Ralestone Luck. Andre Norton

Lucy, she's bin a-livin' heah, dat is, her mammy and pappy and her pappy's mammy and pappy has bin heah since befo' old Massa Ralestone done gone 'way. So Lucy, she jest nachely am oneasy 'bout yo'all not gettin' things comfo'ble."

      "That is kind of her," Val answered heartily. "My brother said something last night about wanting to see you today, so if you'll come up to the house—"

      "I'se Sam, Mistuh Ralestone, suh. Ah done work heah quite a spell now."

      "By the way," Val asked as they went up toward the house, "did you see that boy in the canoe going downstream as you crossed? I found him in the garden and the only answer he would give to my questions was that he had as much right there as I had. Who is he?"

      The wide smile faded from Sam's face. "Mistuh Ralestone, suh, effen dat no-'count trash comes 'round heah agin, yo'all bettah jest call de policemans. Dey's nothin' but poah white trash livin' down in de swamp places an' dey steals whatevah dey kin lay han' on. Was dis boy big like yo'all, wi' black hair an' a thin face?"

      "Yes."

      "Dat's de Jeems boy. He ain't got no mammy nor pappy. He lives jest like de wil' man wi' a li'l huntin' an' a big lot stealin'. He talk big. Say he belongs in de big house, not wi' swamp folks. But jest yo'all pay no 'tenshun to him nohow."

      "Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?" Ricky's voice sounded clear through the morning air.

      "Coming!" he shouted back.

      "Well, make it snappy!" she shrilled. "The toast has been burnt twice and—" But what further catastrophe had occurred her brother could not hear.

      "Yo'all wants to git to de back do', Mistuh Ralestone, suh? Dere's a sho't-cut 'cross dis-a-way." Sam turned into a side path and Val followed.

      Ricky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother stepped into the kitchen. "Well," she snapped as he entered, "it's about time you were showing up. I've simply cracked my voice trying to call you, and Rupert's been talking about having the bayou dragged or something of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?"

      "Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky," he called her attention to the smiling face just outside the door, "this is Sam. He runs the home farm for us. And his wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house folks."

      "Yassuh, dat's right. We's Ralestone folks, Miss 'Chanda. Mah Lucy done sen' me ovah to fin' out what yo'all is a-needin' done 'bout de place. She was in yisteday afo' yo'all come an' seed to de dustin' an' sich—"

      "So that's why everything was so clean! That was nice of her—"

      "Yo'all is Ralestones, Miss 'Chanda. An' Lucy say dat de Ralestones am a-goin' to fin' dis place jest ready for dem when dey come." He beamed upon them proudly. "Lucy, she am a-goin' be heah jest as soon as she gits de chillens set for de day. I'se come fust so's Ah kin see wat Mistuh Ralestone done wan' done wi dem rivah fiel's—"

      "Where is Rupert?" Val broke in.

      "Went out to see about the car. The storm last night wrecked the door of the carriage house—"

      "Zat so?" Sam's eyes went round. "Den Ah bettah be a-gittin' out an' see 'bout it. 'Scuse me, suh. 'Scuse me, Miss 'Chanda." With a jerk of his head he left them. Val turned to Ricky.

      "We seem to have fallen into good hands."

      "It's my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does what she tells him to. I wonder how he knew my name?"

      "LeFleur probably told them all about us."

      "Isn't it odd—" she turned off the gas, "'Ralestone folks.'"

      "Loyalty to the Big House," her brother answered slowly. "I never thought that it really existed out of books."

      "It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was born about a hundred years too late. I'd like to have been the mistress here when I could have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me."

      "And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted escort. I know. But those days are gone forever. Which leads me to another subject. What are we going to do today?"

      "The dishes, for one thing," Ricky began ticking the items off on her fingers, "and then the beds. This afternoon Rupert wants us—that is, you and me—to drive to town and do some errands."

      "Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well, now that that's all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. Has Rupert been fed or is he thinking of going on a diet?"

      "He'll be in—"

      "Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not satisfy the pangs of hunger."

      "Where's Lovey?"

      "If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan—he's out—hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was shooting head first for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door. Here's Rupert. Now maybe we may eat."

      "I've got something to tell you," hissed Ricky as the missing member of the clan banged the screen door behind him. Having so aroused Val's curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee.

      "How's the carriage house?" Val asked.

      "Sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the old smoke-house." Rupert reached for a piece of toast. "What do you think of our family retainer?"

      "Seems a good chap."

      "LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of ambition and is really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them do around here. His wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the cook-housekeeper here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still talks about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she is planning to take us in hand."

      "But we can't afford—" began Ricky.

      "I gathered that money does not come into the question. The lady is rather strong-willed. So, Ricky," he laughed, "we'll leave you two to fight it out. But Lucy may be able to find us a laundress."

      "Which reminds me," Ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her pocket, "if this is yours, Rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. I don't know what you've got on it; looks like oil."

      He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.

      "Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here." He passed over the dirty linen square. It was plain white—or it had been white before three large black splotches had colored it—without an initial or colored edge.

      "I think he's prevaricating, Ricky," Val protested. "This isn't mine. I'm down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last Christmas. They have my initials on."

      Ricky took back the disputed square. "That's funny. It certainly isn't mine. I'm sure one of you must be mistaken."

      "Why?" asked Rupert.

      "Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. It wasn't there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it up, 'cause it was right there in plain sight."

      "Sure it isn't yours, Val?"

      He shook his head. "Positive."

      "Queer," murmured Rupert and reached for it again. "It's a good quality of linen and it's almost new." He held it to his nose. "That's oil on it. But how—?"

      "I wonder—" Val mused.

      "What do you know?" asked Ricky.

      "Well—Oh, it isn't possible. He wouldn't carry a handkerchief," her brother said half to himself.

      "Who wouldn't?" asked Rupert. Then Val told them of his meeting with the boy Jeems and what Sam had had to say of him.

      "Don't know whether I exactly like this." Rupert