Mornings were pleasant in this room. The canary, hanging beside the window, caught the gleam of sunshine on its cage and burst into song. Some place out back a child laughed. The mistress suppressed a sigh. It would be a black child. Her son lounged so easily in his chair. She bit her lips.
“I never thought Delia Tilghman would grow up to be such a charming young lady.” She spoke casually. “She’s really lovely.”
“She is, indeed, Mother,” her son assented; but at his smile she looked away.
“I reckon Caleb better wash these cups himself.” Her eyes grew indulgent as they rested on Henry. He shuffled his feet as she added, “Henry here was probably out skylarking all night.”
“Yes, ma’m.” Henry gave a wide grin before vanishing kitchen-ward.
His master’s snort was emphatic. “Henry probably slept twelve hours last night. The silly ass!”
“Really, William, I do not understand your attitude toward our own people. Henry was born right here at Freelands.”
He laughed and took another hot biscuit.
“Which undoubtedly should make him less an ass. But does it?” At his mother’s stricken look he was contrite. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve just found much better material for you to work on, worthy of your efforts.”
“What are you talking about?”