Miss Wrotham’s eyebrows rose. “He did?”
Mordecai nodded. “He was good, too. Almost won. Kneeling in the dirt in all his finery.” He grunted another laugh. “And the whole time he played, he asked questions. What was my name? How old was I? How had I got my black eye? Did I like school? By the time the game was over he knew me inside and out.”
“How had you got your black eye?” Miss Wrotham asked. “Fighting?”
“Not that time.”
“Your mother?”
He nodded.
She frowned, as his father had done. “What did he say when you told him that?”
“He said nothing to me, but he had a lot to say to Mother on that subject later. And about my schooling.”
“What about your schooling?”
“I hadn’t had any. Couldn’t read or write.”
“What?”
The shock on her face made him laugh.
“But . . . your mother was a go
