“Good afternoon, Grandfather,” Master Thomas says with a face fit for a funeral. His daddy must have warned him not to go bouncing around like a cricket on hot coals.

“Well, there he is,” Master Jeremiah says, beaming. “My only grandson. Come here and let me look at you.” When the boy comes close, Master Jeremiah takes hold of his chin and turns it left and right. “You’ve got too much of your father in you, but I think you got my nose.” He winks at his grandson.

I go to carry his tea away when Master Jeremiah calls me back. “Maple, come over here and help me take these off,” he says to me, lifting his booted foot. I lay the cup back on the little table and crouch in front of him, pulling at his boot.

“Father, we are having tea,” says Miss Martha.

“Jeremiah, if you’d like to get comfortable, perhaps you’d prefer to rest in your room before supper,” Master says.

The first boot comes off and I topple over from pulling at it.

“That’s not a bad idea, Matthew. Maybe I will.”

Miss Martha’s voice has the crisp snap of dried sticks. “I was just explaining to Father that we’d find a suitable place for Kitty to sleep.”

“And I was explaining to you,” her father says, “that she’ll stay in the room with me.”

Master looks from his wife to his father-in-law, his expression pulling into a deep frown. He hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat and says, “It’s nothing against you, Jeremiah. We simply do not permit slaves to sleep in the house. Not here.”

Miss Martha puts her teacup down and sits more at ease with Master here to handle her daddy.

Master Jeremiah holds out his other leg and I grip the second boot.

“Now, what kind of hospitality is that?” Master Jeremiah says. “After I took the trouble to bring my own girl, so I wouldn’t have to borrow one of yours?”

Miss Martha gasps and red blotches climb up Master’s neck. They’s all clear on what borrowing a slave girl would look like. If Master Jeremiah weren’t his father-in-law, I believe Master would throw him right out.

“Sarah sleeps in the house,” Master Thomas says helpfully into the silence.

The second boot slips free and I tumble backward with it.

“Is that right?” his grandfather says, a cat grin sliding up his face. He waves the boy closer. “Tell me, Thomas, where exactly does Sarah sleep?”

“In my room.”

“Well, now.” He smiles his victory at Master and Miss Martha. “If Sarah can stay in your room, I guess Kitty can stay in mine,” he says to the boy, counting on nobody wanting to explain the difference to a six-year-old.

The smell of his un-booted feet taints the parlor air as he props them on a footrest and wiggles his toes.

“Your manners have grown crude without Mother to temper you,” Miss Martha says.

He leans back into the armchair. “My manners are just fine.”