“Where’s the will?” said the lawyer.

“What will?” she answered. “The only will I know is in a strongbox at my lawyer’s.”

“You can’t do this,” says Jan. “The will was witnessed. I can take you to court.”

“Do it,” she said. “But you may not win. And if you don’t, then I’ll see to it that, even though you’re my flesh and blood, you’ll get nothing. I’ll spend it all. In the meantime, until a judge tells me otherwise, this house and all that is in it is mine.”

They went away after that, saying she should hear from them. And I supposed it was my turn to face her anger now. But to my surprise, she turned to me very calmly and said: “Quash, will you fetch me a glass of Genever?” And when I brought it to her she said: “I am tired now, Quash, but we shall discuss your freedom and Hudson’s tomorrow.”

“Yes’m,” I said.

The next morning she was up early and went out, telling us to mind the house until she got back, and not to let anyone in.

Late in the morning, she sent word to Hudson that she needed help at the market; so he went down there. After a while she came back, ahead of him, and she told me to come into the parlor, where she sat down.

“Well, Quash,” she said to me, “the last few days have been sad.”

“I’m very sorry about the Boss,” I said.

“I’m sure you are,” she answered. She was quiet for a moment, as if she was thinking. “It was sad for me, Quash, to discover that my husband meant to dispossess me and turn me out of my home; and that my own family were party to it.” She gave me a cold stare. Then she looked down. “It was sad for me too, Quash, when you disobeyed me yesterday, and ran off with that Indian belt. Perhaps you knew about that English will, and you supposed that since you and your son would be free, you could now insult me as you pleased.”

“The Boss just told me that Hudson and I should be free when he died,” I said. For that was true.

“Well,” she said, and her voice was calm, “I have decided otherwise. Hudson is already sold.”

I just stared at her, trying to take in her meaning.

“Sold?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “To a ship’s captain. He is already on board.”

“I’d like to see him,” I said.

“No,” she answered me.

Just then there was a tap on the door, and a gray-haired gentleman came in and bowed to the Mistress. I knew I’d seen him before, and then I remembered—it was the English planter that Mr. Master had brought to the house one time, years ago. The Mistress nodded to him and turned to me.