The Wood's Edge

by Lori Benton

  At that thought she stiffened in his embrace. He released her, looking stricken. “Do you not want me, now that you know the truth? Or is it that you no longer trust me?”

  She wanted him. Loved him. Ached to say the words. But there was too much between them that needed to be settled. He’d had years to reconcile his feelings for her with what Papa had done, with the suffering of his family, their loss.

  “I don’t know what to trust anymore,” she said.

  Pain flickered in his gaze, but he said, “Trust Heavenly Father. He has seen all that has happened and is bringing it to light now. It is His time. Hold tight to Him, Bear’s Heart. As I am doing.” He looked beyond her toward the farm, visible through the trees. Longing to see his brother was plain on his face.

  “How can you comfort me? You should hate me. And Papa. Lydia believes he did it because he couldn’t bring himself to tell his wife their son had died. He feared she couldn’t bear it, so when he saw Good Voice, saw she had two babies…” The words were spilling from her like water. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Nothing I can say will make any of this right.”

  He put a hand to her chin, lifting her face. “You are saying these things because he is your father. You love him and fear for him. But I would never hate you for something Aubrey did before you were even his daughter.”

  His daughter. She didn’t understand how Two Hawks could be so perceptive, but he was right. No matter what Papa had done nineteen years ago, she hadn’t stopped loving him. Or William.

  “He looks like you,” she said impulsively. “Yet he’s different from you, too. I can see his Oneida blood—I know to look for it now—but I think to most he looks…white. How can that be?”

  Two Hawks was nodding, as if this all made sense to him. “My mother has told me many times of when we were born. It seemed to her that one of us took all of her blood and one of us took all of my father’s blood. That is me, the one who took my father’s blood.”

  Anna’s frown tightened. “William took your mother’s blood? What do you…?” All at once she realized what he meant and only wondered why she hadn’t deduced it. William showed so little evidence of being Oneida, and for that to make any sense at all…“Your mother’s white? Why did you never say? Or is that another secret?”

  “No secret,” he said. “It is not a thing I think much about. In her heart my mother is Oneida, though she was not born to the People—but how is William like me?”

  The eager question distracted her from the revelation about Good Voice, jarring her with a memory of William in his room, unearthing from a trunk the bow he’d brought from Crickhowell. He’d taken a stance and drawn the weapon, making his shirt pull snug across long, lean muscles…making her see Two Hawks in the forest with his bow.

  “He’s as tall as you,” she said. “And he’s knit like you. His features are much like yours. His skin is lighter—you know that already—and his hair, and his eyes are blue.”

  “My mother thought his eyes would be like hers.” Two Hawks’s smile was swift but faded quickly, as if quelled by the magnitude of what was coming for the families they loved. For William, the unknowing cynosure of it all.

  “I should go back,” she said, though saying it felt like tearing out her heart.

  “And I.” Two Hawks’s gaze held such intensity she felt herself melting toward him again, despite the words of imminent parting. “I want peace between our fathers. I do not know how that can be, but I believe Creator sees a way. I will do all in my power to make it happen, as He shows me how.”

  Two Hawks took her hand in his but held her away so he could go on looking into her eyes. “Tell Aubrey about me and that I do not wish him evil for what he did. Nor, I think, does my mother. I will bring her to see him and to see William. But I do not know what my father will do.”

  He made no mention of it, but it was in his eyes; he hoped for peace between their fathers, not just so he could know his brother, his parents their firstborn, but so he and she might have a chance at a future together.

  “I’ll warn him,” she said, her grip on his hand tightening. “Jonathan…pray for me. As I will for you.”

  “With every breath,” he said, drawing her close for a last embrace.

  32

  June 1776

  Lydia thought long about what to take to the Binne Kill. She thought long about whether to take herself to the Binne Kill but couldn’t bear another day of not knowing what, if anything, had transpired at the farm. Days had passed without word from Anna or Reginald, though William had visited twice, giving no indication he suspected—much less knew of—his true parentage. Which didn’t mean Anna hadn’t revealed her knowledge of it to Reginald. Had Anna decided not to bring her into it, despite Lydia’s assurance she needn’t go through this alone?

  She would have to go and face Reginald, look him in the eye, to know whether Anna had yet spoken. She didn’t mean to go empty-handed, but if Reginald looked like spurning the plum cake she’d made, still warm from the oven, she’d pretend it was for William.

  “How can this have a good ending?” Anna had asked before their parting. “If we give William back his birth family, it will wrench him from—from all those ancestors who looked down at him from the walls in Crickhowell. From us. What will that do to him?”

  It would devastate him. But beyond that devastation, might there be healing…for everyone? Even Reginald?

  There was no sign of William when she reached the quay, nor was he in the office when she opened the door. Reginald stood behind the counter, head bent over his books. He looked up, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. Surprise froze it there, half-formed. Emotions passed in swift succession across his eyes, ending with a guarded unease.

  “Good day, Reginald. I brought plum cake.” The words hung between them, bereft of context. The mantle clock in the sitting room ticked. She set the basket on a bench by the door. “Is William about?”

  “Ah…no.” Reginald’s gaze shifted to the front window. “He’s away into town. With Reagan, I think.”

  Despite their rocky beginning, the unlikely pair were often in each other’s company now. The few times William had visited her, he’d spoken of going out on the river with Sam.

  “I see. I’ll leave this then.” She gestured at the basket, adding, “It’s for you as well, of course.”

  Reginald nodded briefly. “As you wish.”

  A pain took Lydia in the center of her chest, a pit of disappointment opening beneath it. Reginald’s hands gripped the counter. His posture was like an arm outthrust, keeping her at bay. “Actually, I came to see you as well, about Anna. She hasn’t sent word since William’s homecoming. Is everything all right?”

  At mention of Anna, Reginald seemed to let down his guard. As though struck by the belated impulse to greet her properly, he rounded the counter, in his stride the hitch that told her his hip was paining him more than was usual. Why hadn’t she brought a white willow tea, or a lavender and comfrey rub, instead of useless plum cake?

  Reginald halted well out of reach. “Anna’s fine. It may be Mrs. Doyle needs her help more than we’ve become accustomed, now William’s home. She hasn’t mentioned coming into town.” He glanced at the basket on the bench. “Kind of you to be thinking of us here. I’ve missed your plum cake.”

  Never mind he hadn’t said he missed her. Here at last was a crack in the wall he’d flung up between them. If only she could melt and pour herself through it. “You’re sure Anna’s all right?”

  His expression held no hint of the wrenching grief and guilt she’d witnessed that day she removed the cloth fragment from his suppurating wound, the day she’d heard his feverish confession.

  Why hadn’t Anna said anything? Had she spoken to William’s twin? Were they all at sea with their conclusions?

  “Anna’s fine,” Reginald repeated. “Shall I tell her you asked after her? I’m sure she’ll send you word—or come to you soon herself.”

  Again Lydi
a felt dismissed but couldn’t bring herself to leave. “Did I interrupt you in the midst of something important?”

  He followed her glance toward the counter. “You’ll have heard General Schuyler has decided to reoccupy Fort Stanwix, between the Mohawk and Wood Creek?”

  Lydia nodded. A woman with a boil to be lanced had brought her the news, as well as a good deal of chatter about the Continental Army’s fear of invasion from the west, now the British had retaken their territory in Canada and opened the St. Lawrence River.

  “I was going over a list of supplies we’ll be shipping upriver for Stanwix’s garrison. Colonel Dayton will be bringing his New Jersey troops through. They’ll need provisions, as will whatever militia is attached to the garrison.”

  “Sounds as if war has been good for business.” She regretted the frivolous comment the instant it was out of her mouth.

  Reginald looked at a loss for a response.

  William, bless him, chose that moment to come into the office from the quay. He greeted Lydia warmly and was more forthcoming when she asked after Anna. Reginald, she noted from the corner of her eye, used William’s presence as an excuse to retreat behind the counter.

  “Anna’s all right,” William said. “I think. She’s been quiet the past days and I wondered…But there now, I’ve been gone so long it may be I’m not reading her rightly.” He smiled and shrugged, more perceptive than he knew.

  “William,” Reginald cut in. “It would be good if you could look over the accounts here. What we expect by way of supplies you should know, so that when they arrive you can attend to them if I’m otherwise occupied.”

  William tensed. “I was coming to ask would it be all right did I go with Sam. He’s taking a canoe down to the falls to do some fishing—”

  “I tell you we’ve supplies to receive.” Reginald jerked his head toward the workshop. “And a bateau needing to be finished.”

  William ran his lip through his teeth. “ ’Tis for a few hours only. Besides,” he added, stepping toward the counter. “Do you really think supplying the rebels the prudent course?”

  Lydia slipped out onto the quay, shutting the door on the conversation. Neither Aubrey seemed to notice her leaving. She was no nearer understanding what was going on at the farm than when she’d taken the plum cake out of the oven. Quite apart from the pressure building inside her over Anna, Reginald, and William, she was bothered by what she’d left behind in the office. Another pressure on the build.

  As she strode back through the streets of Schenectady, minded of the angry boil she’d recently lanced—a painful, messy business, but needful for healing—Lydia made a decision. There was a babe due to be birthed any day now, perhaps any hour. Once she’d seen it safe into the world, if she’d heard nothing from Anna by then, she would ride out to the farm herself and see about another sort of lancing.

  As though she thought he could overlook her going, Lydia chose the moment William’s question demanded his attention to take her leave. When Reginald glanced past his son again she was gone, out onto the quay. His spine jerked, sending a lancet of pain down his thigh as instinctively he made to go after her. He’d been rude—unforgivably so—when all she’d done was show concern for Anna. But William went on speaking.

  “Do you not think it shortsighted to be so blatant about it? Where will that leave you once the Crown’s troops arrive and this rebellion is put firmly down?”

  With Lydia disappearing down the quay and his son challenging his politics and business acumen, Reginald felt like a weaver watching the threads of his work unraveling under his fingers. He hadn’t hands enough to hold them all in place. It was the vibrant blue strand called Lydia he let go, with a pain in his chest he feared bespoke a permanent snapping of the weft.

  “William—” Hearing the agitation in his voice, he said again, “William, I am doing what my conscience bids me do and nothing less.”

  “Conscience, sir? You’re defying an army and a king you once served. You cannot have forgotten. Captain Lang still calls you Major.”

  “And there is the scar on my face and the pain that bedevils me daily to remind me as well.” Reginald forced a laugh, trying to diffuse the tension. “An old, tired soldier I am, true enough.”

  Frustration clouded his son’s gaze. “That wasn’t what I meant to imply. If you will not—or cannot—fight again for the king, can you at least refrain from aiding his enemies?”

  The words lashed Reginald’s heart. “Look you, William. Who among the men of this valley do you see fence-sitting? Was that where I wanted to be, someone would come along directly and knock me off it. To do nothing, say nothing, refuse to sign the petitions and oaths, that is now tantamount to proclaiming oneself for the king. And a Tory I am not, see.”

  “Sign them then, but stop this.” William gestured to the quay, to the bateaux being prepared for the morrow’s trip upriver. “Mrs. Doyle sits to home knitting hose and hemming kerchiefs for the militia. All Mr. Doyle talks of is the acres of grain he’s sowing to feed Washington’s ragtag troops. Do you tell me this is why you sold your birthright in Crickhowell? A pot of porridge for a band of rebels?”

  “The Doyles act according to—”

  “Conscience, aye. But now you’ve brought me back here against my will, shall you not suffer me to do likewise?”

  Fear washed cold over Reginald. “What mean you?”

  “I’m not saying I’m ready to call myself a Tory.” William’s throat convulsed over a swallow. “But only yesterday Sam was saying—”

  “Reagan? What’s he to do with any of this?”

  “He’s minded the colonials cannot hope to hold out long.”

  “Is he then?” Reginald said. “Since when?”

  William frowned. “Since first I met him. Why? Has he said otherwise to you?”

  He’d thought the young man a Patriot, but Reginald waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind Reagan. It is you we were speaking of.”

  “No sir. Begging your pardon, it was you.” William’s jaw was set, but he made a visible effort to relax it. “Look you, Father, I’m only trying to be objective, to view all sides of this present conflict, to look ahead.”

  “As am I. Looking ahead to your future.” Reginald could barely meet his son’s challenging gaze.

  “He means to leave your employ, sir.”

  “Who?”

  William firmed his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Who?” Reginald pressed. But he knew.

  “Word has come that Sir John Johnson is raising a regiment in Montreal. Sam talks of following him there and enlisting. Perhaps he has the right idea.”

  The breath whooshed out of Reginald’s lungs as though he’d been gut-punched. Thought of his son fleeing to Canada, donning a red coat, drained the blood from his face.

  “Father—” William grasped his arm as if he thought him set to topple over. “I don’t know how we’ve come to be quarreling so. Might we just…let it bide?”

  That sounded good to Reginald, who didn’t think he could bear the unhappiness in his son’s eyes another moment. He pulled away, standing straight. “Aye, let’s do. There’s work to be done, by my hands, leastwise. Go downriver with Reagan if you’re so minded.”

  William took a half step back, as if Reginald had told him to go to Canada. Or the devil.

  There was movement on the quay—Sam Reagan talking with the crew, the summer sun shining off his pale hair, laughing easily, face turning toward the office, looking expectantly for William.

  That young man wouldn’t pilot another bateau for him. Not so he could take word of what he saw upriver at the forts straight to the ears of Sir John and his loyalist followers. By his blood, Reginald thought, he would not. Nor would he stoop to begging his son to take an interest in his work.

  “Get you then to fishing,” he said. “If that is what you wish.”

  33

  June–July 1776

  Confronting Papa about William proved a thi
ng easier to resolve to do than to actually do. He was away to town more than was usual, what with the Continental troops and militia under Colonel Dayton bound upriver for Fort Stanwix. The pressing needs of soldiers on the move and merchants and farmers eager to provision them kept Papa moored to the Binne Kill. Only twice had she come upon him alone in the sitting room when she knew William to be safely out of hearing. Each time, courage deserting her, she’d crept away to soak her pillow in prayers, listening to the crickets below her window or the distant hoots of owls along the river. Wondering what had happened to the courage Two Hawks believed she possessed.

  At last an evening came when Papa returned from town before supper without William—and little explanation of William’s absence other than he’d last seen him in Sam’s company.

  She and Papa supped alone. Mrs. Doyle had taken supper to Mr. Doyle, down at the barn with a cow fixing to calve. Anna barely tasted the few bites of food she managed to force down. Papa’s furrowed brow when he’d spoken of William’s absence further unsettled her nerves. They were none too pleased with each other, those two. And she was about to make matters between them infinitely worse.

  Once she’d tidied the kitchen for the night, Anna went into the sitting room and found Papa settled with his pipe. She tried to sit with a book, but the lines of text swam in the candlelight. She looked up. Papa was staring into the empty grate as though a fire blazed there, pipe to his lips. William could return at any moment. If she was going to do this…

  Sensing her gaze, Papa glanced at her. “I suppose I should take myself down to the barn, see how Rowan fairs with the calving.”