“Did she manage to eat? She eats like she hasn’t had food in a month of Sundays. I fed her with Tim. She out ate him! And he a growing boy. But never a word through it all—just shovels it in like there’ll never be another plateful this side of the grave.”

Lyddie looked at the housekeeper’s face, pinched with anger, and then down at the top of Rachel’s head. The child was trembling—like Oliver, she thought. Like Oliver.

For more? That boy will be hung. I know that boy will be hung.

Oh Rachie, Rachie. I don’t want to think of you hungry. “I’ll pay you more,” she promised Mrs. Bedlow.

“It isn’t the money …” But it was quite clear to Lyddie that it was indeed the money in addition to the risk, so Lyddie vowed to fetch payment from the bank the very next day. She had to buy time—at least until she heard from Charlie.

When she had finished her own supper, she fetched Rachel from the kitchen, took her out to the privy, and then led her by hand up the staircase to the bedroom. All of this was accomplished with neither of them saying a word aloud, although inside Lyddie’s head lengthy conversations were bouncing about. As she tucked the quilt about the child, she tried some of her practiced lines aloud. “What did you do today, Rachie?” “Did Tim make you do some schoolwork?” “Ain’t Mrs. Bedlow funny?” “She’s all right, ey, just scared to break a rule … We got to do what the corporation says, you know, ’cause if we don’t we’re out of a job, and then what would we do, ey?” There was no answer. She hadn’t expected any, still … “You musn’t be worried, Rachie, Judah can’t sell the farm. Charlie and me, we won’t let him. We’re keeping it for Papa”—was there a flicker of life in the eyes?—“and Mama—and Charlie and Rachie and Lyddie too.” Did she just imagine the child had relaxed a little against the pillow, or was it a trick of the candlelight?