“That I understand,” Cutler said. “Even if I weren’t worried about my daddy, I wouldn’t stay here more than a night or two. But why don’t y’all come with us and stay a few weeks? It’ll give you more time to find out what happened with the war, not to mention give the season time to turn. If you mean to ride for Canada, you ought to wait till it’s truly spring. You don’t want to get caught with your lady in a snowstorm, do you?”
Henry considered. He wouldn’t have minded for himself, now that his wound was fully healed, but Thérèse and Jeannette weren’t accustomed to such a cold climate. “I’d hate to trespass upon your hospitality,” he said slowly.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Cutler waved off this concern with a sweep of his hand. “We still owe you a debt.”
“You paid that back the second day out of Natchez.”
“Still. We owe each other. If we were in your home, you’d ask us to stay, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.” Henry bit down on a grin as he tried to imagine what his aristocratic mother and his prim and proper sister-in-law would’ve made of a pair of Tennessee frontiersmen, but he would indeed have welcomed them as his guests.
“There you are. Stay with us a few weeks, maybe a month. At least well into March. And if you want to earn your keep, you can help with the planting.”
“Then we will, assuming Thérèse is agreeable.”
They shook hands on the bargain, but when Henry presented the plan to Thérèse and Jeannette, both were reluctant.
“A whole month?” Jeannette asked.
“Give or take a few weeks. It’s still winter, after all. It might yet snow, north of here. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows here in the next day or two. The air feels ripe for it.”
“It is cold.” Thérèse stood as close to the fire as she could without risking setting her dress afire. “Maybe we can find a secondhand clothing shop and buy warmer coats and more blankets after we go to the pawnshop tomorrow.”
“We should do that regardless,” Henry said. “It’s four days’ ride to Cutler’s and Wilson’s home...but you don’t want to go, do you?”
“They’re your friends,” Thérèse said. His, but not hers, which Henry supposed was true. Cutler was friendly to Thérèse and treated Jeannette with negligent kindness, but Wilson was stiff and reserved around both of them. “But the sooner we’re away from here, out of Jean-Baptiste’s reach, out of slave country, the happier I’ll be.”
“And I,” Jeannette put in.
“I understand. But we’ll travel more safely if we wait for spring. I don’t want either of you taking ill because we’re trapped in a snowstorm.”
“What about you?” Jeannette asked.
“I’m English. I’m more used to the cold. And I served in the army five years. If the elements were going to kill me, I think they would’ve managed by now.”
Thérèse raised a wry eyebrow. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Well, then, if you’re as worried about me as I am about you, that’s all the more reason to wait a little longer before venturing farther north.”
Thérèse looked to Jeannette, who shrugged. “Very well,” Thérèse said. “But as soon as it’s warm, we’ll go.”
* * *
As they rode closer and closer to Cutler’s and Wilson’s mountain settlement, Thérèse tried to make up her mind whether she felt more awe or trepidation at the rugged countryside. She could not deny the beauty of the long, high ridges blanketed by thick forest, but it was wild, strange country, and she felt a stab of homesickness for New Orleans, lying low and settled in the Mississippi’s broad embrace.
Henry, however, loved this place. He’d been especially delighted to learn that the mountains were called the Cumberlands, for it happened that his home county in England bore the same name. “Does it look like this?” Thérèse asked him. That would explain the way his eyes shone with delight each time they rounded a bend and came upon another sweeping vista of steep green ridges and narrow valleys.
He grinned at her. “It does, a little. This place was well named. My Cumberland has fewer trees, though. I wonder if it looked like this, long ago, before there were so many people there. But the mountains aren’t quite the same shape, either.” His gaze and his smile turned thoughtful. “These are your first real mountains, I suppose. Do you like them?”
He seemed truly anxious about her answer. Why should it matter if she liked mountains? It wasn’t as though she could travel with him to his English Cumberland. “It is beautiful here,” she said, “but I miss my river.”
“Almost home,” Cutler called from where he rode in the lead. “Just another mile or two.”
And before darkness fell, they rode into a valley that seemed broad by comparison to the others they’d seen that day. At the flattest point, on either side of a fast-flowing creek, a cluster of about a dozen log buildings stood, while here and there beyond it Thérèse could see other cabins perched higher on the surrounding ridges’ flanks. It was rough and simple, but after her long weeks on horseback, it truly did look like a sanctuary. Here they could rest. Here she could sleep in the same bed night after night until spring came.
Cutler swept out his arm in a theatrical gesture. “Welcome to Cutler’s Creek.”
A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve in buckskin trousers and a fringed shirt spotted them as they rode out of the forest and gave a shout of greeting.
“Jimmy!” Cutler shouted back. “Run tell my family we’re home—but wait. How’s my daddy?”
The boy grinned. “He’s dandy. Your mother was that worried about him just after Christmas, but he’s better now. But what about you? Did you fight in the war?”
“We did, and gave the redcoats a right good whipping.”
Thérèse was becoming alert enough to Henry’s moods that she caught his faint flinch, but she didn’t think any of the others did. Young Jimmy watched them with open curiosity, but there was nothing unfriendly or suspicious in his gaze. And, really, why should he suspect them of anything but being strangers, which she supposed was rare enough in his experience?
“Did you? How did it happen?”
“We’ll tell you and everyone else, but not now. Run along, like I said.”
The boy waved and raced off along the creek bank.
“You should’ve asked him about Sophia,” Wilson said, worry and reproach heavy in his voice.
Cutler smote himself on the forehead. “So I should. I’m sorry, Obadiah. But don’t worry, you’ll know soon.”
Wilson sighed. “One way or the other.”
Thérèse and Henry exchanged concerned glances. Wilson rarely spoke of his wife—he was not a talking man in general, but he clearly adored her. When her name was mentioned, he invariably berated himself for leaving her alone expecting a child, and he took no comfort from Cutler’s assurances that women had babies all the time and that the other women of the settlement would care for her.
Thérèse had never managed to warm to Wilson. Cutler’s good humor and rough courtesy charmed her, even though she wished he didn’t know so many of her secrets. But she sensed that Wilson didn’t like her or Jeannette, and so she instinctively held herself in reserve around him. She’d mentioned it to Henry one evening a few days before they’d reached Nashville. At first he’d shaken his head, but then he’d frowned and said, “You’re right. I see it, too. Do you know, I wonder if it’s because you look so much alike?”
It had then been Thérèse’s turn to draw back in offense. “What? We do?”
“The shape of your eyes, your coloring, your hair. He could easily pass for your cousin. I think it’s because you’re both part Indian.”
Yes, that had made sense. “Ah. He is a white man, and never thinks of himself as anything else—but if I look like him, and I’m not whit
e...”
But now she couldn’t help but sympathize with Wilson’s fears. Whatever he thought of her, he loved his wife, and she could easily imagine the sick trepidation he must feel now that he was in sight of his home.
They rode into the central clearing, where thirty or forty people had gathered and were shouting welcomes to Cutler and Wilson. Cutler grinned and waved, but Wilson stood in his stirrups, searching the little crowd.
Thérèse, Henry and Jeannette hung back while Cutler and Wilson dismounted and rushed toward their friends and relations. Cutler was immediately surrounded by a laughing, clamoring group, but Wilson turned to an older woman who spoke in his ear. His eyes widened, he turned pale and he sprang back onto his horse and rushed off up the valley at a gallop.
“That can’t be good,” Jeannette muttered.
“No,” Thérèse agreed.
Before they could speculate further, Cutler turned to them and beckoned them forward.
“Remember to act the good servant,” Thérèse murmured in French.
“I know. I’m not going to forget now,” Jeannette responded in the same language, keeping her eyes wide and docile.
“These are friends we met in New Orleans come to stay a few weeks till the weather turns, since they’re bound for the north—Henri and Thérèse Langevin. Come meet everyone, you two.”
Henry swung down from the saddle, then helped Thérèse and Jeannette dismount in turn. Thérèse took his arm and stayed close to his side as they waded into the crowd and were introduced to four extended families—Cutlers, Wilsons, Morrisons and Taggarts—all connected by a web of marriages. Almost everyone seemed to be some kind of cousin or nephew of Cutler’s. Thérèse smiled and nodded and tried to remember names as she listened to Cutler’s description of Henry—French, from France, but as good a rider and a shot as you’ll ever see.
She looked to Henry and raised an amused eyebrow. And why wouldn’t a Frenchman, if he were one, know horses and weapons? They’d certainly had enough experience of war to learn.
Saved Obadiah’s life when a gator wanted to make a meal of him, Cutler continued, but wait, where’d he go? Oh, his wife is near her time? We’ll go up and see her soon, if she’s up to having visitors. At any rate, Henri here eloped with this lady, too—fought a duel with the man her family wanted her to marry—so they’re running away and mean to go to his friends in New Jersey.
New Jersey, Thérèse reminded herself. They’d chosen the northern state somewhat at random, since Henry had heard of some Frenchmen in exile there. They couldn’t acknowledge their true destination in Canada without admitting Henry was an enemy Englishman instead of a more-or-less allied Frenchman.
The girl helped them, so they mean to free her, so no treating her like a slave, mind.
That was something, at least.
We’ll have to have a race or two and a shooting contest while he’s here. That little chestnut of his beat every challenger on the Trace.
Admiring glances turned to Henry’s chestnut, who, along with the rest of the horses, had been handed into the keeping of a competent-looking collection of Cutler and Taggart youth, including the Jimmy who had hailed them upon their arrival.
But at last the general rush of introductions was over, and Cutler led them to an elderly couple with the air of presenting them to royalty. “These are my parents,” he said simply.
The senior Mr. Cutler, tall, thin and spare with a thin fringe of silver-gray hair remaining, laughed and slapped his son’s back affectionately. “I bet you thought you were coming home to be man of the house, but I ain’t giving up the reins yet.”
“Never been happier to be proven wrong. Mother, I hoped my friends could stay with us. We’ve got room, don’t we?”
“Oh, Lord, yes. Now that Martha’s married, they can even have a room to themselves.” She reached out and took Thérèse’s cold hands between her own. She looked a decade or so younger than her husband, and their son had gotten his red-brown hair and broad, high forehead from her. “You rode all the way from New Orleans? You must be bone tired.”
“I grew used to all the riding, ma’am.”
“Still. I reckon you’re ready for a bath and a warm meal.” She drew away and raised her voice to carry over the hubbub. “Now, there will be plenty of time to talk and hear Ben’s stories later. Let’s let these travelers rest first.”
Apparently her word was law, for the assembled friends and relations immediately dispersed back to whatever work and play had been interrupted by their arrival. The senior Cutlers led their son, Thérèse, Henry and Jeannette into the largest of the cabins, the only one built with a second story. Of course. Cutler’s Creek. They must be the leading family here, and it showed.
The inside of the cabin, though dark, was warm and welcoming. A cheerful fire crackled on the hearth, and a rich, meaty aroma emanated from a pot hanging over it. Suddenly overcome by weariness, Thérèse submitted to being led to a rocking chair near the flames, and she gratefully stretched her hands and feet toward the warmth.
“That stew will be ready soon,” Mrs. Cutler pronounced, “and then we’ll see about heating water for the baths. I’m sorry I don’t have anything fancier, but we weren’t expecting you so soon, Ben.”
“It smells better than anything I’ve eaten since we left New Orleans,” Thérèse assured her, since it was no more than the truth. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
“Baths on a Friday?” the elder Mr. Cutler asked.
“Why not?” his wife asked. “Bathing a day early never hurt anyone, and I bet they haven’t had a proper bath since they left New Orleans, either.”
“A bath would be heavenly,” Thérèse said, “but we wouldn’t want to make trouble for you.”
“Of course not, madame,” Henry said, giving their hostess a courtly bow. He could alternate between frontiersman and European gentleman readily now, and clearly he’d decided the latter was called for here. “We are grateful for your hospitality, and you are already doing so much, to offer room to strangers.”
“Nonsense. If you’re friends of our Ben’s, you’re no strangers. We’ll all bathe tonight, and be Sabbath clean a day early.”
“I’ll help heat the water, if you’d like, ma’am,” Jeannette said, with a degree of genuine eagerness Thérèse wasn’t used to hearing from her sister when housework was involved.
“That would be kind of you,” Mrs. Cutler said, “though I heard what Ben said. I don’t mean to treat you as a slave.”
“Well, ma’am, you didn’t order, I offered.”
Thérèse blinked again at her sister’s newfound sweetness and exchanged a surprised glance with Henry. She supposed she hadn’t known her sister for so long that the girl wasn’t capable of surprising her after all.
And so for the rest of the evening Thérèse submitted to pampering. The dinner was as delicious as it smelled—a bean and venison stew given life with seasonings that marked Mrs. Cutler as an expert cook, and the inevitable cornbread made moist and delicious by her skill. Thérèse, Henry and Jeannette stayed quiet, eating as ravenously as they could without veering into greediness, and listened as Cutler pumped his parents for all the news that had passed since he’d went away.
“What’s the trouble with Obadiah’s Sophia?” he asked. “I know she didn’t lose the baby.”
“It might’ve been better if she had,” Mrs. Cutler said darkly. Off the surprised looks of everyone at the table, she continued, “If a pregnancy isn’t going well from the start, it’s best if the mother loses it early, before the child quickens. Then she can get her strength back and try again. This...I fear we’ll end in losing two lives, not just one.”
Cutler frowned and pushed his spoon aggressively around his almost-empty bowl. “If she dies, it’ll ruin Obadiah.”
“I’ve tried,” Mrs. Cutler said.
“Every woman here has tried. But she won’t listen. If she didn’t mean to learn to live like a mountain wife, she never should’ve left Nashville.”
“His wife is from Nashville?” Thérèse said. Wilson had shown no fondness for the place. If anything, he’d been in a hurry to leave it behind. “He didn’t mention it when we were there.” Cutler hadn’t mentioned it either, and he normally talked freely about anything and everything.
“She was born in Virginia, and to a grand, rich family,” Mr. Cutler put in. “They moved to Nashville a few years back. Her father sold his tobacco land and came to Tennessee to grow cotton. So she was raised to be a fine lady—like you, ma’am.” He inclined his head to Thérèse.
“I’m no fine lady,” she protested, but remembered to stop before revealing her mother had been a dressmaker. Surely Henry wouldn’t have killed her fiancé in a duel and taken off across the country to escape her outraged relatives if she hadn’t been from a grand family.
“You look stronger than Sophia, at any rate.”
“She never would’ve survived a winter ride like we’ve just had,” Cutler put in.
“Still—” Mrs. Cutler turned a cool motherly eye on Henry, “—I hope your friends in New Jersey live comfortably. It isn’t right to drag a lady away from the life she’s used to, to force her to live in a cabin in the wilderness.”
Thérèse blinked at her. This was a cabin in the wilderness, and a very fine one.
“We live in a cabin,” Mr. Cutler pointed out, echoing her thoughts.
“Yes, and I was born in one just like it, but smaller. That Sophia doesn’t know how to manage, and won’t learn.”
“I mean to see that my wife has every possible comfort, madame,” Henry said quietly. “My friends are well-off, as is my family. We may return to France, though I must see how it stands for them, now that the emperor is gone.”
Freedom to Love Page 17
