American Dreams by Janet Dailey

herself to tuck the children into bed.
    After several selections, she finally paused and glanced at Nathan. He sat in a wing chair facing the piano. "Is there a particular song you would like to hear?"
    "No." He shook his head. "You play like an angel, Eliza."
    "I have thought that myself," Will Gordon agreed, glancing up as his wife rejoined them.
    "I have a request," The Blade inserted. "Do you know any music suitable for a quadrille, Miss Hall?"
    Eliza hesitated a moment. "I believe so, yes."
    "Temple says she has never danced it." He cast a challenging look at Temple. "This would be the perfect opportunity to teach her. You know the steps, do you not, Will?"
    Briefly taken aback, Will Gordon frowned. "It has been years, but... Do you remember them, Victoria?" He turned to his wife.
    "I think so." She laughed hesitantly. "I am not sure."
    "Doesn't it require four couples to form the square?" Will frowned.
    "Temple can learn it with two." Without waiting for them to agree, The Blade began moving furniture to clear a space in the center of the room. Everyone joined in to help except Eliza. She tentatively played the tune, trying to refresh her memory of the melody.
    When all was in readiness, The Blade nodded to her, and Eliza struck the opening chord. She partially turned to watch, keeping the tempo slow as The Blade led Temple through the pattern.
    The second time through, she played the song at its normal tempo and smiled briefly at Nathan when he came to stand beside the piano. Laughter accompanied the moments of confusion by the dancers. Eliza smiled along with them, never losing a note.
    Soft as a murmuring breeze, the music drifted from the parlor into the night, its melody faint, too faint for Deuteronomy Jones to recognize. He waited on the hard wooden bench that ran along the outer wall of the detached kitchen, well within earshot of the house should his master call. Pale amber light streamed from the windows of the big house, laying a long trail on the ground and holding the darkness at bay. Deu was beyond its reach, sitting in the shadows.
    The evening breeze, redolent with apples, whispered around him. It was harvest time in the apple orchards of Gordon Glen. The sheds bulged with crates of red, ripe apples ready for shipment to southern ports. For now, the cider mill was silent, but come morning, it would be running again, crushing more apples and releasing the sweet smell of their pulp into the air; the ketties in the plantation's kitchens would be bubbling with more fruit being cooked into applesauce, apple butter, and preserves.
    From the woods near the mill, Deu could hear the grunts of hogs greedily rooting through the discarded mash and skins. He huddled deeper in his coat, knowing how good a mug of hot cider would taste right now.
    A dark figure hurried across the grass toward him, and inside himself everything tightened up. It was Phoebe, of the shy and dancing eyes. Forgetting the night's chill, Deu stood up, warmed by the gladness singing through him. When she stopped before him and gazed up with such timid eagerness, Deu wanted to look at her forever.
    "I brung—I brought you some hot cider. I spilled some, tho', and it's prolly just warm now, but. . ." Jerkily, she thrust the tin cup at him, along with an object in her other hand. "Here's an apple fritter, too. It's okay," she hurried to assure him. "Dat... that reverend didn't eat his and I hid it away when I was clearin' the table. No one'll know I gives—gave it to you."
    "I was wishing for some cider." When he took the items from her, Deu felt the coolness of her fingers, then noticed the way she quickly wrapped the old shawl more tightly around her shoulders once her hands were free. "Are you cold? Maybe you should drink this." He glanced at the thinness of her dress.
    "No, it's for you," she insisted, then looked over her shoulder in the direction of the slave quarters, as if she should go back.
    "Can you sit with me awhile?" Deu didn't