The comforting thing about stepping into a day gone by, even one long gone by, is that it never changes. Like the page before you, it remains fixed and set. Mind you, I’m not claiming there’s much worthy of fascination in Crimson Hall, but we do have some rich characters hereabouts and, upon occasion, some interesting happenings, and I do love to revisit them in my mind.

Me, I’m an old servant, not much use to anyone anymore, being infirm and nearly always confined to my bed, so I have time to devote to these musings and memoirs. Plus I’m a fair hand at writing and I can describe this estate down to the most minute detail and recall past events with great and utter clarity. And there is something else, something so strange and new to me, I hardly know how to describe it. It seems the more I lie here, slipping away toward my everlasting peace, the more I feel my mind and body part ways here and now. I am growing able to let my spirit-self float away from me for short spells. What I call my spirit-self travels down the halls and into the more occupied rooms of the Hall where life still goes on as it always did and, I imagine, it always will.

You might be wondering to yourself, if it’s true I can float my spirit-self away, then why don’t I go to somewhere more interesting and exotic—somewhere like Paris or Persia? I suppose the answer is twofold. First, I never did much want to see those places and second, and more important, everyone I love resides right here in Crimson Hall.

It wouldn’t surprise me a whit if you were to think I am either senile or dreaming, perhaps by some aid of a laudanum-based restorative. Well now, we just met so you won’t know that I never did set store by restoratives and such. And the God’s honest truth is, I thought I was dreaming at first. But, then, people would be visiting and they would begin relaying something that had gone on during the day and, sure enough, I would already know all it from my dream. And that’s how I eventually came to accept they weren’t dreams after all. You can believe it or not, that’s your call, but I am swearing here and now that my spirit-self is rising up from this decrepit old body and floating away on its own. Kind of a practice for heaven, I like to think. So, with no further ado, allow me to introduce you to the residents of Crimson Hall as best as one can with pen and ink and the finest hemp paper.

Crimson Hall, the Hall itself, seems the most obvious place to begin. I specify ‘the Hall itself’ because the village located two and half miles away adopted the very same name; I suppose because people around these parts used to identify their whereabouts by the Hall, it being the biggest landmark and all.

The Hall is an enormous, rambling stone estate known for its unique color, which is far more red than brown. It’s said that the stones came from some island across the sea—the same island that indigo come from, although for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the place. All I know is that, on an early spring morning such as this one, a first-time visitor to the Hall cannot help but gawk at the spectacle. I know because I have seen it many, many a time.

Once that initial wonder subsides, one begins to note the other ridiculously bright colors that dot the mostly untamed landscape; wild yellows, rich purples and playful pinks beneath a sky so shockingly blue, we had the sheer audacity to name it after ourselves—Carolina blue. Truth be told, and forgive me if it’s boastful, but I don’t think you could find a more beautiful spot in the whole, wide world than this one.

Crimson Hall was the first grand manor built in these parts more than a hundred years ago, back in the summer of 1742, when North Carolina was still a colony and the village was still in its infancy. The fact is, at sunset, the cast of the setting sun on this particular stone makes the Hall look bright crimson; thus its name.

It’s home to the Barrett family, as it always has been and since, I imagine, it always will be, as I can’t picture a world without Barretts any more that I can one without Crimson Hall.

Mr. Thaddeus Barrett is the current master of the house and he is a wonderful man. Mrs. Barbara Crosswhite-Barrett, his fourth wife (who is expecting their first child and, thus, not expected to live too much longer) is the current mistress. I would have to say the fourth Mrs. Barrett is surprisingly pretty for having the long nose she does. She also has long, black hair and lovely brown eyes. She’s Mr. Barrett’s first wife to have dark hair, which doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just an interesting thing to note. She is a nice enough lady and there’s not a soul that I know of who would wish her any ill will. Still, it’s hard to make yourself get to know her too well. It’s hard to lose a Mrs. Barrett. I should know, as I’ve been one who’s lost three of them, although, admittedly, only two caused sorrow. Now, understand, I’m not one of those who say there’s some kind of curse on the Mrs. Barretts, but I will say that one, such as myself, learns to serve without getting as emotionally involved as one used to.

The one I feel most sorry for is Mr. Barrett. He never keeps a guard up about anything or anyone and he’s broken to pieces every time he loses someone. Truth be told, he’s almost childlike in some ways; the way he gets excited over one of his new inventions or concoctions, or upset with some silly thing that’s happening in the senate. I have seen him get wildly upset over some crazy thing or the other and then forget it as soon as pudding was served. It’s not that he’s not highly intelligent or a perfect gentleman, because he is. He was taught all sorts of things by the finest tutors and he went to university, as well. Plus, he has considerable talent at business, I’ve been told.

The Barrett girls, Felicity, Grace and Amelia, also are in residence, of course, although Felicity counts the days until her coming out (and eventually leaving the Hall) and Grace insists on investigating every school for young ladies that opens. So far, none have been to her liking and, personally, I can’t see that she’d cotton to being told what to do and when to do it. Our Grace is very independent and headstrong.

There are only seven servants in our household at the present time, including me, although I don’t do any serving anymore, and also counting Mrs. Honor Gray, the washerwoman who comes three times a week from the village. She has the largest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen, man or woman; so large that it’s difficult not to out-and-out gawk at them. They always strike me as two odd flesh-colored creatures stuck on the end of her arms. I assure you, if you were to see them, your jaw would drop.

Young Mr. Samuel Bellwood, the son of Old Mr. Samuel Bellwood, who was Mr. Jonathan Bentley Barrett’s butler, does the fetching and carrying and takes care of the fires and such. Samuel is around about fifteen years of age I believe and more quiet than most, due to the fact he has trouble saying some of his words, mostly words that have an R in them. God love him, I know he’s had his share of difficulty because of it, teasing and such. He’s also a fine looking boy, despite that wild mane of thick brown hair.

His elder sister, Isabelle, nineteen years of age, is one of our maids and just as pretty as the day is long and the other maid is Gertrude Locke. Gert’s probably in her mid-twenties. She’s a fine young woman, not unattractive and not unkind. The truth is, she’s one of those who doesn’t stand out. You might see her around all day long and not pay her a minute’s worth of thought. Of course, in this house, you have to stick out a bit to get any notice paid you. I wonder if that doesn’t explain our Grace a little bit.

We have a wonderful cook by the name of Mrs. Fields and she has a scullery maid by the name of Dottie Polk. My name is Marabelle Parker and I’ve been on this good earth better than seventy-three years. Fact is, I’ve been at Crimson Hall longer than anyone else who’s in residence at this point in time, which is March in the year of our Lord, 1850.

I gave you a brief literary-type glimpse of the outside of the Hall; now we’ll move on in, going by way of the front doors into the grand foyer (as if we’re guests, which, truth be told, you are.) The marble floor came all the way from Italy, I’m told, although I don’t know if the actual marble floor came over from Italy or maybe just the marble for the floor. I suppose that’s more likely it. That was, of course, way before my time here.

I can tell you this; it used to look far fussier in here, as Old Mr. Barrett was exceedingly fond of statues, sculptures and very large paintings. (By Old Mr. Barrett, which is what we always called him, I mean Mr. Godfrey Wilson Barrett, Thaddeus’ grandfather.) He either set the décor or he changed it to be the way he wanted and then it stayed that way for decade after decade until the second and most beloved Mrs. Barrett had most of the sculptures and near all of the statues moved to one of the cellars. It was she who fixed most of the house the way it is now.

No doubt you’ll notice the ceilings are better than twelve feet tall and the staircase is so wide, four men could climb it shoulder to shoulder at one time and not jostle one another. To the immediate right of the grand foyer (facing away from the front doors) is an elegant looking salon, which is cloth-draped at this moment, and, to the left, a ballroom. These were last used just over a year ago, for the nuptials of Thaddeus and the former Mrs. Crosswhite.

If you continue all the way through the grand foyer then take a left at the portrait-lined corridor, you’ll pass the dining room first and then the morning room before you get to the music room (though one might call properly refer to it as a conservatory) and this is where you should find Grace and Amelia this time of morning. Mr. Barrett made them promise to be consistent and methodical with their piano and harpsichord practice before he agreed to get shed of that last governess. Not that they took that promise all that seriously, knowing, as they do, that he’ll never remember to check up on them. Those two run a little wild.

They’re twins, thirteen years of age and nearly identical looking with long, light hair and light blue eyes. If I’ve heard, “How do you tell them two apart?” once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. Of course, that’s usually followed by, “I mean before the one who talks, talks.” The fact is, they look different to me and they always have, even from the time they were little things and both of them did talk.

Well, what do you know! There they are in the music room, as they should be. Ah, but not practicing, I see. In fact, their harpsichords don’t look touched and as a further point of fact, there seems to be a fine layer of dust that’s settled on the instruments. The girls are staring into the large, gilded-frame looking glass, which likely means it’s a game of some sort.

If you’re loitering in the doorway, I would recommend stepping to one side because I know those sharp little clicking footfalls that are drawing closer. That would be Miss Felicity Barrett coming toward us at a fast pace and with a scowl on her pretty sixteen year old face, which, unfortunately, is not that unusual.

The first thing you’ll probably notice is how very pretty our Felicity is, how nicely put together. The child prides her appearance dearly. She stops just inside the music room and thrusts her hands upon her hips, glaring at her sisters. “If you are not going to practice, go elsewhere. Some of us do care about practicing and improving ourselves.”

“Which is good,” Grace replies, without looking away from her image in the looking glass. “Since some of us need it more than others.”

If you observe closely, you will see the barest hint of smile on Amelia’s lips as she glances back at Felicity, whose jaw has grown slack at the insult.

Grace still does not look away from her own image as she speaks again with somewhat exaggerated sweetness. “But the fact is, we are going to practice. You know what Father said. The same time every day.”

“No you’re not,” Felicity hisses. “You’re just occupying the room to annoy me!”

“Remember what Father always says,” Grace continues. “Consistency and dependability are so important in the formation of one’s character.”

Felicity narrows her eyes and makes a low sound in her throat before whipping around and storming away, stomping considerably more than necessary to demonstrate her level of frustration with her sisters.

If you study these three young ladies closely, you’ll find similarities among the more obvious dissimilarities. All their eyes are blue, although Felicity’s eyes are a darker, smokier gray-blue, and all their hair is fair, although Feli’s is honey-colored in contrast to Grace and Amelia’s lighter, almost silver-white moonbeam shade.

Felicity is petite yet shapely, with fine facial features, including a small, slightly turned-up nose. Grace and Amelia are tall for their age, already nearly the same height as Felicity, slender and straight as arrows. Their features are pleasing but regular, or so Felicity is fond of remarking. As for myself, I don’t think any two creatures ever came any sweeter looking—but then maybe it should be stated that I love these two ferocious creatures just about better than anything else on this blessed earth.

The resemblance between the three girls lies principally in the shape of their mouths, which they got from their papa. They all smile in the same infectious way when they are amused and purse their lips identically when annoyed. Their eyes, too, bear a resemblance in shape and it, too, is most noticeable in the delivery of some strong emotion.

“That arrogant little toad was our sister, Felicity,” Grace says to her own image in the looking glass. “She has a very high opinion of herself. We loathe her.”

Amelia frowns; bored with the exercise. What makes you think you can wish your image into the looking glass?

“Our image,” Grace corrects. “Or images, I should say. I don’t. Not really. I’m planning what I’ll say when I can. Anything that is that good of an idea…well, there just has to be a way to do it.”

Amelia frowns, feeling too restless for her bones. I want to go outside.

Grace looks away, obviously in a cantankerous mood. “It’s going to rain.”

It is not. Besides, I don’t care. I want to work on the fort.

The thought of working on the fort obviously appeals to Grace because the two of them suddenly dash out of the room, a whirl of excitement and energy. You mustn’t let their height and their pretty faces fool you—they’re still children.

Our Amelia, bless her little heart, is deaf and dumb; her condition caused by the same fever that took her mother’s, the second and most beloved Mrs. Barrett’s, life. Amelia was three years old at the time. But before you go and get too melancholy at the news, you should know that the twins share a mental connection of such proportion that Amelia misses out on very little of what goes on around her. She can play both the piano and the harpsichord, can’t she? Some people say she just copies what Grace does and I suppose that’s possible. But one thing is for sure and certain; like the other two, our Amelia is well cared for and greatly loved. There is no call to feel sad on her behalf.

Truth is, the twins are near the happiest people I’ve ever seen. They not only march to their own drumbeat but they dance to it too, and don’t care what you or I have to say about it. I think there’s a great kind of freedom in that which most folks never get to experience.

* * * *

By the clanging of the dinner bell, Mr. Thaddeus Barrett is making his way toward the house with his nose happily stuck in the just arrived newspaper. Although the paper comes out each Saturday, it is always the following Monday or Tuesday before he receives his copy, unless there is some kind of foul weather that prevents the courier from travel.
Greensborough is the nearest town to produce a paper and it’s nearly twenty miles away.

Amelia and Grace are running barefoot toward their father and they are thoroughly covered in dirt. “Hello,” Grace calls before they’ve caught up to him.

“Hello, my darlings,” he calls back, not even glancing away from his paper. He’ll read it from cover to cover before he relinquishes it to the girls.

“What’s the news?” Grace asks, breathing hard from her run. “Anything exciting?”

“Ahhhh, more squabbling in the senate,” her papa replies. “It seems they behave worse and worse with each passing session. I swear, the two of you behave with more decorum than do most of them up there.”

“That is saying something,” Grace agrees, giving Amelia a look.

Amelia smiles. (She has a smile like pure sunshine.)

“Listen to this,” Thaddeus says, stopping abruptly.

The girls stop as well and look up at him.

“There was a meeting in Washington a few weeks back between the President and some senators and it must have turned ugly because those hotheads in South Carolina, well, I assume it was South Carolina, it says here ‘Southern leaders,’ anyway, they threatened secession.”

Amelia cocks her head. Threatened what?

“What’d they threaten?” Grace asks.

“Secession,” Mr. Barrett repeats. “Uhh—to pull away or remove yourself from something. To separate—” Thaddeus refolds the paper and looks at the girls for the first time. “Good Lord, you two are filthy.”

“We’re building a fort.”

“Interesting. In case of attack?”

“Or sugsussion,” Grace says.

“Secession, my dear,” Thaddeus corrects and the three of them start toward the house again. “And that makes good sense. If you secede from the house, you’ll need somewhere to go.”

Inside, Felicity feigns horror at the sight of her sisters. “Papa, you cannot let them sit at the table like that!”

“Go wash up, girls,” he says, moving toward his place, anxious to read a bit more of the paper before his wife arrives.

“We’re not changing,” Grace argues, frowning at Felicity. “We’re going right back out after we eat.”

“Go wash your hands and faces,” Thaddeus placates. “And, at least, brush off your—”

“I cannot eat in the same room with them like that,” Felicity insists.

Just then, Isabel and Gertrude enter the room with trays of soup and a fragrant, steaming breadbasket. No one makes better bread than Mrs. Fields.

“Feli, please,” Thaddeus says, frowning with irritation. “Must everything be an ordeal? Soup is here.”

Felicity makes a thoroughly insulted proclamation with her expression and breath.

“Where is my wife?” Thaddeus asks to no one in particular.

“You let them get away with everything,” Felicity accuses.

“Fine,” Grace snaps at Felicity. “You win. We’ll remove our offensive garments from your precious sight, Your Highness,” Grace says with an overly embellished curtsy.

Felicity gives a quick grin; more like a straightening of her expressive lips, content to accept victory in whatever form it comes.

“Oh!” Barbara exclaims as she narrowly misses colliding with Grace and then Amelia as they make a speedy exit.

Thaddeus, who was seated, rises again and goes forward to kiss his wife on the cheek. “There you are, my dear. How are you feeling?”

“Better as the day wears on. Thank you.”

(The fourth Mrs. Barrett is some three or four months into her expectancy and just beginning to swell around the middle, although she seems to have shrunk everywhere else, as she’s been sickly in the mornings.)

“Did I miss some excitement?” she asks, looking at Thaddeus and then at Felicity.

“Let’s see,” Thaddeus says, as he pulls out her chair for her. “We arrived some minute to two minutes ahead of you. Of course there was excitement,” he replies drolly. “Isn’t there always?” He resumes his seat and pays the first heed to the food waiting on him. “Mmm, mushroom,” he says before taking a spoonful of the warm, creamy soup.

Felicity has been waiting for the perfect moment to speak and it seems to have arrived. “Papa, I’ve been thinking. I received an invitation to Betsy Martin’s coming out and—”

“Martin,” Thaddeus mutters. “Levy Martin’s daughter?”

“No. That Mr. Martin only has the three sons. Betsy is his niece.”

“Ah, yes. Wallace Martin’s daughter.”

“Yes.”

“In Greensborough.”

“Yes,” Felicity repeats as if she’s exasperated with him. “The owners of one of the mills you do business with,” she reminds him in the way one might remind a child of some fact told them over and over again.

“Well, certainly you may go,” he says, either ignoring or not particularly taking note of her tone. “When is it?”

“The first Saturday in April, but that’s not what I wanted to ask you about.”

“Ah, you don’t wish to go,” he guesses. One side of his mouth curls up. “To be perfectly honest, I always find Wallace dreadfully wearing. He has that bit of a stammer, you know, and it takes him three times as long to say anything as anyone else. One tries to be patient, of course—”

“No, I want to go,” Felicity interrupts. “Don’t be daft, Papa, I have to go! I have to get every idea I can. My own coming out is coming up very soon, you know.”

“I do believe you’ve mentioned it a time or two…hundred,” he treads carefully. “How do you like the soup?” he asks Barbara.

He’s chosen the moment her mouth is full with her first bite of bread to ask and so she simply nods.

“So, I’ve been thinking—” Felicity begins again slowly. (A bit too slowly as it turns out.)

“Always a good thing,” her father interjects.

“I need my own ladies’ maid,” she bursts. “Someone who can travel with me to parties and special events and attend me.”

“Attend you,” Thaddeus repeats quietly, setting his spoon down.

She knows the look and his soft, serious tone of voice. Unlike a lot of men, when Thaddeus Barrett gets resolute, he uses his quiet voice. The more serious he gets, the quieter he gets. He can be as angry as a person can get and issuing an ultimatum or a punitive measure but, if he’s serious and not just blundering with frustration, it will be in this quiet voice, this oh, so thoughtful and reasonable demeanor. By contrast, if he’s blundering, and he does that aplenty, he colors in the face and gets loud.

“Well, why not?” Felicity challenges; her own color flaring. “Are we not of sufficient wealth?” Her blue gray eyes are sparkling gloriously, which they always do when she gets het up.

Everyone is vaguely aware of the twins reentrance but Felicity is commanding all the attention in the room.

“‘Oh, the Barretts of the Barrett gold mine fortune,’” she mocks. “Ha! All my friends have their own ladies’ maid. We don’t even have an upstairs maid.”

“All your friends, Felicity?” Thaddeus challenges.

“Why can we not have some of the more pleasurable trappings of wealth?” Felicity fires back.

He shakes his head at her. “The more pleasurable trappings of wealth, she says! Do you think most people live a life of leisure, Felicity? Do you think that most people dine like this on a daily basis?”

Every head is going back and forth between father and daughter and none with more relish than Grace’s.

“What has that to do with this one little favor I was asking?” Felicity asks, her voice going up to an almost painful pitch.

“There is no need to shriek like a parrot and—” He cocks his head and looks perplexed, as if perhaps he does not truly know her at all. “Who are these multitudes of friends you speak of who are affecting your thinking so?”

“No one is affecting my thinking! I think for myself.”

“Godey’s Lady’s Book,” Grace speaks up.

Felicity whips her head around to Grace, her mouth poised in a sharp retort, but she suddenly freezes from the shock of seeing Grace and Amelia finishing their soup wearing nothing but their camisoles and knickers.

“I am very concerned about this affected air of yours,” Thaddeus continues. “Yes, we definitely do possess a certain…wealth—”

“You say it like it’s a bad word,” Grace speaks up. Not only does the girl appear to be comfortable in her present unclothed state, she seems never to have been more comfortable or content.

There is a sharp intake of breath from Barbara as she too notices the twins’ clothing, or rather, lack of it.

Thaddeus, however, remains oblivious as he picks up his spoon to finish his soup. Isabelle and Gertrude are back with the next course and the soup really is delicious. “Well, no, dear. It’s certainly not a bad word.”

Isabelle and Gertrude are carrying plates of sliced roasted pork and fried potatoes and onions, and underneath their thin, cotton sleeves, their arms are red from the heat. They set plates around, then collect soup bowls, all the while keeping their eyes down and chewing on their bottom lips to keep from snickering at the twins, who are happily dining in their unmentionables.

Felicity barely restrains herself until Isabelle and Gertrude have left the room. “Father!” she finally hisses, kicking him under the table with her sharp-toed boot.

Thaddeus spills his last spoonful of soup in his lap. “Aaacht! You kicked me!”

“Look at them!” Felicity raves, gesturing to her sisters.

“What?” He looks over at his youngest. “Oh, good Lord. Girls! Why aren’t you dressed, for sweet Heaven’s sake?”

“Didn’t our dirty clothes offend you?” Grace replies directly to Felicity. “You said so.”

Felicity is furious. “You offend me! You—”

“Feli!” Thaddeus interrupts the forthcoming noun or possibly the forthcoming adjective, adjective, adjective, adjective, noun.

“Girls, go put some appropriate clothing back on,” Barbara speaks up.

Grace blinks at her father, managing to look innocent and childlike. “But we’re hungry. Can’t we eat first?”

“Barbarians!” Felicity is simply unable to hold it in.

“Can’t we ever just eat one meal in peace?” Thaddeus asks, slapping his open palm on the table and making all the table settings jump.

Just outside the dining room door, Gertrude and Isabelle attempt to back away silently with heads ducked and a knuckle pressed to each of their mouths to restrain the burst of hilarity threatening to expose their eavesdropping; not the easiest of feats since their arms are loaded with delicate china soup bowls, some of them still half full.

“Everyone, eat!” Thaddeus commands loudly. Bright red circles have popped out on his cheeks, like they always do when he’s agitated. “Girls, from now on, you will enter this room only when you are properly clad. Do I make myself understood?”

Amelia nods solemnly and glances at Grace.

“Yes,” Grace replies. More than a minute passes with no sound except the occasional scrape of silver against china before Grace can’t help but add, “It’s a shame we all can’t come in to dinner like this just once. It’s very comfortable.”

There is a general sigh of frustration due to Grace, once again, failing to grasp the gravity of a situation she has caused. No one speaks again until the course is finished and custard has been served, although they all have their own reasons for silence. Felicity is pouting at the way her request was received. Barbara is offended at being ignored when she told the girls to go put on some clothes. Grace feels she’s pushed the situation about as far as it can be pushed, and Thaddeus merely wants to eat.

“What else is in the newspaper?” Grace finally speaks, ending the silence.

“Proper young ladies do not concern themselves with the newspaper,” Felicity primly informs her.

“Anything interesting, or just politics?” Grace asks, ignoring Felicity. “I don’t like boring, stupid politics.”

“Politics are neither boring nor stupid,” Thaddeus rejoins. “And I am relatively certain that you can come up with better and more descriptive terms than those.”

“That’s probably a good point,” Grace agrees. She thinks.

Insipid, Amelia assists.

“Insipid,” Grace chirps. “How’s that?”

Thaddeus grins, all the agitation from the previous course swept from his mind. “What does it mean?” he challenges.

Grace’s grin evaporates. She looks at Amelia, but her twin is conspicuously silent. She looks back at her father, gives one of her one-shouldered shrugs and admits, “Amelia thought of it.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me—” she says acidly.

She is almost halfway out of the room when her father grants permission with a perfectly pleasant, “Certainly, dear.” His golden-brown eyes are twinkling at Amelia. “Well?”

Amelia lifts her chin. Dull. Boring.

“Dull. Boring,” Grace supplies, between final bites of her custard. “Can I have Felicity’s custard?”

Barbara would normally correct the girl’s grammar, but she is busy observing the gaze between Thaddeus and Amelia. There is a connection here she cannot quite grasp, but can quite clearly feel.

“I would rather hear you say it,” he says in a barely audible voice.

Barbara flinches. It’s a strange and thoughtless, even cruel remark, utterly unlike him. She looks quickly to Amelia to see if she’s taken offense, but the girl has gone back to finishing her custard and looks unaware of the heartless barb.

Thaddeus reaches for Felicity’s barely touched dish of custard and slides it down the length of the table to Grace. “Good shot, eh?”

Barbara very nearly isn’t able to restrain a sharp remark. Thaddeus, who was intelligent, poised and even polished most of the time, was also capable of being terribly crude and the twins seemed to bring out the worst in him.

“No, politics wasn’t all,” he’s saying. “Although they were quite something and not at all insipid. In fact, I started to tell you earlier and got sidetracked.”

Grace and Amelia grin at one another. The truth is, they’ve often made a game out of getting and keeping him sidetracked.

“Imagine that,” Grace quips.

Thaddeus quirks his eyebrow at her. “Do you want to hear or not?”

“Not as much as I want to read the story,” Grace says, doing it again. “What is it this week?”

“One of Dickens. Lizzie Lee. Chapter one this week.”

“Oh, good. I don’t know that one.”

Politics, Amelia reminds.

“Yes, yes, back to it,” Thaddeus says, reaching for the paper at his feet and missing the look of surprise that passes between Amelia and Grace. “Here it is. Listen to this.”

Barbara exhales, harder than usual, due to the inappropriateness of sharing the newspaper with thirteen year old girls, something she has mentioned before. The girls were already odd because of all the unrestrained liberties granted them for the whole of their lives. The crease between her dark eyebrows is there because she isn’t sure enough of her husband’s support if she was to speak up and broach the subject and she absolutely will not allow herself to be ignored yet again, especially in front of the girls. Either meaning to or inadvertently, he’d already undermined her countless times with them. Little wonder they took anything she said seriously. “I think you’ll have to excuse me,” she says, hoping her disapproval will be evident by her tone.

However, Mr. Barrett smiles absently at her and says, “Of course, dear. Feel better,” before going back to the paper.

Stiffly, she pushes her chair back, (something he should be doing for her, she’s thinking) and gets to her feet. As she walks from the room, she imagines the twins are looking at her, happy as can be in their unclothed insolence, and she is determined not to give them the satisfaction of eye contact.

(The thing is, they’re not looking at her. Sometimes the fourth Mrs. Barrett is like Gert in that you forget about her real easy like.)

“‘President Taylor held a stormy conference with southern leaders, who have gone so far as to threaten secession from the Union,’” Thaddeus reads. “‘The President said if it were necessary, he would personally lead the army against any such effort and that any person taken in rebellion against the union would be hanged with less reluctance than he had hanged deserters and spies in Mexico.’” Thaddeus looks up at them, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

Amelia raises her eyebrows in assessment of the article.

“Not insipid at all. Eh?”

Grace is finishing the last of the custard. “What else?”

He looks back to the paper to find a bit of humor or perhaps gore to interest them with. “Seems a fellow in Boston, a doctor at Harvard, went and chopped up another fellow, a rich man who’d lent him money. They just convicted him and sentenced him to hang.”
Grace sits back in her chair and folds her hands on her stomach, contentedly full. “Everyone is threatening to hang everyone else.”

“Well, I think they mean it with this fellow,” Thaddeus says while continuing to peruse the paper. “Hmmm, ‘Webster’s Great Speech. Patriot address to the Senate regarding the question of the day.’”

“What is the question of the day?”

Thaddeus looks up and purses his lips before launching in to an explanation. “It’s more than one question, it’s a set of things they’re calling the Compromise, but I guess mostly it’s the admittance of California as either a free or a slave state.” He puts the paper aside and warms to his subject. “I think the fear of the senators from the south is that we have all this newly acquired land out west that’s about to become legitimate territories.”

“Why is that something to be afraid of?”

“What if they all end up as free states?” he asks, looking at Grace and then Amelia. “Then there will be more free states than slave and the free states might ban together and push to abolish slavery.”

“You said slavery doesn’t really concern our lives,” Grace reminds him.
“I said it doesn’t concern our lives. But it greatly affects some men and they happen to be wealthy, powerful and influential and they’ll fight with everything they’ve got to maintain their status.”

“Would South Carolina ever really succeed?”

“Secede, you mean?” He thinks about it for a few moments. “No. I don’t think so. I think they’re making a lot of noise in order to get their way of life left alone. Of course, there are a lot of others who abhor the idea of slavery.” He thinks in silence for a few moments more and then shakes his head. “I can’t see how any of it’s going to change.” He shrugs. “We’ll just go on fighting and calling each other names and the hotheads in South Carolina will keep threatening to pull out from the rest of the country.” He opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go. “’Course where they think they’re going to go is beyond me.”

The girls smile and then he can’t help but smile, too.