Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

  “Lud, my dear!” Lanley quickened his pace and stopped in front of her. He sighed, gazed at her starry-eyed.

  “Have I passed on to Paradise? Are you an angel in disguise?”

  “Your flattery isn’t necessary,” she replied.

  Nash scowled at the way Lanley gawked. He saw beneath that smooth veneer of politeness, how he kissed Rebecah’s hands with ashen lips, thin and drawn beneath a long angular nose, a libertine. She withdrew and joined Lavinia.

  “Your manner is too free,” Nash commented.

  Lanley smirked. “What is that you say?”

  “Kissing a lady’s hand once is enough. More is impolite and licentious.”

  “You challenge my manners?”

  “Some might say you are a womanizer.”

  Lanley poked his chin up at Nash. “I take liberties with the lady due to the fact she is to be my wife…someday.”

  “She does not seem to like your liberties.”

  “Yes she does…”

  “Ask her.”

  Lanley’s face burned scarlet. “Our method of wooing is obviously above the crudities of frontiersmen.”

  Amused, Nash grinned. “I’m in no need of instruction in that art.”

  A swaying beauty passed them, and Nash’s eyes shifted. Dorene smiled seductive and moved on.

  “Do you know Dorene Brent?” Nash asked.

  “I know her well.” A lustful gaze glazed Lanley’s eyes as he watched her glide away.

  “You play the field while you’ve an understanding with another woman?”

  Lanley laughed. “The field is exactly what a man should play before the bonds of matrimony hold him forever. I’ve the best of both worlds, as long as I play wisely.”

  Disgusted, Nash set his mouth and turned to leave. “Will you be returning any time soon to that untamed country of yours?”

  Dorene reappeared. “You can never go back. I’ll not allow it.” She stood close to him. “Life has been so dull since you left. I have missed your free spirit, your recklessness. Will you not kiss my hand?”

  Nash leaned over. The kiss was formal, cold.

  “Allow a true English gentleman to do that, Dorene,” Lanley said. He brushed his lips over the top of her hand, and Nash walked off. He needed fresh air.

  If I could only leave.

  He found Rebecah out on the balcony, her hands firm upon the railing, her head down. He moved beside her, looked out at the night sky.

  “Are you alright?”

  She nodded. “I suppose.”

  “Lanley embarrasses you, doesn’t he?”

  “Often. I’d rather not be here.”

  A pause followed. Then Nash said, “I would rather be sitting on my porch watching the sun sink behind the mountains, or hunting with Black Hawk my Indian brother.”

  “You have an Indian brother?”

  “In Indian fashion, I do. He is the best of men, a skilled marksman and hunter.”

  “It sounds wonderful where you live.”

  “Perhaps you should consider the Colonies for yourself.”

  He turned and leaned against the rail. Torches and a bonfire out on the lawn warmed the air. Reflections of the flames danced against the house.

  “It takes courage to leave home for a strange land and settle there,” she said.

  He adored the way the moonlight changed the color of her eyes. “Your voice is alluring.” A cackle of laughter caused him to pause. “Unlike those.”

  “My uncle says my voice is too bold for a girl.”

  “Your uncle is wrong.”

  He walked on with her into the shadows, beneath the bough of ivy hanging over the porch. The plucking of a violin drew people out on the lawn.

  “It’s the Carrows and the others.” Rebecah waved to them.

  Henry and Jane danced a country reel near the bonfire. Coachmen and footmen, laborers and servants, clapped their hands and stomped their feet in time with the music. Such a striking contrast to what went on inside.

  Nash took Rebecah down the stairs and across the lawn. Joining the country folk, he swung her around, holding her hands and smiling with her.

  CHAPTER 10

  After the guests departed, the family gathered in the drawing room. The door flung open and Samuel Brent entered. His neckcloth hung loose about his throat. His hair lay loose from its binding. The cuffs of his shirt were stained with wine.

  “Over the last few months something has troubled my father.” Lavinia spoke quietly, leaning in her chair toward Nash. “He refuses to speak of it, even to my mother. I’ve stood by and watched his shifting moods of depression and anger, his thirst for wine, his brooding.”

  “Perhaps he is ill and should see a physician.”

  “I believe his heart is troubled. Rebecah thinks she is the cause.”

  Nash frowned. “What could she have done?” He glanced over at her. “She is an angel. It’s all in your father’s mind.”

  Brent slammed the door. “The food is half-eaten and wine spilled on the new carpet.”

  Lady Kathryn looked at her hand of cards. “What is left the servants will eat. And they will clean the carpet.”

  “A waste of money,” Brent shouted. Everyone froze and stared at him.

  Lady Kathryn stood with genteel grace and touched his hand. “Do not speak so, my love.”

  “There will be no more parties at Endfield.” He stumbled away from her.

  “You are jesting, Papa,” Dorene said.

  “I’m the master of this house and what I say is law.” He tossed himself into a chair and covered his eyes with his hand. “Hugh has been screaming for you, Kate, and given me a headache.”

  “March said he was sleeping soundly a moment ago,” Kathryn said.

  “You rely too much on March to do what you should as a mother. Go silence him before I take a rod to the boy.”

  Lavinia rose from her chair. “Let me go, Mother.”

  Lady Kathryn agreed. “He will mind you, Lavinia.”

  Lavinia walked out, avoiding her father’s path.

  Brent put his hand on Sir Rodney’s shoulder. “Rodney, come with me to the study. Let us drink like we did in the old days and remember real living before we took wives.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Samuel. But I had enough wine tonight. I would be happy to have some strong black tea though, and talk over old times.”

  Brent laughed. “Your Methodist wife must think it a sin? And I can see you do not approve of my behavior. You find it brash. By heavens, have you been converted too?”

  “I’ll not judge you, my friend.”

  “Ah, but you should. I am a poor example to my son. Though I admit my wife makes up for the shame my daughters and niece bring me.”

  Nash saw Rebecah’s eyes lift.

  “Surely that is not true, that you are ashamed of them.”

  “You of all men should understand, Rodney. When the war starts, your son will take up arms against us. It’s enough to make any English father cower in shame.”

  Brent’s words caused Nash to stiffen. He saw the sad expression in his father’s face and tightened his fists at his sides. He drew in his boots and stood. “My father isn’t swift to judge a man, even his son.”

  Brent looked Nash in the eye. “It is his love for you that covers a multitude of sins, I suppose.”

  “His love, in spite of my failings, is more than I deserve.”

  Brent’s eyes narrowed. “I agree. At your age, I knew my place and my duty.”

  “I can assure you, I know mine.”

  Brent clenched his jaw. He turned away and drew Rebecah from her seat.

  “Do you disapprove of me, Rebecah?”

  She stepped back.

  “Say something!” Brent stumbled toward Rebecah.

  “You condemn us without reason, Uncle. Yes, I disapprove.”

  “I did not have to take you in, and I don’t have to keep you.”

  Nash hurried forward to move her away from Brent’s abu
se. Brent raised his hand. Too late to dodge the blow, Rebecah tumbled to the floor. Lady Kathryn let out a cry. Nash grabbed Brent by the breast of his coat and dared to hit him, but Sir Rodney caught him by the arm.

  “No, Jack,” he implored. “It will make no difference.”

  He shook the drunken Brent. “He is a coward to have struck her.” He flung Brent into a chair.

  Brent’s face looked wretched, the whites of his eyes heavy and bloodshot. He spoke not a word, only stared forward. Then he covered his face in his hands.

  “Forgive me, Rebecah. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  He held out his hand to her. Tears drifted down her face and a red mark stood out on her cheek.

  Nash pressed his mouth together and tried to restrain his anger. He watched her go from her aunt’s arms to standing in front of Brent. He could not believe what he saw.

  “You must sleep, Uncle.” Rebecah spoke softly. “In the morning you’ll feel better.”

  Nash shook his head. Baffled she had not lashed back at this madman, he wondered how she could forgive him. It caused him to pause at the secret he hid from her, hoping someday, when he could explain, she would be as forgiving toward him.

  Brent stood. His face looked drained and gaunt. He turned and stepped from the room with Lady Kathryn’s arms around him. Rebecah held out her hands to Nash and he took them. His were strong and rough, and the tender grip with which he held her made him hope she felt safer.

  Before letting her go, he touched her fingers to his lips. She then left with Lady Margaret. Dorene followed for there was nothing else to do. That night clouds passed over Endfield and left behind a cold mist in the empty darkness.

  CHAPTER 11

  Upstairs in one of the guestrooms, Nash tried to sleep. He had a troubled mind. He missed home, his own bed in his own room, the chirp of crickets in the tall grass and the tree frogs in the forest.

  He stood by the window and watched the moon and stars until the clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour. Night deepened into dark purple, and the logs in the fire turned to ash. Outside, the air was still and cold and he heard an owl hoot in the distance.

  Pulling off his boots, he lay down with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts were cluttered, restless. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer in the dark as the candle at his bedside gutted.

  He heard his door open, close, saw a womanly figure etched in moonlight come toward him in the dark. Her hair fell forward. She touched his face.

  He looked into her eyes. Greedy, unrestrained passion showed deep within them, unlike Rebecah’s, whose eyes were tender and beautiful.

  “Everyone is asleep. You want me, Jack?”

  Dorene!

  He shoved her away, got up. “Get out!”

  She twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. “When was the last time you were with a woman?”

  He reached to pull her up, but she moved back. “Go to your room, or I’ll throw you out.”

  Arrogant disbelief covered Dorene’s face. She pressed her lips together and lay back against the pillows. “I shall not leave.”

  “You will, I say.” He took her by the arm and hauled her up. “It may come as a blow to your enormous conceit, Dorene, but I don’t want you. I never will. What you have to give, I do not want. Understand?”

  Pulling away from him, she shook her head. “No, I don’t understand. Would you rather have Rebecah than me?” She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. “Christian! Rogue! Yankee traitor!”

  He laughed. “Call me what you will. Nothing will change my mind.”

  Throwing her arms around his neck, she pulled herself against him. “Why must God have his way, Jack? Why can we not do what we want? Forget your morals for one night.”

  He pried her arms free. “How clear must I be? If you wish my bed, you are welcomed to it. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.”

  “I hate you! You’ll regret your insistence on following some ancient moral code.”

  With nothing else close by to throw, Dorene tore the bedclothes apart, scattering the pillows, beating the bed with her fists. Nash ignored her and went out into the dark corridor.

  Shadows swept to and fro through the gallery of windows. He turned and without warning bumped into Rebecah. She looked up at him with a start.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “No harm done. I should go back to my room.”

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Footsteps passed down the corridor and he moved her back. He saw Dorene slip out of his room. Thankfully, she went the other way.

  “It looks like someone else cannot sleep.” Rebecah turned to go. She had seen Dorene.

  Nash stopped her. “Dorene is the reason I left my room.”

  “I want to believe you…I know what she is like…”

  “I had nothing to do with her.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulder. “Rebecah, you’re unhappy. Is it possible, I could change that?”

  Her lips parted. She hesitated, looked into his eyes. “Yes.”

  He would have brushed his lips over hers, but she stepped back and hurried away.

  * * *

  Sir Rodney and his lady woke early to the song of a mockingbird singing in a willow tree. The day begun cloudy, with streams of sunlight piercing through misty veils. After he dressed, Sir Rodney jerked the bell-pull three times. He wanted to be done with breakfast and head home. The night before had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Lady Margaret ran a brush through her hair, long and soft, tinted with silvery gray. “Did you notice the way he looked at her?”

  Sir Rodney yawned and stretched his arms. “You mean Jack?”

  Her ladyship turned and set the brush down. “Whom else would I be speaking of? Little escapes me when it comes to our son. Oh, I need my tea.”

  “Our son is a man, and makes his own decisions. Let us hope they’re the right ones.” Sir Rodney sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes.

  “There are times when one is blind to what is right. Or one may resist.”

  “You know matchmaking can lead to disaster, Margaret. We must leave him alone.”

  She stood and kissed his cheek. “It’s true we should not interfere. But if he asks our advice we should give it.”

  “I’m proud of Jack. He did what was proper as a man, to stand for her against a bully.”

  “Yes, it is sad the way Samuel behaved and how he treated Rebecah.”

  “I tell you this, after last night I’m anxious to leave Endfield.” He tightened the sash of his robe with a jerk. “And never come back.”

  “I cannot say as much. I promised Kathryn I would return next week to look at her garden plans. Also, her dressmaker will be expected, and I should like to see a few fabric swatches and patterns. But not for me, mind you. A few ladies are not faring well in our fellowship and are in need of new clothes.”

  Sir Rodney squeezed her waist. “Love, gardens, and clothes…I will have coffee and the London Gazette if they have it.”

  She lowered herself upon his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. “That you, an Englishman, would drink anything other than tea is astonishing.”

  “I like coffee,” he smiled.

  “Drink it in private.”

  “Why?”

  “Some might think you sympathize with the Americans.”

  “Let them. I can stand up to scrutiny.”

  She brushed his lips with her finger. “I think your boldness attracted me to you, and your good looks and the way you kissed.”

  “On my soul,” he breathed. “You still light a fire in me.” He kissed her once more, only this time upon the lips and with more passion.

  * * *

  From a white porcelain basin, Nash splashed his face with cold water, dried off with a towel, and paused. This foreign pang refused to leave. It burned in him like fire, pounded him like a tempestuous sea. He mull
ed over what to do. Should he follow the demands of logic, or the dictates of his heart? Could he fulfill both his duty to his country and love an English woman?

  He put his face in his hands. What he considered doing now would change everything. Tensions were mounting in America. The country poised for war. He knew he should leave England soon, or risk being trapped there. But he was torn. He did not want to leave Rebecah. He loved her.

  A coach pulled up at the front doors. From the window, he watched Brent walk toward it dressed in dreary gray. Inside the ban of his tricorn hat, a red tag showed his loyalty to English sovereignty. His cloak wrapped around his body as he climbed in. The footman adjusted the step, closed the door, and climbed to his seat. With a crack of the whip, the horses jerked forward and the coach rolled away.

  He felt a sense of relief for Rebecah the tyrant was gone.

  An hour later, the Nash’s coach waited for them on the drive. After they had boarded, and it rolled away, he looked back to see her standing outside the front door, hand raised, her hair unbound and lifting in the breeze.

  For the next week, he paced, wrote letters, and counted the days when he would see her again.

  CHAPTER 12

  The cottage Henry Carrow lived in with his wife Jane and two boys stood off a beaten path south of the manor. He worked the land for the Brent’s for two decades and thought to himself it was really his, not the haughty gentry’s. He sat smoking a clay pipe by the kitchen fire. Jane wiped her forearm across her brow, smudged flour over her freckled face while she kneaded dough for the day’s bread.

  Henry watched her with vested interest.

  Jane looked over at him as she pushed the dough. “Is it not time you get to work, my love?”

  “How can I, my darlin’ girl?” He drew on his pipe and blew circles into the air. “It looks like rain.”

  “If it’s a piece of pie you want, go on eat it. I’ll not slap the hand that feeds me.”

  Henry reached over and drew the pie closer. Pulling a large hunk out of the plate, he leveled it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and took a bite. Jane smiled. She was an attractive woman, not much older than Kathryn Brent. Her face was round and smooth, her eyes deep brown beneath slim auburn brows the same color as her hair.