Margaret Caldwell spent her mornings pacing the veranda, her silk dress whispering against the wooden floor, her eyes drifting toward the stables more often than she dared to admit. Edward had been gone for nearly a week now, another business trip. Another string of lies wrapped in fine suits and whiskey breath. Loneliness festered into irritation. She scolded servants for imagined mistakes, rearranged furniture that didn't need moving, complained of headaches that no medicine could cure.
When words failed her, she simply stared at the endless white roads stretching from the plantation gates, waiting for a carriage that never came. One afternoon, she caught sight of Josiah trimming branches along the fence. His back was slick with sweat, his movements methodical, patient, steady. For a moment she envied that patience. She had once believed herself a woman of refinement, of composure and intellect, but the isolation of the house, the suffocating heat, and the hollow marriage had begun to twist her.
Watching him work filled her with a strange bitterness she couldn't name. The next morning she sent a maid to fetch him. "Tell the new stable hand to bring the polishing cloth," she said. "My shoes need attention." When Josiah appeared, she was seated by the window, her dress the color of ivory and her eyes a shade colder than the glass panes behind her. "Polish these," she ordered, placing her small leather shoes on a cloth at her feet.
He knelt without a word, rubbing the black polish in small circles, careful not to meet her gaze. The silence between them grew sharp. "Where are you from?" she asked suddenly. "North Carolina, ma'am."
"And your people?" "My mother worked the fields. My father, I never knew him." She made a small dismissive sound.
"Best that way. Family only teaches you disappointment." Josiah said nothing. She watched him for a moment longer, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"You may go," she said. As he turned to leave, she added sharply, "And don't look me in the eye when I speak to you." He bowed his head slightly.
"Yes, ma'am." After he left, Margaret sat motionless for a long time. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. She wasn't sure why his quietness unsettled her, why his calm made her feel seen, even when he refused to meet her gaze. Word began to spread through the quarters. The mistress was calling for Josiah too often.
The cooks whispered in the kitchen. The maids traded worried glances. Everyone on the plantation knew how dangerous her temper could be. The last man she'd accused of disrespect, had vanished without trace, sold south within the week. Josiah tried to keep distance.
He worked longer hours in the fields, volunteered for extra chores, anything to avoid the house, but Margaret seemed to find new reasons to summon him. She asked him to carry buckets to the porch, trim the rose bushes by her window, or fix the hinge on a garden gate that wasn't broken. Each encounter left him uneasy. Aware that the wrong word could destroy him. One late afternoon, she caught him returning from the fields.
"Those roses by my window are dying," she said. "See that they're replaced tomorrow." "Yes, ma'am," he replied. She hesitated, studying his face.
"Do you think this land makes people cruel, Josiah?" He looked down at the ground. "I think it shows what's already there, ma'am." Her jaw tightened.
"You think you're clever?" "No, ma'am." "Then keep your opinions to yourself." The conversation left her shaken.
That night, she couldn't sleep. The old grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight, its echo filling the house like a heartbeat. She stood at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked older, harder, more fragile than she remembered.
Edward's absence was no longer an insult. It was an emptiness that devoured her. A week later, Edward returned. He smelled of bourbon and cigar smoke, his eyes glassy and distant. When Margaret asked about his trip, he waved her off.
"You wouldn't understand business." "What I understand," she said coolly, "is that this house has more ghosts than guests." He laughed without humor. "Then maybe it suits you."
That night, she listened from her room as he snored in the study chair, too drunk to climb the stairs. Her hands shook with fury. The man who should have desired her barely noticed her. The man who should have feared her carried on as if she were a piece of furniture.
Her pride, the one thing she had left, demanded a target. The next evening she found Josiah near the stables mending a gate. "Come to the parlor," she said curtly. He wiped his hands.
"I'll finish here first, ma'am." "I said now." He hesitated.
"Ma'am, I'll come when the work's done." The refusal was polite, careful, but to her it felt like rebellion, her face flushed hot. She turned on her heel and strode back to the house, her thoughts twisting tighter with every step. The servants watched from a distance, whispering prayers. They had seen what happened when Margaret Caldwell's pride was wounded. That night, she sat before her mirror again.