Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (24 page)

“I saw
the light beneath your door.” He stood back enough for the gloom in the hallway
to cover his shoulders. “I was wondering if you were alright.”

“I
cannot sleep.”

“Perhaps
it is the moon.”

“Yes,
you may be right. I’ll close the curtains.” She went to shut the door. He
stopped her.

“You
might find a book in the library to read. David has a fine collection for such
a small house.”

 “I
left the book I had been reading on the settee. I shall go get it.”

“May
I join you? The stairs are dark even in candlelight.”

Deberton
put his hand out and took the candlestick from her. She drew a shawl over her
shoulders and stepped through the door out into the hallway. He felt overjoyed
she agreed to his suggestion.

“I
would be distressed if you slipped and fell due to the dark staircase, Miss
Brent.” He then held the candle higher.

*  *  *

Rebecah
thought it was a strange admission and wondered if Deberton had other motives.
Then she scolded herself for judging him. He was a much older gentleman and
lonely. What harm was there in allowing him to escort her downstairs?

The
study was a square room, painted deep blue with windows from floor to ceiling.
Thumbnail paintings hung between picture plates.

“It’s
cool tonight for this time of year. Are you chilly, Miss Brent?” Deberton
asked.

She
found her novel and held it against her chest in both hands. “I’m fine, Mr.
Deberton. I think a storm is coming. Can you hear thunder?”

His
eyes turned to hers. “I can. The clouds are swift.” Wind struck the windows and
rattled the shutters.  “Wind is a familiar foe in this part of England.”

She lightly
smiled. “Yes, but I would not have it any other way, for I can always smell the
sea in it.”

“You have a romantic
soul, Miss Brent. Have you had opportunity to glance through this?”

He held the
candle above the Harcourt family Bible. She drew next to him and he opened it.
“The illuminations must be priceless. And here, look at these etchings.”

“They’re
beautiful. My uncle has a Bible like this at Endfield, but not so old. I made a
habit of reading the names written in it.”

“And
what did you see in those names?”

“Oh,
how fleeting life is. But at the same time I saw its gift.”

Deberton
turned a page for her. “These names go back to Queen Elizabeth. See, Sir Walter
Harcourt to Mary DuFay. Sir Phillip Harcourt to Lady Alice Walton. An
impressive family tree. The line dwindles in gentility after one hundred years
and the rest are names of bankers and lawyers. Two professions the common man
despises.”

“Not
so, if the man is generous and honest like David. Have you a family?”

“None
to mention.” He stepped away.

She
moved toward the door.  “I’m sorry you’re alone.”

“Are
you? Did you mean what you just said?”

“Of
course I meant it.”

“Then
you understand me?”

“My
understanding of you is limited. Yet, I know enough about you to realize how
sad it must be not to have a wife and children. After all, you have mentioned
it.”

“My
work prevents me from dwelling on it. Yet it does not fill the need for
companionship.”

“It
is not good for a man to be alone. Is there no one special?”

“Not
officially.”

She
lifted her face to meet his gaze, and by the look in his eyes, she realized he
had tender feelings for her.

“You
will always have friends here.”

He
stepped forward.

“I
heard you were close to marriage twice. Forgive me for bringing it up. But if I
may say, I understand the reasons for denying your love to an American. But why
did you refuse Lanley?”

Rebecah
squeezed her book closer. These were intrusive questions. “It’s in my past, Mr.
Deberton, and hardly a topic you and I should discuss.”

He looked
at her sympathetically. “I understand.”

She
put her hand over the door latch. His hand, warm and large, closed over hers. “Please,
don’t leave. I must say something I’ve been longing to say.”

“It’s
late.” She drew her hand away.

“I
realize I’m not in the position to speak.” He drew in a breath. “But I have
this sense you wish to leave England. Please tell me this is nonsense.”

“How
could I leave England?”

“Then
my feelings were unfounded?”

She
turned aside. “If there were a way, I might go.”

“The
money Mr. Nash has left you would be more than enough, and set you up in a
house.”

“Yes,
it would. But I have not decided whether to accept it.”

“A
better way is here before you. Do you know what it is I want to say, what I’ve
longed to tell you?”

“It
is better unsaid.” 

If
she could drown him out, and cover her ears, she would. If he would move away
from the door, she could get out.

“If
I do not speak now, I don’t know what I shall do.” Deberton held his hands out
to her. “I’m in love with you.”

She
moved back.

“I’ve
loved you from the moment I first saw you. Be my wife. Allow me to prove my
devotion to your happiness.”

“Please,
sir, try to understand. This isn’t right. You must move away from the door and
let me out.”

His
face flushed. “I did not mean to keep you. I was too hasty. I spoke too soon.”
He was sincere, and the pain of rejection showed in his face. She did not want
to hurt him, but what could she do? 

“I
forgive you.”

“But
I do not regret it, Rebecah. I’m here before you, your humble servant to
command.”

“You’re
not my servant, nor will I order you to do anything—except one thing.”

“What
is it?”

“Open
the door please. Let us part as friends.”

He
nodded, and did as she asked.

Rebecah
felt sorry for him that he could not master the temptation to plead. He was
like an abandoned puppy rooting at her hand for a touch of affection.

Bewildered, she set the candlestick down on the bedside
table. “Oh, God, I want to be with Jack. Please, make a way, and help me to be brave.”

Rarely
did people bolt their doors in Fredericktown. After suppertime, it was
customary to sit on the porch with friends and family. Men smoked long-stemmed
bowl pipes, talked of horses, agriculture, and politics. Women tucked their
children in bed beneath downy patchwork quilts as the last glow of sunset faded
over the Catoctin Mountains. Dusk swept across the floor of the valley and
evening stars brightened. 

When
night fell, a dream-like peace fell with it, bringing the choir of frogs, the
symphony of crickets. Soon lanterns were lit and men headed for the tavern to
hear the latest news.

That
night, when Black Hawk strode down Market Street leading a horse with a wounded
man slumped in the saddle, women retreated indoors.

A candle
glowed in a lower window of the Boyd House. Black Hawk looped Meteor’s reins
through the iron ring near the street and helped Nash down. Holding him up by
one arm, he pounded with the fist of the other on the door. It swung open.

Archibald
Boyd, the town clerk, gasped and went to shut the door. Black Hawk leaned in.
Nash glanced up with a slight smile.

“Evening,
Mr. Boyd.”

Boyd’s
brows shot up in surprise. “John Nash!”

“I’m
sorry to disturb you. The hour is late.”

Boyd
glanced at Black Hawk and Nash caught the fear in his eyes.

“Not
to worry, Mr. Boyd. Black Hawk is my friend.”

“He’s
a savage.”

“Indeed
to some, Mr. Boyd. But to me, he is my salvation. May Black Hawk bring me
inside? It’s urgent.”

Boyd
gasped at the blood-soaked bandage around Nash’s leg. “Come inside quickly.
Billy, come quick, my boy.”

A
youth came into the light. Together he and Boyd took Nash from Black Hawk’s arm
and led him upstairs. Black Hawk remained on the porch, arms folded and head
lifted high.

A
moment later Boyd returned. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Fetch the
doctor. Tell him Mr. John Nash of Laurel Hill is injured and he must come
straight away.”

Off
the boy dashed, down the stairs and into the street.

Mr.
Boyd turned to Black Hawk. “He will be cared for. You may go around the back of
the house. I’ll have my cook bring you food and drink.”

Black
Hawk nodded. Meteor shook his mane and snorted.

“Is
that Nash’s horse or your own?” asked Boyd, as they moved Nash inside.

Black
Hawk glanced back. “If he were mine, he would have no saddle.”

“If
this wound kills me, he is yours, Black Hawk,” Nash managed to say as they took
him up the staircase. Mr. Boyd opened a door to a small bedroom. “Bring him in.
Set him on the bed carefully.”

Nash
flinched. “I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Boyd. I only meant to come with news on
my way home.”

“Well,
let the doctor be the judge of whether you can travel tonight.”

“We’ve
left Meteor in the street.”

 “When
Billy returns I’ll have him brush him down and give him oats.”

Boyd
gestured to Black Hawk to step from the room with him. Black Hawk followed him
down the corridor. “You need not worry about anything here, Black Hawk. You can
return to your village.”

Black
Hawk shrugged. “I’ve no village.”

Boyd
lifted his chin. “How is it you and he became such close friends?”

“My
brother saved my life.”

Boyd’s
eyes softened. “I see. Not even among whites have I found such a loyal friend
as you, Black Hawk. Thank you for bringing him safely to town.”

Black
Hawk nodded. Then he stepped outside to the path buried in darkness alongside
the house. In the rear, a lantern hung near a back door. A wary serving woman
handed him a bowl of stew through the window. He thanked her in his language
and saw her swallow.

“Put
da bowl on da porch when you’re done. But if you want more, tap on da window.”

“It
is enough.”

Black Hawk sat on the stoop. The woman shut the window.

*  *  *

Upstairs
in the Boyd house, Dr. Cole examined Nash’s wound. “Your Indian friend did a good
a job. You shouldn’t have too much trouble, some pain now and then. But
otherwise keep the wound clean to prevent infection and you will be fine.”

“How
long before I’m on my feet?”

“That
depends. Weeks most likely. Don’t rush it. You should stay here until you
completely recover.”

“I’ll
go home after I speak to the men of the town. There’s trouble out in the
frontier headed our way.”

The
doctor straightened up.

Boyd
leaned in. “You believe the settlers in our county are at risk, Jack?”

“I’ve
seen it with my own eyes.”

His
leg felt numb around the wound and he set his hand on his thigh. The gentle
pressure of his fingers pressing into the muscle above it eased the pain
somehow.   

After
the wound was washed and dressed, Dr. Cole gave instructions to Mr. Boyd and
his daughter Theresa. She stood within the doorway, a look of worry covering
her fair face. After her father and the doctor had gone, she moved to the
window and opened the shutters wide.

 “Several
people have gathered across the street, Mr. Nash. News spreads fast.”

“They
saw Black Hawk coming into town with me. More than likely that has their curiosity
at a frenzy.”

A
voice called up to the window from the street. “Miss Boyd, how’s our Jack?” It
was Tobias.

Nash
lifted a corner of his mouth. “Tell him I’m in good hands and to spread the
word the men are to meet at the tavern in the morning.”

She
leaned out the window to convey the message. Then she removed the candle from
the casement and drew the muslin curtains closed. She tucked in the fresh bed
linens. “You must lie still and go to sleep. Try not to think about things for
now.”

Nash
closed his eyes. A moment more and he fell fast asleep. The medicine the doctor
administered proved strong.

*  *  *

For
a long while Theresa sat near the window, her hand cupped her chin as Nash
slept. She studied his face. His eyelids were smooth and sleek, with dark
lashes. The curve of his mouth inviting for kisses. She thought he was
handsome, but she had no attraction to him other than a friendly admiration.

Nash
turned his head and talked aloud in his sleep. “Rebecah.”

Theresa
smiled, realizing there was a woman in his life. She knew of no one in
Fredericktown with that name. Whoever Rebecah was, she had no idea the man who
apparently loved her lay wounded in an upstairs room of the Boyd house, out in
the frontier. She had no idea he dreamed of her, spoke her name as sweet as
honey from his lips.

Tears
moistened Theresa’s eyes. She wished a man would whisper her name in his sleep.
She had pretty looks, blonde, slim, and misty-eyed. However she was not
beautiful and lacked the graces of genteel ladies. She had not come to the
revelation it did not matter.

The
room grew darker as the candle melted. The breeze blew through the open window
against her face and she stepped over to it to draw the curtains. Looking down
she saw Black Hawk. She gulped at the sight of him. He walked forward, stopped
beneath the window and looked up. An oak grew alongside the house and he climbed
it.

Most
women would have fallen back into the room and shut the window. But Theresa
figured she had nothing to fear. He was John Nash’s friend. When Black Hawk
reached the windowsill, she met his eyes and saw something in them she had
never seen in any other man. He was admiring her.

“What
is it you want?” she said in a stammering whisper. “You must go away.”

Pulling
himself up, Black Hawk put his hand on the sill.  “My brother is well?”