by Janet Dailey
His father wanted him to stay. He had openly encouraged him to see Temple. But The Blade wasn't sure he was ready to settle down to the tame life of a planter and the responsibility that came with it. As for marriage, a wife and a family, it sounded equally restricting.
Still... there was Temple. She aroused, stimulated, and challenged him as no other woman had. He wanted her more fully, more deeply, than any woman he had known in the past. After the monotony of a day spent supervising the work of the field slaves, it would be consolation to think of Temple in his bed at night. He smiled, conscious of the stirring in his loins at the mere thought.
"What are you looking at?" Temple's low-pitched voice came to him at almost the same instant that he breathed in her lavender scent. She was very near him.
Yet The Blade didn't turn. Instead, he lifted his glance to the diamondlike stars sprinkled over the dark cloth of night. "The sky. See it," he said, nodding faintly. "It has the blackness of your hair and the brightness of your eyes." Slowly, he swung to face her, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart.
"You have your father's eloquence." She smiled.
The Blade took half a step toward her, then paused. "And your father, where is he?" His glance flicked to the front door beyond her.
"With Mother. She started coughing again. I told him I would give his good-byes to you."
Even before he reached out to take her in his arms, Temple saw the desire in his eyes and anticipated his action. Too few times were they alone, away from spying eyes. She stepped into his embrace, impelled by her own needs more than the commanding pressure of his hands. Tilting her head back, she kissed him long and hungrily, thrilling to the caress of his hands on her spine and the demanding ardor of his lips. Straining to get closer, she pressed her body tightly against his hard frame and wound her arms around his neck, dragging her mouth across his cheek to nuzzle the lobe of his ear.
"I wish you didn't have to leave," she whispered.
"Are you afraid I won't come back?" he teased, then realized she never asked when he would be coming back—as if never doubting for a moment he would. It irritated him that she was so confident of the hold she had on him.
She drew her head back to look at him, her lips all swollen and soft from his kiss. "If you didn't, I would come after you," she declared.
"Would you?" The Blade stared, distracted by the sensation of her body thrust firmly against his hips.
"Yes." She wiggled slightly against him. He had the feeling that she knew precisely what she was doing. "Miss Hall says I have no shame."
"I am glad you do not." He smiled.
"So am I." She reached up and lightly traced the outline of his mouth with her fingers.
The Blade felt a groan rising in his throat and struggled to contain it as he caught hold of her hand, stopping its stimulating tease. He pulled her closer, intending to kiss her again, but from the lane came the steady clop of horses' hooves on the hard-packed ground. Deu was coming. He muttered a curse in Cherokee, and Temple laughed softly, then pulled away to rearrange her shawl to its former order.
"If you were a man, you would not find it so amusing."
"If I were a man, I hope you would not have this reaction," she said and laughed again, then walked to the front steps that led to the circular drive.
Starlight silhouetted a horse and rider followed by a second saddled horse emerging from the shadows of the trees. Without a word, The Blade walked past her and down the steps. He didn't wait for Deu to dismount. Instead, he took the reins to his horse and swung into the saddle, disdaining the aid of its stirrup.
"Give my respects to your father," Temple said once he was astride. "Tell him to come see us. We have missed his visits."
The Blade nodded, then touched a heel to the big chestnut gelding. It bounded forward, but he quickly checked it to a trot. Deu swung in behind him as they rode from the house along the circular lane. Halfway down the circular drive, The Blade caught a movement among the trees to his right. When he turned, a young Negro girl waved shyly at them.
In the parlor, Eliza looked on anxiously as Will Gordon gave his wife a sip of brandy. The pallor of the woman's face worried her. Her skin seemed almost translucent, blue veins showing through emphasizing her ghostly color. Victoria Gordon coughed again as the tumbler was taken from her lips, but it was an involuntary reaction to the strong liquor rather than the onslaught of another attack.
"Forgive me for being such a poor hostess, Reverend Cole," Victoria said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
"Please do not concern yourself with me, Mrs. Gordon. After the hospitality you have shown today, no one could ask for better," Nathan assured her, his angular features gentled by a caring smile. "Rest is what you need now. And a poor guest I would be if I didn't allow you to take it."
"Rest she will get," Will Gordon declared firmly, setting the brandy glass aside. "I will take you upstairs."
"But I—" Her glance darted frantically around the room, taking in the dirty glasses and the ashtrays filled with charred pipe tobacco.
"Now," he stated. "Temple can see that Black Cassie clears this."
Eliza stood by and watched as Will Gordon carried his wife from the room as effortlessly as if she were their seven-year-old daughter. Instinctively, Eliza trailed after them and paused in the great hall.
"This cough of Mrs. Gordon's ..." Nathan hesitated. "Has she recently recovered from a bout with pneumonia?"
"No. At least, not since I arrived at Gordon Glen," Eliza replied. "She merely has these coughing spells."
"An aunt of mine had attacks like that. It went on for years and years. Slowly, she seemed to ... waste away." He glanced at Eliza. "She had consumption."
A breath caught in her throat. She looked up the stairs, wondering if Will Gordon knew the gravity of his wife's condition and if she should tell him. "Come. I will show you to your room."
Nathan was a step behind her when they started up the staircase. "Will you accompany the Gordons to the annual council meeting in October?"
"Yes."
"I have been assigned to the mission church at New Echota. I will be there too. I enjoyed our long talk this afternoon. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to do it again next month."
"I would like that," Eliza said, and meant it.
9
New Echota
October 1830
"Allow me to introduce our tutor from Massachusetts, Miss Eliza Hall." Will Gordon spoke in a voice reverent with respect, addressing his words to the unprepossessing man before her. "Miss Hall, this is the principal chief of the Cherokees, John Ross."
Face to face with the executive leader of the Cherokee Nation, Eliza struggled against a sense of disappointment. After all the talk she had heard about John Ross, she had expected someone with the physical stature and presence of Will Gordon, someone surrounded by an aura of quiet dignity and authority. Instead, she was confronted by a man of medium build and average height, with straight brown hair, a slightly florid complexion, and brown eyes. In short, there was nothing particularly striking about him at all.
"It is a pleasure, Miss Hall." He addressed her in English, prompting Eliza to recall that his command of the Cherokee language was reportedly poor. "I am told you play the piano as sweetly as the whippoorwill sings. Perhaps the next time I have the privilege of stopping by Gordon Glen, you would honor me with your music."
"I should be delighted, but... how did you know?" Eliza blurted in confusion.
"A certain young missionary by the name of Nathan Cole remarked on your ability," John Ross replied. "I believe you are acquainted with him."
"I am, yes." She nodded awkwardly.
Eliza was grateful that his attention reverted to her employer. John Ross exchanged a few more words with him, then moved on, wending his way slowly through the respectful throng that had gathered to see him. Everywhere, the Cherokee leader was treated with a deference that bordered on awe.
Eliza watched until he wa
s swallowed by the crowd. She turned to Temple and discovered The Blade had joined them. She felt the stirrings of discomfort and unease that always gripped her whenever the three were together. She worried about Temple and his effect on her, and the heat that flowed between them, transmitted by a mere glance, made Eliza decidedly more uncomfortable.
After a brief exchange of greetings, The Blade asked, "What did you think of our chief, John Ross?"
"I think he is unquestionably a man of the people." Despite her initial reaction, Eliza refused to judge the man on his looks. She knew quite well there was no correlation between a person's appearance and his or her abilities. "It was good to find someone as humble as John Ross holding such a great office."
"Indeed." The Blade nodded his agreement, then asked curiously, "Is this your first visit to New Echota, Miss Hall?"
"It is, yes. To be frank, I had not realized so many people would gather here for the annual meeting of your National Council."
Whole families had spilled from the scarlet and gold foothills, coming from every corner of the Nation to fill the one-hundred acre townsite. Tents surrounded the tidy capital city, springing up like mushrooms after a rain, and the wood smoke of campfires hung in the autumn air.
Despite the many serious issues to be addressed by the convening council, it was still a social time for the Cherokee people, with families reuniting after months, or sometimes years, of separation. It was a festive, pulsing scene that both fascinated and invigorated Eliza.
"Take a good look and remember," The Blade advised her. "This may be the last time the Cherokee will assemble like this in the capital of our nation."
"Don't say that," Temple flared.
Smoothly meeting her angry look, he replied, "I am only saying what others think but are afraid to voice."
"To even think it is an admission of defeat."
"Temple, the State of Georgia has issued a decree that makes it unlawful for us to meet on the soil of Georgia," The Blade reminded her, exhibiting the tolerant patience of an adult with a child.
"This is not Georgia. It is the heart of the Cherokee Nation," she retorted.
"So we say," he murmured dryly. "But how long do you think Georgia will permit us to defy her orders?"
"How can you talk that way?" she demanded impatiently.
"I am only describing the situation as it exists. If the Georgia Guard rode in right now, we would have no choice but to hold our council meeting at another site—one beyond their reach ... to the north in Tennessee, or west in Alabama. You know I speak the truth."
"Perhaps." Temple shrugged with deliberate indifference. "But that will all change. The lawyers that Chief John Ross engaged are already appealing our case to the Supreme Court. When it rules in our favor, the federal government in Washington will have to enforce the terms of our treaty with them and protect us against the Georgians. Father says it is merely a matter of time."
"Time," The Blade repeated wryly. He would never possess such remarkable forbearance over the wrongs being committed against the Cherokees.
Temple touched Eliza's arm, claiming her attention. "Here comes your missionary friend, Mr. Cole."
Turning, Eliza caught sight of a widely smiling Nathan hurrying toward them with long, ungainly strides. "Eliza." He stopped and swept off his hat, holding it in front of him. "It is good to see you again."
"Hello, Nathan."
"I was wondering if you had arrived yet. Were you on your way somewhere?"
"Temple and I were going to the store. I have some shopping to do."
"Reverend Cole can escort you," Temple inserted. "I just spied Jane Rogers in the crowd. I have not seen her since our days at Brainerd."
Before Eliza could protest, Temple hurried off to see her friend. The Blade smiled and inclined his head to Eliza. "I will leave you in Reverend Cole's care."
"You are in luck," Nathan told her. "All four stores in town are open. Usually only one is, but with so many families in town for the annual meeting, it is a busy time."
"It is, indeed," Eliza agreed.
Together they set out from the tent city and headed for town, passing through the residential area marked by a half dozen white frame houses, most of them two-storied with spacious front porches. The town of New Echota itself was neatly laid out in a city form of one-acre lots, with a public common in the center of it. Near the common stood the Cherokee courthouse, where the laws of the Nation were enforced by its judges. Near that was the Cherokee council house, a large, two-story structure with brick chimneys and glass windows. It was here that the two legislative bodies of the Cherokee government—the National Committee and the National Council—held their annual sessions.
A few short days after the October session began, a white man came forward and identified himself as John Lowrey, an agent of the United States government assigned by Secretary of War Eaton. He requested permission to speak to the combined houses.
His address to the combined houses proposed that the United States enter into a new treaty with the Cherokees, offering the same old terms: in exchange for Cherokee land in the East, the United States would give them territory west of the Mississippi and pay for their transportation and the building of new homes and schools there.
He said only one thing that the Cherokees had not heard before, and that had an ominous ring.
"At whatever time the State of Georgia chooses to enter the land occupied by the Cherokee people for the purpose of surveying it, the president of the United States will not interfere."
A Cherokee delegation was immediately chosen to travel to Washington and protest the continued harassment of the Cherokee people. Will Gordon was one of the delegates selected to announce that the Cherokees would never again cede another foot of land.
By the end of November, the trees at Gordon Glen had lost their leaves. They stood stark and bare as the family gathered on the front veranda to see Will Gordon off on his long journey. Eliza hovered in the background, watching as he said good-bye to his children, affectionately embracing each of them in turn, then kissed his wife on the cheek.
Once astride his gray horse, he appeared to remember Eliza for the first time. "Miss Hall, I shall be meeting with Payton Fletcher while I am in Washington. Is there a message you would like him to take to your family?"
Eliza hesitated only a moment. "Ask him to inform my mother that I am well and in good spirits."
"I will."
"God's speed to you, Mr. Gordon, and good luck."
"We shall need it." With a saluting wave to all of them, he rode off to join the rest of the delegates.
10
Ignoring Phoebe's admonition to throw on a shawl, Temple opened the heavy baroque door, indifferent to the wall of January air that awaited her. With her father away in Washington, few visitors stopped by Gordon Glen, so the approach of a horse and rider at this hour of the evening heralded only one possibility—The Blade.
When the rider halted within the pool of light that spilled from the great hall, Temple was not disappointed. "What are you doing out in this cold?" she asked with a welcoming smile.
Puffs of steamy breath billowed from the nostrils of his horse, dissipating like thin smoke into the night. The Blade didn't immediately reply. He merely sat on his lathered horse and stared at the woman with moon-pale skin and night-black hair. "I saw your lights and hoped you might offer to share the warmth of your fire."
Shadrach ran out of the shadows to take the horse's reins. The Blade dismounted, passing the reins over.
Temple stepped back inside the house and swung the door open wider to admit him. The Blade followed her into the large entry hall and removed his coat, handing it to the waiting servant girl while Temple closed the door. When she turned to him, The Blade noticed the silence in the house.
"Where is your mother?" He glanced in the direction of the family parlor.
"Upstairs with little Johnny. He has been ill with the croup the last two days." Temple stepped away from the do
or. "We have a fire burning in the parlor." Leading the way, she entered the room and crossed directly to the fireplace, taking up the poker to stoke the smoldering logs into flame.
"It is quiet." The Blade walked over to stand beside her, holding out his hands to the fire's rising heat.
"Miss Hall has already retired for the night." Temple smiled absently. "We heard from my father today. Things seem to be going well. He was most encouraging in his letter."
"He was?" The Blade said, almost harshly.
"Yes." Her smile widened. "The Supreme Court has ordered the State of Georgia to appear before it and show cause why a writ of error shouldn't be issued against them in the case of George Corn Tassel. According to Father, that means the Supreme Court believes Georgia exceeded its jurisdiction when it convicted a Cherokee on land owned and governed by us." She beamed with triumph.
"You haven't heard, have you?" The tightness returned—the anger.
"Heard what?" She tipped her head to one side, still smiling at him.
"He is dead. They hanged George Corn Tassel."
"What?" Her dark eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in confusion. "I don't understand. Didn't they receive the order from the Supreme Court in time?"
"They received it—and ignored it. No, they did more than that." The Blade clenched his teeth in an attempt to control the rage that threatened to boil up inside him again. "When they received the citation from the Supreme Court, they advanced the date of his execution and promptly hanged him to show their contempt. Georgia claims that it is 'not accountable to the Supreme Court or any other tribunal,' and the interference by the Chief Justice was a violation of Georgia's rights."