“Missus Eliza don’t tolerate no sass either.”
His mother groaned. “Doesn’t—Eliza doesn’t tolerate any sass. Why can’t your people learn to speak the English language?”
“Probably ’cause it’s illegal to teach it to us.”
A vine of red crept up his mother’s neck and then flooded her face. Isaac was right—a slave’s education was a punishable offense. If slaves could write, they might forge their own emancipation papers. If they could read, they might find out about the abolitionists fighting for their freedom up north. And if they found out they had a home waiting for them in Canada, they might encourage a larger group of slaves to run away.
But there was no arguing this with his mother. She didn’t erupt with words like his father, but if Isaac angered her, she would make his life at Scott’s Grove miserable.
Alden pushed the boy toward the door. “I’m going to get some stew.”
She nodded grimly. “Then you must join the search.”
He didn’t answer, knowing he could never hunt for his friend like he was an animal. Instead, he planned to find Mammy.
His mother pointed a shaky finger toward Isaac. “Take that boy down to help Hattie. No matter what happens, we will have a meal to celebrate Christmas Eve.”
Back in the corridor, he leaned against the papered wall. Isaac looked up at him, his eyes wide. “Will Benjamin get away?”
“I don’t know.”
“I pray he runs like the dickens.”
“You best learn to keep your thoughts to yourself around here.”
Isaac prodded the edge of the braided rug with his bare toe. “Master Duvall lets me speak my mind.”
“What about Mrs.Duvall?”
“She usually pretends I’m not there,” the boy said, inching the rug away from the floor again. “But Master Duvall says I amuse him.”
“I’m sure you do, but the master of this house won’t be amused.”
He stood taller. “I can hold my tongue if I put my mind to it.”
“Then tell that mind of yours to lasso your tongue and don’t release it again until someone in charge asks you a direct question.”
Isaac nodded his head.
“Hattie rules the kitchen,” Alden explained. “If you do what she says, she’ll treat you well.”
“Will she feed me?” Isaac asked, rolling his hand over his stomach.
“Let’s hope she’ll feed us both.”
Alden directed him to the kitchen steps. It had been a long time since he’d been in the basement of the house. When he was a child, all his meals were served in the nursery, though every once in a while, Mammy would slip him and Benjamin down the back staircase to sample the sweet cakes or Polish tarts. Hattie pretended not to notice them.
As he grew older, he began taking his meals in the dining room with his family. Mealtimes were strict in their home, and he respected that rule along with the many others that came with managing a household of this size.
Before he stepped down toward the basement, the front door of the house banged open, and he heard boots stomping on the floor.
As the cold air swept through the corridor, he pointed Isaac downstairs. “Tell Hattie that I sent you.”
Isaac stuck out his tongue. “It’s lassoed.”
He sighed. “You can unlasso it just this once.”
Isaac muttered to himself as he walked downstairs. Alden hoped the boy would learn the many rules at Scott’s Grove so he could stay.
