Free Speak Through the Wind by Allison Pittman Page B

for the next twenty years until your heart just stops in the middle of the night and you die in your little room off the kitchen?”
    “And what would my life be with you?”
    “Whatever you want it to be, Kassie girl. They’re pullin’ gold out of the ground in California. Got ships leavin’ the docks every day takin’ people there to find their fortune.”
    “I’ve never been on a boat.”
    “We could leave the city Buy a little farm. Have hundreds of cows and dozens of children and breathe in that sweet country air doctors are always screamin’ about.”
    The ghost of the imp was back, and she giggled despite the growing discomfort of his grip on her arm.
    “Or we could go down south. I’ve spent a few winters workin’ down there. The place is bustin’ with—”
    “Reverend Joseph is an abolitionist,” she said. “He’d never allow—”
    “He won’t be part of it! He’s got no claim to you, Kassie. He doesn’t love you like I do.”
    “He does love me.”
    “Yeah,” he said, finally releasing her and gesturing grandly about the room, “like this fine furniture and these fancy carpets. You’re a thing he has, one he doesn’t know what to do with.”
    He stopped dead in the center of the room and adopted a perfect pose of Reverend Joseph, somehow transforming himself to the reverend’s height and making his compact, muscled body take on a gaunt bearing. He brought one hand to his chin, stroked it thoughtfully, and spoke in a voice devoid of his slight Irish brogue and rich with the deep tones of her beloved companion.
    “Should I adopt her? Marry her? Better move her down to the kitchen before I forget myself and creep into her bed one night—”
    “Stop it,” Kassandra said, offended at the reverend’s portrayal, but strangely fascinated and amused at Ben’s ease of imitation.
    “He wouldn’t fight for you, Kassie,” Ben said, very much himself again. “Not like I would.”
    He bounded across the room to the large marbled fireplace against the far wall. Above the mantle, two ceremonial swords hung on the wall, crossed in a grand elegance. In a swift heroic gesture, Ben grasped the handle of one of the swords, sliding it off of its perch with a screech of steel across iron and swung it through the air in a frantic simulation of a duel.
    Kassandra burst out now in full laughter. Ben hopped around the room, fully lost in his mock thrusts and parries, making “clink, clink” sounds as his sword contacted that of his imaginary foe. She had been to the theater with Reverend Joseph, had seen trained actors on stage engaged in the ballet of battle, and the sight of this redheaded, freckled comedian attempting to capture that fervor was immensely funny, until the blade came hazardously close to the drapes, threatening to tear a nasty snag in the heavy silk brocade.
    “Ben!” she called out through her laughter. “Ben! Stop it.”
    “By God, Kassie,” he said, breathless, but not pausing, “I swear I would run him through if he came between us.” He punctuated his words with a final, brutish jab. “But tell me, darlin’, can you see him fighting back?”
    “Just put the sword down,” she said, unwilling to tell him what she thought.
    Ben walked back to the fireplace and rose up on his toes to return the sword to its resting place, not bothering to adjust it to its original angle.
    “You should leave him, Kassie,” he said, leaning against the marble wall, crossing his arms across his chest. “For his own sake.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t you think he’d like to get married someday?”
    She glanced to the side, to the sofa where her history book lay forgotten on the floor, and envisioned the parade of Friday afternoon visitors—all those hopeful women vying to be mistress of this house. Most were rather sour-looking or timid, but there had been a few, young and pretty, just the type to be a faithful minister’s wife, with sweet dispositions and an aura of kindness