Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
Fletcher sobered and his face turned to a scowl. "That's because I've been to hell and back."
Silas came closer. "What did happen to you, Miste’ Fletch? We all was real sad afterward."
"It's a very long story and I'd rather not speak of it now." Fletcher moved to the trees, sat down and leaned his back against the trunk. Resting his arm on one raised knee, he glanced up at Silas. "Tell me what happened here since I've been gone, Silas. Tell me about my parents."
Silas approached him and positioned himself close by. "It was a bad time here after then. Your mama and papa almost lost their minds. My daddy kept things runnin' 'cause Miste’ Sam and the Missus was off lookin' for you day after day. Miste’ Buck, he stayed in bed mostly, saying he was tired from fightin' off them kidnappers."
Fletcher clenched his fists and his jaw tightened at the lie. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree.
"When they came back without you, and the days went by with no word, this ol' house was like it died with you. Nobody laughed or made noise. Your mama cried so hard I 'spect she would die of a broken heart. And your papa didn't have interest in runnin' this plantation no more. He gave the runnin' over to Miste’ Buck, and then he up and adopts him so's the place will be his."
Fletcher listened intently to Silas' words while he picked a dried weed from the ground and crushed it with grinding fingers.
"'Cuse my saying so, Miste’ Fletch, but Miste’ Buck is a hard man. This place's been mighty different since your papa's been gone. Are you goin' to take over here now that you're back?"
"No one can know I'm back, Silas. Understand?" Fletcher leaned closer to his boyhood friend. "This meeting has to remain a secret. I've things to do before anyone knows my true identity. To everyone here, I'm Zachary Brown, a friend of Caleb Jenkins."
The black man grinned and gave a terse nod. "You can count on me, Miste’ Fletch. You stood up for me and saved my life long ago, and I ain't forgettin' it."
"You can start by telling me their schedules. I want to come and see my mother, and I've haven't quite planned a way to do that."
Again the broad grin flashed. "No plannin' needed, Miste’ Fletch. Miste’ Buck and the Missus are in town for the day. Miss Adeline is a’sittin' under that big ol' shade tree by herself. You could go see her right now. I'll keep watch on the road and let you know if anyone is a’comin'."
Wanting to go to her and yet being afraid to see her, Fletcher remained affixed to the ground. It had been so long, and not expecting to see her today, he hadn't planned what he would say to her.
Silas had risen and was standing in front of him, his hand extended. Looking into the friendly face, Fletcher grasped the hand and pulled himself up.
"Go to her, Miste’ Fletch. I know what you're thinkin', but she's still the same fine woman she's always been—to her family and to all of us."
"Thank you, Silas." He clasped the other's hand and left.
* * *
His mother sat demurely in a rustic chair on the lush slopping lawn of Seabrook where, for years, she had enjoyed juleps and welcomed guests in the days before their lives were irrevocably changed. Her feet dangled amid the delicate buttercups, her skin protected from the sun by the enormous shade trees. Adeline Stedman was knitting, her fingers busy in a manner that did not require her eyes to oversee. Physically, she appeared not to have aged much. Her hair was a rich cocoa brown, streaked a bit with gray. Her skin was still flawless and not ravaged by time. The soft radiance he remembered was there in her unseeing eyes.
Fletcher glanced at the empty wooden chair beside his mother. Here was where his father would have sat, his father whom he had respected more than anyone, his father who had taught him to ride and shoot, his father who had bantered with him and grown nettled by his recklessness, his beloved father whose loss brought a knot to his throat.
"Is someone there?" Adeline asked, turning her head in his direction. Her voice set his heart to pounding.
"Yes, Mrs. Stedman. My apologies for startling you. My name is—Zachary Brown. I don't mean to intrude, but I've come with a greeting to you from your great uncle, Jeffrey Dawson. I've recently been in Atlanta visiting with my—my parents, who are friends of Mr. Dawson. I was introduced to him and when I told him of my impending visit here, he implored me to convey his love to you."
"Come closer, Mr. Brown. Sit here with me for a while. I am delighted with your greeting, and my fingers are in need of a respite from my needlework. Would you mind?" Adeline Stedman had placed her knitting in her lap and extended a hand to the chair beside her.
"No indeed, Mrs. Stedman. I would be honored to sit with you." Fletcher neared her and settled himself in his father's chair.
"Is Jeffrey well?"
"Seemed quite well when we left," he said, hoping the crusty old man hadn't died during Fletcher's ten-year absence.
"How I do wish he would be able to visit Seabrook again. Our times together are fond memories for me," she said.
"Also for him," replied Fletcher. "He described for us a number of the delightful times he spent here."
"Did he really? Must have been most entertaining. Jeffrey has a talent for storytelling."
"Most definitely! He reminisced of one particular ball attended by many Washington dignitaries." Fletcher watched a smirk and a giggle erupt from his mother as she recalled the ball in question.
"Yes, I do remember. It was quite an event," she said.
Placing his hands on his knees, Fletcher leaned toward his mother. "Apparently, amid the brandy and cigars, a heated political discussion broke out with many raised voices and much fist-banging on the mantelpiece? As Mr. Dawson related, one of your finest figurines was smashed, and a heated defendant challenged the culprit to a duel. I was told this is where your late husband stepped in, making certain the goblets were kept brimming until no one was steady enough to hold a pistol. In the morning, their heads under soaked cloths and sipping ginger tea, neither of the two gentlemen in question remembered the challenge, and a near disaster was avoided."
Fletcher, of course, remembered the evening well, having taken a walk in the moonlight with lovely Miss Elizabeth and won a bet with Caleb that he could steal a kiss from her without being slapped. He smiled to himself because he had won more than the bet.
Adeline Stedman was laughing and clapping. Her unseeing eyes twinkled with a mischievous delight while the faint breeze lifted a stray lock of her hair.
"I don't approve of indulging in large amounts of strong drink," she said, "but it was somehow fine that evening to use it as a means to an end." She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and sighed as her giggling left her. "I'm surprised Jeffrey, himself, remembers much of that evening."
Fletcher raised his eyebrows and added, "He did tell me that some of his recollections were hearsay from the following morning."
"I'm thankful nothing that affected the fate of the nation was decided that evening," said his mother. She paused and furrowed her brows as if recalling another humorous past event. "Mr. Brown, did Jeffrey tell you about the year we lost our Thanksgiving turkey?"
"Are you speaking of the time the dog, James The First, stole the whole turkey from the sideboard, ran to the front of the house and devoured it in full view of the astonished family? Yes, he did happen to mention something about it," said Fletcher, chuckling as he recalled watching his father trying to wrestle the turkey from the hound but laughing too hard to succeed. Amidst the plentitude on the sideboard the lack of a turkey went unnoticed, and the incident had been a favorite family story to be told and retold at holiday meals for years afterward. James The First had proclaimed himself a legend.
She shifted her position in the chair. "There were many who told Mr. Stedman to shoot that old hound for his behavior, but my husband wouldn't hear of it. The hound was his favorite.