Moonwitch

His mouth twisted. “For what? Because I inherited or because my parents died?”

“Both. You aren’t happy about becoming a planter—”

“You’ve noticed?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “It’s never easy to lose one’s parents. Were you close?”

Kyle shrugged. “I don’t suppose you could call our relationship close. I was young when I left home, after all. But I do miss them.”

“Are you the eldest son, then?”

“I’m the only son. I have four sisters—one a few years older than I, the others much younger.”

“I should have liked to have sisters,” Selena said wistfully.

Suddenly realizing how personal the conversation was becoming, Kyle took up the reins again and urged the horse around.

As they passed more cane fields that were laid out in regular patterns, Selena explained that each year two-fifths of the land was planted and another two-fifths allowed to lie fallow. The remaining acreage, usually the most fertile, was used as a provision ground.

“And just what is a ‘provision ground’?” Kyle asked as they approached the buildings Selena said were the sugar works.

She gave him an odd look. “It’s where we grow our food. We can’t live on sugar alone, I’m sure you understand.”

The rueful twist of Kyle’s lips was almost a smile. “I don’t suppose so.”

“Everyone on the plantation has a garden plot, if he wishes, and two hours free at noon to work it. Most of the Negroes sell their excess produce at the market in St. John’s.”

“And do they get to keep the money they earn?”

“Of course they get to keep it. Most spend it on tobacco or trinkets or clothes. But some of the slaves save and eventually buy their freedom.”

Kyle looked surprised at that, but they had reached the sugar works by then, so he didn’t question Selena further.

She took him through one of the two sugar mills on the plantation, and he was able to see at close range the great iron rollers that pressed the cane into a pulpy mass she called bagasse. The bagasse was used as fuel to raise steam in the boilers, while the juice flowed into the rows of iron caldrons that lined the boiling room. They also toured the curing house, where the molasses was drained from the crystallizing sugar, and then the distillery, where scummings and treacle and lees were mixed with water and fermented into rum. By the time he came out into the bright sunlight, Kyle knew far more about sugar making than he had ever cared to know.

Still, he listened politely as his new bride explained how during the sugar season they usually worked late into the night, for Selena spoke with such enthusiasm that he could almost believe himself interested in whether or not cane needed to be pressed within a few hours of cutting to keep the juice from fermenting. He found himself watching her face and thinking how lovely it was and how much he preferred seeing it animated than saddened or distressed. She lost much of her reserve then. When Selena turned to him suddenly with a question, her blue-gray eyes bright, he blinked and was obliged to ask her to repeat it.

“The growing season here is opposite that in America, isn’t it?”

Kyle grinned for the first time in several hours. “You’re asking me? I hardly know the difference between a plow and a harvest. We grow cotton in Natche

z, that much I do know.”

“My father once experimented with cotton here but found it wasn’t as advantageous economically as sugar. What kind do you grow? Green-seed or shrub?”

“There are different kinds?”

Selena eyed him with faint amusement. “You really aren’t a farmer, are you?”

“I told you so,” Kyle replied, giving a short chuckle. “My father, now he was a farmer. He never wanted to do anything else. But he was the younger son of an English squire, and his older brother inherited everything. He managed to scrounge together a few acres, but it wasn’t enough to feed his family, so he moved us to America, looking for a better life. In Natchez land was inexpensive and labor cheap, and he already had relatives there. A cousin of his had purchased a big tract of land back when England owned part of what later became the Mississippi Territory.”

So that was why, Selena reflected as she allowed Kyle to hand her into the carriage, his accent was more clipped than the Americans’ usual broad drawl. Then she realized that he had actually laughed just now, and she slanted a glance at Kyle as he took up the reins. He was extremely attractive when he laughed, she thought, gazing at his rugged profile. His eyes danced with lights of amber and green, and the tiny lines at the corners crinkled.

“Is that where Natchez is located, the Mississippi Territory?” she asked, keenly interested about his home and family.

“Yes, except that Mississippi is no longer a territory. It recently became a state. Natchez is a few hundred miles north of New Orleans on the Mississippi River.”

“And your sisters live there on your plantation?”