She clenched her hands together with the fervor of one who realized she had no answers of her own. No answers, and not nearly enough strength. “O dear God,” she wept, “bring Gordon to his knees so he forms a new and true commitment to faith, whatever might come of my feelings for him. Show me if he is the one for me. Please, I beg you. Let this love be real and good in your eyes. But if it is not to be, please make that clear to me. And hurry, Father. There is so little time left. Please, I beg you.”
Chapter 8
The weather remained unpredictable, with one day’s wind blowing down winter from the north, and the next a warmth that bound them to a fairer season farther south. The land itself proved most agreeable, gentle rolling hills and large fields surrounding orderly farms. Nicole and her companions forded streams and creeks constantly, often catching glimpses of fish jumping out of the clear-running water. On the fourth day the south wind blew so kindly they traveled with oilskin cloaks rolled up and tied behind their saddles.
That afternoon, as they were passing around Templeton, a cadre of mounted men rushed over the edge of the road and crowded in tightly around the group.
They were unlike any soldiers Nicole had ever seen before. They held themselves in military fashion, with well-oiled arms at the ready as they circled and hemmed them in. But they were also a ragtag bunch, wearing homespun and stiff tricornered hats and patched trousers. Their officer was no different. Nicole recognized him only from the way he arranged his men with hand signals, then ordered their group sharply, “Hands where I can see them, gentlemen! And make no sudden moves if you care to observe another sunrise.”
“We travel in peace,” Gordon told him, showing his empty gloved palms.
“I’ll be the one deciding that.” The officer set his long-bore rifle across his saddle and demanded, “Now just who might you be, and what is your business here?”
“I have papers in my pouch that will explain.”
“Mind you draw them out slow and easy.”
Gordon untied his pouch and took out the folded document. He announced loud enough for all the surrounding men to hear, “It bears the seal of your own Constitutional Congress.”
A murmur ran through the American soldiers as their officer inspected the document. “Why, so it does,” he agreed. He read further on, then aimed his gaze at Nicole.
“You are Miss Harrow?” “You are addressing the Viscountess Lady Harrow,” Gordon corrected.
The officer appeared unimpressed. “We don’t hold much to royal titles in these parts.”
“That is good to know,” remarked Nicole. “For neither do I.”
The officer’s eyes glimmered. “We’ve had our fair share and more of high muckety-mucks come parading through here, putting on airs and waiting for us to offer the bended knee.”
“I have met many such,” Nicole said. “And don’t cotton to such myself.” She felt Gordon’s quick look at her choice of terms.
“One man, one vote, that’s our motto,” their captor continued. “And none stand higher than the rest.”
“I am liking this fair land all the more for knowing this,” Nicole said.
The officer tipped his hat. “My name is Ida Sessions, ma’am. We’re neighbors, in a manner of speaking. I own a parcel out Concord way.”
“An honor and a pleasure, sir.”
“Your father is this Charles Harrow fellow?”
Nicole could see Gordon bristle at the familiarity, but he held his tongue.
“My uncle,” Nicole replied.
“We’ve word all the way out here of how he’s been helping widows and orphans.”
One of his men spoke up. “Know a good lady who’s kept her land on account of his generous ways. Lost her husband and both her sons.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nicole said quietly, touched by the story of a woman whom she had never met. “The tragedy of war is simply too great to bear.”
At the officer’s signal, the men surrounding the group and blocking their way moved to either side of the road. “Beyond Millers Falls you’ll need to keep a sharp watch for a band of renegade Indians. There’s some as haven’t declared for either side and have taken the troubles as a good time to loot the unwary.”
“How stands the war?” Gordon asked.
The officer examined him carefully. “The lady is mentioned in this document, sir. But not yourself.”
“Captain Gordon Goodwind, sir. Merchant navy. At your service.”
“Are you holding to the British cause?” the officer wanted to know.
“I have two brothers fighting with the Virginia regiments.” Ida Sessions wasn’t the least bit impressed by this. “I know more families than I can count who’ve been split by the terrors, sir.”
“My own family,” Gordon said cautiously, glancing toward his men, “has known no such calamity.”
The officer appeared satisfied with Gordon’s response. “Well,” he said, “all’s been quiet in these parts for five months and more.”
“And elsewhere?”
“The Carolinas were attacked with regiments brought in by sea. But we’re harrying them hard. We’ve a good man in command down south. Swamp Fox, he’s called. General Francis Marion. Formerly with your forces. Perhaps you know him.”
“I’ve not had the honor, no sir.”
“No matter.” The officer tapped his saddle with his reins. “The Harrow lands lie west of the Connecticut River Valley?”
“I believe that’s right, sir,” said Nicole. “I have the documents in my trunk.”
“Not necessary, ma’am.” He gave Gordon a sharp look and said, “There was considerable fighting out that way last autumn.”
Gordon’s jaw tightened. “Who is now in charge?”
“Hard to say.”
Nicole watched as her escort gave a thoughtful nod and said, “I am in your debt, sir.”
The officer backed his horse out of the way of their carts. “You know how rumors fly during such times.”
“All too well,” Gordon agreed.
“We have word that the British are planning a major assault in the early summer. They aim to retake all lands between Boston and New York.”
“But those are cities on the sea,” Nicole pointed out. “So we should be safe this far inland.”
The officer kept his gaze steady on Gordon. “They are reported to be bringing troops down both the Hudson and the Connecticut Rivers.”
Gordon gave a second slow nod. “Again, sir, I am most grateful.”
Only after they had put the next row of low hills between themselves and the American troops did Nicole ask, “What did the officer mean by all that?”
Gordon’s features looked forged from the experience of war. His tone was more direct than he normally used with her as he said, “We shall know soon enough.”
Their fifth day on the road dawned warm and utterly still beneath a sky quilted with drifting clouds. Nicole found herself drawn forward in eagerness, each hill becoming one ridgeline closer to their destination, each valley descending toward what could become her very own home.
She replayed in her mind numerous times the conversation with the American officer, especially how he had mentioned the good works of her uncle Charles. This is what she wanted for herself, a chance to use her position and wealth to add to the goodness she saw in this vast and verdant land. She wanted to seek out the needs and then help to fill them. Nicole shivered with anticipation at the thought. What finer life could she ask for herself than to be God’s servant here in this great beloved land?
Millers Falls was as benevolent and peaceful as the day. The only change Nicole could see after leaving the village was how the farms became more widely scattered and the road less tidy. Twice the men had to dismount and maneuver the carts around gaping holes in the road.
But they noticed no signs of danger. Fortunately the brush had been cut well back from the road, so their vision remained clear. Even so, Gordon stationed men to either side of Nicole, and a
ll rode with firearms at the ready. Yet there was little tension among the men, and the only surprise they had was when a trio of high-antlered deer sauntered across the ridge ahead. The deer were out of range, but the sight alone was enough to put them all in high spirits.
In late afternoon they began climbing the highest of the hills. The rise was so gradual they could almost ignore the fact they were climbing at all. Then it grew increasingly steeper toward the ridgeline till it seemed they were riding directly into the setting sun. The light blazing from the cloudless sky was so fierce Nicole had to shield her face with the brim of her wide bonnet. She felt she was sweltering beneath her layers of clothing.
Because she was squinting, she hadn’t realized they reached the crest until the men in front of her halted. She shaded her eyes, then added her gasp to their astonished murmuring.
There in front of them spread one of the loveliest vistas Nicole had ever encountered. Far below, the Connecticut River cut a broad swath through a valley a good two miles in width, bordered on either side by great forests. Here and there were precise squares cut by neat little farms, most of which nestled in close to the road that snaked down one side of the valley and up the other. In the far distance Nicole could make out glimmers of even higher hills, perhaps mountains. Their white peaks shone against the sunlit horizon like crowns of welcome. Nicole felt a surge of delight at the thought of living in such a valley.
As their path wound downward, Gordon drew them into the front corral of a farmhouse just north of the road. Several of the men spoke quietly among themselves before Carter finally said, “Begging your pardon, sir. But would you be planning to stop here?”
“Oh, we can’t possibly be!” Nicole protested. “There are hours left of daylight!”
Her words seemed to be lost on Gordon. He dismounted and said, “I thought it best to inquire about inns and the road ahead.”
The bosun reached for Gordon’s horse, then said, “Sir, the men and I, we was wondering. Could you ask the house who owns the fallow land hereabouts?”
Gordon cast a thoughtful glance to his crew, then out over the surrounding valley. “Yes, all right.”
He called a greeting to the house and approached with his hands outstretched. Nicole was taken aback by his caution, but the men were far more interested in the lovely valley than their captain’s demonstration of peaceful intent.
The men turned about only when the farmhouse door cracked open and a gun barrel poked through the space. Gordon halted on the bottom step and stood as he was, palms out and away from his sides.
When the farmer didn’t come out any farther and Gordon stayed planted, Nicole turned and whispered to the bosun, “Why is the man in the house being so cautious?” “Hard to say, ma’am.” Carter’s expression was worried. “My guess is that there’s been other visitors of late, and some were flying false colors.”
Before Nicole could ask what he meant, Gordon doffed his hat to the farmer and wheeled about. As he approached them he said tersely, “There’s an empty farmhouse a quarter mile farther down the road and with a good well, so says this man. We’ll overnight there.”
“Oh, can’t we travel on just a bit more than that?” Nicole implored.
“I don’t wish to risk being caught in the open come dark,” Gordon replied.
One of the men nudged his horse closer. “Pardon, sir, but did the man happen to say anything about who owns all this land?”
“As far as he knows,” Gordon said, mounting his steed, “the land belongs to whoever clears it.”
A ripple of disbelief ran through the men, and many twisted and looked again out over the lush green valley. “The land’s here for the taking?” one said.
Gordon gave the sailor a stern look. “You signed on for the entire voyage, remember that.”
“Aye, sir.” But the man couldn’t help but give the impressive expanse of open land another look. “There’s no harm in thinking ahead, though, is there, sir?”
Once they were encamped in the derelict farmhouse and their supper was cooking in the crumbling fireplace, Nicole moved up alongside Gordon. “Did the farmer happen to say anything about my estate?”
Gordon continued to survey the surrounding fields, his face impassive but with an unsettled look in his eyes.
“Gordon?”
“My dear,” he said softly, “some things are best left for the light of day.”
Chapter 9
It had become Nicole’s habit to hold a prayer time with the dawn. The men were good seagoing stock and accustomed to Sabbath services, and they normally tolerated her morning devotions with quiet good humor. Today, their sixth on the road, was different. The men moved about with grim watchfulness, as though sometime during the night they had caught whatever it was that held Gordon’s features in such austere lines.
They breakfasted in silence and then continued on their way, four men riding close to the left and right of Nicole. But other than their own countenances, there was neither danger nor gloom overshadowing the day. The closer they came to the river, the more the air warmed, until it seemed to her as if the very best of summer lay trapped within this glorious valley.
A battered flat-bottomed ferry had obviously spotted their approach, for the two ferrymen had roped and rowed their way across from their shacks on the opposite bank. Planks were laid down, and the wagons eased gently onto the rough-hewn deck. Only one of the horses balked at the prospect of stepping onto the floating platform. The ferry skipper, a bandy-legged man with a perpetual squint, whipped off his neckerchief and bound it over the horse’s eyes. As soon as the steed quieted, he personally led it on board. He tied the steed to the railing and signaled to his mate, and they began hauling hard on the ropes. Neither ferryman said a single word, other than to name their price. When Gordon asked him about the road ahead, the man spit a stream of brown tobacco juice over the side and turned away.
Once away from the landing area on the other side, the road soon deteriorated. It had clearly once been a well-laid lane but was now overgrown and badly rutted from the winter rains. Watching the men dismount a fourth time and manhandle the wagons through a series of deep cuts, Nicole protested, “Why do they not keep the roads in better condition?”
Gordon wiped his brow before saying, “My guess is, the local landowners are responsible for keeping up the stretch that runs through their holdings.”
“Well, then. That should make it even more simple to find the one responsible.”
Gordon started to give her a reply but instead commanded sharply, “Close in on all sides. And check your powder!”
Nicole looked around as the men hastened to obey. “Are there Indians?”
“I hope not,” said Gordon.
“Then what is it?”
“At this point,” he said, “I fear it could be almost anything.”
The man’s taciturn answer left Nicole unable to ask anything more. But as they crested the next ridge, impatiently she scouted to every side, searching for some sign they might be approaching the Harrow holdings. A town perhaps, or farmers tilling their fields. Anyone they might hail and ask the exact location of the estate.
The summit revealed yet another beautiful vista, of rolling hills and higher peaks beyond. In the fresh morning light the entire region held the promise of new seasons and quickening growth. The air was sweet and filled with birdsong. In the undergrowth to her right, Nicole spotted her first spring flowers, a carpet of bluebells stretching into the distance.
But there were no people.
They passed farm after farm, all of them vacant. After hailing the first three, Gordon silently led them by the rest. Some were obviously abandoned, with broken shutters and jagged holes where doors and windows had once been. Others looked as though the family had merely stepped out for a while. Except that the fields were unkempt, the barns empty. Fence railings had fallen into disrepair, and the pastures contained no stock. No cattle lowed, nor sheep grazed. Despite the day’s sunlit beauty, the v
alley through which they moved turned oppressive with the absence of humankind.
And when the next valley revealed yet more empty dwellings, Nicole could bear it no longer. “Tell me what you have learned,” she said to Gordon, her voice low.
“Nothing definite,” said Gordon, “so perhaps—”
“Please, I must know. Tell me now. Where is the estate?”
He sighed. “We have been traveling by Harrow land since the river.”
She reined in her horse and stared at him.
“Everything north of the road is yours, if what the farmer told me last night is in fact true.”
“But . . . where is everyone?”
“You heard the American officer the same as I.” He stopped a moment, then continued carefully, “Both the British and the Americans have taken and held this region.”
“But what does that mean?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “What of—what about the estate?”
“We shall see soon enough,” he replied, obviously keeping his tone even, then raised his hand to the company. “Forward!”
Rather than the joy she expected to feel, the thrill of coming to a place that could hold her future, Nicole approached the tall gates with dread. They appeared just as the documents prepared by Charles’s lawyer had described. The manor Charles had arranged to be built, yet had never seen himself, was situated on top of a rise, the lawyer had informed her, commanding views in every direction. Stone gates had been erected to match those at the entrance to Harrow Hall in England. As soon as she caught a glimpse of the gates, Nicole knew. Although the manor itself, hidden around a forested bend in the rutted track, was not in sight, she knew. She wanted to tell Gordon to turn back now. But her trembling mouth was unable to form the words.
The company entered through the gates, pausing momentarily to stare blankly at the makeshift huts made from tree boughs and tattered cloth that leaned against either stone pillar. The track had once been a fine broad lane but, unkempt now, it was overgrown with weeds. The wagons creaked and bumped in protest as they moved forward.
The Distant Beacon Page 7
