by Lori Benton
12
Early April 1777
Schenectady
So, Major. You mean for the lad to resume his work, or will you send him hightailing it back to his people?”
Bent over office ledgers, Reginald raised his head to find Ephraim Lang leaning in the inner doorway. He’d heard the question but pretended otherwise. Lang wasn’t fooled.
“See him today, did you?”
Reginald took up a quill, jotted a note. “He was asleep.”
Anna had been away in town. She and Reginald hadn’t spoken since their angry exchange the day of the beating—a tearing to his soul—still he’d been glad to find her gone from the house and only Lydia watching over his apprentice. It did not bear much thinking on, Anna and the lad under the same roof, even though it was the rest of the world he most mistrusted to treat his daughter well, given the path down which her heart was leading her.
Lang’s voice intruded again. “I see you’re perusing Schuyler’s orders for bateaux. Seems another pair of hands is still needful. And I’m limited in my hiring by the number of bateaux you’re able to crew. So I ask again, Major—will it be Jonathan, or will you start over with another apprentice who likely cannot tell a plane from a pitchfork?”
“He’s barely on his feet,” Reginald countered, “sooner than Lydia would have it so. He rose from bed the day after the attack and moved his blankets to the floor.”
Lang chuckled at that. “No surprise there. Most Oneidas don’t sleep on feather ticks. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t know—and there is honesty for you, Ephraim. What think you? Should I keep him on despite what happened?”
“What happened is the lad saved your boats and took a beating for it.”
“Well do I know it.” And well had he examined his heart, the guilt he felt over it, the pain of Anna’s condemning gaze. “If only it was so simple a matter.”
Lang studied him, blue eyes piercing. “You want simple? How does this suffice: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Recognize those words, Major? Would you surmise that Jefferson, Franklin, Adams, and the rest meant them?”
“Doubtful they’d have put their names to the declaration—or their necks in the Crown’s collective noose—did they not believe them.”
Lang nodded. “And does ‘all men’ include William?”
“Of course it does. Or will. You know I hope it will.”
“I know it,” Lang said. “But what of his brother, whose skin isn’t as white? And while I’m being blunt, I might as well say that to my mind you’ve less right to hope anything for William’s sake than you do his twin’s, who’s come to you of his own free will.”
Reginald felt his face stiffen. Lang knew the truth about William, to whom he was born and how he came to be an Aubrey, but in his gruff, forbearing way had never openly judged Reginald for it. Was he doing so now?
“Because he wants something of me. He wants Anna.”
“He wants you to know him and to know you in return. Given everything you’ve told me of what happened before we met in the wood between Fort William Henry and Fort Edward, that says a lot about that young man’s character.” Reginald started to speak, but Lang held up a hand. “Would it surprise you to know you aren’t the only one with secrets in his past—or present? I’m fixing to divest myself of one, so hear me.”
Reginald waited, attention and curiosity captured.
“The woman you know as my wife,” Lang said, “isn’t my first. My first was a Mohawk woman from Canajoharie. I married her about the time you stopped your trips upriver so you never knew of it, but she bore me two children before she died. Boy and girl. Three and five years they be now, living with their people. I see them every time I pass on the river.”
Lang crossed the office to the outer door, wrenching it open when it stuck. “Whatever Jefferson and his lot may truly believe, I hold those truths to be self-evident for my children. For their aunties, their uncles, and their old grannie too, should they want them. And that’s all I aim to say on the matter.”
He stepped out onto the quay, shutting the door behind him.
It was five sleeps since they brought him to Lydia’s house, though Two Hawks had done his sleeping during the day. Awake now on his pallet, he knew by the room’s slanting light that the sun wasn’t long for setting. He expected to spend the coming night as he had the others, awake before the hearth fire, staring into flames he fed through the long dark that wasn’t truly cold enough to need a fire. Its presence helped him to pray, to think—and being awake at night made it less likely he would find himself alone with Anna Catherine.
Not that he didn’t want to be alone with her. Nor did he regret her seeing him wounded. Among his things brought up from the boatyard was a looking glass he used to shave the beard that was coming in thicker than his father’s now. In it he had seen his bruised eyes, the egg-sized knot on his cheekbone, his scabbed-over lip, the stitched gash across his scalp. Though it hurt Anna Catherine to see him so, she bore it with courage. That wasn’t why he wished to avoid her. She’d given him much thinking to do, and her nearness made it harder to think about some things.
On his feet, he reached for his brother’s shirt, draped on the too-soft bed beside the other garments he’d worn the past weeks. Careful of his healing ribs, he pulled it over his head.
Anna Catherine’s offer to come and live with the People had filled him with such painful joy, he’d been unable to answer her. He was glad now he hadn’t. The answer he’d wanted to give went against what he believed was right for a man to ask of his wife. To leave her people? Join his? Despite what had happened, he knew in his bones he was meant to cross that line. Not his Bear’s Heart. But he needed help to do it. Aubrey’s help. Not only his permission but his blessing and support. His heart.
Two Hawks eased his arms through the shirt-sleeves. He hadn’t yet grown used to the breeches but pulled them on, then sat on the floor and stuck his feet into stockings, fastened the garters, buttoned the breeches over them at the knee. He buckled the shoes that had belonged to the man who had been Lydia’s husband.
He hadn’t spoken to Aubrey since the attack. Nor had Anna Catherine. That was not good. Two Hawks needed to make her see that she would have to find it in her heart to forgive. To honor. Not an easy thing to ask, or do, but he had the example of his own father to follow. His father and the white beads.
Now he had come to an end of thinking and it was time for speaking. A bad thing had happened, but he would heal. They would be strong in Creator’s grace and not let it cause their hearts to grow afraid or bitter. They would set the pattern to follow in future years, whenever such things happened.
He was no such fool to think they never would again.
Two Hawks hadn’t ventured often from his room, not wanting to alarm Lydia by prowling her house at night, but he knew his way to the kitchen. If Anna Catherine was home, she would be there, where the women worked and ate their meals. But the kitchen was empty. A fire in the hearth looked tended, but he saw no sign of either woman.
Were they outside, behind the house where they had a garden? It was too early for planting, but he decided to check and was heading for the door when he heard a splash. It came from behind a curtain hung across a portion of the kitchen used for storage. Thinking one of the women was back there pouring water, he went to the curtain and moved it aside, starting to speak Anna Catherine’s name.
The name caught in his throat. She wasn’t pouring water. She was immersed in it, sunk inside a basin with legs and wheels on the legs, with her head above the water at one end, bare knees poking up near the other. Her eyes were closed, her hair spilling over the back of the basin onto the floor, a river of honey glinting in a candle’s light.
His heart beat strong and fast. It led his mind straight over
the present uncertainties to a day when he and she were one in the eyes of Creator and he could fill his gaze with her like this and never have to stop looking.
Then he remembered. That was not now. Turn away. Stop looking.
Surely he would have done so had Anna Catherine not opened her eyes and seen him there.
“Two Hawks!” Water sloshed from the basin as she gripped its sides, pushing up out of the water so her knees went down and her shoulders came up, slender, graceful, and bare. Her eyes were startled but unafraid. They held him, drew him.
He gripped the curtain, heat building in his face. He had only come looking to speak with her, but now he was gazing on what he had no right yet to see. He looked away, putting the curtain back in place, turning to retreat to his room.
His retreat was blocked. Behind him in the kitchen stood Reginald Aubrey, disbelief and outrage on his face.
13
It was smashing to bits. Everything she’d tried to build. Anna heard it breaking through the curtain—Papa accusing Two Hawks of dishonoring her, betraying his trust. And in his defense, Two Hawks said nothing. Not one word.
Neither of them heeded her protests as she bolted from the tub and scrambled to dress. She’d been startled to find Two Hawks watching her bathe, but it was clear he’d been as startled to find her so. Only a second had passed before he drew back. A second.
“I’d come here to speak of your returning to work,” Papa was saying, voice tight with fury. “But I tell you now I’m done with you. I want you gone from this house. And my daughter’s life.”
A thump. The clatter of an overturned bench. Was he forcing Two Hawks from the house? With battered face and broken ribs?
“Papa, no! Don’t hurt him!” She’d yanked on her shift. Trembling fingers fumbled the lacing of her stays. “Two Hawks? Don’t leave!”
Two Hawks spoke at last, but not to her. “I will go,” he said, the words heavy, anguished. “I ask only to take my brother’s horse as far as your farm. From there I will go on foot.”
Papa agreed, grudgingly. “I’ll not be long behind you. The horse had best be in my stable when I reach it.”
“It will be,” Two Hawks said.
“No!” Anna cried, fighting the wretched stays. She heard footsteps, then Papa’s voice beyond the curtain, hard and clipped.
“There is no need for you to speak to him, Anna.”
“Papa, call him back. Don’t do this—”
He spoke over her as though he hadn’t heard. “I was wrong to let you put yourself at risk for him. Dress yourself and we’ll speak.”
Cold flooded Anna’s bones, though the warmth of the bath still clung to her skin. “No. We won’t. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
“Anna! You will not address me so. I’m still your father.”
With her hair down loose, clutching her gown, Anna snatched the curtain aside. Papa blocked her passage from the pantry alcove.
“You are no more my father than you are William’s. Let me pass!”
Papa’s face drained of color. For an instant she thought he might lay his hand to her. “Anna…”
She saw it was shock that blanched him, not anger. The harshness of her own words pierced her, but she didn’t take them back. When she said nothing more, he finally stood aside and she hurried past, holding back her sobs until she reached Two Hawks’s room and found she was too late.
He was already gone.
Papa had gone too, and twilight had fallen by the time she was dressed, hair pinned beneath a cap, cloak fastened. Lydia was exiting the stable as Anna reached it and of course wouldn’t let her rush off without knowing why she needed the horse.
“Is it a childbed? Whose? Where is your case?”
Too distraught to elaborate on the subterfuge Lydia had unwittingly offered, Anna spilled the truth. Next thing she knew, Lydia was marching her back to the kitchen, sitting her down at the table, facing her with hands on hips, features tight with apprehension.
“Where is Reginald now?”
“I don’t know or care.”
“Anna.” Lydia shook her head but must have decided to leave Papa out of it. For now. “You cannot ride to the farm in the dark. Wait for—”
“Tomorrow? Lydia, he’ll be long gone—and he didn’t even say good-bye.” That cut the deepest. Deeper than Papa’s rejection. Since the attack, Two Hawks had seemed closed off to her, almost always asleep when she was nearby. At first she thought it due to his wounds. Then she began to suspect he was sleeping during the day to avoid her. If the beating had changed his mind about living in her world, then why hadn’t he answered her about living in his? Had he changed his mind about marrying her? Was that why he gave in to Papa without a fight?
“If he didn’t say good-bye,” Lydia reasoned, “maybe it’s not good-bye. Maybe he was simply trying to keep the peace and doing as Reginald insisted was the only—”
“I mean to go to the farm tomorrow regardless,” Anna cut in. “I want to bring all my things to town. I want to live with you, permanently, if you’ll allow it.” Before Lydia could draw breath to answer, she added in an angry rush, “And if you won’t, I intend to follow Two Hawks to Kanowalohale and ask Good Voice if I can live with her. Surely they need midwives too.”
Lydia’s gaze widened with alarm. “Anna, of course you can live with me. For goodness’ sake, I’d never turn you away.” Tears filled her eyes as she spoke, drawing an answering flood from Anna.
“Oh, Lydia. I think I’ve lost him.”
“Never,” Lydia said. “Reginald loves you. Whatever he’s done—if he overreacted—it was out of concern for you. Of that I have no…But you weren’t speaking of him, were you?”
“No.”
Lydia pressed a hand to her eyes. “Anna, I’m sorry this has happened. More than I can say. But can you try to see it as Reginald must have done? He came into the kitchen and found Two Hawks watching you bathe.”
Anna stood, cold again. Tearless. “He ought to have trusted me, if not Two Hawks. He oughtn’t to have assumed the worst. I suppose when one’s own heart is full of deceit, that’s what one sees in everyone.”
She went to her room, both proud and miserable that she’d rendered Lydia speechless.
She had the horse saddled and was halfway to the farm before the rising sun struck her back, too feeble to warm it. Lydia had pleaded to accompany her, but Anna had refused.
Skirting the farm, she kept to the trees until she crossed the creek, then rode through the beeches to the clearing. She’d rarely come there so early in the day that time of year. The shadows were cold and watery. Around her, plants she knew intimately were starting their cautious push through the thawing soil, but she paid them no heed as she dismounted and wrapped the horse’s reins round a budded sapling at the hill’s base. Her breath came short, white on the air, as she hurried up the path her feet and William’s feet had worn. The smell of wet earth hung around her, rich with the promise of spring, while in her heart it was winter. Would be until she saw Two Hawks again. She prayed as she had through the night, in agony for dawn to break.
Let him be here. Let him have waited…
Above, among the jumble of stones half-choked with rhododendron, all was still.
Near the little waterfall, her shoe sent a pebble skittering down slope, a sound louder than the stream’s chatter and the trills of awakening birds. She was among the rocks, one hand gathering up her petticoat, the other grasping stone, when she caught the movement above. Relief exploded inside her, until she saw the figure staring down at her. Almost she screamed but clamped a stifling hand across her mouth even as she recognized him. By the bruised eyes and cheek, the broken mouth. The stitched gash that carved its ugly line across his scalp. A scalp that now lay bare. He’d shaved or plucked his hair away to behind his ears, only the strip from crown to nape left to fall, feather tied, down his back. Despite the morning’s chill, he wore only breechclout and leggings. His chest gleamed like copper in the sun’s r
ising light.
“Two Hawks,” she said, as though naming him would banish this startling vision, return the man she’d known. Her voice was too small, powerless to recall anything that was lost. She was left staring up at this stranger. A warrior, fearsome and formidable. In that moment she knew; he’d made his choice: his people over her. And he’d done this thing to himself to assure he wouldn’t be persuaded to change his mind.
But he’d lingered. Long enough for her to find him. It was a tiny thread of hope, but she clutched it tight, forcing her limbs to carry her up to the cave’s entrance.
Not a muscle twitched in Two Hawks’s face as he watched her climb, as if he were a statue rather than flesh. As she stood before him, she saw at his feet lay his bow and quiver, his knapsack, rifle, and old blue shirt. The stone that had lodged in her chest at his leaving swelled to an unbearable ache.
“Why?” It was all she could say, though she knew the answer.
“I must. You heard your father’s words. He was right to tell me to go.”
Her face tingled at the sound of his voice, knife edged as it used to be when he spoke of Papa, as though the bladed words had struck her. “No, he wasn’t. I should have waited until Lydia was home to have a bath. She could have warned you.”
Her words had no effect. Not a ripple of feeling touched Two Hawks’s face. “It was not your fault.”
“Then it’s Papa’s,” she said, desperate to elicit some response from him, some sign he cared that everything they’d worked for, everything he’d said he wanted, had unraveled. “Come with me to the house. We’ll make him understand.”
“Anna Catherine. It is not your fault, or your father’s.” At last there was the smallest break in his voice. “It is mine. I have been awake this night through, praying. I know what I say is true. I have dishonored you. There is no undoing that by sitting down and talking like sachems at a peace treaty.”