American Blood by Jason Manning

which conveyed him along with Jeremy, Sarah, and Jacob Bledsoe up the drive,
she and I are fortunate to even be here
.
    Last night's secret undertaking was today's common knowledge. St. Louis was buzzing with talk. Discovered locked in the cell previously occupied by Jeremiah Rankin, the constable had identified Sarah as the one who had passed a hideout pistol to the desperate abolitionist, the very pistol which the prisoner had threatened to use if he was not released. And it was Sarah's cloak that had disguised the fugitive in his flight.
    There had, of course, been no pistol, or even the need for one; the constable had been a willing accomplice, and the fiction was necessary only to protect him from retribution at the hands of theclique of angry, frustrated men who had been plotting Rankin's death. Sarah had insisted he identify her as the culprit, to deflect any suspicion away from him. There would be no charges leveled against her. She was a woman, and a Bledsoe, besides. All that remained was for Delgado to confess to being the man in the carriage, although Sarah had wanted him to lie with the story that he had had no inkling as to her motives for the nocturnal visit to the jail, and that Rankin had held a pistol on him and forced him to drive to the levee. Delgado would have none of it.
    Jacob Bledsoe's outrage had verged on apoplexy. But for the fact that the ball at Blackwood was in honor of Sarah's return from Philadelphia, he declared, his inclination would have been to confine her to her room indefinitely. As for Delgado, while his honesty did him credit, that could not excuse him for having abused the hospitality extended to him. Delgado could only concur and apologize. But Jacob was still fuming. His daughter and his guest had humiliated him before the entire community.
    Their arrival at Blackwood caused quite a stir. Jacob fairly cringed as the women whispered behind their hands, and some of the men looked with stern disapproval. For her part, Sarah seemed blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. Delgado did his best to ignore the keen curiosity turned upon him by all present.
    Black boys with umbrellas sheltered them from the elements as they quit the carriage and gained the veranda, where Brent Horan was waiting for them. He greeted Jeremy and Jacob Bledsoe with unfeigned courtesy before turning his attention to Sarah.
    "My dear Sarah, you look ravishing."
    "Thank you, Brent."
    "I am delighted that you are home at last. I missed you more than words can express. Come and say hello to Father."
    It escaped no one's attention that Brent Horan acted as though Delgado did not even exist. A calculated insult.
    Daniel Horan was enthroned in a high-backed wing chair in the great hall, where he could greet his guests as they entered. Delgado was shocked by the patriarch's appearance. He had never seen a living man so nearly consumed by death. The chair seemed to swallow up his emaciated form. Eyes haunted by pain were sunk deep in black-rimmed sockets. His breathing was labored, his face gaunt and skull-like. He could scarcely raise a gnarled hand, or mumble incoherently in response to the salutations of the new arrivals as they filed respectfully past.
    "What's become of him?" Delgado asked Jeremy once they had performed the amenities and moved on.
    "Shocking, isn't it? The man's not yet sixty years old and looks a hundred. A few short years ago he was full of vim and vigor. Now he can't walk, and most days cannot speak. A dozen eminent physicians have been consulted. None can make a firm diagnosis, much less propose a cure." Jeremy leaned closer and pitched his voice in such a low whisper that Delgado could barely hear his next words. "Some say God is punishing Daniel Horan for the cruelty with which he has treated his slaves all these years. And then there is the rumor that he is being slowly poisoned."
    "Poisoned? By whom?"
    Jeremy shrugged. "Who stands to gain if his father is dead, and his brother disappeared