She was weeping softly when Jeannette came to dress her hair. “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to,” her sister said practically.
“Oh, I do,” Thérèse assured her. “But I miss my mother. I’d never imagined my wedding without her.”
Jeannette patted her shoulder tentatively. “I’m sorry she’s gone. But...do you want Henry to think you’re sorry to be marrying him? Because he might if your eyes are red.”
“He’ll understand if I explain it to him.” She didn’t doubt that, but she didn’t want all the onlookers to think she regretted the marriage, so she took deep breaths and swiped at her eyes with her handkerchief until she was calm again.
But as Jeannette braided her hair, taking her time about it, Thérèse couldn’t help but reflect on other, hidden regrets. While she and Henry knew exactly who they were, they were still acting a part, deceiving the congregation that would witness their nuptials. It seemed inauspicious, all the more so since they were marrying according to the traditions of a church neither belonged to. It was all an act, a farce, even, with the only truth their love and commitment.
Still, none of those regrets shook her purpose. She’d confessed her real fears to Henry the night before, and he’d driven them from her mind, as was his gift.
Once her hair was braided securely and wound in a coronet at the back of her head, with her sister’s assistance she donned her wedding dress. Out of habit she still wore her father’s jewels in the pouch she’d made to conceal them beneath her skirts. She trusted the Cutlers, but if the jewels were with her at all times, no one could discover them by accident. And it was only fitting that she wore her jewels to her wedding, even if they were hidden out of sight rather than blazing at her neck and ears.
The dress was as unexpected as the rest. If her mother had sewn it, she would’ve shone in white satin or silver gauze. Instead she wore one of Mrs. Cutler’s daughter’s old cotton dresses. It was pretty and suited to the spring season, at least, white sprigged with yellow flowers, and Thérèse had altered it to fit perfectly.
“I picked these.” Jeannette produced a basket full of tiny wildflowers in white and delicate yellow. “They’re too small for a bouquet, but I thought they’d look nice in your hair. They match your dress.”
“So they do.” Thérèse blinked back tears, happier than the ones she’d been shedding before. “They’re perfect.”
She sat patiently again while Jeannette worked the flowers into her hair, then allowed her sister to lead her to the Cutlers’ bedroom, where the house’s one tiny mirror was kept. She turned this way and that, admiring the pale flowers in her dark hair. She looked like a bride after all, and she was marrying the man she loved. Nothing else mattered.
* * *
Henry had never seen anything more beautiful than Thérèse descending the stairs of the Cutler cabin, slim and dark in a dress as white as snow and gold as sunshine. Rain had begun to fall an hour before the ceremony, and thunder and lightning rumbled in the distance, but Henry didn’t care. Thérèse was light enough for him. He couldn’t imagine what his family would think if they could see him marrying like this, clad in buckskins and calico, standing before a Methodist minister in a frontier cabin, but he had no regrets.
Almost everyone in Cutler’s Creek had crowded into the cabin. Wilson wasn’t there, and while Henry regretted his absence, he well understood why he’d choose to stay away. But Ben Cutler stood by Henry’s side as groomsman, Jeannette stood by the corner of the hearth, bridesmaid in spirit if not in letter, and the senior Cutlers smiled benignantly upon the scene. Mrs. Cutler had been cooking day and night, and Henry’s mouth watered at the aromas of the wedding feast to come.
A little sigh swept over the assembled congregation as Thérèse made her way to where he stood before the hearth. She was so beautiful, so elegant, so much more than he deserved.
And then she was at his side, her eyes bright and joyous. Reverend Ford began the ceremony. It was thankfully familiar to Henry’s Church of England ears. Though the preface with its listing of the causes for which matrimony was ordained was absent, he knew the next lines well.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful.”
Reverend Ford spoke solemnly but quickly. He wasn’t expecting anyone to voice an impediment, and why should he? Henry and Thérèse exchanged small smiles. Whatever the laws of Tennessee had to say about their union, Henry knew there was nothing in God’s law, nor in England’s, to ban it, and those were the only jurisdictions he cared about.
The wind and rain grew louder as Reverend Ford turned to Henry and asked, “Henri, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Henry lifted his voice to make sure it carried above the storm. “I will.”
The minister then asked Thérèse almost the same question—but only almost, since the prayer book expected that she would also obey Henry. He grinned at her. He had his doubts on that score.
Her I will was as clear and carrying as his, and the watchers murmured their approval.
Now at last Reverend Ford directed Henry to take Thérèse’s right hand. They’d arrived at the heart of the vows. He stared into her dark, shining eyes as he repeated at the minister’s prompting, “I, Henri, take thee Thérèse to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.” That night, when they were alone, he would speak the vows again as Henry, so neither of them could ever doubt the honesty of their promises.
But just as the minister turned to her to prompt her through her matching vow, a commotion at the door startled everyone’s attention away from the ceremony. Henry whispered a curse. It was Obadiah Wilson, drenched from the rainstorm and wild-eyed with anger and defiance, accompanied by three young men Henry didn’t recognize. “Stop the wedding,” he shouted.
Cutler held up a placating hand. “Now, Obadiah...”
Wilson shook his head. “He can’t marry her. There’s an im-impediment.” He stumbled over the word, and Henry couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just unaccustomed to it. But he knew what would come next. He drew Thérèse to his side and beckoned Jeannette closer.
“Now, Mr. Wilson, that is a grave charge to bring,” Reverend Ford said in the level, careful voice one used with children and madmen. “I know you are sorely grieved and, perhaps, regretting your own rash choices—”
Wilson turned beet red with fury. “Hang my choices. He can’t marry her because she’s not white.”
Every eye turned to Thérèse as gasps and murmurs chased each other around the room. She lifted her head, though her eyes shone with tears. Mrs. Cutler cleared her throat and held up a hand for silence. “Come now. She told me she had a Choctaw great-grandpa, and anyone with eyes can see she has that look. But what of it? If everyone with a little Indian blood couldn’t marry a white person, half this valley would be living in sin.”
Now the murmurs turned for Thérèse and against Wilson, but Henry knew it wouldn’t be enough. If only the man would be satisfied with merely breaking up the wedding. They could go on their way tomorrow and marry in Canada. But if he kept on... Henry calculated the distance to the doors. The front was closer, but they’d have to fi
ght their way past Wilson and his friends.
“No,” Wilson said firmly. “She’s a quadroon. She may be part Indian, but she’s black, too.” The gasps and comments rose up again, louder this time, but Wilson raised his voice above them. “And that girl—” he pointed at Jeannette, “—is her sister. She doesn’t belong to them—she’s a runaway. They murdered her master, with his help.” The accusing finger moved to Henry. “And he’s no Frenchman. He’s English, an English soldier, and a deserter.”
Now the murmuring voices faded to an even more shocked silence.
Henry thought quickly. Truth, partial truth, was more likely to win them free than continuing their lies. “I am English,” he said, slipping back into his own accent. “That much is true. But I am no deserter and no murderer.”
Wilson reached into his pocket, and Henry tensed lest he reveal a pistol. But he pulled out a tattered piece of paper and unfolded it. That cursed handbill. “This says you are. And it tells of a reward offered by the dead man’s brother. Five hundred dollars.”
The stares directed at them turned speculative. Henry still didn’t quite understand the value of American money, but he knew enough to doubt anyone here had ever seen so much at one time.
He bent his head to speak in Thérèse’s ear. “Back door. When I squeeze your arm, run like mad.” He took Jeannette’s hand, ready to pull her along with them. He didn’t know how much chance they had, whether any of the people they’d befriended would still be on their side. But he wouldn’t stand still and simply allow them all to be taken.
“Half of it is mine,” Wilson announced. He was almost shouting to be heard over the wind. Some strange, dispassionate part of Henry noticed that he’d never heard such a sound from a storm before. It sounded for all the world like the waterfall in the stream above Farlow Hall in the rushing torrent of melting snow, multiplied by a hundred or so.
“Half of it is mine,” Wilson repeated. “But half I’ll split among anyone who’ll help me capture them.”
“You said you’d split it with us,” one of his friends said.
Just then one of the women shrieked and pointed toward the window. “Tornado! Tornado!”
Henry stared, and for the moment his fear of capture was overwhelmed by instinctive terror at the spinning purple-gray tentacle of cloud churning over the ridge to the west. But only for a moment. No one was looking at them now, not even Wilson and his cronies. This was their only chance. He squeezed Thérèse’s arm, tightened his grip on Jeannette’s hand and bolted toward the back door, away from the spectacle of the monstrous storm.
A few men made cursory attempts to stop them, but they barreled their way through to the Cutlers’ pantry and out into the nightmare world of rain and wind. Henry was soaked to skin in an instant, and the wind roared so loudly he could hardly think, much less guide Thérèse and Jeannette.
But there, tied against the Cutlers’ barn, rearing and plunging in terror, stood four horses. Henry recognized Wilson’s dun. He’d never thought to turn horse thief, but by the time they saddled their own beasts the storm would be past, for good or ill, and their pursuers would catch them before their escape had begun. “The horses!” he shouted.
As they reached the horses and struggled to calm them enough to untie them, a man charged to their side. Henry braced himself to fight, then recognized Ben Cutler.
“I’m coming with you!” Cutler roared. “Show you where to go.”
Henry didn’t question it. It had to be better than haring off with no idea of their destination. Together the four of them untied the horses even as the twisting storm bore down upon the valley.
“It’ll pass a little north, I think,” Cutler shouted.
A little north meant about a hundred yards, as best as Henry could tell. But he had no time to think about it. Just as they freed the fourth horse, a sturdy gray, it tore free and charged down the valley, bugling frantically.
“Never mind,” Henry called. “Thérèse, ride with me.” He mounted Wilson’s dun, the biggest of the three remaining horses, and pulled Thérèse to sit astride behind him. Jeannette and Cutler mounted the other two beasts, and they rode south out of the valley, fighting to stay in control of their frantic mounts, with Cutler in the lead.
All Henry could ever remember afterward of the first hour was the blackness of the sky, the cold rain chilling him to the bone, the dun’s pulling at the bit and Thérèse’s hands locked about his waist. Occasionally he looked behind him, but either no one was foolish enough to pursue them through the storm or no one had managed to saddle a horse yet.
But at length the sky lightened, the thunder ebbed to a low rumble, and the rain subsided to a drizzle. Henry thought Cutler was leading them back toward Nashville, but then he turned north on a narrow, twisting path into a valley far steeper than the Cutler’s Creek settlement.
“Where are we going?” Henry asked.
“To someone who can start you on your journey to Canada,” Cutler said. “Do you trust me?”
“I do,” Henry said cautiously, “but five hundred dollars is a great deal of money, and I thought I trusted Wilson.”
“I never did,” Thérèse said in his ear.
“Nor did I,” Jeannette said.
“There.” Cutler nodded. “Listen to your women. They’re wiser than you.”
“I don’t doubt it. Do you trust him?” he asked.
“Yes,” Thérèse said.
“If he’d wanted to betray us, he could’ve just helped Wilson,” Jeannette pointed out.
“Not if I wanted all the reward for myself. But no. I won’t do it. You know my family has never held with slavery.”
“Yes,” Henry said.
“Well, there are a few of us who don’t think it’s enough to simply avoid owning slaves. We help them escape whenever we can. But since it’s a long way to Canada, all I do is guide them to the next man who can lead them for another day or two’s journey.”
“A ring of abolitionists,” Henry said.
“Well, more of a chain, but yes. It’s not much farther, either.”
“What about you?” Thérèse asked. “What will your people do to you for helping us get away? And will it expose this...chain of yours?”
“I don’t think so,” Cutler said. “I’m careful not to express any opinions on slavery outside of my parents’ house. I don’t think anyone has any idea I’m a part of this. And it’s not as though I plan to hint at where I took you. This has probably lost me Obadiah’s friendship—but after what he did today, I don’t want it. As for everyone else, I daresay they won’t exactly approve, but if I remind them that you saved my life, I think they’ll come to understand.”
“I’m sorry we brought such trouble among you,” Henry said.
“You didn’t bring it. Obadiah did.”
“And he had troubles enough of his own.”
“Which he brought on himself. If he’d stayed away from that girl...”
That much was inarguable. They rode on in silence along a twisting, rocky path. Already the storm clouds had blown past, the sun had reappeared and a fresh breeze had almost dried Henry’s clothing. He could feel Thérèse shivering, and he frowned. His clothes were adequate to anything short of a snowstorm, but Thérèse’s dress had been chosen with an eye to beauty, and she never would’ve ventured outside without a warm cloak had not necessity forced it upon her. Jeannette’s dress was hardly thicker.
What money they had was back in the Cutlers’ cabin. As for Thérèse’s pirate jewels...did she still have them on her person, or had she taken to keeping them in her abandoned saddlebags in the safe haven of their upstairs room in the cabin? He couldn’t ask her yet. He trusted Cutler, but it would hardly be a kindness to mention such a treasure before him.
Even if Thérèse had the jewels, such large and valuable pieces wo
uld be impractical to pawn in any of the communities they were likely to pass through. He didn’t even have a pistol to defend them or a rifle to hunt with. They would be dependent on the generosity of strangers for weeks if they were to reach Canada in safety. Henry sighed. He hated an unpaid debt.
They rounded another bend and a little settlement came into view, smaller and shabbier than Cutler’s Creek. A handful of children gaped at them, and Henry noted their varied appearance—one little girl as fair-haired and light-eyed as he was, two who looked at least half-Indian and one as dark as Jeannette.
“Melungeons,” Cutler said in a low voice. “They keep to themselves. They’re mostly Indian, or so they say, but you can see that’s not all. But they’re proud and free, and there’s a man here who’ll guide you.” He nudged his horse forward. “Mark Gipson!” he called.
A tall, spare man with dark hair, gray eyes and craggy features appeared in the doorway of the nearest cabin. “Ben Cutler.” He stepped outside and dismissed the children with a, “Run along, young ‘uns.”
Once the children had scattered to their cabins, Gipson approached them. He gave Henry, Thérèse and Jeannette a quick, assessing look. “They need to go north?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cutler replied.
“All of them, even the man? He’s no slave.”
“Where they go, I go,” Henry replied.
“Oh? And what are you to them?”
“Her husband,” Henry said, squeezing Thérèse’s hand. Even though the ceremony hadn’t been completed yet, it felt true now as it never had when he’d claimed the title before. “And her guardian,” he added, nodding at Jeannette.
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