by RITA GERLACH
She shut her eyes, knowing it were true, resigned to it so much so that her heart ached. She made no reply to the conversation between the two men. She unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap, hoping Mr. Deberton would give more attention to the food than to her. She did not dislike him, just his growing attraction to her. Time and time again, he strove to impress her with his dry wit, his educational credits, and his knowledge of worldly things. He talked about his distaste for politics and religion. The law was all that mattered.
“I so appreciate a good meal in the company of beautiful ladies.” Deberton smiled.
Lady Margaret inclined her head. “I’m sure you would appreciate a hearty meal with or without our company. But we thank you for your compliment.”
“You assumption is correct, my lady. But the absence of a soft hand and a sweet voice would make for a very dull evening.”
David tasted the soup and set the spoon down. “I never knew you felt that way, Edward. You should have been a poet.”
“A bachelor’s life is a lonely one, my friend, and it brings out the bard in a man. At least I’ve a good cook in my house.”
Everyone laughed at his comment, except Rebecah. She moved the spoon back and forth in her bowl. She had no appetite.
“Rebecah is lost in thought tonight, Mr. Deberton.” Lady Margaret looked kindly on her charge. “You must excuse her.”
Deberton looked embarrassed. “Mine is but dull conversation, my lady. I’m sorry if I’ve bored you, Miss Brent.”
She glanced at him with a slight smile. “I was listening, Mr. Deberton. You were saying something about London?”
“I was saying the poor houses are overflowing. As a last resort, people have fled to the Colonies. Once they get there they find they must endure more suffering.”
“Do you find fault in leaving?” She spoke with soft care and challenged him with grace. She did not want to show her private feelings for his comment.
Deberton drank his wine. “I cannot say I do. But I’ve mixed feelings.”
“Many do, Edward. That’s the problem.” David leaned back in his chair. “No one can make up their minds one way or the other, whether over love or marriage, politics or religion. We have Tories on one side of the fence and Whigs on the other waiting to duke it out.”
Deberton mashed a boiled potato with his fork. “If we go to war, then we shall be fighting the lowest of England’s castaways. The majority are or were indentured servants and from lower class families. Sons and daughters of Liberty they call themselves. Patriots. It’s folly and will quickly end.”
Lady Margaret looked into the flame of the candle nearest her. “I have a stepson in America, Mr. Deberton.”
Deberton shifted in his seat. “My apology, my lady. I had forgotten.”
“Jack is content as a landed gentleman and is prospering. His father and I are quite proud of him. He told us the land is beautiful there.”
“So I’ve heard.” Deberton smiled, trying to smooth over his words. He tuned to Rebecah. “I hope you never go to America, Miss Brent. It’s a dangerous place for a woman.”
“Danger exists everywhere, sir.”
“But it’s a wilderness. Life is hard there, so I hear.”
“Life is hard no matter where you live, Mr. Deberton.”
When the meal concluded, the ladies left for the drawing room, leaving the men to their cigars and port. The evening past quietly. Rebecah read aloud by the fireside, Lavinia dozing in the chair across from her, and Lady Margaret listening. Soon the clock in the hall counted out midnight and everyone retired for the night.
Rebecah lay wide-awake. Drawing her arms over her head, she studied the patterns on the ceiling, shadows of dark hues moving in gentle unison from the willow tree outside. A full moon glowed bright that night. Its light dusted the room.
She recalled a night, not long ago at Endfield when she stood beneath the trees hurt and shaken. He was kind then. Her heart pounded and ached with missing him. She felt lonely and desperate and wondered how life would have been if she had forgiven and gone with him to Maryland. She would be with him this moment, lying in his arms as his wife in his house.
The look in his face and the pain in his eyes, she could not forget. He asked if she were willing to throw their love away based on an accusation. If he had not caused her father’s demise was it right he should pay for it? Should she be cheated?
She slipped out of bed, sat in the window seat, and pondered how many miles of ocean and land separated them.
* * *
Downstairs Mr. Deberton sat alone by the fire in the library. On the table beside him sat an empty glass and the newspaper he’d been reading. With rebellion rising to a fevered pitch and soon to explode in America, she could not possibly consider going there. But he knew people had done foolish things for love. His hand trembled as he loosened his neckcloth. Would she have him? He considered the possibility. His money and position made up for what he did not possess in looks. She would be imprudent to turn him down.
He stood and headed upstairs. Intending to go to his room, he stopped short when he saw a shaft of light coming from beneath Rebecah’s door. So the angel did not sleep either. Gathering his courage, he rapped on her door and waited for her to open it. He felt his heart leap at the sight of her. She held her candle and the glow touched her face and made her eyes sparkle.
“Mr. Deberton. Is something wrong?”
“I saw the light beneath your door.” He stood back enough for the gloom in the hallway to cover his shoulders. “I was wondering if you were alright.”
“I cannot sleep.”
“Perhaps it is the moon.”
“Yes, you may be right. I’ll close the curtains.” She went to shut the door. He stopped her.
“You might find a book in the library to read. David has a fine collection for such a small house.”
“I left the book I had been reading on the settee. I shall go get it.”
“May I join you? The stairs are dark even in candlelight.”
Deberton put his hand out and took the candlestick from her. She drew a shawl over her shoulders and stepped through the door out into the hallway. He felt overjoyed she agreed to his suggestion.
“I would be distressed if you slipped and fell due to the dark staircase, Miss Brent.” He then held the candle higher.
* * *
Rebecah thought it was a strange admission and wondered if Deberton had other motives. Then she scolded herself for judging him. He was a much older gentleman and lonely. What harm was there in allowing him to escort her downstairs?
The study was a square room, painted deep blue with windows from floor to ceiling. Thumbnail paintings hung between picture plates.
“It’s cool tonight for this time of year. Are you chilly, Miss Brent?” Deberton asked.
She found her novel and held it against her chest in both hands. “I’m fine, Mr. Deberton. I think a storm is coming. Can you hear thunder?”
His eyes turned to hers. “I can. The clouds are swift.” Wind struck the windows and rattled the shutters. “Wind is a familiar foe in this part of England.”
She lightly smiled. “Yes, but I would not have it any other way, for I can always smell the sea in it.”
“You have a romantic soul, Miss Brent. Have you had opportunity to glance through this?”
He held the candle above the Harcourt family Bible. She drew next to him and he opened it. “The illuminations must be priceless. And here, look at these etchings.”
“They’re beautiful. My uncle has a Bible like this at Endfield, but not so old. I made a habit of reading the names written in it.”
“And what did you see in those names?”
“Oh, how fleeting life is. But at the same time I saw its gift.”
Deberton turned a page for her. “These names go back to Queen Elizabeth. See, Sir Walter Harcourt to Mary DuFay. Sir Phillip Harcourt to Lady Alice Walton. An impressive family tree. The line dwindles in gentili
ty after one hundred years and the rest are names of bankers and lawyers. Two professions the common man despises.”
“Not so, if the man is generous and honest like David. Have you a family?”
“None to mention.” He stepped away.
She moved toward the door. “I’m sorry you’re alone.”
“Are you? Did you mean what you just said?”
“Of course I meant it.”
“Then you understand me?”
“My understanding of you is limited. Yet, I know enough about you to realize how sad it must be not to have a wife and children. After all, you have mentioned it.”
“My work prevents me from dwelling on it. Yet it does not fill the need for companionship.”
“It is not good for a man to be alone. Is there no one special?”
“Not officially.”
She lifted her face to meet his gaze, and by the look in his eyes, she realized he had tender feelings for her.
“You will always have friends here.”
He stepped forward.
“I heard you were close to marriage twice. Forgive me for bringing it up. But if I may say, I understand the reasons for denying your love to an American. But why did you refuse Lanley?”
Rebecah squeezed her book closer. These were intrusive questions. “It’s in my past, Mr. Deberton, and hardly a topic you and I should discuss.”
He looked at her sympathetically. “I understand.”
She put her hand over the door latch. His hand, warm and large, closed over hers. “Please, don’t leave. I must say something I’ve been longing to say.”
“It’s late.” She drew her hand away.
“I realize I’m not in the position to speak.” He drew in a breath. “But I have this sense you wish to leave England. Please tell me this is nonsense.”
“How could I leave England?”
“Then my feelings were unfounded?”
She turned aside. “If there were a way, I might go.”
“The money Mr. Nash has left you would be more than enough, and set you up in a house.”
“Yes, it would. But I have not decided whether to accept it.”
“A better way is here before you. Do you know what it is I want to say, what I’ve longed to tell you?”
“It is better unsaid.”
If she could drown him out, and cover her ears, she would. If he would move away from the door, she could get out.
“If I do not speak now, I don’t know what I shall do.” Deberton held his hands out to her. “I’m in love with you.”
She moved back.
“I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you. Be my wife. Allow me to prove my devotion to your happiness.”
“Please, sir, try to understand. This isn’t right. You must move away from the door and let me out.”
His face flushed. “I did not mean to keep you. I was too hasty. I spoke too soon.” He was sincere, and the pain of rejection showed in his face. She did not want to hurt him, but what could she do?
“I forgive you.”
“But I do not regret it, Rebecah. I’m here before you, your humble servant to command.”
“You’re not my servant, nor will I order you to do anything—except one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Open the door please. Let us part as friends.”
He nodded, and did as she asked.
Rebecah felt sorry for him that he could not master the temptation to plead. He was like an abandoned puppy rooting at her hand for a touch of affection.
Bewildered, she set the candlestick down on the bedside table. “Oh, God, I want to be with Jack. Please, make a way, and help me to be brave.”
CHAPTER 27
Rarely did people bolt their doors in Fredericktown. After suppertime, it was customary to sit on the porch with friends and family. Men smoked long-stemmed bowl pipes, talked of horses, agriculture, and politics. Women tucked their children in bed beneath downy patchwork quilts as the last glow of sunset faded over the Catoctin Mountains. Dusk swept across the floor of the valley and evening stars brightened.
When night fell, a dream-like peace fell with it, bringing the choir of frogs, the symphony of crickets. Soon lanterns were lit and men headed for the tavern to hear the latest news.
That night, when Black Hawk strode down Market Street leading a horse with a wounded man slumped in the saddle, women retreated indoors.
A candle glowed in a lower window of the Boyd House. Black Hawk looped Meteor’s reins through the iron ring near the street and helped Nash down. Holding him up by one arm, he pounded with the fist of the other on the door. It swung open.
Archibald Boyd, the town clerk, gasped and went to shut the door. Black Hawk leaned in. Nash glanced up with a slight smile.
“Evening, Mr. Boyd.”
Boyd’s brows shot up in surprise. “John Nash!”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. The hour is late.”
Boyd glanced at Black Hawk and Nash caught the fear in his eyes.
“Not to worry, Mr. Boyd. Black Hawk is my friend.”
“He’s a savage.”
“Indeed to some, Mr. Boyd. But to me, he is my salvation. May Black Hawk bring me inside? It’s urgent.”
Boyd gasped at the blood-soaked bandage around Nash’s leg. “Come inside quickly. Billy, come quick, my boy.”
A youth came into the light. Together he and Boyd took Nash from Black Hawk’s arm and led him upstairs. Black Hawk remained on the porch, arms folded and head lifted high.
A moment later Boyd returned. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Fetch the doctor. Tell him Mr. John Nash of Laurel Hill is injured and he must come straight away.”
Off the boy dashed, down the stairs and into the street.
Mr. Boyd turned to Black Hawk. “He will be cared for. You may go around the back of the house. I’ll have my cook bring you food and drink.”
Black Hawk nodded. Meteor shook his mane and snorted.
“Is that Nash’s horse or your own?” asked Boyd, as they moved Nash inside.
Black Hawk glanced back. “If he were mine, he would have no saddle.”
“If this wound kills me, he is yours, Black Hawk,” Nash managed to say as they took him up the staircase. Mr. Boyd opened a door to a small bedroom. “Bring him in. Set him on the bed carefully.”
Nash flinched. “I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Boyd. I only meant to come with news on my way home.”
“Well, let the doctor be the judge of whether you can travel tonight.”
“We’ve left Meteor in the street.”
“When Billy returns I’ll have him brush him down and give him oats.”
Boyd gestured to Black Hawk to step from the room with him. Black Hawk followed him down the corridor. “You need not worry about anything here, Black Hawk. You can return to your village.”
Black Hawk shrugged. “I’ve no village.”
Boyd lifted his chin. “How is it you and he became such close friends?”
“My brother saved my life.”
Boyd’s eyes softened. “I see. Not even among whites have I found such a loyal friend as you, Black Hawk. Thank you for bringing him safely to town.”
Black Hawk nodded. Then he stepped outside to the path buried in darkness alongside the house. In the rear, a lantern hung near a back door. A wary serving woman handed him a bowl of stew through the window. He thanked her in his language and saw her swallow.
“Put da bowl on da porch when you’re done. But if you want more, tap on da window.”
“It is enough.”
Black Hawk sat on the stoop. The woman shut the window.
* * *
Upstairs in the Boyd house, Dr. Cole examined Nash’s wound. “Your Indian friend did a good a job. You shouldn’t have too much trouble, some pain now and then. But otherwise keep the wound clean to prevent infection and you will be fine.”
“How long before I’m on my feet?”
“Tha
t depends. Weeks most likely. Don’t rush it. You should stay here until you completely recover.”
“I’ll go home after I speak to the men of the town. There’s trouble out in the frontier headed our way.”
The doctor straightened up.
Boyd leaned in. “You believe the settlers in our county are at risk, Jack?”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
His leg felt numb around the wound and he set his hand on his thigh. The gentle pressure of his fingers pressing into the muscle above it eased the pain somehow.
After the wound was washed and dressed, Dr. Cole gave instructions to Mr. Boyd and his daughter Theresa. She stood within the doorway, a look of worry covering her fair face. After her father and the doctor had gone, she moved to the window and opened the shutters wide.
“Several people have gathered across the street, Mr. Nash. News spreads fast.”
“They saw Black Hawk coming into town with me. More than likely that has their curiosity at a frenzy.”
A voice called up to the window from the street. “Miss Boyd, how’s our Jack?” It was Tobias.
Nash lifted a corner of his mouth. “Tell him I’m in good hands and to spread the word the men are to meet at the tavern in the morning.”
She leaned out the window to convey the message. Then she removed the candle from the casement and drew the muslin curtains closed. She tucked in the fresh bed linens. “You must lie still and go to sleep. Try not to think about things for now.”
Nash closed his eyes. A moment more and he fell fast asleep. The medicine the doctor administered proved strong.
* * *
For a long while Theresa sat near the window, her hand cupped her chin as Nash slept. She studied his face. His eyelids were smooth and sleek, with dark lashes. The curve of his mouth inviting for kisses. She thought he was handsome, but she had no attraction to him other than a friendly admiration.
Nash turned his head and talked aloud in his sleep. “Rebecah.”
Theresa smiled, realizing there was a woman in his life. She knew of no one in Fredericktown with that name. Whoever Rebecah was, she had no idea the man who apparently loved her lay wounded in an upstairs room of the Boyd house, out in the frontier. She had no idea he dreamed of her, spoke her name as sweet as honey from his lips.