“No one must see us,” Jack said.
They entered the woods. It was brushy at first, but became clearer as they penetrated the stand. Huge oaks and native beech rose over their heads. The mighty trunks lifted to a green canopy the sun could scarcely pierce.
Inside, it was as if the bright, warm day had never existed. The temperature dropped.
Hal shuffled through heavy, leafy litter. Only the most delicate and retiring ferns reared their heads in this shade.
“Astonishing,” Jack murmured, pulling the horse to a halt and glancing around. “These giants in a land so long settled. I have seen trees like this in the Canada s , but who would have thought that here—”
“They must not be touched,” Angelica replied. “We swore we would not cut them for as long as there are two parties to the agreement.”
Jack gazed up, his tricorn now in one hand. “Where is the sun?” he asked himself. “It isn’t easy to see which way to go.”
“I know the way.” Angelica pointed confidently. “Go toward that big fellow there.” She pointed to the massive trunk of an oak.
As they approached this tree, one of the signposts of the grove, Angelica spied the offerings. Shells and stones, strips of wampum, colorful bird’s eggs and tiny woven baskets were laid in the nooks and hollows woven by roots of the giant.
“Please stop,” she asked as they drew alongside.
Jack obligingly halted his horse.
“Let me down for a moment,” she asked. “I must look.”
Once on the ground, Angelica went to the base of the tree and knelt to examine the offerings.
“None of this is recent,” she finally declared, getting to her feet again. “It’s the same way the fields look. They planted their corn and went away.”
Jack nodded agreement. He leaned down to offer her assistance in mounting.
“Oh, heaven, Jack,” she exclaimed, pausing to rest her hand on Hal’s warm, ruddy side. “Do you suppose something terrible has happened?”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions. That cabin back there was in good order.”
She didn’t take his hand, just stood next to his booted leg, her mind crowding with terrors.
“Give me your flask,” she finally said.
Solemnly, seeming to guess her intent, he handed her the little flask from inside his jacket. Falling to her knees beside one claw-like root, Angelica splashed a little on the ground.
“I wish I had something else to give,” she mused, corking the bottle.
Fishing around in her pocket, she came up with a couple of shiny silver buttons from the Clove. She laid them among the roots next to the wampum.
“Oh, great tree, watch over all your children,” she said under her breath as she laid them down. It was the prayer the little Indian girls had always used.
Then, without another word, she stood and reached to Jack. He leaned to pull her up. She thought he might comment upon her heathenish act, but he was silent. She had a strong impression he’d seen such things before.
“It reminds me of a cathedral,” he observed, tapping Hal to move him along again. Jack’s head lifted and turned as he admired the enormous space, the twinkling of the distant green canopy.
“I keep wishing we’d see a deer,” he added, “just to give me a true idea of the scale of these trees. The trunk of that ancient fellow back there was wider than a lot of cabins I’ve seen.”
“Jack...” Angelica leaned against his chest. “What are we going to do?”
“Exactly as we’ve planned, Angel. I’ll do my duty and you’ll do yours. Then, Christmas at the latest, I’ll be back for you. We shall do our best to survive, to ride out what is to come.”
“And if you do not come back?”
“You, Mrs. Church,” he replied lightly, “will make a lovely widow. A long line of applicants for your hand will immediately form.”
“Don’t even say it as a joke,” she whispered. The past was pressing close, a wall of ice threatening to crush her heart.
They were aiming at a place where sunlight descended into a circle of green. As they came closer, they saw the body of a recently fallen giant. There was a chasm where the roots had been torn from the ground.
Skirting this, Jack asked, blinking and tilting his blonde head toward the sun, “How close are we to your home?”
“About three miles.”
A chuckling brook came down the slope here. In August, it would go dry, but now it fed the creek below.
“Jack, I’d like to stop here a little.”
“Of course. Hal needs a drink anyway.”
Jack dismounted and helped her down. Leaving Hal to sip from the creek, they walked hand in hand into the welcome warmth of the sunny green space.
“This reminds me of our picnics,” she said, gazing at the wildflowers and weedy small trees. “These saplings would make perfect bowers. We’d light a fire and set out the pies and pickles while the boys hunted or fished.”
Jack smiled and took out his knife. After catching one of the slender trees and bending it down, he proceeded to scale a long strip of bark. He used this to lash the tree to the base of another close by, bending it into an arch.
Angelica smiled happily. Jack understood exactly.
Without another word, they set to work. One after another, saplings were caught and bent. Angelica wove the branches together into an impromptu leafy shelter.
As he bent the last small tree, Angelica fetched Jack’s cloak, which was rolled and tied to the back of the saddle. This she spread inside the bower.
There were crumbling journey cakes wrapped in a cloth, as well as small birch bark pouches of sugary and salty pemmican, but they didn’t want food.
As soon as they’d got down inside, Jack cast his hat away. “Now,” he said smiling, “shall we have our picnic?”
***
Wind gusted and ruffled her petticoat, a cold exhalation upon bare flesh. Something passed over them—breathless, silent—like an owl’s wing. Overhead, a tiny purple finch caroled riotously.
“My Angel. My heart.” As Jack whispered, he stroked her cheek. Gazing deep into her eyes, he said with sorrowful conviction, “Away from you, I shall be as empty as a gourd.”
Chapter Seventeen
A square brick house sat upon a rise. The slender sugar maples that had been planted along the road in her childhood waved a green welcome.
As they drew closer, Angelica caught sight of the battered straw hat of Uncle Jacob’s black servant, Derrick, at his usual morning task of hoeing in the kitchen garden. A few rows over was the squatting figure of his wife, Daisy. Derrick paused, leaned on his hoe, and shaded his eyes with a hand.
“He’s seen us.” Jack squeezed her fingers. “Does everything look all right to you?”
“Yes, it’s Mr. Derrick and his wife.”
An old hound suddenly let out a mournful howl. Then, slinking down the steps, he began a menacing, low-tailed trot in their direction.
“Go now,” Jack said softly. A strong arm was around her; a last kiss, and he let her down onto the sunny, dusty road. “I’ll come back for you as soon as I can, my Angel. Keep faith.”
Looking up, she took his hand, squeezed it—the hand that had caressed, possessed. Then she began to walk along the shady avenue toward the house. She did not look back. Her eyes burned with tears.
How could this have happened again? To once-bitten twice-shy me? I’ve fallen in love and given my heart to a man who goes into terrible danger.
Derrick called to Daisy. He dropped his hoe and began to run as well as his old bones could manage. The hound was coming down the road at a gallop now, singing a deep halloo, but even through his noise she could hear Hal’s hooves, trotting away down the dusty road.
***
The letter she carried had been penned at van Driessen’s. It read, Dear Mynheer TenBroeck:
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel John Edward Church, son of Margaret Livingston and Lord Richard Ch
urch, late heir of the Oxfordshire line of that family. My mother is a daughter of Gilbert of the Manor Livingston. Lady Margaret Livingston Church, as you know, holds property adjoining your own.
In these troubled times, my mother has given into my care her dower land. Mynheer Jost Wessel is the bailiff upon the place. According to your niece, he is a man well known to you. Before this war began, I had planned to emigrate, and I did not allow the outbreak to hinder me.
After an attempt upon Miss TenBroeck’s virtue by an officer under General Howe’s command, it became imperative that she return home. Having taken the duty to escort her, I am now delivering the lady to you after a long and dangerous journey up the Hudson. Of the details, she will inform you.
The most important event of our journey was our wedding at the camp of a brigand, John M’Bain.
I am entirely to blame in this matter. Your ward was hesitant to act without the guidance of her family, for she is a lady of modesty and good sense. In the end, however, she did me the honor.
We were married under the Anglican service by one Parson Stephen Witherspoon, late of Coxsacky. He was on his way to New York City when he was abducted by the same rogues who captured us.
In spite of these improprieties, I cannot come to you in person. I must lay my further misconduct at the door of the current troubles, for I am not only loyal to, but in the employ of, the crown.
I am hopeful you will overcome your natural anger at this hasty marriage. I intend to honor the promise made before Reverend Witherspoon to cherish and provide for my wife. Our discussion of this matter, however, must wait upon the completion of business to which I must now give my complete attention.
Perhaps delay is for the best, as it will give you time to reflect and to speak with Angelica. My mother has taught me to have the highest regard for my American kinsmen.
I shall wait upon you when I return.
With respect I remain, sir,
Your most obedient servant,
Colonel John Edward Church
***
“The damned impertinent rogue!” her uncle stormed, throwing down the letter. “Thinks he can get away with this outrage because his grandfather was Gilbert Livingston? I’ll tell you something, girl! Bob Livingston would hang that nest of Tory cousins of his as soon as look at them.”
Angelica didn’t say anything. Once through the door, she’d been overcome with exhaustion. Not so absolutely, however, that old habits didn’t reassert themselves. Before she sat her dusty self down, she’d asked Effie de Key, the housekeeper, for a cloth to spread upon the parlor chair.
“Tell me what has happened, miss, and begin from the beginning,” Uncle Jacob commanded. “I don’t need to tell you I’ve been worried sick ever since General Washington was driven out of the city. All the letters you sent after that time arrived open.”
Angelica began her story with the pursuit of Major Armistead and how her Aunt Laetitia had promoted it.
“I gave him no encouragement, Uncle Jacob, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she said.
She went on to tell about the day she and her cousins had gone boating and about being kidnapped, about Armistead’s threats, her imprisonment, and her rescue by Jack and their flight up river. She described the destruction of Vanderzee’s sloop and the way Jack had fought the reivers and got them to agree to ransom. Her uncle, somewhat to her surprise, quietly listened to the long recounting.
“We knew the British had taken the Clove,” her uncle said, nodding gravely. “An exchange of one evil for another.”
“They hung Davie Bell, uncle. I saw it done.”
“Well, that’s some overdue justice anyway. But go on, girl, and tell me about this, ahem—” Her uncle shifted in his chair and cleared his throat thoroughly. “—this marriage.”
Angelica felt her heart sink, but she went on, telling of M’Bain’s insinuations, which had led her to agree to the ceremony.
Her uncle had been quietly listening and nodding, but suddenly, he broke in.
“Clearly,” he said, “your Colonel Church had a prior conversation with M’Bain, and offered him something to play a game on you. Didn’t you think of that, Angelica?” he asked.
“No, sir, I never imagined any such thing,” she replied. Still, her throat tightened as she remembered her shameless hunger for Jack’s splendid body, satisfied not two hours before in the leafy bower of the Indian grove.
“Colonel Church has behaved in every circumstance as a gentleman.” Despite this new fear, she went on, aware her face might betray those inner doubts and fears. “Without him, without his courage and daring, I surely would’ve been abused and enslaved by M’Bain’s men.”
There was a long pause. “I do have a letter from your Colonel Church’s mother who lives in England. That seems to be quite in order, for I inquired of Mrs. Dodkin in Rhinebeck, who is her niece. ”
“Mrs. Dodkin says she has written to her aunt describing all the local ladies who have property to bring to a marriage. It seems that our distant cousin, Lady Church, has a special interest in settling this third son of hers in America.”
Inwardly, Angelica groaned. At least, Jack told me the truth about that.
“You cannot be much blamed, I suppose,” her uncle continued. “A young woman alone and unadvised, and threatened on every side by rogues of the worst sort.”
“I had to get away from Major Armistead, sir. After that, I made the best decisions I could.”
“Hmm. Well, it seems to me if this Parson Witherspoon survives to tell the tale and this Colonel Church presses his claim, I shall have to yield you up to him.”
“I never thought to be married to a man like Jack Church, a Tory and a British officer. Yet, yet...” Angelica stammered. Daring had died at the disapproval on her Uncle Jacob’s face.
“I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “Under other circumstances, a girl with three suitors might be counted a happy one. By the way,” he added, roughly clearing his throat again. “This Major Armistead has sent along something you left behind, with his compliments.”
From his seat at the desk, Uncle Jacob leaned over and opened the bottom drawer. Out of this he took a familiar locket and chain.
“These came with a note explaining this belonged to a lady whose honor he had vanquished. Mrs. de Keys recognized it at once.”
Angelica stared at the locket, the one containing that bit of Bram’s hair, with disbelief. She couldn’t have been more upset, all things considered, if her uncle had taken a live snake out of the drawer.
“Armistead is a liar, Uncle Jacob. He struck me, and I returned the favor with a knee, so he temporarily lost the ability to dishonor me.”
Her uncle let out a bitter bark. “Good girl,” he said softly. Shaking his head, he continued, “This so-called gentleman officer claims to heartily regret his earlier actions. He repeated his offer to marry you and offers our house his protection, although what that’s worth, I have no idea. Still, Tory marauders have been burning out patriots all along the river.”
“What can you mean?” Angelica cried, springing out of the chair. “Even if I could marry the loathsome brute, it would not save us. Our friends would turn against us as soon as they thought we’d allied with the Tories. At van Driessens’—a kind family we took shelter with after we left the Clove—I heard about such things.”
“True,” her uncle agreed with a heavy sigh. “It’s come to that between folks who were once good neighbors and even between kinfolk like the Livingstons.”
“You know I am not a coquette, uncle. I did nothing to provoke this. George Armistead is a ruthless, contemptible beast.”
“Well, miss, you are the one who had to go to New York and dance at the beginning of a civil war.”
“And I have suffered for my folly,” Angelica answered. She lifted a hand to her temple. The ache was violently renewing itself.
Uncle TenBroeck nodded again, one of his magisterial nods. “There’s no denying that, Angelic
a. Now answer me,” he said solemnly. “Has this marriage with John Church been consummated?”
Angelica tried to twitch not so much as an eyelid, but she could feel her cheeks flame.
“And even if not, what on earth are we to do?” her uncle mused despondently into the silence.
“Sir?”
“Your honor, miss,” he said. “Your honor! That treasure of woman’s that can never be restored. With one notable exception, there’s not a gentleman in the entire valley who’d have you after this scrape.”
“I reckon the state of my honor is a matter between me and my God, uncle,” Angelica replied, speaking with all the dignity she could muster. “He shall be my judge.”
A memory intervened, the worn golden ring slipping onto her fourth finger. Reflexively she twisted it. She wanted to burst into tears, but didn’t dare for fear her uncle would take it as admission of bad judgment.
“I think you should consider yourself fortunate my son’s intent toward you remains constant.”
“Sir! I can’t believe you’ve told Arent!”
“Indeed I have, for this—” He nodded at the locket. “—came a week ago. Arent has faith that time will untangle everything.”
“I have only done what married women do, sir,” Angelica burst out. She had intended not to admit this, but now her blood was up. Uncle Jacob seemed more concerned with her honor than her survival!
“That is news which, for the sake of your family, I forbid you to share with a single soul. You may live to regret this rash alliance, Angelica, and silence until this plays out may spare you and your family further consequences.”
“What can you mean?”
“If your—ah—husband does not return, my son will marry you without delay.”
“ I have walked through hell to get here, through more danger than you know! And, here you are, trying to force me into the same box I was in a year ago! ”
She glanced around the familiar room, the scrupulously clean black-and-white floor, the china gleaming on the shelves, the silver tea set upon the snowy linen of the table. A calico cat slept in the sunny window.
Angel's Flight Page 20
