Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (3 page)

Pulling
down the brim of his hat, he walked beyond a hedge of evergreens. “It’s going
to be strange in England. I’ve been gone so long. But I must see my father. No
king was ever easy to let part of his kingdom go. King George is no exception.
My father does not like the King’s politics, and if war comes, his views could
bring him grief.”

“He’ll
be glad to see you, Mr. John, especially if the Revolution lasts a long time.”

As
the last light of day disappeared over the mountains, Nash saw a whirl of dust
round the bend. A horn blew from the coachman’s trumpet and he held his hands
high in the air for the coachman to see him. Nash’s horse stiffened his ears,
reared his head and whinnied.

Nash
patted Meteor’s neck. “Take care of him, Joab. Don’t let him get into any
clover.”

“I
won’t, Mr. John. Nothing but straw and oats for him.”

Nash
handed the reins over, took hold of Joab’s hand and wished him well. Then he
climbed inside the coach packed with people heading for Annapolis.

Joab
twisted his hat between his hands. “Mr. John, I ain’t got much. So I was
hoping…”

Leaning
out the window, Nash smiled from one corner of his mouth. “I’d bring you back a
gift? What could you want from that misty island, Joab?”

 “A
new pipe and it doesn’t have to come from England. Bring one from Annapolis on
your way home.”

With
a wink, Nash touched the brim of his hat. “You’ll have your gift, my friend.
Stay well.”

The
coachman snapped his whip and the horses carried on. A cloud of rust bellowed
out from beneath hoof and wheel.

“Headed
for England, are you?” a passenger asked.

“Yes,
for a visit only, though I cannot say I’m looking forward to the voyage.”

“By
your clothes I’d say you were a settler in these parts. But to go to England
says you might be loyal to the King.”

“He
lost my loyalty a long time ago. I’m going back to see my family. Revolution is
coming and I may not have another chance.”

“Aye,
‘tis true,” the man agreed. “So you plan to return?”

“I
must. I have land here, and like every able-bodied patriot, I aim to protect it
and win my liberty.”

The
man’s wife, a woman slim and gray, set her hands over her lap. “You plan to
bring back a wife? That is if you don’t have one already.”

“Marriage is the least
thing on my mind, madam.”

“Why not?”

Nash shrugged. “I
haven’t met a girl smart enough to lure me into those bonds any time soon—an
English one I would disregard completely.”

Raising
the coach shade, Rebecah looked back at the brick gables of Ashburne House.
Closing her eyes, she searched for strength, for she grieved in innumerable
ways and this was one more thing added to it. The father and mother she adored
were gone, and Ashburne was now in the hands of her uncle.

 Raindrops
on the ivy sparkled in the evening light. Fog drifted into the woods where tall
hemlocks imprisoned shadows. The dank scent of dusk gave way to autumn rising from
the drenched earth.

Margery
leaned forward. “You’ll like Endfield. You’ve two cousins near your age there.”

Twisting
the fringe on one of her gloves, Rebecah sighed. “I’ll miss home.”

“For
a time. Endfield is much closer to society. No doubt, there’ll be parties and
outings, and more than likely your aunt will have you stay a season in London.”

“London
is too far.”

“True,
but the journey is part of the experience.”

The
coach rolled by a row of poor tenant houses. Barefoot children played with a
stick and an old rag made into a ball along the road. Rebecah slapped the roof
of the coach. “I want to give them money.”

Margery
frowned and settled back. “If you give them a penny their father will waste it
on drink.”

The
horses slowed and the coach eased to a halt. Rebecah climbed out.

“Oh,
don’t go near those children,” Margery warned. “You’ll catch something.”

Ignoring
her maid, Rebecah gathered her skirts and walked down the rutted road, her
cloak flapping in the breeze. Holding close her hood, she called to the
children whose expectant eyes grew fixed on the lady coming their way.

Rebecah
handed them each a coin and looked into what she knew were sweet faces
underneath the grime. “I saw a farmer down the road selling apples. Perhaps
this is enough to buy some.”

The
children thanked her. Off they ran in the direction of the farmer.

Rebecah
turned back. Margery glared out the coach window. “I caught nothing. No need to
give me such a look.”

Margery
scooted back. “Hurry before the cold soaks through your shoes.”

Settled
in her seat, Rebecah pulled her gloves tighter. As the coach traveled on, she
looked out at the countryside. Her thoughts changed now from admiring its
beauty, to the plight of impoverished children. How many of them were orphans
too?

After
a pause, she reached over and patted Margery’s hand. “Why are you angry with
me? I did a good thing.”

“You’re
too compulsive for a young woman. Your uncle will not tolerant you wasting
money on beggars.”

“It
was mine to give.”

“You’ll
not be allowed to ride bareback at Endfield, I would think. And your aunt will
force you to wear shoes all the time.”

Rebecah
smiled at her opinionated servant. “Then I shall run away the first chance I
get back to Ashburne.”

Margery
rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t think of it. You deserve better than what you’ve
had.”

“For
instance?”

“Friends
and the company of young gentlemen of quality for a start.”

 “I
cannot bear to hear this sermon repeated.”

 Margery
gasped. “Well, I try to find the right words hoping you’ll agree.”

“I
cannot be fitted into a mold, Margery. I’ll resist.”

“No
doubt Lanley will visit Endfield and want you to.”

“He
can
want
all day, and I’ll not change.”

“You
must admire something in him.”

“I
haven’t dwelled on him enough to know.”

“He’s
witty and handsome, and dresses so well.”

“I
agree, he dresses very well, though a little too extravagant for my liking. However,
I disagree on all other counts. His wit is dry, and he is not at all good
looking.”

“Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder,” countered Margery.

“I’ll
give him credit for his fine manners, but he is lethargic as a snail, Margery.”

“You
misinterpret a quiet disposition for lethargy, miss.”

“He
has been too lazy to visit Ashburne. It is not grand enough for him.”

“Well,
now that your uncle owns it, perhaps he’ll restore it to its former beauty and Lanley
will appreciate it more.”

 Rebecah
changed the subject. “How far is Endfield?”

“We
should arrive by nightfall,” replied Margery. “I do hope they feed us. I’m
starved for a heavy dinner.”

“I’m
hungry, too.”

“That’s
a good sign. You’ve hardly eaten in days.”

“I
not dare ask for a meal when we arrive.”

“Had
your father taken you to Endfield often, you’d be more at ease.”

“I
think I was there twice in my life. I don’t know my relations at all.”

“There’s
more to family than father and daughter.”

Rebecah
nodded. “We were close, and I adored my mother. We were happy when she was
living.”

“It
is not my place to say. But why he kept you from your cousins, I’ll never
understand.”

“He
called Uncle Samuel a scoundrel.”

Yet
he would tell Rebecah it was a virtue to think the best of people, to bless and
not curse, to bend and not stiffen. His estranged relationship with his brother
always baffled her though. A portrait hung in the hall at Ashburne of the two brothers
as children. Their long brown curls made them look like a pair of cherubs
instead of mischievous boys.

“Must’ve
been a quarrel that parted them,” Margery sighed. “The last time I saw of
Samuel Brent was at your christening. What a handsome man. But his eyes were
proud, unlike your father’s.”

“I too
have wondered what caused the rift between them. Papa died without reconciling
with his brother.”

“A
sad affair they made of it. Perhaps your uncle will make things right now that you’re
under his roof.”

Rebecah’s
face remained turned to the window. The sky grew thick with clouds and rain
fell in soft airy sheets.

Margery
eased back and closed her eyes. Rebecah watched her with affection. How could
she do without Margery? Surely, her uncle would allow her to stay.

They
rounded a bend and through the gloom Rebecah saw the manor atop a hill.

“Ho,
coachman!” A voice called out.

A man
and boy stood to the side. The coach halted and she heard the man speaking to
her driver. “The bridge is out. Move the coach off the road. You’ll have to unhitch
the horses and lead them.” 

The
door swung open and a face appeared. “Good evening.” He had a warm smile. “Your
uncle left me instructions to meet you. The bridge over the stream is out and
the wheels will get stuck. I’ll have to carry you over.”

Margery
moved her charge back. “How are we to know you speak the truth and aren’t a
highwayman? Maybe you mean to rob us.”

The
man pointed to the house. “Is that not my master’s house?”

Margery
set her mouth. “I suppose it is.”

“There’s
no question, is there?” He handed his son the lantern. “My name’s Henry Carrow.”

Taking
Henry’s hand, Margery climbed out first. She squealed when her shoes sunk into
a puddle. Henry chuckled and led her to a dryer patch of ground.

“We’ll
have those toes of yours warming by a fire shortly.”

Next,
he lifted Rebecah into his arms. She pulled the edge of her hood close to her
face against the rain. Margery held her skirts higher than propriety allowed.

“I’m
not about to have my best petticoat ruined like my shoes…Oh, this wind is too
much.”

“Stay
close behind me,” Henry advised. “This large frame of mine makes a good wall
against the wind.”

Henry
sloshed through ankle-deep puddles, stepped into tracks and grooves made by other
coaches and horses. Afraid he might slip and fall, Rebecah gripped his shoulder
tighter.

The
stream flowed in a glassy ribbon of black. Its surface rippled with large
stones and on each side tall grass swayed and bowed with the weight of the
pelting wind. Henry told Margery to stay where she was. He stepped into the
stream. The water whirled around his legs.

Rebecah
put her face toward his shoulder.

“Don’t
fear, miss. I’ll get you across safely.”

Within
minutes, he set her on the other side. He turned back. Then he lifted Margery
and took her over. Safe now, he put the serving woman down. He went to lift
Rebecah again.

“I
don’t mind walking,” she told him. “I can slip my shoes off.”

“And
catch your death? I’ll not be responsible if you do.”

She
pushed back the rim of her hood and looked ahead. “So this is Endfield House?”

“Aye,
miss.”

The
trees were old and majestic. Rambling ivy clung to the stone facade. Candles
sparkled in the lower windows, beautiful amber amid the gloom. The scent of
cedar fires burning in the hearths blew through the chimneys. She could not
wait to sit by one and get warm.

Henry
carried her all the way to the front steps when the door opened. Candlelight
lit the interior of the entryway. The cold stare of an old woman confronted
Rebecah. Dressed in black, and wearing a lace cap, the woman stepped closer.
She skimmed her eyes over the newcomer without a smile. 

“I’m
Mrs. March. Welcome to Endfield.”

“Thank
you.” Rebecah drew back her hood and tried to smile. “I’m Rebecah Brent.”

“I
know who you are.” March crossed her hands over her waist. “We were expecting
you earlier. I suppose the roads delayed you.”

The
tone of voice, the chilly stare, caused Rebecah’s heart to sink. The prospects
of a happy life at Endfield faded. A discerning heart told her March was an
unfeeling woman.

 “Go
back where you belong,” March jerked her chin at Henry. “You don’t belong in
the house.”  

Rebecah
frowned at her thorny prejudice, and waited for Henry to retaliate. Instead, he
gave March a smart look and stepped out the door. A gust of wind whirled inside
as he closed it, and Rebecah’s thoughts turned once more to a fire and a soft
bed.

Margery
helped with her cloak. “Miss Rebecah is weary from her journey and chilled to
the bone. Please show us to her room.”

March
stared down her nose. “This is your servant?”

“Yes.
Margery has been in the family’s service for decades.”

“She’s
permitted to stay the night. Follow me.” March proceeded up the staircase. “In
the morning the coach will return her to Ashburne. Those are Sir Samuel’s orders,
and he’s never questioned.”

Rebecah
had not expected this and paused on the staircase with Margery. “I will speak
to my uncle.”

March
turned. “Do not hope to dissuade him.”

Rebecah
tasted the desire to put the old woman in her place. March was a servant, below
her. She should be hers to command, not the other way around. Surely, her uncle
would grant her this one request.

Margery
reached over and touched Rebecah’s hand to calm her. March proceeded up the
stairs.

“Food
shall be brought to your room. Afterward, I will show you to the library. Sir
Samuel is due back within the hour and shall want to speak with you.”

They
followed March to a long gallery. Through the candlelight, Rebecah glanced at
the paintings on the walls. Portraits of her male ancestors stared severe and
dark. The painted flowers in the women’s hands were blood red roses. In their eyes,
Rebecah noticed longing stares. Were they speaking to her out of the past?