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  ‘Mr Sherwood – if I might have a word with you?’ She heard herself how her effort to control her nervousness produced a crisp, English clarity in the words that could easily have been mistaken for arrogance. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. She lifted her chin, jaw set, and waited.

  ‘Why, of course.’ Her father-in-law waved her to a chair, himself sat down again behind the desk, fingers steepled before him. His pale eyes were impenetrable.

  She glanced towards Sol. She simply could not accustom herself to having her every word overheard. ‘Might I – speak to you alone?’

  A look of genuine puzzlement flitted across his face before, with a glint of what looked uncomfortably like caustic amusement, he nodded. ‘Of course. Sol? Take the dogs outside, please. I’ll be along in a minute.’

  ‘Yes, Suh, Mr Sherwood.’

  As the big door closed behind the man, silence settled.

  Logan Sherwood watched her with affable expectancy. For one short, savage moment Mattie almost hated him. Hated him, and most certainly feared him. At Pleasant Hill this man’s authority was greater than the law’s. The land was his; he had fought for it and with it and put his mark upon it. His power, his ruthlessness, which he disguised so well beneath the polished veneer of his courtesy and his slow, drawling speech, was absolute. He had been given nothing; what he possessed he had taken, and would hold. He would not be defied. Suddenly, and with clarity, she understood why Johnny had tarried with his new and impulsively wed wife for so long in Savannah, rather than face his father. Yet even as she thought it, she knew that this was but half the story. Logan Sherwood loved his sons with the same fierce and single-minded intensity that he loved his land. And in return any one of them, and even some of his slaves, would have died for him, and he for them. For they were not outsiders, as she was. Such intemperance did not disturb them. They were Georgians, and these extravagances had been bred into them. ‘I came to apologize,’ she said, and heard again, surprised, the coolness of her own voice.

  ‘There’s no need.’ He leaned back in his chair, watching her still.

  ‘Of course there is. To refuse a gift can never be anything but discourteous.’

  He said nothing. He was, disconcertingly, smiling.

  ‘I came to apologize, and to ask –’ The words stuck in her throat.

  He leaned forward again. ‘If you might change your mind?’ he suggested, mildly.

  She blinked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She met his gaze steadily. ‘I’ve thought it over. I realize that I was being not only unforgivably impolite, but stupid. Self-deception is not my favoured vice, Mr Sherwood.’

  His smile broadened. ‘No, Mattie. I never suspected for one moment that it might be.’

  ‘I’m married to Johnny. I’m a Sherwood –’

  ‘– a Sherwood of Pleasant Hill.’ His voice was gentle.

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated for a moment.

  ‘And when in Rome?’ he supplied, helpfully.

  Mattie took a quick, defiantly angry breath. ‘I’m doing my best to be honest, Mr Sherwood. With you and with myself. If slavery is wrong, then it surely must be as wrong to take advantage of the slaves of another as it is to own them yourself.’

  ‘And – you believe it to be wrong?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ God in heaven, what was she saying? ‘But Lucy serves me; and Lucy is a slave. It is absurd to pretend that the fact that she serves as your property rather than my own absolves me from the responsibility that involves. To refuse your gift was cowardice.’

  ‘Yes. I rather think it was.’ His voice still showed no sign of rancour. He was watching her with interest.

  She could do nothing but hold her temper and her tongue, which had already run too far.

  Logan Sherwood closed the ledger upon which he had been working, aligning it precisely upon the desk. ‘I think,’ he said into the silence, ‘that maybe you’ve been talkin’ to Lucy?’

  The warm colour that flooded her face was admission enough.

  He came to his feet with an easy movement that belied his age and walked to the window that looked over the back yard and the neat, two-storey kitchen, standing with his back to her. After a moment he turned. ‘So, daughter-in-law – daughter, if you’ll allow me?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘We are bein’ honest with each other?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was short.

  He nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Very well.’ He came to lean upon the desk, the shock of his shining white hair gleaming above her in the December light. ‘First; yes, you may change your mind, an’ yes, I will give Lucy to you. But I will not allow you to free her.’ The words were spoken perfectly pleasantly, almost kindly.

  She clung to the shreds of her defiance. ‘Can you – can you stop me?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He allowed her a moment to answer. When she did not he continued, evenly, ‘Second, in answer to the question you have not asked – yes, I was, and am, extremely displeased – justifiably as it turns out, I think you’ll agree? – that Johnny chose so precipitately to marry someone from outside his own circle, someone who, whilst possessin’ grace, intelligence and I suspect a fair share of courage –’ despite the fact that these were the most flattering words he had ever spoken to her it took all of Mattie’s strength not to shrink physically away from the sudden fierceness of tone and eye ‘ – nevertheless is so far removed from the realities of his life that I can see nothin’ but eventual misery in the union for either of you.’

  The brutality of it took her breath away. She sat like a statue, watching him, unblinking.

  ‘However, the matter is out of my hands an’ there is nothin’ to be done. But I’ll have you understand one thing, young woman; in this house, at this time, you’ll kindly keep your sanctimonious Abolitionist nonsense to yourself. There’s a war comin’, sure as eggs. If my boys are goin’ off to fight in it they’ll know that they leave behind them nothin’ but loyalty, nothin’ but support. You understand?’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’ One question would have destroyed him, she realized. One tempting, cruel question.

  ‘The South is fightin’ for her life.’ He struck the desk sharply with the heel of his hand and straightened, turned back to the window. ‘Blood red is the colour of our earth,’ he said, quietly. ‘And with blood it will run before we bow to that renegade redneck of a crooked lawyer, Lincoln!’

  And what of Robert? How would he answer that question, this proud and unbending man who was so sure of his power over those around him? What of the son who has obdurately refused to join the troop, whose voice is never raised in the frequent vehement condemnation of the North and its antislavery stance? Why did she not ask? Was it the reserved good manners acquired over the years despite the efforts of her dear, subversive father, in a society that preached respect and deference to age and to the male sex? Or was it, more likely, sheer cowardice? Moments later she wished with all her angry heart that she had.

  Her father-in-law turned from the window, relaxed now, smiling a little. ‘So, Lucy is yours, Mattie my dear. An’ I know well that she’s in safe hands.’

  Mattie stood. ‘Thank you.’ She was at the door before she realized that he was still speaking.

  ‘– Somethin’ to occupy you an’ to give you purpose – get yourself with child, daughter. You’ll see, that’ll keep you out of mischief –’

  She managed, just, not to slam the door. By the time she reached the rooms where Lucy sat placidly by the window sewing the pretty pale green dress that Mattie was to wear to the party, she was in a towering rage. The girl looked up, startled, as Mattie burst into the room, clutched at the fine material, crushing it in long, strong fingers. ‘Laws, Miss Mattie! Whatever is the matter?’ Her eyes widened in misery, swimming with quick tears. ‘Mister Sherwood – he won’t let you have me now? ‘Cause you done once said no?’

  Mattie shook her head impatiently. ‘No, no. He gave you to me all right. Along with a piece of good and con
sidered advice.’

  Lucy sniffed mightily, rubbed her hand across her eyes. Lifted her head, smiling like a Madonna. ‘What that, Miss Mattie?’

  Mattie ground the answer out through teeth still gritted together in helpless fury. ‘He suggested that I might be best kept occupied if I – if I became – if I –’ she summoned into her head all her most livid and detested images of Constance and her puling prudishness and forced the words across her tongue ‘– if I produced a baby!’

  Lucy began to pack away her sewing. ‘Well, Miss Mattie, iffen you ask me, doan’ seem like all that bad an idea?’

  Mattie’s monthly flow had started that morning, frustrating once more her dearest and most fervent hopes.

  Upon the bed lay a small box of pins. Suddenly overwhelmed by frustration, misery and sheer temper Mattie picked them up and flung them at the wall. The box broke. Glittering and sparkling, the pins flew in all directions. There was a moment of uncertain silence. ‘God preserve us,’ Mattie said, evenly, ‘I’m getting more like Cissy every day.’

  ‘No, Ma’am. That you ain’t.’ Unruffled, Lucy moved to pick up the pins.

  ‘Leave them.’ Mattie hated the treacherous tears that were sliding down her face; hated the fact that anyone else was there to see them. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘But, Miss Mattie!’ For the first time Lucy was truly shocked.

  ‘Leave them, I say!’ Mattie dropped to her knees, leaned blindly forward to pick up the tiny, shining things. ‘Or I’ll have your hide, you hear me?’ There was a small, almost hysterical note of self-deriding laughter behind the horrible words.

  Lucy did not move.

  ‘Please, Lucy, go and do whatever it is that you do when you aren’t with me. Go!’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The door closed quietly behind the girl.

  ‘What is the point –’ Mattie demanded of the shining waxed floor, through the veil of unrestrainable tears ‘– in having a slave, if you can’t order her about? And why –’ she sat back on her heels, brushing the back of her hand fiercely across her eyes ‘– oh, why aren’t I carrying Johnny’s child? In God’s name, we’re trying hard enough!’

  * * *

  Five days later, with the house in a crisply organized uproar preparing for the wedding party the following day, and with personal conflicts more or less submerged in the roaring torrent of excitement and activity, the news that was spreading through Georgia like wildfire reached Pleasant Hill. The state of South Carolina had seceded from the Union, and the eager dogs of war were howling anew, and straining at their leashes.

  * * *

  The first carriage emerged from under the sheltering trees of the long red drive late in the morning. By lunchtime the house was packed, with more riders, more carriages turning up each moment. Children ran shrieking around the porch and up and down the staircase getting under everyone’s feet and provoking Jake to a manic excitement that, as Mattie had feared would happen, necessitated his early banishment to the confines of his kennel in the barn. Upon the great table laid out in the hall the pile of presents grew, as she and Johnny received family after family at the door. She shook so many hands, kissed so many cheeks, acknowledged so many greetings and congratulations that not one name in three registered and she was reduced to a helpless, smiling bemusement. The house hummed as neighbours, both near and far-flung – some having travelled since before dawn – came together over Prudence’s excellent food and chilled tea or Joshua’s faultless choice of wines from Pleasant Hill’s cellars to exchange news, gossip, and the high-tempered talk of secession. With a lull in the flood of arrivals, Mattie found herself seated beside Johnny at the head of the long table that had been laid in the parlour, picking at her food, smiling at anyone who caught her eye, and listening to the talk around her.

  ‘– An’ her a married woman an’ all! My, Mrs Talbot, can you imagine? I tell you, I was that scandalized!’

  ‘– Kentucky an’ Tennessee? They’ll join us for certain. Their future’s with the South, an’ they know it –’

  ‘I ain’t so sure about that, Seth. Seems to me t’ain’t as clear-cut as that fer them border states –’

  ‘Clear-cut? We’ll make it clear-cut for ’em, they jump the wrong way!’

  ‘Georgia’s next, by damn! Got to be! Georgia – Alabama – Mississippi – Louisiana – the Confederate States of America! An’ we’ve got Europe in our pocket. They need our cotton, they won’t see us blockaded –’

  ‘– The little one’s ailing again, did you hear? Not strong, that family, three in the graveyard and only two in the cot –’

  ‘– Seems we’ll be comin’ out of the Union for sure now.’ Johnny half turned from Mattie to talk to his neighbour, a long-faced man with lank black hair. ‘Pa says that ever since –’ He stopped abruptly. Up and down the table eyes shifted to the door. There was an odd, expectant lull in the conversation.

  In the attentive quiet the girl who stood framed in the doorway smiled, a little defiantly it seemed to Mattie. ‘Well.’ The husky voice, all Georgian, divided the word into two clear syllables. ‘We’d quite given up on ever arrivin’ at all. Seems like the whole state’s buzzin’ like a beehive.’ Behind her a tall, fair young man waited, his eyes wary.

  Johnny stood up. ‘Lottie. Bram.’ He smiled, woodenly. ‘Welcome.’

  Mattie came to her feet beside him. Together Charlotte and her husband entered the room. Conversation resumed around the table, though less boisterously. A few greetings were called to the newcomers. Bright, curious eyes watched as Johnny bent to brush Lottie’s cheek with his lips, stiffly extended a hand to her husband. Perfunctorily Bram took it; dropped it again too quickly. And Mattie was sure that she was not the only one who sensed the current of fierce antagonism that flashed between the two young men like a bolt of lightning. Johnny drew her forward. She acknowledged their greetings, found herself briefly embracing the girl her husband had once loved. Once? How could that be so? Was it possible that any man who had loved this girl would not be bound by her for the rest of his life? Even standing as she did now – defensively poised, obviously uncertain despite the bright and defiant smile – she glowed with restless and vivid life. By no means did she possess the classic beauty that Mattie had somehow expected, nor even the conventional prettiness of which Cissy was so proud. But the nut-brown curls shone and danced as she moved, the remarkable green eyes were lit as if by sunlight and the creamy skin glowed with health and vitality. Her nose was small and tilted like a child’s, her mouth wide and made for laughter. There was about her a bright and magnetic quality that Mattie sensed could draw even the most reluctant to her if she chose to exercise it.

  ‘You had a good journey?’ Mattie asked, politely. And tried desperately to ignore the unnecessarily fierce grip of her husband’s hand upon her own, the look in those brilliant green eyes as they flickered to Johnny’s face, and hastily away.

  ‘Thank you, yes. Why, look – there’s Russ, an’ Robert, too. I declare I do believe they’re both bigger than ever – don’t you ole Sherwoods ever stop growin’?’ The girl extricated them all from the difficult situation with grace, almost dancing to where Robert and Russell sat, planting playful kisses on each proffered cheek, bringing laughter from both as she whispered something into Robert’s ear.

  The moment had passed. Conversation swelled again. There were more arrivals at the door.

  Mattie rose with an enthusiasm born of relief to greet them.

  * * *

  The party had been organized with a meticulous eye to everyone’s comfort and enjoyment, from the youngest to the oldest visitor. In the cool, crisp afternoon there were children’s games beneath the trees, the boys running races, the girls skipping, and dragging reluctant brothers into clapping and ring games. In the house the older ladies were ensconced in the parlour with tea, biscuits and cakes, whilst their young charges reluctantly rested in the bedrooms upstairs in excited anticipation of dancing in the evening. In the library, Logan Sherwood and
his contemporaries enjoyed an excellent Madeira, smoked their cigars and discussed secession. In fact, Mattie thought, mildly exasperated, as she paused for a moment to watch the house servants transform the long hall into a ballroom for the evening’s revels, one could be forgiven for thinking there was nothing else in the world to talk about. Even those young married women who had chosen to take advantage of their independent status and eschew the detested afternoon nap talked over their tea and cordial of little else; whilst their husbands, brothers and cousins gathered in small, noisy knots on the porches and in the dining room cursing the damn Yankees with picturesque enthusiasm and raising their glasses – some of them already none too steadily – to the great and glorious Confederacy, to which South Carolina had so decisively shown the way. She tried not to watch Johnny; tried not to check every minute of the afternoon where he was, to whom he was talking. It was, she well knew, mean-spirited and unworthy to suspect that every minute he was not under her eye he was searching out the company of Lottie Taylor.

  ‘Mattie, my dear.’ Mrs Brightwell, a plump and beaming vision in velvet and feathers, caught her arm with small, soft hands. ‘Do come and have a word with my good friend Mrs Hampton Deverell – she was in England just last year, and my dear she simply adored it.’

  * * *

  Supper was served in the dining room and in the parlour, every table and chair of any size or shape in the house having been pressed into service – some of the older guests indeed, knowing the problems of such a gathering, having brought their own chairs with them. The unmarried girls had fluttered down the stairs and back into the house like so many brilliant butterflies, decked now in silk and lace for the evening’s festivities, fans, programmes and tiny pencils dangling from gloved wrists, hair piled and ringleted, shoulders smooth and bare in the candlelight. ‘Laws! Miss Mattie,’ Lucy had exclaimed earlier on, as she had helped her mistress change into the pretty pale green silk gown she was to wear for the evening, ‘the way some of the young ladies do take on! Airs an’ graces is the most of it! Nuthin’ ain’t good enough fo’ them!’