by RITA GERLACH
Lightning illuminated the hovel, and thunder shook the walls. Eliza’s eyes fluttered open.
“Are you frightened by the storm?” Hayward said.
“It causes me to tremble. But I think of the Scripture: he has lightning in his fists. I am not afraid.”
The Scripture painted a frightening picture in his mind of a wrathful god, a god he did not know, one who could strike him down at any moment with arrows of thunder.
“Fiona does not seem bothered either,” he said. “It has been a long journey for her, and she must be worn out.”
Fiona snored, curled in a blanket, fast asleep beside the fire.
Sleepy-eyed, Eliza crossed the blanket over her shoulders. “Will it be over soon?”
“Storms are fierce here, and wild like the land. But they pass quickly.”
“I can only imagine what the snow may be like in winter. Is there a cold cellar at River Run?”
“Yes, and the forests are rich with game, so we will not lack for meat.”
“Hayward, may I acquire cloth? Fiona and I can make our winter clothes. It would be more frugal than going to a dressmaker for me and a tailor for you.”
He picked up his pistol and ran a rag over the barrel to polish it. “To begin with, there are no dressmakers, nor tailors, close to River Run. You may have your cloth.”
She settled back down and rested her head over her arm. Long he gazed at her, holding her violet eyes, and she said more within her gaze than words could. He set the pistol aside and moved to her. Beside her, he drew the blanket over his body and brought her into his arms. She turned and he could not see her face, only the quiver of firelight in her hair that streaked it with dark red.
He brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered into it. “Now that you have traveled to this wilderness, would you return to England and safety, if you could?”
She nuzzled closer. “Only if I were with you. Where you go, I will go.”
In the morning, the storm sped off to the east and the clouds broke open. Ribbons of fog twisted through the bramble and vanished as the heat of the day strengthened.
Hayward had described little to Eliza about River Run, save that he had begun repairs on the old dwelling the moment he set his boots upon the sod. River Run had two lofty stories, gables, mullioned windows with stout shutters, and a fine porch. Window glass glimmered in the sunlight, and the inside walls were painted with soft shades of shell and marigold.
Furniture brought upriver from Williamsburg graced the rooms. He had planned all this for Lilith Marsden. But after he had met her again and realized her childish ways were not the stuff frontier wives were made of, he eventually became thankful for her rejection and the end of any understanding between them.
And he had met Eliza again—the girl he remembered as a barefoot child. She was braver than most men he knew, virtuous, and full of faith, and he finally concluded the Lord of the universe had ordained their union. A poetic belief, he thought, but nonetheless true.
He had informed Addison Crawley, who lived in the cabin in the rear, that upon his return he would bring a new bride to River Run. Addison was to see to it that the house was set in order as best a man could manage. Hayward knew it would lack all the touches of a woman, and perhaps Eliza would think it austere. No matter. He would give her leave to do with it whatever she wished, as long as she did not spend too much money in the process.
The following day, toward dusk, River Run came into view. Situated on a grassy knoll, the house gleamed in the sunlight. The porch shadowed the oak door. The windows sparkled, and on each end were chimneys made of the same stone as the house. Nearby weaved Israel Creek, and a stone mill’s wheel moved slowly with the flow of water.
Hayward set his jaw with the air of a man who had come into his own. He had land, a house, and a wife who would captivate his neighbors on both sides of the Potomac with her beauty. He turned and looked back over his shoulder at Eliza, one he had at first not given any thought to, not even the day he had met her on the downs with her silken hair blowing about her pretty face.
How could this girl love him to such lengths that she would follow him into the wilderness of Maryland? Would she have loved him if he had no money or land? He believed she would have, for she was convinced God had brought them together, and she had never inquired into what his yearly income was. If he did not love her, he would, at least, protect and shelter her.
He drew off his hat and set it on his thigh. “Our journey is over, Eliza. There sits our house. I hope it pleases you.”
Eliza’s warm sigh brushed over the back of his neck as he brought the horse around for her to see the house at River Run. “It pleases me greatly, Hayward. Such a beautiful, welcoming house.”
“It is that, Eliza, though not as grand as Havendale, or the plantation houses on the other side of the river. And you see the mill over there?”
“Yes, I see it,” she said excitedly. “Oh, I love old mills.”
“It will bring us a goodly income when the farmers come to grind their grain.”
Eliza turned her head to look at her faithful servant. “Fiona, see our new home? Is it not the loveliest house you have ever laid your eyes upon?”
Fiona halted the mare. “I’m thinking it will be a drafty place, being so old.”
“No more than what we were accustomed to.”
“There are not enough trees to block the wind.”
“We shall plant more. But see how the forest edges the land? Why, that is enough to break the heavy wind. And the creek looks so cooling.”
Eliza gripped Hayward’s arm and slipped down from the pillion. Lifting her skirts above her ankles, she strode toward the house. When Hayward saw she had no shoes, he stopped her. He swung down off the saddle and turned her round to face him. “Eliza. Haven’t you brought another pair of shoes? I shall not have my wife walking up to her new house barefooted and looking so poor.”
“I do have another, Hayward. But they are my best and I do not want to ruin them. Besides, I want to feel the grass beneath my feet . . . our grass. It is how it should be . . . at least for today. Say you understand.”
He glared down into her eyes, and the chill that perpetually lived in his heart melted. It was a wilderness vast and deep he had brought her to. He could bend to her desire to feel the coolness, the softness of the land.
With a coy look in her eyes, she tilted her head. “You could take off your boots and walk beside me.”
He drew up. “I am no gypsy.”
“Hmm. I cannot argue with that.” She walked on. “But I find it sad, Hayward.”
He stepped alongside her, a little more deliberate in his boots. “Why?”
“Well, because you are in this beautiful wilderness, and you will not shake off your blue blood just this once, for a cool walk in the grass, on the day you bring your wife home.” She moved ahead, mounting the stoop with her face touched by the gold and silver sunlight.
“Glory Alleluia!” Bursting across the lawn came a barrelchested man in dingy work clothes and a tricorn hat. “Mr. Hayward, you’ve come home at last, sir. And with guests?”
“No, Addison. This lady is my wife, and your mistress. Remember what I told you?” Hayward took Eliza’s hand as she stood beside him. “Greet her properly.”
Addison slapped his hat against his chest and bowed. “Welcome to River Run, mistress. I wish you and Mr. Hayward much joy.”
She thanked him with a gentle smile. Then his eyes shifted to Fiona, who stood a few paces behind Eliza. “And may I ask, sir, who this lady is? My mistress’s sister, perhaps?”
Eliza smiled at Fiona’s giggle, but she saw Hayward glower. He did not like flattery from servants, even the sincere kind given from one to another. Surely Addison meant no affront by it, but only to make Fiona feel at ease.
“No, this is Fiona Goodall, my wife’s serving woman. She will be living in the house with us.”
Hayward walked on with Eliza, and as she let go of his ha
nd and hurried ahead, she fixed her eyes on the stones of the house. They changed to deeper, more variegated colors as twilight fell. “The windows are more than I had counted in my dreams,” she said over her shoulder.
In her haste, she failed to notice the slight dip before her. Her ankle turned as she stepped into it. She lost her balance and ended up on the ground. Hayward hurried forward and crouched down in front of her with his arms reaching out. “Are you hurt?”
She felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her face, and she thrust her skirts down past her exposed calves. “I do not believe so. Just a twist, I think.”
Hayward looked concerned. “Here, let me help you up.”
Fiona rushed forward. “Dear me. Oh, my girl.”
“I am all right, Fiona. Do not worry.”
Addison looked stunned. “I meant to fix that. I’m sorry, Mrs. Morgan.”
“No need to apologize, Addison. I should have been more careful and watched where I was going.”
“You need to unload our horses.” Hayward looked at Addison with a reprimand. “Take them to the stable, rub them down, water them, and give them plenty of oats.”
Addison nodded and sprinted off.
Eliza shook her head. “Oh . . . It is just like me to ruin a moment such as this.”
Hayward put his arms beneath her, and she locked her fingers around his neck. “You have ruined nothing. I shall carry you the rest of the way.” He lifted her into his arms.
“Ice, sir,” Fiona said. “Have you any hereabouts? My girl needs a cold compress.”
“I am uninjured, Fiona.” To Eliza, Fiona’s voice drifted afar off as she looked into her husband’s face. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead, and she moved it back. He gazed into her eyes, and she felt weak and longed to be behind closed doors in his arms. He carried her up the steps onto the porch, and on to the front door. She ran her fingers over the brass plate affixed to the stone, dated 1732.
“Who built this house, my love?”
“A wealthy English adventurer, so I am told, who wished to conquer the wilderness. He died childless, with no family. So he had no one to pass the estate on to.” He pushed the door in with his boot and carried her inside. Silver shafts of sunlight poured through the front windows and crossed the floor.
“Well?” He paused inside the doorway. She scanned the foyer with its pale plastered walls, broad staircase, and fireplace.
“It is beyond what I imagined.” She kissed his cheek, and for a moment thought she saw a glimmer of love flash in his eyes. But it faded. Somehow, she would change all that and break through his hard exterior.
He stepped further inside, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “I can see why you wanted a wife and children to fill your house. It is too large for one living alone. The foyer is twice the size of the parlor in the vicarage. You can put me down.”
“Your ankle is swollen. Let’s not risk it. Here’s my study.” The room contained only a desk and chair, with near-empty shelves hugging the walls beside a window that faced the fields. “You will help me acquire enough books to fill my library?”
“Yes, of course, I will.”
“You do know literature, I should hope?”
She gave him a playful scowl. “I do. And I am well versed in Latin and religion as well.”
“Anything besides all that?”
“Yes. I am keen on poetry.”
He gazed into her eyes. “Hmm. I am not surprised. Poetry is for the romantic soul.”
Leaving the study, he carried her from room to room. Eliza was enjoying this. A mishap had turned into good fortune. Because of her fall, Hayward had carried her over the threshold and through the house. She kept her fingers locked behind his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin against her hands.
Fiona followed at an acceptable distance, and Hayward looked over at her. “The kitchen is the rear of the house, Fiona. We should like coffee. You will find all you need in the larder.” With a quick dip, she hurried off.
Hayward took Eliza upstairs to a room bright with sunshine. “This is our room. If it does not please you, tell me. Perhaps different curtains or a change in the wall color is what you would like. You have only to ask for what you need, and I shall see to it you have it.”
“I like it just the way it is. And what can we see from the window?”
“The river. Here, I will show you.” He set her down, strode to a pair of French doors and opened them to a balcony. He lifted her again, and took her outside. Below and beyond, through a break in the virgin woods, the Potomac flowed in a haze of magenta light, slow and peaceful as she imagined it had for a thousand years. A warm breeze caressed her face, scented with the wet earth, forest, and field.
Gladness filled her. Praise seized her heart. “I should kiss you well, Hayward, to show my gratitude.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips and guided his lips to hers. Gently and lovingly she kissed him, then moved her mouth away.
“You are beautiful, Eliza.” He held her close and brought his lips near hers. But before another kiss could happen, a clamor at the door drew them apart.
“Mr. Morgan, Eliza had a terrible fall. She needs to rest her ankle.” Fiona set the tray down and wrung her hands like a worried mother. She hurried to the bedside and propped pillows against the bolster. “Do you ail, my girl?”
“I am fine, Fiona. The fall was not as terrible as you think.”
Hayward carried her over to the bed and set her down. “Perhaps it is best you yield to Fiona’s intuition. Besides, we have had a long journey and you should rest. I have business to discuss with Addison.”
He poured coffee into a cup and drank it down black. Then he stepped from the room and closed the door behind him. Eliza reached for Fiona’s hands. “I shall be happy here,” she said, squeezing them. “And see how attentive he is?”
Fiona wiggled her mouth and tucked a pillow beneath Eliza’s swollen ankle. “Attentive as a husband should be, my girl. But I shall bless the day I see that loving glow in his eyes every time he looks at you.”
11
News came downriver of the Indian massacres along the Blue Ridge Mountains that spread as far north as the Hudson River Valley. Hayward assured Eliza the Indians would not come this far east of the enclaves. Nonetheless, he taught her how to prime and shoot a musket. She had become quite good at it, and it pleased her how impressed he looked each time she hit the target, even if it was not dead center.
She worried those nights when she heard his horse and the hollow sound of hoofbeats fade as he rode off. The gentlemen in the area met in secret, and she prayed for his protection. The events that were unfolding in the Revolution occupied his mind and she felt ignored, but she understood. His life in England was over, and he considered himself to be American. Subjugation to his father had left a bitterness in his soul, a desire to live free. He had come home in the early hours of dawn, weary and spent, yet raging with patriotic zeal. She allowed him to rant, pacing like a restless panther, and then helped him off with his boots.
Eliza shuddered at the thought of war and what kind of suffering it could bring, especially to the people in towns along the coast. Boston already greatly suffered under the tight fist of tyranny. Hayward and she had only been wed such a short time, and to be separated from him was too much to consider.
One balmy night, she knelt before him, clasped her hands around one of his boots and pulled it off, then pulled off the other. “My love, you look troubled.”
He leaned his head back against the chair. Beads of sweat glistened over his forehead, and a damp strand of hair clung to his throat. “I have not told you what the men in the region are discussing.” He drew loose his neckcloth. “But after our meeting tonight, it is important you know.”
She sat back. “It sounds serious. Tell me, won’t you?”
He leaned forward and looked down into her eyes. “I have made a decision. I will take an oath to fight.”
A sharp chill rushed over Eliza. Sh
e stared back into his eyes and realized nothing would change his mind. She placed her hand on his knee. “I will go with you.”
“No. It would be too dangerous.”
“We would be together.”
“You would see death, Eliza, and wounded men, some dying in pools of their own blood. No, I want you here. Do not ask me again.” He stood, stretched his hand down to her, and helped her to her feet.
“Other women will follow their husbands. Who else will do the cooking and mending, or tend to their husbands when they are sick, or care for them when they are wounded?”
“That is for the lower classes to do, not the wives of landed gentlemen like myself. I can tell you, Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Adams will not be following their husbands on the battlefields or to Philadelphia. They will be looking after their husbands’ properties in their absence. You are mistress of River Run, and you will oversee it while I am gone.”
She threw her hands over her hips and frowned. “To say a genteel woman cannot accompany her husband in camp is a ridiculous rule.”
“Need I tell you, I am your rule and law?” he said, his tone gentle.
“No, I am reminded of it daily. Can you tell me you will not long for me—miss me? Can you not bend this time?”
“I would be compromising my principles. You will obey me and stay here at River Run.”
She clenched the sides of her gown. “I will worry myself sick over you, and miss you terribly.”
He drew off his waistcoat. “I will not leave you alone here without a man. Addison will stay . . . to protect you and Fiona.”
Her mouth dropped open with a start. “Protect us? But you said the Indians would stay away.”
He turned. “And I believe that is true. But there may be British soldiers and a few stray Indians that wander this far into the wilderness. You cannot be too cautious even when the possibility of danger is slim.”
