Moonwitch (28 page)

“Have you considered that Whitfield might have overplanted?”

“Overplanted?”

Selena hesitated, deciding how to phrase her words so as not to condemn Whitfield unjustly yet to make Kyle aware that he might be facing a serious problem with his factor. “Perhaps Whitfield planted too many acres for the number of people he has available to work the land. That could explain why he has conscripted all of the plantation’s craftsmen.”

“Whitfield said that at this time of the season, every available hand is needed to thin out the cotton plants.”

“This is an important period, but it’s no more critical than any other, nor does it require more labor. And it shouldn’t be done at the expense of other operations. Focusing all effort on the fields can increase yields for a year or two, but in the long run the plantation will only suffer.”

“And you think that’s what Whitfield is doing?”

“It’s possible, and he may be sincerely trying to increase the plantation’s profit. But in my estimation, it’s wiser to let fields lie fallow than to overplant. Of course, that is my opinion. You should decide for yourself.”

Kyle met her eyes across the table. “But I value your opinion,” he said softly. “Have you seen anything else that I should be aware of?”

“Well…the field hands’ quarters are in a state of disrepair, and the plantation store is lacking some of the most basic goods—like cloth for clothing. There is no school, either—but that can be remedied later.”

Kyle’s smile was wry. “You should be the planter, not I.”

“The most serious problem, however,” Selena said soberly, “is that there seems to be no adequate system of justice. My father believed that slaves should have the means of redressing their grievances and the right to complain of a wrong to the master in person. Yet the slaves at Montrose have had only your factor to appeal to.”

“What about Bea?”

“She said she had given Whitfield full authority to act as he saw fit. And if there truly were problems with him misusing your people, Bea might never have heard of them. A slave would be too afraid of the consequences to speak up.”

Surveying Selena’s intent expression, Kyle nodded. “I’ll look into it,” he promised.

Selena relaxed then and smiled. “Thank you.”

“No. I’m the one who should be thanking you…for advising me about the plantation. And for making the effort to befriend my sisters. I appreciate you taking the trouble, Selena.”

“But I don’t consider it trouble.”

“Even so, it isn’t fair to involve you in our family squabbles.”

“No, truly, I mean to enjoy squabbling.”

Kyle grinned at her words, the shallow grooves in his cheeks creasing, his eyes brightening with the glimmer of laughter. Selena flushed, not with embarrassment, but with warmth at the feeling of shared intimacy.

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way,” Kyle acknowledged. “And as long as you’re offering advice, I wish you’d tell me how to tackle the problem of Lydia. Kissing the Parkington lad…” He shook his head, grimacing at the memory.

“I don’t believe it’s wise to make so much of a single incident,” Selena said cautiously. “It might be better to discover Lydia’s feelings first, to win her friendship so she’ll feel comfortable enough to confide in us.”

Us.
Selena caught herself. She hadn’t intentionally used the word, and she wondered if Kyle would take exception. But he merely looked at her thoughtfully.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

For a moment they sat in companionable silence, Kyle finishing his coffee, Selena her breakfast.

Then Selena roused her courage and spoke again. “I met Danielle yesterday,” she remarked casually as she chose another muffin from the bread basket.

Kyle inhaled the swallow of coffee remaining in his cup before losing his grip on the delicate Sevres china. Despite his fit of choking, he made a wild grasp and managed to rescue the cup before it shattered to the flagstones.

Selena looked up to make sure his condition wasn’t fatal and then carefully returned to buttering her muffin.

Kyle stared at her between coughs. “And?” he asked warily when he had caught his breath.

“And I liked her very much.” Selena glanced up at him. “You were right. Clay is a beautiful child.”

Kyle cleared his throat once more, then shook his head, bewildered by her calm tone. “You’re not upset?”

“No,” she said softly. If it wasn’t quite the truth, there was no point in saying so.

“Well,” Kyle said, looking at a loss. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up his napkin and dabbed at his shirtfront. He wasn’t wearing a coat or waistcoat; with the advent of summer, the days were too warm for the trappings of a gentleman.

“Well,” he repeated after another moment. “I had better get to work. Will you excuse me?”

When Selena reluctantly agreed, he pushed back his chair and rose. He stood looking down at her a long moment and then shook his head again. Finally he turned on his heel, walking with long strides along the courtyard to the flagged path that led to the stables.

Selena followed his tall, powerful form with her gaze until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Her expression was wistful, her yearning for him written on her face.

She had brought up the subject of Danielle for a purpose: to clear the air between them. One of the reasons Kyle had been avoiding her, she suspected, was because he felt guilty about his relationship with Danielle. Yet she hadn’t succeeded in making him feel more comfortable. Instead, he’d looked at her as if she had thrown a snake on his plate and expected him to eat it.

Selena sighed. At least their discussion about the plantation had been productive. She had made the first attempt at showing Kyle how to go on, had made him aware of a potential problem that needed immediate attention if it wasn’t to get out of hand. And she would continue her efforts in the future. Not only because she’d enjoyed the past few moments of companionship, the sense of working together, but because she owed it to him. She was determined to help Kyle meet his responsibilities and to make his life a little easier. Later, perhaps, she could encourage him to channel his tremendous talent into work he enjoyed doing—such as establishing the steamboat service he’d said that Natchez needed.

For now, however, the plantation books awaited her inspection.

Selena gave another sigh. If she couldn’t win Kyle’s love, she could at least prove to him that she was a capable manager.

“T
here is no mistake, Bea,” Selena insisted. “I’ve checked my calculations three times, and the result is always the same. The yield from Montrose’s last harvest was far lower than it should have been—and so was income.”

Bea gave her a worried look. “You truly think someone has been stealing from the plantation?”

Selena frowned down at the open account book in her lap. The figures had so puzzled and disturbed her that she had sought out Bea to discuss her findings. She had wanted to make certain there were no circumstances she was overlooking.

But according to Bea, there had been no disaster that would account for the large drop in output. The plantation acreage was planted entirely with Petit Gulf cotton, which, unlike the former Black Seed strain, wasn’t susceptible to the infestations that wiped out whole fields at a time. Yet comparing the weight of bales produced to the number of acres planted showed a large decrease in yield. “I’m certain that not all the income has been accounted for,” she replied. “And it looks very much like theft.”

“I don’t understand,” Bea said slowly. “How would that be possible?”

Selena thought over what Bea had told her about how planters conducted business in Mississippi. On plantations not wealthy enough to have a cotton gin, the sacks of cotton balls were taken to a public gin, where they were exchanged for receipts. These cotton receipts were as negotiable as currency and could be assigned over, just as promissory notes were. They were even used to pay bills.

Glancing up, Selena met Bea’s gaze. “You said when Montrose’s gin was damaged this past winter, nearly a third of the cotton crop was taken to a neighboring gin. That would have presented a prime opportunity for theft. It would have been simple to pocket the cotton receipts. It would also be easy to alter the accounts so the missing revenues would be hard to detect without close scrutiny.”

Bea raised a hand to her temple, looking distressed. “It has to be Whitfield. He is the only one with access to the books. And he has been managing Montrose without much supervision since Papa’s death. I’ve been too busy to review the books closely.”

Selena’s fingers clenched involuntarily around the nib of her pen, indignation and anger filling her at the possibility that Montrose’s factor had taken such unscrupulous advantage of the kind and generous-hearted Bea. Eyes flashing, Selena glanced at the far wall of the sitting room, where she had hung the portraits of her parents to help keep her homesickness at bay. Dishonesty is like a pestilence, her father had always told her. It must be rooted out and destroyed.

Struggling with the effort to repress her anger, Selena closed the account book. It wasn’t fair to accuse an innocent man. She would have to make certain of her facts before she approached Kyle with her suspicions.

“Theft is a serious charge,” she told Bea. “Before I present this evidence to Kyle, I want to inspect the cotton gin to see if it truly was damaged.”

Determined to waste no time, Selena made her way out to the enclosed gin lot and entered the building. The wooden cylinder of the cotton gin was in serviceable condition, she discovered, but a number of the slender spikes that encircled the cylinder had been broken off, and the grid was bent where the cotton lint was pulled through to separate it from the seed. Yet the damage wasn’t irreparable, Selena noted, wondering why the work hadn’t been done.

She was still pondering the problem when she heard shouts coming from outside the building. Hurriedly she went to the door.

The sight that greeted her brought her up short, and for an instant, shocked disbelief held her immobile. Across the yard at the entrance of the plantation store stood a gaunt-faced man, holding a long, rawhide whip. At his feet, sprawled on the ground, lay a young, dusky-skinned woman gowned in the simple cotton garment of a slave.

“Lazy slut!” the white man stormed. “I will teach you to disobey me!” His declaration was followed by a sharp, cutting sound as he sent the whip snaking through the air. The girl’s shoulders jerked convulsively, and she cried out as the wicked rawhide sliced through the thin material of her striped cotton gown.

She was heavily pregnant, Selena saw with horror. The girl was clutching her protruding stomach, trying to protect herself from the savage force of the lash.

“Please, Mista Whitfield,” she whimpered. “I be sorry.”

The factor ignored her plea. “I’ll not tolerate indolence!”

He had raised the whip to strike again before Selena found her voice. “Dear God, no! Stop it! Stop that at once!”

He gave a start, glancing over his shoulder at her, but his stroke never slowed. The girl screamed again in pain.

Selena began to run toward them just as a giant black man erupted from the smithy. Before Selena had taken two steps, the huge slave had thrust himself in front of the factor.

He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing dingy trousers of drab cloth, but he was powerfully built. He stood there defiantly, as tall and dark as ebony, his stance menacing, the corded muscles of his forearms bunching as he clenched his fists in challenge.

“Get out of my way, you black devil,” Whitfield snarled, “or I’ll flay the skin off your hide.” With a vulgar oath, he brought the whip whistling down on the black man’s shoulders. The dark skin that was glistening with sweat was immediately tinted with blood.

Still running, Selena finally reached them and grabbed desperately at Whitfield’s arm, trying to restrain him. “I said stop it!”

Neither her action nor her words made the least difference. The factor wrenched back his arm to fling her away, sending Selena sprawling in the dirt.

Dazed from her fall, she had trouble recognizing the sudden pounding in her head as the clatter of hoofbeats. But from the corner of her eye she caught the sight of Kyle’s powerful roan gelding, and she clearly heard Kyle’s savage growl as he launched himself from the horse’s back. Selena raised her head in time to see him land squarely on the factor.

Whitfield grunted as he hit the ground, crushed by the impact of Kyle’s weight, his breath knocked from his body. But he recovered enough to yelp as Kyle’s powerful fists rained blow after blow on his jaw.

At the violence, the roan gelding shied in fright and galloped away, while people started to gather about the yard, looking on in shock. Selena clenched her hands, wincing each time Kyle struck the factor, yet feeling a fierce satisfaction at seeing the vicious Whitfield receiving his due. After a moment, though, she realized Kyle meant to pummel the factor’s gaunt face to a bloody pulp. “Kyle, no!” she exclaimed finally. “You’ll kill him.”

Kyle’s face was contorted with rage, but his blows ceased with her frantic plea. Breathing rapidly, he pushed himself off the factor’s chest, jerked Whitfield up by the lapels and shoved him hard against the wall of the plantation store.

Whitfield was not a tall man, and Kyle towered over him. “All right!” Kyle ground out between his teeth. “Start explaining. I want to know what you were doing striking my wife.”

“Your wife?” The factor’s eyes slid to Selena. Blood poured from his split lip, and absently he reached up to wipe it from his chin. “I didn’t know it was her. But she had no right to interfere in the discipline of a slave.”

“She has every right! She’s the mistress here.” Kyle’s voice was as cutting as the lash.

Whitfield cringed in fright. “I was just doin’ my duty— floggin’ that slave for laziness when that black devil Saul tried to stop me.”

A muscle in Kyle’s jaw flexed grimly as he glanced over his shoulder at Saul. The tall slave stood protectively over the girl, his giant fists still clenched. Kyle’s gaze dropped, taking in the young girl on the ground and her obvious pregnancy. The dusky cast of her skin was tinged with gray.