by Janet Dailey
"Miss Temple. Miss Temple!" Phoebe rushed into the room, her brown face wreathed with excitement. "There's a rider coming. I saw him from the window upstairs."
"The Blade?"
"I couldn't tell for sure. He was riding through the woods like he had Satan himself snapping at his heels. But I'm thinking it is," Phoebe declared. "You know how Master Blade and Deu sometimes come racing home like they can't wait to get here."
Temple looked at her tarnish-stained hands, then at the dirty apron she wore over her oldest dress. "Look at me," she wailed. "He will think I am a drudge. Quick, Phoebe, help me change."
Breaking into a run, she dashed to the back stairwell, plucking the white duster cap from her head and untying her apron as she raced up the steps to their bedroom. There, she flung both on the bed and hurried straight to the washbasin.
"Unfasten my dress," she ordered, immersing her hands and a chunk of lye soap in the water. "And fetch my blue calico."
"Yes'm."
Temple scrubbed her hands as clean as time would allow, then started to shrug out of her dress. Downstairs, the front door opened as Temple tugged in frustration at a stubborn sleeve.
"Temple? Temple!" There was a shout from below, but the voice wasn't The Blade's.
"Kipp." She stepped into the hall.
"Temple, where are you?" came his strident, angry demand. This time there was no mistaking her brother's voice.
She moved to the top of the stairs. "Up here, Kipp." When he appeared at the bottom of the steps, she was alarmed by the look on his face. "What is it? Has something happened?"
"Is he here?" Kipp paused on the second step.
"No, he hasn't come back yet."
Kipp bounded up the steps, his long legs stretching to span two and three at a time. "Get your things. I am taking you out of here."
When he grabbed her wrist, Temple planted her feet. "I am not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about."
"You are my sister!" The fury that lurked in his every action and word now exploded. "I will not let you stay another minute in this house of traitors."
"Stop it!" She jerked free and faced him with fists clenched rigidly at her sides, every bit as angry as he was. "I will not hear any more of your hatred for my husband!"
"You don't understand, Temple." He glared. "The bastards have done it. They signed a treaty with Jackson's man last night in New Echota. They have sold our land."
"No." She backed away from him, numbly shaking her head, needing to deny it. "Not The Blade. He would never do that."
"You are a fool," Kipp snapped. "His name is there along with the other snakes'. Why do you think I came?"
"I don't believe you," she murmured, her voice threatening to break.
"Do you think I would lie about this?"
"I don't know." Temple turned to face the wall, her head pounding so viciously she couldn't think clearly.
"What proof do you want? Must you see the treaty with your own eyes? His name is there, I tell you—and the mark of his father. They have broken the Blood Law. You can't mean to stay with a Judas who has betrayed our people. They have done more than talk this time. The treaty has been signed." Kipp paused. "I speak the truth, Temple. If you don't believe me, ask him."
"I will!" Stung by his jeering taunt, she spun around. There, in front of her, stood The Blade, his face like stone and his eyes like blue steel.
"Ask him," Kipp challenged confidently. "Ask him if he signed a treaty selling our land."
She was afraid of what she saw in his face. "Is it true?" she whispered.
"Yes." Not even an eyelash flickered when he replied.
"You will die for that," Kipp declared.
"But you will live. I wonder where the justice is in that," The Blade mused, his tone hard and cynical. "Get out, Kipp, before I forget you are Temple's brother."
Kipp turned to her. "Are you coming with me?"
But Temple couldn't move. She could only stare at her husband—the man she loved—the man who had become a traitor to his people.
"You have your answer," The Blade said. "She is staying."
Kipp turned and ran down the stairs. When the door slammed below, The Blade swung back to face her, his probing gaze somehow breaking the grip of shock that had held her silent.
"How could you?" she accused, her voice still strangled. "It is true. They will kill you for this."
"Yes."
In his mind, it wasn't Temple he saw before him but the scene the previous night in Elias Boudinot's house when the committee of twenty had gathered by the wavering candle flames to smoke their pipes and review the document that outlined the terms of cession. Then came the moment to sign it, and the initial hesitation by all was followed by silence as each man stepped forward and picked up the quill pen. Major Ridge had been the last. Afterward, he had stared at his mark on the treaty papers and declared, "I have signed my death warrant."
They all had. By their act, they had broken the Blood Law. The penalty was death.
He stared at the whiteness of her face and the redness of her lips. Drawn by them, he slowly walked over to her and put his hands on her narrow waist. He ignored her attempt to push him away as he pulled her closer.
"Make love to me, Temple. Make love to a dead man."
He brought his mouth down to hers, swallowing her sob of protest. Then she didn't fight him anymore. Her fingers raked his hair and her body strained eagerly against him, all motion and urgency. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, taking no notice of Phoebe as she discreetly slipped out the door.
Within minutes, they both lay naked on the bed, their avid hands stroking and caressing, memorizing every curve and contour, their lips clinging and crushing, savoring the taste and texture of the other. The looming specter of death lent a desperation to their lovemaking, giving it a furious passion that lifted them above all their disagreements and, for a time, let them forget all but their love.
Later, the shadows and the pain came back. As Temple slowly fastened the blue calico gown, his favorite dress, she listened to the sounds of him dressing behind her. Her body was still warm from him, his smell still clung to her, her lips still tasted of him, but her mind recoiled from what he had done.
Turning, she looked at him. "You did it for nothing. Your treaty will never be upheld as valid."
He hesitated a fraction of a second, then pulled on his boot. "If all it does is force Ross to make another treaty, then my goal is accomplished." He stood up, his gaze absorbing her. "Will you stay?"
"For now." She wasn't sure which would be hardest—leaving him or remaining to witness his death.
21
Gordon Glen
June 1836
A curious honeybee dipped and darted close to her face as Eliza leaned on the fence rail and surveyed the huge garden. Row after tidy row stretched before her, planted with corn, cabbage, sweet potatoes, sugar beets, snaps, onions, squash, and more. On the far side, two slave children and their mother bent over their hoes, chopping out weeds and turning up chunks of clay-red earth.
"Is something wrong, Eliza?" Temple's questioning voice broke sharply across her silent reverie. "You seem preoccupied since dinner."
"I could say the same for you," Eliza countered as she straightened from the fence. "This treaty business has cast a shadow over all of us, I fear." She caught the flicker of pain in Temple's eyes. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Why not? It's the truth," Temple retorted with a proud, almost defiant tilt of her head. "The treaty is a sham Jackson is trying to force on us, but he will not succeed. Too many voices in Congress are protesting the outrage, strong voices belonging to men like Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, Davy Crockett, and John Quincy Adams. The false treaty will never be ratified. The sixteen thousand names on the memorial John Ross took to Washington prove that the treaty was not made with the consent of the majority."
Eliza was struck by the bitter antagonism that underlined Temple's denunciation
. By condemning the treaty so vehemently, she was also condemning the actions of her husband. Yet she remained with him.
"You love him very much, don't you?"
"Yes." The hard, clipped answer was even more revealing. Temple turned from the fence. "Your garden is doing very well."
"The rain the other night certainly helped it." Eliza respected Temple's wish to change the subject, while finding the reference to "her" garden bittersweet. With Victoria practically incapacitated by the debilitating consumption, Eliza was the mistress of the plantation in all but name.
"You haven't mentioned Reverend Cole in a long time. Have you not heard from him?" When Temple began to stroll along the rutted track that led to the stables, Eliza turned and walked with her.
"I had a letter from him last month." It was the first correspondence she had received from Nathan in more than a year. "Just a short one, letting me know that he was leaving for the West." Like many of the missionaries, he believed that it was only a matter of time before the Cherokees joined the western band already there.
"A few years ago I was convinced you would marry him," Temple remarked idly.
"We are good friends. Nothing more."
Suddenly, Temple stopped and swayed unsteadily, lifting a hand and pressing it to her forehead. For an instant, Eliza thought she was going to faint. She quickly hooked an arm around her shoulders to brace her.
"Temple, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Weakly, she tried to wave aside Eliza's concern.
But Temple was obviously ill. Eliza had treated too many of the plantation's sick not to recognize the signs. "Shadrach," she called to the young boy who trailed at a respectful distance behind. "Help me get Miss Temple to the house."
"No, please," Temple protested, but this time the hand that pushed at Eliza had some strength to it. "This will pass in a minute. I will be fine, I promise."
Eliza glanced at the tiny beads of perspiration that had gathered on Temple's upper lip. Her sickly pallor was receding and color began to return to her face.
"You barely touched the food on your plate at dinner," Eliza remembered.
"I couldn't." Temple avoided her eyes, keeping her own gaze downcast. "I am . .. with child."
Temple spoke so quietly that it was a full second before Eliza was certain she had heard correctly. She broke into a wide smile. "Temple, how wonderful!" she declared, then frowned as she studied Temple's faintly distressed look. "Isn't it?"
"I want it to be." Her hand glided over her stomach in a gesture that was both loving and protective. Then she looked at Eliza. "But how can it be when the father of my baby is a traitor?"
"He is your husband," Eliza reminded her gently.
In a burst of agitation, Temple pulled away from her. "Sometimes I wish—" She stopped abruptly and sighed. "I no longer know what I wish. Maybe I should have listened to Kipp and left him when he first started talking about a treaty."
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" Temple laughed bitterly, her glance rising to the blue sky overhead. "If I had known what was going to happen, I think I would have left. But I stayed. Maybe I thought I could convince him he was wrong. I don't know."
"Does he know ... about the baby?"
Temple shook her head. "No one does, except you and Phoebe." She turned to her. "How can I let my baby be born in a house of traitors, Eliza? How can I let my baby bear that shame? And he will if I stay."
She understood how Temple could feel so torn. Either way there would be pain. Yet Eliza was reluctant to offer any advice.
An odd calmness settled over Temple. "I want this baby, Eliza." She began walking again. "It is all I will have of my husband to love. Next week, next month, next year, The Blade will be punished for his act of treachery. He knows that one day he will lie in his own blood. I could have endured it, but the baby—I don't want him to see it. And I think The Blade would not want it either."
"Then . . . you will leave him."
"I want my baby to be born here at Gordon Glen." There was something poignant in her expression as Temple gazed affectionately at the towering brick mansion, partially visible through a break in the trees. "It is a place where he can grow up proud and strong."
Conscious of the tears that pricked her eyes, Eliza struggled to shake off the grip of sadness. "Are you so certain the baby will be a boy?" she asked, striving to lighten the atmosphere.
"No." Temple became thoughtful. "It would probably be better if it was a girl. People would not be so quick to attach the stigma of traitor to her as they would to a boy."
"Temple," Eliza murmured in a surge of pity and pain.
"Don't. No matter how I might sound, I regret nothing I have done." She spoke with such assurance that Eliza couldn't help envying Temple's courage in the face of her difficulties. She wished she were half as brave. Then Temple looked back at the servant boy lagging several steps behind them. "Shadrach, run ahead to the stables and ask Ike to have my mare saddled and waiting for me."
"Yes'm, Miss Temple." Breaking into a trot, he dashed ahead of them, his callused bare feet slapping the crimson dirt with each stride.
After Temple left, Eliza started back to the house. Today the familiar path was crowded with memories, memories of more carefree days, the days before she recognized her growing affection for Will Gordon. Passing the creek, she recalled the hot summer afternoons when she had played there with the children, wading in the cool water and catching tadpoles.
She paused in front of the log schoolhouse. No one had set foot inside it for more than two years. With the new demands of the household duties and only Xandra and Kipp and little Johnny for pupils, Eliza had found it more practical to move the classroom into the house and instruct the children in their lessons there. A dozen times Eliza had intended to inspect the building for any damage, but there always seemed to be more pressing matters that demanded her attention. She had never managed to fit it in ... until now.
When she started up the walk, Shadrach darted ahead of her and opened the door. She smiled briefly at him, distracted by the thought that the place was probably infested with mice and a dozen other equally horrifying creatures. But no frantic scurrying sounds greeted her as she stepped inside.
She halted in amazement, astounded by the sight she beheld. The school was spotless. The floor, the windows, the desk, the chairs—there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. Logs and kindling were stacked in the grate in readiness for a fire. On her desk a glass of water held a spray of purple iris.
In a daze, Eliza walked over and lightly touched one of the petals. Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned to Shadrach. He glanced away from her to the desk as he self-consciously shifted his weight to one foot.
"I make sure there's always fresh ink in the inkwell, too, in case you ever want to write something."
"You did all this, Shadrach?"
"Yes'm." He nodded and looked wistfully about the single room. "I thought maybe someday you'd want to teach in here again."
Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision and knotting her throat with emotion. "I haven't had time to keep you up on your studies, have I?" Somehow, in her own personal turmoil, she had forgotten the way he craved knowledge.
"It's okay," he assured her. "I read every chance I get. A couple of times, I've taken a book from Master Will's library. They were kind of hard to understand, but I liked trying to figure out what they were saying."
"Sometimes that is the best way to learn, Shad. It's not the easiest, but... I am glad you kept at it. Don't stop learning as much as you can, no matter what happens, or how hard it gets."
"I won't," he promised just as fervently.
Blinking rapidly, she brushed the tears from her eyes and smiled. "Of all the students I will ever have, I think I shall always be proudest of you."
"Truly?" His eyes were big and shiny with delight.
"Truly." Eliza let her smile widen. "Do you know what I think?"
"What?" He was a
ll ears.
"As hot as it is, I think we should declare the rest of the afternoon a holiday. Why don't we all go to the creek and play?"
"Can I go, too?"
"May I go," Eliza corrected, then added, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, "Of course you may go. You will have to watch young Johnny, won't you?"
"Yes'm, I sure enough will." Shadrach grinned back.
On his way home from the fields, Will Gordon heard the sounds of laughter and splashing coming from the creek, but it was the adult squeal of mirth that caught his attention. He rode over to investigate, already guessing what he would find.
Chased by sprays of water, a barefoot Eliza scampered for the safety of the bank, the long skirt of her dress gathered into a bunch in front, her hair a cap of curls barely held in place. Xandra and Shadrach waded after her, laughing and slapping more water at the teacher. Even little Johnny joined in the fun, though he lacked the accuracy of the other two.
"Three against one is hardly fair odds."
"Papa!" Xandra cried with gladness as Eliza spun around, conscious of the sudden, joyous leap of her heart at the sight of Will Gordon. But she had long ago mastered the art of concealing her true feelings in his presence. When he dismounted, the smile she gave him was genuine.
"I hope you have come to rescue me from these water imps of yours," Eliza declared lightly.
"No." He strolled to the water's edge where Eliza stood and swept a bemused eye over the two youngest of his brood. "I stopped to help you put them to rout."
With a swiftness that surprised all of them, he sprang at six-year-old Johnny with a whoop and a shout. Johnny shrieked and pretended fear and took off running. When Will splashed into the shallow stream after him, mindless of his boots, Eliza went after Xandra. Soon they had both children on the run, led by a laughing Shadrach.
In less than a minute, they had the children cornered against a tall bank. When Johnny made a dash for freedom, Will scooped him up. Johnny squealed with laughter and yelled to his sister, "Help! Xandra, help me!"
