Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (7 page)

“Come,
Rebecah.” Lady Kathryn held out her hand. “Forgive him for his unfeeling ways. He
means well.” 

The
room darkened. March came to light the candles. Rebecah walked out into the
shadowy passageway and up the long staircase.

In
her room, she gazed at the moon flowing through the window. It stood above the
inky treetops full and yellow and bright.

She blew out her
candle and sat alone in the dark. Though her heart ached, a sudden sense all
would go well filled her. Yet she knew she must go through the fire to reach
what she desired most.

From
his boyhood window, Nash also looked out at the moon. Ribbons of clouds floated
over the orb thin as gauze. The night sky was spangled with stars, and the breeze
rustled through the trees he climbed as a boy. Now he yearned for his
mountains, where the wind rushed wilder, filled with the scent of earth and
forest.

He
turned to Sir Rodney. “I’m homesick.”

“In
such a short time, Jack?”

“Yes,
Father. I miss my land.” Nash ran his hands through his hair, gathered and
fastened it in the back with a new black ribbon.

 
“Ah, I cannot blame you for feeling as you do. I remember Virginia.”

Sir
Rodney looked away. Reflection, after long years and life had moved on, caused
his smile to fade. “In Virginia, I buried the mother who bore you. She was
young and frail. I should have done more for her and saved her somehow.”

“You
cannot live that way, Father, wondering what you should have done. You must
live for today, not yesterday. She would want you to.”

“You’re
right, but you are also too young to understand the pain that comes from the
death of a wife. I pray you never do…Do you plan to return to Maryland soon?”

“Not
until I’ve settled some business and made sure you and Mother are well taken
care of.”

Sir
Rodney patted Nash’s shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself over us, Jack. As long as
my mares keep producing healthy foals, the Nash’s will stay in the black.”

A
feminine voice called them to supper. Lady Margaret set a bountiful table. A
bowl of nuts and fruits sat in the middle and amber light flickered from the
candles.

“I
want you to be happy, Jack. Does anything lack? Is it in order?”

“A
feast, Mother.” He kissed her cheek, and sat in the chair beside her. “Not a
thing lacks.”

“Shall
we give thanks?” Sir Rodney reached for their hands. Heads were bowed in
thanksgiving for much had been given.

His
father poured wine into the glasses, save for his lady’s. “There’s but one
thing lacking.”

One
corner of Nash’s mouth curved into a smile, and the dimple on his left cheek
deepened, for he knew where this would lead. “And what is that, Father?”

“A
wife, my son.” Sir Rodney raised his glass. “Whoever she is, wherever she may
be, I toast her.” He drank his wine and then placed a thick slice of beef on
his son’s plate.

Nash
shook his head with a short laugh. “My heart remains unattached, sir. It shall
remain that way for a long time, I believe.” He sliced his meat and raised it
to his mouth. “This is good, Mother.”

Lady
Margaret patted her husband’s hand. “Let him eat, Rodney. Perhaps a full belly
and a good night’s rest will soften him to the idea.”

“You’re
right, Margaret.”

“I
tried to follow in your footsteps,” Nash said to his father.

Sir
Rodney winked. “Not too closely I hope.”

“Some
men would have squandered their money on ale and petticoats. I used it to buy
land and build a house.”

“We
knew from your letters you purchased land. Now you’ve built a house, Jack? Well
done.”

“Five hundred acres,
fields of wheat, a good horse, and a house is all I need.”

“You’re alone?”

“I’ve the company of a
freed slave named Joab. He helps me with the farming. I’ll not enslave men.”

“I could not take on
farming, nor own slaves. So I tried my hand at business in Williamsburg.”

Lady
Margaret looked concerned. “Are you far in the wilderness?”

Nash
smiled. “I’m close to Fredericktown. My friends are mostly farmers and
councilmen, except for Joab and Black Hawk.”

“I
must say I’m distressed over slavery and the way the Indians have been treated
and forced off their lands.” 

The
younger Nash found her empathy something new. He realized she had been
transformed. An inner peace emanated from her eyes. She told him she had been
converted through the preaching of John Wesley, and although she witnessed
injustices done in the name of God and Church, she had adored the Savior from
her childhood, and understood the ways of men were not always the ways of God.

“John
Wesley says it is wrong what has been done to the Indians,” she went on. “I
heard him speak of his journey to Georgia. He and his companions spent the
whole night in a snowstorm with nothing to shield them but their clothes and
the trees.”

“They
should have had a better guide. A backwoodsman would have known how to make a
shelter.”

 “I
suppose. While on his return to England, a terrible storm rose on the sea. He
thought he was about to die, but lashed to the posts where Arab Christians
singing praises. Mr. Wesley marveled at the scene, they being ready to die and
singing no less, and he fearing for his life. It changed him forever.”

 “Are
there God-fearing people living in Maryland, Jack?” asked Sir Rodney.  “It
would be a solace to your mother if that were so.”

“Yes,
Father.”  Nash smiled, thinking of various people he knew.

“You
see, Margaret. That should please you.”

“I
know the wilderness of America is not so uncivilized,” Lady Margaret replied. “I’ve
read books on the subject.”

 “You
would like the house, Mother. Though it is not as grand as an English manor, it’s
built of mountain stone for strength. No wind or rain could ever knock it down.
And the land is beautiful with lush forests. The rivers and streams teem with
fish the length of my arm.”

“It
sounds enchanting.”  She reached over to fill his plate with pie.

After
supper, Nash sat on the floor in front of the fire. Toby curled beside him and
put her head on his lap.

Lady
Margaret set her needlework down. “Rodney.” 

He
drew his pipe out from between his teeth and looked at her.

“I
have little chance to change any man’s mind except your own from time to time.
Yet it would please me if I could change our son’s.”

Nash
poked the fire. “About going back to Maryland, you mean.”

“You
should find a wife while here in England.”

Nash
laughed. “I have no time for a wife.”

Lady
Margaret looked discouraged. “A good wife would complete your life. Your father
and I would rest easy if we knew you were settled and happy.”

“I
shall be married to the Continental Army soon.”

Lady
Margaret sighed. “An army of rebels?”

“Patriots,
Mother.”

“I
admired your conviction. But things like wives and children make a more
pleasant topic of conversation.”

Sir
Rodney groaned with humor, and then smiled over at his wife. “She intends to
drive her point home, my son.”

Lady
Margaret patted her husband’s hand. “Jack might consider the young ladies at
Endfield, don’t you think?”

This
pricked his interest strangely. “There were children at Endfield last I knew.”

“Children
grow up, Jack. We’ve received an invitation to Endfield from my cousin Kathryn.
Say you will come.”

“For
you, I will.”

“My
cousin’s niece Rebecah is at Endfield, and we’ve heard she is a beauty and of a
good nature.” 

“Richard
Brent’s daughter?”

“Yes.
He is dead. Infection. They say it went to his heart.”

“So
sad,” Lady Margaret said. “Jack, you might like Rebecah. I hear she is sweet
and has an adventurous streak.”

Leaning
back, Nash smiled. “Sweetness does not make it in the wilderness, Mother…”

“But
one can make a success of it if one is adventurous. I imagine it takes daring
to settle in the American frontier.” She stacked a few of the books left around.
“But I’ll say no more. Forgive me if I’ve meddled.”

Sir
Rodney cleared his throat. “We must also remember, my good wife, Rebecah is practically
betrothed to Sir Cecil Lanley. He owns more land than anyone the Brents know.
The man reeks of money.”

“The
man is a libertine.”

She
kissed her husband’s cheek and said goodnight. Nash sat alone with his father.

“Brent
died of infection you say?”

Sir
Rodney took out a pouch of tobacco. “His reward was a bullet. How it came about
I don’t know.”

Nash
paused momentarily. “As I understand it, Brent accused certain men of treason, Thomas
Johnson being one of them.”

“And
who may he be?” Sir Rodney lit his clay pipe.

“He
owns Richfield, the most prosperous plantation in the county. Johnson is an
outspoken advocate of independence, and is destined to be our first elected
governor.”

Sir
Rodney blew blue smoke into circles above his head and looked at his son.
“Brent was a zealot. I hope you did not run into him while he was in Maryland.”

Nash
looked away. “I did, but only once.” He stood and grew quiet. He walked to the
window and gazed out at the moon. Clouds hung near the edge of its face.

“Americans
are sick of the British bulling them. If you only knew the things done in the
name of King George…”

 “I’m
afraid I’ve been isolated from such news.”

Nash
turned. “Forgive me if I’ve offended you.”

“I
respect your views. We’ve always been able to talk freely with each other. The
world grows cold with each passing year, so we must remain close, and hold each
other to a higher standard.”

Nash
crossed the floor and sat in front of his father. He leaned forward with his
arms across his knees and felt quite sober looking into the face of the man who
had taught him everything he knew.

“Will
I shame you if I call myself a patriot? Will you disown me if I turn against
the King and fight?”

Sir
Rodney drew the stem of his pipe out from between his teeth. “You could never
bring me shame. Now, we must speak together in the gravest of confidences, for
I must tell you what I’m involved in to help your
Glorious Cause
.”

The
following Sunday, a high wind blew cold and strong. It drove wispy slate clouds
across the whole of Cornwall. Woodlands were vaporous, the moors misty. Trees
blackened with winter. Roads plagued rider and coachman with potholes and deep
muddy ruts.

The
church stood on a plot of grass off the road. The Nashs arrived moments before the
service got underway, as the bell rung and people passed through the door. Upon
entering, John Nash glanced up at the gallery. Crude wooden benches were packed
with common folk, whereas the best pews below were reserved for the upper class.

Seats
were supplied for Lady Margaret and Sir Rodney. The pews were crowded and so
Nash offered his to a lady and stood beneath one of the windows. Airy sunlight
dusted through the mullioned glass, mellowed the wood and stone of the
building.

The
minister stepped out and all stood to sing a hymn. Nash caught Lavinia’s eyes.
He could hardly believe it. Her face still held the same girlish gleam he
remembered. She gave him a brilliant smile. But when she leaned toward the girl
beside her, he could not help but switch his gaze.

He
saw a rose among thistles, a pearl amid beads of clay. To her right sat three elder
women, dressed in dreary gray and old lace, shallow of cheek and eye. The young
woman raised her hand and brushed aside a curl near her eye, beneath a
wide-brimmed hat decorated with a broad dark pink ribbon. He watched her as she
fixed her eyes on the minister. Then she glanced at her prayer book. The sweep
of her lashes, the softness of her eyelids, the graceful way she moved
captivated him. He felt his heart move, and it made him uncomfortable.

He
turned his eyes away, but his mind traveled back to her. He wondered if she
were Rebecah Brent. If so, how could such a flower spring from a thorny brier
like Sir Richard? He advised himself to take care of his thoughts, for beauty
was skin deep, and who knew what lay beneath her pretty shell?

She
looked back at the minister and Nash saw how she tried to focus on the sermon. The
elderly clergyman paused, drew out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“Let
us rejoice.” He motioned the congregation to rise.

A hymn
filled the church. Lavinia’s voice was distinct, but lost in the sweeter voice
of her companion. Between the crackling tones of the older women, the girl sang
like a nightingale. She glanced over at him and their eyes met for the first
time. A gentleman stood behind her, cleared his throat, and shot Nash a warning.
His look was not one of jealousy or indignation, but a proclamation of
ownership. And when her wrapped slipped below her shoulders, he lifted it back
with a proud grin.

The
service concluded, Lavinia hurried from her seat and made her way through the
crowd. “Jack,” she called, ignoring disapproving stares. “Oh, I’m so happy to
see you, I can barely speak.”

He kissed
her hand. “You’ve grown. I imagine you’ve a swarm of beaus by now.”

“A
few,” she said as they exited the church. “When did you arrive?”

“A
few days ago.”

“How
exciting. You must tell me all about it.”

Nash
looked through the crowd. Where had Lavinia’s friend gone?

“Have
you returned for good?” she asked.

“I’m
here for a visit only.”

She
pouted and looped her arm through his. “Oh, that is disappointing.”