during Sunday school, Derek was struck with how funny it was that his compassion, unlike his public cruelty, should be found when there was no audience.
Jonathan just studied him, a slow smirk forming on his lips as he shook his head. His eyes were just as hard and impossible to read as they always were. For a moment he seemed like he wanted to say something, but turned and started down the ladder instead.
"Make sure you tell her I hollered real loud," Derek called nastily. "She'll like that."
When the sound of Jonathan's footsteps faded, Derek stood up and dressed in silence. He balled up his night shirt and threw it across the loft as hard as he could. It hit the wall and slumped quietly into a pile under the swing arm.
"Boy!"
"I'm up!" he yelled angrily.
"Well git down here then!" Devon yelled back.
Stomping down the ladder carelessly, Derek glared at Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth before she started in on him, too. The mare's ears went back and she shook her head from side to side complacently, completely ignoring him.
"Stupid horse."
"Don' bother with them horses. I fed them already. Your breakfast is over there," Devon added, not looking up from the paper he was writing on.
Feeling another surge of annoyance mixed with jealousy, he watched the man scratching across the page. "What's that?"
"Order sheet. Need feed and beddin'. And a couple others things."
Derek's spirits lifted at the possible chance to get away from the plantation for the day. "Are you going into town today?"
"Yeah. And you ain't going."
"Devon, come on. I swear I'll get all my work done today. What do you have for me to do?"
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Devon looked around the stables, his eyes stopping on Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth for a second, then on Blueberry. "Got some stuff needs polishing." He thought for a second. "But you can' do that 'til I git back."
Hope lit in Derek's chest.
After a few long seconds, Devon nodded to himself a little, licking his upper lip thoughtfully. "You can go, but you'll make up for it Monday," he told him warningly.
Grinning, Derek said, "All right."
"Finish eatin' an' git them brushed down," he ordered, going back to his checklist.
Uncovering his basket, Derek discovered several honey cakes, a small jar of strawberry jelly, and a few pieces of cold chicken wrapped in white butcher's paper. Biting into the chicken, he watched Devon. "Who taught you to read and write?" he asked around his mouthful.
"Master Worthington."
"Jonathan?"
"No."
Lapsing back into silence, Derek poured some of the jelly on one of his cakes. It was odd to hear someone mention Mr. Worthington. Because she didn't believe in talking about people who were dead, Mrs. Worthington never said anything about her late husband and neither did anyone else. All Derek knew of him was what he could remember from a five-year old's mind.
Jeremiah Worthington, who went by "Jeremy" among his close friends, was a tall man with dark brown hair and slate-blue eyes. He was broad-shouldered with large, muscular arms and angular features. He stood out very much from his blond-haired, light-eyed family.
Another thing that made him stand out was his good-natured smile and even temper. He was always fair, even when judging between his own sons and Derek. It was Mr. Worthington's soothing voice that would comfort him after being punished by Mrs. Worthington. On several occasions he'd even stood up to his wife in the boy's defense.
One instance of Mr. Worthington's heroism that stood out in Derek's mind was in the summer after he turned four. It was at age four that children started going to Mr. Millstone's Sunday class instead of sitting with their parents in general congregation. Since it was his first day there, Mr. Millstone seemed to think he needed to make sure Derek knew exactly who was in charge of the class. Over the two hours he sat there, he'd been hit half a dozen times for things like swinging his feet and not turning to the right page in his Bible
Jonathan just studied him, a slow smirk forming on his lips as he shook his head. His eyes were just as hard and impossible to read as they always were. For a moment he seemed like he wanted to say something, but turned and started down the ladder instead.
"Make sure you tell her I hollered real loud," Derek called nastily. "She'll like that."
When the sound of Jonathan's footsteps faded, Derek stood up and dressed in silence. He balled up his night shirt and threw it across the loft as hard as he could. It hit the wall and slumped quietly into a pile under the swing arm.
"Boy!"
"I'm up!" he yelled angrily.
"Well git down here then!" Devon yelled back.
Stomping down the ladder carelessly, Derek glared at Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth before she started in on him, too. The mare's ears went back and she shook her head from side to side complacently, completely ignoring him.
"Stupid horse."
"Don' bother with them horses. I fed them already. Your breakfast is over there," Devon added, not looking up from the paper he was writing on.
Feeling another surge of annoyance mixed with jealousy, he watched the man scratching across the page. "What's that?"
"Order sheet. Need feed and beddin'. And a couple others things."
Derek's spirits lifted at the possible chance to get away from the plantation for the day. "Are you going into town today?"
"Yeah. And you ain't going."
"Devon, come on. I swear I'll get all my work done today. What do you have for me to do?"
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Devon looked around the stables, his eyes stopping on Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth for a second, then on Blueberry. "Got some stuff needs polishing." He thought for a second. "But you can' do that 'til I git back."
Hope lit in Derek's chest.
After a few long seconds, Devon nodded to himself a little, licking his upper lip thoughtfully. "You can go, but you'll make up for it Monday," he told him warningly.
Grinning, Derek said, "All right."
"Finish eatin' an' git them brushed down," he ordered, going back to his checklist.
Uncovering his basket, Derek discovered several honey cakes, a small jar of strawberry jelly, and a few pieces of cold chicken wrapped in white butcher's paper. Biting into the chicken, he watched Devon. "Who taught you to read and write?" he asked around his mouthful.
"Master Worthington."
"Jonathan?"
"No."
Lapsing back into silence, Derek poured some of the jelly on one of his cakes. It was odd to hear someone mention Mr. Worthington. Because she didn't believe in talking about people who were dead, Mrs. Worthington never said anything about her late husband and neither did anyone else. All Derek knew of him was what he could remember from a five-year old's mind.
Jeremiah Worthington, who went by "Jeremy" among his close friends, was a tall man with dark brown hair and slate-blue eyes. He was broad-shouldered with large, muscular arms and angular features. He stood out very much from his blond-haired, light-eyed family.
Another thing that made him stand out was his good-natured smile and even temper. He was always fair, even when judging between his own sons and Derek. It was Mr. Worthington's soothing voice that would comfort him after being punished by Mrs. Worthington. On several occasions he'd even stood up to his wife in the boy's defense.
One instance of Mr. Worthington's heroism that stood out in Derek's mind was in the summer after he turned four. It was at age four that children started going to Mr. Millstone's Sunday class instead of sitting with their parents in general congregation. Since it was his first day there, Mr. Millstone seemed to think he needed to make sure Derek knew exactly who was in charge of the class. Over the two hours he sat there, he'd been hit half a dozen times for things like swinging his feet and not turning to the right page in his Bible
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