by RITA GERLACH
Sir Rodney’s face turned white. His hands shook and he gripped them behind his back so Donley would not notice. Dread coursed through Rebecah, knowing by the look on his face he was somehow involved.
“If I confess to you of my dealings, do you swear you’ll let this man go?”
Donley turned to face him. “Choose for him, sir. Prison or death.”
Sir Rodney threw his shoulders back. “Very well, you have my confession. I’ve been supplying American privateers, but in a manner I do not see as treasonous.”
Lady Margaret gasped, and Rebecah put her arms around her.
“Your son is a colonial, is he not?”
“You have no reason to mention him. He has nothing to do with this.”
“Some are saying he is a traitor. But gossip can be unkind. Now, if you please, one of my men will escort you to a horse.”
An armed soldier stomped forward. Lady Margaret rushed to her husband and he drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”
Rebecah faced the insipid captain. “You are supposed to be a keeper of the King’s peace.”
Donley turned and looked back at her.
“Why must you harass good Englishmen and frighten English women and children?”
The King’s men moved forward. Donley waved them back, not once removing his eyes from Rebecah’s face. Sir Rodney’s eyes pleaded for her not to say another word.
“How can you, being a servant to the Crown and a defender of its subjects, question one of England’s knights with such disrespect?”
A round of howls followed, but she thought nothing of it and went on.
“Is this the way you were trained, to be a bully and churl? My father was in His Majesty’s service. I know what is expected.”
Captain Donley’s expression was one of surprise and shock. Rebecah met his stare, seeing he admired her boldness as well as her looks. His eyes told her everything—that he liked the way her hair fell over her shoulders, that her face enticed him to the point his temperature rose.
“If I had known such a flower graced this,” and he swept his hand toward the house, “den of defiance, I would have found a way to spare you this grief.”
She narrowed her eyes at his impertinence. “How dare you speak to me thus? I’m Rebecah Brent. My father was Sir Richard Brent of Ashburne, my uncle Sir Samuel Brent of Endfield.”
“I know Sir Samuel.”
“Then send one of your men to him, and let us see what he has to say about this. He will not stand by while a soldier bullies his relatives and those that serve us. I demand you release Sir Rodney and Laban at once.”
Never had she thought to use her uncle’s name for leverage. But now it was a necessary weight and she hoped it would convince Donley to let Sir Rodney go.
Donley laughed at her demand. “Sir Samuel was the one to inform us.”
Her body stiffened at his words. “What? That cannot be.”
“He had seen an American ship in the harbor and grew suspicious. Is he not law abiding, ma’am, and loyal to England?”
“My uncle would never accuse Sir Rodney.”
“Indeed, ma’am. He had no idea his own relation was involved with that ship. No doubt he will be grieved when he hears of it.”
Sir Rodney was taken away and mounted on a dark brown horse.
“You must listen!” she stormed.
“You need not beg, ma’am.” Donley drew closer. She saw in his eyes insincerity. “I shall do what I can.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do what is right and release them both. You’ve no proof of anything.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Sir Rodney is loyal to the King. As for Laban, he is a simple man and penniless. Think of his wife and children. Surely he can do no harm to any one, especially the Crown.”
“I must do my duty. You mustn’t think me heartless.”
“Oh, but I do.”
Affronted, Donley ordered the soldiers to move forward and mounted his horse. Lottie hurried to Laban, and when she had thrown her arms around him, she was shoved away. Rebecah helped her up from the ground. She held her in her arms and tried to comfort her. Lottie pleaded and begged them not to take her husband. Tears stained her face and her frightened children snatched at her skirts. Lady Margaret wept on her doorstep. Angus stood with his teeth and fists clenched.
Donley turned his horse around and looked back at Rebecah. He gave an order. A soldier stepped forward and threw a rope over the thick limb of a birch tree. Two soldiers turned and raised their muskets to keep the others from coming forward. Laban struggled and cried for mercy. Lottie screamed as they put the noose over her husband’s neck.
It was an unbelievable sight—Laban hoisted up in the tallest tree at Standforth. Lady Margaret, Rebecah, and Angus were stunned into silence, trembling and looking on with wide, horrified eyes. In tears, the women watched him die. Lottie pleaded, raked her fingers through her hair and tore at her clothes. She fell forward, dug her fingers into the grass. Her children were weeping.
Lady Margaret gathered Lottie and the children into her arms and held them fast. Rebecah stood speechless and shaking. Her eyes wide, and brimming with tears, she watched Sir Rodney hang his head in despair. Then she heard him swear an oath, but what kind she could not make out. Donley sneered and walked his horse toward Rebecah. Eyes brimming, she clutched the folds of her dress.
His horse stopped in front of her and he waited, looking as though he anticipated her to lash out at him.
“The King’s law must be upheld. Lawbreakers must be made an example so others will not follow in their footsteps.”
Her chest heaving with despair, she glanced at Laban’s body swinging from the rope. Her stomach lurched and every inch of her went cold as a soldier brought him down.
Gripping her hands together, she stepped forward and looked Donley in the eyes. “God has seen what you’ve done this day. You’ve hung a man without a trial. I hope you are prepared to reap the consequences in this life and the one to come.”
Donley leaned over the saddle. “You are mistaken, madam. I have my reward from my king. By obeying him, I’ve obeyed God.”
Rebecah’s face burned with anger. Donley turned his horse and trotted back to his troops, who were heading down the dusty road with Sir Rodney as prisoner.
* * *
That night at the Boyd House, miles and miles across sea and land, from the darkened forlorn house at Standforth, Theresa Boyd rubbed her eyes and closed the book she had been reading. Setting her hands in her lap, she stared out the window. She was deep in thought.
The glass in the window glazed. The moon’s silvery light frosted it. She could not stop thinking of Black Hawk. She pictured his face and remembered the way he climbed the tree. She recalled his voice and poetic words. She thought about his loyalty to Captain Nash. Would she see him again? Was it wrong for her to think of a man who was not of her race, considered a heathen savage? As these questions turned in her mind, a prayer stumbled from her lips. The words were mixed, jumbled; yet she knew God understood.
“You don’t see as other men see. Men look on the outward appearance, but you, oh Lord, look on the heart.” She sighed and set her book on the table beside her.
She started when the grandfather clock downstairs chimed out the quarter hour. Taking her candlestick in hand, she went downstairs barefoot and wide-eyed to the front door. Yes, the bolt was in its slot for the first time she could remember. Next the windows. The shutters were latched. Moonbeams slithered through the narrow cracks in the wood. A mouse dashed across the wainscoting.
Theresa’s heart raced and fear stole up within her. She shivered. Which path would her brave Indian prince choose? He seemed strong, yet gentle, his eyes dark, yet tender when he looked at her from the high branch. Wanting to wake from a futile dream, she shook her head and a lock of her hair fell over her eyes. She brushed it away and commanded herself not to think of him.
“What would my father say?” she w
hispered to the gray mouse perched on the window ledge.
* * *
At Laurel Hill, night had fallen and rain tapped against the windows. Maldowney stretched out in front of the log fire. He folded his hands over his chest and snored. His belly was full of salmagundi and ale. Nash sat in a chair near the fire with his boots up cleaning his pistol when he heard a whistle come from outside. He set the pistol down and went to the door. Looking out into the darkness, he saw Black Hawk standing alone below the porch. He was shadowed, except for his face when he lifted it to meet the moonlight. Nash motioned to him to come inside.
When Black Hawk stepped over the threshold, he put his hand over Nash’s shoulder. “You are well, my brother?”
“Yes, but left with a limp.” Nash poured another mug of cider, then handed Black Hawk a bowl of what was left of the salmagundi. He looked over at Robert Maldowney sleeping. “I’ve made a friend, Black Hawk. No doubt he shall be yours as well.”
Black Hawk turned. “Who is he?”
“A Scot who says he will see men’s souls saved. We’ve had a long talk, and he knows what happened to me, and to Tobias. He said I should be circumspect and keep my weapons clean and loaded.”
Black Hawk sat on the floor before the fire to eat. His silence said more than words. It meant he agreed.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Nash told him. “Eat, then rest. In the morning tell me of your time in the wilderness.”
Black Hawk looked up with a mouthful. He swallowed and held up his hand. “I must speak something.”
Nash stretched his arms and yawned. “I’m tired, brother. But speak.”
“You find rest in your dreams? Is the English woman in them?”
Nash frowned. “She dominates my dreams, and I wake hating the day.”
“You must stay alive for her.”
“If anything I must stay alive for my own good.” Nash shrugged off Black Hawk’s prophetic words. The mention of Rebecah pricked his heart.
“The ways of the white man are strange to me.” Stretching out and leaning on his elbow, Black Hawk looked at the dead coals in the hearth. “Perhaps she will do what this man teaches and forgive you. It is hard for a warrior to do, but not for a squaw. A warrior never forgets and vengeance is his way. But a squaw can bury a hatchet and forget where it lay.”
As he spoke, Maldowney woke. He turned onto his side, unalarmed by the presence of an Indian, for he saw and heard Nash speaking to him as an equal.
“It is hard for any man, white or red. For his heart seeks his own pleasure, and he takes a vengeful path when his mind is worldly.”
Nash put his hand to his chin and looked out the window into the night. Perhaps he had given up too easily. Perhaps if he had stayed longer she would have believed him.
There was softness about her he had not known in any other woman, a gentleness that melted his soul. He doubted he would ever find a woman like her even if he searched the entire world.
He grew thoughtful and silent. Rebecah was not what he wanted to dwell on. He tried to forget, but something always reminded him of her. When the wind blew hard, he thought of her unbound hair blowing off her shoulders. When he stood by the river, he thought of the brook where they had stood together listening to the sound the water made rippling over the stones. The wildflowers he once ignored reminded him of the way she smelled. The leaves were the color of her eyes.
“I saw men in the woods near the two rivers today,” Black Hawk said. “One was both Indian and white.”
“LaRoux.” Nash’s eyes narrowed. How could he not hate the man that had murdered his friend? “It will be a good day when he is captured, Black Hawk. He is an evil man.”
“I should have bounded from the trees, fought his men and dragged him back here to you.”
“It’s never wise to throw oneself into a pack of wolves. You know that.”
Black Hawk grunted. “I followed them until the trail was lost. Blood was on the trail.”
“Perhaps LaRoux is wounded and it will be his end.” Nash frowned hard.
“Don’t you worry, Jack. LaRoux will reap what he has sown.” Maldowney laid back, his arms behind his head. “All in good time.”
Black Hawk nodded and went out the door. Joab had long gone to his bed, and Maldowney snored contently. As a crescent moon descended along the horizon, Nash left his guests and went upstairs.
For most men, a memory of love lost fades with time. It becomes a scar instead of a bleeding wound. But for Nash, her memory prevailed. He looked over at the cold pillow next to his, imagined she could have warmed it if circumstances had not forced them apart. He would have loved her, protected her, provided well for her. He would have laid his life down for her a thousand fold.
He heard the flutter of wings outside his window. A pair of mourning doves alighted on the sill and cooed. They huddled together, bathed in moonlight, tucking their beaks inside their wings for the night. He watched them while shadows lengthened.
“Rebecah.” He gripped the sides of the window until his hands shook.
* * *
An hour before sunrise, Rebecah sat in the window seat of her room. She clasped her hands about her knees, her head raised and pressed against the cool blue damask curtains, as she prayed for Sir Rodney, Lady Margaret, for Lottie and her children.
Her mind went over what had happened between her and Jack. Her breath came quick and painful. Her heart ached for him. She knew how angry and heartbroken he would be if he knew what had happened to his father. If only he had been here, he might have prevented the whole horrible event.
Lady Margaret’s room was next to hers and she heard her crying through the wall. She pulled on her robe, stepped out into the hallway, knocked, and went in. Lady Margaret sat up; her eyes even in the weak candlelight were swollen and red, still moist with tears. She let out a little cry and stretched out her arms to Rebecah. Rebecah went to her and held her as she wept.
After a long desperate night had past, and the sun rose when the clock chimed out six, Lady Margaret and Rebecah dressed. Rebecah ran a brush through Lady Margaret’s hair, watched her in the mirror. She stared forward, her brow turned down, as she sat motionless. The maid had been turned away when she brought in a tray of breakfast. By eight, they took horse toward Endfield with Angus as their guide.
CHAPTER 31
Rebecah nudged her horse on with a click of her tongue. Lady Margaret rode silent beside her the entire way. The hills were laced with patches of fog and the sky was gray as slate. No wind blew. She saw Henry Carrow trudging down a hillside with a hoe over his right shoulder, whistling as he went with his dog pacing beside him. He looked up and she raised her hand.
Henry waved back and picked up his step. With a flick of the reins, Rebecah’s horse started at a canter. When she reached Henry, she smiled, masking the inner anxiety she felt.
With gritty hands, Henry pulled off his hat. His sparse hair lay flat against his head. He shoved it away from his eyes.
“Are you well, Henry?” Rebecah looked out from the brim of her hat. “How are Jane and the boys?”
Henry bowed short. “They’re in fine health. Thank you, miss.”
Angus and Lady Margaret caught up. She gave Henry a forced smile. She looked tired as tired could be, and her eyes were red and swollen. Henry gave her a quick bow, but said not a word. His startled face showed enough concern, Rebecah knew, and she drew his attention away from Lady Margaret.
“We’ve come to see my uncle, Henry. Have you heard the news?”
“Aye, I have. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it with a stout heart.” Henry doffed his hat and bowed to Lady Margaret.
“Thank you, Henry.” Lady Margaret nodded. “You are kind to offer.”
“The master isn’t home. He’s gone and won’t be back for a long time. He’s hardly at Endfield anymore.”
Rebecah felt deeply disappointed. She glanced over at Lady Margaret. “We will find another way. I shall write to him at once.”
Henry took a step forward, hat in hand. “My wife and I will pray for Sir Rodney, my lady. It would be easier if your stepson were here.”
Lady Margaret’s eyes filled up and she looked away. “If ever there were a time when he should be home it should be now,” she replied. “But I’m being selfish to think so. His life would have been in danger too, and then I would have had more to grieve over.”
“And I with you, my lady.” Rebecah fixed her eyes on the hill where Endfield stood and remembered all that had happened behind those windows. “Let us return to Standforth. Angus, once we are home, you’re to go into the village and make inquiries as to where the army took Sir Rodney.”
Angus turned his horse back, and as Rebecah and Lady Margaret did the same, Henry called out. “I think it was a miracle I saw you coming. My Jane and Miss Dorene are having a terrible squabble up at the cottage. I didn’t know what to do, except maybe get March. If the master knew what they were arguing over, he’d have Miss Dorene sent away. Perhaps you could help. It’s a woman’s matter they be fighting about.”
* * *
Jane Carrow dropped her wooden spoon the moment Rebecah and Lady Margaret stepped though her cottage door. It was as if the sun broke in on a darkened room. Jane picked up the spoon. She then curtsied to her ladyship.
Henry brought Lady Margaret a chair. Removing her gloves, she lowered into it. Still Rebecah could see the pain in her eyes, which she managed to conceal from the others.
How tender a person is Lady Margaret to allow this interruption in her mission.
“We cannot stay long,” she said. “I thank you for the pause and a cup of tea if you have it.”
“I do, my lady.” Jane hurried with cup and saucer.
Rebecah preferred to stand. Pulling her ribbon free from beneath her chin, she removed her hat and set it on Jane’s oak table. She turned to her cousin. Dorene stood by the window, her face heated by either the sun or shame, her arms hugging her waist. Her eyes were fixed on the swept floor, her lower lip between her teeth. Rebecah sensed her cousin was in trouble.
