Curtainless Palladian windows looked out over the street. Law books, pamphlets, and old leather-bound novels, similar to the two in the cardboard box of Father’s things, were piled on the wide windowsill. Three caned chairs sat in front of Mr. Satterfield’s desk, and six matchingchairs, one with its seat broken through, were lined up against the wall. A walnut bookcase with glass doors held more leatherbound books as well as the flotsam that Mr. Satterfield had accumulated over the years. Much of it, like the firearm, appeared to be remnants of the Civil War—a gray forage cap, a canteen, a sword and belt, small framed portraits like the ones I had found among Father’s possessions. Perhaps they had been taken by A. McFarland and the negatives were still preserved. Above the bookcase, two crossed pistols were mounted on the wall.
“Does everybody in Natchez decorate with weapons?” I asked.
“Ma’m?” He glanced up at me. But he had heard what I said, and replied, “You never can tell when we’ll be invaded by the Yankees again. Best to be prepared.”
Mr. Satterfield continued to sort through the items on his desk while I returned to my inspection of the room. Mr. Satterfield’s desk, what was called a partners desk, was made for two men to sit facing each other. The flat top of the desk was inlaid with leather, which was scratched and worn and cut through, as if it had been sliced with a knife.
Mr. Satterfield glanced up at me again, surprised to see me standing. He half-rose. “Sit, sit. Pick you a chair.” He gestured at the three chairs. I sat down in the center one and pulled it forward, so that my knees fit inside the kneehole on my side of the desk. I folded my gloved hands in my lap.
“So, you didn’t know Miss Amalia?” he asked, still arranging the papers.
He knew perfectly well that I did not, and the question was tiresome. “No, so I can hardly be blamed for not getting in touch with her. As she knew about me, perhaps the fault for theestrangement was hers.” I hoped my remark didn’t sound quite as pompous to Mr. Satterfield as it did to me.
Mr. Satterfield looked up, amused. “Oh, you don’t know Natchez women. They do not unduly care to contact outsiders. But you got that right when you said she knew about you. She surely did. Knew you got a divorce. But she didn’t know why. She had me to look into it, but I never got around to it.” He gave me a questioning look.
“It’s too late now, isn’t it?” I stared the man down.
“Miss Amalia did used to think it was her business, but it’s not mine. No, it ain’t. I don’t care a continental about other folks’s private affairs.”
That did not strike me as the truth, but I said nothing, waiting for Mr. Satterfield to find what he was looking for. Finally, he held up several legal-size pages of paper in a blue wrapper. “Miss Amalia’s will. It is an imperfect document, but it will suffice.”
He studied me for a reaction, but there was none, so he handed the will to me. I smoothed it out and looked at the last page, the signature. “Amalia Bondurant” was written in a faint hand, in purple. “She signed in pencil?”
“Indelible pencil. My fountain pen ran dry. I took the papers to her at Avoca. She didn’t have but one pencil, and it was a stub. Had to sharpen it myself with a penknife before it showed enough lead to write with. I guess it’s not lead when it’s purple.”
I chuckled, liking Mr. Satterfield.
“It’s perfectly legal, no matter what she used. Why, it’s legal even if you sign it in blood. Thank the Lord, that wasn’t necessary.” He cleared his throat. “I expect you’d like to know what it says.”
“I would like to know about Amalia Bondurant.” That caught him off guard, for he had expected me to ask first about what was coming to me. “Why did she die, and will there be a service? I’ll pay for it, of course.”
Mr. Satterfield waved his hand. “Done it already, two days ago.
“Does everybody in Natchez decorate with weapons?” I asked.
“Ma’m?” He glanced up at me. But he had heard what I said, and replied, “You never can tell when we’ll be invaded by the Yankees again. Best to be prepared.”
Mr. Satterfield continued to sort through the items on his desk while I returned to my inspection of the room. Mr. Satterfield’s desk, what was called a partners desk, was made for two men to sit facing each other. The flat top of the desk was inlaid with leather, which was scratched and worn and cut through, as if it had been sliced with a knife.
Mr. Satterfield glanced up at me again, surprised to see me standing. He half-rose. “Sit, sit. Pick you a chair.” He gestured at the three chairs. I sat down in the center one and pulled it forward, so that my knees fit inside the kneehole on my side of the desk. I folded my gloved hands in my lap.
“So, you didn’t know Miss Amalia?” he asked, still arranging the papers.
He knew perfectly well that I did not, and the question was tiresome. “No, so I can hardly be blamed for not getting in touch with her. As she knew about me, perhaps the fault for theestrangement was hers.” I hoped my remark didn’t sound quite as pompous to Mr. Satterfield as it did to me.
Mr. Satterfield looked up, amused. “Oh, you don’t know Natchez women. They do not unduly care to contact outsiders. But you got that right when you said she knew about you. She surely did. Knew you got a divorce. But she didn’t know why. She had me to look into it, but I never got around to it.” He gave me a questioning look.
“It’s too late now, isn’t it?” I stared the man down.
“Miss Amalia did used to think it was her business, but it’s not mine. No, it ain’t. I don’t care a continental about other folks’s private affairs.”
That did not strike me as the truth, but I said nothing, waiting for Mr. Satterfield to find what he was looking for. Finally, he held up several legal-size pages of paper in a blue wrapper. “Miss Amalia’s will. It is an imperfect document, but it will suffice.”
He studied me for a reaction, but there was none, so he handed the will to me. I smoothed it out and looked at the last page, the signature. “Amalia Bondurant” was written in a faint hand, in purple. “She signed in pencil?”
“Indelible pencil. My fountain pen ran dry. I took the papers to her at Avoca. She didn’t have but one pencil, and it was a stub. Had to sharpen it myself with a penknife before it showed enough lead to write with. I guess it’s not lead when it’s purple.”
I chuckled, liking Mr. Satterfield.
“It’s perfectly legal, no matter what she used. Why, it’s legal even if you sign it in blood. Thank the Lord, that wasn’t necessary.” He cleared his throat. “I expect you’d like to know what it says.”
“I would like to know about Amalia Bondurant.” That caught him off guard, for he had expected me to ask first about what was coming to me. “Why did she die, and will there be a service? I’ll pay for it, of course.”
Mr. Satterfield waved his hand. “Done it already, two days ago.
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