HIGH OAKS PLANTATION
TIDEWATER, MARYLAND
AUGUST 1819
Each time her grandfather struggled for another breath, Honor Penworthy’s own lungs constricted. She stood beside the second-story window, trying to breathe normally, trying to catch a breeze in the heat. Behind her, the gaunt man lay on his canopied bed, his heart failing him. How long must he suffer before God would let him pass on?
Outside the window stretched their acres, including the tobacco fields, where dark heads covered with kerchiefs or straw hats bent to harvest the green-speared leaves. High Oaks—to her, the most beautiful plantation in Maryland. She felt a twinge of pain, of impending loss.
“The edict was impractical. And your . . . father was a
dreamer. But at least he had the sense to realize his irrational decision must be kept secret. Doesn’t that tell you not to carry it out?” Each word in this last phrase slapped her, and each cost him.
Unable to ignore this challenge, she turned. In her grandfather’s youth, the Society of Friends had dictated that all Friends should free their slaves. “My father remained Quaker.” She said the bare words in a neutral voice, trying not to stir the still-smoldering coals.
“I remained a Christian,” he fired back. “My forebears chose to leave the Anglican church to become Quaker. I chose to change back.”
He’d made that choice because the Episcopal church didn’t press its members to emancipate their slaves. All of the other Quakers in the county had left except for a few older, infirm widows—women who’d lost control of their land to sons. As a single woman, however, Honor could inherit and dispose of property legally.
Honor returned to his bedside. At the sight of her grandfather’s ravaged face, pity and love surged through her.
As she approached, her grandfather’s mouth pulled down and his nose wrinkled as if he were tasting bitter fruit.
Torn between love for her father and for her grandfather, she didn’t want to fight with him, not now. “My father loved thee,” she said to placate him.
“That is beside the . . . point. He should
never
have asked that promise of you. It was cowardly.” He panted from the exertion.
Honor gazed at him levelly. The memory of her father’s untimely and unnecessary death still had the power to sweep away her calm, but one couldn’t change history. Her grandfather’s comment could lead them into harsh recriminations. And it proved that he knew he’d done wrong and had chosen the wide way, not the narrow gate. She chose her words deftly. “I believe that my father was right.”
Grandfather’s mouth tightened, twisted, not only because of her recalcitrance but also from a sudden pain. He gasped wildly for breath.
If only it weren’t so hot. She slipped another white-cased down pillow under his chest and head, trying to ease his breathing. She blinked away tears, a woman’s weapon she disdained.
“How will you . . . work the land without . . . our people?” he demanded in between gasps.
“Thee knows I cannot. And that once they are gone, there will be no way I can hold the land.” She said the words calmly, but inside, fear frothed up. Freeing their slaves would irrevocably alter her life.
He slapped the coverlet with his gnarled fist. “This estate has been Penworthy land for four generations. Will you toss aside the land your great-great-grandfather cleared by hand and fought the Cherokee for?”
Honor felt the pull of her heritage, a cinching around her heart. “I know. It weighs on me,” she admitted.
“Then why do it?”
He forced her to repeat her reasons. “I gave my father my promise, and I agree with him.”
Her grandfather made a sound of disgust, a grating of rusted hinges. Then he glared at her from under bushy, willful brows. “Things have changed since your father left us. Did you even
notice
that our bank failed this year?”
The lump over Honor’s heart increased in weight, making it hard to breathe. “I am neither blind nor deaf. I am aware of the nationwide bank panic.”
“Are you aware that we’ve lost our cash assets? We only have the land and the people to work the land.
And debts.
”
“Debts?” That she hadn’t known.
“Yes, debt is a part of owning a plantation. And I’m afraid last year’s poor crop put us in a bad situation even before the bank panic.”
Honor looked into her grandfather’s cloudy, almost-blind eyes. “How bad?”
“If you free our people and sell the land, you will have nothing worthwhile left.”
A blow. She bent her head against one post of the canopied bed. The lump in her chest grew heavier still. “I didn’t think emancipation would come without cost.”
“I don’t believe you have any idea of how much it will cost you.” Disdain vibrated in each word. “Who will you be if you free our people and sell the plantation? If you aren’t the lady of High Oaks?”
She looked up at the gauzy canopy. “I’ll be Honor Penworthy, child of God.”
“You will be landless, husbandless, and alone,” he railed. A pause while he gathered strength, wheezing and coughing.
Honor helped him sip honey water.
“I don’t want you in that vulnerable position,” he said in a much-gentler tone, his love for her coming through. “I won’t be here to protect you. You think that Martin boy will marry you, but he won’t. Not if you give up High Oaks.”
Alec Martin had courted her, but no, she no longer thought they would marry. A sliver of a different sort of pain pierced her.
The floor outside the door creaked, distracting them. Honor turned at the sound of footsteps she recognized. “Darah?” she called.
“I want to see her,” Grandfather said, looking away.
Honor moved quickly and opened the door.
Darah paused at the head of the stairs. She was almost four years younger than Honor’s twenty-four, very slight and pretty, with soft-brown eyes and matching brown hair.
“Cousin, come here. Our grandfather wishes thee.”
Darah reluctantly glanced into Honor’s eyes—at first like a frightened doe and then with something else Honor had never seen in her cousin before. Defiance?
Darah slipped past her into the room. “Grandfather?”
He studied his hands, now clutching the light blanket. “Honor, leave us. I wish to speak to Darah alone.”
Why?
Worry stirred. She ignored it. “And I must see to a few of our people who are ailing.” Honor bowed her head and stepped outside, shutting the door. She went down the stairs to gather her medicine chest, remembering that later she must meet with the overseer. The plantation work could not be put aside because her grandfather’s
heart was failing. She tried to take a deep breath, but the weight over her heart would not budge.
Honor hated to see her grandfather suffer, and she hated to disappoint him. But her course had been set since she was a child. She shuttered her mind against the opposition she knew she would stir up.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L
YN
C
OTE,
known for her “Strong Women, Brave Stories,” is the award-winning, critically acclaimed author of more than thirty-five novels. Her books have been RITA Award finalists and Holt Medallion and Carol Award winners. Lyn received her bachelor’s degree in education and her master’s degree in American history from Western Illinois University. She and her husband have two grown children and live on a small but beautiful lake in northern Wisconsin. Visit her online at
www.LynCote.com
.