She broke the red seal and unfolded it. “It’s from Enoch Washington.”
“Yes, I recognized his hand.” Dropping the boot on the floor, he set to work on the other.
“Dear Samuel,” she read aloud. “I hope this letter finds you well and your farm prospering. I have had some unsettling news that I must share with you. The bounty hunter—” She stopped. Jack Rumkin, spelled the cramped, neat handwriting. The man in the beaver hat.
“Let me see.” He father stopped working on his boot and held out his hand.
She shook her head. She would not give in to the fear that crept through her and made the letter quiver in her hand. She steadied it to read again. “The bounty hunter Jack Rumkin has been making inquiries in all the taverns about town. My contacts tell me that he is looking for the Simons, who have sheltered with me here since your departure.” She swallowed and continued reading. “We had intended to send them on to Canada, but Clara fell ill and we thought it best to wait. Rumkin’s efforts have been so assiduous that I fear that it will not be long until he finds a man who will barter information for liquor.”
Her father had disposed of the other boot, and now he stood in his stocking feet and gently took the letter from her. “Bravely done. I’ll read the rest.” He was quiet, his head bent over the paper, then he looked up. “Enoch says he is sending the Simons here.”
“Why?” Her question was soft, but her thoughts veered in several directions.
“He doesn’t think Rumkin will expect them to come west. He will be watching for them along the northern road. But if they come this way, we can send them north, to a farmer Enoch knows in Mount Vernon.”
“But what if—” She hated the catch in her voice. “What if Rumkin follows them here?”
“I will take care of Rumkin.”
The flatness of her father’s reply made her uneasy. Would he kill the bounty hunter if he saw him? Surely not. He had been as upset by the death of Mr. Holmes as Ann herself.
But her next thought was too unsettling to speak aloud. What if he comes here and you are not at home?
She turned away to hide her disquiet and walked to the hearth. If Mr. Washington had chosen this course, she could not argue. He must know the ways of the bounty hunters better than she did, and she could not advocate some other route that might condemn the Simons to recapture. Back in Tennessee, their punishment would be dire beyond her will to imagine. Their enraged former master would hold them responsible for the death of Mr. Holmes.
She forced herself to think of something else. “Eli Bowen came by.”
“Indeed?”
“He wants me to go with him to a party tomorrow. A bonfire at the Murdoch place, for the young people.”
“That seems pleasant.” He sounded surprised. “Would you like to go?”
“I suppose.”
“Then of course you may.”
Thank heaven he had asked no further questions about Eli.
His expression was nonchalant as he removed plates from the hutch and set them on the table. “Where are the girls?” he asked at last.
“Playing in their room.”
“I’ll call them to dinner.”
After he walked to the back, it was only a minute before the girls came tumbling out of the hallway. Mabel talked without pause for breath about a wild panther in the woods, and Susan occasionally added a detail to the story.
“Its eyes glowed like fire! And it was black.”
“I don’t think we have panthers in these parts, girls,” their father said, his mouth quirking.
“It was a panther, it was!” Mabel said.
“Perhaps it was a very large turkey.” Her father always spoke with the greatest seriousness when he was teasing them.
The debate on the features of panthers and turkeys began in earnest, and Ann spooned potatoes and ham onto the plates.
She did not mind dreaming a little of Eli, as the good-natured wrangling continued. Their earlier courtship now took on the golden cast of a more innocent time. Perhaps she could take his hand and walk right back into that time. There would be no ugliness and no cruelty. It would be just Eli, Ann, and endless talk of wonderful books in their own private world. It would be a perfect union, unmarked by the trouble and sin that ruined everything else.
When Eli arrived to escort her to the bonfire, everything promised to be just as she had imagined. They rode beside each other, she sidesaddle on Bayberry, he on his bay gelding. Even their horses were perfectly suited. She had to guard against looking at him too long or too frequently; it was hard not to admire the strong, fine cut of his cheekbones, the lean but poised lines of his figure on horseback. The pleasure she took in his company was the same as ever and left her in an elevated mood as if she stood before a painting by one of the masters. She was slightly awed that such a man was actually beside her.
As they arrived at the Murdochs’ farm, the dark smoke of the bonfire was already rising in the clearing behind the barn. It was still cold and gray, but the orange fire crackled merrily in the center of a circle of young people who sat on makeshift benches formed from hewn logs. James Murdoch noticed them ride up and came to help with their horses.
Eli supported Ann by the hand and steadied her at the waist as she cleared her skirts from the pommel and slid down. He stood very close and a thrill rippled up her arms from where their gloved hands touched as she remembered the feel of his ungloved hand. She pulled away and took his elbow instead.
He led her over to the fire, and they greeted some of the others they knew—their old schoolmates, their faces rosy with the heat. As they made their way to a free log, Ann saw over the wavering heat of the fire that David Crawford sat with Phoebe Vanderlick only a few yards away.
Ann dreaded the moment when Phoebe would look around and see them. She had no love for Phoebe, but she would not wish on her the pain of losing a cherished suitor.
After a while, the black curls bobbed and Phoebe’s dark eyes flicked in their direction.
The hardness of Phoebe’s stare made it clear that the girl was no more fond of Ann than ever. And probably less, given the circumstances. Phoebe presented her back to Ann and Eli and engaged in animated conversation with David, who gave them a perfunctory wave over her head.
James and his mother emerged from the house with mugs of cider. When Mrs. Murdoch, large and genial, handed Ann and Eli their mugs, Ann cradled hers in both hands, inhaling the sweet-smelling steam.
“Did you enjoy your time in Pittsburgh?” Eli’s question was low and intimate.
“Most of it. The architecture and the music were wonderful.”
“But there were some things that were less enjoyable?” He half smiled. He had always told her he liked her frankness.
“I wasn’t enamored of the smoke,” she said.
He grinned more broadly. “And the citizens?”
She fell silent. Will the apprentice came to her mind, as she had seen him last, skinny as a starved yearling and dressed in little more than rags. “Some of them are very piteous, and some are cruel.”
He had stopped smiling. He must have sensed her sadness. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”
“I do not like it.”
“Well, I am very glad that you are back. I did not know how much I would miss your sweet face.” He took her hand unobtrusively, so the others would not see. “The heart went out of the town for me.”
The flush in her face was not an effect of the fire, though she hoped it seemed so. She had nothing to say, but gazing at him was quite enough to occupy her attention. His eyes glinted a more crystalline blue in the firelight, the planes of his face sharpened in the shadow.
He looked down at the bare ground. “I must humbly beg your pardon for my treatment of you. I was hurt when you refused me. I did not want to wait. I behaved badly.”
“Hush,” she said gently. The logs hissed in the fire. “Let’s not speak of it.”
He set his mug down by his foot. “I have
written something for you.”
She was tongue-tied, both flattered and shy.
“Would you like to hear it?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
He lowered his eyelids in concentration, then spoke quietly, looking into her eyes. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely, and more temperate.”
She giggled.
“What’s the matter?” he said innocently. “Don’t you want me to tell you the rest? I worked very hard composing it.” The way he bit his lip to keep from smiling gave him away.
“Oh, please do.”
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May . . .” As he went on, the mirth that bubbled up in her brought something else—oddly, it was still romantic to have him recite those immortal words, looking at her as if he were composing them himself on the spur of the moment. He finished the sonnet and cocked his head, his eyes narrowing adorably. “What do you think?”
“Ravishing,” she said. “And I wrote one for you.”
“Out with it.” He rested his hand on the log and leaned closer to her.
“Good nature and good sense must ever join—” she began.
He continued, “To err is human—”
“To forgive—”
“Divine.” His last word breathed close to her ear. A shiver went down to her core; she closed her eyes.
“You always loved Pope,” he said, still bent very close.
“He is so witty, one must love him or hate him.” She opened her eyes and tilted her head up to meet his gaze.
“But I preferred Byron.”
“I remember. You were the scandalous one. We certainly didn’t hear Byron in school.”
“But I only told you the virtuous poems.”
“Such as?”
“Let me think a moment.” In profile, his lips pursed as he thought. He was the kind of man who deserved to be sculpted. She wanted to touch him just to reassure herself that he was real flesh.
“Eternal spirit of the chainless mind . . .” he whispered again to her. She enjoyed his closeness, but something nagged at her about this poem.
“Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art!”
Now she remembered. It was “The Prisoner of Chillon.”
He went on, “And when thy sons to fetters are confined . . .”
Confined, imprisoned. Like Will Hanby. How could she laugh, spout poetry, and go courting, having left him to poverty and beatings, if not worse? She sat up straighter, wishing Eli would stop.
But he did not. “To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom . . .”
Will’s body sprawled in the gray gloom of Master Good’s barn recurred to her like a slap in the face. She jumped up, murmuring that she was overheated, and walked away from the fire. She heard Eli a step behind her, then he caught up.
“I have offended you,” he said. He laid a hand under her elbow and walked with her.
“No,” she said. “An unpleasant memory. But it’s no fault of yours.” Smiling halfheartedly, she strolled with him in full view of the others, as if admiring the fire from a distance.
“Tell me what has disturbed you.” His tone was pleading and the softness of his eyes almost dissolved her guard. But she remained silent, preferring to hold his arm and soak in the comfort of his presence. She did not know how he would respond to the story of Will. She did not intend to share it with him.
As she walked, the warmth of the fire dissipated from her clothing, and the cold of the afternoon seeped back in its place. When she remarked on the cold, Eli was happy to return to their seat by the fire and chat with the others. Ann stared into the leaping flames.
She had a fire to warm her on this cold day. But Will did not. She could not continue her life as if she never saw his plight. His lonely face had printed its image on her mind’s eye, a constant reminder that her inaction had been no better for him, in the end, than cruelty.
Twenty-Three
WILL KNEW HE HAD COME MILES AND MILES. SOME time ago the sting of blisters had begun, but now his feet grew numb from the endless walking and cold.
The night was still dark, and the hard-packed road twisted narrow through the tall slender trees. He had seen no one since the bridge. No one else was fool enough to travel in near-darkness, when the world lay asleep.
He was so thirsty. He wished the patches of snow from a few weeks back had lingered, but then he probably would have frozen to death by now.
He thrust his hand into his pocket. The slices of beef were there, cold and hard. He fumbled one out and gnawed on it as he walked, as if he could draw moisture from it as well as sustenance. His mouth was dry. There was no water in him to wash down the food. He swallowed with difficulty and put the remainder back in his pocket.
He was growing dizzy, but he would not stop. He took out the beef again and bit off a piece to hold in his mouth. The flavor gave him something to focus on besides the effort of walking. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes for a few steps, breathing every other stride. He had to stay conscious and moving.
But the dizziness was growing worse. The road lurched under him; he stumbled and fell to his knees. The sharp pain in his already lacerated palms cleared his head.
He stood up again and moved forward, but the road soon started swaying as it had before. He could not give up. He would keep moving. The edges of his vision darkened, making the night even dimmer. He concentrated on that pale ribbon of road stretching ahead, but his head drooped until he could only see his feet moving over the dirt and gravel.
The circle of blackness closed in on him; he fought, but it was no use. His feet slowed. His knees gave way. The hard road turned as soft and welcoming as a feather bed. His vision was only a pinprick, and then it winked out.
He coughed, choking, spluttering. He was on his back; he rolled to his side. Liquid sprayed from his mouth. He could breathe again. The sharp smell of whiskey penetrated his fog; it burned on his tongue.
He opened his eyes. It was still dark, though less so than before. Above him loomed the silhouette of a crouching man. It was over, then. Failure fell on him like a lead weight.
“You’re in sorry shape, young’un,” the man said. Will could not focus his eyes. The man was a stranger, just an indistinct shape against the starry sky.
“Someone’s used you pretty ill, I’d say.” The man whistled through his teeth. “When blood paints straight lines on back of a body’s shirt, it’s a pretty good guess how it got there.”
Will stared dully ahead. Then his stripes must have reopened enough to bleed. At least enough to stain his dirty shirt. He couldn’t feel much.
The man’s big arm burrowed under Will’s ribcage and hoisted him to his feet. Will’s legs dangled; he was barely able to get his feet under him.
“The gods have smiled on you tonight,” the man said almost under his breath, hauling Will a few paces across the road. Will lifted his head to see a wagon before him.
“I’ve tasted the sweetness of a good flogging myself, courtesy of the navy,” the man said. “But since we’re a ways from the sea, I know it ain’t the navy that gave you yours. Get yourself up. Look lively.”
He snagged a burly arm under Will’s leg and pushed him over the sideboard of the wagon. Will was barely able to cushion his tumble with one arm.
He heard the man climbing up to the driver’s seat. “A bad master, no doubt. So I won’t ask your name, nor will I give you mine. It’s better that way. Here you go.”
Something thumped against Will’s gut. He brought his hands down to it; it was a canteen. The idea of water revived him, and by great concentration he managed to raise himself on one arm. He unscrewed the cap with awkward fingers. Putting the neck to his lips, he drank the cool, sweet liquid in gulp after gulp. His hand shook.
“Don’t you be wasting it now,” the man said gruffly.
Will lowered the canteen and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Fully conscious for the first time, he looked at the stranger. The
man had a black beard like a pirate in a storybook. It bristled out over his huge chest. He wore an old brown vest; his arms were like hams bulging under plain shirt sleeves. No wonder he had been able to toss Will around like a rag doll.
“I’m going to the National Road,” the pirate-man said. “Then to Brownsburgh.”
“I need to go west, not east,” Will said. “But I’d be obliged if you’d let me ride with you to the National Road.”
“That I will,” the man said. He turned around and picked up the reins, clucking and slapping them against the horse’s back. The wagon lurched forward, and Will swayed back against the side.
“It’ll take us a few hours,” the man said over his shoulder. “If you’re continuing on foot, you’d better sleep. There’s a blanket under you.”
Will felt the fuzzy roughness under his fingers. He shifted and pulled the wool blanket from beneath his legs.
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” he said.
“You just joined the brotherhood of the whip,” the man said. “Now you help some other poor bleeding blackguard when it’s your turn.”
“Yes, sir.”
No one could have slept in the bumping wagon under normal circumstances, but Will’s exhaustion was like nothing he had ever known. As soon as he lay on his side and pulled the blanket over him, he fell into a fitful doze.
A rough jolt against the side of the wagon awoke him. He sat up.
Some time had passed; the pale gold of dawn had come. In its light, he saw that dew lay on the grass under the trees. Dew, not frost. The wagon had stopped. Before them lay a much wider road, liberally packed with gravel. He saw a wooden post next to the wagon with a few numbers carved into it.
The big man turned around. “The National Road. You’re sure you want to get out? I’m going this way.” He pointed left. “It’s a mite easier than walking.”
“I need to go west.” Will rubbed his eyes. “But I thank you.” He pushed off the blanket and climbed off the back of the wagon, trying not to groan when his tortured feet hit the road.
Fairer than Morning Page 17
