by Gen Bailey
But sleep was not to be the restful pleasure that she sought, for her dreams were far from pleasant, and when Marisa awoke much too early the next morning, she discovered that her head, particularly there at her temples, was pounding.
No amount of rubbing her forehead eased the headache, either, and at last arising and grabbing hold of her sleeping jacket, she went in search of Sarah.
Sarah Strong listened to the concerns of the young woman that she had come to love as though she and her young charge were related by the bond of blood, rather than by a mere friendship. Because Sarah was ten years Marisa’s senior, she could easily recall the day when the captain of the Wayflower, the ship that had brought Marisa’s family to the New World, had brought Marisa to this very home.
Tragically Marisa had been the only one of her family to survive the hard and long journey to the New World. She’d had a father, a step-mother and an elder brother, Sarah recalled. However, none but Marisa had lived to tell of the journey, not that Marisa had ever talked of it. In truth, Marisa never mentioned the incident.
At the time, Marisa had been four years of age, and Sarah fourteen. That had been fourteen years ago now. It had been a difficult and troubling time, Sarah’s first year of servitude at the Rathburn estate. Because Sarah’s own parents had acquired a debt to John Rathburn and had perished in a fire shortly thereafter, it had been Sarah’s fate to live to pay off her parent’s debt.
Six years more was all that remained of that obligation now. Six years and Sarah would be free of this house. But free to do what, she wondered?
She was twenty and eight now, too old to marry. By the time she earned her freedom from the Rathburn estate, she would be thirty and four, well past the age where a respectable man might seek her hand . . . unless that man were a widower who had been forced to seek an older woman in marriage, that she might care for his children.
Sarah sighed. How different her life would have been had her parents never acquired their liability to John Rathburn. But now was not the time to bemoan her lot in life. She would endure this for the sake of her parents. In the meanwhile, the young woman whom Sarah regarded as fondly as if she and Miss Marisa were sisters, was upset.
Sarah fixed a smile upon her countenance before saying, “There, there, it cannot be all that bad, can it? ” Sarah arose from the stool where she had been sitting, to pace toward the bed where Marisa sat. Seating herself alongside Marisa, Sarah laid her hand atop her friend’s. “I am certain that it cannot be as terrible as it might seem to you now.”
“I hope you’re right, dear Sarah. For ’tis bad. Very bad.”
Sarah nodded in understanding. “Then tell me about it. I will listen.”
Marisa exhaled and swallowed hard, before she began, “It happened in the middle of the night last evening. I was awakened by what I know not, but I heard footsteps outside my door, and I decided to investigate . . .”
“Yes? ” Sarah encouraged. “And what did you find? ”
Marisa fidgeted. “T’was my step-uncle and a bully,” she began, and though she stumbled often in the telling of it, eventually Marisa related the entire incident to Sarah.
At the tale’s conclusion, Sarah hardly knew what to say. Words failed her at the moment, and all she found herself able to do was frown.
“What should I do? ” Marisa asked.
Sarah’s frown deepened. “You say your uncle—”
“He is my step-uncle, Sarah dear, and you know as well as I that he cares nothing for me. He is obligated to raise me only because of my step-mother. But beyond that, there is nothing to tie us. As you know my own mother gave her life giving birth to me, and the woman that I called ‘mother’ for many years was not my own blood relative. She was kind, I believe, though I was too young to remember it well now. But by blood, I am not tied to John Rathburn.”
“Yes, of course,” said Sarah. “Sometimes I forget.”
Marisa nodded, then stared at Sarah. “Dear Sarah,” she said, “tell me, what is your impression of these goings-on? ”
Sarah hesitated. “What was it that your uncle said to this unidentified man? ”
“My uncle gave the man leave to hire others, who were to be instructed to burn the fields and all the concerns of a Dutch town, which name I do not know. Nor do I have knowledge of where that town is located. Not exactly.”
“And you say that these Dutch people are in debt to your step-uncle, and he means to lay title to their fields as well as to their livelihood? ”
“Yes.”
Sarah gulped. Despite herself, a sickness was already invading her soul, and she wondered if her breakfast would long remain where it was. She said, “And your step-uncle means to bring the people in that town into servitude to him? ”
“Yes.”
It was too much. Sarah lay her free hand across her stomach, her fingers clutching at Marisa’s hand. The feeling of nausea could barely be ignored. At first, she bent over at the waist, trying to stave off the nausea, and removing her hand from Marisa’s, she placed it over her forehead.
“Sarah, are you all right? ” Marisa’s face loomed largely in front of Sarah’s vision. “Sarah? ”
“I am certain that I am all right,” said Sarah. “ ’Tis only that I feel suddenly very ill. Would you excuse me that I might go to my bed? ”
“Of course, but, Sarah, there is more that I—”
“Would you like to accompany me to my own room, then, where we might speak of this some more? ”
“Of course. I am sorry that you do not feel well.”
“It is nothing; nevertheless, let us retire to my own quarters where, God willing, if you are interested, I will tell you a story of my own.”
Marisa frowned. “You have a tale that you have never said to me? ”
“Aye,” said Sarah.
“But I thought we shared everything.”
“And so we do . . . mostly. But it has seemed so unnecessary to relate this tale to you, for it is not a pleasant one. But perhaps I have been wrong to withhold it from you all these years.” Another wave of nausea shook her physically; beads of perspiration formed above her lip. “Excuse me, dear Marisa, but I fear I must obtain my own quarters at once, for I suddenly feel worse than I did only a few moments ago.”
“Yes,” said Marisa. “Yes. By all means, let us go there at once.”
Sarah arose to stand by the bed, but Marisa remained seated, and she said, “Has this story of yours anything to do with my step-uncle? ”
“It does, for you know, I am here in servitude to your uncle—”
“He is my step-uncle. And you were saying? . . .”
“The things that you have said to me are troubling—”
“I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. ’Tis only that this tale of yours is very similar to one that I know all too well. The only reason I am here in your step-uncle’s employ is because my parents were indebted to him, and they perished in a fire, leaving only myself to recompense the debt.”
“No! Sarah!”
“ ’Tis true.”
“But this is incredible. Then it would appear that my step-uncle has done this before? ”
“Excuse me.” Sarah jumped away from the bed, and fled across the room, arriving at the chamber pot with barely enough time to empty the contents of her stomach into it.
“Oh, Sarah, I am so sorry, I should not have bared my soul to you and told you what I have.”
“You most definitely should have,” said Sarah as soon as she was able. Straightening up, she wiped her mouth upon her apron before rising up to her feet. “ ’Tis only that—”
Just as quickly as she had stood up, she flopped down again, turning back toward the chamber pot as another bout of nausea swept over her. Again, she heaved, and the rest of what had been in her stomach took leave of her.
Glancing up toward Marisa, Sarah noted that Marisa looked truly alarmed. “Sarah,” said Marisa. “Come with me. I will escort you to your room, where I shall insi
st that you remain for the rest of the day.”
“No,” Sarah protested, “there is too much work to do.”
“I will hear no more about it. You are too sick to attend to your duties today.”
Sarah sighed. “A few hours of sleep might help me, perhaps.”
“I shall insist that you take the rest of the day for yourself.”
Sarah shrugged. “We shall see,” she said. “At present, however, I do believe that I should like very much to take to my bed.”
“Then come with me. I will escort you. Was my step-uncle cruel to you?” asked Marisa, as she took Sarah’s hand into her own.
Sarah was reluctant to say anything.
“Sarah, was he cruel to you? ”
“It was all so long ago, that . . .”
“He was, wasn’t he? ”
Sarah didn’t reply, her silence making her answer evident.
In due time, however, Sarah said, “For years I have lived in fear of John Rathburn, in fear that he might repeat . . .”
“That he might repeat what . . . ? ”
Sarah couldn’t say more. It was beyond her to do so.
“Did he . . . take advantage of you? ”
Sarah bit her lip.
“He did, didn’t he? ”
Sarah turned away.
“You needn’t say it. I can tell from your expression that he has taken advantage of his position.”
“As many men do,” said Sarah. “Most men believe it is their right.”
“I suppose that’s true, but I still cannot champion the practice of demanding physical tribute from a maid.”
Sarah nodded. “If it makes you feel any better, I should tell you that once you came here, the practice ceased. Though I admit that the circumstance that brought you to this house was not a happy one, it is true that your being here has lent me much support.”
Marisa shook her head. “Sarah, I had no idea.”
“The worst of it happened long ago, at a time when you were much too young to know anything of it. But come, do not fret over my situation in life. What is more important is that your step-uncle is planning to do to others what he did to my parents.” Sarah’s voice caught. “To lose everything, home, livelihood, way of life. ’Tis enough to be the death of one. That one man should have leave to inflict such unhappiness upon so many.”
Marisa’s head came up and her gaze seemed to catch onto something in the distance. “You are right,” she said. “ ’Tis unbecoming of my step-uncle. Do you suppose we might be able to stop him? ”
Sarah shook her head. “If there be a way, I do not know it.”
“Nor do I, dear Sarah. But there is one particular that I cannot forget.”
“And that is . . . ? ”
Marisa, however, didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “I shall confront him with this knowledge. Perhaps if he be made to understand that others are cognizant of his plans, he might restrain himself.”
Sarah breathed in noisily. “You mustn’t do so. Your uncle is capable of anything.” She placed her hand over Marisa’s. “Please promise me that you will not do this.”
Marisa hesitated before she said, “Perhaps you are right. But someone, somewhere has to say ‘no, ’tis not right’ to the man. Perhaps that someone is me.”
“No,” said Sarah.
But when Marisa said nothing more, Sarah shook her head. She had a bad feeling about this.
Two
You say he bears a field message from Johnson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then show him in at once. What did you tell me is his name? ”
“Black Eagle, sir. He is from the Mohawk.”
Governor Shirley nodded. “Send him in.”
Coleman, the Governor’s aide, opened the door and motioned Black Eagle to enter. “Come this way.”
Black Eagle strode forward, his tall figure dwarfing the Englishmen who stood beside him. Quickly Black Eagle took stock of the room, memorizing little details about it; the grand fireplace, the Governor’s desk, the rug that softened one’s footfalls, the gun rack filled with muskets, which he noted were primed and ready.
The Governor, himself, held an air of suspicion about him that Black Eagle noted at once. Moreover, there was a scent of tobacco about his countenance and a slight odor of the white man’s whisky on his breath. But the man was not the least bit intoxicated. His eyes were brilliant with intelligence even if, at this moment, his attitude toward Black Eagle were less than friendly.
Speaking first, the Governor broke into Black Eagle’s thoughts, and said, “I am told that you come bearing messages.”
“That is true, sir,” said Black Eagle, his voice strong, steady and deeply baritone.
“Well, bring them here, young man. Bring them here.”
Black Eagle stepped farther into the room, pacing across its width. He stopped directly in front of the Governor’s desk.
“They are here,” said Black Eagle, as he reached into a bag that hung from around his shoulder. He presented the letters forthwith to the governor, who took them at once.
“Ah,” said Governor Shirley who scanned the papers. “Ah, I see. Victory was ours today, but that incompetent Johnson was injured, though I see that he writes that he is almost well now.”
Black Eagle frowned. Both men seemed to hold the other in contempt. Perhaps within their own ranks, the English were not as invincible as one might suppose.
Black Eagle, however, remained silent, alert.
“How is it that Johnson is almost well? ” Governor Shirley asked as he eyed Black Eagle as though the bearer of the news were to blame. But to blame for what? For Johnson’s speedy recovery? Black Eagle quietly noted another peculiarity that did not fit the general picture the English liked to present to the Mohawk sachems.
However, all Black Eagle said was, “The Water-that-runs-swift is healing.”
“Is it?” Governor Shirley’s look at Black Eagle was skeptical. Then, with a note of condescension, he added, “I thank you for delivering these papers to me. I suppose that I am indebted to you, and so I ask, is there anything that I can do for you? Anything that you need? ”
“Some food and water would be welcome,” said Black Eagle.
Governor Shirley might be many things, including a prude, but it was obvious to Black Eagle that Shirley dared not break with the convention of giving aid to one who has executed a service. Therefore, he said, “It will be done. Mr. Coleman? ” he called to his aide.
“Yes, sir? ”
“Take this scout to the kitchen and see that he has a good meal.”
Coleman saluted. “Yes, sir.” Then, barely missing a beat, Coleman turned to Black Eagle, “This way.”
Black Eagle acknowledged Shirley with a nod, and followed Coleman out the door.
The delicious aroma of food being cooked announced the kitchen long before Coleman and Black Eagle attained its inner sanctum. With every footfall, the air surrounding them became warm, and filled with an enticing fragrance.
There was a feel in this area of the house that boasted of the best that the white civilization had to offer, and as Black Eagle stepped into the kitchen’s inner chamber, he was surrounded by the bustle of several different women. The moist heat that radiated throughout the place, which he supposed was created by the various stews that were cooking over the fire, was pleasant. He relaxed.
“Stay here,” said Coleman as though he addressed an idiot, instead of a grown man. He then left Black Eagle standing at the room’s wide entrance, while he trod farther into the room. Black Eagle could see the Englishman trying to capture the attention of one of the cooks, noted with pleasure that Coleman was not having an easy task of it. Black Eagle breathed in deeply and took in the scene before him more fully.
A few of the women had hiked up their skirts to tie around their waists, although several of the younger women wore no more than a simple shift of white, most likely to avoid accidents from the fire, Black Eagle surmised. Two windows
served as lighting for the room, while tables—and there were several—boasted various brass pans, funnels, wooden bowls, many skillets and kettles. Several dressers against the walls held dishes, and adorning those walls were pans, which were all sorted out by their different shapes.
It was a busy environment, and Black Eagle felt as though he were intruding on a domain that was exclusively feminine. For a moment he experienced a notion of being ill at ease, until someone brushed past him, leaving in their wake an arousing scent of the fresh outdoors and femininity.
Black Eagle’s attention was immediately caught, and he gazed at the back of the exquisite creature who had ventured into the bustle of the kitchen. Her dress was different than that of the other women in the kitchen. It was made of an elaborately decorated material, and it was full, particularly at the sides of the waist, a style that Black Eagle had disdained when he had first seen it on the white woman.
But on this creature, it was impeccable. The dress was fashioned in a soft shade of aqua, a color that the women of his village valued. The young woman’s hair was piled up high on top of her head, while silky ringlets of reddish-colored curls fell down over one shoulder.
“Mrs. Stanton? ” The beauty’s voice was delicate, barely audible, yet the cook acted as though the woman had shouted, for the cook immediately stopped what she was doing to give attention to the young lady.
“Yes, miss? ” said cook.
“Mrs. Stanton, my maid, Sarah, is quite ill, and I beg you to see if we might have some baking soda or other remedy here in the kitchen that might settle her stomach.”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Stanton. “One moment, miss.”
“Of course,” said the vision of loveliness. As the elegant creature waited, she turned halfway around, so that Black Eagle was presented with her profile. Her jawline was strong, her cheekbones were delicate, her nose dainty and not overly long, and the outline of her lips was full. All at once, and without any warning, Black Eagle’s stomach plummeted, and his body reacted in a strong and distinct, yet entirely male, fashion.