Authors: Patricia Hagan
From upstairs, he heard the creaking of the heart-of-pine flooring as someone stirred. A moment later, there came the sound of footsteps in the hall.
Ryan waited at the foot of the stairs. Gradually, he was able to make out the glow of a lantern, becoming brighter as the man bearing it came closer.
“What the hell do you want?”
Zachary Tremayne stared down at him from the second-floor landing, lamp in one hand, rifle in the other.
Ryan did not mince words. “My wife.”
Zachary realized that Youngblood’s being there could only mean trouble.
Nate hadn’t told Zachary the details, but he knew Erin had been disposed of as Arlene had, and he was glad, because if he’d been able to get his hands on her, he would probably have beaten Erin to death for the scar she left on his face. But Youngblood, according to Nate, didn’t know of Erin’s fate; his mother had taken care of that.
Zachary pointed the gun. “She’s not here. Now get out. I don’t want no trouble.”
Ryan started walking slowly toward the stairs but kept his eyes on Tremayne. “Where’s
your
wife?”
“She’s not here either. Now I told you, I don’t want trouble,” he repeated, an edge to his voice.
“Tremayne, till I find Erin, everybody’s got troubles.” He started upward.
Zachary backed away from the railing. “I swear, I’ll shoot. Now you get on out of here. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Erin. All I wanted was to get rid of Arlene, so the voodoo would stop, and it did, ’cause I let the slaves know if it didn’t, I was gonna start peelin’ hide and hanging a few of ’em. And it worked, ’cause things have got quiet. Real quiet. And that’s the way I want it. Now git!”
Ryan continued his ascent.
Zachary watched in wary silence and kept the gun pointed.
Even in the scant light, Ryan could see the hideous scar. “How’d that happen, Tremayne? Did one of your slaves finally give you what you deserved?”
Zachary bristled, eyes narrowing with rage as he sought revenge for the disfigurement Erin had caused. “No, it wasn’t a slave, Youngblood. At least, she wasn’t one then. But I reckon about now she’s getting what she deserves, working as a fancy girl somewhere.”
Ryan didn’t know what he was talking about but felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “Maybe you’d better explain.”
Zachary had slowly leaned to set the lantern on the floor so he could hold the gun with both hands. He could get away with killing Youngblood by saying the man had broken into his house. Or maybe he’d just drag him deep into the swamp and let him rot there. But first, he wanted to enjoy taunting. “Sure, I’ll explain, and then you’ll be glad you can’t find the high-yaller bitch.
“You see.” He licked his lips in delighted anticipation of being able to tell him at last. “Arlene’s grandmother was a full-blooded Negro, so that makes her mulatto. You hear what I’m saying’, Youngblood? You married a woman with Negro blood! Why, she’s nothin’ but a slave passin’ for white, and you were fool enough to fall for it. But not me! I knew all along. Arlene told me before we got married, and it didn’t matter till she got so sickly, but I sent her where she belongs, into slavery. I figure that’s where your high-yaller wife wound up, too, and—”
With a savage cry, Ryan lunged, and when he did, Zachary pulled the trigger. Ryan had anticipated that and dove to the side. As the gun fired, he felt the whizzing heat mere inches from his head. His arms snaked around the man’s feet and toppled him backward. They grappled for the gun, rolling over and over, and they kicked the lantern over but didn’t notice as oil spilled and flames shot across the floor.
Ryan landed a sound smash to Zachary’s jaw but caught a blow to his chin and was dazed long enough for Zachary to grab the gun by the barrel. There was no time to position and fire, but he brought the stock down in a deadly arc.
Ryan saw it coming in the glow of the hungry, licking blaze and rolled just in time. Zachary lunged again, but Ryan was ready, butting him in the midsection with his head and knocking him breathless.
With a smashing fist, he put him all the way out.
Slowly, Ryan got to his feet. Smoke was blinding, for the fire was rapidly spreading. He stumbled through the gray, choking fog, groping for the stairs.
He was about to descend when he hesitated over whether to let the bastard burn to death.
He turned back into the smoke.
With great effort, he dragged Zachary all the way downstairs and out into the yard.
Gratefully gulping in the sweet, fresh air to cleanse his parched lungs, Ryan stared down at his unconscious foe. “Sometimes life is worse than death, damn you,” he muttered before turning away. “If there’s a God in heaven, I’ve a feeling he’ll show you hell on earth.”
Victoria reclined against the pillows, feeling absolutely wretched. With Eliza and Ebner gone, the other household servants were not as competent, and she was having a terrible time with the vapors.
The doctor had come and gone late last night, assuring her he’d return some time in the afternoon to examine Ryan and try to diagnose the extent of his mental disturbance. Meanwhile, Victoria could only pray Ryan would not learn the truth. It might take a bit longer, but if he couldn’t find that wretched girl, which she was sure he’d be unable to do, he’d eventually have to get over her and get on with his life.
She guessed he’d gone tearing off to the Tremayne farm. She only hoped Tremayne would tell him about Arlene. Maybe then, he’d realize it had all happened for the best and just give up. For certain, she’d pretend not to have known and, as would be expected, have some kind of attack. Never would she reveal she’d known all along, for then he might suspect she did have something to do with Erin’s disappearance. For the time being, it was the word of slaves against hers, and they weren’t allowed to testify against white people anyway in a court of law, so she was not about to lower herself to contradict any accusation they made.
She yawned, stretched, and decided not to spend the rest of the day in bed worrying about it all.
Flinging back the covers, she sat up—and that was when she realized Ryan was standing in the doorway.
“How—how long have you been there?” she asked, unnerved, grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed. “Heavens, as crazy as you’ve been acting lately, I don’t like the idea of your sneaking up on me this way.” She also didn’t like the way he was staring at her, as if something in him had died, and just the shell of him was left.
In a dull monotone, he stated rather than asked, “You knew, didn’t you.”
“Knew what?” she asked sharply, irritably, as she ran trembling fingers through her hair.
He walked over to the bed, and as he came toward her, Victoria instinctively shrank back.
Pulling the covers up to her chin, she was starting to experience fear of her own son. His blue eyes were the color of frost on a January morning, narrowed to ominous slits beneath the frown that creased his forehead. He looked worn, haggard from a sleepless night, yet there was no slump of weariness to his posture. He stood straight, tall, a fierce resolve emanating as he demanded confirmation of the suspicions that had riddled him during the seemingly endless night.
“Somehow—I don’t know how—you found out about Erin having Negro blood. You made arrangements to have her sold into slavery to get her out of my life, as Zachary Tremayne had sold her mother.”
Victoria could not conjure the shocked reaction she’d planned, for she was far too terrified. She could only shake her head wildly from side to side, eyes bulging, lips working nervously but silently.
“You knew it wouldn’t matter to me,” he coldly continued, “because you read the letter I’d left for her and knew I loved her, that I’d still love her even if I found out the truth about her being a mulatto.”
Victoria finally found her voice, thin, squeaky, feigning horror. “Oh, no! She can’t be…”
When he did not respond, she became braver, more sure of herself, daring to think maybe he was coming to his senses.
“Oh, my son, I know how this must hurt you, but be glad she did run away with another man. What if you’d had children? It could have been a disaster. Why, the baby might have been dark-skinned, and—”
“Don’t you understand?” He looked at her incredulously, as though he’d never really seen her before. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing matters to me except my love for Erin. And you”—he sat down beside her—“are going to tell me exactly what you did with her, and you’re going to tell me the name of the person who helped you do it.”
Victoria broke down.
The tears and the screams and the sobs and the pleas to forgive were genuine.
Ryan sat unmoved, waiting for her to realize he had no intention of relenting.
Finally, when she saw there was no way out except for the truth, she told him everything.
And when she was done, he got up and walked to the door.
Victoria ran after him, stumbling in her desperate haste, falling. She reached out to clutch him about his ankles as she begged, “Ryan, don’t go, please. You’ll thank me one day for ridding you of her. She’s where her kind belongs, and you’re only making a fool of yourself, and me, and the Youngblood name. Please, son—”
He kicked free of her hold, moved quickly out of her reach, then stared down at her, not with hatred or loathing, but pity.
Still, he knew he had to speak the words that were needling his soul.
“You have no son…and I have no mother.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Erin was fascinated with the verdant
beauty that was Sierra Leone. The low-lying, flat coastal area was said to extend for over two hundred miles, and, though it was extremely swampy in places, inland regions quickly became dramatic, with wooded hills rising to the Lorna Mountains near the Guinea border.
The language, she quickly found, could be a problem among many tribal groups. Yet there were enough British people in residence that communication was adequate for her needs.
Elliott Noland was an amiable guide, helping her to become acclimated. She learned that the main crops of the region were rice, coffee, cocoa, palm kernels, and kola nuts. The local pastime of the natives was sharing horror stories of slave catchers in the remote hills, and the ever-present danger of man-eating leopards.
Letty was given the job of cooking for the governor and his staff, in exchange for room and board. Erin, given shelter there along with her mother, was grateful not to have to eat the local diet of crushed corn, parboiled fish, and, most unpalatable of all, crispy, dried caterpillars.
She knew the climate had to be the primary reason her mother’s health was so improved, but there was no denying Elliott had something to do with it also.
While Arlene filled her days with helping to teach native children in the settlement school how to read and write, and Letty had her hands full in service to the governor and his staff, Erin found herself growing restless. With too much time on her hands, days blended into weeks of feeling there was no real purpose to her life. Finally, she tried her hand at teaching, but was dismayed to realize it just wasn’t her calling.
She volunteered to work with the churches, yet did not feel truly needed. The village was bursting with British missionaries, and she was only in the way.
Loneliness set in, along with thoughts of how useless she felt in Sierra Leone and how much she could be doing at home.
One night after dinner, as she and her mother and Elliott sat on the porch overlooking the wine-dark ocean, a strange and eerie sound began from somewhere behind them in the hills. Slowly, it spread, rising in crescendo, voices moaning and wailing in a kind of chant.
“
Morna
,”
Elliott affirmed reverently. “It always gives me goose bumps, no matter how many times I hear it.”
Arlene murmured, “And such a sad and lonely sound. I’ll never forget the first time I heard it.”
“Would someone please tell me what it is?” Erin was spellbound.
Elliott obliged. “It’s a chant that legend says began on the Cape Verde Islands and spread throughout Africa. It’s supposed to convey the sadness and loneliness of wanting to go to a mysterious, faraway place, where waves, which represent eternal peace, never cease. Those who chant believe they can actually hear the waves crashing on some distant shore, that the sound is calling them to it. True happiness can only be found by going there, and the chanting echoes the will of the soul to obey.”
A beautiful but sad tale, Erin thought. She could not refrain from asking, “What happens when no one ever goes there?”
He smiled cryptically. “Who can say they don’t? Where a person goes in his heart is a very private thing.”
Erin thought about that. It was only native music, a leitmotiv. Yet, in that instant, it was so easy to imagine she could also hear the eternal waves—only the sound was Mother Bethel, calling her back.
Arlene saw the misery etched on her face and exchanged a concerned glance with Elliott as she probed, “Is something wrong? Does the chanting upset you?”
“What upsets me is feeling absolutely useless.” Erin saw no reason to hold back any longer. She’d accomplished what she set out to do; she’d found her mother. Now she was assured of her happiness and health and confident Elliott Noland would ensure it continued.