Somerset by Leila Meacham

turning the structure into a seasonal wonder to match the holiday splendor of the Big House conceived in the creative mind of Tippy and carried out under her hand. In the late afternoon, Carson went with his wife to inspect the results of their daughter’s and housekeeper’s labor and raved to Jessica, “Spook, you and Willie May have exceeded every…expectation.”
    That night as Carson snuggled next to his wife to sleep the repose of the just, he murmured in her ear, “Do you think you could have Tippy take a look at the gazebo tomorrow and…do a little rearranging?”
    â€œYou have read my mind, dear,” Eunice said.

Chapter Thirteen
    O ther than an occasional bump on the wall, there was so little sound coming from the storage room assigned her guest that Sarah was forced to knock on his door from time to time and whisper, “Are you there?”
    The answer would come back, so soft and cautious that Sarah could feel her neck hairs tickle, “I’se here.”
    She had put up a cot in the small supply closet attached to the kitchen. One window in the fugitive’s quarters let in air and light, but it was kept shuttered and latched day and night. Sarah was thankful the cold front had brought day temperatures of a steady sixty degrees. At least her guest would not roast or be plagued by mosquitoes, and at night, when the temperature dropped, he had the use of plenty of blankets. Sarah slipped him food through a quick opening of his prison door, but at no time was he to show himself in the house. Someone by chance might glimpse him through the slits of the shuttered window over the kitchen sink or through the tiny parlor’s windows, covered during the day by a drawn curtain. The most distasteful chore of looking after her boarder was emptying his chamber pot, a task she met with no less embarrassment than he.
    â€œI’se sorry, miss,” the boy would mutter, handing her the receptacle.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Sarah would respond, holding her breath.
    She wondered how the boy could endure the cramped, sunless space, with little human contact and activity when she thought she would go mad if she had to spend one more day later than planned cooped up in her house. She felt like a prisoner herself, unable even to take a walk for fear the fugitive, seeing her gone, might venture out into the house or do something to rouse suspicion.
    For the same reason, they had not dared talk to each other. Their voices, his with his Negroid dialect, might be heard and they’d be discovered. Carson Wyndham had put out the word that a possible runaway was in the area. There were many who would turn him in—and Sarah Conklin—to have the gratitude of Carson Wyndham. In the brief seconds the boy took the tray of food from her and shut the door, Sarah had only glimpsed his face and skeletal body in the ill-fitting clothes she’d found in the church’s rummage bin. She’d have had him come out to stretch his legs, but, again, neither wished to take the risk of his being seen. Well-meaning people—a neighbor, church member, or parent of one of her students, knowing she was alone until her d eparture —might stop by with food or offer of company. She was grateful the Sedgewicks would be at the Tolivers’ until late tomorrow afternoon. Jessica was to pick up her and her cargo after luncheon, and they would be long gone by the time Jimsonweed turned into the gate.
    But it was almost over. This was the last night of her and the boy’s captivity. She’d packed her steamer trunk and prepared a basket of food for the fugitive to take with him on his escape. It was ten o’clock, pitch black outside with low-cast clouds obscuring the moon. Time to hook her kerosene lantern to the back porch post and await the signal across the creek indicating that all was in readiness at the Charleston Harbor. The agent’s code sign would be three long