
like you
. Perhaps by pretty gowns or lovely meals, to dull your senses. Then, once inside, the sides of the plant are slippery, inescapable. The pretty bug is trapped. Then drowned, then eaten.” His entire body shakes and his hands grip mine so tightly, pain shoots through my now-perfect fingers. “He will
eat you
, do you understand?”

My shoulders shake. He notices, and rubs them, but his expression doesn’t soften. “Good. Be afraid. Be very afraid. It may save you.”

I shake my head. “You are so learned…I don’t understand. How does your father make his fortune?”

“Rice. My father deals in rice.” He turns to stare at Toby. “And humans. He buys and sells humans.”

Chapter Twelve

“Why did we come by schooner, instead of carriage?”

Several sets of black eyes flick across my face in question, smile and then quickly dart away.

Toby, however, guffaws. “She ain’ been round the Carolina’s long, has she?”

Another slip
. I sigh self-consciously.

Brighton, however, does not laugh. “To travel by road would take days, by water, only hours.”

His hand strays to his pocket, extracting a crumpled piece of parchment. “I found this posted in Charleston, several weeks ago.”

My hands fly to my mouth as I stare down at the rendering…of me.

I am depicted by my true hair color and the artist has certainly captured my face. A ripple of fear courses down my arms and my teeth worry my bottom lip.

Beneath the very-well-drawn likeness are the words, ‘Missing, Katherine Manners-Reward’.

Brighton’s warm hand grips my shoulder and squeezes. “I am certain the soldiers scour the main highways, searching for you. And now any other gold-digger in the South.”

I nod and swallow. I have no words. Father will stop at nothing to find me—and it’s only for spite. To think he actually pines for me is ludicrous.

Gooseflesh erupts as his scowling face invades my thoughts. I rub my hands together to ward off the image.

Brighton takes my hand, leading me to a pile of blankets. “Sleep. You will need your strength tomorrow. I’m afraid our stay will be no respite. My family is…”

He stares up at the white sails, flapping in the night air like the ghosts of our past.

I touch his arm. “There is nothing your family can do that I haven’t witnessed in my own. Fortune and privilege, which should mean decency and honor, often breed the exact opposite sort of men.”

A strange sound rips through the night—like the wind has somehow solidified and is now being chopped through a waterwheel. The hair on my arms rises to cover the gooseflesh.

“
What
was that?”

He hesitates, “
That
is an alligator.”

I sit straight up, craning to see the leviathan from over the boat’s edge.

“He’s behind us now, probably already below water. Yet another reason to travel the waters with a knowledgeable guide.”

The smell of smoke wafts across the deck and I automatically cover my mouth. Brighton’s eyes widen and he stands, squinting into the night.

Footsteps stampede from every direction of the deck to stare over the side that faces the shore.

I follow behind to the rail, leaning left and right, trying to see around the cluster of men.

Bright orange flames lick the inky sky from the shore. A high clock tower and steeple proudly juts out of the flickering center.

“It’s a church,” I whisper. “Was it arson?”

Brighton’s eyebrows pull tight, becoming one. “Fires are a grim reality here. Even with kitchens detached from the main houses. It’s the reason we now have twelve bloody fire brigades.”

His brow furrow deepens.

Toby grunts and says softly, “I hope there weren’t no people in that church.”

“It’s night?” I say, confused.

Toby and Brighton exchange a dark look. “Charleston is more dangerous every day. All this talk of the southern state’s succeeding from the Union. Many men meet in secret; plotting and whispering our nation to war.”

“They are serious? How would they defend against larger countries? Why do they wish to succeed?”

Brighton detaches me from the rail, leading me back to the blankets. I lie down, my head spinning. I feel certain I shall never sleep now.

He kneels; plumping a pillow beneath my head. His fingers linger in my hair and I sigh, a rare feeling of comfort flowing through me.

“I will tell you all you wish to know. Forewarned is forearmed. But for now, sleep. I will wake you soon.”

I close my eyes to placate him…and hear not another sound.

* * *

The burning against my cheek rouses me from a too-heavy slumber. I sit up, blinking, shielding my eyes. “So much for waking me.” The sun streams across the deck and the heat is already stifling.

Everywhere, men scurry around me and I wonder how I ever managed to sleep amidst such bustling.

Brighton stands at the helm, his white shirt and dark hair blow in the warm morning breeze. I stand; my legs sore and stiff and walk tentatively toward him. His knuckles are white and his tendons beneath stand out as he grips the railing.

I slide beside him and he startles but instantly calms at my presence.

He flashes me a wide, wry smile and nods forward. “That, be Morelands Estate.”

I turn slowly and fight to stop the intake of my breath as I behold his home.

The estate proper is fixed directly off the river and a long, winding stone fence with spiraling, wrought-iron gates encase a tall manor of dark brick. Tall, round windows tower on either side, staring down at us, even from this distance.

The house reminds me of an overpowering grandfather—filling me with equal parts awe and trepidation.

Brighton points. “Rice fields.” Already, throngs of black men and women wade into the waters to begin their day.

“There are so many…slaves.”

Brighton bites the side of his mouth then purses his lips, nodding slowly. He inhales slowly as if to control the words, “To keep a rice field running, it takes a great number of slaves.”

“My word.” I turned to stare at them, astounded by their sheer number. His fortune must be vast.

“H-How large is Moreland?” I clear my throat to hide my choke.

Brighton turns to stare, carefully evaluating my expression. I have never told him of my stand on slavery.

“My father owns six estates, spanning the entire length of the eastern seaboard. Pennsylvania, Maine…he believes in diversification for safety. By far, Moreland is the most taxing to run due to the sheer manpower needed. It is also by far the most lucrative.”

The ship docks and the world and following moments turn hypnagogic; Brighton’s taking my arm, leading me up the rambling stone path to the gate—all like a walk through a dream.

“Brrrighton!” A shrill voice like a warbling loon dissolves the fantasy.

A young woman, clad in blinding, pristine white, barrels out the estate front door; her dark hair flying behind her like a black, whipping flag; the color identical to Brighton’s.

Brighton begins to laugh, low and joyous beside me, shaking his head.

“Oh, my good merciful word, you’ve finally returned!” the girl calls.

She trips, stumbles and rights all in a breath, wrenching her long white skirt aloft to expose bare ankles. “I am
so
vexed. You were gone far, far too long.”

Sheep scatter like a wooly-white-sea to dart out of her way. Geese squawk in chastisement, erupting in a white burst of wings to the sky.

A dog yips, biting at her heels in hot pursuit, whipped into a frenzy by her sprint. It zags in and out, just missing her legs.

I cringe and squint in anticipation—picturing another tumble.

She dodges, spins, and continues her bolt. The woman-child slides to a stop, spraying us both in a shower of rock, her ample chest now heaving.

She thrusts out her hand to pump mine, completely, utterly inappropriately. I giggle. I cannot help it.

“Lucy. I’m Lucy. Who the Tom Fool are you?”

Brighton bursts out laughing. He bends in half, his hands on his knees as he tries to regain control. “Oh,
Lucy
. How I have missed you.”

He clears his throat, wipes his eyes and waves his hands with a flourish. “Allegra, this is my sister, Lucy. Lucille Elizabeth Annabelle Moreland. This is Miss Allegra Teagarden.”

She rolls her eyes, “Just Lucy.”

I stare, doing a quick assessment. I estimate her age to be about fifteen by her girlish buoyance and blossoming figure.

Lucy’s eyes narrow. “Is she your particular friend?”

My cheeks instantly blaze but Brighton guffaws again. “Oh, my dear, you must learn to keep that tongue in check. I see that has not changed a wit.”

Brighton takes our arms, one on either side of him, steeling us toward the grandfather-house.

My eyes drop under its unnerving stare.

“
Well, is she
? You didn’t answer my question? That has not changed, either,” she nearly growls.

Brighton gives her a sidelong glance. “Yes. She is.”

Lucy stops dead. Brighton relinquishes her arm and keeps walking.

I crane my neck back to see the look on her face.

“I
do not
believe it. I never, ever thought I would see it.”

She dashes to catch up, lacing her arm through mine this time. “Miss Allegra Teagarden. You are a truly remarkable creature, because I never, ever thought I’d see the day my brother would utter those words—he—”

“Enough, darling. Where is Papa?”

Lucy’s demeanor instantly shifts, like the wind leaving the sails. “He has been gone for a week, to New York, I believe. And you know Danvers, he’s so tiresome. It’s been dreadful-lonesome without you…and without George.”

Brighton’s eyes tighten and he swallows. “Yes, I’m sure it has been my dove. It’s just too dangerous to have you with me. You are safe at Moreland. One day, I will be finished with my research, and your life will change again.”

Lucy’s chin quivers. “Do you promise, Brighton? Promise this time you won’t stay away so long. It’s dreadful here without you.”

I feel a lump rise in my throat. My own loneliness reflects from the young girl’s eyes. Lucy’s desperation resurrects my own—one of the most ardent reasons for my flight.

“I know I am irreplaceable,” he jests, trying to restore her mood. “But surely Annie and Toby and Abigail have been keeping you busy.” His smile is warm and almost fatherly. He is at least ten years her senior. I am much closer in age to her than he.

Her shoulders lift in an indifferent shrug.

A tall young man stands in the open doorway. “Master Moreland. There has been word from your father. I need to speak with you.”

Brighton meets my gaze and speaks low, “Do not leave this plantation unless I have said so. Do you understand?”

I nod and swallow.

“Lucy, my darling. Might you show
my particular friend
about?”

Both Lucy and her black ringlets bounce. “Of course.”

“I will see you this evening.”

* * *

“What do you mean she is
gone
?” Silas’s eyes are black fire. He rounds on Sarah and I instinctively step in front of her. My eye line is flush with the man’s nipples—but I shall rip them off if the need be.

“She just d-didn’t come back.” Sarah’s face crumples and she hides it in her hands.

I’m very glad now I didn’t tell her of Brighton’s note. Sarah is like a willowy flower; delicate and easily trampled. No doubt she would’ve unwittingly revealed her friend’s whereabouts.

Silas glares at me. “
You
. Where is she? And Brighton?” A vein pulses in his forehead. He begins striding back and forth across Sarah’s tiny sitting room.

“I know—you are clever. I know—you are loyal. And I know—you will lie for them.” He halts, whirling. “I also know—
You
need
me
. And Charleston’s Fancy. Where are they Jones?”

I thrust back my shoulders and my hands clench of their own accord. At the ready for the opportunity to pummel Silas’s pointy-face.

“I do not know.” My voice is even and true.

He lunges, his lips retracted like a jackal. I spin from his grasp.

Sarah chokes out a cry and scuttles out of the way.

His fist cocks, swinging madly. The uppercut hums past my ear, leaving his middle exposed. My fist connects with his gut in a one-two punch.