Somerset by Leila Meacham Page A

shoots of flame and one short. She would answer with three brief turns of her lantern’s knob. Anyone observing her that time of night would think fear of fire had driven her outside to test the wick. If anything was amiss with either side, there would be no signal. Sarah prayed to see three tall spires and one quick burst of lantern light across the creek.
    Wrapped in her cloak, she hung her lamp on the post, the wick burning low. She had not long to wait until the signal came, and she turned the knob to adjust the flame once, twice, three times. A huge relief filled her as she cupped her hand around the glass chimney to blow out the wick. She’d let her storage-room guest know that so far everything was going according to plan. Perhaps he’d sleep better, as she certainly would. Then, as she took down her lantern and turned to go inside, she saw another flash of light wink from the darkness and abruptly die. Her heart held. What had happened? Was that last spurt of flame intentional or accidental? Had her contact dropped his lantern and quickly snuffed the wick? She listened, her eyes straining into the dark woods, but heard nothing but the soft lapping of water around rocks. She’d gone exploring across the creek once, led by curiosity, and found the covert from where the agent flashed his coded messages. Crushed foliage had given away the burrow of his hiding place, accessed by a path through the woods.
    A little disturbed, Sarah went inside and decided not to tap on the storage-room door to impart the good news. She might jinx their getaway. Her traveling suit hung outside her wardrobe in her bedroom. She’d placed it there last night as a lift to her spirits and a reminder that in eighteen hours, she would be on her way to Charleston to catch a boat bound for home. She undressed and climbed into bed in her night shift but could not sleep. Her thoughts were on Jessica.
    Sarah was afraid for her. Strong will and impetuosity did not mix, and her friend had an abundance of both. Pair those traits with an utter belief in her invincible position in her family, and Jessica was like a blind person with a cocked and loaded gun. The girl did not believe her father’s warnings. She mistakenly assumed his love for her would protect her from his threats and that he would not risk her affection turning to hate if he used Tippy as a tool to punish her. Jessica did not understand that if she were caught aiding and abetting the destruction of a system —b etraying it—on which her family’s wealth, social position, and way of life had depended for generations, her sin would not be forgiven. But Tippy understood, and it was for her mistress’s safety, not her own, that Jessica’s maid was most concerned.
    â€œShe may know Carson Wyndham as a father,” Tippy once said to Sarah, “but she does not know him as a white man and master of Willowshire.”
    Sarah agreed, relieved that she had Tippy’s understanding of the danger Jessica disregarded. Working together, there was hope they could temper the impulses of their friend’s passionate convictions.
    Tippy continued to amaze her—and sadden her, too. Jessica should take sharp heed. Her maid’s life could be snuffed out by one stomp of Carson Wyndham’s handmade boots or by the heel of that son of his, and all that marvelous creative genius in that quirky little head be lost forever—“a colored girl’s head!”—so Sarah had overheard Carson Wyndham snort his objection to Tippy on one of the few occasions she’d been a guest at Willowshire. In his tone, Sarah had heard the unmistakable notes of jealousy and resentment of the affection his daughter lavished on her Negro maid that she did not heap on him or her brother. From that dangerous quarter, too, Tippy must be on guard.
    The moon was waning when Sarah finally fell asleep. She thought she was dreaming when she heard the clip-clop of