Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (28 page)

Rebecah’s
face burned with anger. Donley turned his horse and trotted back to his troops,
who were heading down the dusty road with Sir Rodney as prisoner.

*  *  *

That
night at the Boyd House, miles and miles across sea and land, from the darkened
forlorn house at Standforth, Theresa Boyd rubbed her eyes and closed the book
she had been reading. Setting her hands in her lap, she stared out the window.
She was deep in thought.

The
glass in the window glazed. The moon’s silvery light frosted it. She could not
stop thinking of Black Hawk. She pictured his face and remembered the way he
climbed the tree. She recalled his voice and poetic words. She thought about
his loyalty to Captain Nash. Would she see him again? Was it wrong for her to
think of a man who was not of her race, considered a heathen savage? As these
questions turned in her mind, a prayer stumbled from her lips. The words were
mixed, jumbled; yet she knew God understood.

“You
don’t see as other men see. Men look on the outward appearance, but you, oh
Lord, look on the heart.” She sighed and set her book on the table beside her.

She
started when the grandfather clock downstairs chimed out the quarter hour. Taking
her candlestick in hand, she went downstairs barefoot and wide-eyed to the
front door. Yes, the bolt was in its slot for the first time she could
remember. Next the windows. The shutters were latched. Moonbeams slithered
through the narrow cracks in the wood. A mouse dashed across the wainscoting.

Theresa’s
heart raced and fear stole up within her. She shivered. Which path would her brave
Indian prince choose? He seemed strong, yet gentle, his eyes dark, yet tender
when he looked at her from the high branch. Wanting to wake from a futile
dream, she shook her head and a lock of her hair fell over her eyes. She
brushed it away and commanded herself not to think of him.

“What
would my father say?” she whispered to the gray mouse perched on the window
ledge. 

*  *  *

At Laurel
Hill, night had fallen and rain tapped against the windows. Maldowney stretched
out in front of the log fire. He folded his hands over his chest and snored.
His belly was full of salmagundi and ale. Nash sat in a chair near the fire
with his boots up cleaning his pistol when he heard a whistle come from
outside. He set the pistol down and went to the door. Looking out into the
darkness, he saw Black Hawk standing alone below the porch. He was shadowed,
except for his face when he lifted it to meet the moonlight. Nash motioned to
him to come inside.

When
Black Hawk stepped over the threshold, he put his hand over Nash’s shoulder. 
“You are well, my brother?”

“Yes,
but left with a limp.” Nash poured another mug of cider, then handed Black Hawk
a bowl of what was left of the salmagundi. He looked over at Robert Maldowney
sleeping.  “I’ve made a friend, Black Hawk. No doubt he shall be yours as
well.”

Black
Hawk turned. “Who is he?”

“A
Scot who says he will see men’s souls saved. We’ve had a long talk, and he
knows what happened to me, and to Tobias. He said I should be circumspect and
keep my weapons clean and loaded.”

Black
Hawk sat on the floor before the fire to eat. His silence said more than words.
It meant he agreed.

“I’m
glad you’re back,” Nash told him. “Eat, then rest. In the morning tell me of
your time in the wilderness.”

Black
Hawk looked up with a mouthful. He swallowed and held up his hand. “I must
speak something.”

Nash
stretched his arms and yawned. “I’m tired, brother. But speak.”

“You
find rest in your dreams? Is the English woman in them?”

Nash
frowned. “She dominates my dreams, and I wake hating the day.”

“You
must stay alive for her.”

“If
anything I must stay alive for my own good.” Nash shrugged off Black Hawk’s
prophetic words. The mention of Rebecah pricked his heart.

“The
ways of the white man are strange to me.” Stretching out and leaning on his
elbow, Black Hawk looked at the dead coals in the hearth. “Perhaps she will do
what this man teaches and forgive you. It is hard for a warrior to do, but not
for a squaw. A warrior never forgets and vengeance is his way. But a squaw can
bury a hatchet and forget where it lay.”

As
he spoke, Maldowney woke. He turned onto his side, unalarmed by the presence of
an Indian, for he saw and heard Nash speaking to him as an equal.

“It
is hard for any man, white or red. For his heart seeks his own pleasure, and he
takes a vengeful path when his mind is worldly.”

Nash
put his hand to his chin and looked out the window into the night. Perhaps he
had given up too easily. Perhaps if he had stayed longer she would have
believed him.

There
was softness about her he had not known in any other woman, a gentleness that
melted his soul. He doubted he would ever find a woman like her even if he
searched the entire world.  

He
grew thoughtful and silent. Rebecah was not what he wanted to dwell on. He
tried to forget, but something always reminded him of her. When the wind blew
hard, he thought of her unbound hair blowing off her shoulders. When he stood
by the river, he thought of the brook where they had stood together listening
to the sound the water made rippling over the stones. The wildflowers he once
ignored reminded him of the way she smelled. The leaves were the color of her
eyes.

“I
saw men in the woods near the two rivers today,” Black Hawk said. “One was both
Indian and white.”

“LaRoux.”
Nash’s eyes narrowed. How could he not hate the man that had murdered his
friend? “It will be a good day when he is captured, Black Hawk. He is an evil
man.”

“I
should have bounded from the trees, fought his men and dragged him back here to
you.”

“It’s
never wise to throw oneself into a pack of wolves. You know that.”

Black
Hawk grunted. “I followed them until the trail was lost. Blood was on the
trail.”

“Perhaps
LaRoux is wounded and it will be his end.” Nash frowned hard.

“Don’t
you worry, Jack. LaRoux will reap what he has sown.” Maldowney laid back, his
arms behind his head. “All in good time.”

Black
Hawk nodded and went out the door. Joab had long gone to his bed, and Maldowney
snored contently. As a crescent moon descended along the horizon, Nash left his
guests and went upstairs.

For
most men, a memory of love lost fades with time. It becomes a scar instead of a
bleeding wound. But for Nash, her memory prevailed. He looked over at the cold
pillow next to his, imagined she could have warmed it if circumstances had not
forced them apart. He would have loved her, protected her, provided well for
her. He would have laid his life down for her a thousand fold.

He
heard the flutter of wings outside his window. A pair of mourning doves
alighted on the sill and cooed. They huddled together, bathed in moonlight,
tucking their beaks inside their wings for the night. He watched them while
shadows lengthened.

“Rebecah.”
He gripped the sides of the window until his hands shook.

*  *  *

An
hour before sunrise, Rebecah sat in the window seat of her room. She clasped
her hands about her knees, her head raised and pressed against the cool blue
damask curtains, as she prayed for Sir Rodney, Lady Margaret, for Lottie and
her children.

Her
mind went over what had happened between her and Jack. Her breath came quick
and painful. Her heart ached for him. She knew how angry and heartbroken he
would be if he knew what had happened to his father. If only he had been here,
he might have prevented the whole horrible event.

Lady
Margaret’s room was next to hers and she heard her crying through the wall. She
pulled on her robe, stepped out into the hallway, knocked, and went in. Lady
Margaret sat up; her eyes even in the weak candlelight were swollen and red,
still moist with tears. She let out a little cry and stretched out her arms to
Rebecah. Rebecah went to her and held her as she wept.

After
a long desperate night had past, and the sun rose when the clock chimed out
six, Lady Margaret and Rebecah dressed. Rebecah ran a brush through Lady
Margaret’s hair, watched her in the mirror. She stared forward, her brow turned
down, as she sat motionless. The maid had been turned away when she brought in
a tray of breakfast. By eight, they took horse toward Endfield with Angus as
their guide.

Rebecah
nudged her horse on with a click of her tongue. Lady Margaret rode silent
beside her the entire way. The hills were laced with patches of fog and the sky
was gray as slate. No wind blew. She saw Henry Carrow trudging down a hillside
with a hoe over his right shoulder, whistling as he went with his dog pacing
beside him. He looked up and she raised her hand. 

Henry
waved back and picked up his step. With a flick of the reins, Rebecah’s horse
started at a canter. When she reached Henry, she smiled, masking the inner
anxiety she felt.

With
gritty hands, Henry pulled off his hat. His sparse hair lay flat against his
head. He shoved it away from his eyes. 

“Are
you well, Henry?” Rebecah looked out from the brim of her hat.  “How are Jane
and the boys?”

Henry
bowed short. “They’re in fine health. Thank you, miss.”

Angus
and Lady Margaret caught up. She gave Henry a forced smile. She looked tired as
tired could be, and her eyes were red and swollen. Henry gave her a quick bow,
but said not a word. His startled face showed enough concern, Rebecah knew, and
she drew his attention away from Lady Margaret.

“We’ve
come to see my uncle, Henry. Have you heard the news?”

“Aye,
I have. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it with a stout heart.” Henry
doffed his hat and bowed to Lady Margaret.

“Thank
you, Henry.” Lady Margaret nodded. “You are kind to offer.”

“The
master isn’t home. He’s gone and won’t be back for a long time. He’s hardly at
Endfield anymore.”

Rebecah
felt deeply disappointed. She glanced over at Lady Margaret. “We will find
another way. I shall write to him at once.”

Henry
took a step forward, hat in hand. “My wife and I will pray for Sir Rodney, my
lady. It would be easier if your stepson were here.”

Lady
Margaret’s eyes filled up and she looked away. “If ever there were a time when
he should be home it should be now,” she replied. “But I’m being selfish to think
so. His life would have been in danger too, and then I would have had more to
grieve over.”

“And
I with you, my lady.” Rebecah fixed her eyes on the hill where Endfield stood
and remembered all that had happened behind those windows. “Let us return to
Standforth. Angus, once we are home, you’re to go into the village and make inquiries
as to where the army took Sir Rodney.”

Angus
turned his horse back, and as Rebecah and Lady Margaret did the same, Henry
called out. “I think it was a miracle I saw you coming. My Jane and Miss Dorene
are having a terrible squabble up at the cottage. I didn’t know what to do,
except maybe get March. If the master knew what they were arguing over, he’d
have Miss Dorene sent away. Perhaps you could help. It’s a woman’s matter they
be fighting about.”

*  *  *

Jane
Carrow dropped her wooden spoon the moment Rebecah and Lady Margaret stepped though
her cottage door. It was as if the sun broke in on a darkened room. Jane picked
up the spoon. She then curtsied to her ladyship.

Henry
brought Lady Margaret a chair. Removing her gloves, she lowered into it. Still
Rebecah could see the pain in her eyes, which she managed to conceal from the
others.

How
tender a person is Lady Margaret to allow this interruption in her mission.

“We
cannot stay long,” she said. “I thank you for the pause and a cup of tea if you
have it.”

“I
do, my lady.” Jane hurried with cup and saucer.

Rebecah
preferred to stand. Pulling her ribbon free from beneath her chin, she removed
her hat and set it on Jane’s oak table. She turned to her cousin. Dorene stood
by the window, her face heated by either the sun or shame, her arms hugging her
waist. Her eyes were fixed on the swept floor, her lower lip between her teeth.
Rebecah sensed her cousin was in trouble.

Jane
talked about her boys and the neighbors down the road who just had their
seventh baby. “Babies are fine and a blessing from the Lord. Do you not think,
my lady?” Jane poured tea into a plain china cup.

 “If
it had not been for Rodney and my stepson, I would have been a lonely woman.”

Clearly,
Lady Margaret fought back tears. Rebecah drew beside her, set her hand on her
shoulder.

“We
share in your sadness, my lady,” said Jane. “What is to be done?”

Lady
Margaret lowered her eyes. “I don’t know, Jane. We shall soon find out.”

Dorene
put her hand to her forehead. 

“Are
you ill, Dorene?” Rebecah asked.

Dorene
raised her face. Rebecah noticed her cheeks were flushed, looked plumper than
usual.

“I
must be going home. I’ll ask someone else to help me from now on, Jane, seeing
you refuse. One of the scullery maids should do.” Her voice was smooth, yet
tainted with anger. Her dark eyes blinked to hold back fear.

Jane
threw her hands over her hips. “I refused, my girl, because what you ask me to
do is wrong. You go right ahead and try to make trouble for me with the master.
It won’t get you far because he’ll find out why, and I’ll be the one to tell
him.”

Dorene
thrust out her hand. “I forbid you to speak!”

“Of
this I must, Dorene Brent.”

“No,
be silent, Jane!”

“You
go right ahead and try to stop me.”

“You
dare speak to me this way?”