Free New Mercies by Sandra Dallas

the shadow of Miss Amalia all her life. They were engaged to be married, you know, Bayard and Miss Amalia. Bayard was besotted with Amalia Bondurant. But Miss Amalia called it off.”
    “Mrs. Lott claimed in the paper that
he
broke the engagement.”
    “You can believe that if you want to, but nobody in Natchez does. Ask anyone who knows whether Bayard Lott was the same after Miss Amalia left out. She broke off with him about the time Emilie Bondurant went off to New Orleans to have your daddy. Miss Emilie could hardly walk. She was too old to be in that condition. She had to be pushed around in a roller chair, and Miss Amalia went with her as nurse-companion. There’ssome said that was why Miss Amalia broke the engagement, but don’t you believe it. I think Bayard done something she couldn’t tolerate, and it estranged those two for fifty-five years.”
    He leaned back precariously in his chair. “That and then her mama dying was all too much. Miss Amalia wasn’t never the same person.” He shook his head. “There was some of us young men thought maybe we had a chance with Miss Amalia with Bayard out of the picture, but she never was interested in men after she broke with Bayard. I asked Miss Amalia once what Bayard did to her. She didn’t care for the question and asked me, ‘Do you need to know that?’ I guess she only tolerated me asking because I was her lawyer. But I said, ‘No, I just ask because I’m curious.’ She wouldn’t tell me.”
    “Then Mrs. Lott was wrong about how the engagement ended.”
    “Oh my, yes. Ever since she married—and that’s been more than two score years and ten—Miss Maggie had been in an eternal tug-of-war over Bayard Lott, only Miss Amalia wasn’t tugging. Whatever it was Bayard done, Miss Amalia didn’t want a thing to do with him after that. Myself, I was at Avoca once when Bayard came into the yard, and Miss Amalia picked up a shotgun and said, ‘Stand back a distance, or I’ll shoot you.’ She was as cool as a fresh cake of ice, and I didn’t have a doubt in the world that she’d do what she said. Neither did Bayard, because he scurried back over to Shadowland. That’s his place.”
    “Why do
you
think he shot my aunt and killed himself?”
    Mr. Satterfield rocked back and forth in his chair as he thought over the question. “The second part’s easy. When he saw what he’d done, Bayard didn’t want to live anymore. The firstpart, I don’t hardly know. My guess is Miss Amalia provoked him. She could be a provoking woman. Of course, Bayard wasn’t always right in his mind. He never worked a day in his life, but then, he’s not the only southern gentleman who hasn’t—‘genteel poverty,’ we call it. Worthless, some say, and I wouldn’t disagree. Bayard was the nearest thing to nothing that I ever saw. Now, you want to know what’s in this will?” He picked up spectacles that were hanging from a ribbon and set them on his nose. The ribbon, normally attached to his coat, had been unpinned, and it swung back and forth with the lazy motion of the ceiling fan.
    Mr. Satterfield cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair, and peered through dirty lenses at me. “Except for providing for Ezra and Aunt Polly, Miss Amalia left everything to you. You get Avoca and what she had in the bank. I can’t say what Avoca’s worth, but the account has somewhat more than ten thousand dollars in it. She kept it in a bank in New Orleans so folks wouldn’t know she had it. She was very private about that money. And you get anything you want that’s left in Miss Amalia’s house. It wouldn’t surprise me if folks are trying to sneak into it now, thinking there’s valuables hid away. Ezra’ll keep them out, but he’s old and a Negro, so I advise you to go out there soon to collect what you want.”
    “Are you sure there aren’t any other relatives?”
    “Natchez people always have relatives, but Miss Amalia didn’t like hers, except for you, and as far