In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

by Michael A. McLellan

  “You let them go?” Clara said, looking across the room at her father with disbelief. “This is horrible. How will they live? How could you do this?…You’ve gone through my things?” Another question suddenly stole her attention and her eyes narrowed.

  “What do you mean, Vermont?”

  “I was saving this as a surprise, but I suppose the cat is out of the bag, so to speak. I am sending you to one of the country’s finest schools for young ladies. You will leave next week, summer with them, then complete your schooling and be home for Christmas.”

  “I will not!” Clara shouted angrily before covering her mouth with her hand, shocked at her own impertinence.

  Jonathon Hanfield closed the distance between them in three quick strides and slapped Clara open-handed on the mouth. Louisa let out a cry and raced down the stairs. When she reached them, Jonathon shoved her in the chest without taking his eyes from Clara.

  Louisa went sprawling to the polished marble floor, where she lay crying.

  “Go to your room, Louisa,” he said dismissively, still not looking away from Clara, who was holding a hand to her reddening face. There was a small trickle of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

  Randall, the Hanfield’s Man About The House—who most people would call a butler—rushed into the room through the servant’s door. He was carrying a lamp in one hand and a kitchen stove faggot in the other.

  Jonathon looked over Clara’s shoulder: “Everything is fine, Randall. A family matter.”

  Randall stood there, his eyes darting to Louisa, who was still lying on the floor, sobbing, then to Clara, where they lingered. After a moment he gave Jonathon a short nod and returned through the servant’s door.

  Jonathon turned and kneeled next to his wife, offering his hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. “You go to your room now, Louisa. I’ll have Randall bring you a glass of sherry.” Louisa cast a sympathetic look toward Clara, but obeyed her husband and walked up the stairs.

  Jonathon returned his attention to Clara.

  “And you will do as you are told; now as always. In time you will see that every decision I’ve made has been with your best interests in mind. Truly, Clara, eventually you will thank me for this. The rotten apple never falls far from the tree, and I will be in my grave before I see my daughter with an Elliot.” Jonathon turned and started back toward his study. “I’ll send Phebe up to draw you a bath.”

  14

  Clara was fuming. She strode across the room, ripped down her bed canopies, and threw them on the floor. She paced her room furiously, kicking at the expensive silk canopies and cursing her father under her breath. She began opening her dresser drawers; they had obviously been rifled through. The polished walnut box she’d been keeping John’s letters in was missing. This upset her even more. The box had been a gift from John.

  Thirty minutes later, just as she was regaining some of her composure, there was a knock at her door. Clara opened it and stood aside. It was Phebe, one of the family’s housemaids. Phebe had been employed by the Hanfields since before Clara was born. She stood at the door looking unsure; she was carrying a large copper pot full of steaming water.

  “Please come in, Phebe, before you scald yourself,” Clara said. Phebe gave her a hesitant smile then looked over her shoulder and nodded her head. Two other girls, both about Clara’s age followed Phebe into the room. They were also carrying pots of hot water, which they dumped into a large copper bathing tub. Phebe then drew some cold water from a siphon that ran from a storage cistern in the attic. Jonathon Hanfield frequently boasted to his contemporaries about this and other modern conveniences he’d had fitted in the house.

  After Phebe was satisfied with the water temperature she shooed the two girls off and gathered up the canopies. “Can I get anything else for you, Miss Hanfield? Some tea?”

  Clara looked at the canopies, feeling ashamed of her tantrum. “No, thank you, Phebe,” she said. Her father had taught her at a young age that she wasn’t to apologize to the house staff. Until now, she’d never thought much about it. Until now, she’d never had reason to.

  Phebe turned to leave.

  “Phebe?”

  The older woman stopped and turned back, “Yes, Miss Hanfield?”

  “I’m sorry about soiling the canopies. It was childish of me and needlessly made more work for you.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, Miss Hanfield. Everybody gets in a temper at one time or another. I just hope you feel better.”

  “Thank you, Phebe. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Hanfield.”

  Clara lowered herself into the steaming water and laid her head back on a cushion placed over the thick rim of the tub. She let the heat do its work, slowly relaxing her taut muscles and conflicted mind. The ancient maple outside her window creaked rhythmically in the light breeze, lulling her into a semi-doze. When the water cooled, she stood, the chill room causing her skin to break out in goose-flesh. She didn’t notice. Water ran to the floor in steady runnels as she walked to her vanity, where she stood motionless in front of the mirror. Soon a large puddle formed around her feet. Her father’s great love of the sea was born at fifteen, when he’d secured an apprenticeship on a trading schooner. Later in life he became fond of saying that water was the great renewer. Clara thought this profound, particularly coming from a man who rarely spoke in the philosophical.

  She reached around and took the length of her hair and wrung it out. The pitch black locks stood as her only resemblance to her father. The rest: small breasts, wide hips, strongly built legs, were all her mother. She rubbed her belly thoughtfully for a moment.

  She knew what she had to do.

  15

  Three days later, on the morning she was to depart to her new school, Clara was up long before dawn. She lit a candle and padded quietly past her parents’ room—her mother had left for Pennsylvania two mornings before as decreed by her father—and down the stairs. Her father’s study was locked, but she knew he kept a key on top of the molding over the door. She stood on her toes and reached her hand up, sliding it across the moulding until her fingers touched the key. She slid the key into the lock and turned it; the snick of the tumblers seemed exceptionally loud in the early morning silence.

  Opening the door slowly, she glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs. She was terrified of being caught.

  Once in the study she hurried to the oversized writing bureau and opened the roll-top. Holding the candle close to the interior, she felt along the bottom, pushing aside her father’s pen rack and other writing paraphernalia until she found the small depression. She pushed it as she’d seen her father do many times when she was still young enough to sit on his lap, and with a click the secret panel opened. The compartment was fairly large: about four inches deep by a foot square; it was full of money.

  Clara scooped up several handfuls of the notes and set them aside. She then closed the compartment and did her best to arrange her father’s desk the way it had been. She set the candle down and removed a beaded reticule from her nightgown and stuffed the money inside. With one last look at the arrangement of the desk, she shut the roll-top, hurried out of the study, and returned to her room.

  16

  Miles Penbrook arrived with the coach at eight a.m. as instructed. Randall Eastman, who’d been waiting with Clara’s luggage on the front porch, picked up the trunk and two travelling bags and walked to meet the coach. Miles, who wasn’t a whole lot younger than Randall’s fifty-eight years, climbed down to assist him.

  “Looks like those joints aren’t bothering you very much this morning,” Miles said, taking one end of the trunk and helping to lift it up onto the coach.”

  “No. Not very much,” Randall agreed.

  “Miss Hanfield’s off to school, is she?”

  “Yes, she is,” Randall replied, a troubled expression crossing his once handsome but now careworn features.

  “Clara!” Jonathon Hanfield called up the st
airs. “Miles is waiting.”

  Clara stood in her doorway looking into the bedroom she’d spent her entire life in. It was the last time she’d ever see it.

  She walked past her father without a word, but paused and waited for him at the front door.

  He kissed her on the cheek, which she endured with a polite smile.

  He held her at arm’s length: “You are a picture of beauty. Is that the dress and reticule I bought you last Easter?”

  “Yes.”

  He ran his hand lightly down the sleeve of her dress, and over the handbag which she had looped about her wrist. Clara tensed.

  He dropped his hands. “I realize you’re still distressed, but you’ll eventually see the wisdom in the decisions I’ve made on your behalf.”

  Clara managed a strained smile and gave a short nod. He opened the front door.

  “I’ll visit in the summer,” he said, and walked her to the coach.

  Randall was already sitting inside when Clara climbed in. He was to accompany Clara to the train station and see her safely off.

  “Good morning, Miss Hanfield,” he said, offering his hand to help her to the seat.

  “Good morning, Randall,” she said, ignoring the hand and taking the seat across from him.

  It was four miles to the train station and Clara rode in silence, waiting until they were nearly there before leaning out of the coach and asking Miles to stop.

  The street was busy—very busy. It took a moment for Miles to locate a place to halt the small, two horse coach. Once safely stopped, he climbed down and opened the coach’s door.

  “What is it, Miss Hanfield?”

  “I want you to take me to West Point.”

  “West…West Point? I beg your pardon, Miss Hanfield, but I’m supposed to get you to the train station by nine-thirty. Your father will be furious with me if you miss your train. What in the world would you want to go to West Point for, anyway? I mean, if you’ll pardon me asking.”

  “To see where the Elliot boy was sent off to,” Randall said matter-of-factly.

  “The Elliot boy?” Miles echoed, sounding nonplussed.

  Clara gaped at Randall.

  “I apologize, Miss Hanfield,” Randall said, wringing his hands together in a childlike gesture. “But I overheard everything the night Mister Hanfield struck you.

  And truth be told, I already knew about your courtship with the Elliot boy—well, I guess he’s not such a boy anymore…” he trailed off.

  “Who else knew about it?” Clara demanded.

  Randall averted his eyes.

  “Randall!”

  “Phebe…and Sarah…I suppose most of the house staff.”

  “And after all of this time he just now found out,” she mused.

  “Well, I didn’t know anything about it, and I don’t want to know anything about it. It’s none of my business,” Miles said, sounding agitated. “Now, Miss Hanfield, we really should be getting to the station.”

  “I’m not going to the station, Miles. And if you won’t take me to West Point, then please stand aside and let me out. I’m going, with or without your help.”

  “Miss Hanfield, please. You can’t be walking about the city alone. And you have to understand, we can’t just parade ourselves upstate on a whim. I mean, the snow’s probably about gone, but I don’t know what the road looks like, and we’ll have to change horses at least once…and what about an escort? The roads aren’t safe and there is a war going on. How about we go back and speak with Mister Hanfield?”

  Clara got up and began to push past Miles.

  “Miss Hanfield, no. Please. I’ll take you to West Point,” Miles said as he moved out of her way. Clara ducked back into the coach and sat down.

  “Miles, allow me,” Randall said. “You can hire a cab to take you back to the Hanfield’s. I’ll drive Miss Hanfield to West Point.”

  “Nooo, sir. I’m responsible for this coach. It’s one of a kind and was built special for Mister Hanfield. If anyone is driving it to West Point, it’s going to be me.”

  Miles climbed back up onto the coach’s elegantly built driver’s box muttering something about foolishness and hating ferries. Still talking to himself, he worked his way back into traffic.

  There was an hour delay awaiting the ferry at the river crossing. Clara and Randall both paced around nervously while they waited: Clara because she was in a hurry to be out of the city, and Randall because he was worried about Clara.

  Once aboard, the crossing went quickly and they were soon on their way. Clara remained mostly silent, outside of commenting on something or other she saw along the road. Randall bit his lip nervously, afraid to ask her the questions that troubled him.

  The trip took most of the day, and it was early evening before they arrived at West Point. Miles’ concerns had proved unfounded: the road was in fine condition, and was busy with spring traders. The fancy coach garnered some curious looks, but nothing more. They stopped at an inn which boasted an impressive stable around midday. The three ate a lunch sullied by a somewhat uncomfortable silence while the inn’s hostler traded the tired pair of horses for two fresh ones. The hostler pledged to Miles that the Hanfield’s horses were in good hands, and that they’d be well rested and ready the following day when the travelers returned for them.

  The military academy itself was a rambling network of buildings built on a sharp bend in the Hudson river. Miles waved down the driver of an ice wagon who was passing in the opposite direction and asked where the hotel was located. The teamster pointed to a three-story building with a high porch. Miles thanked him and urged the horses forward.

  Clara and Randall went inside and secured adjoining rooms, while Miles saw to the horses. They assured the man at the desk that they could handle their own baggage. Randall escorted Clara to her room, then turned to go down for her things.

  “I’m going to have a baby,” she blurted suddenly, still standing in the doorway. Randall turned around slowly. He looked at her with naked sympathy. Clara began to cry.

  “Oh, Miss Hanfield…are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you go in and sit down. I’ll bring up your things, then we’ll sort this out.”

  Clara nodded her head, then went into the room and shut the door.

  The rooms were located on the second floor, and Randall took the stairs slowly. This was only partially due to his arthritic joints. He was actually in fine condition for a man of his age, outside of the arthritis. A lifetime of chopping stove wood and carrying water

  buckets had seen to that. His mind, however, was reeling with Clara’s revelation and all the possible ramifications that went along with it.

  “We’re in real trouble here, Randall,” Miles said as Randall stepped out onto the hotel’s porch. He was sitting on a bench that ran the length of the porch, smoking a battered wooden pipe.

  “Help me with Miss Hanfield’s things,” Randall said. Miles stood and followed Randall down the steps.

  “Well, did she tell you what was going on?” Miles asked as they grasped a handle of Clara’s trunk and lifted it off of the compartment on the rear of the coach.

  Randall stopped and gazed across the trunk at Miles. “Yes, she has, but I can’t tell you what it is. She’ll have to do that, if she wants to. You get the horses stabled and join us back here. We’ll be having tea in the dining room.”

  “Well, I hope it was worth us losing our jobs.”

  “You lost your job the minute she asked you to stop the coach. Come on, let’s get this upstairs.”

  The dining room was empty save for a woman of about thirty who was sitting alone and reading a book. Randall ordered tea for three.

  “Miles should be returning from the stable soon. Should I have him take his tea outside while we discuss your plans?” Randall asked softly.

  “No, I’ve put him—both of you—in a terrible position with my father. Now that it’s too late, I wish I could take it back. Unfortunately, like so
many other things, I can’t. I should have hired a coach and left you and Miles in New York. My father still would have been angry with you, but now…I’m sorry for acting so selfishly. You both deserve the truth.”

  Miles entered the dining room thirty minutes later.

  “Your tea is cold,” Randall said as Miles took a seat at the small round table.

  “Never cared much for it anyway.”

  Clara plunged forward before she lost her far from inconsiderable nerve.

  “I’m going to have a child. I had you bring me here so I could find out where John was sent. He doesn’t know.

  Miles glanced at Randall, then turned back to Clara with a look of open contempt.

  “Miss Hanfield, you’ve ruined your life and mine along with it. I can’t abide this—any of it.”

  With that, he stood and walked out.

  Randall reached over and patted Clara’s hand reassuringly. “You stay here, I’ll go talk with him.”

  Randall found Miles back on the porch bench, refilling his pipe.

  “You forget your place, Miles.”

  “My place?” Miles glanced at the door then lowered his voice. “I have no place, thanks to that spoiled little whore. I’ll be lucky if I’m not brought up on charges.”

  Randall advanced. “How dare you speak that way about Miss Hanfield.”

  Miles set down his pipe and stood up, toe to toe with Randall. “I’m speaking the truth, nothing less. She’s bringing scandal to a fine family. I’ll take you two back to New York in the morning—I have a coach and two horses to return—then good riddance to her, and to you as well if you’re going to get between her and Mister Hanfield.”