by Untamed
The weather worsened as they neared the end of this leg of their journey. Freezing November rain pelted the upper decks. A stiff wind churned the river. Barbara began to feel queasy well before they docked at the bustling town set on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River and transferred to the coach Zach hired.
The jostling, jolting ride along the crowded National Pike was even more uncomfortable than the boat trip. Barbara soon saw the truth of Zach’s assertion that the road was the most traveled highway in the country. Wagons and carts filled with immigrants seeking land in the Ohio or Oregon Territories rolled westward in a line that stretched for miles—so many that the noses of their oxen or horses almost touched the rear of the carts ahead. Almost as many vehicles traveled eastward.
Faster-moving curricles and coaches slowed time and again to inch around wagons with broken axles, long strings of packhorses or overturned stages driven too recklessly over the crushed-rock road. Tollgates every few miles further slowed progress, as did the ever-increasing climb through the pine-and mist-shrouded Allegheny Mountains to the Cumberland Gap.
Travelers crowded every inn and tavern along the route. Barbara was forced to share accommodations with Hattie and an assortment of other women, children and female servants while Zach bedded down with their male companions. He did secure private dining parlors when he could. Some were richly appointed, others mere cubbyholes off the main taproom. Smoky fireplaces, greasy venison cutlets and the ripe aroma of unwashed bodies added to Barbara’s queasiness.
To her embarrassment, she was obliged to have Zach halt the coach the afternoon of the second day so she could toss up her lunch. The same mortifying event occurred the third afternoon.
Only later that evening, when they stopped at a busy hostelry, did Barbara begin to suspect the reason for her brief bouts of nausea. Extra coins had secured her and Hattie beds in the large dormitory set aside for women travelers, but they shared the quarters with a half-dozen other women. One of them was bent over a bucket of water, muttering about her monthlies while she attempted to rinse bright red stains from her petticoat.
With a small frown, Barbara drew the curtain partitioning her cot from the rest of the room. Come to think on it, she should be facing a similar dilemma. When had she last bled? Just before she arrived at Morgan’s Falls, she remembered counting back the weeks.
With a sudden, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, Barbara dropped down onto the thin straw mattress. Panic followed hard on the heels of dismay.
She couldn’t be increasing! She couldn’t!
Zach had pulled away before he spilled his seed their first few times together. Of late, he’d taken to using a lambskin sheath.
Even as her mind shouted denials, a traitorous longing crept into her heart. She hadn’t been more than five when she and Harry had left Whitestone Manor to live with their cousin. Neither of them had ever been made to feel at home there. In the years since, they’d occupied every sort of temporary quarters.
What would it be like to have a real home again? A child to cradle in her arms and dress in lace-trimmed gowns? And a husband, she thought with a sudden ache in her chest. One who would cherish and protect her. A husband like Zach.
Sometime during this journey he’d slipped past the barriers she’d always maintained around her heart. She was an expert at flirtation. Desire, she could handle. But this aching need, this constant hunger to hear his voice or feel his arms about her, was altogether beyond her experience.
Swinging wildly between the fear she might be pregnant and worry over what she’d do if she was, Barbara shed her outer gown and curled under the covers.
Their hired coach rolled into Washington late the following afternoon. Barbara barely made it to the luxurious suite of rooms Zach had rented for them in the Arlington Hotel before snatching up the chamber pot and rushing behind a screen in the bedchamber. She was too miserable to object when he followed a few moments later and held the pot steady.
After she finished emptying her stomach, he put the pot aside and drew a silver traveling flask from the pocket of his military greatcoat. The drizzle that seemed to have followed them all the way to Washington spotted the wool cape of the coat and added a damp sheen to his lashes and eyebrows.
“Here, drink this.”
Mortified, she sat back on her heels. The brandy burned her throat but took away the vile aftertaste. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a poor traveler.”
“No need for apologies. Do you want me to fetch a physician?”
“Goodness, no! I just needed to empty my stomach of those johnnycakes we had for lunch. I thought at the time they tasted odd. The grease used to fry them must have been a bit rancid.”
He helped her to her feet, concern stamped on his strong, chiseled face. “Are you sure that’s what caused you to become ill? Rancid grease?”
“That and all these days of jolting about in a coach.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m fine now. Truly.”
“You’d better rest while I present my credentials at the office of the secretary of war and arrange a meeting with him and the president. I’ll return in time to take you to dinner, if you’re up to it.”
“I’m sure I will be. And while you’re gone, I’ll wash away all these days of travel.” She spoke rapidly, too rapidly, trying to cover her embarrassment and dismay. “Would you ask Hattie to go down to the kitchens and fetch some hot water?”
“Of course.”
Zach’s face was thoughtful as he crossed the elegantly appointed bedchamber. He had a good idea what had sent Barbara running for the chamber pot and it wasn’t rancid grease.
He was the oldest of eight children. He’d seen his mother doubled over often enough, retching up her breakfast or dinner. Unless he missed his guess, Barbara’s belly would soon swell with his child. He’d tried to protect her. Done his damnedest to prevent this from happening. But every soldier knew such precautions were precarious at best. If she was with child…
A fierce, primal satisfaction raced through him at the thought. He’d claimed her body these past weeks. Now it was time to make that claim official.
He didn’t deceive himself. He knew she hadn’t yet trusted him with the truth about herself or this brother of hers. But she would. She was inching closer to it each day. Each night. She didn’t realize that she revealed a little more of herself each time Zach took her in his arms or tumbled her to his bed. There, she held nothing back.
His thoughts filled with Barbara, he strode into the sitting room where Hattie stood amid the pile of their luggage.
“Is she all right?”
“Right enough,” Zach answered.
“That’s three times now she’s lost her dinner.”
She darted a glance at the open door to the bedroom. Her tight, pinched expression told Zach she’d hit on the same explanation for Barbara’s temperamental stomach.
She would know, he thought. She tended to Barbara’s most intimate female needs. He was tempted to ask when her mistress had bled last, if only to confirm his own suspicion, but curbed the impulse. The possibility Barbara might be pregnant was something she and Zach should discuss privately, if and when it proved to be true.
“Barbara wishes to wash and rest before dinner. I’ll carry in the luggage if you’ll go down to the kitchens and fetch some water.”
Hattie stumbled out of the suite, almost blind with rage.
The bitch was breeding. She’d swell up like a mangy barn dog, drop her whelp and keep the lieutenant tied to her forever.
Hattie should have stuffed a pillow over her face when she’d had the chance. Or found some excuse to lure the whore onto the deck of the Star or the John Hawley. Now she would pay the price for wasting all these days and nights.
Fury pumping through her veins, she stumbled down the hotel’s narrow back stairs. Sounds of hearty laughter and the clink of pewter on pewter came from the taproom at the front of the establishment. She followed the hiss and sizzle of roasting meat to t
he kitchen at the rear.
After the cold outside and the narrow, drafty stairs, the heat from the roaring fireplace hit her like a blow. She was gasping for breath, when a cook’s helper hefted a tray heaped with platters on his shoulder and hurried her way.
“What do you need, missus?”
“Hot water for…” She almost choked. “For my mistress.”
“Darcy!” He shouted to the girl basting a spitted haunch of mutton. “Help this woman.”
Hattie’s lip curled. The girl was a slattern. Her hair hung in greasy tangles. Food stained her apron, and mud crusted the ragged hem of her homespun skirt. Hattie waited in tight-lipped silence while the slut ladled water from the black kettle hanging on the hock.
“There you be, missus.”
Hattie took the pitcher without so much as a word. She had one foot on the stairs when she realized she needed more than hot water. She needed a way to rid Zach of the woman who could never love him the way she did.
A kitchen slut like this one would surely know the direction of an apothecary or a midwife. Or, she thought, a rat-catcher.
Slowly, she turned back.
16
“I asked the kitchen maid to make you some chamomile tea. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Barbara propped herself up on one elbow as her maid entered the bedroom carrying a silver tray.
“Thank you. I’ll take the tea and gladly, although my stomach seems to have ceased its acrobatics.”
Hattie poured the fragrant brew into a china cup decorated in a delicate Blue Willow pattern. Familiar now with Barbara’s tastes, she added milk and two spoons of sugar.
“The heaves will come back,” she predicted as she handed her mistress the tea. “They most always do during these early months.”
The china cup rattled on its saucer. Barbara’s gaze flew up to lock with the brunette’s.
“You know?”
“That you’re increasing? How could I not? You’ve not bled since I started to tend to your underlinens. I didn’t think to count the weeks until you tossed up your dinner a few times, though.”
“Nor did I,” Barbara admitted.
She still couldn’t bring herself to accept the possibility. She was a few weeks late, that’s all. Hardly surprising given the worry that had dogged her since Harry’s arrest, not to mention all the plotting and scheming.
“I went to the apothecary while you were resting,” the maid said after a moment. Digging a hand into her skirt pocket, she withdrew a twist of oiled paper. “My mam tossed up her breakfast every time she took pregnant. The only thing that helped her was a touch of cowbane in her tea.”
Barbara eyed the twist with some misgiving. Cowbane was a common remedy for cramps and other women’s illnesses. It was also a deadly poison. Rat-catchers spread it in sewers and garbage-strewn gutters to kill off the ever-present swarms of rodents.
“Don’t take more than a pinch,” Hattie warned, confirming the herb’s lethal power.
“Thank you, but I don’t need it now. I’m feeling much better.”
“It’s best to take precautions. Especially since you’re sitting down to dinner with the president tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Zach…” Flushing, Hattie caught herself. “Lieutenant Morgan sent a note. The sergeant who delivered it said he was to wait and escort you to the White House for dinner. He’s downstairs now, in the taproom.”
“Where is this note?”
Hattie retrieved a folded piece of parchment from the silver tray. The lines inside were penned with a bold, slashing stroke.
Barbara—
My apologies for this hastily scribbled missive. I’m still in meetings with the secretary of war. He’s informed the president of my arrival…and the fact that I intend to take leave of my military duties to accompany you to London. I fear General Jackson isn’t best pleased with the news. He desires to meet you and invites us to join him for dinner this evening.
If you feel well enough, Marine Sergeant Dougherty will escort you. Dinner is at seven. Formal dress isn’t required. We’ll likely sit down to a dinner of boiled potatoes and a saddle of sirloin served rare and in the company of a few chosen intimates.
Yours,
Zach
The very thought of a red, bleeding slab of beef made Barbara’s stomach lurch.
She was in no mood to meet with anyone, much less this homespun president. All she wanted to do was lie back down, draw the covers over her head and cower until she knew how to handle the possibility she might be breeding. Stubborn pride wouldn’t allow it. She had her faults—any number of them—but she wasn’t a coward.
“Set the tea on the dressing table,” she told Hattie. “I’ll put in a pinch of cowbane, as you suggest, and sip it while you brush out my hair. First I must decide what to wear.”
Almost dancing with glee, Hattie took the tea to the dressing table as instructed. This was better than she’d hoped for. With her back to Lady Barbara, she opened the paper twist. A tap of a finger dumped half the contents into the porcelain cup. Quickly, she screwed the paper tight again and laid it beside the saucer.
That ought to be enough to kill the stupid cow and her unborn calf. If it didn’t, Hattie wouldn’t take the blame. The Englishwoman would add another pinch and suffer the consequences wrought by her own hand.
The first cramp struck Barbara just after her marine escort had handed her cloak to an attendant at the presidential palace. She placed her hand lightly on the arm the sergeant offered and took only a step or two before she faltered.
Pain sliced into her. Gasping, she dug her fingers into the marine’s sleeve.
“Ma’am?”
As quickly as it had come, the agony eased. With a shaky smile, she loosened her clawlike grip.
“Forgive me. I feared I’d caught my heel on my skirts for a moment.”
He accepted the ready explanation and continued his measured tread down a marble hallway that might have been magnificent if not for the muddy boot prints dirtying its floors.
Despite the advancing evening hour, people of all descriptions lingered in the hall and crowded an antechamber hung with red twill satin. Frontiersmen in buckskin rubbed shoulders with gentlemen in frock coats and snowy cravats. A beefy, red-faced farmer shared an alcove with a barrister in black robes and a powdered wig. Merchants were scattered throughout the rooms, many with cases containing their goods tucked under their arms.
They were petitioners, Barbara supposed, come to see their president just as British subjects did their king.
“The general keeps late hours since his wife died,” her escort explained when she commented on the crowd. “Often as not, he’ll take appointments until midnight or later.”
Her curiosity about the president she’d soon meet grew. She knew little about him, only the bits and pieces of gossip she’d picked up since arriving in America. Like Zach, Jackson was both lawyer and soldier. He’d served as congressman and judge and had commanded the Cotton Balers at the Battle of New Orleans. As president he fought to enhance the power of his office. He was also fiercely determined to remove the eastern tribes to lands west of the Mississippi…despite being an avowed friend of the Cherokee and father to an adopted Creek son.
Rumor had it that he’d fought any number of duels to protect the honor of his late wife, whom he’d married and lived with for several years in the mistaken belief the Virginia legislature had granted her first husband a divorce.
In person, Andrew Jackson proved every bit as intimidating as his reputation. He was a tall man, well over six feet, and whipcord lean. His piercing blue eyes looked out from under bushy white eyebrows as Barbara approached on the arm of her escort. She was unsure whether she should curtsy. American customs were so odd. The president resolved her dilemma by thrusting out his hand.
“So Lady Barbara.” He gave her hand a hearty shake. “What’s this about you dragging one of my most promising young officers away from his duties to
accompany you to London?”
She could hardly admit she had no intention of traveling to London. “Lieutenant Morgan made the decision to take a leave of absence without consulting me, sir. You must speak to him about it.”
“I have. Blistered his ears about it, as a matter of fact.”
He leveled his quelling stare on the young officer under discussion, at that moment making his way across the room in their direction.
“Just make sure you send him back to us. Zach has all the heart of his father. Sergeant Major Morgan served under me at New Orleans, you know.”
“So I’ve been informed, sir.”
“I need men like Daniel Morgan and his sons. I’m depending on them to keep Indian Country from flaming up like a tinderbox.”
“That grows more difficult with each new wave of immigrants,” Zach said, joining them. “Both white and red.”
His glance roamed Barbara’s face, as if to verify that she’d thrown off her indisposition. She smiled and accepted the glass of wine a steward offered her. Reassured, Zach gave his attention once again to the president.
“Settlers with false quit-claim deeds are causing almost as much trouble as the Osage and Pawnee.”
“I know it,” the president grumbled. “As fast as my treasury agents nose out one illegal printing press, another starts turning out counterfeit banknotes and deeds.”
“If we don’t stem this tide of white immigrants,” Zach warned, “none of the tribes will believe we intend to honor the boundaries your commissioners negotiate.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Jackson snapped. “I appointed the commission, after all, and drafted their charter with my own hand.”