5 Murder by Syllabub Read Free Page B

but haven’t gotten around to fixing the road yet.” Coming almost to a stop, she twisted in her seat to look at the cabins. “It’s the original slave cabins. Most slave cabins were wood, but those are made of brick. Smithwood had a kiln, a quarry—whatever you call those places where you make bricks—and they used the chipped or broken ones to build the cabins. They came out looking a little lopsided but were a lot warmer than the wood ones and didn’t burn down. We’re in the process of restoring them.”
    “Oh.” I felt faintly embarrassed.
    “My goodness.” Aunt Mary sounded as uncomfortable as I felt. There were no slave cabins in California. At least none I knew of. However, there were plenty of migrant workers’ cabins. I doubted there was much difference.
    “Slavery was a part of colonial life, just like outhouses, detached kitchens and well water drawn by hand.” Elizabeth didn’t sound as if she approved of any of it.
    Slave cabins. Lots of them. People had lived in them, but how? “They’re so tiny. They look like dollhouses.”
    “They’re tiny, all right. I imagine they were smoky, as well. Not the most comfortable accommodations on the plantation.”
    “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Instead, I looked out the window at the horses. “I didn’t know you had horses. My daughter, Susannah, likes horses.”
    “They’re Noah’s. He’s working with Colonial Williamsburg to keep the breed alive.”
    “Are they all white?”
    Elizabeth smiled. “They’re called American Creams and, yes, they’re all white. Well, cream.”
    Aunt Mary didn’t seem interested in horses. “Is Noah a Longo?”
    Elizabeth stopped the car, evidently to give us a better look at the white faces peering intently over the fence. “Yes. Noah and his mother are the only ones who still live here. Their house is way over a hundred years old. They raise horses, chickens and sheep. All rare breeds. I get fresh eggs and none of the work.”
    I wondered who the Long os were, why and where they lived on the property and how Aunt Mary knew about them. Before I could ask, Elizabeth flicked on her brights. “There. That’s Smithwood.”
    “Oh! It’s beautiful.” Aunt Mary leaned forward.
    Horses forgotten, I craned my neck to see over her shoulder. It was beautiful.
    Elizabeth nodded. She rested her arms on the steering wheel, a smile in her voice. “I love to look at it like this, in the moonlight, or with just the car lights on it. You can’t see the old age marks until you get a lot closer.”
    “If that house is suffering the deterioration of old age, I hope it treats me as gently.” Aunt Mary seemed mesmerized by the beautiful Georgian mansion, red brick softened by the lights, white pillars and shutters gleaming.
    “It’s huge!” It was as elegant as a movie set in the moonlight. At any minute I expected a woman in a hoop skirt to come out onto the covered front porch.
    “It’s actually three separate houses linked together by brick passageways. The third story of the main house, the one with the dormers, is attic storage. I think the house slaves used to sleep up there, but now it’s full of boxes, trunks and old furniture. The second floor is bedrooms for the family. The first floor has the dining room, sitting rooms and big hall. I’ll show you tomorrow. The other houses are smaller.”
    “Why would anyone want three houses right next to each other?” I’d dealt with properties that had small guesthouses before, but nothing like this.
    Elizabeth started the car and we crept closer. Now I could make out the passageways. They weren’t very long, but they were tall, in keeping with the proportions of the houses, with openings like windows without the glass.
    Elizabeth gave a snort of laughter. “They’re guest wings. Back then, travelers expected to stay at the plantations. Roads were bad , travel was slow, and inns infrequent. Guests just showed up. They stayed, sometimes for