Caleb by Charles Alverson Page A

one?”
    “Yeah. What’s your name?”
    “Missy.”
    “I mean your real name.”
    Missy turned back toward him, looking serious. “Melissa,” she said.
    “That’s a very pretty name,” Caleb said. “Very pretty. Master knows that?”
    “He never asked.”
    “Well, I did,” Caleb said. “And it’s our secret. Okay?”
    “Okay,” she said softly, and Caleb released her wrist.
    When Caleb heard the door in the corridor close, he quickly walked to it and listened as Missy turned the key in the lock with a raspy sound. Then he examined the rough wooden floor on his side of the door for minute scrapes that would show that it had been opened. He saw nothing except disturbed dust. Walking back past his door to the tall, thin window at the end of the corridor, he turned and saw that in the slant of morning light there were two sets of footprints on the dusty floor leading to the door. Wrapping the head of a broom with a cloth, he swept the rough floor lightly, covering the footprints with an even layer of dust as he walked backward to the door of his room. Looking back down the corridor, he saw an undisturbed layer of dust right up to the partition door. He reckoned that would do. He’d have to tell Missy to do the same on her side of the door.

23
    Caleb was standing out front when Jardine returned from the Bentleys’ late Sunday afternoon. Missy was nowhere to be seen.
    “How’s it going, Caleb?” Jardine asked, throwing him the reins. “Any problems? Any excitement?”
    “No, Master. Things pretty much as usual. Nobody did much work. We had a good vacation.”
    “That’s more than I can say,” Jardine replied.
    “Would Master like a cup of tea?”
    “Later. I have some things to do. Where’s Missy?”
    “Gone to church meeting down in the quarter, Master. That old preacher is visiting again.”
    “Pious is she?”
    “It looks like, Master. Will there be anything else?”
    “Take Bruno to the stable and tell William to rub him down well. I gave him a bit of a workout on the turnpike. That old boy can run. Any of the house girls around?”
    “Yes, Master. Drusilla.”
    “Not worshipping God, eh?”
    “No, Master.”
    “I’ll have to watch that one. Well, tell her to heat me up some water—very hot. I’ve got six miles of red dust on me. I can taste it.”
    Upstairs, Jardine went to his room and looked behind his tie rack. The big brass key still hung where he had left it, caught at a small angle by a slightly proud nail at the bottom. As far as he could see, it had not been moved. Pocketing the key, he went down to the kitchen, where Drusilla was tending the old boiler. It was already starting to steam.
    “I want that water boiling, Drusilla,” he called as he passed her.
    “Yes, Massa,” she replied without looking up.
    Walking through the kitchen and back offices, Jardine came to the back staircase and climbed up it. He opened the door to Missy’s room and was amazed at the change in it. From a spare room full of junk, it had become a cozy and feminine bedroom. The rough wooden walls were concealed with hangings that he recognized as old bedspreads from his mother’s day. The small window was covered with a red scarf so that the room was bathed in a roseate light from the late-afternoon sun. On the floor was a rich Persian rug. For a moment Jardine’s temper flared—where the hell did she get that? But then he remembered: it was the rug Uncle Giles set on fire one Christmas. Underneath that chest in the corner would be a large burnt patch. How like his mother not to throw that rug out. The double bed was tidily made and covered by a counterpane that had once been a rich royal blue. It was now faded but not displeasing. Jardine reflected that he had not only gotten himself a good-looking girl but one with style and taste.
    He closed the lockless door and looked down the hall toward the tall, narrow door that divided the passage. The afternoon light streaming in illuminated the dust