Before the Scarlet Dawn: Daughters of the Potomac, Book 1

by RITA GERLACH

  He checked each of Hayward’s limbs, examining his obviously injured leg last. Hayward cried out. “A small fracture of the femur,” said the doctor, looking alarmed. “This is most serious. Again, he must be kept still. Otherwise, the bone may be bent for life. Fortunate for him, it was not a compound fracture. I will place a splint.”

  He looked over the rim of his spectacles. “You must keep a close eye on it. We do not want gangrene setting in. He could lose his leg if it does . . . and possibly his life.”

  Gangrene. Lose his leg. Possibly his life! His words sent a shock wave though her.

  “As for the concussion, let us pray he wakes soon. It would be wise for you to consider what will happen if he does not.”

  Fighting back tears, a lump swelled in Eliza’s throat and she looked worriedly into her husband’s face. His head rested against the pillow. His hair fell over his neck. Such love she bore for him that she begged God to spare his life at any cost to her.

  The doctor touched Eliza on the shoulder. “He should be kept quiet and cool.”

  “Yes.”

  “If he comes around, you may feed him apples boiled in milk if he is hungry.”

  “May I give him tea, sir?”

  “If he wants it. He will need to stay in bed for several weeks. It is not necessary, however, that he should lie all that time upon his back. After the second week, have your manservant gently raise him up.”

  “May we seat him near the window? It is shaded in the late afternoon, and the breeze from the river is refreshing.”

  “Yes, that would greatly revive him. Your husband is not to exert himself in any way. It could delay healing.”

  She recalled that, when she was fifteen, a poor farmer, one of the members of her father’s flock, had fallen from the pitch of his roof while making repairs. For days, he lingered in and out of consciousness, until at last he died. She remembered the lost stares of his eight children, and how his wife had wept to the point of exhaustion. Nothing her father said or did could console the distraught woman.

  After the doctor left, Eliza fell on her knees at Hayward’s bedside and grasped his hand. She put her lips to his fingers and kissed them. She prayed until she could no longer keep her eyes open, drifting to sleep near him, believing that the Father of all comfort heard her pleas.

  It was not until the next evening when darkness came that Hayward opened his eyes and looked over at her. A candle set on the bedside table bathed his face in amber light, while the gibbous moon paled the room.

  “Eliza . . .” he spoke her name in a sigh.

  She drew closer.

  “You should be here . . . beside me.”

  She kissed his lips. “Only if you promise to be still, my love.”

  “I have nowhere to go . . . for now.”

  “Yes, only for now.” She told him what had happened, and what the fall had done to him. Tomorrow, she decided, she would tell him about their child.

  Softly she climbed into bed, faced him, and eased her arm across his chest. Long into the night, she listened to his breathing, felt the beat of his heart against the palm of her hand. Finally, when the clock on the mantle tapped out two in the morning, she drifted off to sleep with the breeze flowing through the window upon them both.

  17

  Bright sunshine touched Eliza’s eyelids. She woke at the sound of the cock’s crow and rose quietly—so as not to wake Hayward. Her feet touched the cool floor, and she tiptoed over to the window, where she tied the curtains back with a broad ribbon from her sewing basket. It was already a warm day, the sky pale and cloudy. She stood there a moment to feel the breeze sweep over her face. Eyes closed, she drew in the forest scents that came down from the mountains, where hardwoods shaded fern and rhododendron.

  Turning from the window, she slipped into her brown homespun gown of soft cotton. She ran her hand across her belly, the fabric slightly tauter than the week before.

  Warmth prickled over her body, and she turned aside to her husband. She touched his hair with her fingertips. It was soft between her fingers, and the feel of it caused her heart to swell as she looked down into his face. He did not stir, and she prayed he would remain so a little longer.

  She went to wash her face and hands, but the pitcher and basin were dry. There would be water downstairs in the kitchen, and so she stepped from the room, pitcher in hand, to fetch more. Little remained in the wooden cask, and so she picked up the bucket beside it and went out into the heat and sunshine.

  The path had been swept clean by the night winds. Spheres of sunlight flickered over it. Eliza did not neglect to take in the beauty that surrounded her. Great trees shaded the way, and honeysuckle vine wove through patches of wild rose. She could have fetched water from the creek, for it was closer than the river. But when she saw the patch of blue water through the trees and a pair of cranes standing on the rocks, she set the bucket down at creek side, and headed toward it. A few moments to herself was all she needed.

  She lowered herself to the shore and dipped her hand into the river. She washed her face, and allowed the water to ripple down her neck. She sat down on the bank, listened to the rapids tumble over the rocks, and watched the water swirl in deep eddies. Hayward would be all right, her heart told her. He would come down to this spot with her in a month or two and watch the sunset tint the river magenta and indigo.

  She saw something indiscernible float toward her, turn in the current until it met with a rock and halted. Rapids gushed over it, and a crow fluttered above the water and landed on the rock. The crow paced close to the object, poked it with its beak, and then flew off.

  Slowly Eliza stood. Realizing what her eyes beheld, she stared at the mass of gray and blue, at the Indian arrow imbedded in the dead man’s back. She could not cry out, but stood frozen from the horror she saw coming toward her as the body dislodged itself. Hands, white and gnarled, stretched out to her, as if pleading with her to pull him out. A lump in her throat gave way, and a trembling breath escaped her lips. She scrambled up the embankment to the path. Fear gripped her, clutching at her heels as she ran. Could the warrior who killed the man be close by?

  A horse whinnied, and she looked in its direction. She hadn’t expected to see Mr. Halston riding toward her on his gray stallion. He lifted his hat to her, swung one leg over the saddle, and set his booted feet on solid ground.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Morgan. I hadn’t thought to find you out walking alone, not with such dangers as we cannot imagine are possible. I heard your husband met with an accident, and I came to offer my condolences.”

  Eliza pushed a strand of her hair back from her eyes with a trembling hand. “There is . . . a man in the river.”

  Halston glanced toward the Potomac and placed his hand over the hilt of his pistol. “Did he try to harm you?”

  “No. There is a body . . .”

  “You’re in shock. Come. I will take you home.”

  He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his horse’s back. Taking the reins, he led his mount on, over the dry earth that had hardened in the sun. Eliza looked down at him as he trudged ahead, grateful he had come along to help her. Surely Hayward would not object, but be as thankful as she.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Who was the poor soul who had been murdered? What was to be done with him? If he had not come far, she feared warriors were close enough to threaten her family.

  The moment Halston helped Eliza down, Fiona bolted out the front door. “Come quick, my girl. Mr. Hayward is burning with fever. It came on him all of a sudden. He’s making no sense in anything he’s saying.”

  Eliza hurried up the stairs, then paused before going through the door. “I left the bucket at the mill. The cask is practically dry, and Hayward needs water.”

  She turned and started back down the stairs. Halston put his foot on the first step and stopped her. “Send your servant,” he said. “I will return to the river and investigate what you have seen.”

  She
set her hand over the railing. “Thank you, sir.”

  He bowed. “It is my honor.”

  She held his eyes a moment, then said to Fiona, “Find Addison for this gentleman. He has need of his help.”

  Hayward lay propped against the pillows, his leg wrapped tight in a splint. He made great effort to breathe, something Eliza knew was due to the force of the fever that raged through his veins. He looked at her through barely open, glassy eyes filled with pain. She hurried to him and touched his hands and brow. His skin was moist and hot, and tears welled in her eyes. He turned his head at her touch and spoke incoherently.

  “My love, it is I, Eliza.”

  “Eliza—so thirsty.”

  Distressed, she grabbed the glass on the bedside table and put it to his lips. There was barely enough for a swallow, and he took it down. “More is coming, my love. Rest easy.”

  She drew back the bedclothes, stood and went to the window, where she flung the curtains back as far as she could. The breeze blew over her husband’s flushed skin. Her hands hovered over him, searching for what to do, how to help him. It wasn’t long before Fiona returned with water and poured it into the blue and white pitcher.

  “Mr. Halston would not tell me why he and Addison were going down to the riverbank.” She plunged a cloth into the washbowl and soaked it. “Only that my eyes should not see what was there.” She wrung out the rag and handed it to Eliza. “What is it you saw?”

  Eliza proceeded to wash Hayward’s face. To tell Fiona the truth would cause her great worry. To hide it from her would be unfair. Deciding Fiona should be forewarned, Eliza bid her sit. “A man is in the river—killed by an Indian arrow. He could have come a long way downstream, so you mustn’t allow your worries to rise.”

  Fiona’s eyes grew large. “Lord, have mercy upon us. Perhaps Mr. Halston should stay a day or two to safeguard us.”

  “No, Hayward would not like it.”

  “Well, at least Addison is a good shot. And with Mr. Hayward so ill, we need the help.”

  “Addison knows what to do, Fiona. And remember, Mr. Hayward said there were no Indians that we need to fear this close downriver.”

  “I shall be more than obliged to help in any way you might need me, Mrs. Morgan.” Halston stood just inside the door, his hat dangling from between his fingers. “Is Mr. Morgan very bad?”

  Eliza pushed her hair back from her forehead. “I am distressed for him, sir. His fever is strong.”

  Halston showed no outward sign of compassion, and Eliza wondered why he had bothered to inquire in the first place. The rivalry and dislike between the two men proved evident in Halston’s demeanor. And if Hayward knew that Halston stood in his doorway looking down on him with marked disdain, he would have him thrown out. But Eliza could not bring herself to ask him to leave—not after he had come to her aid.

  Halston stepped back into the shadowy hall at the mention of fever. “Shall I send your man for the doctor . . . or, better yet, the minister? Fevers of this kind are known to take a person quickly.”

  His words caused Eliza to shiver. She stood and faced him. “I’ll not allow it.”

  He leaned his hand against the doorjamb. “It is up to God, ma’am. Not you. You should prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Tears filled Eliza’s eyes. “God will not allow it. He knows I love my husband and would not take him from me. Hayward is strong in body, and has a will to live.”

  Halston raised his brows, and his mouth curved into a quick grin. “Your trust in the Almighty is astounding, ma’am. I’ve seen too many people taken by fevers, so that I have little faith in miracles.” He turned to leave. “By the way, there is no way of knowing who the man in the river was. He may have been a lone backwoodsman, so no one will ever know. Addison is burying the body and will mark the spot.”

  Eliza shut her eyes a moment, sorrowful for the unknown man. “It is not Christian to put him underground with no prayers spoken.” Hayward moaned, and she drew back to him. His face was scarlet and beaded with sweat.

  Eliza’s brow creased with worry. “Mr. Halston, if you would send for a minister, please . . .”

  “I’ll have my servant ride over to the nearest parish church. I believe that is Mr. Hopewell. He is a Methodist, if that is suitable with you?”

  “Of course.” She bathed Hayward’s face once more, stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “It would give me ease if he would pray over the poor man’s grave.”

  “Certainly. And no doubt it would ease your mind if he were to pray for your husband as well.”

  She nodded and looked over at him with misty eyes. “It would.”

  Halston left, and Eliza listened to his footsteps going down the stairs. The front door opened and closed. An impulse to go to the window and watch him ride away seized her, but she resisted. She loved Hayward and swore to be his alone, but realized suddenly her heart was vulnerable and needed to be guarded. Looking into her husband’s face, she drove Halston from her mind.

  She pressed her cheek against Hayward’s hand and whispered a prayer. “Let him live, Lord. Please.”

  By three that afternoon, the heat rose even higher. No breeze blew and the land stood still in the hazy heat. Eliza stayed at her husband’s bedside, cooling his brow with water, but left him in Fiona’s care when she heard the minister dismount and leave his horse at the hitching post.

  Eli Hopewell and Eliza followed Addison out to the field where the backwoodsman had been laid to rest. Dressed in black and wearing the traditional white collar, Hopewell held his Bible close to his heart. His dark brown hair hung at shoulder length, touched at the temples with a bit of silver. His green eyes were sincere, and he had a kind, expressive face that was cleanly shaved.

  “Mr. Halston gave me the details regarding this poor soul, Mrs. Morgan,” Reverend Hopewell said. “It is good of you to provide a final resting place for him on your husband’s land. Most would not.” He stood over the mound of red clay and opened his prayer book.

  Eliza gathered her hands together. “I only wish we knew who he was, sir.” The heat grew oppressive, and she wished to feel a cool breeze blow. Standing in the shade, she looked up and noticed that the leaves on the trees had curled. Cicadas whirled, and bluebottle flies darted through the air.

  Hopewell shook his head. “God knows who this man was, and that is what is important in the end. Your husband is ill, I hear. When I have finished here, I will see him. I’ve also learned that this day the only doctor in these parts has left for Annapolis for good. Life in the frontier is too difficult for some people.”

  No doctor. This troubled Eliza. What would people do?

  “There is no one else to care for the sick?”

  “Most folks in these parts will make do on their own. They are of hardy stock.”

  After prayers were said, they walked back toward the house. There was not much he could do but pray over Eliza’s husband and give her a comforting word. The grave look in his eyes when he saw Hayward, and his sudden pause in the doorway as he was leaving, disturbed her. Were her hopes too high for his recovery?

  Hayward’s dark eyes seemed to look past her, through her, and she knew his stupor had deepened. His breathing grew shallow as the hours passed by, causing her to fear he would slip away. She laid her head on his chest, and with her heart aching she listened to the beat of his. Her arms lay over his body in a gentle embrace. He shivered, and his muscles tightened. The heat grew excessive, and she stripped him of his clothes and washed his body to cool him.

  In the predawn hours, his fever broke and he opened his eyes.

  “I am hungry.” His voice was weak and broken.

  “I imagine so, my love. Fiona is preparing breakfast and will be upstairs with it soon. I hope you like apples and milk.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  “I would prefer a mess of eggs and bacon.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  He winced in pain. “How long do
I have to stay in this bed?”

  “Weeks. So that your leg may heal properly.”

  “It will heal properly as long as I don’t waste away here.”

  “I shall see to it you will not. But you must not be stubborn.”

  “If you would bring me work to do and books to read, that will keep my mind occupied.”

  A flutter crossed her belly, and she smiled. Happy, she set her hand over her stomach, shut her eyes, and prayed for the life growing inside her. “I’ve something important to tell you, Hayward. If you would lie still a moment and let me speak.”

  He looked at her, curious. “Yes, of course, Eliza. What is it?”

  “Do you remember the day I told you there was so much for us to live for?”

  “You have told me many things. But I do remember that.”

  “It was the day we received the invitation to Twin Oaks. I could have told you then, but something begged me to wait. Now that I am sure, I have to tell you . . . I am carrying a child.”

  She studied his face to see his reaction. It was as she hoped. Warm pleasure swam in his eyes. “A child? When?”

  “Late February. Please tell me you are happy and that you love me.”

  He closed his hand over hers and held it. “Of course I’m happy. And you thought to ask to follow me off to war? Such foolish notions come into your pretty head, Eliza.”

  “Say you’ll not leave until the child is born.” He let go of her hand. “Please, Hayward. Surely, the army can do without you until then. Wouldn’t you like to hold your baby in your arms when he takes his first breath?”

  “I cannot promise anything. If I’m ordered away, then I must go.”

  She sighed. “I understand.” She lowered her eyes and looked at her folded hands. How would she convince him to stay? Eliza hoped the love that had grown within him for her would prevail over a call to war. That nothing could be so strong as to pull him away from her or their child. Again, the babe pressed a tiny foot against her side. It caused her gladness to increase, and nothing else mattered in the world.