Free Jefferson's Sons by Kimberly Bradley Page A

cheerful gap-toothed grin. She was six now, still a tree-climbing wild child. “I’m going to be a lady?” she asked.
    â€œYou’re going to be a lovely lady,” Mama said. “You’re going to grow up so beautiful, folks are just going to love to look at you. You’ll need beautiful manners to match.”
    â€œIf she acts prissy,” said Beverly, “I’ll punch her.”
    Harriet bounced off the edge of the bed and twirled Maddy around until they fell down. She looked up at Mama from the floor. “When, Mama?”
    â€œWhen you’re older,” Mama said. “When you’re grown.”
    â€œCan I have a white dress, like Miss Ellen’s?” asked Harriet. “And pink shoes with bows?” She looked delighted. “Can I have hair ribbons?”
    Ellen, thought Beverly. That was the name of the garden-bed girl.
    Mama laughed. “Yes,” she said. “You can have any color dress you want, and any kind of shoes, and wear ribbons every single day.”
    â€œGood!” said Harriet. “And then I can be rude to Beverly.” She laughed. “Like Miss Ellen.”
    Beverly scowled at her. Harriet, still laughing, stuck out her tongue. She rolled over to grab Beverly’s ankles, but missed.
    â€œNo, no,” Mama said, swooping Beverly into her arms. “You must never be rude to Beverly.” Mama leaned forward, but instead of kissing Beverly as he expected, stuck out her own tongue and waggled it. Despite himself, Beverly laughed.
    Â 
    But something stuck in his mind. There was something wrong about Harriet’s becoming a lady, something worrisome, but he couldn’t figure it out.
    No matter. He’d keep his ears open, and his mouth shut, and it would come to him in time.

1807

Chapter Nine
    The Lines on the Hearth
    Three important things happened in the second half of that year.
    The first was that William Stewart, the white blacksmith, finally got so soaked with drink he could barely stagger out of bed. He couldn’t be trusted to swing a hammer, much less work near hot coals, and the day he set Joe Fossett’s pants on fire, even the white overseer had enough.
    The overseer had brought one of the work horses up the mountain to be shod. When Beverly walked into the shop, Joe Fossett had just put the iron bars for the new shoes into the coals to heat.
    â€œDon’t just stand there,” Joe told him. “Blow the fire up.”
    Beverly worked the big bellows, and blew the fire up. The smoldering coals glowed. Joe went to the horse, picked up its foot, and started to trim it for the shoe.
    Mr. Stewart, slumped in his usual chair, gave a thundering snore. Then, without warning, he jumped to his feet. “Lemme do that!” he sputtered at Joe. He seized the tongs and snatched an iron bar from the fire. It was already red-hot like the coals. Mr. Stewart swung it in a wide arc over the anvil. “Stupid n—”
    He missed the anvil and tripped. Stumbling forward, he stabbed the hot bar into the back of Joe Fossett’s pants. The pants burst into flames. Joe yelled and shoved his seat into the dowsing bucket. The horse spooked. Beverly screamed.
    Everyone went still. The overseer grabbed the horse and steadied it. Mr. Stewart stood swaying, his mouth open, a thread of drool dangling from his lip. The iron bar fell from the tongs. It lay in the dirt, a thin trail of smoke curling up from it.
    Beverly barely breathed. He wanted to ask Joe if he was okay, but the silence was so thick he didn’t dare make a sound. He took his hand off the bellows, then winced as they creaked open. Joe stood. Water dripped down his legs. His brown skin showed through the charred hole in his pants.
    The white overseer kicked at the dirt beside the still-smoking shoe. “That,” he said, “is positively the last gol-durn straw. If you kill Joe here, Stewart, who will do your work?”
    â€œâ€™Ma