Chapter 2: Thanksgiving Lessons

I was born into the Connelly family—Hamilton’s first family, at least in their own minds. I’m Evelyn, fourth in line. Dad’s the Chief Justice, respected all the way to the White House. Mom, a born Whitaker, is his official wife and mother of six—two sons, four daughters.

The Connellys have an old saying: "For daughters, the rules are stricter than the law." Girls in this house start learning the arts before they can write their own names. Piano, chess, penmanship, painting, etiquette—we started three years ahead of everyone else in town, like it was a race we couldn’t afford to lose.

Dad’s always preferred his sons. Both my brothers were coached by him from day one. Of us girls, only the eldest, Rachel, ever got his full attention.

The scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon apple pie hung in the air, mixing with the sharp polish of the silverware. That Thanksgiving, the Governor’s family sent over a pair of antique bookends. Dad told Mom to double down on Rachel’s education, saying offhand, "Yesterday, the Governor got a pair of presidential cufflinks from the White House."

I didn’t get it, just watched my parents exchange a look I couldn’t decode. The only thing I remembered was that the Governor was the only one who’d traveled with the President on that southern campaign.

Leaving the dining room, I found my second-oldest sister, Caroline—the one who always played her cards close—leaning against the hallway wall, fanning herself lazily. When she spotted me, her hazel eyes flickered and her smile shifted just a bit.

"Evie, there you are! My feet are about to fall off from standing around," she said, looping her arm through mine with a gentle grin. "I just heard from the housekeeper those bookends look just like the ones in our family vault. Rachel’s really got it made."

Seeing my confusion, Caroline half-hid her grin behind her fan, letting her words drift off. "Anyway, why am I telling you this? The sun’s making me woozy. Want to go pick apples with me? Later, I’ll get the kitchen to bake you some apple pie."

She had that Southern charm—sweet as pie on the outside, but you never knew what she was plotting behind that smile. Sometimes I thought she had a chessboard in her head, always planning three moves ahead. But she could just as easily slip off her heels and dance barefoot through the orchard with me, laughter and apple-scent trailing behind in the summer air.