mere women, ever could.'
Cain made an odd choking sound, and even Miss Dolly blinked.
Kit sighed and clicked her tongue. 'I fought and fought our attraction-the major being a Yankee interloper and one of our most
'I believe Virgil wrote that, my dear,' he replied dryly. 'Not Shakespeare.'
Kit beamed at the women. 'Now, isn't he just the smartest man? You wouldn't think a Yankee would know so much, would you? Most of them being dim-headed and all.'
He squeezed her arm in what looked like a gesture of affection, but was, in fact, a warning to mind her manners.
She fanned her face. 'Gracious, it certainly is warm. Baron, darlin', maybe you'd better take me inside where it's cooler. I seem to be feelin' the heat this morning.'
The words were barely out of her mouth before a dozen pairs of eyes traveled to her waistline.
This time there was no mistaking Cain's wicked amusement. 'Of course, my dear. Let's get you inside right away.' He steered her up the steps, his arm around her shoulders as if she were a delicate, fruit-bearing flower in need of his protection.
Kit felt the churchgoers' eyes piercing her back, and she could hear them mentally ticking off the months. Let them count, she told herself. Soon they'd see for themselves that they were wrong.
And then a horrible thought struck her.
The Conjure Woman had lived in a ramshackle cabin on what had once been Parsell land for as long as anyone could remember. Some said old Godfrey Parsell, Brandon's grandfather, had bought her at a slave market in New Orleans. Others said she'd been born at Holly Grove and was part Cherokee. No one knew for certain how old she was, and no one knew her by any other name.
White and black alike, every woman in the county came to see her sooner or later. She could cure warts, predict the future, make love potions, and determine the sex of unborn babies. She was the only one Kit knew who could help.
'Afternoon, Conjure Woman. It's Kit Weston-Katharine Louise Cain now-Garrett Weston's daughter. You remember me?'
The door creaked open far enough for an old, grizzled head to protrude. 'You Garrett Weston's young'un all grown up.' The old woman let out a dry, rasping cackle. 'Your daddy, he be burnin' in hellfire for sure.'
'You're prob'ly right about that. May I come in?'
The old lady stood back from the door, and Kit stepped inside a room that was tiny and well-scrubbed, despite its clutter. Bunches of onions, garlic, and herbs hung from the rafters, odd pieces of furniture filled the corners, and an old spinning wheel sat near the cabin's only window. One wall of the room held crude wooden shelves bowed in the center from the weight of assorted crocks and jars.
The Conjure Woman stirred the fragrant contents of a kettle hanging by an iron hook over the fire. Then she lowered herself into a rocker next to the hearth. Just as if she were alone, she began to rock and hum in a voice as dry as fallen leaves.
'There is a balm in Gilead…'
Kit sat in the chair closest to her, a ladder-back with a sagging rush seat, and listened. Ever since that morning's church service, she'd tried to think of what she'd do if she had a baby. She'd be bound to Cain for the rest of her life. She couldn't let that happen, not while there was still a chance for her, some miracle that would give her freedom and make everything right again.
As soon as they'd returned from church, Cain had disappeared, but Kit hadn't been able to get away until much later that afternoon, when Miss Dolly retired to her bedroom to read her Bible and nap.
The Conjure Woman finally stopped singing. 'Child, you lay your troubles on Jesus, you gonna feel a whole lot better.'
'I don't think Jesus can do much about my troubles.'
The old lady looked up at the ceiling and cackled. 'Lord? You listenin' to this child?' Laughter rattled her bony chest. 'She thinks You cain't help her. She thinks ol' Conjure Woman can help her, but Your son Jesus Christ cain't.' Her eyes were beginning to water from her amusement, and she dabbed at them with the corner of her apron. 'Oh, Lord,' she cackled, 'this child-she's so young.'
Kit leaned forward and touched the old woman's knee. 'It's just that I need to be certain, Conjure Woman. I can't have a baby. That's why I've come to you. I'll pay you well if you'll help me.'
The old woman stopped her rocking and looked Kit full in the face for the first time since she'd entered the cabin. 'Chil'ren are the Lord's blessin'.'
'They're a blessing I don't want.' The heat in the small cabin was oppressive, and she rose. 'When I was a child, I overheard the slave women talking. They said you sometimes helped them keep from having more children, even though you could have been put to death for it.'
The Conjure Woman's yellowed eyes narrowed with something like contempt. 'Those slave women gonna have their chil'ren sold away. You a white woman. You don't ever have to worry none about havin' your babies ripped out of your arms so you never see them again.'
'I know that. But I can't have a baby. Not now.'
Once again the old lady began to rock and sing. 'There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole. There is a balm in Gilead…'
Kit walked over to the window. It wasn't any use. The Conjure Woman wouldn't help her.
'That Yankee man. He got the devil in him, but he got goodness, too.'
'A lot of devil and very little goodness, I think.'
The old lady chuckled. 'A man like that, he got strong seed. Ol' Conjure Woman needs strong med'cine to fight that seed.' She struggled out of her chair and shuffled over to the wooden shelves, where she peered into first one container and then another. Finally, she poured a generous supply of grayish-white powder into an empty jelly jar and covered the top with a piece of calico she tied on with a string. 'You stir a dab of this powder in a glass of water and drink all of it in the mornin', after he have his way with you.'
Kit took the jar and gave her a swift, grateful hug. 'Thank you.' She pulled out several greenbacks she'd tucked into her pocket and pressed them into her hand.
'You just do what ol' Conjure Woman tells you, missy. Ol' Conjure Woman, she know what's best.' And then she let out another wheezy cackle and turned back to the fire, chuckling at a joke known only to herself.
16
was standing on a low stepladder in the library, trying to retrieve a book, when she heard the front door open. The grandfather's clock in the sitting room struck ten. Only one person slammed a door like that. All evening she'd been bracing herself for his return.
That afternoon, on her way back from the Conjure Woman's, she'd caught a glimpse of him in the distance. Since it was Sunday, he'd been working alone at the mill. He was stripped to the waist, unloading lumber he'd brought back from Charleston.
'Kit!'
The light from the library window had given her away, and from the sound of his bellow, he wasn't in a good mood.
The library door flew back on its hinges. His shirt was stained with sweat and his dirty nankeen trousers were tucked into boots that had undoubtedly left muddy tracks down the hallway. Sophronia wouldn't be happy about that.
'When I call you, I want you right away,' he growled.
'If only I had wings,' she said sweetly, but the man had no sense of humor.
'I don't appreciate having to look all over the house for you when I come home.'
He was being so outrageous that she nearly laughed. 'Perhaps I should wear a bell. Would you like something?'
