by Janet Dailey
"Yes, you did."
Initially taken aback by her candor, Jed suddenly broke into a laugh. It felt good, the sound matching the gladness he felt inside. But it ended on a sigh of regret. "Your husband must be very happy."
"As I am," she replied smoothly and directed her attention away from him. "What is that dance?"
Jed turned, startled to discover that the lilting music playing softly in the background was real. Somehow it had seemed part of the moment. He glanced at the couples whirling gracefully about the floor. "A waltz."
"It is very beautiful."
In some circles, a waltz was considered quite scandalous. Yet what better excuse could a man have to hold a woman in his arms? He hesitated, his glance skimming her profile as she watched the dancing couples, obviously intrigued by their flowing movements. "The steps are quite simple and easily learned. I would be honored to teach them to you."
She turned, her eyes fully on him. "I would like to learn."
"In that case, I shall be the envy of every man here." Jed bowed to her.
He showed her the pattern of the steps, counting them out for her. By the time they had circled the dance floor once, she had mastered them and followed him effortlessly, lithe and supple as a willow in his arms, responsive to the slightest pressure of his hand.
"Are you quite certain I am doing this correctly?" she asked skeptically, her glance scanning the other couples. "People are staring."
"They are staring at you. You are the most beautiful woman here—the most beautiful woman in Washington ... maybe even the country."
She laughed, and it was the warm, throaty laugh of a woman rather than the high-pitched titters and giggles of the girls he knew.
"You are as extravagant in your praise as Mr. Fletcher," she accused lightly.
"I speak the truth. I have never met a woman as beautiful as you."
His statement seemed to give her pause. She looked at him anew, more curious than wary, although she was cautious. "Your wife would not like to hear you say that. Are you married, Lieutenant Parmelee?"
"No." He didn't mention Cecilia. No formal announcement of his engagement to her had been made. He didn't want to think about Cecilia, not tonight.
In the hotel room of the Indian Queen, Phoebe removed the last pin from Temple's hair and ran her fingers through the length of it to separate the roped strands. Temple passed her the hairbrush and glanced sideways at The Blade. His cravat, coat, waistcoat, and boots had already been given over to his servant's care. With the frilled front and cuffs of his shirt unbuttoned, he lounged in the chair, his long, trousered legs stretched in front of him, his stockinged feet propped on an ottoman, his look hooded and faintly brooding.
"Surely you discussed something other than the preparations for the suit the missionaries are bringing against Georgia in the Supreme Court," she said, wondering why she had to prompt him to tell her what had been discussed.
"Many things but none of them new. It's always the same, over and over and over," he murmured, watching the brush as Phoebe repeatedly dragged the bristles through her mistress's hair, stroke following stroke. By his very stillness, Temple sensed the restlessness inside him. She smiled, knowing how that pent-up energy would find its release. "That will be all, Phoebe," she said.
When the girl withdrew from the room, Temple rose from her chair. "Did I mention that Lieutenant Parmelee has offered to show me around Washington some afternoon when you are busy with your meetings?"
Like a spring uncoiling, The Blade came out of his chair. "The man is enamored with you," he muttered.
"Are you jealous?"
His head came up. "Should I be?"
"No." She walked over to him and slid her hands up his shirt-front, feeling his stomach muscles contract beneath her touch. "With you for a husband, I have no need for a lover."
"Remember that." His arms wound around her as his mouth came down. Temple pressed closer, assuring him in the one certain way she knew that she belonged to him completely.
Through the rest of December and into the first weeks of January, Jed Parmelee wangled every bit of off-duty time he could get, trading with officers or persuading them to cover for him, anything that would permit him to see Temple Stuart for an hour, an afternoon, or an evening. At every social function she attended, he was there, sometimes able to speak to her for only a few minutes before someone more noteworthy claimed her. Once he had tea with her. Another afternoon he took her on a tour of Washington, describing the capture of the city by the British, the burning of the presidential mansion, and Dolly Madison's rescue of George Washington's portrait.
At first Jed tried to convince himself he sought her company out of courtesy. She was without friends in the city and her husband was away much of the time, attending meetings. His godfather would have wanted him to keep her entertained. But the truth was inescapable. He was in love with her. He had fallen in love with her the instant he had seen her. No matter how absurd or foolishly romantic it sounded, it had happened just that way.
But to what end? He was engaged; she was married. And he was a gentleman, a man of West Point. It became a point of honor and pride that he not act the lovesick swain, not let her know how deeply he had grown to care for her ... even when she informed him of her imminent departure from the city.
"So soon? Congress is still in session, and the Supreme Court has yet to hear your case. Why leave now?" Then a possible reason came to him. "Has your husband or one of the other members of the delegation seen the president?"
"No." Her glance drifted around the large room that served the Indian Queen Hotel as lobby, bar, and office. "Mr. Jackson still refuses to grant them an interview, although he has received the deputation from the western Cherokees," she added somewhat bitterly. "However, we did hear from the president, through his Secretary of War, by letter. Jackson's position was clearly stated."
Temple recalled it vividly; the contents had become ingrained in her mind. Chicken Snake Jackson, as John Ridge called him, felt sorry for them, but he would not lift a hand to help them. Instead, Jackson advised the Cherokees to treat and remove west of the Mississippi and abandon the land that held the bones of their fathers.
Temple confided none of this to the young lieutenant. "My husband and John Ridge have decided to join Elias Boudinot, the editor of our nation's newspaper, on a fund-raising tour through the Northern states. My father and the other delegates will take care of the remaining business here," she explained. "My husband tells me we will be stopping in your home city of Boston."
"I shall write to my parents and ask them to ensure that you are warmly welcomed."
More words were said, but, in this public place, not the words he might have said if they had been alone. Jed watched her walk up the stairs, followed by her colored maid. It was unlikely he would ever see her again. No, that wasn't true. He would see her all the time—in his sleep and in his dreams.
They traveled to Philadelphia by stage. The Blade, who had chafed at the endless and futile meetings in Washington, welcomed both the change of scene and the activity. After their frustrating stay in the American capital, the City of Brotherly Love seemed to greet them with open arms.
From Philadelphia, they journeyed to New York, a teeming, throbbing city with crowded streets and multitudes of people. Two successful rallies at Clinton Hall raised eight hundred dollars and placed six thousand signatures on a memorial to be forwarded to Congress deploring Georgia's actions against the Cherokees. They continued on to New Haven, Connecticut, achieving similar results.
In late February, they arrived in Boston. More rallies were held at the Old South Church, led by the sedate and aging Lyman Beecher and John Pickering, a student of Indian languages. At the close of the last rally, an older, well-dressed couple accompanied by a young woman approached Temple. The couple introduced themselves as Lieutenant Jedediah Parmelee's parents.
"He sends his regards, and hopes your visit to Boston is warm in spite of winter weather," h
is mother explained.
"Your son was very kind to me when we were in Washington," Temple replied, and heard a faint noise that sounded very much like a scornful snort coming from the young lady with them. Beneath the flared brim of her bonnet, the woman's hair was the pale yellow of young corn silk, and her eyes were a faded blue. Twin dots of natural pink gave color to her cheeks and reminded Temple of a china doll she once had. And like a doll, the woman showed no expression, although there was an aura of hostility about her that puzzled Temple.
"Forgive me," Mrs. Parmelee inserted. "I failed to introduce my son's fiancée, Miss Cecilia Jane Castle. Cecilia, Mrs. Stuart."
Temple glanced sharply at Mrs. Parmelee, aware the lieutenant had made no mention of a fiancée. She could only guess at his reasons. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Castle."
"Mrs. Stuart." Cecilia inclined her head in acknowledgement but didn't smile. The bilious feeling in her throat wouldn't permit it. She despised this woman whose beauty everyone raved about. Some were calling her an Indian princess. She might give the appearance of royalty, with her velvet gowns and regal airs, but she was still an Indian. One look at those full lips and bewitching eyes and any decent woman could see she was a Jezebel.
Cecilia was thankful that Jedediah's parents were offering their words of parting. She barely gave them time to finish before she turned and walked briskly away.
Restless and bored with the conversation around him, The Blade stared out the window of the building that housed the Boston-based American Board of Foreign Missions. They had spent three months talking and what did they have to show for it? Enough funds to keep the newspaper in operation for several more months, perhaps a year. But what progress had they made toward improving the situation at home? None. Even more frustrating, he could discern no plan. They were in limbo, waiting for a decision from the Supreme Court.
"We must remain united"; that was the recurrent theme The Blade heard day after day. Noble words, but hardly a plan. The commissioner of the mission board counseled patience, faith in the Divine Creator, and prayer. Laudable, but hardly practical. The Blade had agreed to appeal to the courts and the public, but if that failed, what would they do?
No one save himself wanted to discuss that question except in the vaguest language. It was as if everyone—including Temple—were blind to the possibility. The few times he had attempted to express his concern and his desire for an alternative plan of action, Temple had turned him aside, saying, "It will never happen. We will not lose. We cannot lose."
Shifting his gaze from the skeletal tree limbs in the park at Pemberton Square, The Blade glanced at her.
"How long will it be before we receive word of the Supreme Court's verdict, Mr. Fletcher?" she asked.
"It's the first of March. I should imagine they will hand down their ruling anytime now." He rocked back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his waistcoat, the stance drawing attention to the protruding roundness of his stomach. He looked at The Blade, his gray eyes thoughtful and serious. "However, should the decision be made in our favor, you must know the existing laws do not give the president the power to enforce it."
"He cannot enforce a federal law?" The Blade narrowed his gaze in sharp question. "How can that be? What of his recent confrontation with South Carolina over the nullification issue? He threatened an invasion to ensure that no state overrules federal laws or secedes from the Union."
"But he will have to seek the authority from Congress before an invasion could be launched. The chief executive is not empowered to act on his own and order troops out."
Before The Blade could question him further on this new revelation, he was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman known to John Ridge, Elias Boudinot. "The Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that the law by which Samuel Worcester and Dr. Elizur Butler were imprisoned is unconstitutional, and Georgia's entire Indian code along with it," Boudinot stated. "Marshall declared that the Cherokee Nation is a 'distinct community' occupying its own territory, and the laws of Georgia have no right to enter it! Justice Marshall declared the act of the State of Georgia to be void!"
The tension exploded in a burst of elation and congratulations. "It's glorious," John Ridge declared exultantly.
"We did it! We won." Temple clasped The Blade's arm, hugging it in her excitement.
In the initial flurry of jubilation that enveloped the room, The Blade's silence went unnoticed. He smiled with the rest of them, and exchanged congratulatory handshakes.
The question was forever settled concerning the right of the Cherokees to their homeland. The controversy was between the government of the United States and Georgia.
The Blade wanted desperately to believe this signaled the end of their problems, but he feared it only marked the beginning of a new battle.
Within days, word filtered back to them of Jackson's response when he learned of the Supreme Court's verdict. He was said to have replied, "John Marshall has made his decision; let him enforce it if he can."
Soon newspapers were reporting that "authentic sources" in Washington confirmed the president was not going to enforce the ruling.
The delegates returned immediately to Washington City by stagecoach. This time, Jackson was quick to grant the delegation an audience. As they were ushered into his presence, The Blade could feel the tension in the group.
Lean of face and body, with still some of the roughness of the frontier about him despite his elegant attire, Jackson was a man of vigor and determination. The strong will that had prompted his opponents to give him the sobriquet King Andrew was very much in evidence. As a foe, he was formidable, The Blade recognized. Once Jackson set his feet on a path, nothing would turn him away from it.
Little time was wasted after the initial greetings were concluded. Jackson seemed to welcome it when John Ridge came directly to the point of the meeting. "What can the Cherokees expect?" he asked. "Will the power of the United States be used to execute the decision of the Supreme Court and put down the legislation of Georgia?"
"No. It will not." Jackson paused, letting the full weight of his answer resonate while his piercing gaze gauged the reaction of the delegates. "Go home and tell your people that their only hope for relief is to abandon their nation and remove to the West."
Visibly shaken, John Ridge could make no response. There was none to be made, no more to be said. The case had been won, but to no avail since Jackson refused to take the necessary measures to enforce it.
The Blade understood that they had won a victory but not the war. It was still being waged against them. As long as Jackson was siding with Georgia, there was no hope of retaining their land. In that moment The Blade wasn't certain the Cherokees could ever survive if they did not come to accept this reality.
They filed out of the room. None of them doubted they had heard the truth, and the reality of it was sobering.
As they started down the stairs from the second-floor offices, The Blade spied Temple anxiously pacing back and forth at the bottom. When she saw them, she stopped and went motionless for an instant. Then she ran to meet them.
"I could not wait at the hotel," she said. "What happened? What did he say?"
"Jackson will not enforce the decision," her father replied.
"No!" Temple drew back from him, her stunned glance sweeping the rest of them and seeing the confirmation written in their haunted expressions.
"You must not despair." Will Gordon drew her closer and put an arm around her shoulders. "Jackson occupies the presidency now, but the November elections will bring Henry Clay into office. He will see that the ruling is executed. We must be patient a little longer."
"Yes ... yes, you are right," she agreed and tried to smile away her disappointment.
The Blade encountered John Ridge's despondent gaze and realized that Major Ridge's son was entertaining the same doubts he was. Both men knew their cause was lost. What The Blade had feared now loomed in his mind as the only viable alternative: t
o treat and remove.
The delegation remained in Washington, again making the circuit to reaffirm support for their cause. But, like the red clay banks of their home streams eroding away, their once staunch allies in Congress began to withdraw from them, expressing sympathy and giving pragmatic advice.
At an afternoon tea, Lieutenant Parmelee hovered attentively at Temple's side, relating some anecdote intended to entertain her. But Temple wasn't listening as she strained to overhear her husband's conversation with the congressional representative from Tennessee, the shrewd coonskin politician David Crockett.
"I understand you've been in touch with Justice John McLean," Crockett remarked, abandoning the backwoods dialect he often used in public to spin his frontier yarns. "What did he have to say?"
"He informed us that the Court does not have the power to force Jackson to implement its ruling."
"I also heard that he advised you to seek a new treaty, and offered to serve as one of the commissioners."
"He did. But our minds have not changed. We will not give up our land." The Blade mouthed the oft-repeated phrases, no longer feeling the conviction of his words.
"That's a noble sentiment, my friend, but it's also about as practical as grinnin' down a mean ole she-b'ar an' her cub," Crockett declared, a wry but sad smile edging his mouth. "I know the war department has offered you some liberal treaty terms, giving you patents to land in Arkansas and allowing you to send a delegate to Congress, among other things. To be frank, I don't see where you have a choice. The wise course is to sit down and negotiate the best terms you can for your people."
His statement echoed the recommendations from virtually all their previous backers. The delegation had received a letter from the American Board of Foreign Missions in Boston—a group who had once championed their cause with all the zeal of the righteous—advising them to treat.
