Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

  The target tipped over on its side and the crowd roared.

  * * *

  Not far from the field at the Boyd House, Rebecah met Mr. Boyd in the sitting room. By the stunned look on his face, Rebecah knew she was not what he expected after his daughter informed him, upon his arrival home, they had a guest. When he heard her story, he stood and guided her to a chair.

  “You were brave to come all this way in such perilous times.”

  “My reasons were stronger ones, Mr. Boyd.”

  “Jack has no idea of your arrival?”

  “None, sir.”

  He raised his brows. “I’m astonished.”

  She gave him a quick smile and lowered her eyes. “Many people are. But surely it has been done before.”

  “The world is rife with love stories of this nature. But

  I’ll not pry by asking you why you did not warn him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “This should be quite a surprise for him. I wish I could see his face.”

  Theresa drew up beside Rebecah. “Papa, we must protect Rebecah from gossips like Mrs. Cottonwood. She arrived after we did at Laurel Hill with her daughter. You know how set she is on Drusilla marrying Captain Nash.”

  “I can assure you, he has no interest whatsoever in wedding that girl. He told me himself.”

  No interest whatsoever. Relief filled Rebecah. He was still free.

  “Now I must be off to my office. I shall join you ladies later. You will find Captain Nash on the hill, Miss Brent.”

  Theresa grabbed Rebecah by the hand and drew her out into the hallway. She tied the ribbon of her hat at least five times, and smoothed the ringlets in her hair through her fingers more than she could count. Her dress was what she had worn to Laurel Hill, and the color enhanced the rose in her cheeks. Yet for the light coming through the windows, sparkling in her eyes, the worry in them she could not banish.

  Her heart pounded waiting to leave. Oh, to see him after so long, to hear his voice and feel his touch. She dreamed through a restless night, tossing and turning in her sleep, wondering if she should have sent him word at Richfield that she had come.

  Perhaps he did know. What if he had returned to Laurel Hill that morning and Joab told him? If it were true, why hadn’t he come for her?

  She wrung her hands, rehearsed what she would say. The words stumbled from her lips and nothing seemed to fit.

  Walking down the street, Rebecah looked up at the church spires. The Evangelical Reformed Church towered in majestic brick, its spire shooting upward to a sharp point, gray and black against the sky. Beyond it, the spire of Saint John the Evangelist shone stark white in the sunlight, topped with a gold cross. Their presence inspired hope. Yet Rebecah could not fight off the growing anxiety of their meeting again. The mixed emotions were bittersweet.

  As she hastened on with Theresa’s arm linked in hers, she remembered how he stood there, his stare darkening, as he denounced her promise. Many months ago in England, she had made two pledges. At the first, her heart belonged to him alone. But when circumstances turned, she vowed never to see him again. The latter was said in the throes of heartache and anger, and for that, she was sorry.

  Feeling her pulse race, she stopped.

  “What is it, Rebecah?” Theresa said.

  “I cannot go on. I do not think I should go to him this way, without any warning. He’ll be angry, I know it.” She laid her hand on Theresa’s sleeve. “Let me go back. You can tell him.”

  Theresa smiled. “There is no need for you to be afraid. Besides, the festival is ahead of us. We’ve been spotted.”

  She thought she would die on her feet knowing there was no turning back. Up the hill they went, Theresa smiling and whirling in her girlish manner, Rebecah following her at a slower pace. A large crowd of people gathered near a pair of twin oaks. Rebecah saw men with tomahawks and muskets, dressed in belted hunting shirts and moccasins. Powder horns were strapped over their shoulders, and fox and raccoon-skin caps were on their heads.

  Joab drew up beside them on a white mule. He slipped off the bare back, and pulled off his hat. “Miss Rebecah.”

  “Hello, Joab. Have you spoken to Captain Nash? Did you tell him I came to Laurel Hill?”

  “No, ma’am. He didn’t come home, but come here straight from Richfield. There he is.”

  Before Rebecah could do anything, Joab was gone in a flash. She watched him make his way through the crowd. She bit her lip until it hurt, squeezed her hands together. He stepped up to a man. She could not see his face.

  He turned.

  Their eyes met and held.

  CHAPTER 8

  People vanished the moment Nash laid eyes on her. Her face, her coral lips, her jade eyes, intent upon him, reached out and seized. Tears entered her eyes, beading upon her dark lashes, and drew him forward.

  “Rebecah,” he breathed out.

  When he reached her, she lifted her eyes to his. His arms ached to embrace her.

  Nash glanced at Theresa. “Miss Boyd.”

  She gave him a quick curtsey. “Good day, Captain Nash. Aren’t you surprised?”

  “I am.” He swallowed hard.

  “Miss Brent is the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” Theresa declared. “She came all the way from England and overland all by herself.”

  “Will you excuse us?”

  He took Rebecah by the arm and moved her through the crowd. People watched as they went by.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Some place where we can speak in private.”

  A smokehouse stood a few yards away. He pushed open the door, drew her inside, and shut it. She stood in the center of the floor, hands clasped.

  “Is it possible?”

  “You are… angry?”

  “I’m stunned.”

  “I should have written first.”

  “It may have helped ease the shock.”

  “I’m sorry. I can explain.”

  “I hope you can…Why are you trembling?”

  “I’m a little cold.”

  “In more than one way, last I knew.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I deserved that, I suppose.”

  “Why are you here— Lady Lanley is it? Has he come with you or did you run away from the over-dressed fool?”

  She looked at him. “I did not marry him.”

  Nash kicked a loose stone on the dirt floor and it hit the wall. “You swore to wed Lanley.”

  “Yes, I’ve not forgotten what I said and did.”

  “Nor have I. What are you doing here?”

  Her eyes softened. “Your father…”

  Alarm shot through him. “Has something happened?”

  “He was arrested for aiding privateers. Laban Huet was hung at Standforth. Sir Rodney has begged you do not return. Your name came into the charges. He wishes you to stay away.”

  He frowned. “A son cannot stand by and do nothing.”

  “That’s true. But give yourself time to think.”

  Nash shook with grief. He turned away and placed his hands on a table in the corner. “You saw him before you left?”

  “I visited him, yes, in prison.”

  Nash’s eyes were pained and urgent. “How was he?”

  “He was bearing up, and he is treated well. David is seeking a reprieve. I’ve no doubt he will be successful.”

  “And my stepmother?”

  “You know her. She is the strongest of women.”

  He sat on a barrel, hands clasped over his knees. “So, you came all this way to give me bad news—you that hate me?”

  “Hate you?”

  “What should I call your feelings toward me?”

  “I never have hated you. I repented for ending the love we felt.” She hung her head. “I repented many times over…”

  He gazed at her with her hair falling about her shoulders, with miniature curls framing her face, the silk of her bodice, her breast rising and falling.

  “Before I left
England,” she went on, “I wrote to the surgeon who attended my father. He assured me you did not cause the wound that killed him. Must I go on? It is complicated and grieves me.”

  “Certainly go on,” he said. “I think I should know.”

  She drew in a long breath and paced. “My father arrived in England a month before coming home. He stayed in Portsmouth with a woman. Another man challenged him, a wealthy man who had her for a mistress. There was a duel, you see, and that is how my father came by his wound, and ultimately his death.”

  Nash reached out to touch her, but dropped his hand to his side. “Why didn’t he tell you? Why would he have concealed the truth?”

  She lowered her head, emotion stirring. “He was ashamed I suppose. Forgive me for the hard words I spoke, of my rejection and suspicions of you.”

  “You could have believed me from the start. Why didn’t you?”

  She looked up at him with moist eyes. “I was afraid.”

  “But you found out the truth, sailed across the ocean and overland to find me hoping I would forget everything that happened between us and take you back?”

  * * *

  It hurt. But what could she expect?

  His heart has changed toward me. This is my reward—to reap what I had sown.

  It crushed her, and she turned away to wipe the tears from off her face.

  “I understand. You needn’t say anything more. At least let me give you something from your father to help your cause,” she said, changing the flow of their conversation. “I’ve kept it hidden beneath my gown.”

  She turned away, pulled up her skirt and untied the money pouch. Shoving down her gown, she then turned and handed it to him.

  “There are several hundred pounds there. Your father hopes it will help.”

  Nash took it from her hand. Their fingers touched. “Yes, it will. It was brave of you.”

  “There are letters inside.”

  He opened the bag and drew them out.

  Rebecah moved to the door. “I have done what Sir Rodney asked me to do. So I’ll go.”

  Nash looked at her. “Where are you staying?”

  “Mr. Boyd and his daughter were kind enough to give me lodging.”

  “They’re good people.”

  “Yes, they are.” She looked at his leg. “Does it hurt much?”

  An inkling of an angry smile curved his mouth. “Not much.”

  She hesitated, gripping her hands, wishing he would tell her what had happened, wishing he would have a change of heart.

  Embrace me. Tell me you still love me.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t more serious. If you…”

  “It’s nothing.”

  She looked away, his cold abruptness pricking her. “Goodbye, Jack.”

  Pulling open the door, she left. The sky was deep now, and the shadows heavy like her heart. She hurried across a field toward the spires, down the hill that lead back to the Boyd house.

  She pressed a fist against her heart, her hopes dashed, the road ahead promising to be an unpredictable one.

  CHAPTER 9

  After reading his father’s letter, having been told everything, Nash sat with his hands over his eyes pleading with the Almighty. The King’s law was firm—harsh and lacking compassion. Even children were hung in the squares of English town’s for stealing bread. How much more heinous did Sir Rodney’s crime seem in comparison?

  Food smuggled aboard a privateer for the Bostonians. How could a man be condemned for sending aid to the starving?

  He thought a thousand thoughts with his back against the wall. At least his father had not met the same fate as Laban Huet. As much as his father railed against the injustice, judges took no action to bring charges against Captain Donely. He was the son of a powerful aristocratic family, many of which were favorites of the King.

  Poor Mrs. Huet and the children. Nash thought about the day he met them on the road on the way to church.

  Dear Mother. He had some comfort in knowing she was staying with the Hartcourts through this ordeal. At least she was not alone. Still, anguish raked over his soul. He wanted to go to them. Defend them both. Get them out of England.

  If I had stayed longer, perhaps I could have saved him. How my emotions ruled me! And he slammed his fist into his thigh.

  He looked up at the ceiling, at the slim shaft of light bleeding from it. Then he drew out another letter—this one from David, urging him to be rational and stay in America. It would be grief enough if Lady Margaret were to lose his father, but oh how double the pain would be if she were to lose him as well.

  David wrote:

  I’m confident I shall clear Sir Rodney. There is no solid proof to keep him in prison, or to sentence him. I shall see to it your dear stepmother is cared for through this trouble. But for you, Sir Samuel’s bitterness is overwhelming, and he will stop at nothing to destroy you if you should return.

  He is outraged that Rebecah has come to you. Revolutionaries on every quarter are being arrested, thrown in prison and some have hung.

  When this is all over, I promise to set your parents aboard ship and get them to America. Perhaps my dear wife and I shall accompany them.

  Next, he opened Lady Margaret’s letter. She warned him to stay away, to think of Rebecah and keep her with him.

  Do not fear for us, my son. God shall send us all the aid we need. David and Lavinia are looking after me. Your father is treated kindly. Soon this trial, and your revolution, shall be over and we shall leave home and build a new life with you and Rebecah in America.

  Rebecah. How beautiful she looked standing there in the shade with her large-brimmed hat darkening the color of her eyes. Yes, he loved her, and he sat there brooding over all that had happened. He knew he had to swallow his pride.

  * * *

  Slander and gossip ran deeper than truth that year of 1774. Certain people refused to bridle their wagging tongues in Fredericktown, and when Nash stepped forth from the smokehouse and made his way back, a group of women huddled together. They made slight, deliberate gestures, and spoke between themselves.

  Mrs. Matilda Cottonwood, Mrs. Roberta Smith, Mrs. Lettice Tinburgen, the spinster Derwood, and the Widow Watson kept an eye on him. Nash knew they were talking about him and the lady. One corner of his mouth curved into a grin that said he did not care what they thought. Ignoring their stares he moved on, walking under the shady trees looking for Rebecah.

  Mrs. Cottonwood called out to him. He turned at the scratchy sound of her voice. Her face looked flushed like a strawberry. Her narrow gray eyes blinked as if a gnat flew before them. “May we speak to you, Captain Nash?”

  “If it’s about the dance, tell Drusilla I will not be there. I have business to attend to. There are other single men in this town.”

  She puckered her lips and mustered her breath. “It’s no place of mine to meddle in other peoples’ affairs…”

  Nash leaned toward her. “Then I suggest, ma’am, you do not.”

  “But I must just this once,” she said, shutting her eyes. “It’s for the good of our community.”

  “I don’t understand. Excuse me.” He went to leave, but she stepped in front of him like a jackrabbit. The other women hovered around, and Nash frowned.

  “What is on your minds, ladies?”

  “Well, there’s talk,” said Mrs. Smith, drawing up her shoulders.

  Mrs. Cottonwood took a step in front of her. “The lady who you met with, Captain, everyone knows she was at Laurel Hill when Drusilla and I rode out there to see you. How long is this woman to stay at Laurel Hill, and without a chaperone?”

  “Is it against the law for a woman to visit my house?”

  “No, but we hope she is not staying with you.”

  “Indeed, where would the lady sleep? No other place but your own bed,” Mrs. Smith whispered.

  “The Captain is a gentleman, Mrs. Smith,” said the Widow Watson. “You’d take the floor now wouldn’t you, Captain? Or you’d tie yourself up i
n a bundle bag.”

  “That courtship custom may be acceptable to some,” said Mrs. Smith, “but it gives way to temptation. Is the lady staying with you?”

  “Madams, I was unaware she visited my house in the first place,” he said. “There’s no breech in morals here. That is what you’re insinuating, is it not?”

  “But I saw her with my own eyes,” Mrs. Cottonwood said.

  “No doubt you did,” he replied.

  “She’s from England, we hear,” said the Widow Watson.

  “That’s right.” Nash smiled at the old woman. She was the least annoying of the group—eighty and two, her shoulders hunched over, her statue small as a twelve-year-old child. And she had a playful glint in her aged eyes as well as in her laugh.

  “An English lass, was I when I first come here to Mary’s land, Captain Jack,” she said. “Eighteen was I—eighteen and pretty as a spring rose. I had me beaus too, I did. Then I married Benjamin Watson. That girl, she’s pretty too. You should marry her.”

  The slim spinster Derwood stepped forward. “She’s the lady the whole town is talking about. Her coach was held up, you know. No one knows what happened. One can only imagine.”

  “I had not heard about that, ma’am,” he said.

  “She must be terribly in love with you, Captain Jack, to have left home and faced such troubles to find you,” said the widow. “More reason to wed her.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Mrs. Cottonwood said. “She’s probably a British sympathizer—or a hussy.”

  Again Nash frowned. “She’s not, I can assure you.”

  “Then what is she to you?” said Mrs. Cottonwood.

  He knew his response would set their heads spinning. He leaned closer. “Miss Rebecah Brent is the woman I love,” he whispered.

  The widow cackled joyously. The other ladies gasped. Mrs. Cottonwood’s mouth fell open. “Love her? What about my poor Drusilla?”

  Nash bowed and walked on. He thought of going to the Boyds’ to inquire after Rebecah, and the dangers she had faced to reach him. A pit grew in his stomach, for he had treated her badly.