Page 87 of In These Hills

Dodge’s eyes glimmered. “That’s the fermented grain and the char. But can you smell the vanilla? Maybe a bit of toffee?”

Wishing for water, she shook her head. “No vanilla. No toffee.”

Mr. Daniel waved her closer to a copper still. “You’ve seen one of these before?”

“In pictures,” she managed, clearing her throat.

Each still—six or seven feet tall—rested on a stone-and-brick furnace with a fire burning low and steady in its blackened hearth, smoke curling around the brickwork. The massive bulbous copper pot narrowed as it rose, tapering into a swanlike neck before curving down into another copper vessel—round, cylindrical—with a nozzle protruding.

“We use copper stills.” Pride accented Mr. Daniel’s voice. “And we always age our whiskey in charred oak barrels, which gives Old No. 7 that distinctive, smooth finish.”

Soft light from the high windows made the hand-forged copper glow. And though she wouldn’t admit it, the riveted pots, though oddly shaped and made for sordid purpose, were beautiful in their worn patina.

Once outside again, Mr. Daniel turned. “I’d best be off. But Dodge, be sure to show her the charcoal-leaching process. That’s important. And give her a good view of the vats.” A look flickered over his face. “Mrs. Dunham, though I respect your feelings toward whiskey, a better understanding on your part will prove useful in our upcoming visits with vendors.”

“Upcoming visits with vendors?” Josephine repeated, catching the gleam in his eyes.

“Oh yes. I’ve placed advertisements in all the major papers inviting potential vendors to come see Lynchburg and taste Old No. 7 where it’s made. We’ll do tours and tastings. I’m contemplating hosting dinner parties at my home when they’re here. A nice meal, perhaps some dancing.” He bowed. “Naturally, I’d want you there.”

She smiled. “And naturally, I will decline in advance.”

“No need to decide now, Mrs. Dunham.” With a Cheshire grin, he turned. “We’ll revisit this later.” He headed toward the office, then looked back. “Oh, and Dodge. If you get word from Washington, move forward as you see fit. Don’t delay. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“Will do, sir.”

Josephine watched him stride off in his knee-length black frock coat, vest, and wide-brimmed country squire hat. “That man never stops thinking about whiskey, does he?”

“No, he does not.” He gestured toward the next building. “Ready for the charcoal-leaching process? Then I’ll let you slip out the side door.”

“Is the charcoal leaching what makes the whiskey taste so horrid?”

He laughed. “It’s what makes it taste so good. It mellows it. You’ve seen the men burning piles of sugar maple three times a week?”

“The first time I smelled it, I thought a building was on fire.”

As they walked to the building, he described the mellowing process, then opened the door. She stepped inside and the sharp mix of charcoal and whiskey stung her nose and throat, same as in the stillhouse. Dodge seemed unbothered.

The building appeared empty but for the two of them, and an almost reverent drip, drip, drip filled the silence. Sunlight slipped through slats in the wooden walls, illuminating dust motes that rose like mist in the hollow. Eight or ten large round wooden vats—each at least four feet across—sat in holes in the floor.

She moved closer and peered down through the side opening. The vat continued below the floor for some distance. “How tall are these things?”

“Twelve feet deep and five feet wide, filled with sugar maple charcoal and raw whiskey. Every drop spends from three to five days in one of these vats.”

“Then where does it go?” She lifted a hand. “Not that I’m interested. I’m only asking so I can answer questions when the vendors come.”

He nodded, but she could tell he didn’t believe her.

“Near the bottom of each vat is a metal spigot. Several times a day the men draw off what’s passed through. The whiskey comes out clear as pure water, then gets poured into the charred white oak barrels.”

“And that charring really makes a difference?”

“If we’re doing it, it’s at Uncle Jack’s bidding, and it’s because it makes a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She could still taste the burn of Calla’s tea on her throat. Nothing mellow about it, in her opinion.

She’d seen Calla since, but hadn’t spoken of it. More truthfully, she hadn’t taken the chance. It was Calla’s business. And she wasn’t about to tell Miss Mary. She simply cared about her friend . . . and wondered what pain had driven Calla to drink.

“And that concludes our tour,” Dodge said a little too loudly.