“I stayed with father.” She looked around. “Let’s open up these shutters. Just in case the heat comes up. Hope it doesn’t. Be lovely to sleep in a cool night.”
They opened the first-floor shutters. Charles opened the ones upstairs.
Later, Piglet was curled at the end of the bed as Charles built small stairs so he could get up and down. He and his humans slept soundly.
Rachel never imagined she would allow a dog on the bed, but Piglet didn’t seem like a dog; plus, it made Charles so happy. She reminded herself that Piglet went through the war with her husband, so nothing was too good for the corgi, and of course nothing was too good for Charles.
In the middle of the night, the farm dogs set up a howl. Piglet awoke and howled, too.
Charles ordered him, “Pipe down.”
“There’s someone here,” the corgi answered.
The other farm dog called out, “Intruders!”
No one paid any mind. The humans went back to sleep.
“There’s someone here!” Piglet insisted.
Wednesday, September 15, 1784
Piglet, nose down, followed a trail of fresh blood. Yesterday’s thrashing rains and the early morning’s cool temperature helped the scent stick. Above, the low clouds showed no promise of dispersing, nor did they show promise of more rain. The stagnant cloud cover also helped the corgi.
His nose filled with information. A grouse had scuttled at wood’s edge near an hour ago. An entire flock of wild turkeys left their distinctive signature scent as well as a few feathers. Once he got into the woods, a vixen was close. Then Piglet picked up traces of fading human scent. Someone had brushed by thick bushes.
Intrepid, Piglet continued. In the few places where blood splashed, the odor was overpowering. Otherwise, he followed drops magnified by the dew.
A rocky overhang stopped him. Good place for a bear, but this small cave under the overhang was disguised by saplings and bushes. Strong now, the smell of blood made the corgi cautious. He ducked behind joe-pye weed, high and blooming. He could hear humans talking, crying.
A deep voice ordered, “You go on. They’ll miss you before they miss me.”
Bettina stepped out; worry creased her face. “I can’t come back until dark.”
The deep voice that Piglet now recognized as the slave Father Gabe called softly, “No worry. I’ve got rags and good water here. I’ll stop by the kitchen. So you’ll know.”
Not a small woman, Bettina stomped away.
Piglet crept forward, belly low to the ground, until he could peer into the disguised place. A young man lay with his back against the rock, a deep diagonal wound across his broad chest. Next to him sat a beautiful woman, or she had once been beautiful. Her eye socket had been damaged. The cheekbone underneath had been smashed. Her right hand, wrapped in a clean cloth, bled through. Tending to them was Father Gabe, an old man with medical knowledge and some folks said more than that. He gently placed a compress on the woman’s cheek. She didn’t wince. The young man would awaken, then fall back to sleep. Piglet knew he’d lost a lot of blood because he’d followed it all the way here.
Turning for home, the little fellow wanted to tell Charles, but how?
—
Ewing Garth was up at dawn. He walked into the kitchen for his full breakfast at seven in the morning. He’d brushed his teeth, nestled in his chair to be shaved, then dressed. This was a leisurely morning, which he preferred. The big breakfast prepared him for the day. While he was never averse to eating, a big breakfast could hold him until one or two o’clock, when a light meal sufficed until supper. But in the summers and early fall even supper was light, unless he was entertaining.
Serena, a young woman helping Bettina, had her back to him and was just putting the finishing touches on Ewing’s poached eggs. He was most particular about his eggs.
“Good morning.” He beamed.
“Morning back at you.” Bettina turned, eggs now on the dish, placing it before him. “Serena, where’s Master’s coffee?” Returning to Ewing. “Chicory coffee this morning. That bit of tang to the air just whispered to me, ‘Chicory for the master.’ ”
“Bettina, you’re a mind reader.” He savored those eggs and that cup of coffee.
Now placed before him were biscuits light as air, an array of jams and honey. They came from the summer kitchen, still in use due to the fact that the day would heat up, no point using the kitchen even in the cool of the morning. The last thing anyone wanted was for heat to be hanging around as the mercury climbed upward.
Serena placed a plate of sausages in front of him, along with condiments.
“Serena, did you make this sausage?”
“Yes, sir.”
He tasted one, then nodded his approval. “Bettina, your pupil is learning her lessons.”
“If she don’t, I’ll beat her butt with a wooden spoon.”
“Perhaps you don’t have to go that far.”
He’d finished his breakfast, walked down the hall to see Roger, his all-powerful butler, speaking closely to his son, Weymouth. Weymouth shaved Ewing. The young man, so dexterous, was a fine barber.
On seeing Ewing, both men straightened up, nodding to him as he turned into his office. Just as he retrieved the papers that he and Rachel secured yesterday, he heard voices. Roger had opened the door.
“Drat,” he uttered, placing a paperweight on the papers.
What now and whom? Why was it so hard to get anything done in peace?
At his opened door, a serious Roger, voice low, said, “Master, there’s two men here from the constable’s office who say it is of the utmost importance to talk to you.”
Ewing, never fond of officials, wondered what they wanted. “Show them in.”
It was always something.
He stood up to greet the men. Hiram Meisner, the head constable, hat in hand, bowed slightly as did Dennis McComb, his deputy. Hiram was a man of middling status with a decent frock coat, tidy tricorn, and thick leggings. He smiled tightly.
Dennis said nothing, which was just as well. Dennis had no reputation for either sense or etiquette.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Ewing,” Hiram said. “We are here on a most serious matter.”
“Please, gentlemen, sit down. Is it so serious you can’t enjoy a cup of coffee?” Ewing pleasantly offered, knowing neither man would detect the sarcasm.
“Thank you, no. I will come directly to the point. Francisco Selisse has been murdered by one of his slaves, who escaped. This wretch took with him another slave, a woman of great beauty. We will capture them and we ask for everyone to be alert. The woman is possibly a captive or a shield. We do not know, but we feel the man will not hesitate to kill again.”
Ewing narrowed his eyes. “I see. And what of Mrs. Selisse? Is she safe?”
“Yes. Not in her right mind, which is more than understandable. She witnessed the murder. Her lady’s maid Sheba says her mistress caught the slave Moses assaulting her husband. Sheba says Mrs. Selisse picked up a small split log—they were in the main room, in front of the fireplace—and swung at the man. He pulled a long knife from his waistband, drove it through Mr. Selisse’s heart, grabbing the other slave by the wrist. That’s all we know.”
Bettina also listened, ear to the door in the next room.
“How very terrible.” Ewing lied because Francisco was not a man he would mourn. “In the interests of safety for my own family, might you tell me if you saw the body and the wounds?”
“Blood over his waistcoat. Sheba said Moses pulled out the knife, keeping it.”