American Dreams (19 page)

His reference to the military instantly brought the Georgia Guard to Temple's mind. But the young, square-shouldered man in dress uniform who joined them bore no resemblance to those rough men. His hair was darkly golden, like tobacco leaves curing in the sheds. There was a freshly scrubbed look to his handsome, clean-shaven features, and his eyes were a clear, friendly blue.

"Will, may I present my godson, Lieutenant Jedediah Parmelee, late of Boston, Massachusetts, and now of Washington City. Jed, this is a very dear friend of mine, Mr. Will Gordon."

"How do you do, sir." With military precision, Jed Parmelee extended a hand to the man who towered over him by a good five inches, but he remembered nothing after that. His gaze was fixed on the incredibly beautiful woman next to Will Gordon.

He had thought such beauty existed only in paintings—or a man's imagination. The blackness of her hair, the creaminess of her skin, and her eyes—so darkly mysterious, yet so alive. They seemed almost boldly curious. An instant later he realized her gaze was aimed at him.

"And this ravishing young lady," he heard Payton say, "is his wife, Temple Stuart."

Wife.
The word splintered through him, shattering his hopes, dreams, and desires before they could fully take shape.

"This is an honor, Mrs. Stuart." He bowed stiffly, not completely trusting himself to do more. He wondered which one was her husband. It had to be the one with the scar, the one staring at him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking—it had to be him. For one stormy moment, Jed wanted to challenge him to a duel. Pistols at ten paces.

But the reason and discipline that had been drilled into him at the academy led to cooler thinking. He smiled at her. "I was on my way to the refreshment table. May I bring you something, Mrs. Stuart?"

"The refreshment table?"

Her gaze roved over the crowded room as if seeking its location. Jed sensed her curiosity. "Perhaps you would prefer to peruse the fare for yourself. The table is on the far side of the room ... where the guests are the thickest. I would be happy to escort you there," he offered.

"An excellent idea, Jed." Payton immediately voiced his approval. "I have a few things I want to discuss with Will and The Blade, and I am certain Temple would find them quite boring."

"I doubt that, Mr. Fletcher," she replied. "But my husband has already explained to me that you Americans are uncomfortable discussing political matters in front of a woman. Excuse me, gentlemen, while I accompany Lieutenant Parmelee to the refreshment table."

When she took his arm, her husband looked none too pleased, but he made no objection. Not that Jed took that much notice of him. He was still puzzling over Temple's remark about Americans.

"Where did you say you were from, Mrs. Stuart?" He found it difficult to keep his glance from straying to the low neckline of her gown.

"Our plantation is about an hour's ride from New Echota... in the Cherokee Nation," she added.

"The Cherokee Nation?" He frowned, then suddenly remembered his godfather talking about his Indian friend Will Gordon. "Then you are..."

"Cherokee? Yes, I am."

"I'm sorry ..."

"That I am Cherokee?"

"No." He stopped. "You must forgive me for putting this so badly. I apologize if I offended you, Mrs. Stuart. It was not my intent."

"That is quite all right, Lieutenant." Her eyes smiled up at him, all dark and glowing. "Your reaction is typical of others I have encountered recently. I should have ignored it. Please accept my apologies for my poor manners and for deliberately embarrassing you."

"I deserved it." He couldn't help but admire her pride, although he still found it difficult to believe that this enchantingly beautiful woman was of Indian extraction. The black hair and eyes, yes, but her skin was as smooth and pale as his mother's best porcelain.

"Yes, you did."

Initially taken aback by her candor, Jed suddenly broke into a laugh. It felt good, the sound matching the gladness he felt inside. But it ended on a sigh of regret. "Your husband must be very happy."

"As I am," she replied smoothly and directed her attention away from him. "What is that dance?"

Jed turned, startled to discover that the lilting music playing softly in the background was real. Somehow it had seemed part of the moment. He glanced at the couples whirling gracefully about the floor. "A waltz."

"It is very beautiful."

In some circles, a waltz was considered quite scandalous. Yet what better excuse could a man have to hold a woman in his arms? He hesitated, his glance skimming her profile as she watched the dancing couples, obviously intrigued by their flowing movements. "The steps are quite simple and easily learned. I would be honored to teach them to you."

She turned, her eyes fully on him. "I would like to learn."

"In that case, I shall be the envy of every man here." Jed bowed to her.

He showed her the pattern of the steps, counting them out for her. By the time they had circled the dance floor once, she had mastered them and followed him effortlessly, lithe and supple as a willow in his arms, responsive to the slightest pressure of his hand.

"Are you quite certain I am doing this correctly?" she asked skeptically, her glance scanning the other couples. "People are staring."

"They are staring at you. You are the most beautiful woman here—the most beautiful woman in Washington ... maybe even the country."

She laughed, and it was the warm, throaty laugh of a woman rather than the high-pitched titters and giggles of the girls he knew.

"You are as extravagant in your praise as Mr. Fletcher," she accused lightly.

"I speak the truth. I have never met a woman as beautiful as you."

His statement seemed to give her pause. She looked at him anew, more curious than wary, although she was cautious. "Your wife would not like to hear you say that. Are you married, Lieutenant Parmelee?"

"No." He didn't mention Cecilia. No formal announcement of his engagement to her had been made. He didn't want to think about Cecilia, not tonight.

 

In the hotel room of the Indian Queen, Phoebe removed the last pin from Temple's hair and ran her fingers through the length of it to separate the roped strands. Temple passed her the hairbrush and glanced sideways at The Blade. His cravat, coat, waistcoat, and boots had already been given over to his servant's care. With the frilled front and cuffs of his shirt unbuttoned, he lounged in the chair, his long, trousered legs stretched in front of him, his stockinged feet propped on an ottoman, his look hooded and faintly brooding.

"Surely you discussed something other than the preparations for the suit the missionaries are bringing against Georgia in the Supreme Court," she said, wondering why she had to prompt him to tell her what had been discussed.

"Many things but none of them new. It's always the same, over and over and over," he murmured, watching the brush as Phoebe repeatedly dragged the bristles through her mistress's hair, stroke following stroke. By his very stillness, Temple sensed the restlessness inside him. She smiled, knowing how that pent-up energy would find its release. "That will be all, Phoebe," she said.

When the girl withdrew from the room, Temple rose from her chair. "Did I mention that Lieutenant Parmelee has offered to show me around Washington some afternoon when you are busy with your meetings?"

Like a spring uncoiling, The Blade came out of his chair. "The man is enamored with you," he muttered.

"Are you jealous?"

His head came up. "Should I be?"

"No." She walked over to him and slid her hands up his shirt-front, feeling his stomach muscles contract beneath her touch. "With you for a husband, I have no need for a lover."

"Remember that." His arms wound around her as his mouth came down. Temple pressed closer, assuring him in the one certain way she knew that she belonged to him completely.

 

Through the rest of December and into the first weeks of January, Jed Parmelee wangled every bit of off-duty time he could get, trading with officers or persuading them to cover for him, anything that would permit him to see Temple Stuart for an hour, an afternoon, or an evening. At every social function she attended, he was there, sometimes able to speak to her for only a few minutes before someone more noteworthy claimed her. Once he had tea with her. Another afternoon he took her on a tour of Washington, describing the capture of the city by the British, the burning of the presidential mansion, and Dolly Madison's rescue of George Washington's portrait.

At first Jed tried to convince himself he sought her company out of courtesy. She was without friends in the city and her husband was away much of the time, attending meetings. His godfather would have wanted him to keep her entertained. But the truth was inescapable. He was in love with her. He had fallen in love with her the instant he had seen her. No matter how absurd or foolishly romantic it sounded, it had happened just that way.

But to what end? He was engaged; she was married. And he was a gentleman, a man of West Point. It became a point of honor and pride that he not act the lovesick swain, not let her know how deeply he had grown to care for her ... even when she informed him of her imminent departure from the city.

"So soon? Congress is still in session, and the Supreme Court has yet to hear your case. Why leave now?" Then a possible reason came to him. "Has your husband or one of the other members of the delegation seen the president?"

"No." Her glance drifted around the large room that served the Indian Queen Hotel as lobby, bar, and office. "Mr. Jackson still refuses to grant them an interview, although he has received the deputation from the western Cherokees," she added somewhat bitterly. "However, we did hear from the president, through his Secretary of War, by letter. Jackson's position was clearly stated."

Temple recalled it vividly; the contents had become ingrained in her mind. Chicken Snake Jackson, as John Ridge called him, felt sorry for them, but he would not lift a hand to help them. Instead, Jackson advised the Cherokees to treat and remove west of the Mississippi and abandon the land that held the bones of their fathers.

Temple confided none of this to the young lieutenant. "My husband and John Ridge have decided to join Elias Boudinot, the editor of our nation's newspaper, on a fund-raising tour through the Northern states. My father and the other delegates will take care of the remaining business here," she explained. "My husband tells me we will be stopping in your home city of Boston."

"I shall write to my parents and ask them to ensure that you are warmly welcomed."

More words were said, but, in this public place, not the words he might have said if they had been alone. Jed watched her walk up the stairs, followed by her colored maid. It was unlikely he would ever see her again. No, that wasn't true. He would see her all the time—in his sleep and in his dreams.

 

They traveled to Philadelphia by stage. The Blade, who had chafed at the endless and futile meetings in Washington, welcomed both the change of scene and the activity. After their frustrating stay in the American capital, the City of Brotherly Love seemed to greet them with open arms.

From Philadelphia, they journeyed to New York, a teeming, throbbing city with crowded streets and multitudes of people. Two successful rallies at Clinton Hall raised eight hundred dollars and placed six thousand signatures on a memorial to be forwarded to Congress deploring Georgia's actions against the Cherokees. They continued on to New Haven, Connecticut, achieving similar results.

In late February, they arrived in Boston. More rallies were held at the Old South Church, led by the sedate and aging Lyman Beecher and John Pickering, a student of Indian languages. At the close of the last rally, an older, well-dressed couple accompanied by a young woman approached Temple. The couple introduced themselves as Lieutenant Jedediah Parmelee's parents.

"He sends his regards, and hopes your visit to Boston is warm in spite of winter weather," his mother explained.

"Your son was very kind to me when we were in Washington," Temple replied, and heard a faint noise that sounded very much like a scornful snort coming from the young lady with them. Beneath the flared brim of her bonnet, the woman's hair was the pale yellow of young corn silk, and her eyes were a faded blue. Twin dots of natural pink gave color to her cheeks and reminded Temple of a china doll she once had. And like a doll, the woman showed no expression, although there was an aura of hostility about her that puzzled Temple.

"Forgive me," Mrs. Parmelee inserted. "I failed to introduce my son's fiancée, Miss Cecilia Jane Castle. Cecilia, Mrs. Stuart."

Temple glanced sharply at Mrs. Parmelee, aware the lieutenant had made no mention of a fiancée. She could only guess at his reasons. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Castle."

"Mrs. Stuart." Cecilia inclined her head in acknowledgement but didn't smile. The bilious feeling in her throat wouldn't permit it. She despised this woman whose beauty everyone raved about. Some were calling her an Indian princess. She might give the appearance of royalty, with her velvet gowns and regal airs, but she was still an Indian. One look at those full lips and bewitching eyes and any decent woman could see she was a Jezebel.

Cecilia was thankful that Jedediah's parents were offering their words of parting. She barely gave them time to finish before she turned and walked briskly away.

 

Restless and bored with the conversation around him, The Blade stared out the window of the building that housed the Boston-based American Board of Foreign Missions. They had spent three months talking and what did they have to show for it? Enough funds to keep the newspaper in operation for several more months, perhaps a year. But what progress had they made toward improving the situation at home? None. Even more frustrating, he could discern no plan. They were in limbo, waiting for a decision from the Supreme Court.

"We must remain united"; that was the recurrent theme The Blade heard day after day. Noble words, but hardly a plan. The commissioner of the mission board counseled patience, faith in the Divine Creator, and prayer. Laudable, but hardly practical. The Blade had agreed to appeal to the courts and the public, but if that failed, what would they do?