“Nonsense,” Alcott replied, waving him in. “You are always welcome.”
Joseph settled in with a rueful smile, then turned to Evander. “Has anything unusual happened to you recently?”
Evander stiffened. “Define unusual.”
Lowering his voice, Joseph said, “I’ve been receiving threats. Demands to sell our indigo plantations.”
Evander’s heart thudded in his chest. “You have?”
“Yes. And frankly, I’m beginning to think I ought to take them seriously.”
Evander met his gaze. “Then you should know that we’ve been receiving threats, too.”
Joseph’s eyes widened, the color draining slightly from his already pale face. “So it isn’t just me?”
“No,” Evander responded. The truth had a strange weight to it when spoken aloud. “Someone threw a rock through an open window at our townhouse this morning. Hit my father in the head and knocked him unconscious.”
Joseph stared at him for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
Evander’s jaw tightened. What was he going to do? “I want to sell the indigo plantation. That seems the only sensible path. But my father refuses.”
Joseph's brow furrowed. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “What if I bought it from you?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
Harwood gave a shrug. “It’s merely a business decision. Nothing more. Our plantations border each other. If I owned both, they’d make a far more appealing package for the right buyer. Twice the land, twice the return.”
Evander leaned back slightly in his chair, considering him. “Are you anticipating difficulty selling yours?”
“Not especially,” Harwood said, “but the value increases with scale. It’s easier to market a vast, uninterrupted expanse than two smaller, adjacent ones. Buyers want simplicity and control.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Truthfully, I haven’t stopped thinking about any of this since the first threat came. And now...”
Harwood’s tone shifted, lower, tighter. “I know what you mean. I’ve been haunted lately. Not just by the threats, but by the whispers. The things people said about my brother, and how he treated the workers. The cruelty.”
Evander bobbed his head. “My brother wasn’t much better.” The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sometimes I wonder what we inherited, besides their titles.”
Harwood gave a quiet laugh, sharp and without joy. “That doesn’t make me feel better.” He stood then, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. There was a stiffness in his movements, a hollowness behind his eyes. “I should go. My brother’s funeral is this afternoon.”
Evander stood with him. “I wish you luck.”
Harwood closed his eyes, just for a moment. But it was long enough for Evander to catch the glimmer of moisture clinging to his lashes. Grief etched itself across his face, as raw and unguarded as a wound.
“I keep hoping I’ll wake up from this nightmare,” Harwood murmured.
Evander reached out and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. There were no clever words, no solutions. Only solidarity. “You’re not alone in this.”
Harwood’s eyes opened again. “That’s kind of you to say. But you’re wrong.”
With that, he turned and walked away, shoulders hunched, as if carrying the weight of far more than grief.
Evander watched him go, the echo of Joseph’s words clinging to him like fog. He understood the pain of how isolating grief could be, even when surrounded by people who claimed to understand.
“He’ll be all right,” Alcott said beside him, breaking the silence.
Evander didn’t answer at first. He just watched the door where Harwood had vanished. “I hope so,” he said quietly. “I should go, as well.”
“Are you sure you don’t want that drink?”
