His bedroom reflected this. It was spare, with a plain oak bedstead and bed precisely made, a sturdy armoire, and washstand with toilet articles meticulously arranged.
Hurrying back downstairs, he went out to the kitchen, where Evetta was standing at the worktable, kneading dough. Evetta was a black woman of thirty-five, small and sturdy. She looked up when he came in, and he saw that she had apparently swiped her forehead, for a white flour streak lay across it. One eyebrow was white.
She started to say something, but Morgan, hiding a smile, told her, “I’m just going to get a mug and go watch Rosh and Santo working the two-year-olds.” He got an oversize white stoneware mug and poured a steaming cup of strong black coffee.
“I don’t s’pose you’re planning on eating today, then?” she said sarcastically, pounding the dough with vengeance. “Tomorrow, mebbe? Week from Thursday?”
“Aw, Evetta, you fuss like a mama goose. I’ll eat at dinnertime. I’m fine until then.”
“Not no ‘just peach pie,’ neither,” she grumbled.
“Okay, not just peach pie. And I’m going over to Mr. Deforge’s later on this afternoon. For tea, he says, about four o’clock. So I’ll have a late supper, okay?”
She nodded. “Glad you told me, Mr. Morgan. We need to send them a couple of chickens. I’ll have Amon take care of that.”
“Why am I always taking dead chickens to Deforge’s?” Morgan complained.
Evetta’s mouth drew into a straight line. “Cleo says that Miss Jolie don’t like chicken.”
“She doesn’t? Mr. DeForge doesn’t either?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know nothing about that,” Evetta answered primly.
“But if they don’t eat chicken, then why am I always taking them chicken? But wait—they have chickens of their own. I’ve seen them! Or are those just for the eggs?”
Evetta gave a careless half shrug.
Morgan rasped, “This is very confusing. But if Miss Cleo wants chickens, I’ll take them to her.” He went to the door and turned. “You know, Evetta, I think I’d better get a mirror to put in here.”
“Wha—?”
He went out to the enclosed paddock and stood up on the bottom railing to see over the high fence. Sipping his coffee thoughtfully, he watched Amon and Evetta’s two sons, Rosh and Santo, as they worked two mares. Though they were only eighteen and sixteen years old, both of them were very good horsemen, like their father. That was the main reason Morgan had asked Amon and Evetta to come to Rapidan Run to help him.
They had been servants at Tremayne House, Morgan’s family’s farm in the Shenandoah Valley. Amon and his sons had worked in the livery stables there, and Morgan had seen how expert they were at handling horses. They had agreed to come work for him, and they were one of the main factors contributing to the success of Rapidan Run Horse Farm. That and the fact that Morgan had chosen to breed American Saddlebreds, a relatively new equine strain.
The Tremaynes had cousins in Kentucky who had begun breeding them in the 1840s, when the superiority of the bloodline was just beginning to be recognized. Morgan had gotten all his breeding stock from his Tremayne cousins at a very reasonable price. Without exception he had found them to be wonderful horses. As saddle horses, they had comfortable, ground-covering gaits and were sure-footed, but still they were stylish, flashy horses that were beautiful for harness, strong enough for farm work, and fast enough to win races.
After four years, Morgan now had eleven brood mares and three stallions, eight three-year-olds ready for sale, ten two-year-olds, six yearlings, and nine foals less than a year old. All the two-year-olds were good horses, trainable, and generally all of them had good temperaments. Vulcan’s progeny had a tendency to be high-strung, though generally not to the degree that he was. With Morgan’s and Amon’s expert care, they molded these nervy tendencies into high-spirited, lively horses.
Ketura, Amon and Evetta’s daughter, suddenly popped up beside him. “Can I watch, too, Mr. Morgan?”
“Sure.”
She was thirteen years old and was in that awkward stage between being a child and being a young woman. She was skinny, with long legs and arms, and had a tendency to be clumsy. But she was a comely girl with a dazzling smile and enormous dark eyes. Supposedly she was training with her mother to become a housemaid and cook, but for the last year or so Morgan had noticed that she liked to spend much more time with the horses than in the house or kitchen. Evetta continually fretted about it, even though technically Ketura was Morgan’s servant, and he didn’t care. Even as he was reflecting on this, Ketura cast a cautious look behind her toward the kitchen. Morgan decided to talk to Evetta. If Ketura would rather help with the horses, that was fine with him.
After a while she asked, “Mr. Morgan, did you go riding in that Wilderness again this morning?”
“Sure did. I didn’t go too far inside, though. I mostly rambled along the river.”
“Ain’t you scared?”
“No, of course not, Ketura. What’s the matter? Have you heard tales about the Wilderness?” He had heard that people thought it was haunted.
The Wilderness was aptly named. It was seventy square miles of second-growth forest, which meant that many of the trees were stunted and covered with parasitic vines, and the ground was a snarled undergrowth of weeds and brambles. The north side of the Wilderness was bordered by the Rapidan River, and the land along the riverbank was low and clear. But the ground in the Wilderness itself was treacherously uneven, with rock outcroppings, low craggy hills, and ravines, and it was crisscrossed by dozens of streams and brooks. When the area had heavy rain, in several places it became a pestilential dead marsh.
“Yes, sir, people say there’s ghosts and monsters in there,” Ketura answered, hugging herself.
“I’ve ridden all over it in the last four years, and I haven’t seen one ghost or one monster,” Morgan said gently.
“But it is spooky.”
“Maybe. But I like it.”
“Mama says that’s ’cause you like being alone,” she said casually. “Is that right?”
Perplexed, Morgan thought over the girl’s innocent question. His first impulse was to answer, Yes, I like being alone. I prefer living alone, riding alone, staying up late at night to read alone. But if that were true, why did he want to get married so badly?
Six months ago he had started “courting” a girl from Fredericksburg, Leona Rose Bledsoe. He was beginning to think that she was the woman he wanted to marry. Morgan was a rather bookish, commonsensical, levelheaded man, and he had never put much stock in “being in love.” He believed that a man and a woman should marry if they suited each other, amused each other, and were approximately equal in intelligence, and Leona Rose Bledsoe fit all these requirements. He could easily imagine being married to her, so he assumed he must “be in love” with her. At least, that’s what one part of his mind insisted. Another part of him knew that he was a solitary man, and that it was by his own choice.
Ketura was watching him curiously, so he finally replied, “I do enjoy exploring the Wilderness by myself, Ketura. So sometimes I do like to be alone.”
She opened her mouth, and Morgan could see that more questions were coming.
But he was saved by Evetta shouting at Ketura at the top of her lungs. “You there perched up on the paddock railing like a crow-bird! Yes, miss, I’m talking to you. I’m going in the house this here minute, and let me tell you something, if that downstairs dusting and polishing ain’t done, I’m gonna pinch your head clean off!”
Ketura jumped down and scampered to her.
Morgan turned back, searching beyond the paddock to his pastures, four of them, planted with Bermuda grass for summer and ryegrass for winter. In the near pasture he could see several newly-weaned foals running and hopping and playing on their still-spindly legs. Morgan thought that that sight, this day, this home gave him feelings of peace and contentment he had never known. Even though he was alone.
Rosh, th
e older boy, was working with the filly Amon had spoken of. She was out of Vulcan by Bettina, Morgan’s favorite mare. The filly was a pretty silver gray, with highlights of darker gray in her coat so that she was the color called “dappled.” Rosh had her on a long tether, walking her around in tight circles, and Morgan could see that she was going to be naturally gaited. The distinctive, showy trot was more pronounced in some horses, and this filly would be one of those, he could see.
He decided to name her Evie. He couldn’t remember each of the foals until he named them, and then he could always remember their sire and dam. It was a double-edged sword, though. Once he named them he was loath to sell them. At heart he loved them all.
Dismissing his meandering thoughts, he called out, “Amon, would you turn all the two-year-olds out to pasture and then bring in the three-year-olds two at a time?”
“Sure and certain, Mr. Morgan,” he replied.
In a few minutes, Rosh and Santo brought out two colts and walked them around the paddock, first in file and then abreast. Amon joined Morgan on the fence as he studied the horses. They were both chestnuts, one with black points and one with a white face and socks on his front feet.
“Here’s what we need, Amon,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “Colonel Lee has four daughters, from twenty-four years old to thirteen years old. They all like to ride, and from what I saw they are fairly accomplished. Two of the daughters are somewhat frail, though, so I don’t want them to have anything too high-spirited. Now the son, Rob, is sixteen, and he’s a handful, I can see, but he can ride. He even rode Vulcan.”
Amon’s brows shot up. “He did? And howsomever did that go?”
Morgan shrugged. “For some reason Vulcan was on his best behavior at the Lees’. I don’t know why, but he’s made up for it since we got home yesterday. Tried to nip me this morning. Anyway, he was just as cool as a breeze when Rob Jr. mounted him. Plodded around in a circle like he was the pony ride at the fair.”
“Can’t never tell about that horse, though, Mr. Morgan,” Amon said darkly. “He was jist as likely to toss him as he was to carry him.”
“I know, but I couldn’t very well tell Colonel Lee that my own horse is unridable, could I?” Morgan said.
At one time or another, Vulcan had bucked off Morgan, Amon, Rosh, and Santo during his early training. Now he didn’t throw them, but he was an excitable horse. The entire time Rob Jr. had been riding Vulcan, Morgan’s heart had been in his throat.
“Anyway, I’m already thinking about Diamond Jack for Rob,” Morgan continued. “But I haven’t made my mind up about the ladies’ mounts. I want them to have the very best I’ve got.”
Amon thought for a few minutes then said, “What about Roebuck, suh? I know you were thinking about keeping him, but all together I’d have to say he’s the best of the three-year-olds. Did they want a mare in perticklar?”
“No, Colonel Lee left it completely up to me,” Morgan answered. “But Roebuck, it would be hard to part with him.”
Roebuck was a three-year-old out of Vulcan and Bettina, and he was that very unusual color, a palomino. He was a creamy-golden color, with white tail and mane. He hadn’t inherited Vulcan’s temperament, though he was a big horse like his sire, almost fifteen hands. Instead he was sweet tempered, patient, and calm like his dam. Morgan had been considering keeping him strictly because of his unusual coloring, but suddenly he knew that the Lee daughters would take just as much care of him as he himself would.
“Right,” Morgan finally said, “you’re right, Amon. Get Rosh and Santo to saddle up Roebuck and Diamond Jack. Let me see them do a workout.”
The boys brought out the two geldings, the graceful and collected Roebuck and Diamond Jack, another gelding out of Vulcan by a spirited bay mare named Lalla. Diamond Jack was solid glossy black except for a blaze on his face that was in the exact shape of a diamond, hence his name. He was showy like Vulcan, prancing and preening and proudly tossing his head.
Morgan got his portfolio and took notes as he watched the boys work the horses, and then he rode both of them himself, a short ride up his dirt drive to the woodline where he got them both into a gallop. Both of them were magically smooth runners.
Rejoining Amon, he told him to come into the house, and they went into Morgan’s study. The floor plan of the house was timeworn and simple: a hall down the middle with a parlor on one side and dining room on the other, and on the second floor four square bedrooms, each exactly the same size. Downstairs, Morgan had converted what was supposed to be the parlor into a study/ library with a comfortable seating area in front of the windows. He took his seat in one well-worn overstuffed leather armchair and motioned for Amon to sit down on the other side of the small cherry tea table between the chairs.
“You know, Amon, I haven’t told you yet how much I appreciate your advice about the Fitzhugh girls. Even though I had met them, I didn’t realize how important it would be to them to have different horses. I just thought—sisters—close in age—same horses.”
Amon grinned, a wide, delighted smile that lit up his entire ebony face. “Back at home, you ’member, Mr. Morgan, Evetta had three sisters. I knows how they fight and argue and try to top each other. I figgered them two highfalutin Fitzhugh girls were much the same. Seems like women everywhere are kinda like that.”
“Are they?” Morgan asked with honest surprise. He had very little experience with women. Growing up he had one younger brother, Clay, and he had twin sisters now, but they were only five years old. Morgan barely knew them. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it. I could sure see when I delivered Serafina and Delilah that it would never have done to have given them the two chestnuts. They each started right in about how much prettier their horse was than the other. So thank you, Amon. I appreciate the advice. I’m going to give you a small bonus on that sale—five dollars.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” he said with dignity.
“You’re welcome. That kind of brings me around to what I wanted to talk to you about. Now that Rapidan Run is making some money, I’m going to do what’s called profit sharing with you, Amon. Beginning today, you and your family are going to make one percent of my profit on each sale and each stud fee. I know you realize this, because you’ve learned every aspect of the business, but I do want you to make clear to your family that one percent of the profit is not one percent of the sale price. Even though I sell the horses for two hundred fifty or three hundred dollars, what I’m actually making on them is about half that.”
“Yes, sir, I knows that. And I knows you wouldn’t be making near that much if you didn’t farm your own forage,” he said shrewdly. “That’s right kind of you, Mr. Morgan. I can promise you me and my family will work all the harder, knowing that we got us a share.”
“I don’t see how you could work any harder than you do, all of you,” Morgan said warmly. “And it’s not any charitable virtue on my part, Amon. It’s only right and fair.”
“Maybe, but it ain’t what you’d call commonly done, profit sharing with servants,” Amon said. “Me and Evetta, we haven’t met any other servants here, only slaves.”
Many years ago, when Morgan’s great-great-great-grandfather had settled in the Shenandoah Valley, he had been Amish, and he had abhorred slavery. Though it was his forebear who had eventually married a girl outside of the Amish faith and had become an Episcopalian, he kept his Amish sensibilities. None of the Tremaynes had ever had slaves. Morgan himself hated the institution, and so naturally Amon and Evetta, along with the other black servants at Tremayne House, were employees.
“Yes, I know, Amon, but you know you and yours will never have to worry about that,” Morgan said firmly. “So, since you’re getting a percentage now, I have to tell you that I lowered the price of two horses when I quoted to Colonel Lee. I’m only charging him two hundred apiece for them.”
“For our two best geldings?” Amon said doubtfully. Normally Morgan charged three hundred for geldings, two hundred fifty for mares.
“Yes, Mr. Fitzhugh told me something of the family problems the Lees are having. I’m glad he did, for I certainly would never have known it from talking to Mrs. Lee or Colonel Lee. Apparently, Mrs. Lee’s father, who owned Arlington and several other properties, left his affairs in something of a mess, and Colonel Lee is the executor. Mr. Fitzhugh said that Colonel Lee has been using his own money to try and fulfill all the bequests in Mr. Custis’s will. When I saw what kind of people they are, I decided to give them the best price I could.”
“Fine with me,” Amon said. “I b’lieve the good Lord’s gonna bless us, and this place, Mr. Morgan, with whatever you decide to do. So when are you taking the geldings to Arlington?”
“I’m going to leave on Friday,” Morgan said. “Taking Vulcan on the train left me, Serafina, Delilah, Rosh, and Calliope all to bits and pieces. That horse would drive a saint insane. I figure we’ll stop at Alexandria on Sunday and spend the night to recover before I take Diamond Jack and Roebuck to Arlington.”
Amon grimaced. “So you’re a-going to take that Vulcan on the train again.”
“Going to try,” Morgan said. “He’s got to learn.”
“Mebbe so, mebbe not,” Amon said darkly. “Why don’t you just ride Laird, Mr. Morgan? He’s one fine-looking gelding and got a lot sweeter temperament than that Vulcan.”
“Because Vulcan is good advertising. You know that, Amon. So far this summer I’ve got him booked out for four studs. People see him, they want a foal from him.”
“That is true,” Amon admitted. “He’s a big showoff, prancing about and preening and tossing his head. Anyways, if you’re set on it, I’ll give him a bath tomorrow and use that mane and tail cream and shine him up.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Morgan said. “I need to take every opportunity to show that horse who’s boss.”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 75