Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (51 page)

As the women walked to the house and Devon went to his own quarters, Derek climbed over the fence and went to the stables. He sat with the horses for nearly half an hour, petting them, feeding them sugar, and talking to them. When he could avoid it no longer, he left, prepared to meet Reverend Marks if he hadn't left yet.

As Derek opened the gate then turned to close it, he saw a lone figure walking the perimeter of the field by the partially constructed slave houses. It was Jonathan and he seemed to be taking the longest possible route back to the house.

Derek thought a moment, then started in the direction of the cemetery, hugging his own side of the field. He hadn't intended to see Catherine's grave for the same reason he never went to Mr. Worthington's, but given the choice between that and the main house when even Jonathan didn't want to be there, he'd rather say his final goodbyes.

The walk was long and lonely. Despite the appearance of closeness, it took nearly five minutes to reach the low wrought iron fence that circled the plot.

Derek unlatched the gate and stepped through. It felt strange to be in a cemetery all by himself. The plot was only about twenty feet wide and thirty feet back, but with only two little headstones in it, it looked massive.

Walking forward with even, slow steps, Derek stopped in front of Catherine's grave. It read:

Catherine Marie

Worthington

August 6, 1837

The letters and numbers carved into the white stone were so final and undeniable. She was here now, beneath the fresh-turned ground. Beside her was Jeremiah Worthington, whose death the stone told to have been in 1828.

A chill passed through Derek and he shivered despite the heat. Looking around, just to be looking anywhere but at the headstones in front of him, he noticed a small lump in the far left corner of the plot. It was barely two feet high and could have been mistaken for a large rock which had simply not been removed when the rest of the plot was cleared, except for the fact that it was smooth and uniformly rounded.

Derek walked towards the stone, once again led more by his curiosity than his senses. As he drew near it, he began to make out several very familiar words:

Kylie Mae Neilson

wife & mother

April 18, 1805

November 13, 1823

Derek's insides turned to ice and he felt sick.

Find me.

She's here
, he thought numbly, dropping to his knees and reaching out a shaky hand to touch the warm, smooth stone.
She's been right here all along
.

"What are you doing here?"

Derek jumped to his feet and turned quickly, staring into Jonathan's lifeless eyes. He meant to make a defense, but it died on his lips.

"Go back to the house."

"What happened to her child?" As soon as he asked, he regretted it, but the question came unbidden and he could not pretend he hadn't said it. Derek waited to be yelled at. Or hit. Or anything.

A minute passed in silence as Jonathan stared at him blankly. When he decided on his answer, it was snide and callused, laced with uncaring distance: "If you haven't worked that much out, I don't think you deserve to know."

Derek's throat tightened. "Who was she?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. He both felt sure he would get an answer and was terrified at what it might be. A woman with a child to whom Mr. Worthington felt responsible….

Jonathan studied him again. "You went back and read the letters."

"Yes," he confessed. It was no use lying now.

"You think my father did something terrible, don't you?"

Voice shaking, Derek admitted to himself as much to Jonathan, "I don't know what to think."

With a sigh, Jonathan approached the small headstone. "Kylie Mae was my sister," he said evenly, not looking at Derek. "And she was your mother."

"How—"

"Before you jump to conclusions and start asking stupid questions, be quiet for two seconds and let me explain. It will save time, and I'm sure I am already missed for lunch."

His cheeks tinged red with anger at Jonathan's attitude, but Derek remained silent, partially from shock, though he was also eager to hear what Jonathan would say.

"Kylie was seven years older than I, but we were…very close. She pitied me, I think, and now that I am here, watching Gabriel be there, I understand why, though I did not back then. She was not Mother's favorite, to put it mildly. Too strong-willed.

"When she was sixteen, she met a doctor who was traveling through town. He was much older than she was. Well into his thirties. I don't know if she loved him or just wanted him to take her some place far from here. Whatever it was, they were married despite Mother and Father's disapproval. Since you read the letters, you know how that turned out." Jonathan's voice was bitter.

"When Mother found out Kylie's husband died and Kylie had no place to go, she agreed to let her stay in the house as a servant. Father wasn't happy, but Mother insisted and Kylie agreed, mostly because she had no other way to provide for her son. She died two months later. Fever, illness, stress…heartbreak from being back here when she'd finally escaped. I don't know what killed her in the end, and it really doesn't matter. Whatever the cause, she died and left her son." He stopped speaking and looked at Derek for the first time. "And you know all that's relevant of the rest of that story."

Derek stared at the headstone again. His mother. But that would make Mrs. Worthington his…. He opened his mouth but no words came out. He closed it and just stood there, staring into the gray stone between the carved letters.

"Now you know." The man was silent for a moment, then said with forced calm, "But I must be going for lunch. I'm sure Mother will hold the meal until I arrive."

When Jonathan was gone, Derek sat on the ground. He could not believe what he'd learned, and yet he could not deny it felt true. And what did it mean? Nothing. It didn't matter that he knew because he was going away tomorrow. And he would never have to come back. He was getting everything he'd ever asked for: answers, his freedom. But he only felt sick and cold inside.

One final question burned in his mind and he knew he would have to ask it before he left, no matter what the consequences. No matter how far away he traveled or how long he went without being there, he would never be able to forget the plantation or the Worthingtons until he had the answer.

Derek Neilson lied in bed almost all afternoon, thinking. Mostly he thought about the fact that his last name was Neilson, but other thoughts crept in as well. He was interrupted at five o' clock by a knock at the door.

"Dinner," Gabriel called.

Pushing himself up, Derek left the room and walked downstairs. It would be his last dinner with the family. The next morning he and Mr. Todd would leave. When he got downstairs he sat in his seat without a word of greeting. The air seemed lighter though, now that the funeral was over. Only Mrs. Worthington seemed in a worse mood than the previous dinner.

"This meat is not cooked," she complained.

"It tastes fine to me, Mother," Jonathan answered evenly.

The woman did not speak again for a very long time.

When he finished eating, Jonathan said, "I suppose now is as good a time as any for a formal announcement." All heads turned in his direction. "As of tomorrow, Derek will begin his training under Mr. Todd."

Derek felt an odd twist in his stomach. Beth looked surprised but didn't say anything.

"And whose idea was that?" Mrs. Worthington asked sourly.

"Actually it was mine, ma'am," Mr. Todd said.

Gabriel poked at his food moodily.

"Surely my dear son has warned you what kind of boy he is."

Derek glared at his plate, wishing he had stayed in his room. The meat
was
poorly cooked, or tasted so, and he didn't feel like eating any more.

"I have seen for myself what kind of boy he is," Mr. Todd answered. He was smiling and his tone was friendly, but something about the way he spoke dismissed further conversation on the subject.

The woman did not bother to reply, a dark glare towards her son quickly, and no doubt correctly, accessing that any protest she made would be rebuked. Mrs. Worthington defeated by a guest in her own dining room was a sad sight indeed, and one Derek had never even dreamed to see.

"May I be excused?" he asked, not looking up from his plate.

After a second, Jonathan said, "Yes."

Leaving his food mostly untouched, Derek left the room. At a loss for where to go, he ended up sitting on the porch bench, watching the sun set. He stayed there quietly until the door opened. He looked up then away as Jonathan and Mr. Todd came out.

"This is where you disappeared to," Mr. Todd remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"None of this 'sir' business. Mr. Todd or just Todd is fine."

Derek nodded his understanding.

"You should gather your things, if you need to. We'll be starting for town early."

Realizing he had nothing to gather—all he owned had burned in the stable fire—Derek answered, "It shouldn't take me long."

Jonathan looked at him.

"Well, I'm going to make sure Sky will be ready tomorrow. She doesn't like trains, but I could hardly make her carry two all the way home." Mr. Todd pushed his hat onto his head and walked lightly down the steps. He was a very carefree man and Derek admired him.

"Derek."

"Yes?"

"Here." Jonathan held a small brown envelope out to him.

"What's that?"

"Your travel allowance. You'll need to purchase a few things, I'm sure. And food on the train isn't free."

Taking the envelope, Derek stared at it for several seconds. He wondered how much money was in it—it felt like a lot—but thought it would be too rude to ask or look while Jonathan was still standing beside him. He supposed he should thank the man, but he did not feel it was Jonathan who was really responsible for the care he was receiving. "You're doing this for Catherine, aren't you?

"No." Jonathan did not hesitate in his reply.

Frustration swelling in him, Derek scowled, demanding, "Then why are you bothering with me so much? The annuity, this money."

"It is what is owed to you," he stated simply.

"My father's money?" he guessed tentatively.

Jonathan gave a short, dry laugh. "Daniel Neilson was a poor doctor in a country town. He was paid in cow corn and chickens. He had no money," he sneered with great contempt. "This is a debt I owe you through your mother."

"My mother?"

"She asked that I look after you in her place and I said I would. I was young then. I did not know what I was promising." Jonathan's voice was suddenly distant, but not in the cold way it usually was. It was warm with thought and swollen with something similar to regret. "I never kept my promise to her. This is, perhaps, my way of making restitution. I have come to realize my morality and finally understand that I will truly one day face her and have to account for my charge. I couldn't stand it if she doesn't smile when she sees me."