The war may be over, but the fight for what comes next has only begun.

As the South struggles to rebuild in the uncertain days of Reconstruction, the people of Arledge Hall find themselves standing on shifting ground. Freedom has come, but with it questions no one knows how to answer about land, identity, belonging, and what it truly means to move forward.

Joe carries the weight of a lifetime of loss and faith, now faced with the fragile hope of restoration. Thomas stands at the edge of something new, forced to reckon with the past that shaped him and the future he must choose. Cissy must decide if love is worth the cost in a world that refuses to accept it. And within the walls of Arledge Hall, old wounds surface as those who once stood divided are called to build something different together.

But not all men are willing to let the past go.

As danger lingers and tensions rise, each must decide what they are willing to fight for and what they are willing to lay down.

Set against the backdrop of a nation rebuilding itself, The Setting Time is a powerful conclusion to the Arledge Hall trilogy. It is a story of endurance, redemption, and the courage to carry on with grace and strength when the path forward is anything but certain.

Perfect for readers of historical fiction that does not shy away from hard truths, this final installment reminds us that while the past cannot be undone, it does not have to define what comes next.

Prologue

 Blackwood Plantation

 Louisiana, 1825

     Joe picked the yellow flowers Mama loved,
plucking them from the edge of the swamp, where the earth felt damp and heavy
beneath his bare feet.

She always smiled when he
brought her flowers, even when he was a smaller boy. She’d kissed his cheeks,
and asked, “Who’s the most beautiful soul in all the world to me, Joseph?”

He’d grin and answer,
“Me!”

Then she’d twirl him
until he giggled, breathless. When she set him down, she’d cup his chin and
say, “Promise me, Joe.”

“I promise,” he’d say.

“You promise what?”

“I promise to love God,
be kind, and remember I’m loved.”

“That’s right. Say it
again.” 

She made him say it every
day. Sometimes he tired of the words, but she would hold his face between her
palms and make him meet her eyes.

“You’re a slave to them,
Joseph, but you’re a king to me.”

He didn’t know how a boy
could be a slave and a king at the same time.

When she said it, he felt taller somehow. But each time she spoke those words,
a tear or two would drop from her dark eyes, and he’d reach up and wipe it away
with his fingers.

“Don’t cry, mama. I’ll
say it again.”

She still made him repeat
it. And she still cried each time.

He didn’t like when Mama
cried. She cried a lot, and sometimes he could hear her during the nights, her
sniffles reaching his ears where he lay on a cot next to hers.

     “Joe!”

     He looked up to see Massa waving him
toward the house. He brushed the dirt from his hands and went, though he wished
he didn’t have to. The other boys didn’t care for him much. Mama said that the Massa
favored him, and Joe couldn’t help that. Sometimes Massa invited him into the
parlor for tea. Sometimes he taught him his letters, though it was against the
law. Joe treasured the small Bible Massa had given him more than anything he
owned.

     The missus didn’t favor him at all.

     Joe stepped in front of Massa now, flowers
clutched in his hand.

     “Come on to the house, boy. I got
something for ya.”

     “But Massa, I got to give my mama these
here flowers before they wilt. They be needing water right away, sir.”

     “Fine, fine, but we’ll put them in water
at the house. You can take them to her later. Come on, now. We got business inside.”

     Later, he stood in the parlor beneath
papered walls and tall mirrors that caught the afternoon sun. Dust motes drifted
in the light like tiny spirits. Matilda circled him with a measuring tape.

“Stand still now. You
want me to stick you with this pin?”

He straightened at once.

His eyes grew large when
he realized she fitted him for a jacket.

A fine one, too.

Mama would smile when she saw him in it. But the way Matilda looked at him made
him want to take it off.

    She muttered around the pin stuck between
her lips. “Man ain’t got no sense. A jacket like that for a boy like this, like
we all don’t know why he doin’ it.”

Why did she look at him like
that, as if he’d done something wrong?

     “A jacket can’t cover your sins,” she
whispered. “It only shouts ‘em to those looking. Poor boy and your poor mama,
too. Pearl ain’t had no chance, but she just keeps on hoping for her boy. But
hope ain’t gonna stop what he keeps doing to you both.”

     Mama told him about sins. But what sins
was she talking about? Massa’s? And what did that have to do with this jacket?

     “What are you doing?”

     Matilda dropped the bowl of pins, as the Missus
entered, scowling. Matilda didn’t answer her, just picked up the pins, one by
one.

       “I’m not going to ask you again,” the
Missus said, one hand planted on her hip. “Why is that boy in my parlor being
measured for clothing?”

       “I’s measuring him for a dress jacket,
Missus. Massa say he needs a jacket.”

     The Missus’s eyes cut to Joe, sharp and
cold.

“Leave the pins, Matilda.
I’ll see to it.”

Matilda hesitated, then
set the bowl down. She gave Joe a look filled with something like pity before
slipping out.

The Missus turned to him.

“So. You’re wanting a
dress jacket?”

“No, ma’am. I ain’t never
had one before. I didn’t know to ask.”

     “Now you mind your tongue. He may think
you belong in this house, but I know better, and you’ll learn better, too, or you’ll
never step foot in this house again.”

     Joe’s lip quivered as she pricked him with
the pin harder than she needed to, but he didn’t dare cry. Mama had told him to
hold his head up, no matter how someone treated him. So, he met her cold eyes
with his own determined gaze. She pricked him again.

     Massa strolled in with his newspaper but
stopped short when he saw his wife with Joe. “Where’s Matilda?”

     “I dismissed her.”

     “Why? I gave her the order, so there’s no
sense in bothering you with it.”

     “There’s no sense in bothering anyone with
it. This boy in a dress jacket? Have you gone mad?”

     “Mind your language, Harriet. I’m still
your husband.”

     “Are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.
What talk is this? And in front of the boy?”

   “Well, it certainly concerns him, so why
not? If you did not still visit her cabin, if you did not bring your offspring
into this house—my house—perhaps I could forget it. He may be a Blackwood in
blood, but he’ll never carry the name.”

Joe’s heart thudded. A
Blackwood? How could that be? He looked at his hands.

Then thought of Massa’s. They didn’t match. He was black and Massa was white.
White men didn’t have black sons.

     “You’re talking nonsense. I’m not treating
him any differently than any other slave, except he has a few luxuries. So
what? Joe’s a good boy, and I aim to make him driver over the fields someday,
that’s all. You know I’ve been wanting to train 
a new driver to take ole Saul’s place. By the time Joe’s able, Saul
won’t be.”

“I do not want him in
this house. I cannot stop you from visiting her cabin, but I will not endure
this reminder every day. Reading my books. Drinking tea. Wearing a jacket meant
for our own child. I don’t need your dark son in my face, reminding me of what
she can give you when I cannot.”

“Harriet, that’s enough.”

Massa looked at Joe.

“Go on back to your mama
now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe carefully slipped
free of the half-pinned jacket, picked up his bouquet of flowers, and hurried
toward the door.

His hand touched the knob,
then he paused, listening.

“Either you get rid of
that boy,” the Missus said from the other room, “or you get rid of me.”

Joe froze.

“You would tear him from
his mama?” Massa demanded. “How can you ask this?”

“I will not look upon his
face another day. You have until tomorrow to find a buyer. For him or for her.
Or both.”

Buyer.

The word slid into Joe’s
chest like ice.

He did not understand
everything. But he understood what that meant.

He sprinted across the
yard, the stems bent in his grip as he ran, its petals shaking loose behind
him.

He reached the cabin
where Mama waited. Before she could even speak, he knew.

He was going away.

And his mama could
not stop it.

Chapter One

Columbus, Kentucky, Late
May, 1865

Richard doubled over
again, clutching his side where Clarence had cracked a rib. He wasn’t sure how
long it’d been since he’d left the prison. Days? Weeks? Time blurred into pain
and darkness.

     Across the room, Clarence smiled.

     It was that same slow, humorless stretch
of lips Richard had learned to dread long before tight ropes and beatings. The
smile stopped short of his eyes.

     Clarence returned to his supper, then
tossed Richard a scrap of cornbread. Richard lunged for it, before it could
fall, devouring it. Hunger clawed at his stomach, but rage gnawed deeper.
Clarence watched him chew and chuckled low in his throat.

     “Funny how the tables turn, ain’t it? Mr.
Richard Banks, son of a planter, looking down on the likes of me. Now you’re
just a sorry beggar, gobbling up a scrap from my table. You once scolded me for
daring to approach your slave, and here you are, worse off than any slave I’ve
ever encountered.” He tossed Richard another piece, laughing as it fell just far
enough so Richard had to strain against his ropes to get it.

     He had learned not to respond to
Clarence’s taunts. He’d need all the strength he could muster to follow through
with his escape. He didn’t know where they were. He’d been half-conscious for
most of the journey, his body draped across a horse like cargo. He had no sense
of direction. Only that he was far away from help.

     “I guess there won’t be no slaves now.
What’s your father going to do? It’s against the law to own a slave. I bet
they’ve up and left Arledge Hall, leaving your family’s place to ruin. Oh, but
I’m sure there’s a few who remain. I hear tell there’s a lot of slaves still
working the land, but for a piece of it. Imagine that. As much as I loathe the
idea of colors and whites working together, I can’t help but revel in your
family’s downfall. Too bad you’re not there to help them handle such a shock,
ain’t it? They don’t know whether you live or die.”

     Richard swallowed the last crumb and
leaned back against the wall. The cuts along his stomach and arms pulled tight
where dried blood cracked with movement. Clarence never wounded him deeply
enough to kill him. Just enough to heal. Just enough to start again. He looked
around the abandoned house, searching for anything he could use to aid in his
escape. Clarence often left him alone but bound by the ropes on his wrists and
ankles. He’d already found a sharp piece of glass edged within the floorboards,
but it was tiny and would take much effort to cut his thick ropes. Still, if
Clarence left him alone long enough, he might be able to shred them to a fray,
enough to weaken them, so he could break free.

     His weakened state of hunger and thirst might
hinder how far he could run, though, so he needed to find a way to build his
strength. He needed more food, but how? He hadn’t prayed in a while, but the
words pressed up anyway.

Lord, help me.

Clarence scraped his
chair across the floor and stood, stretching his lean body before slipping his
hanging suspenders over his shoulders. Though thin, the man’s frame possessed a
sturdy strength, and Richard knew in his weakness, he could never attack the
man and survive to tell about it. 

Bending down in front of
Richard, he pulled his whiskers until he winced, then Clarence brought his boot
down hard on his leg. The scream tore out of him before he could swallow it.

 “It’s time for me to visit a friend. Don’t go
nowhere, ya hear?” He cackled as he grabbed his hat and latched the door with the
lock on the other side. Richard eyed the plate on the table. Clarence must be
getting sloppy. He never left any food in reach, and Richard felt a sliver of
hope for his empty gut.

     He raised himself up to see what sat on
the plate. A thick slice of cornbread, one boiled potato, a piece of salt pork,
and some buttermilk in a tin cup. More than Richard had eaten in days. This was
his only chance. His leg protested when he tried to crawl over, but his resolve
returned quickly when he realized that not only had Clarence left the plate and
cup, but he’d left his fork, too. Pulling his dead weight across the floor, he
reached the table in minutes. He stopped and listened when a noise outside
startled him, but moved again because it was just a bird outside the window.
The window Clarence had boarded up from the other side. He couldn’t worry about
that yet. One problem at a time.

He reached his bound
hands up as far as his injured body allowed, and grabbed hold of the edge of
the tin plate. He brought it down to the chair, then reached back up and cupped
the fork between both hands, before using it to slip it into the handle of the
cup to slide it forward inch by inch. He wrapped his fingers around the cup,
bringing it to his lips and drinking, but trying not to drink too fast. The
last thing he needed was to vomit any nutrients he could get. He saved some
buttermilk and sat it on the chair seat next to the plate and lifted the salt
pork. He closed his eyes and tasted everything. It was the best thing he’d ever
had for breakfast outside Verdie’s grits and bacon. It wasn’t even close to her
cooking, but it was closer than anything he’d had in months.

     Making himself chew slowly felt like
torture, but he knew he must. His stomach needed time to adapt to eating again.
His leg hurt, but the food was such a nice surprise, he figured he could handle
anything. He chewed the potato, and even though he figured it needed salt, he
didn’t care. He finished the cornbread, then the rest of the buttermilk,
allowing his body to register what he just swallowed. It felt so good to feel
something in his stomach other than bile. He reached up and grabbed the fork
again, working it through the ropes, but they didn’t budge much. Reaching for
the glass in his pocket, he worked on his wrist ropes, but realizing it’d take
him hours to weaken them enough to break free. Looking around the room, he grew
hopeless, wondering what Clarence might do if he found the empty plate and cup.
He didn’t think he could stand more abuse and survive, especially since
Clarence didn’t like to think Richard might have an upper hand in any way. He
needed to always feel in control.

     He’d have to get out of the house with his
hands and feet still bound, at least far enough to get somewhere where he could
get a tool, rock, or sharp twig. He could hear a river nearby, so maybe he
could cover his tracks if he walked and waded a while.

     But that left the obvious problem. How
could he get out? Remembering his earlier prayer, and how God provided food, he
decided to try again.

Lord, help me.

     Nothing. No bright idea, and nothing he
could use to get out. The room still sat empty, other than the table and the —

The chair. He could break
the glass and use it to free himself of the ropes.

Standing felt like its
own kind of miracle. He hadn’t tried in weeks. Clarence made him use a chamber
pot, and he had to relieve himself from his knees. If he got out of there, he’d
bathe in the river once he got far enough away.

     He decided to brace himself on the table,
then lift himself to standing position. He had spent too many days bent low,
broken and beaten. If he meant to live, it would not be on his knees. The food helped.
He already felt a bit of strength and resolve return to his senses. While
shaky, his legs didn’t betray him. He held on to the table a minute, taking
deep breaths, then he moved his tied hands to the spindle on the chair and
pulled. It slid toward him. He almost cried with relief. He knew he’d be slow
dragging the chair to the window, so he didn’t waste time. Keeping his feet
close together so he could walk without tripping over his ropes, he stepped
tiny steps as he pulled the chair. The steps to the window seemed like a mile,
and he almost collapsed before he reached his destination. Slumping against the
whitewashed wall, he reached out to touch the window, trying to determine how
hard he’d need to slam the chair against it. Thankfully, the glass felt thin, but
Richard knew he’d better muster any strength he had left to make this work. He
wouldn’t get another chance to make it out of here alive.

     Inhaling deep into his chest, he lifted
the chair by its spindle, grimacing at the pain in his leg as he bent to get a
good grip. He swung with a grunt, then flinched as the glass cracked. A piece
fell at his feet and Richard noticed it resembled a knife. Perfect.

     In moments, he freed himself of the ropes,
frowning at the raw skin on his flesh at his wrists and ankles. He didn’t know
what Clarence had done with his shoes but he couldn’t fret over those now. He’d
try to find some later, though he had no idea where. He didn’t even know where
he was.

     Now that his hands and feet were free, he
pushed against the locked door. It didn’t budge. He went to a back door in the
lean to, which sat as empty as the other room, and Richard couldn’t budge it,
either. He turned, about to whisper yet another desperate prayer, when he
noticed a loose plank on the wall. Light shone through the warped top. If he
could get it loose, he just might be able to pull it apart, then he could rip
out the boards beside it.

    Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he yanked
until he heard a crack. The board surrendered its place on the wall, and
Richard almost laughed. He busted two other boards, and with his frame being so
frail and thin, it was enough to escape. Rushing back to the table, he picked
up the glass knife and his ropes, then grabbed the fork from the table, along
with the cup. He took off his Confederate uniform jacket and secured the items
like a knapsack, then squeezed through the spaces in the wall. He figured he
had about an hour before Clarence came back, and with his limp, he’d need to
get going as fast as he could. Freedom meant nothing if Clarence caught him
again.

He forced his legs forward, one step at a time.

     Even with food in his stomach, the hunger
lingered, a hollow ache that wouldn’t ease. The glass shard might serve to
clean an animal, but he’d need something better to bring it down. Still, the
priority would be putting distance between him and Clarence. He wished he could
hide and surprise the man with the shard of glass, sticking it and driving it into
his chest, so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. But he couldn’t risk it. Not when
he had very little strength. His life meant more. He didn’t know the road, but
he knew where it must lead.

     Arledge Hall.

     He needed to check on Mother and Father
and Eden. And little Mae.

     And he hoped to see the one face he’d
never stopped dreaming about.

     Cissy.

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