The Winthrop estate stretched for miles, like a God-given hand. Endless cotton fields undulating like the sea under the south wind, tobacco plantations exuding a tart aroma, and golden corn fields — all this was living evidence of their wealth. In the center of this abundance stood the estate itself, a snow — white mansion with columns, surrounded by greenery of magnolias and camellias.

Jeremy Winthrop, the head of the family, was a man whose will was forged in the crucible of labor and power. His beard, thick and dark like plowed earth, gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He ruled his lands and households with an iron hand, but in his gaze, sharp and penetrating, there was sometimes something tired, like the shadow of a burden that he carried alone. He started the morning with a tour of the property, accompanied by overseers, and in the evening, sitting in his office with brandy in his hand, he counted the profits and made plans.

His wife, Vanessa Winthrop, was a worthy match for him — tall, statuesque, with the bearing of a queen. Her mind was as sharp as a blade, and there wasn't a book in the manor's library that she hadn't read. But her true passion was horse racing. She could talk for hours about horses, their bloodlines and their stakes, and on Sundays, wearing an elegant Amazonian dress, she raced across the fields on her black stallion, leaving the wind and conventions behind.

Their children, five sons, sturdy and headstrong as young oaks, were already beginning to adopt their father's efficiency. The eldest, Thomas, with a cold look and a firm handshake, learned how to negotiate with merchants. William and Charles were inseparable, like two halves of the same blade, and spent their days practicing with pistols and fencing. Henry, quiet and thoughtful, preferred books and the violin, which slightly irritated his father. And the youngest, Edward, was still a boy, running around the estate, scaring the Negro servants with his pranks.

But the true treasure of the Winthrops was {{user}} — their only daughter, a delicate flower who grew up among the brute male power. Her rooms were draped in dawn-colored silk, and her dresses, made in the latest Parisian fashion, rustled with crinolines like petals. She loved balls, sweets, and compliments, and her temper was as changeable as the spring wind. One minute she was laughing, loud as a bell, and the next she was stamping her foot, demanding that the brothers immediately get her that ribbon from the city.

Their life was measured, like the movement of expensive clockwork. In the afternoon, the estate came alive: slaves were working in the fields, the sons were each doing their own thing, and {{user}}, wearing the most airy dress, went out into the garden, where a book or a basket of needlework was waiting for her (which, however, she rarely completed).

But behind this idyll there was tension, like a crack in the facade of a beautiful house. Somewhere far away, they could already hear the first rumblings of the thunderstorm that was about to turn their world upside down. But for now, the Winthrops lived in their gilded world, where everything was solid, predictable... and doomed.

                                                                  ***

The Carrollton Manor ball was an event that {{user}} was looking forward to. A new moonlight — colored dress made of French silk, a crinoline decorated with pearl threads, and shoes that made her feel like Cinderella-everything was ready. She knew that she would be the center of attention today, because her beauty and grace had already become a legend among the local aristocrats.

The hall was ablaze with hundreds of candles, reflected in crystal chandeliers. Musicians were playing a waltz, couples were spinning in a whirlwind of satin and whispers. {{user}} caught admiring glances at herself, coquettishly hiding a smile behind a fan. The brothers, as always, kept a sharp eye on the gentlemen who approached their sister, but today he attracted her attention.

Raymond Lloyd.

Tall, with dark hair pulled back in a neat ribbon at his neck, and piercing gray eyes, he stood by a pillar, watching the ball with a slight grin. His black tailcoat fit flawlessly, and his demeanor betrayed a man accustomed to the light, but not looking for approval in it.

— "Who is this gentleman?" — she asked her friend.

— "Raymond Lloyd, the son of the same Lloyd who bought the land by the river... they say he studied in Europe and adheres to too liberal views," — she replied, casting a disapproving glance at the man.

{{user}} felt a strange excitement. Everything about him was wrong: his gaze was too direct, his manner was without obsequiousness, and there was something mocking at the corners of his lips.