by Gen Bailey
She was beautiful, she was delicate, the sort of creature that a man would treasure his whole life through, if he could but have her. Moreover, there was a quality about her that would cause a man to wish to please her, if only to see the glory of her smile. A smile that was at present missing from her countenance.
A desire to jest with her, to witness the wonder of her favor overtook him. But he suppressed the longing. There was little purpose in speaking to her in any manner whatsoever, since little would come of it. They were of two different worlds, worlds that held little, if anything, in common.
He gazed away from her, but only for a moment. Soon, Mrs. Stanton approached the young lady.
“I have some freshly made chicken broth,” said the cook, “which has been cooked almost the day through. If anything will settle Miss Strong’s stomach, it will be my broth. Shall I take it to her? ”
“Yes, please,” agreed the dainty creature. “She is in her room. Do you know of it? ”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Stanton, who was an older and heavy woman. Taking hold of a pot of stew, the cook immediately left the kitchen.
And that’s when it happened. The beauty turned in full toward him. She did not acknowledge him. In truth, it appeared that she was searching for something and did not even see him. Black Eagle, however, watching her, found himself unable to resist the impulse to make himself known to her, perhaps to even see if he could cause the enchantress to smile.
Addressing her, he said, “Rarely have I seen a woman who could with a mere glance make a man’s heart sing.”
The beauty’s gaze rose up to take in Black Eagle’s measure. And though her look was less than complimentary, she did reply to him, saying, “Did you speak to me, sir? And without an introduction? ”
“I did,” replied Black Eagle at once, “but you must forgive me for doing so. I may never again have the honor of looking upon you, and the desire to witness your smile might make a man forget all else.”
Under his compliment, the beauty’s lips twitched, but she turned away from him, only to swing back in a moment, to say, “Did you tell me that your heart sang? ”
“I did,” he responded. “Upon taking a mere look at you, my heart told me that all the happiness there was to be found was possessed here, in this delicate figure of a woman.”
“Sir!”
“Naturally,” he went on to say, “if I were a white man, I might never put this observation into words. But I am not a white man.”
“Indeed!” she said. However, her glance again took in his countenance. “Your English is very good for an Indian.”
He nodded. “A result of various black robes and the Scotsman, who is an English trader, Sir William Johnson.”
She nodded briefly. “You are the first Indian who has ever spoken to me,” she said, “though I have lived here most of my life through.”
“Have you? I regret that I am only now making your acquaintance. And I apologize for my people.”
Again her lips twitched, but no full smile was to be witnessed upon her countenance. She said, “Excuse me. I must bid you farewell, for a friend awaits me.”
Black Eagle nodded. However, as she turned away, he found he couldn’t let her go yet, and he said, “Miss?” repeating the name that Mrs. Stanton had called her.
“Yes?” she replied, bestowing upon him yet another look that took in his appearance.
“Could you not spare this poor heart of mine a tiny smile? Something that he could take with him, to recall at leisure, or perhaps during times that are less than pleasant. After all, the countryside is at war and a man never knows what might become of him upon the morrow.”
Her glance at him was considering. She said, “You speak very elegantly.”
“A result of practice, I fear, since one must express himself well if one is to become a sachem for his people.”
“You wish to become a sachem? ”
“Or perhaps a Pine Tree Chief.”
“A Pine Tree Chief? I believe that is the first time I have heard of this kind of chief.”
“That is to be regretted, for they are important amongst my people,” he said. “And now I beg you, could you not spare me a smile? ”
She turned away from him. “I could not,” she said and made to pass by him.
“You! Indian!” It was Coleman vying for Black Eagle’s attention. “I have your breakfast prepared. This way!”
Black Eagle nodded at Coleman, then said to the lady, “A brief smile from you would help this weeping heart of mine, and it would cost you little.”
“Has this man been bothering you, milady?” asked Coleman as he approached Black Eagle and the beauty.
“He has,” said the vision.
“I am sorry to hear that, milady,” said Coleman. “Shall I take the whip to him? ”
“Oh no,” the enchantress said, and turning slightly toward Black Eagle, she smiled at him, showing delicate, white teeth. Then she added, “I hope that this will spare your heart the expense of breaking.” And before Black Eagle could grin back at her, she swept away, leaving the kitchen and Black Eagle’s devotion behind her.
He watched her departing figure until he could see her no more. Coleman grabbed hold of him, but Black Eagle made no motion to extricate himself from Coleman’s grip.
“Come along,” said Coleman gruffly. “You are lucky that Lady Marisa chose to spare you. For what you have done, you could easily be whipped.”
“Is that her name? Lady Marisa? ”
Coleman was silent.
But Black Eagle was beyond reproach. “She smiled for me,” was all he said, then he grinned, and without the slightest protest, he allowed himself to be led to the promised meal.
Marisa shook her head slightly as she made her way toward Sarah’s quarters. Savage though he was, that Indian was dangerous, she thought to herself. The young man possessed a golden tongue, something that could prove to be dangerous to a feminine heart, if a lady so desired to take his words at face value.
No doubt, the women of his village vied with one another for his favor. And why not? He was certainly a handsome man, his figure slim, yet commanding.
Tall, but not too tall, his body was well formed and strong. He had worn leggings and a shirt, which formed a short kilt of white. A red blanket, decorated delicately with beads, had been thrown over one of his shoulders and held there Roman-style. The typical breechcloth of which the Indians were fond had been worn between his legs, and upon his feet had been moccasins, which had been decorated, as well.
He had been heavily armed, she had noted. Ammunition pouches had been thrown on a strap that was supported over his shoulder. On a belt around his waist had hung a powder horn with a tomahawk tucked into that belt. In one of his hands, he had held a musket.
Yet, though heavily equipped and a stranger to her, she had been far from frightened of him. Indeed, fear was not an emotion one might connect with the young man.
In essence, she thought, warming to her thoughts, his was a handsome countenance, despite the fact that he wore his hair cropped close to his head, with only a tuft of longer hair sitting atop his head in a style her fellow Englishmen called a Mohawk. Personally, she preferred the longer-haired silhouette of a gentleman. But there was definitely something to be said for hair cropped close to the head, and long hair falling over his shoulders. At least it was so on this particular young man.
An odd feeling of excitement swept through her, and without consciously willing it to be so, her step became a little livelier. There was also a thrill of awareness rushing through her veins, as though he had not been the only one impressed. Her breath caught in her bosom. Indeed. She feared she liked the man.
No doubt it was due to the young man’s compliments. What woman’s head wouldn’t be turned?
Smiling, shaking her head, as though to dislodge the man’s image from it, she hurried along the corridor. Sarah awaited her.
Three
Sarah was not well.
As a feeling of helplessness overtook her, she wondered what else she could do. As the day had worn on, Sarah had gradually become worse, and Marisa, in her worry, had forgotten all about the Indian with the golden tongue.
Certainly Marisa had sent a servant in search of the family physician, asking the man to hurry to the house. But the doctor had given little advice, saying only that Marisa should keep Sarah quiet and warm. As if Marisa hadn’t already been doing exactly that.
At present, Sarah was sleeping, though that sleep was fraught with whimperings and stirrings.
Marisa frowned. There must be more that she could do. But what? This was Sarah, after all; Sarah, her friend and confidant. Sarah, who had never wavered in her devotion to Marisa. Sarah, who had taught her, schooled her, laughed with her, befriended her.
“No, do not leave me! Do not go in there!” Sarah sat up all at once. Her eyes were wide, yet unseeing, except perhaps for whatever was in her mind’s eye. “Mother! Stay with me! Do not leave me!”
Marisa dropped to her knees beside Sarah’s bed, and gently coaxed Sarah back into a prone position, but Sarah fought to be free, and sat up again. She said, “No, Mother, do not leave!”
Marisa hardly knew what to do, thus, she did the only thing that seemed natural. She took Sarah’s hand into her own, and rubbed it.
How could Sarah have lived all these years with such pent-up emotion? And within terribly close quarters to the man who had caused her grief?
But then, Marisa reminded herself, until today, Sarah had not known that it was John Rathburn who was to blame, not only for Sarah’s servitude, but for the deaths of her parents. Problem was, now that she knew or at least suspected the truth, how was Sarah to endure these next six years? Would not forced proximity to the man responsible keep the wound continually open?
“Mother! No!”
Instinctively aware that it was wrong to say too much around a person so ill, Marisa did no more than take Sarah into her arms, urging her back against the mattress and pillow. Tears, mirrored in Sarah’s eyes, clouded her own.
It was unfair, nay it was terribly wrong, that Sarah should have to remain here, locked into a debt that was not of her own making, and to a man who had most likely caused the entire matter. Sarah’s circumstance needed to change. But how?
Marisa had never had cause to give thought to concerns such as this. The only rule of law that she had ever known was the cold neglect of John Rathburn. Surely there was something she could do.
Perhaps there might be a sympathetic ear within Albany’s administration of justice. Mayhap Sarah’s servitude could be reversed. Who would speak for Sarah?
Certainly there were no witnesses from ten years ago who could come forward to accuse John Rathburn of wrongdoing. And even if such people did exist, what magistrate would believe them when pitted against the Rathburn wealth and reputation?
Only someone as wealthy as he could stand for Sarah. Only a person who’s reputation was as well thought of as his . . .
As realization dawned, Marisa sat back on her heels. There was such a person. One person, who alone might be able to persuade John Rathburn to give Sarah her freedom.
That person was she, Marisa.
For a moment, Marisa’s brow cleared as she considered her position. Not only might she hold sway over John Rathburn, she held an ace. Had she not last night heard him plotting the ruin and demise of an entire village of people? Was this not only unjust, but illegal?
“No!” Sarah cried, interrupting Marisa’s thoughts. “Not my mother, my father! No, it cannot be!”
Marisa closed her eyes, letting a tear fall down over her cheek. Dutifully she pressed Sarah back against the bed’s pillow, and bending, she dipped the rag that had been made hot by Sarah’s feverish forehead back into cold water. Quickly, she replaced the rag over Sarah’s forehead, then, picking up Sarah’s hand yet again, Marisa plotted exactly what she would do, and what she might say to her guardian, John Rathburn.
She had much time in which to plan her strategy, as well, for it was well into the night when Sarah at last drifted into a restful sleep. Rising up onto her feet, Marisa knew what she would do, and she would do it yet this night.
Taking hold of the bucket of water, which by this time was warm, Marisa exited Sarah’s room, glancing back once at Sarah before she gently shut the door.
Richard Thompson was not a man of honor. Quite the contrary, he was little more than a hired assassin. He was also an imposing man, a huge man with more than his share of flab, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Mouseybrown , tangled hair, thick jowls, yellow, broken teeth and a breath that might stagger the most stouthearted of men, he was not the sort of man to endear himself to any other soul, except perhaps those who had need of his services.
But this was exactly the impression he wished to present to the world. Such a look as he had was “business.” Though Thompson was not the most intelligent of people, he was bright enough to know when he’d floundered into a good thing.
And his enterprise with John Rathburn was, indeed, a “good thing.” Over the years, Thompson had hired out his services to Rathburn for the more delicate occasions when Rathburn required an opponent to be eliminated. True, Thompson might exude an appearance of being an oaf, but he was thorough in his work, and most importantly, he operated in complete secrecy.
Bad things were known to happen. It was a rough land here in America, a dangerous environment, a place where accidents were commonplace. And if at times, Thompson ensured that accidents did, indeed, happen, where was the fault?
Though constructed to be sturdy, the wooden steps quivered beneath Thompson’s weight as he made his way to the front door of the Rathburn estate. He was under no illusions as to what was the purpose of Rathburn’s summons. However, little could he have envisioned that on this one occasion, even he was to be startled.
“I’s here to see Rathburn,” he stated to the butler, who answered the ring of the bell.
James, Rathburn’s butler, nodded succinctly. He did not extend his hand to take Thompson’s overcoat as was customary. Instead James, the butler, backed up, away from Thompson, sniffing indignantly as the fleshy odor of the man permeated the hall. He said, “Mr. Rathburn is expecting you. This way, please.”
If such rudeness were an unusual circumstance for Thompson, he deemed not to show it. With barely a glance at the butler, Thompson grunted out a response and followed the man into Rathburn’s private office.
“Ah, there ye are, Thompson. Thank ye, James. We will require a bottle of brandy, two glasses and complete privacy. No one, and that includes my niece, is to disturb us. Do ye understand? ”
“Clearly, sir,” said James, who left posthaste. He returned shortly thereafter, and set out the liquor and glasses on a table. “Do you wish me to pour, sir? ”
“No, James, that will be all.”
James nodded and quit the room so quickly, one might have thought an evil lurked there.
His hasty departure left an awkward silence in its wake. To cover over the gap, Rathburn slowly poured the brandy into the two glasses and offered one of them to Thompson, who shot down the liquor as though it were no more than a spot of warm tea.
Rathburn was longer in his enjoyment of the brew. After some moments, he said, “Have ye ever considered a bath, Richard? ”
“What fer? ”
Rathburn didn’t answer, sighed instead, and continued, “I have an unusual task for ye, Thompson.”
Thompson grunted, nodding. “Who is it to be this time, gov’nor? ”
Rathburn didn’t hesitate to answer, stating forthwith, “My niece.”
Thompson spit out whatever liquid was left in his mouth. “Come again? ”
“Miss Marisa? ”
“That’s right.”
“But I’s met Miss Marisa.” Thompson, for all that he might be immune from that deterrent called scruples, was yet taken aback. “But she is young and . . .”
“My ward? ”
“Bonny,” said Thompson. “I was going to say bonny.”
“That she is,” said Rathburn. “She will also be heir to a small fortune, when she comes of age to inherit. A fortune, I might add, that I will lose to some young suitor in the near future, if I cannot convince her to marry the man of my choice.”
“Then ye is jealous of her? ”
“No,” stated Rathburn. Rathburn strode to his desk, where he opened a drawer and removed a pistol. “But I fear she has become much too inquisitive and an embarrassment to me. She has made certain information about my business known to herself, and that information is . . . delicate. Further, she fears me not.” Sitting in a chair pulled up behind his desk, Rathburn studied the pistol, before he proceeded to prime it. “I am afraid that her dangerousness to me has recently exceeded her worth.”
Momentarily Thompson was silent. “But have ye not raised her from when she was a small child? ” he asked.
“So I have,” said Rathburn. He shrugged, then smirked. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”
“I have never kilt a woman. Could ye not simply send her abroad? Perhaps to the nuns? ”
“That I could. But she presses me now, and there is damage she could do to me before I am able to make arrangements to send her overseas. She has threatened me.” He set down his pistol and spread his hands out over the desk. “Me.”
It did not escape Thompson’s regard that Rathburn’s eyes burned momentarily with a fire of insanity. In reaction, Thompson, all three hundred pounds of him, quivered. Rathburn, however, was continuing. “She plans to take her maid east to Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” he said. “ ’Tis a place where our family has often summered. There are friends there, who will welcome her. I believe my niece hopes to find her maid other employment there. However, it is my intention that neither she nor her maid should arrive there . . . alive.”