The Outcast by Rosalyn West Read Free Book Online Page B

Patrice?”
    “It’s me, Jericho.”
    The young black man emerged from the hedges near the house, lowering the ancient rifle in his hands when he saw for himself who it was. “You got any word on Mista Deacon yet?”
    “Nothing yet. Have you had any more problems here?”
    “Nothing I ain’t been able to handle, ma’am.”
    She smiled at the note of pride in his voice, a possessive tone well earned over the past year with just the two of them struggling to keep the walls and their world from caving in.
    Jericho’s father had served her family as driver, an elevated position in the slave community commanding respect and requiring a degree of responsibility that fostered trust. His sister, Jassy, had grown up beside Patrice, sharing her dolls and later, her dreams until, in a sudden move of uncharacteristic cruelty, Patrice’s father had sold her off to a family in Louisiana. Patrice’s heart broke, and, though she wasn’t privy to the particulars, she figured it played a major role in the change in her brother from an approachable companion to a closed-off duplicate of her father. She’d asked her mother once if Deacon and Jassy shared a love affair. The question scandalized the fragile woman into her bed for a week. Patrice never asked again and accepted the loss of Jassy’s friendship the wayshe was forced to accept the other losses to come.
    Jericho surprised her by becoming the one dependable presence at the Manor once things started to collapse under the weight of war. He’d stayed behind when the others slipped away in the night, oftentimes taking whatever they could carry. He’d stood beside her on the front porch to fend off marauders even as its support pillars flamed around them. They’d have starved, plain and simple, over the last winter if it hadn’t been for his cleverness at foraging for food. And when word finally came of her father’s death, and the two women were invited to stay at the Glade until Deacon’s return, Jericho stayed behind to keep the home fires burning and to discourage those who would try to strip the bedraggled plantation to the very frame boards … not that there was much left to take.
    She owed Jericho Smith everything.
    He took the reins from her, giving the stallion an appraising sweep.
    “This here looks like Mista Reeve’s horse.”
    “It is.”
    “He come back then?”
    “Yesterday.”
    Jericho and Reeve had spent many an hour in the Glade’s stables discussing horseflesh and harnessing. They were as close to friends as men of different color could be. Patrice could tell there were more questions he wanted to ask, but trained as he was to hold his tongue, they remained unvoiced. Jericho patted the animal’s damp neck.
    “I give him a ration of feed, if we gots any.”
    “Thank you, Jericho.”
    “Was there something you be wanting here, Miss?”
    Patrice shook her head. “Just wanted to … look around. To feel at home again.”
    Jericho nodded, needing no further explanation. Without another word, he led the horse toward what had once been the Manor’s barns.
    The front entrance of the majestic redbrick manor was gone, so Patrice made her way around to the side, purposefully not looking at the tangle of weeds that was once her mother’s famed garden. One couldn’t eat roses, and the time for beautiful objects that served no practical function was over. Nothing reminded her more graphically than stepping inside her once opulent home.
    Sinclair Manor was built for grand entertaining, for displaying family wealth, taste, and power in every dripping crystal prism, in each framed Gainsborough, in every yard of Aubusson and imported strip of hand-painted wall covering. What the war left was big empty rooms, impractical for daily use, impossible to heat or clean. A roof that leaked, a larder filled with vacant shelves. A host of guest rooms inhabited by ghosts.
    She walked lightly so her boots would make no sound in passing. The endless echoing disturbed her.