she reminded herself, nothing but a place to sleep. Probably it looked completely different from when it had been hers.
But in some small way she hoped it didn't.
Slowly, holding her breath, she turned the key and pushed open the door.
The light blinded her for a moment. The setting sun streamed in through the windows, past the closed, thin muslin curtains, slanting across the floor and the bed shoved against the wall. The room was boiling hot. And empty.
Not completely empty, she amended. The bed was hers. She recognized the fine lathed maple of the headboard, the notches on the bedpost where she'd tied her escape rope so many nights. Beside it was her bedstand, holding a single lamp. But the bedspread was a many- colored, wedding-ring quilt where before it had been just a blue-and-white weaver's blanket, and the tin lard lamp on the table was new. There was no dent in the base, no soot-stained metal.
A rag rug lay on the floor, and she couldn't remember if it was the same rug that had always been there— surely it was? The big maple armoire took up the far wall. It was the same too—her initials were scratched into the fine wood at the base, the same initials she'd been spanked for carving when she was twelve years old.
But other than that the room was without character, and despite the fact that she'd known it would be that way, Belle felt a pang of disappointment. It was her room, but it wasn't, and she felt as much a stranger as she did standing in the hallway downstairs.
She took hold of her carpetbag, walking slowly into the room and throwing it on the bed. Then she went to the window, pushing aside the curtains to open it. It stuck as if it hadn't been opened for a long time, and she smacked the sill with the base of her hand, trying to loosen it.
She was sweating by the time she managed to get it open and the cooling air of evening swept over her, drying the sweat on her face. Belle sank onto the bed and reached for her hat.
Her hand stopped in midair, her breath caught in her throat. On the wall next to the door was the portrait. It was huge—three feet wide and three and a half tall, with a heavy, dark frame, and it showed a portly man with thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The artist had been one of the best—he had captured the stern light in the man's blue eyes, the humorless set of the mouth and the heavy jaw. The fabric of his dark blue coat looked fine and thick, and the patterns in his multicolored waistcoat glowed richly.
The picture was of her real father, John Calhoun, and like the rest of the room the portrait was the same but it wasn't. The feathers and dried flowers she'd pasted over his sanctimonious face were gone, leaving only a wispy frond of feather, a glue stain by his eye and another on his pristine white cravat. But he was unchanged, a whole presence now that the guise was gone, unadorned and glowering, just as he'd been for years and years and years.
"Well, well," Belle muttered finally. "Damn me to hell if it isn't Jesus John." And then she started to laugh uncontrollably, until it seemed the walls were shaking with the sound.
Chapter 6
B elle woke early. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was, and she blinked groggily at the armoire, confused and disoriented. But then she remembered, and the realization that she was home again brought her wide awake in seconds. The spicy, thyme-heavy scent of sausage drifted from downstairs, along with the aroma of coffee. Murmurs of voices—Rand's deep baritone, her mother's measured tones—came muffled from the kitchen along with the heavy tread of footsteps.
It felt familiar—too much so. Belle pushed back the blankets and swung her feet over the floor. The morning was chilly—she could feel the cold from the boards before her feet even touched them—and she hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to huddle back under the covers and wait for Rand to go out to the
But in some small way she hoped it didn't.
Slowly, holding her breath, she turned the key and pushed open the door.
The light blinded her for a moment. The setting sun streamed in through the windows, past the closed, thin muslin curtains, slanting across the floor and the bed shoved against the wall. The room was boiling hot. And empty.
Not completely empty, she amended. The bed was hers. She recognized the fine lathed maple of the headboard, the notches on the bedpost where she'd tied her escape rope so many nights. Beside it was her bedstand, holding a single lamp. But the bedspread was a many- colored, wedding-ring quilt where before it had been just a blue-and-white weaver's blanket, and the tin lard lamp on the table was new. There was no dent in the base, no soot-stained metal.
A rag rug lay on the floor, and she couldn't remember if it was the same rug that had always been there— surely it was? The big maple armoire took up the far wall. It was the same too—her initials were scratched into the fine wood at the base, the same initials she'd been spanked for carving when she was twelve years old.
But other than that the room was without character, and despite the fact that she'd known it would be that way, Belle felt a pang of disappointment. It was her room, but it wasn't, and she felt as much a stranger as she did standing in the hallway downstairs.
She took hold of her carpetbag, walking slowly into the room and throwing it on the bed. Then she went to the window, pushing aside the curtains to open it. It stuck as if it hadn't been opened for a long time, and she smacked the sill with the base of her hand, trying to loosen it.
She was sweating by the time she managed to get it open and the cooling air of evening swept over her, drying the sweat on her face. Belle sank onto the bed and reached for her hat.
Her hand stopped in midair, her breath caught in her throat. On the wall next to the door was the portrait. It was huge—three feet wide and three and a half tall, with a heavy, dark frame, and it showed a portly man with thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The artist had been one of the best—he had captured the stern light in the man's blue eyes, the humorless set of the mouth and the heavy jaw. The fabric of his dark blue coat looked fine and thick, and the patterns in his multicolored waistcoat glowed richly.
The picture was of her real father, John Calhoun, and like the rest of the room the portrait was the same but it wasn't. The feathers and dried flowers she'd pasted over his sanctimonious face were gone, leaving only a wispy frond of feather, a glue stain by his eye and another on his pristine white cravat. But he was unchanged, a whole presence now that the guise was gone, unadorned and glowering, just as he'd been for years and years and years.
"Well, well," Belle muttered finally. "Damn me to hell if it isn't Jesus John." And then she started to laugh uncontrollably, until it seemed the walls were shaking with the sound.
Chapter 6
B elle woke early. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was, and she blinked groggily at the armoire, confused and disoriented. But then she remembered, and the realization that she was home again brought her wide awake in seconds. The spicy, thyme-heavy scent of sausage drifted from downstairs, along with the aroma of coffee. Murmurs of voices—Rand's deep baritone, her mother's measured tones—came muffled from the kitchen along with the heavy tread of footsteps.
It felt familiar—too much so. Belle pushed back the blankets and swung her feet over the floor. The morning was chilly—she could feel the cold from the boards before her feet even touched them—and she hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to huddle back under the covers and wait for Rand to go out to the
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