Arm in arm, chattering in the two languages, Clotilde and Veronique went into the big house. Veronique thought nothing of leaving her driver and footman standing there in the hot sun. Frederick's mistress probably would have been more considerate, but there were no guarantees.

Pointing, Frederick told the driver, "Why don't you put the carriage under those trees? Horses can graze there if they want, and they won't cook."

"I do that," the driver agreed. "Marcus and me, we won't cook in the shade, neither."

"That's a fact," said the footman-presumably Marcus.

"Before too long, we'll bring you out something to eat, something to drink," Frederick promised.

"Got me somethin' to drink." The driver pulled a flask from one of his jacket pockets, then quickly made it disappear before anyone white could see it. "Food'd be mighty good, though. When the white ladies gits together, all the niggers who takes 'em gits together, too."

"That's a fact," Marcus said again. When he reached into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of dice instead of a flask. "Me, I aim to head on back to Master Barker's with some of their money."

"Good luck," Frederick said, wondering how much luck would have to do with the dice games ahead. Maybe those were honest ivories. Then again, maybe the footman had reason for his confident smile. Frederick decided he wouldn't risk any of his small, precious hoard of coins against Marcus.

Odds were he'd be too busy to get the chance even if he wanted it. Here came two more carriages, almost bumping axles as they rolled up the narrow path side by side. They rode that way so the women inside them could talk together. A handkerchief fluttered from a carriage window as one of those women made some kind of point.

Out came Clotilde Barford again to greet the newcomers. The women went in talking a blue streak. They hadn't even begun on the punch yet-though the guests might have got a head start before leaving home.