Free Whisper Falls by Elizabeth Langston Page B

little.”
    Behind me, heels clopped into the store. I glanced over my shoulder to see the Widow Hinton walk in. I couldn’t pursue this subject before a witness. Giving a final nod toward the storeowner, I said, “I shall deliver the message, Mr. Foster.”
    The exchange surprised me. My master was particular about his business. Something must have happened to make it difficult to manage his bills. But what? The mill thrived, did it not?
    Of course, there was a new mill at Ward’s Crossroads, a solid half-hour wagon ride away. It was too far to affect the Pratts’s mill, surely. Yet something was clearly amiss. My master had said nothing to me. Nor had he said anything to my mistress. She wasn’t one to hide her feelings.
    Although I dreaded a discussion with him, I had no choice.
    My master didn’t return from the mill until suppertime. I waited until he had adjourned alone to the parlor before approaching.
    He sprawled at his desk, jacket off. His white shirt and green waistcoat clung to his frame, soaked with sweat. Heavy stubble darkened his chin. His appearance surprised me. He had always been particular about his clothes.
    â€œMr. Pratt, may I have a word?” I stayed at the threshold.
    He jabbed his quill into an inkpot, then scratched in his journal. “What is it?”
    â€œWe’re running low on staples.” His hand stilled, but he didn’t respond. Perhaps I should be more explicit. “Flour, cornmeal, —”
    â€œYes, yes. I know what staples are.” He rubbed the tip of his nose. “Are you certain?”
    â€œI have enough to last a week or two.”
    â€œWhen I come home from the mill Monday, I shall bring more.” He sighed noisily, dropped his quill, and glanced over his shoulder with an impatient scowl. “Anything else?”
    Mrs. Pratt prided herself on what a fine catch she had made for a husband. Tall, handsome, witty—the ingredients for greatness , she would say. In my opinion, she overestimated his destiny. His perpetual scowl did nothing for his appearance. And his manners, for all that his early days had been spent as the youngest son of a planter, weren’t pleasing or refined.
    I bowed my head and forged on. “Sir, we need sugar and —”
    â€œYes, yes,” he interrupted, “I shall visit the store Monday.”
    This message would make my master angry. But how angry? And what portion of the blame would he heap on me? I squared my shoulders. “I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Foster bids me to tell you that our account must be paid before we may purchase any more.”
    Mr. Pratt erupted from his chair. Crossing the room in two bounds, his fingers clamped around my wrist to yank me closer. “Have you gossiped about me?” Spittle foamed between his clenched teeth.
    â€œI do not gossip.” I held my breath against the rank odor of his body.
    â€œThen why have you been talking with Mr. Foster?”
    â€œI went to fetch the supplies.”
    â€œThat’s my wife’s duty.”
    Mrs. Pratt hadn’t performed that particular duty in many months, but he wouldn’t hear it from me. I remained silent and fixed my gaze on his neckcloth, frayed, limp, and clumsily tied.
    â€œYour voice has an insolent tone. Are you showing me your temper?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œGood. You know how much I dislike temper in a servant.” He flung my arm away, smacking it into the wall. I swallowed a moan and backed up into the dining room, hoping to lengthen the distance between us.
    â€œSusanna?”
    I paused. “Yes, sir?”
    â€œIf you are wise, you will keep my secrets.”

C HAPTER T EN
T HE F IRST L ANDMINE
    Susanna hadn’t shown up tonight.
    Maybe she was avoiding me, which would be understandable since I’d been such a jerk to her. Or maybe her master had detained her.
    Or maybe the falls had stopped working.
    I needed to chill before worry made me