In His Eyes(39)

Westley ran a hand through his hair. “I would have thought the same. Usually the women Mother had here did not stay long, especially once they got what they wanted from us.”

Her face contorted in confusion, but she merely nodded.

She said no more, so Westley prompted, “So she told you that she claimed to be my wife…?”

Sibby twisted her hands in front of her again. “Yes, suh. And, well, it seemed like a good idea. Seeing as we done thought you was dead and all.”

In other circumstances, Westley might have laughed. “I see.”

“What you going to do with her now? She ain’t going to leave that baby.”

Hmm. A harlot who loved her child and refused to abandon him in order to return to her profession. Had she by chance been forced into it in order to survive? Become a camp follower who intended to do laundry and ended up taking payment for men to come to her tent instead? He’d seen it happen too many times.

Westley settled deeper into the comfort of the chair, every muscle in him aching for a bed. Ironic, seeing how he had been so desperate to escape one not too long ago. He regarded Sibby. If he told her now of his plans to sell the place, then she would only fly into a fit he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment.

“I’ll think on it and decide tomorrow.”

She pressed her lips into a line and stared at him, something flickering in her eyes.

“What?”

She shifted her weight. “Well, there’s somethin’ else you needs to know.”

He propped his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his temple. “What?”

“Well, Miss Ella told them soldiers that we was going to share the crops between the colored folks. I thought that there was a good idea at first, ’till I discovered we ain’t got no good seed to plant.”

None of that mattered. If the soldiers came back to check on the situation, Westley would take it in hand.

“Then another soldier came and we thought he was goin’ to come see if we did like she said we was goin’ to do. But that weren’t what he came for.”

Interest piqued, Westley leaned forward. “Then what did he come for?”

“He said we gots two weeks to pay all the taxes else they is takin’ the place.”

Not unexpected, but inconvenient all the same. “When was this?”

She counted on her fingers. “Week ago, I think.”

Westley groaned. One week to find a buyer, or else he would have to pay the taxes from his personal accounts. He had the funds—his father had been wise to move all of his accounts to northern banks and place them under Westley’s care—but he did not want to dip into them if he didn’t have to. He preferred to sell, then settle all debts from that.

“What you gonna do, suh?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She seemed like she wanted to ask more, but his expression likely told her that would not be wise. “I done sent Basil to get your room ready, suh.”

Westley gave his approval, then thought better of it. “No. Prepare my father’s room instead.”

Sibby’s forehead furrowed. “But, suh, that room….”

Connected to Miss Whitaker’s, he knew. “I am Master here now, am I not?”

Something in her eyes hardened, but she dipped her chin. “Yes, suh. I’ll get it done.”

She turned and started out the door, her spine stiff.

“And have a bath heated as well. I could use one,” he called as she scurried out.

“Yes, suh.”

Westley frowned, wondering what had made her fortify her defenses. He lolled his head back. What a lout! He’d meant as the owner of the house, he would lay claim to the man’s bedroom in the main section of the house rather than his childhood chamber on the side wing. Not that he meant to be master here in the way that had died with the war. He groaned. He didn’t wish to antagonize Sibby over a misunderstanding about Belmont’s most comfortable bed.

Or perhaps you seek less a feather bed than an excuse to be nearer the imposter.

He grabbed hold of the thought and flung it aside. Only to keep a closer eye on her. He forced his thoughts back to Sibby and the others who might remain here. Yank or not, master or no, this was still his house, and the people living within it should respect his orders just as the men under his command—understanding he did what he thought best for all.

Except these people were not soldiers, and he acted the cad. The pain pulsing in his leg harmonized with the throb in his temple, swelling to a tormenting symphony.

Westley groaned. Home again to a house he didn’t want, to aid servants who bucked under his care, and deal with a wife he didn’t marry. He dropped his chin to his chest. Perhaps he should have started reading from that Bible after all.

But then, how could things possibly get any worse?





The soft glow of early morning had breached the drawn curtains, marched across the floor, and roused Westley from fitful slumber some time ago. How long, exactly, he couldn’t say. But long enough that the thoughts vying for attention in his head now gave way to the study of the movements and voices on the other side of the door.

The singing captivated him first. A tender hymn of grace that resurfaced memories of his mother humming the same tune. He listened to the young mother on the other side of the door as she sang to her child and wrestled with the decision he had to make. Then those sweet sounds turned to low whispers that pulled him from the comfort of the quilts.