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planting last year, the mistress had driven a cart herself and brought cider to everyone in the fields. It was the first such kindness anyone at Poplar Knoll could remember.
    Virginia thought it sad that pox scars marred Mrs. Parker-Jones’s complexion, for she seemed an unblemished soul.
    Closing the book, she waved the butler away. “Shut the door on your way out if you please, Merriweather.”
    Although she’d never been in this room, Virginia refused to gape at the fine furnishings. She’d seen better at Rosshaven. The mistress’s dress was another matter. Virginia had forgotten what it was like to wear a fabric as soft as velvet against her skin. Book muslin was good enough for servants and slaves.
    Mrs. Parker-Jones had something on her mind, and from the way she toyed with the bindings of the book and stared into the cold hearth, the subject troubled her.
    â€œTake a seat and tell me about yourself.” She indicated the facing chair. “Where are you from, and how did you come into servitude?”
    Caution settled over Virginia, and she stayed where she was. She knew a bond servant’s place. Getting too close to those in the home house had been disastrous for her. Her skin crawled at the thought of the last mistress and the degradation she’d heaped on Virginia. “Three years remain on my indenture, ma’am. I want no trouble.”
    She sighed, her lips pinched in distress. “You have not been mistreated since our arrival here. I want the truth. Are you Virginia MacKenzie?”
    Something in the tone of her voice alarmed Virginia. She gripped the back of the chair. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI’m curious. Where are you from?”
    Virginia knew she should tell the tale that everyone believed: the lie Moreland had told. She did not; she could not lie to Mrs. Parker-Jones. “I am from the Highlands of Scotland.”
    â€œHow did you come to be here?”
    â€œWhen I was ten years old, I trusted a ship’s captain named Anthony MacGowan. May he rot in hell.” Virginia would go to her grave with a curse on her lips for that swine.
    â€œWon’t you please sit down?”
    â€œThank you, no.”
    As if holding on to a weak belief, she stubbornly said, “Mr. Moreland swore your father sold you into bondage. We paid him for your indenture.”
    â€œMr. Moreland and I saw it differently.”
    â€œYou ran away from Poplar Knoll once. They found you on a raft in the river.”
    She’d tied fallen limbs together with vines. She’d been so brave then, so desperate to get back home. “Yes, and I paid the price.”
    The mistress grew sad. “Again I apologize for what Mrs. Moreland did to you.”
    â€œThank you, but it wasn’t your fault. You needn’t mention it again.” At least Virginia hoped she’d drop the disgusting matter.
    Mrs. Parker-Jones strummed her fingernails on the book. “Are you the daughter of the duke of Ross?”
    Not in years had Virginia spoken of her other life, and every time she had told the truth, she’d regretted it. Mistrust came easy. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œPlease tell me the truth. I swear it will not be used against you.”
    Virginia had received more humiliating treatment for reasons other than her birthright. For no reason at all, save her sex and the color of her skin, she’d been forced to endure humiliations that still chilled her to the bone when she thought of them.
    â€œIs the sixth duke of Ross your father?”
    How could Mrs. Parker-Jones know the specifics of Papa’s title? Unless this interview was not a trick.
    Virginia swallowed back apprehension. “With all due respect, Mrs. Parker-Jones, may I know why you are asking?”
    â€œDo you know a sea captain named Cameron Cunningham?”
    Cameron.
    Images of her youth swam before Virginia. Then she saw nothing at