“Is that his real name?”
“No. That simply means Little John.”
“Tell me again. Let me learn it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Charles asked, genuinely puzzled.
“So I can speak to him in his own language and make him feel settled here. I know how hard it is to be thrust into a strange home the way he has been.”
“Which is why you and he have already become friends,” Charles observed. “That is a good thing.”
“What about you and your companions? Will you be leaving Washington soon?”
“Yes.” His gaze rested on the child as he answered and he saw John look away as if in pain. Although he would rather have died than show tender emotion, Charles yearned to embrace the child one last time, to bless him and wish him well.
Instead, he merely squared his hat on his head and nodded to Annabelle. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, miss. I know you’ll look after the boy. If there is anything he needs, anything at all, send word to me at Plunkett’s Boarding House before the end of the week and I shall see he gets it.”
“All right.”
The rosy glow of her cheeks reminded him of the blush on a peach and her eyes mirrored the bright, clear sky. He didn’t know what her lineage was but the fact that she had been promised an education at the Cornwall School meant that she might very well have a part Indian heritage, whether she knew it or not.
Good thing this young woman resided in Washington and he lived down in Georgia, he mused, or he might seriously consider disappointing his mother by courting Annabelle Lang instead of choosing a full-blooded Cherokee bride the way his family wanted.
* * *
Annabelle wondered if her snug corset was the reason she could hardly draw in enough air to maintain her equilibrium. She gently stroked the hair of the little boy at her side. Perhaps someday she, too, would have such a beautiful son, although that dream was not likely to come true as long as the new Mrs. Eaton was in charge.
Being lied to about going to the Cornwall School did not sit well with Annabelle. All this time she had dutifully served the Eatons in the hope that her obedience and faithfulness would result in the education she had been promised.
And now? The mission school was gone. So where else could she study? What other institutions would accept an untutored, common girl like her? The Georgetown Academy for Young Ladies was far too elite for someone who had never been formally instructed, not to mention someone with questionable origins.
Charles had paused at the iron gate for a last word. “Perhaps the Eatons will provide you with a tutor since you are so determined to learn.”
Annabelle smiled. “I have gleaned some basic skills on my own, including how to read and write. When young John is given a tutor I will copy those lessons, as well.”
“Very wise.” He touched the brim of his hat once again. “I bid you a good evening.”
And good it is, thanks to your unexpected visit, she thought, blushing.
Adding sprigs of rosemary to her basket, she held out her hand to the boy. “Come. Let’s go back inside and give these to Lucy, the cook. Then I’ll show you around the house and point out your room.”
The child stood staring after his departing kinsman as if made of marble.
“John? Tsa-ni? Is that how you pronounce it?”
A slight smile teased a corner of his mouth.
“I said it poorly, didn’t I?” Annabelle asked with a benevolent grin. “Tell you what. Johnny sounds a lot like that so I’ll call you Johnny. All right?”
A simple nod was his only reply but it was enough. Better communication would come later, once the child was more comfortable with her. She would do all she could to hurry that along, even if it meant slacking off on her household duties. Dusting and mending would wait. The little boy’s broken heart would not.
“How old are you?” Annabelle asked as they entered the house and left the basket for the cook.
“Six summers.”
“What a big boy you are. I’ve always wanted a brother just like you.”
“Why?”
“Because I get lonely in this big old house. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton are not my parents, as you heard me say. The servants are nice to me but it’s not the same as having a true family.”
“You want blood kin,” Johnny said wisely.
“I suppose you could put it that way.” Annabelle bent closer to whisper. “I don’t complain, though, and you shouldn’t, either. It’s very good of the Eatons to take us in and provide for us.”
The boy tugged on her hand, then looked around as if making sure they were alone. “I will run away. You can come with me.”
“What? Oh, no. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. What would your uncle Charles say if you did something like that?”
“I am the son of a chief’s son. I will go.”
“Please, don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. “Think of all the trouble it would cause if you left.”
She could tell by the child’s stoic expression that he was beyond listening to the pleas of a mere girl.
There was only one thing to do. She would have to send word to Mr. McDonald to stop by again and have a stern word with the boy before he and the rest of the delegation left town. Until then she’d keep a close eye on Johnny. A very close eye.
“I think you and I should take our supper alone tonight and get to know each other,” Annabelle suggested.
“Will they not miss you?”
“No,” she admitted sadly. “The family usually insists I be present only for formal dinner parties.”
She reached down to gently smooth his hair. “I’m certain they will want to present you to their Washington friends soon. Mr. Eaton is a very important man. Being secretary of war means he works closely with President Jackson.”
The child did not look impressed. Smiling, she offered her hand. “Come. We’ll explore the house together so you won’t get lost.”
“I never get lost,” he insisted.
“Good for you.”
Grinning, Annabelle started up the spiral staircase, explaining as she went. “Down the hall at the end is the guest room. You’ll sleep there.”
Before he could ask she added, “My room is right next to that one,” and sensed him starting to relax.
Poor little thing. He acted so brave and put on such a grown-up front it was easy to forget how young he was.
No wonder he’d thought about running away. He had to be frightened nearly out of his mind.
Shivering, she realized she, too, was worried about his future. It was easy to put herself in his place because she shared it. Neither of them truly belonged in this stoic family and neither could depend on fair treatment from their so-called parents.
John Eaton had always acted preoccupied and distant toward her. His new wife, Margaret, was far worse because she paid attention to everything and could be very vindictive if displeased, which was most of the time. The older woman had had a sordid reputation in Washington before her marriage to Eaton. The more Margaret and Annabelle interacted, the more credence the rumors of perfidy gained. And the more trepidation they generated.
Margaret had already fired every young female servant in the Eaton household and had made it clear that Annabelle’s presence was barely tolerable. There was no foundation for such jealousy but it nevertheless existed. Perhaps, because Johnny was a boy, he would not encounter so much of Margaret’s malice.
Until the child got used to his new life here in Washington City, Annabelle vowed she would protect and guide him. It would be no chore to teach him city ways and household rules. Truth to tell, she was looking forward to the opportunity.
The fact that he was a smaller version of his
uncle gave her heart an added prick and reminded her that she must contact Charles McDonald as soon as possible and entreat him to return and lecture the child about fidelity.
Annabelle’s stomach clenched. If Margaret even suspected that Johnny was planning to run away, the whole household would suffer her fits of foul temper, probably for weeks on end.
Chapter Two
Moonlight gleamed on the rippling surface of the Potomac, making the water shimmer like molten silver. If not for the noise of the city behind him, Charles might have imagined that he was standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, back home, listening to a cacophony of frogs and the calls of night birds.
How much longer would Georgia be home to the Cherokee? he wondered. Some of his people had already migrated of their own volition but until the tribal elders had the solemn promise of the current president that their claim to lands farther west would be honored, he and many others were reluctant to pack up and go.
A flock of white egrets took to the sky, startled by something near the river’s edge. Charles instinctively slipped into a copse of trees.
“I seen him come this way,” someone said. “High falutin he was, too. Real fancy dressed.”
Another man chortled and spat. “Well, he can’t have gone far. We’ll get him. And then we’ll teach ’em to stay where they belong.”
“Don’t forget, I get his stickpin.”
Charles automatically reached for his pistol and grabbed empty air. The delegation had been instructed to exemplify peace. Consequently, he was unarmed.
Moving so slowly, so fluidly, that the roosting wild birds were not disturbed, he inched backward until his shoulders met the trunk of an enormous oak. Then he consciously calmed his mind and waited.
Leaves rustled. Nearby bushes shook.
The would-be assailants were nearly upon him.
* * *
Annabelle’s supper with Johnny had been uneventful except that he had eaten little. She felt so sorry for him she didn’t argue when he asked, “May I go up to my room?”
“Of course. I know you must be weary.”
“Are you coming upstairs?”
“In a few minutes,” she replied. “I have one errand to take care of first. Go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”
She watched him climb the stairs, then turned to check the empty hallway. There was pen and ink in a writing desk tucked into an alcove off the parlor. While the Eatons were dining, she could avail herself of the opportunity to write a short note to Charles—Mr. McDonald. The mere thought made her blush and hurry toward the desk. She must not be observed, nor did she dare let anyone see to whom her innocent letter was addressed. Not if she hoped to be able to carry out her plan and stop the child from fleeing.
She dipped the nib in the inkwell and began, “Dear Sir,” ending with her signature and placing his name on the outside of the folded note paper. Her penmanship was not perfect because she’d had so little chance to practice and because her hands were trembling, but it would suffice. It would have to.
Replacing everything she had moved and used, she quietly closed the slanted lid of the desk and slipped the note into her pocket.
A quick, furtive check of her surroundings confirmed that she was still alone and she quietly headed for the carriage house to seek out one of the grooms and ask him to carry her missive to Plunkett’s.
Although the sun had set, the moon was nearly full and there was plenty of reflected light from the lampposts lining the broad avenues of the capitol as she entered the rear garden. A few couples strolled arm in arm outside the iron fence while drays and coaches went about their business in the street.
Annabelle had swung a thin, gray cape around her shoulders as soon as she was outside. Now she lifted the hood, less for warmth than to hide her passage through the garden.
She patted her pocket. The sooner the note was delivered, the sooner she’d stop worrying.
In the street beyond the familiar garden path a teamster snapped his whip and shouted, “Out of my way!”
Curiosity caused her to look. Astonishment stopped her cold. Was that...? Could it be...? She’d left him only a few minutes ago, yet the young boy in the street looked terribly familiar. And with good reason.
Heart pounding, Annabelle almost called out, “Johnny!” before she thought better of it. So far, no harm had been done. If she could overtake him and get him back into the house before either of them was missed she might save everyone a lot of unnecessary grief.
She fumbled the gate latch in her nervousness, thereby slowing her progress. By the time she reached the street the boy had vanished.
Where would he go? Washington was a big city and they were both on foot. If she were Johnny, what would she do?
“Go back to the boardinghouse where the Cherokees are staying,” Annabelle guessed. She had to be right. If Johnny disappeared in a city this vast, his chances of being hurt or accosted were immense, particularly since he didn’t blend in with the dirty street urchins who were out and about at this hour.
Nervous, she glanced back at the house. Few lamps were glowing. No one would miss her. Gathering a handful of her skirt and cape she hurried in the direction where she had last spied the runaway child.
Prayer was on her lips. “Please, God, please. Help me? Guide me?”
It was then that she realized her Heavenly Father already had. She already knew that the boardinghouse the Cherokees had chosen was only a block or so past the cathedral where the family worshipped every Sunday. She knew the way.
Circumventing trouble as best she could, she darted back and forth across the broad streets, dodging coaches and buggies while evading those individuals who might wish to do her harm. She had never ventured out alone at night and the face of the city was quite different than she had expected.
The boardinghouse Annabelle sought was built in the Federalist style with tall, narrow banks of windows facing the street and a small porch that led directly into the parlor. Seeing Plunkett’s finely lettered sign gave her hope and renewed energy.
Before she’d taken two steps up the front stairs, however, Johnny burst out the door and ran past, snatching away what was left of her breath.
She lunged to grab his sleeve.
He struggled, twisting and kicking.
“Johnny! Stop. It’s me.” She pushed back her hood so he could better see her features.
“We have to go.” Johnny pointed. “This way.”
“No. I came to speak to your uncle.”
“That is why we have to go,” the boy insisted. “The man inside said he went to the river.”
“He’ll be back. We can stay here and wait.”
The child tore himself from her grasp. “No! It is not good. We must find him.”
Annabelle was unconvinced. Now that they had both made it to the boardinghouse the most sensible choice was to tarry there.
Unfortunately, Johnny was already running again.
“All right,” she called, quickly recovering. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
They soon left the open streets for a parklike area and slowed to a walk because there was no artificial light. Patches of fog drifted in front of them as if clouds had sunk to earth, muting even the moon glow.
Johnny abruptly grasped her hand and tugged. “Stop.”
Annabelle’s breath caught. “Why? I thought you were in a hurry.”
Rethinking their possibly tenuous safety, she pushed back the hood of her satin cape once again and bent over him to speak more softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Men. Bad men. Fighting.” He pointed.
She had barely made out shadowy shapes when there was a muffled shout. The boy broke free and raced toward the altercation!
“Johnny, no!” Fisting her skirt she ran after him.
Someone yelled.
Annabelle drew closer. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”
A well-dressed gentleman was doing hand-to-hand battle with two ruffians and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. Now she understood the boy. Charles McDonald was being attacked and although he seemed to be holding his own at the moment, he was definitely outnumbered.
Charles threw a punch that sent one of the thugs reeling out of sight among some saplings, and dove after him. Bushes rustled and shook. A man grunted. Another shouted. The thug left in the open staggered and fell to his knees as if hurt or intoxicated. Perhaps both.
The seconds passed for Annabelle in slow motion. She heard another cry. Was that a splash? Were they that close to the Potomac?
The man she could see struggled to his feet and braced himself, ready for more fight. Charles reappeared and engaged him by circling, arms wide, ready for further attack. They locked arms and began grappling while Johnny beat the back of his uncle’s foe with a broken branch and screeched unintelligibly in his native language.
The men fell together. Charles scrambled up first. His foe moved more slowly yet was far heavier and thus had the advantage of sheer weight when he threw himself back into the melee.
This was a new conundrum for Annabelle. She had never seen grown men fight, so she stood aside, gaping helplessly and standing clear. Her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly they ached.
Then she saw something metal flash in the stranger’s hand and her attitude changed. “A knife! He has a knife.”
Charles crouched and stepped sideways, keeping just out of the assailant’s reach. “Stay back!”
The other man was slow and clumsy, carving harmless arcs in the night air, yet Annabelle knew it was only a matter of time until someone made a fatal misstep. What could she do? How could she possibly help the Cherokees?
Without warning, the attacker changed tactics and lunged for Johnny.
The child was too quick for him.
Charles grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the other man’s face. “Hey! Over here.”
Her Cherokee Groom Page 2