The Sorrel house stood like a ghost from the past—the mansion only a whisper of its former grandeur. The war had sunk the white antebellum from its days of glory. The once-pristine yard was overgrown with brush and laundry lines bearing sun-faded clothing. The formal drive long forgotten. Artillery wounds near the brick chimney were patched and painted over, but the shattered porch railings still stood in disrepair—both posts and rails missing from its own fight to survive the War between the States.
Unease dwelled on this farm. Hanging in the air even now. Thor tried to decide if he wanted to knock on the front door or try the barn first. Jorgan stepped beside him, and Thor was grateful for his presence. With a toss of his thumb, Jorgan suggested the house.
The stately home wasn’t as extravagant as some plantations, but it was sturdy and the land vast. Just a few miles from the James River, the plantation had once been a hub for goods and imports. Or so the story went. While some slaveholders abandoned their plantations or sold them off, Jed Sorrel had limped back here upon the fall of the Confederacy to find his once-immaculate house shaken to the battered floorboards, furnishings all stripped away. His family keeping refuge a few counties over. The basement stairwell cut up for firewood.
Slave quarters empty.
A few of those slaves hadn’t gone far. With the Emancipation Proclamation being what it was, the Sorrels hadn’t been able to drag Ida or her sister back. Just torment them over the hedge. The pair had sought employment from Jarle and Kristin Norgaard—renters of the upper acreage and freshly arrived from Norway just a few years before the South seceded. Not only had the immigrants leased the acreage from its owners, but upon Jarle’s return from his required service for the infantry, they’d given several newly freed men and women work in the orchards with wages. A place to reside in the small cabins.
But just because Lincoln signed a document saying it could be so, sentiments among the Sorrels ran through murkier waters. Their patriarch wasn’t the only man to have lost his slaves to the Thirteenth Amendment, nor was he the only Confederate to refuse to sign the oath to the Union.
Forfeiting his right to vote, Jed had taken a stand with the South that some of his fellow Southerners upheld. Some going so far as to join him in the crusades of what had been named the Ku Klux Klan. A group founded by former Confederate generals like Jed himself. All passionate about their cause, making it into newspapers across the country of the terror they inflicted to see the purification of society defended. Though legally disbanded now, that meant nothing in these parts.
Thor strode with his brother up the grand porch steps, feeling with every step the pistol he’d wedged into his waistband at the small of his back. A pair of boys ran past so quick, Thor moved down a step. A barking puppy trailed them across the porch, more interested in the game of chase than the trespassers.
Thor shared a glance with Jorgan, then crossed to the front door. Worried he wouldn’t knock with the right amount of volume, he signaled for Jorgan to do the honors. His brother stepped up to the tall door and pounded knuckles with slow precision. Jorgan had his head down, listening. He gave a brief nod, so Thor moved back. Someone was coming.
A woman with pale-yellow hair opened the door. Her belly was swollen with child, and she looked surprised to see them. Turning her thin face away, she hollered out to someone deeper in the house. Thor flexed his hands, recalling what he meant to express to them, all the while hoping he’d be understood. The woman stepped aside, and another wedged forward, this one Mrs. Sorrel, whom he’d seen just days ago.
Jed’s wife.
Her hair was twisted up tight, and she carried herself with an air of authority despite the humble cut and threadbare fabric of her gown. While a Southern belle through and through, gone were the hoopskirts and fluttering fans. In their stead was a timeworn determination.
Confusion flitted across her eyes, and for the briefest of moments Thor saw the widening of fear. Did she worry he’d turn her in about the apples? He wasn’t here to tattle. Quite the opposite. With the back of his hand, he bumped his brother’s side. Jorgan spoke.
When he finished, Mrs. Sorrel shook her head. Thor watched her mouth.
“They’re not here. They’ll be gone the rest of the day.”
Jorgan must have asked where they’d gone because she spoke again.
“You think I know where they’re off to? What I do know is that they’ll be gone until dusk, as usual.” She didn’t say it unkindly. In fact, there was a spark of irritation in her eyes for not being more entrusted with her man’s whereabouts. At least that’s how it appeared.
Thor glanced around. He’d bet every bullet in his pistol that the Sorrel men were on the farm somewhere. No doubt staying from sight in this very house. He nodded to Mrs. Sorrel to show that he understood. When Jorgan thanked the woman, Thor led the way back down the steps. They could come back in a few days.
Jed and his kinsmen couldn’t stay out of sight forever.
Thor and Jorgan returned to the house to find Aven rushing out to meet them. Thor worried something was amiss until he saw the cheer in her eyes.
“A new idea has occurred to me.” She moved to his side—so near that Jorgan coughed into his fist to hide a smile.
Thor nearly elbowed his brother.
“I’d like to try out an apple butter recipe. Ida was telling me about the recipe she uses, and if we stew the apples and sugar in your cider, it might give an even richer flavor. But I wondered if there was a variety you’d recommend—”
Thor yanked his gaze from her mouth to keep from stumbling into the porch railing. He missed what she said next, but the excitement when she turned to face him again was enough. He offered his agreement, liking the idea. Having tasted the cider jelly she’d stewed up, he’d eat anything she ever set in front of him. But she wasn’t cooking up sweets for him. She was doing it for the farm. And that made her efforts all the finer.
He dug for his pencil and notebook, then wrote, Need fresh apples, apple butter.
“Yes. When will they be ready? And is there a type you’d suggest?”
Foxwhelp—Sept.
Roxbury—Oct. Sweet Coppins, same. Roxbury best make apple butter.
She read that with care. “Thank you. When the time comes, I’ll be ready and you can guide me.” She smiled. “But for now . . . there’s not much for you to do except await the ripening?”
That was put rather simply. But yes.
“And what are you doing now?”
Nothing pressing. What was she getting at?
“Could you possibly spare half an hour?”
He narrowed his gaze. She was smiling bigger now—almost giddy. Something wasn’t right. He nearly shrugged because he’d be more than happy to pass time helping her, but then Aven turned away and spoke to Jorgan. What was going on? Thor tapped her shoulder to try and get her attention.
When she turned back, she pointed to herself, then slowly spelled her name with her fingers.
She did the E all wrong, but the effort was such a nice sight that he wasn’t going to complain.
Aven angled back toward Jorgan, who showed her the word for teach. She faced Thor and made the sign. Then she peeked slyly over her shoulder, fetching the next word. Looking back at Thor, Aven swiped two fingers across her palm in a dancing motion. On her own, she formed a T and gently slid it under her chin. She pointed to herself again, to him, then danced two fingers on her palm once more.
So the little trouble maker wanted to dance and was using Sign to soften him to the idea.