Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  “Elizabeth.” He held out his arms, and she ran to him. He embraced her stiffly and offered a cool cheek for her to kiss.

  “Let me look at you,” he said, stepping back. “You seem sound enough, freckled as a field hand, but I suppose that’s to be expected, what with being with the savages so long.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “Damn me, but you’re a sight for these old eyes, girl. Some gave you up for dead, but I never was one of them. Your mother’s gone, you’ve heard that, I suppose?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “But she died at home.”

  “Buried in our family plot. I’ve a spot beside her.” He sighed. “You know I’ve remarried. Gwendolen Chambers, fine family, old stock. No titles in the lot, but landed gentry. Gwendolen brought a fine dowry, she did. You two will get on famously.”

  Elizabeth turned to her children and motioned for them to come forward. “James, Rachel, this is your grandfather, Sir John. Father, your grandchildren.”

  He cleared his throat and reddened before unbending enough to pat Jamie on the head. “Darker skinned than I’d imagined they’d be,” he said.

  Elizabeth stiffened. “They do favor their father,” she agreed.

  “Couldn’t you have left them with the savages?” A tall, rail-thin woman with small gold spectacles and a black beauty patch on her left cheek swept into the room from the adjoining chamber. “Surely, the little things would be better off among their own kind.”

  “I am their own kind,” Elizabeth replied hotly. “Where I go, they go.”

  “Daughter,” her father said, “this is your new mother, Gwendolen. Gwendolen, my eldest daughter,

  Elizabeth.”

  “I know who she is, John,” the lady replied tersely. “We’ve all heard enough about her coming.”

  “Your mother and I are so happy to have you home,” her father said.

  “Naturally, that goes without saying.” Gwendolen gazed sternly at the children, and Rachel stuck out her tongue. “I can see I shall have the devil’s own time teaching them manners!”

  “Do not trouble yourself, madam,” Elizabeth answered. “My children are my affair and mine alone.”

  “Yes, yes,” her father soothed. “Your motherly instincts do you credit, my child. But it’s too soon to make decisions that you may regret.”

  “You are fortunate to have such a dutiful father,” Gwendolen said piously.

  “I’ve moved heaven and earth to get you back, and I’ll not abandon you on account of them,” he said, glancing at Rachel and Jamie. “It won’t be as easy to find you a husband, I’ll grant you that, but it’s not impossible. You are my oldest daughter. There’s money from your mother’s family, a substantial amount. That will do for a dowry.”

  “You can’t expect your father to do more,” his wife observed. “He has your two sisters to provide for, and then there are those we can expect God to grace us with.”

  Elizabeth suspected it would take a miracle for Gwendolen to quicken with child; the haughty matron was fifty if she was a day. “Where is Avery?” she asked when the silence in the room became awkward. “I’d hoped he might be—”

  “He’s upcountry,” her father explained. “Avery will be here as soon as he can. He is as overjoyed as the rest of us by your return.” He looked at Hunt. “For that, we have you to thank, Campbell.”

  From the expression on Hunt’s face, Elizabeth feared he cared for her father no more than she cared for her new stepmother. “I’ll take my leave now,” Hunt said. “Elizabeth and the children are worn out. They need rest and—”

  “Of course they do,” her father answered. “Come into my library, Campbell. We’ll settle our affairs and you can be on your way.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t want—”

  “I’ll not leave Charles Town without seeing you again,” Hunt said.

  “Please stay. I’m not tired,” Elizabeth protested.

  But her father was already leading Hunt from the room.

  “Brash woodsman,” Gwendolen observed.

  It was impossible for Elizabeth not to hear her father say, “You’ll want the rest of your reward money.”

  Hunt’s reply stunned her.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “I’m planning on returning what you already advanced me as soon as I can.”

  “That’s not necessary. You brought my daughter; you couldn’t have anticipated that there would be complications,” her father answered. “You’ve earned your reward.”

  Hunt stopped in the hallway at the foot of the broad staircase. Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking how small her father looked beside him.

  “By complications, do you mean your grandchildren?” Hunt asked sharply.

  “I wouldn’t expect a man of your station to comprehend—”

  “Father, please,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t—”

  “Stay out of this, daughter,” her father warned. “This is my affair.”

  “I comprehend well enough, Sir John, that it’s the color of your grandchildren that gives you such a sour expression. I’d advise you to take a second look. Those two young’ns are prime. You’d do well to value them for what they are.”

  Her father’s voice rose. “Our business is over, Mr. Campbell. If you have nothing more to say, I will ask you to leave my house.”

  “No.” Elizabeth tried to follow them into the hall, but Gwendolen stepped in front of her.

  “Best forgotten, that rough creature,” her stepmother advised.

  Elizabeth pushed past her, but Hunt was already at the door. “Hunt!” she cried.

  “I’ll be back,” he said.

  “You will not!” her father bellowed. “If you change your mind about the money, you are free to see my solicitor, Edmond Graham. But do not set foot in this house again.”

  Rachel started to whimper.

  “Airs above his station,” Gwendolen sniffed.

  Her father’s “Hmmpt!” assured anyone within earshot that he agreed completely with his wife.

  Avery’s arrival the next day had saved Elizabeth from fleeing the house within hours of arriving. Her older brother had been the only one Elizabeth had expected to love and be loved by. He hadn’t disappointed her; Avery was as good-natured and as caring a brother as he’d been as a child, even if he’d turned into a younger version of their father in appearance. He’d greeted her with a welcome hug and kiss, sweeping her feet off the floor in his enthusiasm. Avery’s green eyes had sparkled with good humor as he’d asked dozens of questions about her life among the Seneca.

  Sir John had forbidden the subject to be discussed in his home. “No need to remind Elizabeth of her tragedy,” Father had declared. “Less said, the better.”

  Yes, seeing Avery had been wonderful, but even Avery had his own family, his own wife and children. And Avery’s wife, Nancy, had been cool toward Elizabeth. She’d forbidden her sons to play with Jamie, and she’d treated Elizabeth’s children as though they were slaves. Avery tried to mediate, but Nancy had a sharp tongue and the willingness to use it. It was clear to Elizabeth that relations with her sister-in-law would always be strained.

  Elizabeth thrust her foot into a blue satin slipper, then changed her mind and kicked the dainty thing away. The bare wooden floor felt cool on her feet. Soon, she would have to submit to layers of petticoats, shift, stays, buttons, ties, stockings, shoes, and gown. She sighed heavily, remembering the comfort of wearing only a short skirt in the heat of summer days.

  “I wonder if Gwendolen would be shocked if I came down to breakfast bare-breasted?” she murmured aloud. Her father would have apoplexy; at the least, he’d order her confined to the St. John’s hospital for the insane.

  She was a wealthy woman in her own right. Avery had taken her aside and shown her the sums deposited for her in a prestigious banking house. The money left to her by her mother was to be administered by her father, Avery, or her husband, if she had one. If she married Pieter or any of the men her father
proposed, that man would control her estates and her children’s futures.

  She should be free to do as she pleased; instead, she was as much a prisoner in her father’s house as she had been among the Seneca. Perhaps more so . . . If her father decided to send Jamie away to school in Paris, as he had suggested, she’d be helpless to stop him.

  She could run away. She’d threatened that much a week after she’d returned to Charles Town. It was as close to an argument as she’d had with her father. “I won’t be separated from my children,” she’d insisted, “and I won’t marry to protect my reputation.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” her father had chided. “Where would you run? A red-haired woman with dusky children can hardly hide in the settlements. I would be remiss as a father if I didn’t find you and bring you home to my care.”

  “You’ll not shame us with your loose behavior,” Gwendolen murmured. “The Fleming family name is a good one, without scandal. Be grateful your father puts your welfare before his own.”

  “Jamie and Rachel are not a disgrace,” Elizabeth insisted. “They’re bright, beautiful—”

  “Illegitimate,” Gwendolen said. She pursed her lips. “Pretty, yes, but very dark of skin. And those heathen eyes! They can never pass as white, not here, not even in the Caribbean Islands.”

  “We’ll give them decent schooling, teach them a trade,” her father suggested. “Needlework for the girl. The lad seems sturdy; he may have the physique to be a smithy or a wheelright.”

  “The girl child must certainly learn something useful,” Gwendolen put in. “She’ll never make a decent marriage with an Englishman.”

  “The French are not so particular,” Avery said. “If we send Rachel to a convent in Paris, we might—”

  “My children will stay with me!” Elizabeth shouted. “With me, do you understand? I will make the decisions about their educations, and when they’re old enough, they’ll choose who and if they want to marry.”

  “She’s impossible,” Gwendolen said to her husband as Elizabeth swept out of the room with as much dignity as possible. “Where did she ever get such radical ideas? Choose their own marriage partners? I’m shocked, John, truly shocked. I expected better from your daughter.”

  That discussion had taken place two days ago. Since then, her father and stepmother had barely spoken two words to her, other than the normal civilities one performed for the servants’ benefit. Father hadn’t changed his mind; Elizabeth knew him well enough for that. Once he came to a decision, nothing would sway him from action, least of all the pleas of a wayward daughter. He loved her; she knew he loved her, but in his opinion no woman was mentally equipped to manage her own affairs.

  “Women and spaniels,” he’d been fond of saying when she was a child. “High-strung, both of them. Damned pleasant creatures, but not very intelligent. Need a strong hand.”

  Polly returned with the breakfast tray. Still sulking, she served tea, corn bread, and sliced melon, then left the room. Elizabeth took her cup of tea and stared thoughtfully at the bits of leaf in the bottom.

  “Where in hell are you, Hunt?” she whispered. “Why aren’t you here throwing stones at my window? Playing a flute to lure me away from all this luxury? Begging me on bended knee to become your wife and go with you to the far mountains to chew buffalo hides?”

  She missed him. Rachel and Jamie missed him. Even the promise of ponies and other children to play with hadn’t stilled their questions.

  “Where is No-tha?”

  “Why isn’t Hunter of the Far Mountains here?”

  “Did the Seneca scalp him, Mama?” Rachel asked.

  “Did he go away like our father?”

  “No, he didn’t go away,” she answered as best she could. “He’s in Charles Town. He promised he’d not leave without seeing us again, and Hunt never breaks his word.”

  Her words soothed the children but not her own uneasiness. Her father’s house had become a prison with walls that grew closer every day. If Hunt didn’t come to her soon, she’d find a way to escape and find him ... before it was too late.

  “Oh, my beautiful Sundancer,” she murmured. “You’ve never failed me yet. Where are you when I need you most?”

  Chapter 28

  By afternoon, the South Carolina sun had become a ball of fire, scorching the town and making Sir John’s dinner guests sweat like field hands, despite the reed fans the slaves kept in constant motion.

  Elizabeth couldn’t eat more than a few sips of the spicy crab soup in front of her. The long table, set with silver and crystal over sparkling-white Irish linen, groaned under the weight of food and drink. Two hams graced the board, along with a rack of lamb, fried chicken, roast beef, crab cakes, shrimp, and an endless array of breads and vegetables.

  Her father sat at one end of the table, her stepmother at the other. Avery was to Elizabeth’s left, and across from her sat Pieter Van Meer, his maiden aunt, Doortje Van Meer, and his solicitor, Jacob Greenwood. Her father’s solicitor, Edmond Graham, was also present, along with some of Gwendolen’s relatives, the minister, his wife, and another lady whom Elizabeth knew only as the vicar’s spinster sister.

  Rachel and Jamie were eating in the kitchen. Elizabeth wished she were with them—anywhere but here. Pieter’s aunt was eyeing her as though she might abruptly sprout horns, and Pieter had twice brushed Elizabeth’s ankle with his shoe.

  The conversation at the table was general: the weather, crops, the capture of a pirate ship off the barrier islands. But Elizabeth knew that this assembly had been gathered to announce an alliance between the families, and she knew she was the sacrificial lamb.

  Pieter, she had decided after their first reunion a few days ago, was a lecherous fool. He had visited the house twice. They had walked together in the formal boxwood garden and had sat in the east parlor under Gwendolen’s watchful eye. Pieter had spent most of the time trying to look down the front of her gown and talking about her dowry. He’d patted a kitchen maid’s bottom, and whispered something to Gwendolen’s personal maid that had caused the girl to flush angrily.

  Today, he stared pointedly at Elizabeth’s bosom when not distracted by those of the serving girls. He’d even leered at the minister’s plump, aging sister, who seemed about to burst the seams of her pink satin dress. Pieter talked overloudly and made no secret of his love for himself or his complete lack of understanding of any subject requiring the least amount of common sense.

  Her father couldn’t force her to marry Pieter; he just didn’t realize that yet. Elizabeth wondered if she’d ever marry. Certainly no man could match up to Hunt Campbell, and if she couldn’t have him, perhaps she’d remain single. She’d not given up hope yet, but each hour that she waited without word from him made her dreams fade a little more.

  Polly had just removed Elizabeth’s soup bowl when the front door knocker sounded, and Elizabeth heard voices in the entrance hall. Sir John looked up expectantly as his butler entered the room and came to his side. Joseph whispered in her father’s ear, and Sir John shook his head.

  “Tell him this is not a convenient time. Send him away.”

  “Who is it, dear?” Gwendolen asked.

  “No one of importance.”

  Elizabeth listened to see if she could recognize the caller. At first, she heard only a murmur of exchanged words, then Hunt’s voice rang out in the hall.

  “I’ll see Mistress Elizabeth. Now!”

  Joseph hurried back, his face red and blotchy. The guests had noticed the disturbance and began to whisper among themselves.

  “What is it, Joseph?” Sir John demanded.

  Elizabeth dropped her napkin, pushed back her chair, and stood up.

  “Remain where you are,” her father commanded.

  Hunt appeared in the doorway. “Elizabeth, I need to talk to you,” he said.

  He was wearing a single silver earring, a fringed broadcloth hunting shirt, doeskin breeches that clung to his muscular thighs like a second skin, a beaded hunting
bag, and a carved powder horn slung over one shoulder. Hunt’s head was bare; his black hair was drawn back into a queue at his nape and two eagle feathers dangled from the leather tie. A sheathed scalping knife with an elk antler handle hung from one lean hip. In his hands, he carried a Lancaster County rifle with a maple stock and silver inlay; he leaned it against the door molding and strode into the room as though he owned it.

  “Sweet God in heaven!” Gwendolen shrieked.

  The minister’s wife gave a little gurgle of fright and plopped her limp hand into her soup bowl, splashing her sister-in-law’s yellow silk bodice with red crab bisque.

  “An Indian!” Doortje Van Meer squealed. Elizabeth heard Pieter’s gasp of outrage, but she had no time to spare for him. She stared at Hunt, beginning at the toes of his high Delaware moccasins and moving up his muscled body to the cocky grin on his face. “It’s about time,” she admonished. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Sweet Jesus, she thought, he looks like a hunting hawk in a cage full of pigeons.

  His gaze met hers and he nodded. “I’m going back to the wilderness, Elizabeth,” he said, ignoring the chorus of angry shouts from Avery, her father, and the solicitors.

  Hunt pulled a small leather sack from his waist and dropped it onto an Irish hunt table along the wall. The heavy bag made a solid clink as it fell. “The rest of the money, Mr. Fleming.” Hunt’s eyes narrowed as they fixed on Elizabeth. “I could have sent the silver. I came to—”

  Say good-bye? she wondered. Damn him! Hunt was as blind as her own father—as much a fool as Pieter Van Meer. If he walked out this door alone, he’d regret it to his dying day. She’d not let him make that mistake. “No!” she screamed. “You can’t abandon me!”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Hunt demanded.

  He reached for her, and she stepped back and pointed at him. “Daddy!” she wailed. “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

  “Seize that intruder!” Sir John yelled. “I’ll not have such a common rogue invade my house.”

  Joseph lunged at Hunt, and he brushed him off as carelessly as a horsefly. “Elizabeth?” Hunt grabbed her arm. “What in heaven—”