by Ann Rinaldi
But ... but Pa had told me all about Valley Forge. And how Mama had been so lighthearted all the time and had lifted the spirits of all the officers and how he trusted her and even General Washington approved. And how they all bonded because of what they had been through!
"You lie!" I hissed.
She laughed. "Eulinda doesn't. Why do you think Anthony Wayne looks at you the way he does when we're all seated at table? Why do you think he's always telling Pa what beautiful children he's raising? He means you! His daughter! And no, to answer your next question, Pa doesn't know. Mama never confided in him. And you'd better never tell Pa, either, or Mama will kill you."
Now she scowled. "And Mama doesn't know I've been told. Or that now I've told you. She needs to keep her secret."
At the door of my room, she turned, smiling like her old self.
"Why do you think you have hazel eyes when the rest of Pa's children don't?"
Somehow, I managed to speak. "Because Mama's aunt Catharine has them."
"Posh. Of course Mama told you that, didn't she? Well, now I'm telling you this. It's time you were enlightened, since you think you have something so special with Pa. So remember it."
I could think of nothing sensible to say.
"And remember, that room in the tower is mine. I want you to tell Pa you have decided to give it to me, to keep peace in the family. He'll love you for that. Or Eulinda may decide, someday, to let it slip out to Pa that you are not his daughter. You know how she is. She talks so much."
Again I felt my face go white. "It would kill Pa."
"It would not kill him. He's been through so much that hasn't. He'd just dismiss her. She wants to go back north, anyway."
"Why would Eulinda do such for you?"
"I told you, she wants to go back north. The other slaves here found out she's being paid and give her a bad time of it. They steal from her. So I give her a few guineas now and then to save up for her trip north, that's why."
"Where do you get them?"
"Wouldn't you love to know?" And with that, she left my room.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I DID NOT sleep all that lovely June night.
It is torture not to sleep, to lie there in bed and hear the whole house settle down and finally go quiet, to then hear the night birds and the occasional barking of the dogs and the terrible silences that mock what lies in your heart.
Then there is the chiming of the clocks, hour after god-awful hour.
And my thoughts.
General Wayne my father! I had always liked Wayne, always admired him. But my father? That would take a whole world of getting used to!
But Pa said he trusted Wayne!
No, it cannot be. Martha is just punishing me. Eulinda is lying.
Mama would never do such a thing. Pa said he trusted Wayne. Eulinda is lying.
It became a chant in my head. Then a prayer.
Why do you think you have hazel eyes?
Because Great-Aunt Catharine has them.
An owl hooted just outside my window. The clock in the downstairs hall chimed three in the morning. Then nothing.
***
I DID NOT speak at breakfast, except one sentence to Mama.
"You do not look well, Cornelia," she said.
"I did not sleep well, Mama," I answered.
Pa eyed me carefully but said nothing.
After breakfast, as I trailed after him into his study, he turned. "What is it, Cornelia? Is there something bothering you that you wish to tell me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, I am listening."
"Pa, I want to give my tower room to Martha. She wants it. And as the oldest girl, she has the right to first pick."
He scowled. At first he did not understand what I was talking about. Then he collected himself and nodded. "The tower room," he repeated gravely. "You want to give it to Martha."
"Yes, sir."
"The house is a long way from being built yet, Cornelia."
"Yes, sir. But she wants me to tell you, right off."
The scowl deepened. "Are you girls fighting again?"
"Oh, no, Pa. We were just discussing it and she let me know her preference. And I wanted to keep peace, as you like. So I said she could have it and I would let you know."
He did not believe me. My pa was too smart. His eyes bore into me, seeing through to my soul, so I had to lower my gaze.
"What is really going on here, Cornelia?" he asked. "What has Martha done to you? Or threatened you with? Why did you not sleep last night?"
"Oh, no, sir. Nothing is going on. Like I said, I just want to keep peace between us, like I know you want, Pa. Nothing is going on."
"You aren't lying to me, are you? You know I cannot tolerate lies."
"Oh, no, Pa. I would never!"
"All right. I know you don't lie. Very well, then. You may tell Martha the tower room is hers. But I want you to spend the day in the house and take a nap this afternoon. Those are my orders. I don't like the way you look. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir. Understood."
Still, before I left the room, he gave me a perplexed look, as if he did not believe me, or as if there was something I was not telling him. And it hurt me not to be honest with Pa. And I hated Martha with a vehemence for making me enter into this deceit.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FOR DAYS I stayed to myself. I pleaded feeling wretched. But I found that staying in the house, as Pa had ordered, gave me an excuse to keep away from others. I did not want to associate with anyone.
Mama pronounced that I had nothing serious and allowed me to occupy the window seat where she usually sat and rested. It was the one that overlooked the Savannah River. She liked to sit there and watch my brother George swim. Sometimes, with the help of several Negro boys his own age, he launched rafts and poled them at the river's edge.
Mama would watch nervously. She had a horrible fear of water. She was afraid of drowning, she told me. And I had to admire the way she never imparted that fear to George.
On the eleventh of June, Pa and Mama took a trip to Savannah to see the Pendletons. He had been an aide of Pa's since the siege of Boston in the war. He had spent four years as a prisoner of the British, and then been on Pa's staff in South Carolina. They planned on staying with the Pendletons a day or so, then going on to visit the plantation of Mr. William Gibbons, another friend of Pa's.
Before they left, Martha went on a morning horseback ride with Pa.
It was always a special privilege when one of us was invited on a horseback ride alone with Pa. If we'd been naughty, it meant we were forgiven. If he wanted to "hold forth" on a subject that pertained to one of us specifically, he would use this time to do it. And if he felt he'd been neglecting one of us, this could be a reason for it, too.
I was wild with trying to ponder the reason, and when she came back, Martha's nose was so far in the air that sparrows could make a nest in it.
***
AROUND THE FIFTEENTH of June, I was sitting at the window seat, where I'd been languishing since Mama and Pa had left, watching my brother George and the Negro boys, who seemed to be having so much sport. I promised Mama I would watch George while she was gone and fetch someone if he got into trouble on the river.
General Anthony Wayne was staying with us, left in charge by Pa.
George was nearing twelve now, his shoulders broadening, growing already into a young man, well able to take care of himself.
I sipped tea, I read. I enjoyed my solitude. And my spirit was still low.
I had not seen Martha for four days now, except at table, for General Wayne insisted we keep the routine of the household going and take meals together, even with little Louisa. She pleasured him, Louisa did. He had great patience with her toddler ways.
Of course, we must have conversation when we dined.
Martha and I made a good attempt at it, although I think General Wayne saw through our falseness.
Otherwise I stayed away
from him. Oh, I was polite. I called him "sir" as I was supposed to. I answered his questions; I smiled when the situation called for it. I obeyed his instructions without question. And then I went back to my place at my window seat.
He left me alone and went about his business, which was to see to the running of the plantation for Pa.
I was lying on the window seat on the afternoon of the fifteenth, propped up by pillows, a book in my lap. Tristram Shandy. Although I was excused from school because of my poor health, I still had to keep up with my reading.
I had closed my eyes, my book in my lap, for afternoons the sun favored that side of the house. And I felt rather than saw someone standing over me.
"Well, and I thought you were supposed to be reading." The voice came softly.
The last person in the world I wanted to see!
"Open your eyes, Cornelia. You aren't sleeping. What have you done that you're avoiding everyone and pretending to be sick?"
I felt the book being taken off my lap. Oh, God, he was too clever by half for me. I opened my eyes. He was pretending to flip through the book. " Tristram Shandy," he said, disapprovingly. "Isn't this a bit advanced for you?"
"My tutor, Mr. Miller, says I have to read it."
He snapped the book closed and set it aside. "He may be a graduate of Yale, but I always thought he was a pompous idiot. Of course, I can't tell your father that. So..." He drew up a nearby chair and sat down. "To get back to the subject at hand. Why are you hiding out in the house on these beautiful June days?"
"I'm not hiding. I've been brought low by some malady."
"And what malady is that?"
"I don't know. I'm just not feeling myself these days."
I did not meet those hazel eyes. I did not, as a matter of fact, look at him at all. I could not bring myself to direct my attention to that tanned face with the strong nose and the set, square jaw. I was fearful of what I would find there.
"Why won't you look at me, Cornelia?" The voice was gentle. It went right into me, probing. "I cannot help noticing that you never glance my way at the table. And regardless of the conversation between you and Martha, even little Louisa could tell you two are at each other's throats."
"Sir, please, I have a headache."
He reached out and felt my forehead. "No fever. What's wrong, Cornelia? Your father asked me, before he left, to cast a special eye to you. He seems to think something is eating at you. Is something eating at you?"
Now I did look at him. There was no anger in his hazel eyes. There was sympathy, understanding, and, yes, love.
"I'm no stranger to heartbreak, Cornelia."
Tears came to my own eyes.
Mama had once told me that it took her years, but she had learned from her friend Mrs. Knox how to keep tears from overflowing and coming down her face. I have tried and tried, but have never been able to master that trick.
Now tears spilled down my cheeks.
General Wayne said nothing. He simply reached for his handkerchief and stood up, bent over me, and wiped away the tears. His touch was tender.
"I don't know what it is," he said, "but if you can't confide in your mother or father, please know that you can come to me. I'll keep your confidences, and I'll help you if I can. I have a daughter, as you know. And a son. And let me tell you, parenting is the most difficult job in the world. Promise me, child, that you won't go on like this. That you will come to me with whatever is eating at your soul. Will you promise?"
"Yes, sir. I promise."
"I'm responsible for your well-being right now. If you honestly are sick, I will summon the doctor. So either get up and rejoin the rest of the world, or I will summon the doctor this very afternoon. The choice is yours. What shall it be?"
I got up off the window seat.
"Good girl." He kissed the top of my head then, and turned and left the room.
I rejoined the world for a day, but the world was not there for me.
I made candy with Nat and little Louisa in the kitchen, because they missed Mama so. I read to Louisa before her afternoon nap. I rode my horse when the sun cooled in the late afternoon.
But the idea of General Wayne possibly being my father was choking me like the Spanish moss on the trees, clouding my vision, getting in the way of my every thought. I minded that I could never go forward with my life, I could never unmuddle my mind and think in a straight line again unless I determined the rightness of the business. And accepted it, whatever it was.
But to accept it, I must know the truth.
And I must know the truth before Mama and Pa returned. So I would not have to look, with a lying face, upon Pa. And with an angry face, for the rest of my life, upon Mama.
And the only one who could untangle things for me was right here, right at my fingertips.
He had said I should come to him, hadn't he? Hadn't he said I should seek him out and confide in him rather than be eaten up? And that he would keep my confidences? And that he was no stranger to heartbreak?
***
HE WAS ON the back veranda. Supper was long since over. Nat and little Louisa were in bed. George was reading in his room. Martha was upstairs trying on a new dress.
General Wayne was lounging in a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It was dusk, and in the west, the sun had left a few streaks of blood-red stains in the sky.
"General Wayne? Sir? Are you busy?"
"Yes, Cornelia. I'm busy watching the fireflies. I've been fascinated with them since I was a child. Come, watch them with me."
I went over to him and he gestured that I should sit in a chair next to him. I did so. He was sipping a drink. For a moment there was silence between us. Then he said, "Their abdomens glow for a second with a fierce light. They are really beetles, you know. Fancy beetles. Did you know that?"
"No, sir."
"They remind me of certain officers I knew in the army. Plain beetles who put on fancy uniforms and went lighting up the dark and strutting about. Their lights only lasted a second."
We were silent for a moment, then he spoke again. "Did you come to confide in me, Cornelia?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, confide away, then. I'm listening, child."
I took in a deep breath and let it out again. "General Wayne, I just can't abide it anymore, and I'm going to perish soon if I don't find out the truth."
"It sounds dreadful serious, Cornelia."
"It is, sir. And I hope you won't be angry with me when I speak."
"Have you read my personal papers?"
"No, sir."
"Written to my wife and told her I kissed your mother?"
"No, sir."
"Then, go on, speak. I won't be angry. I promise."
"General, first you must know that I respect you most heartily. But I must ask. Are you my father?"
The night went silent. The beetles whose abdomens lighted up all seemed to wink at us at once. The dusk got one shade darker, but I could still clearly make out his dear face and the expression in it, which was so important to me.
He did not change that expression.
He did not even blink those hazel eyes.
He just gave a small smile, a slight turning up of his lips at the corners.
"Do you want me to be?" he asked.
"I'm not making sport, sir. Please, please tell me."
His face went grave then. "Someone has obviously told you that I am. May I ask who?"
I lowered my eyes and did not answer. But you do not do that with General Wayne. He does not stand for such.
"Look here, now," he said severely, "if you're to trust me enough to confide in me, and you want my confidence in return, let's make it wholehearted, shall we?"
"Yes, sir," I agreed. "It was Martha who told me."
He nodded his head knowingly. "Now," he said, "things start to sort themselves out. So Martha has told you I'm your father. And from whence has she gotten this intelligence?"
"From Eulinda, who was at Valley
Forge."
Now he frowned and went silent and turned his attention again to the fireflies. "Eulinda, is it?" he asked. He used an oath then. He took the Lord's name in vain, connecting it with Eulinda's, damning her. Looking back at me, he excused himself for cussing in front of me.
"Eulinda is trouble," he said. "I have long since observed that. Why does your father continue to keep her around?"
"Mama needs her."
"Your mother doesn't really need any particular servant, Cornelia. I happen to know she feels sorry for Eulinda."
"Well," I told him, "Eulinda wants to go home. Back north. That's what she told Martha, anyway. The other servants have taken to stealing from her because they found out that Pa pays her. And she's saving up for her trip home."
He ruminated a bit on that, saying nothing. "To get back to the business at hand," he said, "if you believe what Eulinda told Martha, what are you saying about your mother?"
And before I could answer, he threw another question at me. "Do you believe it?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Do you want to believe it?"
I looked down at my hands in my lap. "If you will excuse me, sir, that's not fair."
"No, it isn't," he said. "And I'm being overly severe with you. But the charges are so"—he hesitated—"so sacred, Cornelia. Rumors always floated around about me and your mother. They still do. You must have heard them. Have you?"
Now I was on the defense, and I had to answer. "Yes, sir."
"Well." He sighed heavily. "Tell you what. I'm going to let you believe what you wish to believe. I'm going to let you develop your love and your trust in all of us as you grow older. But I will be honest with you, and tell you this.
"I will always suffer the misfortune of loving your mother. At the age she is now, thirty-two, she has finally become the finished lady your father expected her to be at twenty-five. He was a dozen years older than her, and sometimes made demands on her that she could not meet.
"Oftimes she did not feel she had the necessary abilities for the role she had to play. We both suffered the disapproval of our mates, Cornelia, and wanted some relief from the oppressive decorum. The war gave us some relief, so we look back fondly at those times. The war permitted us liberties we thought we had rightfully earned.
