Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (12 page)

"Probably not," Devon said, climbing slowly up into the wagon.

Hopping up with a fair amount of ease, Derek looked back over his shoulder at the quiet town as they pulled away. Blueberry seemed eager to get home as well. He chomped at his bit, trotting along as fast as he could with the heavy load he was pulling.

By the time they turned up the drive, it was pouring. Cold rain came down in solid sheets, soaking the wagon, the boxes, the horse, and the riders. Instead of driving around to the stables to unload the packages, Devon steered Blueberry right to the carriage house.

As Derek jumped down and ran to open the doors, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, followed immediately by a snapping crash of thunder. Throwing up the latch, Derek pulled the door as hard as he could, slipping in the mud a little. The wind blew up, trying to push the door closed. Digging his heels into the soggy ground, Derek held the door open just long enough for the back end of the wagon to disappear before sliding around and pulling it closed behind him.

Sighing and wiping the water off his face with wet hands, Derek said, "Well, I have been complaining about the heat." He took one of the lap blankets off the shelf and used it to dry his arms and hair.

"We'll git this later. For now just git him back to the stables."

"All right."

"What you standin' there for? Git over here, boy," Devon snapped.

Startled, Derek walked over and stood beside him.

Another crash of thunder shook door on its hinges.

"Hold that," Devon said, shoving the oil lamp into his hands. "When you're unhitchin' the wagon you loosen up this strap first," he explained. He continued to walk Derek through the steps of undoing the wagon and storing the straps so they dried properly.

"Git that lead, boy, and bring him back down the stables. Git him dried off and fed."

"Yes, sir," Derek said, hooking the rope onto Blueberry's bridle. He opened the door and led the horse out into the storm. Ducking down against the wind, he beamed inwardly.

Not only had Devon shown him how to unhitch the wagon, he'd trusted him with putting Blueberry away; something he never would have done before. When it came to his horses, he trusted very few people with very little of their care. It was highly likely that the only reason he even let Derek feed them was because Mrs. Worthington ordered him to.

Once he was safely in the stable, he left the door open while he tied Blueberry to the post and lit the oil lamp. Getting a couple towels, Derek dried him as quickly as he could. That finished, he unlatched the gate and directed him into his stall. The horse looked very relieved to be home.

"That's better, isn't it?"

While Blueberry seemed to calm down, Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth looked edgy, stamping her front hooves and shaking her head. Her eyes were wide as she looked out the open door, her tail swishing from side to side almost convulsively.

Another flash of lightening lit the sky.

Shivering from the cold wind on his wet skin, Derek hurriedly dumped oats into the horses' troths and then climbed up to the loft to change his clothes. Despite the cooler air and the chilly wind, the solid walls insulated the loft, keeping it as warm as it had been that morning. It was nice to feel the heat on his cold, goose-bumped flesh as he peeled the soaked shirt off.

He heard the door slide closed, then Devon's voice yelling over the wind. "I got yer supper down here when you're ready for it!"

"All right," he called back, pulling on his dry clothes. Looking forward to something hot to eat, he climbed down the ladder, taking the rungs two at a time. "What'd Beth make?"

"Weren't Beth," Devon said, holding out a bowl with a saucer over it. "Atty made soup."

Taking the bowl, Derek sat on a stack of grain bags. "She's been in the kitchen more and more, huh? You'd think she'd be with Miss Catherine. Maybe that means she's doing better." He took the spoon Devon held out to him and tasted the steaming soup tentatively. It was chicken broth, with chunks of vegetables and meat. "This is really good."

Devon grunted, hungrily slurping from his own bowl.

Not bothering with the spoon after the soup cooled off, Derek drank the rest of the broth in several gulps. If Beth ever asked, he'd swear up and down that her soup was the best, but, truth-be-told, Atty could give her a run for her money.

When they were finished eating, Derek stacked the bowls in the basket and sat back on the grain bags. He was feeling sleepy and content until he thought of the bag with his paper and pencils that he'd left under the seat in the wagon. He thought only briefly of going to get it when the rain started to pound harder on the roof and another roll of thunder rumbled through the building.

I'm too tired to do anything with it tonight anyway,
he told himself.

"Best git to bed, boy," Devon said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Gotta git up early if your gon' git the carriage ready to go to town."

"I get to do it?" he asked, surprised.

"You think I showed you so I could hear myself talk? It's the same thing to hitch 'em, just goin' the opposite order."

Grinning, Derek nodded. "All right." Maybe he hadn't blown his entire chance at learning something from the old man.

"You gon' git up on time, ain't you, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

With a start, he realized he'd left his good church clothes hanging in the cupboard in Beth's old room. Since he didn't have any place to hang them in his own room, she'd kept them for him so they'd stay decent for Sundays.

"Are you going to get breakfast in the morning?"

"Suppose I am," Devon said with a wide yawn as he shuffled towards his apartment at the end of the building.

"Could you ask Beth for my Sunday clothes? I left them up there."

"Suppose I could," he answered.

"Thanks."

Grunting something under his breath, Devon closed his door sharply, causing drifts of hay to float down from between the floor boards of the loft.

Chuckling a little, Derek walked over and patted Blueberry's nose. "'Night, boy."

Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth, who'd fallen asleep almost as soon as Devon had walked through the stable door, opened one eye and glared at him.

"Goodnight to you, too," Derek said, walking by her and opening the small box that was nailed to the wall by Devon's door. He took out one of the spare wicks, a match, and the bottle of lamp oil.

Holding them in one hand, he climbed up to the loft and set to work cleaning up his lamp. When the wick was in and the oil well filled, he struck the match. Smiling at the light that spread through his room, he went back down to put the oil away.

Too excited from the day and the knowledge that he was going to start teaching himself to read soon, Derek took his Bible out of his chest and flipped through it. He decided the best thing to start with was how to write. Looking at the pages there seemed to be a million different letters.

"I guess if I just learn to write them I can worry about what they sound like later," he mused, closing the book. After all, he couldn't learn to read letters if he didn't recognize them.

Satisfied with his short-term goal of finding and copying all the different letters, Derek went over to where he'd thrown his night shirt and picked it up. He shook the straw off it and changed quickly, then blew out his lamp and lied down on his bed. Within minutes he was fast asleep, exhausted from the day's events.

"Let us bow our heads in prayer."

Sighing with impatience, Derek bowed his head. A sharp pinch on the side of his leg made him look up. Mrs. Worthington glared at him warningly before dropping her chin to her chest, clasping her bony hands together so tightly they turned white almost instantly.

Scowling, Derek closed his eyes again.

After his excitement at getting to hitch up the carriage before church, the rest of the day had gone downhill. Because of the mud they were several minutes late getting into the hall, putting Mrs. Worthington in an even worse mood than usually. She actually seemed very perturbed at the fact that they even dared to start the service without her.

Another dark mark on the morning was Jonathan. He was in a bad mood as well, and seemed unable to think of anything to do but glare at Derek the whole way to church. Only once did Derek dare glare back, which earned him a telling-off from Mrs. Worthington about manners.

After the long prayer, Reverend Marks lifted his head and turned to a different page in the book in front of him, beginning anew with his sermon.

Glancing sideways, Derek saw that Gabriel seemed just as bored as he felt. Jonathan, slipping of his usual character, was tracing the pattern of the wood grain on the back of the front pew. Mrs. Worthington, however, was staring up at Reverend Marks with rapt attention, her thin lips pressed tightly together, her clawed fingers grasping her Bible.

An hour later, Derek stood up, stretching his back just enough to get some of the knots out but not enough for Mrs. Worthington to see him. She angered very easily on Sunday morning, especially if anyone suggested that anything about church was uncomfortable.

As Derek turned towards the door he heard a familiar voice: "Jonathan, good to see you."

Smiling tightly, Jonathan nodded to Mr. Cutter.

"We heard your wife wasn't feeling well the other day."

The feeling that he'd said something he shouldn't returned. Ducking away from the family, Derek went around to the back of the chapel and waited by the door.

"Good afternoon, Derek," Aniline Clayton said, walking towards him. She stopped so close to him that the puffy shoulder of her dress brushed his arm.

Trying to move away discreetly, Derek nodded politely. "'Afternoon, Aniline."

"Do you know where Gabriel is?"

A two-second debate flashed through his mind. He could either serve the poor fool up to her or let him have a few more moments of peace while she had to hunt for him. "Actually, I'm not sure where he is."

After pouting for a moment, Aniline smiled at him tensely, jerking her head down in a business-like nod, and then walked away, her gray eyes scanning the room in a very predatory manner.

Poor Gabe
, Derek thought, leaning against the doorframe.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Glaring at Anthony as he, Marcus, and Charlie Nettle strode towards him, Derek suppressed a groan of annoyance. Each week the trio made it a point to stop and say something to him. At least this time they were inside so it wouldn't get too nasty.

"When did they start letting niggers come to church?"

His cheeks burning with rage, Derek said, "I ain't a nigger."

"Should have been," he amended. After a moment of smirking, Anthony said, "You're father was one, so that makes you half-n-half. And a half's as good as a whole, I think."

Charlie and Marcus chuckled cruelly.

He's not worth it
, Derek told himself.
Not here.

"Maybe he's proud of his dual-heritage," Anthony continued. "I mean, you must be at least part nigger. Look at you. Sure you're all dressied up now, but you usually wear nigger clothes and do nigger work. It must make you feel a lot more comfortable sleeping with the pigs, at least. That is where you sleep, right? You smell like you do, at any rate."