Property (Vintage Contemporaries) by Valerie Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

got a good appetite,” she agreed.
    “Get a ham from the smokehouse,” I said. “Just serve it cold. Cold potatoes dressed with vinegar, biscuits, pickled peaches, and applesauce. What pie are you making?”
    “Rhubarb.”
    “That’s so plain,” I said.
    “I can mix in some strawberries.”
    “All right,” I said. “Serve some whipped cream with it. It will have to do.” I went through my keys. “Here’s the smokehouse key,” I said, laying it on the end of the table. “Send it back with Sarah when you’re done.”
    “Yes, missus,” she said.
    I thought I would get up to go, but I felt so languid I didn’t move. I looked out the door at the yard. A chicken walked by. Everything felt peaceful; then I recalled why.
    “Where’s Walter?” I said.
    “Out running ’round,” she said.
    “Is that safe?”
    “Rose look after him,” she said.
    “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the property.”
    Delphine draped her dough over the pie pan and turned to look into a pot on the hearth.
    “Make sure he’s inside by supper,” I said. “The doctor is going to examine him.”
    “Yes, missus,” she said.
    I got up and stretched, then wandered out into the yard. I couldn’t take the hot kitchen another minute. I was thinking about the man, but I wasn’t going to say anything to Delphine about him. Perhaps he was her lover. I walked out to the oak where I had seen him and looked among the roots for any shoe prints or anything he might have dropped, but there was nothing. I stood exactly where I thought he had stood and looked up at the house. I could see my bedroom window—one curtain was fluttering half outside in the breeze—and my husband’s window as well. When I looked at the kitchen yard I could see right into the open door. By turning a little, I could see the top of the mill and the dirt road running to the quarter. Quite an excellent command post.
    I looked back at my own window. The curtains seemed to be moving against something heavy, then they parted and Sarah appeared, holding her baby. She saw me at once, but she didn’t start or turn away. She just stood there, her dress half-opened, looking down at me coolly. She’s a nerveless creature, I thought. There really is something inhuman about her. After a few moments I grew weary of looking at her and went back into the house.

    DR. LANDRY IS a walking newspaper. He knows everything that is happening from St. Francisville to Pointe à la Hache. All through supper he dispensed interesting gossip, yet he still managed to eat nearly half a ham. The cholera at Overton is confined to the quarters; of sixty-three taken, sixteen have died. It is worse in New Orleans, and there is yellow fever there as well. The hospital is full, the hotels empty. Mrs. Pemberly, near Clinton, has scarlet fever and is so weak the doctor does not expect her to live. The lawsuit her daughter-in-law brought against her son has proved successful and she anticipates the loss of half her property. Two negroes have drowned in False River. They had passes to visit their families and, seeing a skiff in the weeds, must have thought to arrive with a fish dinner, but the boat proved leaky and they turned dinner for the fishes. Two runaways were captured at St. Francisville, walking around drunk in broad daylight. There was a fire at Mr. Winthrop’s gin at Greenwood, set by his own negroes. One of the culprits informed on the others and escaped beating. The fire consumed eighty bales of cotton as well. There are so many rumors of planned uprisings at Bayou Sara that the authorities have banned all church meetings of any kind, as it seems one of the preachers may be responsible for inciting the negroes. One story has it that there are three hundred runaways hidden in the low country near there and that they plan to march down the river road killing every white person they find.
    “They would come right past here,” my husband exclaimed on hearing this.
    “That they