“They’re at Plunkett’s now. Police, too. We must have been seen together in the park.”
She drew her nightclothes around her more tightly and tried to still her trembling. Surely there was no way anyone could have found out about her unauthorized excursion.
“We didn’t do anything wrong. You were the victim.”
“The man we tied up is dead,” Charles said.
“No! He can’t be.” Her head was starting to spin and she leaned heavily on the smooth wooden windowsill. “You must be mistaken. He was fine when we left.”
“Somebody killed him after we were gone.” Charles’s voice was barely audible over the noise beginning to arise from the front yard and portico.
And there she stood, in her nightdress, holding an inappropriate conversation with a man she barely knew. A man whose presence in the garden would be further damning evidence of her mistakes if they were observed.
“Annabelle!” John Eaton’s voice boomed, echoing up the stairwell. “Annabelle!” Boots thudded. Her door was hit hard and slammed open against the wall.
She whirled, her back to the window, the collar of her long gown fisted at her throat. There was no mistaking her foster father’s tone or his reddening face. Someone must have discovered her trespasses, as Charles had warned.
“Downstairs. Now. And cover yourself decently.”
“Yes, sir.” Threading her arms through the sleeves of a linen wrapper, she belted it over her gown and freed her long, heavy braid from the collar.
Eaton pushed past her to the open window and leaned out, giving Annabelle a terrible fright. It wasn’t until he slammed down the sash and turned away that she was able to breathe. If he had spied Charles McDonald waiting below he would surely be shouting. At least one thing had gone her way this evening.
She followed, barefoot, to the upper landing.
John Eaton was descending to join a group of heavily armed men. The foremost one wore a constable’s badge. The others were mostly scowling, uniformed soldiers bearing rifles.
For an instant she entertained the thought that Charles had been wrong about the killing and someone had recovered the missing silver service. Then she realized there would be no reason to summon her if that was all that was wrong.
No. This all had to be happening because of what she’d done—or what they believed she’d done—earlier.
Frozen in place at the top of the staircase Annabelle stared at the angry crowd.
Eaton motioned to her. “Come down here. These gentlemen have some questions for you.”
“May I dress first?”
“No. Come as you are. The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better.”
Her bare feet on the carpeted steps made no sound. She slid one hand along the banister to steady herself and obeyed his command, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where were you tonight?” Eaton demanded.
“I beg your pardon? I was with the family.” Her nervous fingers found the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder and unconsciously worried the end of it.
“Not every second. I recall that you did not answer when I called to you. You told us you were out in the garden. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Annabelle’s stomach was churning and she wondered if she was going to be ill.
One of the soldiers nearest the front door held up a soiled, ruined garment for all to see. Eaton pointed to it. “Then how do you explain this?”
For the first time in her life, Annabelle wished she were the kind of frail female who fainted at the drop of a hat. Surely being unconscious would be preferable to having to admit that the shredded remnant was her cape.
“What a shame.” She used the stair railing for support. “It was so pretty.”
“Then you don’t deny it’s yours?”
“No. It’s mine. How did they know?”
“There was a note found nearby with your name on it.”
“I did nothing wrong. Truly.” She fought to hold back tears.
Dismay and disappointment on her foster father’s face was countered by the vehemence of Margaret Eaton’s railing. “Do you see now? I warned you the girl was up to no good. Blood will tell and hers is tainted.”
Eaton whirled on her. “She caused no distress while Myra was caring for her.”
“That was years ago. She’s nearly a grown woman and a wily one at that.” Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Your reputation in Washington will be ruined, John.”
“We—I will stand by Annabelle,” Eaton vowed.
Margaret clung to his arm, weeping. “You mustn’t. Think of the scandal. She’s not even kin.”
“Nevertheless, I made a commitment.” He faced the armed cadre to say, “Annabelle Lang will be secure in my care. Contact my office at the Capitol if you wish to speak with her further and I will make those arrangements.”
All the men looked uneasy. The veteran constable who was clearly the spokesman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. The murder victim was from the president’s old regiment and our orders are to apprehend and arrest the suspect.”
“Tonight?”
Frozen in place, Annabelle held tight to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the final decision and wondering if she dared speak to defend herself. If she did, there was a very good chance that Little Johnny would also be blamed, not to mention his uncle. If no one believed she was innocent, how could she possibly convince anyone that others were blameless?
The constable nodded as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the military men. “Yes, sir. Tonight.”
Annabelle quailed. This could not be happening. Not to her. She looked to her foster father, pleading with her gaze, and saw indecision. Was his influence so weak in Washington that he could not prevail?
Then she recalled how close Margaret had been to the president himself. Could this accusation be her doing? Had there been enough time to have influenced Jackson? No. Yet he must know how Margaret felt about sharing her home, even with her own three offspring, because as soon as she’d learned of her first husband’s death she’d shipped the Timberlake children off to live with her late husband’s relatives.
John Eaton’s expression grew regretful and he stepped back before gesturing to the officers. “Do what you must, but rest assured I will engage an attorney on her behalf. She had better be treated with kid gloves or heads will roll, starting with yours.”
Annabelle found her voice. “They’re really arresting me?”
“I’m afraid so. You won’t be held for long if I have anything to say about it.”
She tried to fill her lungs with breathable air and failed.
Light flashed before her eyes as if she were staring directly at the summer sun and unable to look away.
A tingling on her soles and palms, coupled with the spinning of the room, made her light-headed.
Seconds later she closed her eyes, lost her grip on the banister and slumped to the floor.
* * *
Charles caught a passing cab and made it back to Plunkett’s in time to hear Major Ridge, the graying patriarch of the Cherokee delegation, addressing the crowd in the parlor. He was speaking himself, instead of asking his adult son to translate.
“The Cherokee Nation is self-governing by order of your own President Jefferson. We will handle the matter.”
“We got proof! A name wrote down,” someone in the back shouted.
Another voice chided, “Since when can you read?”
“May I see your proof?” Ridge held out his hand.
“It’s not here. Which one is McDonald?”
Charles stepped forward. “I had nothing to do with killing that man or any other.”
“Can you prove it?” Ridge asked him.
“If I have to.”
Grumblings grew to shouts and several men shook clenched fists and brandished weapons.
“Then we will hear your testimony when the time comes,” Ridge said. Unwavering, he faced the gathering and raised one hand as if taking an oath. “All of you. Go. I will vouch for the carrying out of justice.”
Slowly, begrudgingly, the venerable man’s orders were heeded. As the room began to clear, some onlookers were still muttering but the Indian delegation stood united, shoulder to shoulder.
Charles didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door slammed behind the last accuser.
“All right,” Ridge said. “I want to hear the whole story. From the beginning.”
When Charles was through, the older man was shaking his head. “We must go and speak with the girl.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes.” The old leader was adamant. “Is this woman truthful? Can she be trusted?”
Sighing, Charles nodded. “Yes. But if Eaton doesn’t already know she was with me, asking questions could ruin her life.”
“That is her problem, not ours. Those soldiers will be back. As soon as we have spoken with her, we will leave Washington.”
“Before we’ve been granted an audience with President Jackson?”
“Eaton and Coffee say they speak for him. That will have to do. Our presence here is no longer wise.”
“I am sorry,” Charles said. “I truly did nothing wrong. The man was alive when I left him by the river. Here. See? I even took his knife.”
Withdrawing the blade from his pocket he laid it across his palm and held it out.
It wasn’t until then that he was surrounded by enough ambient light to notice the rusty color of dried blood on part of the blade.
Chapter Four
Annabelle took as long as she dared to dress and prepare to leave the house. Part of her mind was spinning while another part felt numb. There had to be some way out of this dilemma, yet no answers came to her.
Worse, she mused, if the authorities had recovered her note they not only knew her name, they knew to whom it had been addressed. That put Charles McDonald in jeopardy and made her hope he had not returned to the boardinghouse after leaving the Eaton garden.
Everything, all their troubles, pointed back to the boy, didn’t they? Too bad the opinions of children were not given credence, even under normal circumstances. Certainly Johnny would not be listened to in a Washington court. He might, however, make a good emissary to his uncle’s group.
Annabelle rapped on the wall between their rooms. An answering tap came quickly. All she said was “come” and he appeared at her door in seconds.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
The child nodded.
“I need you to go to the Cherokees, tell them what has happened here tonight and warn your uncle. Will you?”
Another nod.
“Good. Be sure you do it secretly. Don’t run up the street the way you did when I was chasing you. You must be very, very careful. No one must see you or catch you. Can you do that and sneak back into this house later?”
“Y-yes.”
Johnny’s lower lip was quivering so she bent to give him a hug of encouragement before adding, “God be with you.”
Placing a kiss on his cheek she straightened, tossed her braid to hang behind her and stepped into the hallway, knowing she was in the right and prepared to prove it somehow.
By the time she was halfway down the stairs, however, most of her courage had evaporated like a drop of water on a hot day. She was determined to hide her fear, though. The less she looked and acted helpless, the braver she felt, so she did her best to stand tall, to face whatever awaited.
* * *
“I have to go now, to make sure she’s all right,” Charles insisted after he had listened to the boy’s story and sent him back to Eaton’s with another member of their group acting as guardian.
Ridge shook his gray head. “You will stay here until morning when we will go together.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. I’m afraid it may already be too late.”
“If you disobey you will cease to be under my protection,” Ridge warned.
Charles had not anticipated that severe a reaction but he accepted it. “So be it. The woman would not be in trouble if she had not come to my aid. She saved my life.”
“And now you will lose it by foolishness?” Ridge countered. “I had thought better of you.”
That was the last comment Charles heard as he left the boardinghouse and hailed a cab. The horse seemed to sense his urgency because it was prancing as he boarded. “The Eaton house,” he shouted to the driver. “Fast.”
He had to arrive, to intercede, before Annabelle was taken away. He had little doubt that she would be, given the attitude of the soldiers who had confronted his delegation, and his people were important diplomats. The young woman, by her own admission, was merely a ward, and one who was not wanted by the new mistress of the household. What chance would she have if the Secretary of War did not stand up for her?
Perhaps Johnny had misjudged Eaton. Charles hoped so, because otherwise Annabelle’s chances of escaping unjust punishment were slim.
If the party of lawmen and soldiers had not called his name and mentioned Annabelle’s lost note he wouldn’t have worried so much. Since they had, however, he assumed they had not only read his name but her signature, as well. They were both in trouble up to their necks.
Yes, necks, he affirmed. The part of a criminal where the hangman put the noose.
* * *
When Annabelle felt cold shackles close around her wrists she nearly fainted for the second time. Only pride and an immense desire to present herself blameless before her foster father and Margaret kept her on her feet.
The constable led her onto the porch by the short chain between her wrists, making her feel as if they considered her a dangerous animal rather than an innocent girl. Reality dimmed. If this was a nightmare it was the worst she had ever experienced.
Pausing to get her balance on the top step she lifted her gaze. A curious crowd had gathered and most were craning to get a good look. Some onlookers actually pointed at her and called out insults.
From the east, a cab was approaching at speed. The driver pulled hard on the reins. The horse reared. Women screamed. Men cursed and jumped out of the way.
The door of the cab swung open. Annabelle gasped. Charles! No, no, he mustn’t be here.
She saw him start to push his way through the crowd. There was no way he could hope to rescue her from all these armed men. However, he might be a good witness to her innocence in the future, if he survived and kept himself out of prison. John Eaton had promised to hire legal representation, yes, but she doubted he would be amenable to adding a Cherokee client to the venture.
Given so little time and so few options she took a deep breath, looked directly into the crowd where Charles was and screamed, “No!”
The instant he faltered and met her gaze with his, she shook her head and mouthed another, “No,” praying he’d take heed. She sensed his indecision and resisted being pulled down the steps.
Once more she spoke, this time calmly. “No. Not now.”
And this time he gave a brief nod in response.
Heartened, she stood tall and descended until she stopped in the midst of the cadre of soldiers and civilians. The best thing, truly the only good thing, was that Charles McDonald had not rushed into the fray and joined her in chains.
As soon as Johnny explained to his kinsmen and they understood her dilemma, she would somehow assure them she would not testify against any of them. After all, they were innocent, as was she. This w
as Washington City, where the law of the land stood strong. She would be fine. This was a mere glitch brought on by a mob. People who were not guilty did not end up staying in prison.
* * *
Charles considered going back to the boardinghouse but could not make himself give that order to the cabbie. Instead, they slowly followed the group walking alongside the wagon carrying Annabelle to the closest jail.
He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from jumping out again and rushing to her rescue. He huffed, disgusted with himself. She had been right to stop him. Such a rash act would have been too stupid to be heroic. And it would have accomplished nothing worthwhile.
Instead, he disembarked near the jail, paid the cabbie and sent him away while he infiltrated the milling crowd to listen to rumors. Clearly, a Cherokee presence at the river altercation was known and he was thankful his clothing fit city life. The only way he’d be identified was if somebody besides Annabelle happened to recognize him.
Knowing she was held inside those barred doors made him want to pound on them with both fists. The more irrational claims he overheard about her character, the harder it was to control his temper, so he slipped away and circled the stone building, hoping to calm down enough to think clearly.
Shadows absorbed him the way a placid lake smoothly covers her sunken secrets, and he easily reverted to instinctive oneness with nature.
His shiny black boots sank in mud and fetid odors assailed his nostrils. He ignored everything. Barred windows set high in the walls permitted sound to escape while denying direct sight. Since all the noise was concentrated at the front of the building where the soldiers were busy congratulating themselves, Charles took a chance and softly called, “Annabelle?”
All he heard was street chatter. He moved on to another window. Then another. Wait! Was that sobbing? “Annabelle?”
The weeping stopped.
Charles came closer. “Annabelle?”
“Y-yes.”
“It’s me.”
She sniffled. “Go away.”
“I can’t. I have to help you somehow.”
“That is the worst thing you can do. Secretary Eaton has promised to hire an attorney and have me released as soon as possible.”
Her Cherokee Groom Page 4
