Leslie LaFoy by Come What May

comfortably accept the notion that it was all right for one human being to own another.
    Hers was a decidedly uncommon perspective on the institution, she knew. Slavery was known in virtually every corner of the world; the American colonies had no exclusive claim to its practice. And while slaves were owned throughout all thirteen, she knew that the majority of those held in bondage were in the southern ones. She shouldn't have been so stunned to learn that her husband was an owner of slaves. It was logical that he would be, especially being a Virginian. But she was startled nonetheless and she couldn't help but think that it didn't speak at all well of his conscience.
    Hearing steps behind her, Claire turned away fromEphram and the doorway. Coming across the foyer— her wooden heels clicking against the tile—was a living, breathing embodiment of a dressmaker's most stylish moppet. Despite being unable to afford the latest in ladies' fashions for herself, Claire nevertheless knew that no one wore panniers and hoops that wide anymore except to the opera or an evening affair at Windsor Castle. And she could only hope that the impossibly high and intricately arranged hairstyle was a powdered wig that could be removed between public appearances. If it wasn't, the older woman had to suffer from a perpetually stiff neck.
    “Devon,” the matron declared as she came to a halt so sudden that her hems swayed forward and then back. “I will have a word with you.”
    “Later perhaps, Mother.”
    Madam Rivard blindly gestured toward the wide doorway behind her. “Your brother is at this very moment on the verge of collapse from frostbite. He can hardly hold the brandy snifter he's shaking so badly from the chill.”
    “But he is managing to hold it, isn't he?” the woman's son replied snidely, coming to stand beside Claire. As his mother blinked, he drawled, “Mother, may I present Claire. Claire, my mother, Madam Henrietta Rivard.”
    Recovering with a start, Madam Rivard advanced, meeting Claire's gaze for the first time and smiling broadly as she gushingly said, “Welcome to Rosewind Manor, my dear girl. Wyndom has only been able to stammer a bit past his chill to tell us that Devon was bringing a guest.”
    She stopped in front of Claire and took both of her hands in her own to add, “And since my oafish son,” she added, casting a quick, censorious glance at Devon, “has neglected to append your surname, I'm placed inthe embarrassing position of having to inquire as to which of Virginia's fine families you belong.”
    Guest? Was the woman just very polite or didn't she know? Uncertain, Claire decided that wisdom lay in giving her the most general of replies. “I am not Virginian, Madam Rivard.”
    “Ah, British,” the woman countered with a smile even larger than before. “I can hear our mother tongue in your voice.” She lightly squeezed Claire's hands, then released them and stepped back, saying, “Do let Devon give Ephram your cloak, and come into the parlor so that your bones can warm a bit.”
    Her son obediently slipped around to stand behind Claire, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. A warmth flooded into her and rippled all the way to her toes. Disconcerted by the pleasure in the sensation and feeling a desperate need to escape it, Claire held her breath and fumbled to undo the frogs of her cloak. It seemed to take an eternity and she was light-headed and weak-kneed by the time the garment was mercifully lifted away.
    Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Madam Rivard tucked Claire's arm through her own and led her off in the direction of the wide doorway, asking as they went, “Where in England is your home?”
    “I'm of London most recently, but originally from Herefordshire.”
    “And what is it that brings you to our colony and out to Rosewind, my dear?”
    The woman didn't know. The brother hadn't told her. Her stomach knotted with dread, Claire managed a weak smile and replied,