“Captain Auld won’t like it,” Lucy warned.
That made Mr. Covey mad as hops. Lucy kept out of his way the rest of the evening. Amelia saw him twist Caroline’s arm till she bent double. That wench! She wasn’t so perk these days either—sort of dragged one leg behind her.
Well, Amelia thought, swinging her own bony shanks over the side of the bed, I’m glad they didn’t send the hounds after him. He was sulking somewhere in the woods. But Mr. Covey said the dogs would tear him to pieces. A bad way to die—even for a nigger.
“He’ll come back,” Covey had barked. “A nigger always comes crawlin’ back to his eatin’ trough.”
Amelia left the cotton dress open at the neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hot today. Lucy was already down, her eyes red in a drawn face. Her sister guessed that she had spent a sleepless night, tossing in the big bed, alone. Caroline was nowhere in sight.
When he appeared, dressed in his Sunday best, Mr. Covey was smiling genially. This one day he could play his favorite rôle—master of a rolling plantation, leisurely, gracious, served by devoted blacks. He enjoyed Sunday.
“Not going to church, Amelia?” he asked pleasantly as he rose from the table.
Amelia was apologetic. “No, Mr. Covey, I—I don’t feel up to it this mornin’. Got a mite of headache.”
“Now that’s too bad, Sister. It’s this awful heat. Better lie down a while.” He turned to his wife. “Come, my dear, we don’t want to be late. You dress and I’ll see if Bill has hitched up.” Picking his teeth, he strolled out to the yard.
Amelia started scraping up the dishes.