In addition to over two hundred acres in sugar cane, McAllen also grew corn, the basic means of rural subsistence, the staff of life on the frontier. It came to table as roasted ears or bread or grits, mush or pudding or porridge, and even whiskey if one had a still. The pigs, cattle, and oxen ate it as fodder. In the quarters, corn shucks were used to fill mattresses and make chair bottoms. Although the sugarcane had been sowed, McAllen knew there was no time to waste in putting in the corn, and as he rode down the lane he was glad to see the hands hard at work in the cornfields as well as the vegetable gardens. Soon, when the sap was up, it would be time to cut trees and split rails—fences always needed mending, and green lumber was easier to split. The work never ceased at Grand Cane.

The yard of the main house was encompassed by a hedgerow of Cherokee rose. McAllen had planted the cuttings even before the house was completed, and now the thorny evergreens had grown into a natural fence impervious to any large animal's attempt to get through it. The lane ended at the hedgerow, and as McAllen dismounted—handing Escatawpa's reins to Joshua, who would take the horses back to the barn—and passed through the whitewashed wooden gate set into the hedge, he saw Leah on the front gallery. She rose from her rocking chair and stood at the top of the broad steps and waited for him, and the sight of her gave him pause.

She was so beautiful! Today the sky had finally cleared, and the last soft rays of sunlight touched her flaxen hair and made it resemble spun gold. The features of Aphrodite or Helen of Troy could not have been more perfect than those of Leah Pierce McAllen. Her slender form was accentuated by the tight, low-cut bodice of her pale yellow crinoline dress. Her alluring green eyes and seductive ruby lips had ignited a fire of passion in McAllen when first they had met, and though he was aware that he did not really love her—truly love her—any more than she really loved him, the passion was still there. He supposed that Leah ignited that fire in every man. Her beauty was beguiling, a siren song, a promise, a challenge that required a strong will to resist. I couldn't resist it, thought McAllen, so I should not be surprised that other men cannot resist it, either.

He'd read Jonah Singletary's snide comments in the Austin City Gazette while away in Galveston, and now, as he paused just inside the gate, he wondered if Leah knew about them. If so, how would she act toward him? And if she didn't know, what should he do? Accuse her straight out, or keep it to himself? He couldn't help being jealous. The thought of Leah in the arms of another man kindled his anger and wounded his pride. But he knew it was foolish to be angry. Leah had cravings no one man could satisfy. She would never change. Having accepted that, he had no one but himself to blame for the suffering he now endured, because it was his decision to maintain this facade of married bliss that fooled no one.

He made up his mind—it would be simpler not to take issue with her regarding her indiscretions. No good could come of doing so. Then, too, he could derive some small satisfaction from keeping her guessing about what he knew and what he planned to do.

Climbing the steps, he smiled at her. "Hello, darling."

She kissed him on the cheek and then, making a face, pushed him away as he tried to put his arms around her. "Don't you dare, John Henry. You're filthy, and this is a brand-new dress. Do you like it?" She performed a graceful pirouette.

"Very nice," he said. It was just like her to fail to ask him about his trip, or if he'd had any trouble along the way.

The fragrance of bergamot reached him. Leah kept herself attuned to current fashion, and that meant nothing but Parisian labels—Guerlain, Pivert, Micheau—on her dressing table would do. Godey's Lady's Book was her bible. Leah hired a talented—and fairly expensive—seamstress in Columbia to produce dresses using the Godey's hand-tinted fashion plates for patterns. Only the best silks and satins, brocades and velvets were used.

"So tell me, John Henry," she said, "did you visit my parents while you were in Galveston? Are they well? What were all the young ladies wearing this season? Did you find General Houston? Did you bring me a present?"

"Of course I did," he replied, working to keep his smile in place. He'd bought her a very pretty and expensive shawl. Or, he thought, I could give her the copy of the City Gazette. . . .

"Oh, I can't wait to see it. But first I want to talk to you about. . ."

She looked past him, and he turned, and now his smile was genuine, as an old black man, white-haired and bent, shuffled out of the house.

"Roman!" McAllen took him by the shoulders. "You're looking much better than when I left."

"We'come home, Marse John. I'm feelin' tol'able. Tol'able."

McAllen heard Leah breathe a sigh of exasperation, and Roman's eyes, still bright and alert in a deeply lined face, flickered toward her, sly and wise and filled with dislike.

"Roman!" A big black woman filled the doorway, a ferocious scowl on her full-moon face. She wore an apron around her prodigious midsection, and a red scarf on her head. "Roman, I declare! You aint s'pose to be up and about. You gwine get sick all over again, and dis time I aint gwine take care of you." She spared McAllen a glance. "You oughts to tell dis ol' fool to mind me."

McAllen chuckled. "You mind Bessie, now, you hear, Roman? Better take it easy, or you'll have a relapse."

"I'm almighty tired of doin' nothin'," replied Roman. "I been workin' all my life, Marse John, nigh on eighty years, and if I stop doin' I'm likely gwine stop livin'."

McAllen glanced at Bessie and shrugged. "He's stubborn. Always been so."

"He's a mule-headed ol' fool, dats what he is. Roman, you get yo'self in here right dis minute."

"You'd better do as Bessie says," McAllen advised him. "You know how she is."

Roman sighed. "Yessuh, I knows." He looked out at the pecan trees, bare branches silhouetted against the purpling sky. McAllen knew he was suffering from cabin fever. Pneumonia had laid him low for weeks. For a spell it had been touch and go. And while McAllen could sympathize, he didn't want to take any chances where old Roman was concerned. He was fond of the man, who had been with him for as long as he could remember. Through thick and thin Roman had always been there, and McAllen couldn't imagine what the world would be like without him.

"I knows you was comin' home today, Marse John," said Roman. Then he turned to Bessie. "I tol' you, didn't I? Well, didn't I?"

"Yes, you done tol' me. I declare, Marse John, I found dis ol' fool dressed and standin' by his window dis mornin'. He aint tooken his eyes off dat road all day."

McAllen nodded. Like Houston's fiancée, Roman believed he had the God-given gift of "second sight," and McAllen had witnessed too much evidence over the years to doubt it.

"John Henry, I wish to talk to you," said Leah. She was fuming, jealous of Roman, and of all the slaves who worked at Grand Cane, because McAllen thought highly of them all. She, on the other hand, was firmly convinced that his friendly approach was bad for discipline. Apart from that, she knew none of them liked her, with the exception of Ruth, her personal servant, with whom she had grown up. Her father had given Ruth to her when she had married. Ruth's parents, who were also her father's slaves, had been distraught when Ruth left for the Texas frontier, but what did that matter? Her husband's problem, she believed, was that he cared too much what the Negroes thought or how they felt.