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"His name's William, William Huntington Cambridge. He was named after his great-greatgrandfather," she said, in that same bitterness she had intoned before. "Who happened to be one of the heroes of the Confederacy, something about which the Cambridges are very proud," she added.
"I suppose if you scratch everyone around here, you'll find most have ancestors who fought for the South," I said softly.
"Yes, I'm sure. That's another reason why I . . ." She spun around, her eyes bright with tears. "I never knew my grandparents on my father's side. They were kept a family secret, which was why they weren't supposed to have me," she explained. She paused as if she expected me to understand everything, but I didn't and I shook my head.
"My grandfather married a black woman, a Haitian, which made my father a mulatto, but white enough to pass as a white man."
"And that was why your parents never wanted to have children? They were afraid . . ."
"Afraid that I, the offspring of a mulatto and a white woman, would be darker," she said, nodding. "But they had me eventually anyway, which you know makes me a quadroon. We moved around a lot, mostly because whenever we settled somewhere long enough, someone, somehow, suspected."
"And your boyfriend, William . ."
"His family found out. They consider themselves bluebloods, and his father makes sure that he learns as much as he can about anyone his children get involved with."
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's unfair and stupid."
"Yes, but that doesn't make it any easier to endure. `. y parents sent me here hoping that by having me surrounded with the creme de la creme, it would rub off and no matter where I went from here on, I would be considered a Greenwood girl first, upper class from a good family, special, and therefore never suspected of being a quadroon. I didn't want to come here, but they want so much for me to escape prejudice and they feel so guilty for having me that I did it for them more than I did it for myself. Understand?"
"Yes," I said. "And thank you."
"For what?" she asked, smiling.
"For trusting me."
"You trusted me," she replied. We started to hug each other, when suddenly, a man called out from behind us.
"Hey," he cried. A door to the boathouse snapped shut behind him. We spun around to see a tall, dark-haired man no more than twenty-four or five approaching. He was shirtless, and his muscular upper body gleamed in the moonlight. He wore a pair of tight jeans but was barefoot. His hair was long, down over his ears and most of his neck.
"What are you doing down here?" he demanded. He came close enough for us to see his dark eyes and high Indian cheekbones. The lines in his face were sharp but strong, cutting a firm jaw and a tight mouth. He had a rag in his hands, and he wiped them continuously with it while he looked us over:
"We just went for a walk," I began, "and ."
"Don't you know this is off-limits after dark? Want to get me in trouble? There's always one or two of you venturing down here to get me up a tree just to amuse yourselves," he said harshly. "Now you make like two jackrabbits mighty quick or have Mrs. Ironwood on your tails, get it?"
"I'm sorry," I said.
"We didn't come down here to get anyone in trouble," Abby added, stepping forward out of the shadows. When he looked at her, he immediately softened.
"You two are new, huh?"
"Yes," she said.
"Didn't you two read that handbook?" "Not completely, no," she replied.
"Look," he said, "I don't want any problems. Mrs. Ironwood laid out the rules for me. I'm not even supposed to talk to any of you on the grounds without one of the teachers or staff members present after dark, see? And especially not down here!" he added, looking around to be sure no one was listening.
"Who are yo
u?" I asked.
He hesitated a moment before replying.
"Name's Buck Dardar, but it will be Mud if you two don't hightail it outta here pronto," he said.
"Okay, Mr. Mud," Abby said.
"Git," he ordered, pointing at the hill.
