Free New Mercies by Sandra Dallas Page A

as I know, the others are gone anyway. She had me to write it down that she was disinheriting anybody who made a claim. She didn’t speak to her brother for years—her brother Frederick, that is. He passed on sometimeback. He didn’t have but one child, and I don’t know what’s become of her. Dead is my guess. Miss Amalia was always partial to you, even subscribed to one of the Denver newspapers because she liked to read about you and your social doings. She didn’t approve of a lady being in the newspaper, of course, but she liked to read about you just the same.”
    The idea of this strange old lady peering into my life perplexed me. “Why me? Why leave her fortune to someone she’d never met? She and the rest of Father’s family treated him as if he didn’t exist.”
    “I couldn’t say exactly. It might be she felt bad about that. Maybe she thought she should have raised him, been a mother to him after his own precious mother, Miss Emilie, died. But how could she? The captain had took to drink, and Miss Amalia had her hands full with him. Your daddy was better off up north. Still, I know it never felt right to Miss Amalia, letting him grow up the way he did. And it set real hard with her when she got that letter from your mama saying young Winship’d died.”
    “Then why didn’t she reply?”
    “Miss Amalia wrote an infrequent letter.” Mr. Satterfield took out his pocket watch again and flipped open the lid. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Since we are due at the Buzzard’s Nest in an hour, we can talk about the details tomorrow. I’ll draw up the papers for you to sign; it’ll take a little time to get the money, but if you’re in need, I can arrange for a part of it.” He glanced up, and I shook my head. “I’ll take you out to Avoca myself, so’s you can see if there’s anything you want for a keepsake.”
    I stood then and, before remembering the limp handshakes,almost put out my hand. Instead, I straightened my gloves and moved my pocketbook from one hand to another, silly gestures women make to stall for time. But there was no reason not to ask my question, so I removed the envelope with photos I’d taken from Mother’s house and lined up the portraits on the desk so that they faced Mr. Satterfield. “These were my father’s. Who are these people?”
    Mr. Satterfield, who had risen, sat down again and looked at the photographs one at a time. “Bondurants mostly,” he replied. He pushed the picture of the old woman toward me. “Miss Emilie, your grandmother.” He moved the photograph of the old man next to the one of Emilie. “Captain Bondurant, your grandfather.” He picked up the picture of the young woman and looked at it closely. “This is Miss Amalia. In her last years, she grew littler all the time, and you forgot how tall she was in her prime. And see that hair? She was famous for it. It reached most nearly to her knees.” He held the picture closer to his spectacles. “You can’t tell from the likeness, but she had the whitest skin I ever saw, like cream—goat’s milk, I guess you could say.” He chuckled at his little joke and placed the photograph beside those of Amalia’s parents, but he continued to look at it. “She was as pretty as candied cherries. Did you know she was presented at the Court of St. James’s?”
    “Yes.”
    “And I expect this one is your father. He looks some like a Bondurant.” He pushed the baby picture forward.
    “So the last one must be of Father’s brother,” I said.
    Mr. Satterfield picked it up and studied it, slowly shaking hishead back and forth. Then he snorted and flung the photograph onto the desk. “Why, bless me, no, dear heart. He’s not a Bondurant.” He paused, then said, “Now why would your daddy have had a picture of Bayard Lott?”

Chapter Three
    T HE B UZZARD’S N EST WAS NAMED Fair Haven until a Union officer who was quartered there during the Civil War walked into the library, where illiterate