Her Cherokee Groom

by Valerie Hansen

  The only scary part was the slim chance that her origins might preclude being happily married.

  Still, she insisted, not knowing and worrying was far worse. To start a new life she had to know more about her old one. Even if the news was bad.

  * * *

  Charles was still in New Echota when a messenger brought news that Sali McDonald had returned to her estate. Charles sent the servant back to her with affirmation that he would visit the following day.

  He went to break the news to Annabelle the moment he knew and found her in the Boudinot kitchen with Fiona.

  The wide smile with which she greeted him made his heart rejoice. “I’m glad to see you’re none the worse for wear after the fire.”

  “Thank you. I thought Martha would never get the smell of smoke out of my hair.” As Annabelle spoke she drew the back of her wrist across her forehead to push aside damp ringlets.

  “Careful,” Charles teased, “or Martha will be washing globs of flour out of your hair.”

  Annabelle beamed. “I’m learning to make biscuits.”

  Her enthusiasm and joy made him chuckle. “Better than the ones you helped Johnny with on the trail, I hope.”

  “Much better. There are no open fires or sticks involved.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Fiona had been standing back, listening, and laughed, too. “Annabelle tells me you were quite the hunter during your travels. The next time you shoot a deer, I wish you’d bring us some of the meat. Mr. Elias is not very good with a rifle.”

  “Ah, but he is quite accomplished with the pen,” Charles countered.

  That comment made the slightly portly cook grin. “True. Except we’d all starve to death if that was our only source of food.”

  “Harriet keeps a wonderful vegetable garden,” Annabelle commented. “It’s much bigger and grander than the Eatons ever had.”

  Charles, who had been looking for an easy way to broach the touchy subject, decided that this moment would suffice. “Speaking of gardens, I just got word that my mother is back home. You’ll have to come with me and let her show you how well she’s managing the estate.”

  Her floury hands stilled. Annabelle stared. “Me? Go see her? Aren’t you going to break the news to her first?”

  “I suppose I could, if that’s what you want, but I’m certain she already knows. When she got word that I was back, she undoubtedly also heard that you were with me.”

  Waiting for his announcement to sink in, Charles bided his time and studied the woman he loved. Annabelle had changed back into the burgundy dress in which she had traveled, thankfully putting an apron over it to keep it clean this time. There was a light dusting of flour on her cuffs but she was otherwise more than presentable.

  Wide-eyed and obviously concerned, she asked, “When did you want to go?”

  “I sent word that we will visit tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  Charles smiled in the hopes it would comfort her. If the cook had not been present he might have slipped his arm around Annabelle then and there. “When you have a dose of bitter medicine to swallow, isn’t it better to hold your nose, open your mouth and get it over with?”

  To his relief, a smile did start to illuminate her sweet face. “I will have to be bribed to keep from telling your dear mother that you consider her a bitter pill to swallow,” she gibed.

  At that, Fiona cackled like a hen on a nest.

  Annabelle giggled.

  Charles regarded them both with mock seriousness. “I strongly advise against being too candid with Sali. She is used to having her way and she’s very good at managing the farm. After my father died and she took over everything, production doubled.”

  “Then she is to be commended,” Annabelle said. “Perhaps she and I will get along better than you imagine.”

  “Anything will be better than I imagine,” Charles said wryly. “I’m going to go check on Johnny and make sure he’s staying out of trouble.” He nodded and touched a finger to his forehead in place of tipping a hat. “Ladies.”

  If he were to describe his mood as he left the kitchen, Charles would have had to be ambiguous. On one hand he was looking forward to arranging a Cherokee ceremony so he and Annabelle could start their new life together with the blessings of his family and tribe. On the other hand, he was very concerned that Sali’s strong will might clash with Annabelle’s and cause unnecessary conflict.

  He supposed the most sensible thing for him to do was pay an early visit to his mother and warn her off. Not that that would have much effect. Still, he could try.

  Then again, if he was too forceful he might bias her against Annabelle before the two ever met.

  He loved Sali—as much as her stolid character would allow. She had never been a nurturer, not even to his sisters. It simply was not her way. But she was strong and honest and faithful to her family and to the tribe and Wolf clan. The perfect Cherokee woman.

  And Annabelle? She was just as strong and brave and quick-witted. But she was far more sensitive, partly due to her upbringing, he had decided. What kind of person she would have become if Myra Eaton had lived longer was a moot point. Annabelle was who she was. Period.

  And he loved her. Sali would have to understand that, above all.

  He wished they had had time to send those letters to Eaton’s old retainers and receive replies before he had to try to explain the situation to his clan.

  Charles sighed deeply, poignantly, as he made his way to the stable to look for Johnny. Where the mule was, he could usually find the boy. This time was no different.

  Johnny beamed when he saw the man, ran to him and threw his arms around his torso. “He’s hardly burned at all. Just some of the long hairs on the end of his tail.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Charles took him by the hand and led him back to Golly’s stall.

  “I have arranged for us to move back into our old room in this house for a few days. We’ll sleep here and spend our days at your lisi’s, cleaning up the mess and salvaging what we can from the old barn. Then we’ll put out the word and let the neighbors help us build a new one.”

  “But, why can’t we sleep out there?”

  Charles didn’t want to tell the boy it wasn’t safe, yet he also didn’t want him to think the decision had been made on a whim.

  “We will. Soon. A lot of smoke blew into the cabin so we’ll have some cleaning and airing to do. You can help me take the rugs and the furniture out into the sun.”

  The child pulled a face. “If we had servants we wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

  “Speaking of that kind of thing, I’ll be gone tomorrow and I’ll want you to stay here,” Charles said.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Home. But only for a visit.”

  The boy’s expression darkened even more. “What about her?”

  “Annabelle is going with me.”

  “Then why can’t I go?”

  “Because I need you to stay here.”

  “But...”

  “No arguments,” Charles said flatly. “Annabelle and I will leave in the morning and return before dark. While we are away I want you to behave yourself. Understand?”

  Although Johnny did nod, Charles wasn’t totally convinced he would do as he was told.

  On the other hand, how much trouble could a Cherokee child get into when every member of the tribe was considered his family? He arched an eyebrow. Studied the boy’s face.

  How much trouble? Maybe a lot.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  For her first meeting with Sali, Annabelle chose to don the modest gray dress in which she had been married. The small white cap that she had worn all the time in Washington was in such a poor state of repair she decided against a
dding it to her outfit.

  Atop the gray mare, she rode beside Charles. He had borrowed a sleek gelding from Elias and looked much more appropriate mounted thus. As a matter of fact, he looked so elegant, so perfect, her heart galloped whenever she gazed at him.

  A breeze ruffled her hair and threatened to loosen the combs Martha had placed so carefully to lift her tresses. She fingered the sausage curls that had been set with sugar water and arranged to hang beside her cheeks.

  “Your hair looks fine,” Charles volunteered.

  “It’s not that,” Annabelle confessed. “I don’t have a proper bonnet to complement my gown.”

  “Then I shall send for one.”

  “Thank you, but the need is now, before I meet your mother.”

  “Oh. Did you think to ask Harriet about borrowing a hat?”

  With a sigh, Annabelle nodded. “Yes. She had a nice brown bonnet but it was wrong for this dress. If your mother is as fashionable as I have heard, it is better to meet her with no bonnet than with the wrong one.”

  “If you say so.”

  She pulled a face. “Stop laughing at me, Mr. McDonald. Such things may not matter to you but they are important to women.”

  “So I have heard.”

  He straightened his tailored jacket over his vest and squared his top hat, then held out his hand. She took it gladly and threaded her fingers between his. As long as both horses kept walking close together she was just able to reach.

  “Tell me about your home?”

  “In what way?”

  “Its history, perhaps? And that of your mother?”

  “All right.”

  Annabelle watched him gather his thoughts and wondered if he was ever going to speak. Patience might be a godly virtue but it was, unfortunately, not one of hers.

  “My grandfather was a fur trapper,” he began. “That’s where the Scottish name came from. He married a woman from the Blue clan and moved into her village, as tradition dictates.”

  “You said there are seven clans?”

  “Yes. Our legends tell of more in the distant past. Some, who would not obey Cherokee laws and customs were expelled. Those people supposedly became the Erie, Mohawk, Onandaga, Cayuga, Seneca, Oneida and Chickamauga. That left seven. Those are the clans that continue today.”

  “How interesting. But if he married into the Blue clan, why are you Wolf?”

  “Because no man is allowed to marry within his mother’s clan. That meant that when my father grew up he had to choose a bride from one of the other six.”

  “He kept his father’s surname and his mother’s clan?”

  “Until he married Sali. Then he became Wolf.”

  “It seems very complicated.”

  “Not to those of us who grew up knowing it. Where you come from, everything is traced through the men and the women are ignored. You’re used to that system so it seems right. Ours makes perfect sense to us, particularly since the Cherokee are not as numerous as they once were.”

  “Really? Is that because of wars?”

  “Some. Our men fought beside federal troops in 1812. That’s where Major Ridge got his name. He adopted the rank he was given after a battle as his actual first name. Many of us change names for various reasons.”

  “That’s amazing. Was yours always Charles?”

  “Yes, but Elias Boudinot was born Galagina Oowatie. When he was about fifteen, a war hero who had no sons adopted him and asked him to take his name to carry on the Boudinot legacy.”

  “Oh, like Sequoya is also called George Guess.”

  “Exactly. Although Sequoya is so famous among the Cherokee for inventing our alphabet he seldom uses any other name.”

  Annabelle heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I fear I will never be able to keep it all straight.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  She squeezed his fingers and released his hand. “Thank you. Is that your home place over there, through those trees?”

  “No.” Charles was grinning. “Those are some of the homes we built for our servants and slaves. Follow me.”

  He gave the borrowed horse a kick to hurry its pace so Annabelle did the same. They rounded a bend lush with vegetation and stopped in the middle of a broad avenue that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  Rows of stately oak and hickory trees lined the road and canopied the approach to a magnificent mansion. It was at least three stories high with gabled windows facing the front along the steep roof. Fluted, Grecian-type columns supported second-story balconies. Sunlight glinted off tall glass windows, more windows than Annabelle had ever seen in any dwelling except that of President Jackson.

  Her jaw dropped. She gaped. “Oh, my word.”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Very.” Her brow furrowed. This was worse than she had imagined. Charles’s family must be almost as rich as King Solomon in the Bible. How awful!

  “Wait till you see the land to the north. The back of the house faces a branch of the Chattahoochee and has a magnificent view. Mother still owns the ferry business my father started, and one of the main crossings is just upstream a ways. You can see for miles from the porches on that side, particularly up on the balconies. That’s by design.”

  Annabelle was speechless. Charles came from so much wealth and privilege he must think her beneath him. So why had he volunteered to marry her in the first place, let alone want to perpetuate that mistake by asking for a Cherokee ceremony? Yes, it was possible that he loved her, yet it was also possible he felt obligated merely because she had helped save his life by the Potomac and was now alone in the world.

  Riding in silence, she let her horse lag behind his until she was following him rather than keeping abreast.

  She huffed. A suitable bonnet was the least of her worries.

  A suitable life history, which she could not possibly attain in a million years, was what she really needed.

  Charles dismounted first and paused to assist his wife while a stable boy took charge of their horses.

  When Annabelle stood stock-still and acted as if she were about to bolt, he gently took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and held it there. “Come on. No sense putting this off.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about if I go with the horses and you visit your mother without me?”

  “The fearless Annabelle McDonald cannot be afraid of one old woman. Not when she’s faced armed attackers and fought her way out of Washington practically bare-handed.” He chuckled softly. “Except for a little horse manure.”

  The teasing had the effect he had hoped. Annabelle used her free hand to playfully smack his arm through the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Shush. It’s bad enough that I don’t know who my parents were. Don’t make it worse by inferring I have the manners of a street urchin.”

  Charles laughed quietly as they mounted the stone steps to the covered porch. “Of course not. Their manners are much better.”

  The door opened before he had a chance to say more. The liveried butler who greeted them was as tall and stately as Charles, with white hair and gleaming teeth that contrasted the darkness of his skin when he smiled.

  His pose did not alter when he saw who had arrived, but his grin was wide and his dark eyes gleamed. “Master Charles. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, David. Is my mother receiving?”

  The butler bowed. “Yes, sir. This way.”

  Charles could tell that his bride, who had proved so fearless when defending him or Johnny against formidable dangers, was petrified about meeting his mother. He supposed that was to be expected considering Sali’s reputation with other mixed-bloods. Although she, herself, had married thus, she treated everyone else who was not pure Cherokee as a lesser being.

  The butler opened a doo
r and stepped aside as soon as he had announced them.

  Charles walked boldly forward, practically having to drag Annabelle along.

  His mother’s face brightened. She began to smile. Then, as if a cloud had passed across her face, she focused her attention on Annabelle and scowled.

  “Mother,” he said, “I’d like to present my wife, Annabelle.”

  The older woman’s otherwise quite acceptable face screwed into a grimace. She looked straight at her son and said, “What have you done?”

  * * *

  If Annabelle could have dropped through a hole in the floor she would have gladly done so. Anything she may have heard about this woman’s haughty attitudes had clearly been understated. Not only was she rich, she had a mean streak as wide as the road leading up to her mansion.

  I will not cry, Annabelle told herself, biting the inside of her cheek for distraction. She can do or say whatever she wants to me but I will not give her the satisfaction of weeping.

  Lifting her chin, she met Sali’s steady, critical gaze with a show of inner strength she had not imagined she might possess.

  Rather than cringe and retreat, Annabelle let go of Charles’s arm and offered her hand to the other woman with a smile. A smile that took every ounce of courage she possessed.

  Sali ignored her.

  Annabelle was not to be deterred. She stepped closer to the other woman, reached for her bejeweled hand and clasped it firmly. “I am delighted to finally meet you,” she said.

  If she had not been so intent on making a good impression, she might have giggled at Sali’s shocked expression. Considering that she was Charles’s mother, the woman was remarkably well preserved. Her hair was dark and shiny, her eyes bright. And her skin showed far fewer wrinkles than Margaret Eaton’s had.

  And her gown! Annabelle had instantly marveled at its cut and the drape of the fine fabric. It must be of silk, she reasoned, the most beautiful example of weaving she had ever seen, even in the most posh Washington drawing rooms.

  “You have a lovely home,” Annabelle added before releasing Sali’s hand.

  “Yes, well, it suits us.”