Common Valor: A War-Between-The-States Story

By Henry H. Gilbert

Harry Seymour and Samantha Hazelwood want to get married and build a family. He is a college student from a wealthy New Orleans family, and she is the daughter of an old Virginia family. They could be married without delay, if not for the war that tore the United States apart. With heavy heart, Harry enlists with the Confederacy but hates the thought of fighting his own kin from Connecticut. In the meantime, Sam is recruited to be a spy in Washington.

As the war comes to an end, the two lovers are reunited. Harry is a broken manfinancially and psychologically, having faced the terrors of war and lived to tell about them. Still madly in love, Sam welcomes him home; with the help of relatives and a former slave, they rebuild their fortunes during the turbulent Reconstruction. But their troubles are far from over. An old nemesis will not let the war end at Appomattox.

Elliot Seymour is one of Harrys Connecticut cousins, and he finds a way to imprison Sam. He confiscates the lovers home and uses their former slaves against them. Will Harry and Sams love survive yet another tragedy? War is hell; it can ruin an entire country, but it can also make warriors out of cowards, heroes out of slaves, and spouses out of loversif only good can prevail in the midst of horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462057146

Henry H. Gilbert

Henry H. Gilbert has been a student of the Civil War since reading Lee’s Lieutenants at age twelve. He has an English degree from the University of Virginia, where he visited many of the war’s battlefields. Throughout his life, he has continued to be an avid student of the War Between the States.

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CHAPTER

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Foissard glided forward on feet, small for his height. Harry tilted his head back to look in his eyes. You are the little savage whom I am supposed to educate, eh?

Harry did not answer, his stomach twisted into a knot, his face remained impassive.

Speak when spoken to, monsieur.

Yes, sir, Harry said through clenched teeth.

That is better. Do you speak French?

No, sir, I speak American.

Foissard winced, Then, you are mute. What can you do?

Read, do sums and write script.

More than I expected for a twelve-year old. You are not a total loss. Perhaps I have enough to build on.

What is your full name?

Hartford Francis Seymour.

His mother came into the study as Foissard asked this question, His father comes from a family in Hartford, Connecticut descended from an English queen. Harry saw the look of surprise on Foissard’s face. Mr. Seymour came here in 1837 to be a commodities broker. We met after his first wife died of yellow jack and married two years later. Alas, Harry’s our only child. Her gentle voice reassured Harry. He breathed in the familiar scent of her toilette water. Her hand caressed the top of his head. Mr. Seymour and I hope, Monsieur, you will complete his education. Harry advances beyond my meager talents.

Foissard gave a brief bow toward her, Madame, we will build on your progress. As a native of New Orleans you know the benefits of a French education.

Helen nodded, "Empire is the rage now as you see from our furnishings.

Mr. Seymour takes Harry on his buying trips. I want you to temper the roughness of his father’s world with French culture. How was it again that you came to New Orleans?"

Harry sat forward. He knew his mother asked for his benefit. Foissard flipped up his coattails and sat in a balloon-backed chair. His eyes took on a faraway look, My father was a draper in Paris. I am the youngest of three brothers. The oldest, Claude, worked for my father. Antoine, the next, was in-service to a duke and my parents wanted me for the church, but Antoine and I backed the Jacobins so we joined the army and served under Napoleon in Italy. Antoine died at Marengo where I received a medal and transferred to the Imperial Guard. When Napoleon fell I fled to this country with a comrade who is a vintner in Virginia. I came to New Orleans because it is as close to home as I can get.

Helen put her hand on his arm. Your exile must be difficult.

He shrugged, One does what one must.

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Used to his mother’s gentle hand, Foissard unnerved Harry. His coal black hair fell in a mane over a high coat collar. His suit matched his hair, the effect heightened by a shirt of bright white. Whippet-thin with an olive complexion, his pupils glowed from cavernous eye sockets on either side of a hawk nose.

Despite Foissard’s bleak assessment, Harry proved an apt pupil and Foissard’s hauteur disappeared. The two became friends. Foissard lectured his new students, Mes eleves, you should be as gifted as Monsieur Seymour. I pruned his natural talents to bring them to full flower.

To escape the heat and disease of summers in the city, the family moved to Belle Vue their place further up the Mississippi. Harry and Foissard rode there together. As it came in sight with its pale pink exterior, white trim and powder blue shutters, a small redhead raced toward them on a mare. Harry recognized Sean Connolly and with a whoop galloped to join him.

Sean shouted, The new colts arrived.

Two days later, the elder Seymour and Foissard waited for breakfast—the wall to the dining room folded back to catch the light breeze on what promised to be a sultry day—and watched the bandy-legged Michael Connolly, William’s overseer and Sean’s father, stride across the lawn from the stables. He pushed in ahead of the butler bringing breakfast from the separate kitchen.

Someone stole the colts. The former jockey stood near the table, hands on hips.

William grinned, I know the thieves. Are Sean and Harry at your house?

Michael shook his head. William turned to the butler, Moses, see if Master Harry is in his room.

Moments later the man returned shaking his head, No, suh, but the bed’s rumpled.

William pushed back his chair, Gentlemen, let’s finish our coffee in the stables.

Their coffee was still warm when the boys galloped up on the two lathered colts. Michael’s face went red and he shook his crop at his son, What’s the meaning of this? Those colts are wild.

Sean shrugged and said with a grin, Well, today they were saddle-broken before sun up. Can they run! Maybe we have a Stakes Race winner.

Maybe, but your behind will be too sore to ride him, Michael growled.

William shook with laughter and his coffee spilled. Foissard, who rarely smiled, grinned. William waved his empty cup, No, no, Michael. The boys did you a service. Granted on a rushed schedule, but we can begin workouts now.

Michael still scowled, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

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During fall and winter the family lived in New Orleans near the cathedral in a brick house with long white-shuttered windows and a balcony around the second floor with an iron filigree railing.

As Harry grew, Foissard guided more than his education. He learned fencing from a famous duelist, the father of a pupil, and dancing, from the father of another.

At sixteen, Harry was tall and lithe like his father with soft brown eyes like his mother. In the gray light of a winter’s afternoon, he trotted into the dancing studio of Monsieur Brule, his mind still on the lunges and parries of Captain Guissonne—today’s lesson included two touches of his instructor, a first for Harry.

M. Brule, a fussy little man with pomaded ringlets, chided Harry, Ah, Monsieur Seymour, merci for your presence, the young ladies miss you.

This elicited female titters.

Harry smiled, Pardon, Monsieur. Fencing ran over long.

Oui, again the martial arts triumph over those of the salon. Just remember our beloved Emperor mastered the dance and the sword.

Harry whispered to the boy next to him, There are no accounts of Napoleon’s ballroom triumphs. The boy guffawed.

Brule frowned, took Harry by the arm and led him to where a pretty dark haired girl sat. Pressure from Brule’s hand on his back forced Harry to bow. Brule said, Mademoiselle Bouillon, Monsieur Seymour would be honored if you accepted this dance.

She curtsied, Charmed.

Circling abound the floor as M. Brule tapped time with a staff, Sophie Bouillon pressed against Harry. Harry felt the pressure of her breasts and her perfume made him dizzy. He remembered Sean’s tale of sporting with the wife of an overseer at a plantation near Belle Vue and became aroused. Sophie pressed harder, Harry, she breathed. His face reddened. He moved away, she ground into him with the strength of a boa constrictor. In desperation he stamped on her foot. She screamed. The class erupted. M. Brule clapped his hands over his ears and ran in circles like a frenzied chicken. Pandemonium erupted. Sophie, her pain forgotten, joined Harry in a gale of laughter.

Harry carried his good mood into supper. Over coffee, M. Foissard brought up college for Harry. Madame and Monsieur, a decision must be made.

The elder Seymours looked at one another. William gestured to Helen. She turned to Harry, We’ll ask our son. He knows our opposing views, but he’s the one going.

Harry gulped as all eyes turned toward him. After what seemed forever to him, he swallowed, "Monsieur Foissard says I can go anywhere. Father, we toured Harvard during our visits to Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Jane in Connecticut. I know Cousin Charlie and Cousin Elliott, his face wrinkled with distaste, will go there and you would like me there too.

Mother, I know New England is a hot bed of anti-Southern sentiment and you endured insults during our visits to Hartford because we are tarred with the same brush as slave owners.

Seeing Harry waffle, Foissard cut in, If I may, I have a letter from Philippe Crozet, my countryman in Virginia. He suggests Harry look at the University in Charlottesville, near his home. I know it’s an excellent school founded by President Jefferson.

Helen and William nodded. William turned to Harry, A superb idea, I see your mother agrees.

CHAPTER

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Samantha made her sound prissy. Sam was better.

Her mother had been sure she carried a boy. When Yancey, her older brother, asked why, their mother smiled a secret smile and winked, Because I know.

Yancey grinned, I’ll call him Sam then.

His mother laughed, We don’t have a Samuel in the family. I like it. Tell your father.

Yancey frowned, You do it. He’ll take it better from you.

His mother sighed. She wished her husband felt closer to Yancey. He doted on their oldest son, a lawyer. He was everything Yancey was not, tall, blond, a superb horseman and liked by all. Yancey was dark, slight, an indifferent rider and waspish. She believed he was difficult because he knew his father felt that way so she paid more attention to him than she had her other children.

She was happy that Yancey named the baby and her anxiety about how he’d react to a younger child evaporated. We’ll both tell him.

Two months later, Sam came into the world. As Yancey held the newborn, his mother looked up at him, We have a problem. Sam is a girl. We’ll still call her Sam, but her formal name is Samantha.

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Though Sam looked like a copy of her older sister, Victoria, she reminded her parents of her oldest brother. As a toddler she followed her father everywhere. When Courtney met in the mornings with Foxcraft, the overseer, Sam went with him. When he rode into the fields, she rode in front of him on his saddle and later beside him on her pony. On hunts, she took the birds from the mouths of the retrievers who learned to ignore their handler and go directly to her.

Her parents believed their girls should be educated so Sam had lessons from Mr. Yarnell, a widower and retired school teacher from Charlottesville who lived in a cottage at Hazelwood Hall. School went year-round from after dinner until three o’clock on weekdays. By the time she was seven Sam read, wrote and did sums. She sat with Courtney while he did the books; delighted at her interest, he explained everything. At first Sam nodded without real understanding, just happy for the attention, but gradually she saw patterns in what he did and began to ask questions or anticipate his actions. At ten, she began to keep the ledgers at first under her father’s the eye then by herself. Courtney told Yarnell he never had to correct her twice.

Sam knew her mother read only Godley’s Lady’s Book, or Harper’s and she wept over Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. Sam thought Bovary was a silly twit and said so to her mother further astonishing her by saying she’d rather read Ruffin’s agricultural journals or go to a horse sale.

On Sam’s fifteenth birthday, Jecelyn came into Courtney’s study, a room she rarely visited, and shut the door.

This is an unexpected honor, my dear, what is so important that we must discuss it behind closed doors?

Jecelyn’s mouth set in a line at his bantering tone, I must speak with you about Samantha. I just went looking for Yancey’s old clothes that I could give to the hands. I found them in a trunk in Sam’s room. Until now I’ve ignored her dressing like a boy when she’s with you. It’s around the place or in the fields, but now she beginning to… develop. I don’t want the field hands gawking at her. It’s indecent. Lord knows we have enough worry about their animal instincts without her encouraging improper thoughts. She took a chair and leaned forward, ready for battle.

Courtney knew the body language. He sat back in his chair, steepled his hands and stared at them. He looked up when Jecelyn shifted in her chair. As you know I am delighted with Sam’s interest in the plantation. I have encouraged it. I plead guilty to ignoring her feminine side, but before you pass sentence, I throw myself on your mercy.

Jecelyn’s face softened. She tried to keep her tone harsh, but failed, Honestly, Courtney, you know how to take the wind from my sails. She smiled, What brought this on is the party that Monsieur Crozet is having for the people from New Orleans. I promised her a gown, but cannot get her a stay still long enough for a fitting. I told her she cannot go if she doesn’t dress like a young lady. She shrugs and disappears.

Courtney rose, and leaned down to kiss his wife, You are right this is a closed-door subject. I’m responsible for Sam’s off-handedness. I’ll speak with her gently.

The next day as he and Sam rode toward the fields, Courtney turned toward his daughter, You know I’ve missed the emerging beauty I watched in Victoria and now I see it again in you even under Yancey’s cast-offs. He patted her hand taking the sting from his words, Like a fine flower beauty must be displayed in a proper setting. The opportunity for you is Monsieur Crozet’s party.

Sam squirmed. Courtney saw doubt and fear, emotions rare in his confident daughter. Papa, Victoria is a rare beauty. I’m so ordinary.

Courtney laughed, She looked just like you at your age. The difference was that she preferred feminine pursuits and was guided by Mama. She was all frills and laces. She never went to the fields and rode only side saddle though she loved our coach best, especially when she wore a pinafore and had a pretty parasol.

Sam sighed, I hate those things.

Courtney grinned, I love them. Men like their women to be, well, feminine. Sam’s face fell. He held up his hand, Do not despair your life ’til now has not been wasted. You have an appreciation for manly things that appeal to men who seek an equal partner not a subservient spouse—where together the two make a whole. It’s time to develop your feminine side to attract men so you get an opportunity to show your other qualities.

Sam grimaced, If you say so.

I do and ask you to work with your mother between now and Monsieur Crozet’s party. I know you will be pleased at the results.

On a sunny day with the scent of azaleas in the air, Sam and Jecelyn rode in the carriage to a dressmaker in Charlottesville. Bolts of cloth were stored on alcoves on the shop walls. With their hollow circular cores Sam thought they looked like multicolored cannon. The woman removed bolt after bolt until a rainbow of colors cascaded off tables. At last Sam saw a pale purple that entranced her and to which her mother agreed. Then there were books of patterns. Jecelyn chose one with a modest skirt and neckline. The color set off Sam’s blonde hair and fair complexion. Sam was relieved at the lack of a décolletage, conscious of her small breasts. In a week they returned for a fitting, the dressmaker had everything right. Sam stood in front of the full-length mirror. The person she saw with her hair up in the fitted gown made Sam bluish with pleasure. Her doubts about her debut as a young lady vanished.

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A re you in or out, Yancey?

Yancey Hazelwood looked at his small pile of chips, In, damn it, my luck better turn.

The player opposite him grinned, Not your night, again, huh.

His face reddened. Not for a longtime. He turned in his chair and snarled to a slave, Get me another drink, boy.

The other man said with mock concern, Careful bourbon doesn’t addle your brain. What you got?

Two pair, Yancey splayed his cards on the green baize surface.

Flush, here. The other man scooped the chips toward him.

Frowning, his lips white with strain, Yancey downed for his drink. His gorge rose, I’m gonna to be sick.

Outside, his host snapped.

When he returned wiping his chin, no one glanced up.

On the next hand, Yancey risked all his chips. Straight, slamming his cards down.

Straight ace, high, beats yours.

Sure he’d won, Yancey stared goggle-eyed, Someone take my marker?

Heads shook around the table. His host said, Better get more money from your father.

Yancey threw his chair back from the table. His hair fell over his blood-shot eyes. He reached up to push it back, lost his balance and pitched sideways crashing to the floor.

The other players whooped in derision. Easy, his host warned, Don’t take your poor luck out on the furniture. Have another drink.

Yancey drank until the others called it a night and got up to leave. He tried, but his legs wouldn’t work.

Stay here, his host offered, but Yancey wanted to get away from their grinning faces.

Help me to my horse. A player took his arms and another his legs like a sack of flour and levered him into the saddle as his horse shied—skittish at the dead weight.

Grasping the pommel he pushed upright and gave the horse his head. The animal ambled along. Enraged, Yancey saw the arrogant face of his host and raked his spurs backwards, Move, goddamn you.

The horse bolted. Yancey swayed in the saddle and grabbed the pommel again as the beast tore through the woods. His hat whirled away plucked from his head by a low-hanging branch. Leaves rained down. The horse neighed in terror and took the bit in his teeth. Yancey sawed on the reins. The gates of Hazelwood Hall flashed past as the maddened beast headed for the stable where he dug his hooves into the dirt. Yancey pitched past his neck and landed spread-eagled in the dust. His head snapped back and he dove into a black pool.

Yancey opened his eyes to a black face inches from his own. Sunlight streamed through his bed room window.

Coffee and brandy, be quick about it, you woolly headed bastard, he snarled at Rufus, his house slave, and gave him a cut with his crop. He struggled up on his elbows to stare at his reflection in the mirror opposite his bed. Fully clothed down to his boots, his face showed lines of hard sleep and his hair stood in clumps. He grabbed his pockets to find his bankroll and came up empty. Damn it! he sank back on the pillow. Prone, he shrugged, At least, I don’t have markers.

Rufus returned in time to hear this, Huh, suh?

Nothing, you ape, put the tray here.

Rufus hesitated, The Masta want to see you, as soon as you up.

Yancey grunted. He hated sessions with his father. This one would be worse because he needed money. First, he’d take a ride to clear his head.

Saddle my horse.

Yancey saw the marks of his spurs, but the horse nuzzled him. He wished for such a short memory to forget his losses. When he passed the slave cabins, Mammy was in the yard bent over a washtub. She looked up, Mornin’ Masta Yancey, fine day.

Yancey smiled. Mammy raised the Hazelwood children and he felt more for her than he did for his family.

Mornin’, Mammy. You tell Rufus to shine my boots and sponge my suit, hear?

Rufus, her son, was lazy. Yancey frowned in annoyance. His face cleared as he saw Rufus’s sister, Jasmine. He put his horse into a trot. She looked up as he slowed to a walk beside her. The stick she beat against her thigh stilled.

Where you off to?

Getting the cows, Masta Yancey.

Hop up behind.

She hesitated. Her posture stiffened. He put out his hand. She shrugged. He lifted her up behind him.

Hold on.

Her arms went round him. He felt her breasts in his back. His crotch stirred.

Alone in the meadow near the cows, he reined in, slid down and pulled her off. He kept his arms around her. She felt his hardness and tried to pull away, whimpering.

Aroused, Yancey threw her to the ground. She cried out, Nooo!

He laid his crop across her lips. She stilled. He yanked her shift up around her neck. He drew in his breath with a hiss at the sight of her breasts tipped with large light brown areoles and the hair dark and thick at the join of her legs. She squirmed. His hand replaced the crop over her mouth. The other tore at his flies. She flailed at him, he pinned her to the ground with his body and forced her legs wide.

He said through clenched teeth, I need this. She lay inert beneath him. He convulsed, rolled off her and hissed, Don’t tell a soul, bitch.

Her eyes held a look of infinite sadness. Yancey rode off whistling. Jasmine resumed her walk to toward the cows flicking her switch at the seedpods of the long grass.

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Yancey looked in the mirror in the hall to see if any effects of last night’s debauch lingered, swore under his breath and strode into his father’s study. The elder Hazelwood looked up from his ledgers.

I sent for you sometime ago. Yancey glared at his father. I heard the stable hands carried you to bed last night and I saw the condition of your horse and see the cuts on your face. I despair when I think that all this will be yours someday. Why did you punch that man at the Tredegar Iron Works and destroy a productive summer in Richmond?

Yancey shifted from foot to foot. His father gestured to a chair.

I hoped you’d take over here. You know I opposed your attending the University.

Yancey sighed, it was an old topic. Father, I am not suited to this life.

So you say, but you don’t seem suited for anything. When you finish in two years, then what?

Yancey shrugged, I may teach there, my professors say I have a talent for mathematics.

Courtney’s sour expression showed what he thought of that idea. Just then the butler knocked on the open door. Yes, Robert?

Mr. Crozet is here. May I show him in?

Relief flooded Courtney’s face, Excellent, set another place for lunch.

Philippe Crozet still bore himself like a member of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard in which he served at nineteen. After the Guard fled from the British and Germans at Waterloo and Napoleon went into exile on St. Helena, Crozet left France for America to join the Emperor’s brother, Joseph, the former King of Spain. When plans to rescue Napoleon and bring him here came to nothing, Crozet, son of a wine grower, settled on perfect land for pinot grapes east of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

With a smile he put out his hand to Courtney and patted Yancey on his shoulder. What a beautiful morning. As you know I’m hosting a party this weekend for my countryman Pierre Foissard and his pupil, Harry Seymour, who visit so Seymour can interview at the University next week.

He looked at Yancey, I would like you to talk with him. In addition to the usual guests, I’ve asked a business associate of Harry’s father, the head of Planter’s Bank, and his British house guest, just back from the Crimea.

At lunch Crozet said to Yancey, Wyckham-Smythe, the Lewis’s guest, was wounded outside Sevastopol. He is an artilleryman. He can to give you practical insight into what you’ve read in my library.

Yancey grinned for the first time that day. Big guns fascinated him. He memorized whole passages from Crozet’s books on artillery. Fields of fire, elevations and range of shot appealed to his mathematical mind.

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Harry looked older than his seventeen years. Riding the rounds of the planters from whom William bought crops of indigo, rice and sugar cane toughened Harry and the sun bronzed his skin. He kept light brown hair trimmed so it swept back over his ears and was full on his collar in the back. He stood just over six feet; his body lean. His demeanor was saved from being austere by his mother’s soft brown eyes, an easy grin and a voice where words seemed to uncurl from an afternoon snooze.

Harry and Foissard left Belle Vue on a rain-soaked morning. At Natchez they took the Trace northeast to Nashville and stopped at The Hermitage, home of Andrew Jackson, hero of the Battle of New Orleans.

After three weeks, they arrived at Crozet’s Esperance, brick with a wide front porch and upper veranda supported by white Corinthian columns. The Frenchman embraced Foissard, kissed him on both cheeks and shook Harry’s hand.

At supper, Crozet pointed to the molding above their heads, Cow’s skulls carved by Hessian prisoners during the Revolution, I purchased this house from a soldier’s widow whose husband died at Cowpens. Just nineteen, she raised two children here. Her son vanished on a voyage from Jamaica. Her daughter married a Northerner and she moved near them. She wrote her new anti-slavery neighbors were as rabid as our secessionist ones.

As he rode toward Charlottesville, Harry saw the dome of the Rotunda on the University grounds. Later from its marble steps his eyes followed colonnaded wings on its sides and the sweep of lawn in between. Students lived in rooms in the wings facing the lawn and went to classes in the Rotunda. Faculty lived in two-story apartments, set between blocks of rooms. Thomas Jefferson—called Mr. Jefferson by all at the University—referred to the University as his academical village.

A faculty committee met with Harry and Foissard. Harry passed tests in Latin, English, French and mathematics. He accepted a place for the fall of 1856.

Back at Crozet’s, Harry looked worried. Foissard chided, You should be happy. You passed all their exams like child’s games. I am proud.

You are right of course, but I am sorry my choice of the University hurts my father. I am the first one in my family not to attend Harvard. Perhaps, I should have gone there; but I was put off by the hostility I felt when we visited.

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On Friday, Harry stood beside Crozet to greet guests.

Harry shook hands with the Lewis’s guest who looked to be in his twenties with shock of red hair and blue pop eyes, I’m Wyckham-Smythe, friends call me Whi—a jibe against my last names from a wag during my lower form at Eton.

A group clattered up in a carriage and on horseback. Crozet’s face brightened, Ah, my neighbors, the Hazelwoods.

An older man and a sauterne younger one turned toward Harry, I’m Courtney Hazelwood and this is my son, Yancey. He’s in his third year at the University.

Crozet interrupted, Harry accepted a place there next fall.

Courtney resumed, Then you two will want to talk. Let me introduce my wife, and my youngest daughter, Samantha.

The daughter’s direct look made Harry uneasy. New Orleans girls kept their eyes lowered in pretended modesty or looked at him from under fluttering lashes.

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Under the trees, trestle tables held a buffet. Plates heaped with food, Harry and Wyckham-Smythe stood together and looked for a place to sit. Whi laughed, We’re odd-men out. Don’t know a soul. I have a solution. He winked and tapped his leg. Received this wound from the Russians in the Crimea—a nuisance really; but makes me irresistible to women, watch. He limped toward a group with a loud sigh. A pretty girl looked up and rose to assist him to a place beside her. He said something, she giggled and he motioned Harry over.

Meet my latest nurse, Jeanette Byrd. She spells her name with a ‘y’ like I do, makes us relatives.

Jeanette giggled again and poked him. Harry sat between them and Yancey and Samantha Hazelwood Harry asked Yancey about the University.

It’s all right, he shrugged and kept his eyes on Whi.

His sister added, Yancey likes it. He’s a math genius. He’s angry because father won’t cover any more of his losses at cards.

Shut up, Sam, Yancey snapped.

Her head went up, Well’ it’s true. Everyone knows you’re rotten at cards.

Yancey grabbed her arm leaving a red imprint, That’s family business, he hissed, jumped up and strode off.

Whi asked Jeanette to take a turn about the grounds.

Samantha Hazelwood moved closer to Harry, You’ve said little Mr. Seymour.

Harry nodded, I am not a raconteur like Whi.

He felt her warm breath on his face as she leaned in, If you can call him Whi on such a short acquaintance, you can call me Sam and I’ll call you Harry. Please tell me about yourself.

He did and she asked, What do Louisianans think about politics?

Harry demurred, We believe it’s a dangerous subject to discuss with strangers, though, he grinned, "you and I are on a first name