by Eden Reign
Master Coal stood before her, one eyebrow lifted. “My dance, I believe?” he asked, holding out his hand for hers.
Hesitating, she placed her fingers in his, furious to find herself blushing.
Master Coal bowed deeply before taking her other hand and pulling her forward, stepping back, pulling her forward again, and then spinning her.
All thoughts of levity, of the light-hearted steps that made up the Chalton Reel, fled Manda’s head as she circled, meeting Jackson in the middle of the room again, turning more slowly. Rose’s song had changed as she and Grey huddled over the piano, absorbed in making music. The melody was slow and soothing now, and in another moment, Master Coal took her hand in his, his other hand sliding to the small of her back. His eyes, so close to hers, were shuttered.
“What are you doing here, sir?” She stopped dancing, feeling the impropriety of it all.
“What am I doing?” Master Coal murmured, pulling her close again. “Dancing. Come now, Miss Rivers, dance with me.” He turned her into the familiar steps of the waltz.
“But I—Grey and Miss Westerly—”
“Are you always so demure?” Master Coal asked, a spark of humor lighting his brown eyes. “I recall a sprite who threw hash on me at our first meeting.”
“I—really, sir, I had no intention—it was an accident, of course.”
“A fortunate one,” Master Coal said quietly. “Grey is doing well under your tutelage. You’ve brought goodness to this house that has long lacked it.”
Heat flooded Manda’s cheeks as she fastened her gaze on the man’s knotted cravat, refusing to look him in the eye. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered.
He stopped moving suddenly, and Manda nearly stumbled against him.
“You’re blushing, Miss Rivers. Why?” he asked bluntly, though secret knowledge seemed to settle in the depths of his gaze.
“It’s—I—it’s—you—you don’t play fair, sir!” Manda cried at last, ready to sink through the floor in mortification. What must he think of her? She had moved in his arms and felt the warmth of his hands. It had ignited a current of imagination about this man, of intimacies with him, and he seemed to read her every thought. She wrenched free of his hold and stared at him, her hands covering her burning cheeks.
Abruptly, she turned and fled, leaving Grey and Rose to their musical discussion and Master Coal to his likely speculations about his skittish governess.
Chapter 9
Jackson
A few weeks after returning to Coalhaven, Jackson had finally begun to relax. He found a routine: waking before dawn, drinking coffee, walking the grounds, hiking through the undeveloped acreage beyond the northwestern indigo fields, sorting through the thoughts that tangled his mind as the underbrush coiled around his feet. From one of Coalhaven’s hillocks, he could see the shimmering gold of the fountain in the circle driveway that curved across the manor’s east lawn. He spent hours staring out over the property. He had yet to decide what to do with the unused acreage. He could turn it into more indigo fields, but to do so, he’d need more manpower, and as yet, he wasn’t prepared to take on sharecroppers. Not until he felt better about their circumstances—both at Coalhaven and in the eyes of Arcanan law. The Congress continued to debate the various bills presented after the Armistice that would seal the fates of halfmages and mundanes in Arcanan society.
Jackson spent time with Coalhaven’s croppers. Most of them had recognized him, of course, and Jackson had been glad to find them void of hostility. He had wondered what his reception would be as the son of a despised master. He suspected their soft welcome arose from the fact that many of them were his childhood friends, and his service in the Leveler Army went a long way in their estimation.
Often, he joined in their work, not only because it felt good to move his body in the familiar routines, but also because the plantation was only just emerging from the turmoil caused by his father’s death, and the croppers were over a week behind the proper planting schedule. Jackson helped the croppers catch up, which gave him the chance to get to know them better.
Coalhaven’s new overseer had arrived a few days after he and Grey had. Mr. Jesse Flacks had served under Jackson in the war, and the stalwart earthmage was one of the few men Jackson would trust with his life—and his secrets. As soon as he’d realized he’d need an overseer, Jackson had sent a letter to the good man. Flacks’s arrival had lightened the heavy load on Jackson’s shoulders, and Jackson knew Flacks appreciated the work in an economy where former Levelers were considered a liability by most large plantation owners.
As Jackson worked in the fields alongside the croppers and Mr. Flacks, he was ever aware of Grey and Miss Rivers. He fell into the habit of returning to the house around noon like a puppy seeking food and affection. There he’d find Miss Rivers and Grey in the kitchen, giggling over a plate of fruit and cheese.
He always made it seem as if he encountered them by accident. He’d been captivated by her since the day she’d dumped burnt hash all over him, but his interest in her had swelled after their dance in the drawing room weeks ago. He wanted to touch her hands again, to probe the fascinating depths of her mind behind those flawless blue eyes. Simply to discover what she is to teach Grey, he told himself, honestly believing he meant it.
“There you are,” he said one noontime as he returned from a particularly laborious morning planting the steep northern slope. “I did not expect you’d both still be eating with the hour so late.”
Miss Rivers stood quickly, a brown curl tumbling into her eyes. “We were just finishing, sir. I have a set of arithmetic problems prepared for this afternoon, and after that, I’d planned to take Master Grey outdoors and read to him—”
“Relax, Miss Rivers.” Jackson pushed sweaty locks from his forehead and leaned against the door jamb. He’d stripped down to his shirtsleeves in the warm morning, and he turned up their cuffs as he eyed the pretty governess. “I did not mean to imply you should be working. I’m pleased to find you here. I thought I should show Grey the indigo mills where we prepare our harvest for shipment to the Indigo Wells in Chalton. The mills aren’t running, of course, as we’re only now putting in the crops, but the process is an interesting one. Would you enjoy a post-luncheon constitutional?”
Grey leapt up from the bench. “A walk? Instead of sums? Oh, please, Miss Rivers, can we?”
Jackson wished the boy would be excited about spending time with him—but it seemed avoiding sums was his main motivation.
“If Master Coal wishes it,” Miss Rivers murmured, keeping her blue eyes cast down and her hands folded demurely.
“I do.” Jackson risked holding out his hand, palm up, to Grey. Since that ride from Blue Hill, Grey had not come near him.
Grey stood, gazing at Jackson’s hand for several long moments. It was caked with dirt from the planting.
“You are a minnow,” Grey said, inexplicably.
“What?” Jackson glanced at Manda in confusion.
Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red. “Nothing, sir.”
Jackson returned his attention to the boy, who reached for his hand, looking up at him expectantly. Jackson smiled at the eager face. “Off we go,” he said, swinging Grey by both arms out the kitchen door. It felt strange, this sudden buoyant and joyous connection with Lige’s son—but it felt right, too.
Grey’s face lit up, responding to the exuberance in Jackson’s tone. He whooped and giggled. “Again, Master Coal! Do that again!” Jackson did, swinging Grey higher and releasing him so the boy landed in a crouch. Grey tore down the path, arms flailing with glee.
Jackson caught a glimpse of Miss Rivers’s lips turning upward. His chest tightened. “You’re smiling, Miss Rivers.”
“I’m glad to see him laughing,” she murmured.
“As am I.”
Grey circled back to them, carefree. Happy. Jackson’s heart warmed.
Abruptly, Grey stopped in front of Jackson, looking up at him shyly. His small hands clasped b
ehind his back. “Master Coal, in Blue Hill, I once saw a boy…” His hopeful gaze fell, and he shook his head, turning and walking soberly beside Jackson along the path.
In the distance, croppers hunched over the harrowed earth, carefully placing tiny plants in the soil and tamping the dirt around each seedling before moving on to place the next plant. Beyond the slopes and trees that canopied the northern acreage of the property, the lengthy roofs of the millworks peered above leafy magnolia tops, the stately Coalhaven greenhouses stretching adjacent to them. The noon sun glinted off the high windows of the millworks.
Jackson glanced down at the boy trudging soberly beside him. “What did you see in Blue Hill, Grey?” he asked. The boy’s tight face hid strong feelings.
“Nothing.” He kicked at a dirt clod.
Jackson lifted his brows. “You can tell me, son. Whatever you saw, I’ll do my best to explain. And if I can’t, I’m sure Miss Rivers can.” He waggled his brows in her direction, hoping he did not look like a hopeless fool.
“It was nothing,” Grey said. “That boy had a papa. My papa isn’t … here.”
For the second time, Jackson felt the boy’s small hand creep into his grasp, and something altered inside him, so small that he could not name it, but enough for him to realize his center of thought had shifted. He no longer saw only Lige’s son beside him—a responsibility with which he had been saddled. He saw a boy—Grey—who sought a father’s love, who hoped to find it in him—Jackson Coal.
He stopped, pulling Grey to a stop, too. He knew Miss Rivers had halted, because he was always aware of her these days, but he kept his focus entirely on Grey’s round, vulnerable face. He crouched until he was eye-level with the boy.
“Your papa was my dearest friend, Grey. He wanted me to be like a papa to you. You’re right. You don’t have him, but you do have me.” Jackson squeezed Grey’s slim shoulder, whispering, “I will do for you all the things that papas do. I’ll keep you safe, I’ll see that you never lack for anything, and I’ll teach you what I know about this world.”
The boy remained quiet. Miss Rivers diplomatically turned away, stepping along the path toward the fields. The earth, prepared for the indigo seedlings, spread around them in freshly-turned splendor. It was groomed and ready, with neat furrows running in long stripes up the slope.
“That boy I saw,” said Grey. He hesitated, his cheeks reddening. “Could I… could I ride on your shoulders? That boy’s papa carried him on his shoulders, so he could see everywhere.” Again, his gaze shifted to the side, as though he wanted to say more, but couldn’t.
“You want to ride on my shoulders?” Jackson asked, his throat almost unbearably tight.
Grey nodded, such a tiny movement Jackson nearly missed it.
Jackson swept the boy, who squealed in delight, smoothly into his arms. He slung him onto his shoulders, blinking away moisture. Miss Rivers would think him a soft-hearted numbskull. “Hold my head,” Jackson advised, though he had no experience in this game from either side. His father had never engaged in such antics. He held Grey’s small calves, steadying him until he was balanced. “How is it up there?” Jackson called. “Can you see the sea to the east?”
“I can!” Grey crowed. “And if I look back, I can see down to the house and even the entrance from the main road. And croppers, all over, in the fields. Working. And the mills and the greenhouses!”
“Come, let’s hurry so I can show you the mills,” Jackson said.
It was a long trek first through the fields and then the dense woods, but they soon arrived at the mills, two enormous brick buildings that stretched hundreds of feet along the northern boundaries of Coalhaven. The millworks were quiet, shut down from production as the indigo was not yet ready for processing. Once harvested, the fresh indigo leaves would be spread over two broad patios on the west side of the millworks and dried in the sun, flipped repeatedly with a broom until they turned their characteristic blue hue. Only then would the millworks come to life.
Jackson fumbled in his pocket for the keys. “I should have had the new overseer meet us here to show us the workings,” Jackson said as Miss Rivers waited for him to open the doors. “You’ll have to deal with me as your tour guide.”
Her lips turned upward in an amused smile. “I rather look forward to seeing the runnings of a mill from the master’s perspective.”
Jackson caught her glance and the challenge. “So I’m being put to the test? You wish to examine my knowledge, do you?” His eyebrow winged upward.
She shrugged. “Only as Grey’s governess. I need to be sure he is receiving a proper education.”
Jackson pushed open the door, hiding his amusement. “I see. I hope to meet your expectations, Miss Rivers.” He stooped low to allow Grey’s head to clear the doorway.
Inside the mills, Miss Rivers’s gasp accompanied Grey’s cry of delight. Jackson smiled with pride. Row after row of machines lined the long building. Each machine featured shredders where the leaves were mashed. Then the indigo compound was separated from the plant, twisted into compact threads, and spun through steel cylinders that crushed the threads into flat, blue lines. At one end of the machine, the lines would split into two; one processing bin would hold the chaff that still maintained the color. In most cases, this chaff could be sold to the Akwa Islanders, the traders who lived on the coastal islands and wove the rich blues into their fibers for rug-making and basket-weaving. Such fibers contained a lingering elemental property after the fourfold powers were stripped from the plant. In the case of Coalhaven’s indigo, theses leftovers were fire-chaff. The other bins collected the main product, the quintessence that transformed the plant’s elemental energy into accessible power, and would be sold to the Indigo Wells Purchase Bureau, where it would be processed to help fill the enormous Source Well in Chalton.
Jackson led Miss Rivers toward the machines, pointing out the parts, explaining each cylinder and cog. As he detailed the process, his excitement grew. He’d nearly forgotten the hours he’d spent in these mills as a child, the days he had rolled up his sleeves and worked alongside the croppers as they’d chatted over the cacophony of the clacking machines.
Petals drifting like blue velvet snow all around him. His childlike delight in the beauty of the process.
“During the milling, this entire place fills up with floating tufts of b—blue—” He stuttered to a stop when he noticed Miss Rivers smiling at him, her blue eyes soft.
“Am I talking too much?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, diverting her attention to an enormous bin marked ‘Raw Harvest.’ “I—think you make an excellent tour guide. Isn’t that right, Grey?” she asked the boy, who still clung to Jackson’s head.
“Yes, Miss Rivers,” Grey answered dutifully, but the quiver in his voice shattered any final reservations in Jackson’s heart. He heard it all—Grey’s insecurity in trusting his new caretakers, the courage he needed to embrace a new family. For family they were: Jackson and Grey, guardian and ward. Jackson could never take Lige’s place, but he could be … trusted.
Grey grasped Jackson’s head tightly, as though clinging to a lifeline.
Miss Rivers wiped at her eyes and turned away, passing the machines to slide the grate open on the ‘Raw Harvest’ bin and peer inside. Her curls rebelliously escaped her chignon, clinging to her slim neck, highlighting the olive tone from her Nanu heritage. That skin at her nape looked soft. Jackson wondered how soft.
“I’m sorry, Grey. What did you say?” he asked, reluctantly tearing his gaze from Miss Rivers.
Grey’s hands on either side of Jackson’s head held absolutely still. After a pause, he said, “I said that I might like you as well as I like Miss Rivers.”
Jackson cleared his throat. He lifted Grey from his shoulders and set him down, ruffling the boy’s hair. “In that greenhouse at the end of the building, Grey, are some special new seedlings we’ve been cultivating. Let’s go plant them in the northern fields, shall we?”
/> Grey nodded, his face lighting. He raced ahead of Jackson to the curtained doorway, disappearing behind it. A moment later, he reappeared, gingerly balancing three fragile seedlings in his dirt-encrusted hands. “These!” he called. “One for each of us.” He peered down at the small plants, perplexed. “Why do people do the planting and the tending of the indigo? Why not use magic?”
The young boy’s perceptive question arrested Jackson. “Well, son, first of all, there was once a time when magic wasn’t as powerful as it is now. Our indigo keeps getting stronger, and thus, too, does our power. Fullmages once could not do such large workings as they can now. But it’s more than that. Magic is for grander uses. To tend a farm with it—that would be an undignified method. Even mages need to touch the earth with their hands and move their bodies. It’s—part of the natural order, and magic must never go against the natural order.”
“But Master Coal, are halfmages part of the natural order?” Grey’s small hands had gone white around the seedlings he carried.
Jackson’s answer died in his throat. What could he say that wouldn’t terrify the boy or be a lie? “Well, a halfmage is a—not exactly—not the order as we know it—” Jackson broke off. He could not bring himself to say it: a halfmage was considered by most to be an abomination.
Miss Rivers approached. “A halfmage is the most natural creation in the world, Grey,” she interjected. “A halfmage arises from a union of love between a fullmage and a mundane; if halfmages were not part of the great plan of creation, they wouldn’t exist.”
Her words, so calm and rational, swamped Jackson with relief. “Exactly,” he said, sounding a bit too hearty in his own ears. “Now, let’s get those seedlings into the ground.” He opened the mill door, allowing Manda and Grey—smiling again, thank the Wells—to precede him outside before he locked the doors behind him. Rescuing one of the plants from Grey’s exuberant hands, Jackson watched the boy race ahead with the remaining two while he accompanied Miss Rivers at a more sedate pace through the woods.