by Leen Elle
"I'm sorry." Derek dared not give any excuse because the truth would be damning and Jonathan would know any lie. He started on his food, eating slowly and dutifully. He was not the only one who seemed not to enjoy the meal.
Gabriel only picked listlessly at his potatoes while Jonathan did not bother with the pretense of hunger. His fork never moved from the side of his plate as he watched his food with distracted eyes.
"Dear, you'll make yourself ill," Mrs. Worthington chastised when she noticed his lack of movement. She seemed to have no trouble finding her appetite and the way she chewed so carelessly made Derek hate her all the more.
With dull eyes, Jonathan looked through the woman. "I don't seem to want food, Mother. Surely you understand."
Derek silently dared her to start her speech of how "the dead are useless and so warrant no thought": that same infuriating reasoning she used to not talk about her husband and Derek's parents.
She did not speak, but returned to her meal with more dainty bites.
When the food was gone and the dishes cleared Atty brought in dessert: biscuits with blueberry preserves and sugar. Still Jonathan did not eat. Taking his cue from the man, Derek did not bother to pick up his spoon.
Mrs. Worthington finished her biscuit and said to Derek and Gabriel in a fussy tone, "Boys, we will begin receiving guests tomorrow, so see that you clean yourself properly."
Jonathan pushed his chair back from the table without excuse and stood. Mrs. Worthington seemed about to scold him, but caught her tongue in time and only scowled as he left the room silently.
When even the untouched plates were cleared, Derek said, "Excuse me," and stood. He left the house and walked towards the stables. He was beginning to miss the quiet of being there all the time. How he dearly wished he would be sent from the main house for good.
Walking with slow steps he approached the gate and pulled it open, then walked to the stable door. Entering the thick darkness, he reached for the lamp and lit it. Derek sighed and leaned his forearms on the edge of Blueberry's stall.
"Boy, I wish I was you."
Happy with his company, Blueberry neighed and nodded his head enthusiastically before moving forward and nuzzling Derek's shoulder.
"Have you been fed? Probably not." Derek took the new grain pale and filled both troughs then retrieved several cubes of sugar from the little box. When he was done feeding Blueberry he moved down to the mare's stall and offered her the treats she'd been so craving.
She ate anxiously.
Smiling, Derek said, "It's a shame you don't have a name yet." He scratch between her ears with his free hand. "How about I call you Kylie until they decide? I like it."
The horse seemed content, but he could have suggested anything to her as long as she was eating sugar cubes, he realized.
When he was finished visiting, Derek climbed the ladder to the loft and looked around. It was nearly empty except for several neatly stacked bales of hay, a shiny new pulley arm, and a few spare tools. With a sigh, he sat on the hay and leaned back against another bale. He would have happily stayed there forever if he could.
Hours slipped by while Derek was lost in some thoughtless place where movement was not required.
When he finally stirred light no longer streamed in between the boards of the hay door. Moving forward, he unlatched the little door and swung it out, peering into the evening. It wasn't quite dark, but it would be in a matter of moments. He started to stand but stopped when he saw a lone, dark figure wandering across the field towards the strawberry patch.
Though the man had no lantern or even a candle stub, Derek recognized Jonathan's smooth gait despite its uncharacteristically ebbing nature. He watched him wander along, transfixed by the dark settling and the man's mournful stride, unbroken by fear of the night noises that whispered around him. He marveled at how oblivious Jonathan was to the dangers hidden just feet from him in the underbrush of the forest.
Watching him continue farther from the safety of house and stables, a thought occurred to Derek: Jonathan did not seem oblivious at all. His steps, though slow, were purposeful, and he was probably quite aware of the beastly hunger their sound may stir as he passed near the trees. He possibly even hoped his dark loneliness would draw some terrible creature out of the forest to devour him.
Derek shivered at the thought, recalling that he still had to transverse that darkness to get to the house. Scrambling down the ladder, he blew out the lantern and stepped into the night. He closed the stable door and ran across the corral and towards the house. His heart pounded as his chest constricted in the all-too-familiar way, but he reached the porch safely, as he always did.
Walking into the house, Derek wandered towards the parlor, wondering if Catherine had been dressed and laid out yet. He almost didn't want to see, but he couldn't help looking. He peered into the darkened room.
As he crept towards the coffin he was relieved to find it closed. Whether she was in there or not did not matter, only that he did not have to see her dead eyes.
Over the next day a steady stream of visitors came and went. It struck Derek as odd that so many of them did not know Catherine, but he supposed the viewings and greetings were more for the living than the deceased, and each person who came knew Jonathan well.
Because there was no set time for visitors, Derek was forced to stay in a set of Sunday clothes he'd borrowed from Gabriel all day. The shirt was too big and the trousers too short, but Mrs. Worthington seemed only to care that he looked clean and well cared for. Fortunately, he only had to look presentable when he was in sight.
Jonathan, however, had to make himself available for all the well-wishers and condolence-offerers as they appeared. He spent most of the morning sitting in the parlor by the open casket, his eyes on the floor in front of his feet. He wore his best dress shirt and a smart green and tan vest, his hair immaculate, his expression one of dignified melancholy: he was the picture of organizational perfection even in his distress. Whatever had broken in the moment Catherine died seemed to have been fixed and put back in place, and Derek was sure he would not see the man so openly wandering into the darkness again.
As Derek passed the parlor door early in the afternoon he felt compelled to stop and say something to Jonathan, but that would mean entering the room far enough to see Catherine, and he was trying to avoid that at all costs. Instead he hovered in the doorway until Jonathan looked at him, then hurried up the stairs to his room.
With a deep sigh, he dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. He could see Catherine's face. And then it was not hers any more. It was Kylie Mae's, but only for a moment, then she, too, disappeared.
Opening his eyes, Derek sat up, suddenly restless. He was curious. Curious why Kylie had not called to him again. Curious why Jonathan wanted her portrait so badly. Curious what Jonathan had been doing in the attic. Surely not looking for the painting.
His restlessness finally getting the best of him, Derek stood and strode down the hall towards Beth's bedroom. He knew the women were busy in the kitchen baking and keeping the refreshments full for guests. He peered into the room and across at the closed attic door. He began to feel sick and nearly abandoned his curiosity, but then he heard steps on the main stairs climbing towards him. He slipped into the room and pulled the door closed so he would not be found and questioned.
His heart pounded as he listened to the movement in the hall. He glanced at the attic door again. Just a moment…. It wasn't as if he would stay. Just to see what Jonathan had put in that drawer….
Derek inched the bedroom door open and checked that it had not been Jonathan coming up the stairs. The hallway was empty. Closing the door again, he turned towards the attic, stepping carefully. The door opened with a small whine, then settled. Sliding the lantern in front of it, he took the candleholder from the little table, lit it with a match from the drawer, then began to climb the rickety steps, his hand tracing the wall as if to remind him of reality as the panic swelled in his chest an
d his throat tightened.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Derek walked towards the desk which was now covered by a white cloth. He lifted the edge of it, set the candle down on the dull surface, and pulled open the drawer Jonathan had opened the previous day. It glided out smoothly revealing a small pile of folded papers tied together with withered, yellowing string.
"What are you?" he murmured, lifting the stack out with shaking fingers. Holding the pages near the flame he saw words written in a tight, sharp hand:
Mister Jeremiah Worthington
Shady Meadows, Virginia
It took several moments for him to work out their pronunciations, but when he did he stepped back from the light a little and glanced around the dark room.
A letter? For Mr. Worthington? What did Jonathan want with this?
Derek suddenly felt like he was being watched. He looked around again, noticing the crevasses and shadowed spaces more closely, waiting to see the glow of night eyes or the gleam of bared teeth. Nothing. But that did not settle him. He shoved the letters under his shirt and tucked it in quickly, then took the candle, closed the drawer, and dropped the cover.
Derek's heart pounded as he made his way towards the stairs. He was sure he was being watched. The hairs on his arms prickled and stood on end. He nearly ran down the stairs, heedless of the noise he was making. Bursting into the room, he kicked the lantern out of the way and slammed the attic door, leaning against it, waiting for the pounding from the other side as something tried to get out at him.
A few seconds passed and the pounding did start, but not from behind the attic door. There were heavy steps coming up the stairs. Derek blew out the candle, set it down, and checked that the letters were properly concealed just as the bedroom door opened.
Gabriel looked in at him with suspicious curiosity. "What are you doing up here?"
"I tripped." Gabriel didn't believe him, but Derek didn't care. He pushed by him and started towards his room.
"Mother says for you to go downstairs where she can make sure you aren't causing a ruckus."
"I'll be down in a minute." A line of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades making him itch.
"Don't be long," the other boy warned before walking back to the stairs.
It was with surprising calmness that Derek opened his bedroom door and took the letters out from under his shirt. He lifted the mattress and set them on one of the cross sections of rope that adjusted the tension of the bed. When the mattress was back in place and he felt confident that the letters were safe, Derek straightened his clothes, brushed his hair back off his sweaty forehead, and left the room.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Derek was grateful when dinner finally came. The doors were closed to visitors and he was allowed to undo the top button of his over-starched, over-sized shirt. As the meal was served, silence seeped into the room. It seemed everyone was more aware of Catherine being in the other room than those who sat at the table across from them. At least, Derek was: he barely saw Gabriel as he ate.
When the food was cleared, Derek stood, his mind on the letters hidden on his mattress cords. "Excuse me," he said quickly, starting for the stairs without waiting for a response.
He stopped as Jonathan spoke, "Actually, you are not excused. Sit."
Derek turned and looked at Jonathan as though he'd never seen him before. With annoyance and wary curiosity he went back to the table and dropped onto his chair.
Mrs. Worthington was watching him with sharp, predatory eyes. She obviously did not know the meaning of this odd occurrence either.
Tea was poured and ignored by all. When he could stand sitting there in the tense silence no longer, Derek asked with a scowl, "May I be excused now?"
"No. Mr. Todd would like to speak with you."
Gabriel, who had been stretching and looking longingly towards the stairs and bed, stopped and watched them. "What about?"
Jonathan scowled at his brother. "That is between the two of them. You are excused."
Gabriel pouted and appealed to his mother with an annoyed look, but she did not contradict and he was forced to leave the room.
He'll be knocking on my door as soon as I get upstairs, Derek thought. He waited for Mr. Todd to begin, but it was Jonathan who spoke again:
"You are excused as well, Mother."
Her eyes widened and she was very near retorting, but once more kept her mouth closed. With a huff, Mrs. Worthington stood and marched out of the room.
Alone with the two men, Derek felt his palms grow clammy. This seemed very formal and important and it made him nervous.
"Mr. Todd and I have been discussing you," Jonathan said at length.
"Yes, sir?"
Smiling a little, Mr. Todd said, "How would you like to come and work for my father?"
"What?" he asked stupidly.
"Don't be rude," Jonathan commanded.
"There would be no pay for the first two years while you are being trained, but starting the third year you should be useful enough for some wage."
Several thoughts passed through Derek's mind and, of course, it was the most graceless that made its way out: "Why?"
Jonathan glared at him again.
Mr. Todd only smiled patiently. "My father is getting older and though I'll have my brothers to help me, their minds are on things beside horses. I could use someone reliable and I'm told you are just that."
By who? Derek wondered, not daring to look at Jonathan. Surely this was not his doing…. Then it occurred to him: Jonathan was buying slaves. He would not want Derek under foot, especially now that he'd decided to stay at the plantation for good.
If I say no, Jonathan will probably throw me out anyway, he mused. And besides, it's just what I wanted…. Derek took a deep breath. "Thank you, sir."
Derek didn't feel as happy as he thought he would at such an opportunity. Seeing how fully Jonathan Worthington hated and wanted to get rid of him that he would pass him off on a poor, visiting boyhood friend dampened his elation. He'd always known he was nothing to the Worthingtons, but to see it so plainly….
"It's Mr. Worthington you should be thanking. He's the one who'll pay your annuities for the first two years."
"Annuities?"
"Fees paid to a master for training an apprentice," Jonathan answered stonily. His eyes were clouded, his voice unaffected.
Fees? He's paying money for me to do this? Derek suddenly wanted to ask why again, but wisely stopped himself. If it did nothing else, it proved one thing: Jonathan truly wanted him gone. Numbly, he said to Jonathan, "Thank you."
"We'll be leaving the day after tomorrow."
Derek nodded, unable to think of anything to say.
"It's late and we've an early morning," Jonathan said when the silence went on for several seconds. "Go to bed."
"Yes, sir." Still not believing what just happened, Derek stood and climbed the stairs. He closed and locked his door and when Gabriel came knocking he ignored him.
Derek lied on his bed for a long time staring at the ceiling. He felt much like he had the night he'd been told he would move to the stables. He felt oddly homesick though he hadn't left yet.
It was a while before Derek recalled the letters. Thinking he had better replace them before Jonathan found them missing, he climbed out of bed and lifted the mattress. He lit a candle and sat on the floor hunched over the flame as he leafed through the papers. They stank of attic rot.
He chose the top one addressed to Mr. Worthington Senior and unfolded it carefully. The same cramped writing filled the page and it took him a while to decipher the words. Some he could not make out for smudges, but the message of the correspondence was clear enough:
To my esteemed Mister Worthington:
It has been a very long time since last we met, and unfortunately our parting was less pleasant that I would have preferred. However, I write now to make a humble request.
I have been treating an outbreak of fever here in our hometown
. I had hoped it would be easily contained, but the symptoms have spread even to the residents who live at the edge of town. I have been fearful for Kylie's health, and tried to persuade her to write and ask to stay with you until these events pass. I am sure you are not aware, but she has recently given birth and could be especially susceptible to the extremes of illness. My concern is also with the child, and I hope you will consider taking them both in. I anxiously await your reply.
Yours in haste and sincerity,
Dr. Daniel Neilson
Derek reread the words several times to be sure he understood them, squinting at the difficult hand. When he finished, he took the second letter, one addressed to Dr. Daniel Neilson of Gorge County, Mississippi, and began to read:
To Dr. Neilson:
It is true that our final encounters prior to your departure were less friendly than some we shared before, and I hope you will understand a continued disengagement of our friendship.
Notwithstanding, I will concede to keeping Kylie Mae and the child until their return to Mississippi is safe. Despite our lack of personal geniality, I have certain obvious ties that I cannot in good conscience severe, and as such feel a responsibility for the child's welfare.
I have enclosed train passage for the mother and infant. Please send a letter with the travel schedule and I will arrange to meet them in town.
Good luck in your work and may God bless those you serve.
Jeremiah Worthington
His brow wrinkled in thought, Derek reread, "Certain obvious ties?" Many thoughts came to his mind concerning Mr. Worthington and the woman, and he felt ashamed of them all.
He set the letter aside and sought answers in the third page of writing. He was disappointed by how short the correspondence was, and even more disappointed and saddened when he learned the meaning of its contents:
To Mrs. Daniel Neilson:
I am writing to inform you that your husband was taken ill of the fever last week. On the 16th of October his body succumbed to illness and he passed away in the night.
Pending other instruction, his body will be transported to his family home in Claremont, Mass. for burial.