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Back The Ninth Daughter
Chapters (37)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four

“No one will believe Philomela when she says she’s in danger,” said Miss Fluckner—who was, Abigail was pleased to see, one of the few women of her acquaintance who walked as briskly as she did herself. “They say—Papa says—she just doesn’t want to be sold, because I indulge her and she’s afraid that another master wouldn’t.” Though Colonel Leslie had clearly given orders that the open parade in the center of the fort was to remain open, all around its edges pens had been set up for sheep, cows, pigs. As they approached the doors Abigail was obliged to gather up her skirts lest they be caught on the corners of makeshift chicken-coops. “Papa says she’s sly, playing on what he calls my ‘romantical fancies.’ Papa says all Negroes are liars.”

“I expect a good number of slaves do learn to lie, if ’tis the only way they’ll escape a beating,” remarked Abigail rather drily. “And since their masters would sooner blame them than themselves for things that go wrong, one can scarcely take issue with this evidence of intelligence on their part. I am pleased that you’re treating your servant’s danger seriously, but what prompted you to come to me? Don’t tell me my reputation for detecting wrongdoing has spread beyond this affair of Mrs. Pentyre?”

“But it is about Mrs. Pentyre’s murder.” Miss Fluckner stopped before the door, regarded her with wide eyes of a jewel-like blue. “Mr. Malvern’s Scipio told Philomela that you were looking for the man who did it—that you’d gone to talk to Mrs. Fishwire’s neighbors, because she was killed the same way—”

“Wait a moment,” said Abigail, with a sense of shock. “Are you telling me that your servant Philomela—the young woman I saw with you on Rowe’s Wharf yesterday, I presume—”

Miss Fluckner nodded, black curls bouncing.

“—believes herself to be in danger from the same man who killed those other women? How does she know this? Has she seen him?”

“She thinks so. She doesn’t know, Mrs. Adams, but she’s mortally afraid.” Miss Fluckner opened the door.

Philomela got to her feet. Abigail’s impression of yesterday was confirmed. Slender and graceful, even in the neat chintz frock and mobcap of a maidservant, she was probably the most beautiful woman Abigail had ever seen. She sank into a curtsey as Miss Fluckner said, “Mrs. Adams, this is Philomela.”

“Thank you, m’am, for coming.” The young woman’s voice was as lovely as her face, and her golden brown eyes were not those of a girl who indulges in “romantical fancies.” “And thank you for believing me, and Miss Fluckner. For a swear to you as I’m born, I’m telling the truth, so far as I know it.”