Baroness in Buckskin by Sheri Cobb South Page B

horseback, properly mounted and outfitted in a stylish riding habit. Suddenly conscious of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, he shook off the unfamiliar sensation and addressed his cousin.
    “The stream I spoke of is just over the next ridge.” He pointed to a spot in the middle distance. “If poor Daffodil has the energy left after her exertions, we’ll go, shall we?”
    She leaned forward to pat the mare’s glossy neck. “Of course she has the energy! She enjoyed the exercise very much—didn’t you, girl?”
    Daffodil gave a snort which Peter could have sworn indicated agreement, and they set out once more at a more sedate pace.
    “Oh!” Susannah exclaimed as the stream and its miniature waterfall came into view. “It looks very familiar. There is a painting of it in the drawing room, is there not?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes. I believe it was done by Cousin Jane some years ago.” Suddenly conscious of having neglected a simple courtesy, he added, “I say, do you paint—or sketch, perhaps? We might have brought your sketch pad or paints—”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can paint or not, for I’ve never tried.” Her lips twisted in a wry grimace. “You will have noticed by now that I am sadly lacking in feminine accomplishments.”
    “I don’t know about that. No one could fault your riding, in any case. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a female with a better seat.”
    “Oh, but that isn’t a feminine accomplishment—on the Kentucky frontier, the ability to ride is a necessity! And we do breed horses, you know—Papa and I, that is—so there was never any question of my acquiring the skill.”
    “You say you breed horses? What kind?”
    “Tennessee walkers, mostly. We usually have about forty at any given time. And, of course, sufficient pasture for grazing in summer and fodder in winter.”
    “Slave labour?” Peter asked.
    “Not any longer, for Papa freed them in his will. Most stayed on, although a few went north to Ohio.” Peter’s tone had been carefully neutral, but Susannah must have sensed his disapproval, for she added quickly, “They were well treated, I assure you. Papa had the utmost contempt for people who mistreated their slaves. In fact, he and Mr. Samuels—our nearest neighbor, you know—had quite a falling-out over it. There had been some talk of a match between me and Mr. Samuels’s oldest son, but Papa said any man who would mistreat his slaves would very likely treat his women and children no better, and would not allow Jonathan Samuels to come courting.”
    “I am pleased to know that your father was so conscientious,” Peter said, choosing his words with care, “but surely the absence of cruelty, even the presence of kindness, is a poor substitute for the free-dom to determine one’s own fate.”
    In all her eighteen years, it had never occurred to Susannah that kind old Uncle Nate or Aunt Hepzibah might want something more from life than to serve as occasional playmate and surrogate parent to a motherless little girl. The realization put her on the defensive, and she spoke more harshly to Peter than she otherwise might have done. “It seems to me that you have no room to talk! As I understand it, slaves in the American South have a much lighter burden than those on the sugar plantations of the British West Indies.”
    He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “If you are looking for a quarrel, Cousin, you will not get it from me. I deplore the practice of slavery in my own country every bit as much as I do in yours.”
    “And—and Richard?”
    “He shares my sentiments. In fact, he has spoken on the subject in the Lords. Parliament,” he explained, seeing her puzzled expression. “Much like your own Congress, I believe, although probably a great deal stuffier.”
    She smiled at that, and they were once more on the friendliest of terms. They had reached the stream by this time, and agreed to walk along its banks while the horses