Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

“I think you’re right. Where will you sleep?”

  “In the servant’s quarters upstairs. Goodnight, miss.”

  After Margery left her, Rebecah stepped away from the window and slipped under the covers. She shut her eyes and hoped to drift off. It proved hard. To be in a strange place, in a bed not her own, made her lonely for home. She tried not to think of Ashburne, of Endfield, the loss of her father, and now Margery. But her mind would not let go.

  She turned to prayer, not as a ritual, but an outpouring of her heart to her maker. She spoke to him until her lips could move no more, until the clock in the hall struck the quarter hour and she fell to sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Late November

  Plymouth

  A ship from the American Colonies loaded with tobacco, furs, and sassafras, quietly laid anchor. John Nash leaned against the rail, his memory stirring. Nothing had changed since the day he had left England.

  In the distance, he could see the enormous bell tower and steeple of Saint Charles Church plunging into the sky. It seized Nash’s heart like the churches back home. The clustered spires shot into the sky like giant spears, piercing silvery clouds, stretching toward Heaven.

  Thinking about them caused him to feel homesick.

  A seaman leaned over the rail. “As I recall there’s a tavern a block away that serves good English ale. Will you not join us, Mr. Nash?”

  Nash swung his bundle over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie, but I must be on my way.”

  “Do it while you have the chance. When you sail back home, you’ll not taste English ale for a long time.”

  “You may be right. But I prefer Boston beer.”

  He threw him a salute and walked away. A female voice hailed him. “You there. You in the strange clothes.”

  A coach and four waited on the street. A young woman poked her head outside the window and held down her wide-brimmed hat with a gloved hand. Her brown ringlets fell over her throat. Rice powder paled her face, and on her cheeks were two bright spots of rouge. Beside her mouth, the black patch she wore looked like a tiny mole.

  Nash stopped and stepped up to the coach. His clothes were not as fashionable as the men passing him, but was he all that different? Perhaps it was the Indian beads about his neck she saw. She gazed at him breathless. “My companions and I see by your attire you’re not from our country.”

  “I’ve come from the Colonies, ma’am.”

  Her eyes faltered and met his again. “Will you come with us to a gathering we are headed to? You’d bring us a great deal of attention. We’ll pay you two guineas.”

  Nash stiffened. “I’m not for hire.”

  She looked baffled. “But two guineas.”

  “If you’re anxious to part with your money, I suggest you give it to those poor wretches lingering on the street corner.”

  She followed the direction of his eyes. “Are they hungry you think?”

  “I’ve no doubt they are.”

  “I wonder how it feels.” She paused and one of her friends nudged her. “Oh, will you not reconsider?”

  “Sorry. I must be on my way.”

  Unmoved by her further pleading and the overtures of her companions, Nash moved on. Outside the bustling city, he trudged his way to a road wide enough for a horse.

  He had been away for five years and, with the war inevitable, he longed to see his parents while he had the chance. They lived in a country house, where in his mind’s eye he saw them seated by the fire with their dog curled on the rug.

  His father in his reckless youth traveled across the ocean to try his hand in Virginia. The only success he made was a son by Charlotte Easton, the daughter of a planter. They were married six years and in sequence their babies came and passed away in infancy. Being of a gentle fortitude, Charlotte died after birthing their son, causing Sir Rodney to return to England with him in his arms.

  Devastated by the loss of his wife, Nash’s father drowned himself in his grief and loneliness until he met Margaret Lacey, cousin to Kathryn Brent. Within six months they were wed, and their years together were happy. As a boy, Nash thrived beneath Lady Margaret’s gentle but firm hand. She was the only mother he knew, and he loved her with tireless devotion.

  When he reached the glades of his childhood home, he paused in the road to gaze at Standforth House. It had not changed. The same thatched roof, the square mullioned windows, oak door, and front garden, livened his memories. The dog sitting on the doorstep perked its ears and sniffed. Then her shaggy tail wagged and she raced down the lane toward him.

  “Toby!” He patted and rubbed the dog’s coat, while it licked his face. “Good old gal, I’ve missed you.”

  A man in work clothes came around the corner of the house carrying a hoe. Wispy tufts of hair sprouted from the old fellow’s ears and chin, and on the tip of his long angular nose was a large brown mole. One eye was blind, the watery pupil white, just as Nash had remembered. He stood in his tracks and stared.

  “Is Sir Rodney and his lady at home?” the younger Nash inquired.

  “Maybe he is, maybe he ain’t.” The man stuck out his chin and cocked his noxious eye. “What you want with him? If it’s money, forget it. If food, come round the back.”

  Nash stood. “I want nothing but to see my father.”

  The man squinted. “Sir Rodney’s son is in America.”

  “Your eyesight has weakened since I left, Angus.”

  The man stepped closer. “Scratch me raw, young Jack, ‘tis you. You’re dressed like a heathen.”

  “These are what I’m accustomed to wearing. Buckskin breeches are comfortable.”

  “Buckskin? I recognize those beads you’re wearing from the last war. Never thought I’d see the day when an Englishman would wear them. What’s the world coming to?”

  “The Thirteen, sir.” With a brisk stride, Nash walked to the door. Angus trailed behind him.

  His father was in the habit of rising early and retiring late. He would be in his study reading the Gazette and his Bible. A biscuit would be on a plate and a cup of tea to the side. Nash opened the doors and stepped in.

  The moment they laid eyes on each other, Sir Rodney dropped his cup. The china handle broke against the saucer. He scrambled from his chair. His son smiled. The same blue eyes graced with dignified lines glowed with fatherly pride. Dressed in a buff coat and cream breeches, Sir Rodney smelled of milled soap.

  He searched for his spectacles and with trembling fingers, shoved the wires over his ears. “Jack!”

  Though his name upon the baptism records in Virginia called him one thing, his father gave him the name Jack, for he thought it endearing.

  “On my word, you’ve come back to us. Bless God.” His smile broke into joyful laughter. “Your days of wandering have brought you home impoverished?”

  “Not at all, Father. I’ve done very well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We’ve missed you.” He threw his arms around Nash’s shoulders and embraced him.

  “Are you better? Have you recovered from your fall?”

  “My ribs are good as new.” Sir Rodney tapped his left side with his palm. “I still have the horse that threw me.”

  “Where is Mother?”

  “Upstairs. You’ve no idea how she has missed you.” Sir Rodney walked his son to the door. “She has kept you in her prayers since the day you left.”

  “That answers many things. I’m sure her prayers saved my life on more than one occasion.”

  Sir Rodney drew back and frowned. “You had a few brushes with danger? You must tell me about them over supper.”

  The morning sun spread over the wall, as Nash ascended the stairs. The Persian runner in the hallway quieted his steps. He approached his stepmother’s room, noticing nothing had changed; the pictures on the walls, the candles on brass hooks, the blue velvet draperies.

  Her door sat ajar and he saw her seated by the window in her favorite chair. Still beautiful, even though the radiance of youth had fad
ed, ruby light touched upon her cheek. She drew her shawl close and turned a page in her book.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Startled, Lady Margaret dropped her book and leapt from her chair. “Jack,” she cried. “You’ve come home.”

  He rushed forward, took her in his arms. “There, Mother. Don’t cry. What’s the use when I’m here safe and sound?”

  She touched his face. “I cannot help it.”

  “You look well. You are well, are you not?”

  “I’m better now that I see you. Has your father seen you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has no consideration for my poor heart.” She laid her hand across it. “It is pounding so hard it might have burst. He should have warned me.”

  “I brought you something.” Nash drew the beads over his head. “Let me have your hand.” He turned her palm over and placed the gift there.

  She held up a strand of beads of an unusual shade of orange. The stones caught the light coming through the window.

  “Oh, so beautiful. How did you come by them?”

  “An award given to me by an Indian.”

  Surprised, she glanced at him. “An Indian, you say? Why these must be rare indeed.”

  “Chief Logan is a peacemaker in the Virginias, and my friend.”

  “These are too rich for me. I’m not deserving of them.” She wiped her eyes.

  He closed her hand over them. “If I ever see Chief Logan again, I shall tell him you wear them proudly.”

  “I shall treasure them always. You must be hungry and tired, and in need of a bath. And those clothes. Is this what the gentlemen wear in the Colonies?”

  “Only those living in the frontier.”

  Sir Rodney entered the room and she held out her hand to him to see the necklace.

  “Look at what Jack brought me, dear. Are they not fine?”

  “You’ll be the only woman in England to own anything like them.”

  Lady Margaret turned to her son. “Tell us what you need, Jack, and you shall have it. We shall have a feast tonight.”

  “You need not spoil me, Mother.”

  “We must celebrate your homecoming.” Lady Margaret grabbed him by the arm and embraced him. Toby leapt and barked, and Nash felt his heart lift.

  There was more merriment in that house that day, than there had been in more than a year.

  * * *

  Rebecah could have allowed Endfield to suffocate her. But she refused to give in to its bleak atmosphere. She had found a sister in Lavinia, and they spent all their time together. She loved Hugh, and took every opportunity to take him out of doors, to the woods, stream, and fields. Every morning she opened wide her bedroom curtains to let the sun in.

  The day of John Nash’s arrival in England, she sat at the spinet in the music room tapping out a tune. It grew cloudy outside, and her music cut through the dry monotony like a sunny day. Outside the door, servants hesitated in their work to listen. The piece she played was difficult. Rebecah lifted her fingers away from the keys and stared at the sheet music wishing she were better.

  She glanced over at Lavinia. Reclining on the couch, she twisted a ribbon between her fingers and sighed.

  “Are you weary with my playing?”

  “You’re playing is fine. But I’m bored to tears.”

  “Is there something you’d rather do? My fingers are stiff.”

  Lavinia sat straight up. “Yes. Let us go for a ride. There is a patch of blue along the horizon.”

  Rebecah could not refuse an invitation to escape. She hurried off to change and joined Lavinia in the stable. Slipping the bridle over the horse’s neck, she kicked off her shoes and put her foot into the stirrup, clicked her tongue and flicked the reins. The mare trotted out of the stable into the sunlight.

  “Rebecah.” Lavinia called. “You cannot ride without boots. What will my mother say?”

  Rebecah glanced over her shoulder. “She will never know unless you tell her. I also prefer to go without a saddle. But for your sake I shall endure one.”

  Lavinia rolled her eyes. “I should hope so.”

  Far from the house, they paused to give the horses drink from a brook south of Endfield. Rebecah pulled her hair free from its fastenings, shook her head and allowed the curls to tumble over her shoulders. She loved the feel of the wind through it, how it crossed her neck. Beyond the hill, she saw the Carrow’s farmhouse. Forests were above it and to the north open hills met the sky.

  Lavinia brought her horse alongside Rebecah’s. “Your life has been sheltered, Rebecah. I think I may envy you for it in some ways. You seem so…free.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say such things, Lavinia. There is no reason to envy me.”

  “You do not understand. The only goal my father has for my life is that I marry well.”

  “I understand perfectly. It was my father’s goal as well. Who can blame them?”

  “Perhaps your view would be different if you had known our male cousin. Your father kept you from everyone.”

  “John Nash sounds more like fiction than fact, and may disappoint you if you see him again.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “Indeed, not. Do you remember last week the young man who spoke to me and offered to carry our packages to the coach?”

  “The lawyer?”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Of course I do. But it’s not a question of my approval, but your father’s.”

  Lavinia frowned. “I know. He wants me to wed a man with a title and plenty of money.”

  “One should marry for love.”

  “He has not said he loves me. But I see it in his eyes.”

  “Then there is hope. There’s an understanding between you.”

  “Do you know what would happen if I married David without my father’s consent?”

  “He would disown you?”

  “I believe he would. But I love David so much, it hurts. Why do we torture ourselves with love?”

  Rebecah raised her face to the sun as it broke through. “I’ll be spared the agony, for who would love me?”

  She snapped the reins and galloped her horse ahead of Lavinia’s.

  * * *

  Soon the sun skimmed along the horizon. The sky grew misty, painted with purple and vermilion. At the door, March stepped into the fleeing light. Her sour expression deepened while she tapped the toe of her shoe against the flagstone.

  “Where have you two been? Supper is over, and the master is indignant. No doubt you’ve been riding through the countryside like a pair of gypsies.”

  “It was invigorating.” Lavinia stepped by the old woman into the light of the window.

  “This arrived earlier.” March handed Lavinia a letter.

  She took the letter in hand. “Do not tell my father.”

  “What letters you receive are none of my business, Miss Lavinia. I do not run to Sir Samuel about everything that goes on in this house. I know my place.”

  While Rebecah removed her gloves, March approached. “A gentleman awaits you in the music room.”

  “His name?”

  “Sir Cecil Lanley. In this house, we do not keep guests waiting.”

  Rebecah pulled her cloak off and handed it to March. Reluctant to see him, she walked unhurried down the hallway and paused outside the door. She searched for time. She needed to calm her nerves, rehearse what she would say to Lanley. Perhaps she should have told March to tell the snobbish suitor she was ill with a headache. But he would return. She had to get it over with.

  Her fingertips touched the latch. She turned the handle. The door moved in enough for her to hear Lanley speaking. She stepped back, but kept the door ajar.

  “I’ve anticipated seeing Rebecah again,” she heard the drawn aristocratic voice declare. It still had a nasal tone. “I intend to settle in the country, a suitable place for a young wife. The diversions of London would leave her fatigued.”

&
nbsp; His words affronted her. Like her father and uncle, Lanley meant to isolate her in a lonely country house. When she heard his insipid plans, her mind rebelled. It should be her right to plan her life—not the right of others.

  CHAPTER 6

  Inside the sunlit room, Brent stood by the window. His hands were clasped behind him, while he considered the man chosen by his brother to wed his niece. His mind drifted back to a time long ago when he declared his affections to Sarah. He loved her to the point of obsession, but she bruised his masculine pride too many times. His love turned to dislike the day she married his brother.

  When he received word of Sarah’s death, the pain was bearable enough to conceal from his new wife Kathryn, but fierce. And when his brother died, Sarah’s image came to live under his roof. He found it difficult to love Rebecah, and saw Lanley as a means to be rid of her.

  But the idea of his money and future connection to the family restrained his feelings. Why Rebecah? Why not Dorene or Lavinia? Could he sway Lanley’s choice?

  “You’re rich and could have any woman in England.” His words caused Lanley to raise his head. “Why not one of my daughters? They both have beauty and handsome dowries, unlike Rebecah who has near to nothing.”

  “I haven’t the need for more money,” Lanley told him. “I wish to marry Rebecah because I’m besotted. It’s much like choosing a thoroughbred, would you not say?”

  Brent frowned at the comment. “It’s in poor taste to liken women to horses. Besides, you wouldn’t know a quality filly if you fell over one.”

  Lanley wobbled his head. “Sink me if you’re not right.” He bent forward. “I know absolutely nothing about them.”

  Repulsion burned in Brent’s mind, for Lanley was indeed a bored, spoiled dandy, overdressed and overused.

  “You think my daughters are not good enough for you? Why would you prefer a girl who is below them?”

  “Lavinia and Dorene are rich prizes. But I’ve been in love with Rebecah for a long time, and promised to wed her.”

  “Yes, I know about the promise.”

  “Would you ask me to break my word? Do you disapprove of my suit?”

  “A man is only as good as his word, Lanley. You may do as you wish.”