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been pleased if Sebastian had seen her in this bedraggled condition.
    She rushed toward the house, deciding to use the back stairs. Automatically her eyes went to the bell tower as silver tones vibrated in the breeze. Liberty always loved the sound of the bell when it tolled the beginning of the workday or called the workers from the fields in the evening. She stopped momentarily to gauge the time by the white marble sundial. Here, surrounded by the beauti ful grounds of the proud old manor, people did not often measure time by a clock, but rather by the rising and the setting of the sun, the starting and the ending of the workday. Here, the Boudreaux family had lived and died for four generations. Like her father, Liberty loved this land. It was her home—a part of her very life and soul. She was sorely grieved that it had fallen on hard times.
    A grassy slope meandered down to the brown waters of the Mississippi. The river's wide avenue was often crowded with barges filled with indigo, and the new comer, sugar cane. The ageless waters flowed past lazy bayous toward New Orleans, the heart and lifeblood of the Orleans Territory.
    Huge oak trees and delicately scented magnolias domi nated the air she breathed as Liberty moved past a pine grove, glancing at the house where she had been born. The south side of the red brick mansion was covered with climbing ivy and wisteria, whereas a full-length veranda ran the length of the front of the house and around the north side. Now, as always in the heat of the day, the green shutters were closed because Liberty's mother claimed that the sun faded the already threadbare carpets.
    Behind the house Liberty could see the whitewashed slave cabins, and beyond them, the rich meadowlands where cattle grazed. Pride flowed through her veins like a hearty tonic as she neared the house. She was so caught up in her warm feeling of tranquility that she forgot it had been her intention to use the back entrance to the house.
    "Liberty, what you done to yourself, ma chere!" Oralee chided, her hands on her hips, her black face drawn up in a disapproving frown. "If your mother sees you looking like an urchin, she will skin you and me both."
    Oralee was a tall femme de couleur, who spoke Haitian French. She was the sovereign voice at Briar Oaks, but though she ran the house with authority, she rarely chided Liberty, who was her favorite.
    "Get up the stairs at once before your mother learns you are home." Oralee swung her bandanna-wrapped head toward the stairs. "Get! And do not come down until you are dressed to receive guests. M'sieu Montes quieu will be returning for dinner."
    "Again? Does he never dine at his own home?"
    Oralee raised her hand and pointed up the stairs. Seeing the determined light in her eyes, Liberty lost no time in bounding up those stairs. When she reached the wide landing, she tiptoed past her mother's room, and then dashed through her own bedroom door. Feeling safe, she leaned against the closed door, drawing in a deep sigh of relief.
    Suddenly her eyes were drawn to the window, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw her mother staring at her. Ursula was impatiently tapping the toe of her shoe, and her mouth was drawn up in anger.
    "Where have you been, Liberty? What in God's name have you done to yourself?"
    Liberty swallowed a lump in her throat, knowing she had again displeased her mother. "I took the boat into the swamp, Maman. I would have been home sooner but—"
    Ursula abruptly raised her hand. "Spare me the details of your mundane adventure. I swear, you will be the death of me yet, Liberty. One can only guess what our neighbors say about your unladylike conduct. You have ever been a trial to me. Why can you not be more like your sister?"
    Liberty ducked her head in shame. "I am sorry, Ma man. I try to be good, honestly I do. I always seem to do the wrong thing."
    Ursula Boudreaux raised her dark brows in exasperation. Liberty looked so pathetic, with her woebegone