Thank you to Maxine Bivins, Janet Keith, Gayle Ward, Jenny Gremillion, Marsha Whittlesey, Mary Armistead, Cherie Feinberg, Brent Dickson, Michael Neal, Kathy Zimmerman, Karen Jones, Mica Copeland, and Jerolyn Smith without whose advocacy I would have been far less equipped for the writing journey.
The Characters
Gracie Maxwell–fourteen-year-old girl quickly growing into womanhood
Henry Maxwell–Gracie’s older brother
Simon Hagan–young man who returns to Todd County to sweep Gracie off her feet
Senator Robert Maxwell–gentleman farmer, Gracie’s father, and owner of Hillbound
Annabelle Maxwell–wife of Robert and is Gracie’s mother
Felix and Francine Delaney–neighbors on the farm adjoining Hillbound
Moe Lee and Odelia–Negro couple who work at Hillbound
Children of Moe Lee and Odelia–Celia, Enoch, Bessie, Bertha
Amos–Moe Lee’s brother
Clarice–Amos’ common law wife and main help with Annabelle
Clancy–Felix and Francine Delaney’s hired hand
Samuel Delaney–owner of Cloverdale Stock Farm and is Felix’s older brother
Luke–the jockey and trainer
Bertie–Luke’s wife
Millicent Carver–Gracie’s older sister and wife of James Carver (grocery and hardware store owner)
Emma Rivers–Gracie’s oldest sister (Emma’s husband is Elmer)
Marcus Willoughby–Francine Delaney’s nephew and frequent visitor to her Todd County farm
Rebecca Willoughby–Marcus’ wife
Chester Willoughby–Francine Delaney’s brother from Madison County, Kentucky
Lucy Willoughby–Chester’s new wife
Geoffrey Hagan and Hannah Peterson Hagan–Simon’s father and stepmother
Jean Morgan–friend of Gracie’s during her early school years
Chapter 1
With the drought in every part of Todd County, Kentucky, and surrounding counties, survival had become more intensified. Foreclosures were threatening even the ardently industrious farmers, but for those who were exceptionally hardheaded and efficient—such as former Senator Robert Rutherford Maxwell—procedures at Hillbound in 1930 continued uninterrupted.
Harvest time had signaled the end of yet another growing season at Hillbound, and the routines of tobacco farming were not unlike the ones I had watched from my youth. Negro folks still toiled in the fields—their brows covered with maize-colored straw hats—topping and cutting, stripping and bailing, but I knew none of them. All new faces had replaced the familiar ones that I could have spoken to by name. Thoroughbreds of Father’s wistful dreams roamed the places where I’d previously helped the children learn to read, practicing on them my rudimentary teaching skills whenever possible. The young ones were gone now. The mighty oak under whose branches we’d sat was gone as well.
Robert Maxwell was holding his own, counting himself among the smattering of gentleman farmers who maintained their property with economically disabled and politically powerless black laborers. Hard times had deepened the dependency of the black folks, affording them little choice but to stay on as hired hands, working the devastated farms that brought in, at best, a piddling one-third of the revenue they had in the three years prior.
From outward appearances my father projected prosperity in the way he walked and the way he talked, but I suspected differently. The previous day I’d spent with him at Hillbound all but confirmed Father was putting up a front. He’d sold a portion of his beloved five hundred and sixty acres of burley tobacco farmland along with the forty acres of wheatland he had acquired when he married Francine Delaney.
Father was an imposing man, dark-complected with a full head of sleek black hair and a broad smile. Even at sixty he was straight backed and poised as we rode into the center of Elkton. Other folks, too, made their way into town for essentials. If any one of them owned an automobile, more than likely he could no longer afford to drive it. The depression had hit, and gasoline prices were high, so most folks came in carriages and congregated at the square.
A late-autumn breeze rippled the surrey’s fringe that canopied above my head. Our ride into town in the splendor of this October Saturday was proving to be a chilly one. After two miles of the horse’s clip-clop, we rounded the last turn. Straight ahead of us was the courthouse square. For a small town in Kentucky, the two-story brick building with its white clock tower stood modestly impressive.
Father halted in front of Jim Carver’s Grocery and Hardware and stepped down from the carriage, leaving me perched on the seat while he hitched the reins to a post. No looks, no whispers indicated I had something to hide.
I held my head high. Even so, gossip’s sting could prick without warning beneath my skin. I hadn’t thought of the scandal in months, and it took a mere single night in Francine’s presence to resurrect it. Her staunch ability to live with herself was not my concern—yet it was, and my urgent need to guard outcomes for my brother and the entire Maxwell family name had overtaken my restraint. The moment had crystallized in yesterday’s outburst.
I wish I had said much more to Francine. Looking back, I wish I had said less to Father.
My two years spent away at Logan Female College and the subsequent two at Athens College in Alabama had solidified my ambitions and reshaped my less constructive attitudes as if they were a lump of clay. No longer the broken fifteen-year-old or the self-empowered eighteen-year-old, I accepted the hand Father offered to assist me from the carriage and grasped his fingers as my foot touched the ground.
“Sister would love some horehound sticks,” I said, “and of course I want to see Jim, if he isn’t busy. I’ll pop inside and be right here when you return. That’s all, Father. Nothing too long.”
Father was quick to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Fine and dandy, Gracie, go ahead. Give my best to Jim . . . I won’t go in this time. We should get us over to Millicent’s house directly. I’ll be across the street, but only for a few minutes. If you’re ready to go before that, don’t hesitate to send word,” he said, nodding with a two-term-senator polish to a passerby.
The out-of-doors had a way of doing wonderful things for me. I breathed deeply the refreshing air as I waltzed toward my brother-in-law’s store, my long coat fluttering behind me. Several of the town’s men had gathered in front of Carver’s Grocery and Hardware to exchange news of the day and toss about their ideas on how the turn of events might affect the nation. Most of them were nowhere near recovering income losses that supported their livelihood.
I gave them a passing smile and continued toward the store. My father’s agenda was evident to me, and time wasted was intolerable. I had come to accept the vigorous manner that let his wishes be known.
Inside, a buzz of activity swirled about in immeasurable contrast to the motionless bystanders outside. I went straight to the candy counter without dilly-dallying. My mouth watered in anticipation of the taste of chocolate. “Glorious