The Last Confederate Read Free Page B

bursting out of her blue gingham dress. Her speech was slurred and lazy, but much clearer than that of the field hands. She had grown up as a maid to Pet and her sister Belle, and her ear was quick enough to pick up the diction of the white folks in the big house. “You wait right where you is!” she ordered as Pet made a dash for the door. “Whar you goin’ widout no coat on?”
    Pet snatched at the garment, drew it over her shoulders, then skipped down the winding staircase, passing through the large foyer into the smaller of the two dining rooms.
    “Good morning, Papa—Mama,” she called out cheerfully, running around the large oak table to kiss both parents. Then she sat down and spoke to her brothers in a general greeting. “Hello—pass me the biscuits, Mark.”
    As she speared two of them, Mark Winslow, her oldest brother at the age of twenty, grinned and winked at his other two brothers sitting across from him, saying, “Pet’s going to be late for the resurrection.” He was the darkest of the brothers, and his high cheekbones revealed more of his Indian ancestry than was visible in Dan and Thomas. In fact, he looked much like a younger edition of his father, whose mother was a half-blooded Sioux. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, and he was the largest of the three boys.
    Tom Winslow at eighteen was more like his mother, having her clear hazel eyes and fair skin. Dan, at sixteen and the youngest of the boys, was fair as well. He alone of all the boys had the bright blue eyes that Sky had said most characterized the Winslow men. All three of them were outdoorsmen, expert riders and all good shots.
    “Papa, can we go out for a sleigh ride today?” Pet asked, speaking around a mouthful of sorghum-soaked biscuit she had crammed into her mouth.
    “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her mother chided instantly. “You’re going to strangle yourself one of these days, Pet.” Rebekah Winslow didn’t look her age. At forty-two, she seemed little different than when Sky had married her—and he often said so. Her figure was still slender, despite the six children she had borne, and her hair was the same bright auburn it had been when she had crossed the plains on a wagon train in 1839. All the children had heard the story—how she’d been deceived by a man, so their half sister, Mary, had been born out of wedlock. Sky had adopted her after he married Rebekah. Mary had married a businessman six months earlier, and they now lived in St. Louis. Joe, Sky’s son by his first wife, was a successful lawyer in Richmond, Virginia. Every year he brought his wife Louise and their two boys to Belle Maison for a two-week visit. There had been a foster son, Tim Sullivan, but he had died of cholera at the age of sixteen.
    Rebekah gave a half-whimsical look at Mark, saying, “Youcan’t use the sleigh, Pet. Mark’s going to take Belle over to the Bartons.”
    Sky Winslow caught the glance Rebekah gave Mark, and smiled at his oldest son. “Are you taking Belle or yourself over there?”
    Mark flushed slightly under his coppery tan, and affected indifference. “Oh, I suppose it would be nice to see Rowena again.”
    “Oh, Mark Winslow, you are a sly one!” Pet grinned. Her blue eyes sparkled as she loaded her plate with eggs, sugar-cured ham, fresh butter, sorghum, grits and a heap of steaming mush. “You’d get mad enough if Vance Wickham beat you over there!” She shoveled a big forkful of eggs into her mouth, giggling.
    “You’re going to choke if you don’t take smaller bites,” Mark snapped. He was very fond of Pet, but he hated to be teased about his stormy courtship of Rowena Barton. “Mother, can’t you teach this child some proper manners? She eats like a hog!” He was frowning, and swallowed a cup of scalding coffee so quickly that he nearly gagged, his face turning crimson.
    “The way I hear it,” Sky Winslow said solemnly, “it’s not the local competition you have to worry about, Mark.