She met Biz’s hard stare. “I wondered if you would care for Grace until Mr. Heath returns? And, as I have said, help me secure a horse for my journey.”
Biz cursed as she paced to the other side of the room and back, the movement stirring Grace in her sleep.
“Take a care, Biz. You will wake Grace.”
“Look, Elle Bell, I don’t know what you got in that delicate little mind of yours, but you have no idea the dangers out there for a woman alone. You can’t ride to Charles Towne by yerself. You’ll never make it. Caw! You’d not last one night on the road without getting into bad trouble.”
Eleanor set her jaw. Of course she’d assessed the dangers, and decided that the odds were nearly impossible. But had she not learned God was the master of impossibility? “I know. Yet it is a risk I am willing to take for Samuel and Grace’s sake. I am in God’s hands. I firmly believe that.”
Biz’s face screwed up, her mouth twitching one way and another, then as suddenly cleared. “It’s more than them, ain’t it. You got something deeper gnawing at you.”
Eleanor jerked her face aside, choosing instead to gaze out at the dawn’s grey light than the dogged pursuit gleaming in Biz’s eyes. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. How could such a former gutter rat know her so well?
“Get it out. All of it. Confession’s good for the soul, or so Parker tells me.” Biz’s steps drew near behind her, and a hand rested on her shoulder.
“Eleanor, please.”
Her throat tightened. Of all the times for Biz to turn soft, she chose this one? She pressed her forehead to the glass, cool against her skin. “I … I feel I need to succeed at something, anything, or I shall die on the inside. I have failed here. Dismally. Grace deserves a better mother than me. Samuel, a better wife. A real one. It was a sham, all of this, despite my efforts to make it work. My father predicted I would not amount to much. I guess….” Her voice faltered, the last of her words coming out on a breath. “He was right.”
She fought back a cry and spun to face Biz. “There is nothing more for me here! I am going to Charles Towne, and I will not be turned from it. If I am accosted along the way, then so be it.”
A growl rumbled in Biz’s throat. She whirled, her nightshift swirling around her legs. Storming to a chest at the foot of the bed, she rummaged through the contents. She retrieved something small enough to fit in one hand, then closed the lid and marched back. “Then yer going to need this.”
She placed a crumpled piece of paper into Eleanor’s hands and retreated a step, a defiant light in her gaze.
“What is it?” Eleanor unfolded the paper, heavy with coins inside. Why would Biz give her money? Where had she gotten it from? But … wait. The embellishment of writing on the paper, fine, strong strokes, looked familiar. She tilted the paper to catch the pale light diffused by the poor window glass, and her stomach clenched.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered.
“I stole it, that’s what. On the passage over. I took it right out of yer gown, when you were asleep on the ship.”
Eleanor jerked her face back to Biz, horrified.
“You know what kind of woman I am.” A scowl darkened Biz’s brow.
“But …” Eleanor gaped. If only she’d had this before, how different life would’ve been. No log cabin. No bears. The only danger a broken fingernail or perhaps a torn hem. She’d have lived in a fine Charles Towne home, educating children in mathematics and French, not chasing after a fair-haired toddler through dirt and brush.
Her shoulders sagged. She’d also have been working for a man and woman far removed from her company. Alone once the children were abed. Banished to an upper room of solitude instead of sharing evenings on a porch with a man she loved. She blew out a long, low breath, a vain attempt at dispelling the pervasive sorrow wrapping around her like a shroud.
“I’m sorry, Elle Bell. Truly. Living with the reverend, well, it’s rubbing off I suppose. I done a lot of wrong. I know that now.” The woman’s head lowered, contrite, repentant—and as out of character as Eleanor’s outburst the previous evening. “Only half the money is there. I spent some.”
Without waiting for a response, Biz lifted her face. “But I didn’t read yer letter. Whatever it says is yer secret alone. I … I can’t read.”
She ought be angry. She ought at least denounce the woman in some way. But Eleanor’s heart broke at the quiver on Biz’s chin. She opened her arms and pulled her friend into an embrace. This was no friend she’d have chosen, but Biz was an unconventional gift nonetheless.
Biz hugged her back, hard. “You ain’t cross?”
“How could I be?” Eleanor released her then grabbed Biz’s hands. “You have just given me a ticket to my future.”
“I did?”
“Indeed. This paper is my reference to an employer in Charles Towne. I shall have a place to stay, a job to do.” She smiled. “You have given me a chance to start over.”
“Start over. I like the sound of that. I hate to see you go, but I understand the need. Why, I’ll take the best care of Grace I can till yer man comes for her, so you needn’t worry on that account.” She squeezed Eleanor’s fingers, then turned and rushed to the door, snatching a wrap off a peg and tying it around her waist. “I best get about finding you an escort. Parker will know if anyone’s planning a ride in to Charles Towne, or maybe even take you himself.”
“But Biz! You are not even dressed yet.”
The woman stopped at the threshold, casting a glance over her shoulder. “Pah! Never stopped me before.”
Unconventional, indeed. Eleanor’s heart swelled. She’d miss this woman, more than Biz could ever imagine. “Thank you. You have turned into a fine woman, as I knew you would.”
An unladylike word flew out of Biz’s mouth, squelching the sweet moment. “I ain’t that fine.”
Once the door closed, Eleanor rushed to the table and pulled out a piece of rag paper from the drawer. Poor quality, but better than nothing. She carved a fresh tip on a quill with a penknife and dipped the tip into a bottle of ink. How did one write a goodbye to a man she didn’t really want to leave? A husband, if only by word and threat alone? It took a few tries, some blotted words, and not just a tear stain but several before she composed a suitable letter:
Dear Samuel,
Forgive me for the familiar greeting, but it seems odd to call you Mr. Heath after having shared so much with you. I am deeply sorry about your home and hope you will not think too ill of me for salvaging nothing. I am a poor colonist, I fear, unsuited to such a foreign lifestyle.
Enclosed you will find a small down payment for what I owe you. I intend to return in full all the money you paid for my passage, but I ask for your patience in that respect. I shall send more as I am able until such a sum is reached, which ought serve to nullify the marriage agreement. Please do not be angry if this takes me some time, for I don’t imagine my wages will be large.
I trust you will find a proper mother for Grace. She is a dear little one, far too dear to be entrusted solely to me, especially at such a young age. She will likely not remember me as she grows, but I shall never forget her. Nor you.
Thank you for your care. I learned a lot in our time together. I leave here a different woman than when I first came, changed in so many ways. I owe that to you. I owe so much to you.
Yours,
Eleanor Tatsuwa
(forgive the improper spelling)
Setting down the quill, she stared at the words. They weren’t enough, of course. There was so much more to say. But if she gave in and wrote all that was on her heart, she’d never leave here—and even in the leaving, part of her heart would remain.
She lifted her hand to her throat and pulled out the bear claw. All she had left of their time together was this. Wrapping her fingers around the talisman, she debated, long and hard. She ought leave this. A family heirloom should
remain with the family. But her stomach turned and nausea rose at the thought of never having a piece of Samuel to take with her for the long, cold nights ahead. She pulled on the tether until it cut into the back of her neck.
But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t yank it off completely. Could not sever this last tie.
She buried the necklace beneath her bodice and instead slid all but one coin atop the letter to Samuel. She’d need something for the journey to Charles Towne, if only a paltry sum.
She stood on legs that didn’t want to move, not really, and crossed over to Grace. Tangled in the counterpane, the girl slept, curled on her side. Golden hair fanned onto the pillow like rays of sunshine. Eleanor reached out yet refrained from touching the child. It would be hard enough to leave her without the girl watching her walk out of her life. Tears would undo her. Of course she’d loved children before and experienced difficult departures, but this was different. Part of her heart would remain in the tiny fist pressed against the girl’s cheek.
Holding back a sob, Eleanor whispered, “I shall always love you, little one.”
Her throat closed, and she sped to the door. Grace would be better off without her. So would Samuel. She had to believe that, wrap her hands around that boulder, and let it sink deep into her belly. Believing otherwise would crush her.
“Heath!”
Samuel jerked up his face and sucked in a breath. A blur of green and brown slowly sharpened into trees, trail, canopy, and ground. Wohali blew out a snort and bobbed her head, his mount as annoyed by Barton’s voice as he was.
Sweat beaded on Samuel’s forehead, and he swiped it with the back of his hand, skewing his hat. For the first part of September, it surely felt like midsummer—except for the recurring chills that shook him from head to toe.
“We going in circles?” Barton accused from behind.
Samuel ignored him, forcing his eyes to remain open—hard to do when, with each of Wohali’s steps, he wanted to wince. The wound on his chest burned like hellfire. Oh, for a bottle of rum right about now … but he didn’t drink anymore. Did he?
Swallowing the old desire, he slipped his gaze from a jut of granite, to a forked scarlet oak, and on to a southward bend in the trail. All of it familiar. Too familiar. Full consciousness punched him in the gut. Barton was right. They’d been here. Yesterday. And maybe even the day before that. Inoli would have a good laugh about that when he heard—Samuel’s heart seized. No, he wouldn’t. His brother would never laugh at him again.
He pulled back on the reins with his good arm and voiced a low “whoa” to the two horses strung behind. He had to get his bearings—and not let on that he’d lost them in the first place. Not that Barton was in much better shape than him. The man’s leg, wrapped and tied, was on the mend, but the arrow wound in his gut festered. If they didn’t reach Newcastle by sundown, neither of them would see another day.
Barton hacked up a wad and spat it to the ground. “Yer lost, ain’t ya?”
“Shut your mouth, Barton. You talk too much.” Wide awake and wishing he weren’t, Samuel sniffed. Then sniffed again, trepidation growing with each inhale. How had he missed the smoky stench in the air?
He twisted in the saddle. Pain seared the entire left side of his torso, and he grunted. The breeze carried a burnt stink from the east, up toward a rise of pine and hickory. The direction of his house.
Oh God. No.
“Hyah!” He dug his heels into Wohali’s belly. The mount took off like a well-placed musket shot.
“What in the—”
“Shut up, Barton!” Samuel yelled. Half a mile later, an old buffalo trail intersected their path. He steered his mount onto it. All three horses slowed on the incline.
“Ain’t Newcastle south? I need me a doc. I can’t take this much longer.”
The man’s whining burned into Samuel’s back like a hot poker. Or was that from the fever he could no longer deny? Either way, he understood why McDivitt had wanted to shoot the man. Four—or was it five?—days in Barton’s company could drive anyone to the act.
One more mile, and Samuel’s heart started beating hard. Acrid air hit the back of his throat, rubbing it raw. A half hour later, and his heart stopped. So did Wohali. The other horses whinnied. All three halted at the line where growth and greenery gave way to charred ground and blackened timber. Ahead, trees sprawled like dead men. Only a few brave survivors stood tall and blistered.
Behind, Barton cursed.
Samuel leaned forward, whispering to Wohali. “Home, girl. Take us home.”
A great shiver ran the length of his mount’s neck; then Wohali trotted onward, stepping high over logs. Samuel gasped, clutching the reins so tight his fingers ached. Better to focus on that pain than passing out—or on the horror that he might find when his homestead came within sight.
With every step closer, he couldn’t help but wonder if Red Bird and Grace had made it out alive. Had they plenty of warning? Had his wife known what to do? His blood ran cold, and he trembled. Uncontrollably. Had they met with the same end as Mariah?
He should’ve been here for them—he should’ve been there for Mariah.
Loosening the reins, he gave Wohali plenty of lead to pick her way down the creek bank then up the other side. When they cleared the rise, the ruined area of black land punched him in the lungs, stealing his breath. Samuel slid from the horse and ran to what should’ve been his yard, his stable, his home. His life.
Nothing but charred heaps of rubble remained. Not even any smoke curled out. Like life had loaded up its mount and moved on.
How much loss could a man take and still stand? Not this much. Not him. He dropped to his knees. Gravel dug into his flesh, poking through the fabric of his breeches. Good. Dig and cut and shred. Why not? He’d lost it all. His brother, his daughter, the only woman he’d ever loved.
A cry started deep, plowing up heart and soul and yanking them along as it tore out his throat. The wail swelled up to heaven. It had to. There was no other place for it to go.
Spent, he pitched forward and lay prone, rock and dirt mashing into his cheek. Eventually, his eyes closed. Maybe forever. If God smiled on him, he’d never open them again.
Chapter 39
Charles Towne
November 1770
Snap! The piece of chalk broke in Eleanor’s fingers, the sharp crack filling the schoolroom like the breaking of a bone. Seated in front of her, ten-year-old William Taggerton glanced up from his sketchpad. She smiled down at her young charge with the feigned look of pleasantry she’d mastered in the past three months. “Give me a moment more, William.”
The boy shrugged and went back to sketching out a likeness of a ship with a charcoal stick. He wouldn’t care if she ever finished.
Eleanor drew in a deep breath, then pocketed the broken half of chalk and went back to writing sums with the leftover stub on a small slate. What was wrong with her today? A grimace tightened her jaw, and for the space of a heartbeat, she nearly gave in to the truth of what ailed her every day. Sorrow. A grief so acquainted it had no qualms about climbing into bed with her each night so that she woke in the morning to a pillow dampened by tears.
Oh, Samuel, would that things had been different.
“Miss Morgan, look!” Susan’s cheerfulness squealed from the girl in a pitch that set Eleanor’s teeth on edge. Across the table from William, his younger sister grinned up. A stack of buttons wobbled in front of her, like a castle tower about to tumble under siege.
“Very nice, Susan. How about you sort them now, by color perhaps?” She forced a lightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. Couldn’t feel. Not when every time she looked at the girl, all she longed to see was Grace’s pixie face. What a horrid quirk of fate that her new charge also had golden hair.
“Miss Morgan?” A woman’s voice called to her from behind.
Eleanor stashed away the rest of the chalk into her pocket. “See if you can do these sums for me, William.” Handing the slate to the boy,
she whirled to answer the housekeeper’s summons. “Yes, Betty?”
The woman stood framed in the schoolroom doorway, looking like a spooked horse, nostrils flaring, the whites of her dark eyes large. “It’s Mr. Taggerton, miss. He be askin’ for you in the study.”
Eleanor pressed a hand to her stomach. In all her time as governess in this home, she’d never once been called to the study. In truth, after the first week here, she’d hardly seen or spoken to either the master or the mistress. “Me? Now?”
“Yes’m.” The woman bobbed her head, the white kerchief on her hair in stark contrast to her ebony skin. Casting a wide-eyed look over her shoulder, as if perhaps a hound of hell tagged her heels, she scurried into the room and lowered her voice, for Eleanor alone to hear. “And miss? You ought to know … he ain’t smilin’. He be in a foul mood, so mind yer step.”
“Very well.” Eleanor smoothed her clammy hands along her skirt. It must be bad if Betty were this riled. “Thank you. I shall be down directly.”
Betty whooshed out the door, apron strings flying. Eleanor watched her disappear, unease creeping down to her stomach and tightening into a knot. Why would the master call her midday when he ought be out attending to more important matters of business?
Mulling the possibilities, she crossed the rug to a bookcase and pulled off a picture book. Running her hand farther down the shelf, she grabbed a reader, then returned to the table and set them down. “When you are finished with your tasks, children, I would like you to do some reading. I shall be back shortly.”
“Yes, Miss Morgan,” their voices joined together, Susan’s lisp adding a hissing quality.
Eleanor frowned as she hurried out the door and down the corridor. As she sped along, she contemplated what to try next to get Susan to annunciate more clearly—a vain attempt to keep from thinking about why Mr. Taggerton had summoned her.
She descended the grand stairway, turned left, and stopped in front of the study. Pausing, she fingered her hair and tucked up any stray wisps. Necessary, yet also a stalling tactic, giving her enough time to compose the rapid beat of her heart. Surely she’d not committed some grievous error? If she were relieved of this post—no. Better not to think it, or she’d undo her last-minute primping and enter the room all teary-eyed and forlorn.
The Captive Heart Page 31