a breath. "Precious Jewel is a free woman. No more my slave. She will care for my son, Jonas."
Palmers stepped backward and moved to the window. “His father should name him and, as his heir to the barony, perhaps he should be Gareth, the lord’s namesake.
“It shall be Jonas.” With a shaking limb, Eliza lifted a weak hand and brushed the foolscap on the baby’s crown. “Promise me. I’ve done some bad things. Giving you freedom is a good thing. Promise, P.”
Even as Precious nodded, Eliza’s hand fell with a slap onto the bedsheets.
Her eyes closed, never again to see the morning.
The baby squirmed, then started to cry.
Tears leaked from Precious’s eyes, too, for Eliza would never hear Precious yell, "Yes!"
Chapter One: London, February 4, 1819
L ightening crashed about the great windows of Firelynn Hall, but that didn't frighten Precious Jewell none. No, it was the tinkling of broken glass coming from downstairs that set the hair on the back of her neck in a tizzy.
She stilled her vibrating fingers against the stark white apron of her dark-emerald maidin’ outfit. The feel of the cloth, so starched and formal, so different from the plain hand-me-downs she'd gotten in Charleston filled her middle with something, not quite pride, not joy either. Something. Reckon three years in London offered better treatment.
Angered mumbles floated up to the echoing hall, sending more trembles to her spine. The master fumed again, but time was running out. She couldn’t put off her request any more. A drunken set down or slap couldn’t be any worse than what she’d suffered. That was England’s benefit. She hadn't been lashed for slapping a fresh footman or coal boy.
Yet.
Pushing herself forward, Precious forced her feet to work and crept until she made it to the edge of the stairs. Her body froze, with toes dangling over the thick tread. She had every right to approach the master like the other servants.
Nodding like a twit, she tried to hold that sentiment in her tummy, clenching it tight within her middle, but the grand mirror exposed a small brown face with quivering lips. Lyin’ to yourself in your head was as bad as lyin’ out loud.
And she weren’t …wasn’t a servant, not without papers.
Thunder moaned and set the house to shaking. A wail sounded, shattering the little bit of courage she possessed. Little Jonas must be taken with fright. He must need her.
Her slippers turned a little too easy and Precious pattered back to the nursery. It was better to see about the baby than tend to herself. Well, that weren’t a lie. It just felt heavy like one. Excuses had a way of piling up on your back until you fell over. Right now, Precious would tumble with the slightest wind.
She pushed open the wide paneled door. Sure enough, Jonas stood in the middle of his bed covers. He cried, but this time the noise was muted. She’d heard him cry for hours like a banshee, but he must know his Pa was in a bad way. She came closer, her voice set to a whisper. “Jonas, darlin’, brave boy. You must settle.”
The whites of the two-year-old’s eyes loomed large. Tears puddled, too, but the little man didn’t let them go. He must know silence was better.
Heart aching, she picked him up from his crib. “Birthday boy, all will be well.”
Thunder groaned, and light blazed through the thick glass panes. For a moment she fingered her apron to see if the Lord above had smote her for fibbing. Surely, a good God knew you couldn’t tell a babe the truth, that his father was demented with grief. “Jonas, sweetheart, go back to sleep; shut those blue eyes. You have your pappy’s crystal blues, but all of Eliza’s blonde locks. And she’s looking upon you smiling and singing. But she sure would get me for letting you fidget.”
When his mouth puckered, letting out a low spittin’ sob, Precious held him closer. Having him shouting would add more upset to the household. No, this
Palmers stepped backward and moved to the window. “His father should name him and, as his heir to the barony, perhaps he should be Gareth, the lord’s namesake.
“It shall be Jonas.” With a shaking limb, Eliza lifted a weak hand and brushed the foolscap on the baby’s crown. “Promise me. I’ve done some bad things. Giving you freedom is a good thing. Promise, P.”
Even as Precious nodded, Eliza’s hand fell with a slap onto the bedsheets.
Her eyes closed, never again to see the morning.
The baby squirmed, then started to cry.
Tears leaked from Precious’s eyes, too, for Eliza would never hear Precious yell, "Yes!"
Chapter One: London, February 4, 1819
L ightening crashed about the great windows of Firelynn Hall, but that didn't frighten Precious Jewell none. No, it was the tinkling of broken glass coming from downstairs that set the hair on the back of her neck in a tizzy.
She stilled her vibrating fingers against the stark white apron of her dark-emerald maidin’ outfit. The feel of the cloth, so starched and formal, so different from the plain hand-me-downs she'd gotten in Charleston filled her middle with something, not quite pride, not joy either. Something. Reckon three years in London offered better treatment.
Angered mumbles floated up to the echoing hall, sending more trembles to her spine. The master fumed again, but time was running out. She couldn’t put off her request any more. A drunken set down or slap couldn’t be any worse than what she’d suffered. That was England’s benefit. She hadn't been lashed for slapping a fresh footman or coal boy.
Yet.
Pushing herself forward, Precious forced her feet to work and crept until she made it to the edge of the stairs. Her body froze, with toes dangling over the thick tread. She had every right to approach the master like the other servants.
Nodding like a twit, she tried to hold that sentiment in her tummy, clenching it tight within her middle, but the grand mirror exposed a small brown face with quivering lips. Lyin’ to yourself in your head was as bad as lyin’ out loud.
And she weren’t …wasn’t a servant, not without papers.
Thunder moaned and set the house to shaking. A wail sounded, shattering the little bit of courage she possessed. Little Jonas must be taken with fright. He must need her.
Her slippers turned a little too easy and Precious pattered back to the nursery. It was better to see about the baby than tend to herself. Well, that weren’t a lie. It just felt heavy like one. Excuses had a way of piling up on your back until you fell over. Right now, Precious would tumble with the slightest wind.
She pushed open the wide paneled door. Sure enough, Jonas stood in the middle of his bed covers. He cried, but this time the noise was muted. She’d heard him cry for hours like a banshee, but he must know his Pa was in a bad way. She came closer, her voice set to a whisper. “Jonas, darlin’, brave boy. You must settle.”
The whites of the two-year-old’s eyes loomed large. Tears puddled, too, but the little man didn’t let them go. He must know silence was better.
Heart aching, she picked him up from his crib. “Birthday boy, all will be well.”
Thunder groaned, and light blazed through the thick glass panes. For a moment she fingered her apron to see if the Lord above had smote her for fibbing. Surely, a good God knew you couldn’t tell a babe the truth, that his father was demented with grief. “Jonas, sweetheart, go back to sleep; shut those blue eyes. You have your pappy’s crystal blues, but all of Eliza’s blonde locks. And she’s looking upon you smiling and singing. But she sure would get me for letting you fidget.”
When his mouth puckered, letting out a low spittin’ sob, Precious held him closer. Having him shouting would add more upset to the household. No, this
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