by Gen Bailey
Sarah attempted another smile, but the effort communicated itself more as a gasp. She murmured, “You are too good to me.”
“No, ’tis you who have been good to me. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother, or perhaps an older sister. All the good of the world as I know it is because of you. Now, come, I’ll take you to your room where you can rest, if only for an hour or so.
“No,” said Sarah at once. “I don’t need to rest. In truth, I also fear going to my quarters for anything, whether it would be to dress or to rest.”
“Yes, of course. Then you shall stay here until we are set and ready to go. Now, can you remain seated while I bring the pitcher of water and bowl over here so that I can dress your wounds? ”
Sarah nodded, and Marisa, arising, stepped across the room to her dresser, there to seize hold of pitcher and bowl.
What a strange night this was, she thought as she picked up the items needed, which included a bit of muslin to use in washing. First she had acted out of character, then James. Even Sarah had reversed roles, going from being the strong, outspoken nursemaid, to the one needing nursing.
Somehow Marisa couldn’t help wondering, was anything else yet to happen tonight?
She hoped not. She sincerely hoped not.
There were already bruise marks forming over Sarah’s arms, and they were almost too numerous to count. Marisa frowned. There were tears in Sarah’s chemise and petticoats, and even a bruise already forming on her hip. Worse, that particular marking had all the stampings of a whip.
How had that happened? As Marisa pressed the area gently with a cloth, she noticed that Sarah flinched.
“Did James use a whip on you? ” she asked Sarah, as she touched the area more gently.
“A little. He tried to put me over his lap, as though to spank me, but I resisted.”
“Oh Sarah, ’tis like a nightmare, except that it is wretchedly real. Thank heaven we leave here at daybreak.”
“Yes. Thank heaven.” Sarah paused as she sighed. After a moment, however, she asked, “And you, Marisa? With all of my adventures tonight, we have not discussed what has happened to you. Do you wish to tell me about your exploits tonight? ”
Marisa exhaled slowly while she held a cloth to one of Sarah’s wounds. Luckily, except for the red welt on Sarah’s face, there had only been one place on her upper arm where the skin had been broken.
Slowly at first, Marisa said, “Yes, I do wish to tell you about it. But not now, I think. We have little time to finish the preparations for our journey, and I fear that the telling of it might take hours and hours.” Setting down the cloth, Marisa placed her hand over the top of Sarah’s and smiled at her friend. “There will be time enough on the trail. For now it is enough to hold the events close to my heart.”
“To your heart? Do you love him then? ”
“Not love, I think,” answered Marisa. “I mean, would I not be a fool to give my love and devotion to a man I could never marry? ”
Sarah nodded. “Perhaps. But one cannot always dictate matters of the heart.”
Marisa paused. Was she in love? No, it could not be and she would not allow it to be. She understood her role in life, and it was certainly not to become the squaw of some Indian brave.
Glancing up at Sarah, she said gently, “Dear Sarah, now that your bruises are attended to, and you are properly dressed, I should like you to lie down while I set to work on the details of our leaving. Tell me,” Marisa continued, arising, “what is left to do to allow us to depart? ”
“There is little more that needs being done, I think, except for you to ensure that all the things you wish to bring are packed in the trunk. Then, after you change your dress—you may have forgotten that you need to do that—we have nothing more to do other than to pack our things onto the horses, have a bite of breakfast and be on our way.”
“Good,” said Marisa. “By the way, did my step-uncle have much to say after I left? ”
“Strangely, he did not. He was furious. That much was obvious. But he said nothing to me, nor to anyone else. Instead he retired to his own quarters for the rest of the evening.”
“How strange,” said Marisa, frowning. “This has, indeed, been an evening of odd occurrences, wouldn’t you agree? Do you suppose that my guardian will come down from his apartments early enough to wish me a farewell? ”
“It would be strange if he did not, since it will be several months before he will see you again. But do not fret if he misses the opportunity. He might be sulking. As you are well aware, he has been known to do so in the past.”
“Yes. So he has. Come Sarah, and let me help you to bed so that you can lie down,” encouraged Marisa. “I will need to wash and dress quickly. Are your own things packed and in your room? ”
“They are.”
“Good. Then I will send for the servants to bring your things to the stables. They can return here later, to attend to my things.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, and taking Marisa’s directions, she lay down on the bed. “Forgive me for saying this, but it will be a pleasure to leave the Rathburn estate.”
“I believe you are right,” Marisa said, nodding. “I do believe you are right.”
The morning was waning, and still the Englishman’s servants (three of them in total) were descending on the stables en masse, loaded down with food stuff and feminine articles. They each had dumped—and kept on dumping with each trip—their burdens next to the horses. Each domestic also seemed under the impression that it was his own special duty to instruct Black Eagle on the best manner in which to carry and pack these items.
Although Black Eagle listened to each attendant patiently, he did little more than nod and let the pile accumulate. Thompson could deal with the servants and the supplies. He had been hired to lead the English, not to do their bidding.
However, when the darkness before dawn descended upon the countryside, and still Thompson had made no appearance, Black Eagle decided it was prudent to take matters into his own hands. It was time for the constant procession of supplies to end.
How the Englishman thought to travel through the forest so burdened down was best considered by fools and simpletons. Didn’t the English realize that these “things” were useless on a trip such as this? Didn’t they know that, if overloaded, these “valuables” became more than a mere burden? That they were a means by which any enemy could detect and track them?
Perhaps the English didn’t understand that only those men who were heavily armed, who could muster sheer numbers of manpower, dare travel so heavily weighted down. That this party had neither would cause them to be as easy to attack as a wounded deer.
Standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Black Eagle gazed out toward the manor house, where he beheld two more servants approaching the stables. This time they were weighted down with a trunk. Black Eagle shook his head, inhaled deeply and prepared for the verbal battle.
“He will not allow the clothes to be loaded onto the animals, Miss Marisa.”
Marisa, who was seated in her room, sharing breakfast with Sarah, stared at the servant boy with dismay. Taking up a napkin, she patted her lips before commenting, “He would not allow . . . what was that again? ”
“He told me that no more of your things can be loaded onto the horses.”
“None of my things, you say? Who is this man? ” asked Marisa.
“The scout, miss.”
“The scout? Do you mean Thompson? ”
“No, Miss Marisa.”
Marisa frowned. “Is he a hired man, this scout? ”
“Yes, Miss Marisa.”
Marisa grimaced. The morning was indeed becoming surreal. To add to their already numerous troubles, John Rathburn had failed to respond to Marisa’s appeal to see him this morning, and Thompson seemed nowhere to be found. Now this.
“I’ll go and see to this man.” It was Sarah speaking, who, though she was sitting up in bed, munching on a dry piece of toast, yet looked frail an
d weak.
“No, no, that is unnecessary, Sarah,” said Marisa, then to the boy, “Now, let me ensure I understand this. What you are saying is that, late as it is, because of this scout, none of my things have been loaded onto the animals? ”
“Yes, Miss Marisa.”
“And this trailblazer, if you will, believes he has the authority to tell me what we can and can’t take? ”
Perhaps her voice was raised up too loudly or too high, she thought, because she witnessed the boy wince. Marisa shut her eyes on a sigh. What else was going to go wrong?
One thing was certain, however. It was useless to take out her frustration on the poor servant. He was not to blame. It was this scout, this man who was no more than a mere guide for them.
Marisa opened her eyes and glanced at the boy. “I’m sorry you are having this problem,” she said. “Know, however, that it is not your doing. Please, if you would, point me in the direction where I might find this man, since it appears that I will need to see to this myself.”
“He is at the stables, Miss Marisa.”
“Thank you.” Leaning over, she finished scribbling something onto a piece of paper. Done, she folded the note and sealed it, then said, “Please go and take this letter to Sir Rathburn, whom you should find in his rooms. Tell him that I require a word with him before we leave, if you please.”
The boy nodded, though he yet looked nervous. He said, “Yes, Miss Marisa.”
Marisa smiled at the lad. “Cease your worry,” she said. “You’ve done as well as you could. Now that my breakfast is finished, I will find this scout myself and take the matter up with him personally.”
“Yes, Miss Marisa,” said the lad as he turned to leave her rooms and go in search of John Rathburn.
Marisa watched the lad’s retreating back for a moment, before slapping down her napkin.
“Who can this man possibly be? ”
“I little know,” said Sarah, “but you should remain here while I go to the stables and resolve this matter for you.”
“And have you run the risk of coming into contact with James? ”
“I am not a baby, nor am I a rich woman to be waited on.”
“Dear Sarah. All my life you have cared for me. You have been more than a governess to me. You are my best friend. It’s my turn to serve you. My only concern is that you will be here in my rooms alone, and James could . . . Have you a pistol? ”
“No.”
Marisa walked to a desk where she opened a drawer and withdrew a weapon. “I know that you can use this,” she said, “since we learned to shoot together. Now, if James comes here, use it.” She shoved the pistol into Sarah’s hands. “I should be gone but a moment.”
And while Sarah was examining the pistol, Marisa let herself out of the room, and turned the key in the lock.
Who was this man, she wondered. Who was he, this mere servant, who seemed to believe that he could order their lives? Weren’t scouts hired to do little more than lead and mark the way? They were not hired to become small tyrants, were they?
What a morning.
As she stepped away from the door, she picked up the folds of her petticoats, as well as the silk of her dress, and she trod down the corridor, then to the stairs, and finally out onto the grounds outside. She was headed toward the livery. Unfavorably for her, every step along the way served to increase her ire, which was already stirred up by the many peculiarities of the morning.
Thompson still had not arrived, but though the man might see the edge of her tongue, she thought she might forgive him more easily than the next person, if only because she knew he could not be trusted.
But there was no excuse for her guardian, who even now remained locked in his chamber. To date John Rathburn had refused entry to every servant she had sent to bring him greeting.
Marisa grimaced. She could understand that her step-uncle was upset with her, undoubtedly he was also disappointed in her, but his brooding nature this morning only served to indicate his utter lack of regard for her, since even a dressing down was better than nothing.
And then there was Sarah . . . and James to be considered. How could she leave without ensuring that James would be reprimanded?
She reminded herself to remain calm and in control of her mounting anger. After all, such behavior on her guardian’s part was nothing new. However, miserably, he was the only family she had ever really known. Quite naturally she wanted to like him and be liked in return . . . an ideal she had long hoped for, but had never attained.
She sighed. Despite herself, it hurt.
Eight
It was she.
At the mere thought of her approach, Black Eagle could feel his heartbeat lighten, then speed. Unfortunately for him, simply watching her caused his blood to pool in the region of his groin. And like a lad of sixteen, he was ready for her.
But he was a man, not a lad, and, as a man should when passion is uncalled for, he curbed his body’s inclination. Truth be told, he fully expected her to be upset with him. After all, he had missed his opportunity to inform her of his role, and it took no genius to realize that she was going to be less than pleased when she discovered that he was her scout.
It did him little good now to proffer the justification that he had thought she would still be with him when he had awakened this morning. Unquestionably, he should have told her who he was and what part he was to play in her life as soon as passion had risen between them.
He sighed, watching her approach with an adoration that he could little suppress, prizing the way she moved, the manner in which she dressed, the motion of the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck as her auburn tresses fluttered back against the wind. Her dress was flattering to her skin, as well, being the ivory color of the palest sunrise, with the sides of the skirt flaring out in the style that the English seemed to favor. That it caused her waist to appear as though he could span it with one hand was a fascinating illusion. However, haplessly for him, it brought back to mind the delicate treasures that lay hidden beneath her gown.
He stirred uneasily, wondering again what would she say, what would she do, when she discovered who he really was. Especially in light of the fact that she had clearly thought to never see him again.
Though Black Eagle might be fierce in battle and courageous against an enemy, he felt neither brave nor gallant against what he predicted would be her negative reaction. As he stood in the shadows, watching her approach, he decided that he would wait before announcing himself openly. And though he appreciated every fluid movement of her body, he braced himself for the coming skirmish.
“Scout! Where are you? ”
Black Eagle frowned. Her tone of voice was harsh, and she hadn’t even seen him as yet. Was there some other problem?
He didn’t step out of the shadows. But he did respond, saying, “I am here.”
“Where? I do not see you.”
“I am here by the horses.”
She glanced in his direction, and so great was her beauty, it was all he could do to keep himself from overly staring at her.
“Oh, there you are. I see you now.” She stepped toward him.
“Scout,” she began, “you have taken much upon yourself by denying mine and my maid’s clothing and articles to be packed on the horses. I insist that you allow my servants to load these things at once.”
Ah, so that was her distress. Expecting this new problem to be an easier handling than what he had anticipated, he stated simply. “I cannot allow it.”
“You! You cannot allow it? And who are you to dictate to me what I can and cannot do? What I can and cannot take on this journey? ”
He frowned. “I am your scout. I am also the defender of this party. Your things will be in the way. Therefore they stay here. I have said so.”
He watched as her eyes flashed. Watched as her color deepened.
She said, “You have said so? I beg your pardon. You have no authority to even have an opinion on this matter.”
Unc
onsciously, he drew his brows together and said, “All creatures have a right to an opinion. The Creator has made it so, and not all the earthly authority of the English can make this different, since only He, the Creator, can take that right away.”
She shook her head, took a deep breath, and said, “Do not lecture me. I am not talking about rights. I am discussing what is to be taken on this trip. What gives you the authority to dictate to me? Why, you know nothing about myself or my maid. You know not how long we intend being gone and why each and every item we choose to bring is important. Therefore, you will interfere in this no more, and you will cease harassing my servants in this regard, thank you very much.” Picking up the ends of her dress, she turned to leave.
“I disagree.”
She stopped and spun back around.
“You? You disagree.”
“I do. I am your scout. As such I have the authority to do exactly as I am doing.”
“You dare to speak to me in such a manner? To defy me and argue with me? You have been hired, scout, to lead us. No more. What we seek to bring is not within your realm to adjudicate. Indeed, you have no rights in this matter. Understand, please, that your duty on this journey is to obey me.”
“I still disagree.”
“You cannot disagree. You are a servant. Our servant.”
He said, simply, “I am a servant to no man and no woman, and since you cannot find your way through the forest without me, what I say stands.”
That he was frustrating her was evident, for she folded her arms over her chest, and frowned at the place where he still lingered, the shadows hiding his identity. She said, “Perhaps you are confused. Is it not you, then, who has been hired to lead us east to the New Hampshire settlements? ”
“It is I.”
“Do you not realize that by agreeing to do this, you have become my servant? ”
“Have I? Did anyone say this to me? Did I openly assent to be your servant? No. Therefore, I disagree.”