A Dream of Daring by Gen LaGreca

you terribly, you know.” She
looked up at him in her alluring way. “But now you’re home too.”
    His eyes searched hers as
he tried to understand. Was she really happy? he wondered.
    “You said you wanted to
help Mother and me. You said you felt responsible . . . .”
    His eyes closed in
anguish.
    “I don’t want you to
suffer, Tom. I just want you to stay here with us and help us preserve what
Papa worked so hard to provide for us. Now that he’s been taken from
us . . . so suddenly . . . so
horribly.”
    His head fell as if a
knife in his chest had just been plunged deeper. He took her hands. “Of
course,” he whispered painfully, “I’ll stay here with you. For as long as it
takes to get you and your mother through this.”
    He was relieved when
Charlotte appeared at the door.
    “We can go out now and
talk to the slaves,” said Mrs. Barnwell. “I want to be soothing. That’s how
Wiley always spoke to them. He told them he’d look after them and protect them.
We must assure them they’ll be fed, clothed, and cared for just as they’ve
always been. That’s what’s always kept
them . . . manageable.”
    A sudden thought struck
Tom. Is that what Charlotte and her husband had been doing to Rachel? Keeping
her fed, clothed, and cared for so that she would
be . . . manageable?
    As he walked out of the
parlor with Rachel and Charlotte, he paused to notice an oil painting of the
senator by the front door. Tom had seen the portrait on many occasions, but
this time it held a special significance to him. He looked admiringly at the
kind face, the intelligent eyes, and the dignified bearing of the man who lost
his life defending the invention. He recognized the signature of a local artist
in a corner of the painting.
    “Mrs. Barnwell, may I ask
the painter if he can make me a reproduction of this portrait? I would love to
have a remembrance of the senator.”
    “Why, yes, of course,
Tom.”
    “It would mean so much to
me. The senator meant so much.”
    “By all means, have a
copy made, Tom,” said Charlotte.
    “The senator believed in
me.”
    “We believe in you too,
Tom. You’re a good young man. You’ll provide a comfortable life for a
wife”—Charlotte’s eyes darted to Rachel—“and a family of your own.” She patted
his arm fondly. “You have a solid future here in Greenbriar. We believe you’ll
do very well running your father’s bank and plantation.”
    “But Senator Barnwell
believed in my other work—my invention —and
he . . . bravely . . . defended—”
    “The vicissitudes of an
inventor’s life weren’t what I was speaking of,” said Charlotte.
    “Whenever I’ll look at
this painting, Mrs. Barnwell, it’ll serve as all the more reason why I must develop my invention, not only for me but now also for the brave man who
gave . . . everything . . . for it. My
success will be my tribute to your husband’s memory.”
    Charlotte stared at him.
“Good Lord, Tom, what if that thing of yours is cursed ?”
    “How can progress be cursed?” Tom asked incredulously.
    “What if Wiley’s death is
an omen ?”
    “An
omen . . . of what?”
    Charlotte seemed to stare
through Tom at a disturbing image of her own. “People who tried to defy fate
are no longer here.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Charlotte didn’t seem to
hear him, captured by a haunting memory that tugged at her.
    “Mrs. Barnwell, are you
all right?”
    “No one can tamper with
our way of life. Those who tried are no longer around to talk about it.”
    “Tom,” interjected
Rachel, “you’ve been away so long, you don’t remember that our traditions are
our soul. You can’t change that. No one can change that.”

 
    Chapter 6
     
    The Greenbriar sheriff’s
office was barely larger than a slave’s cabin, but the man occupying it didn’t
seem to care. His tavern-like furnishings—a desk, a table, and a few chairs
made of rustic planks—appeared to provide all the