American Dreams (27 page)

"I hope you have come to rescue me from these water imps of yours," Eliza declared lightly.

"No." He strolled to the water's edge where Eliza stood and swept a bemused eye over the two youngest of his brood. "I stopped to help you put them to rout."

With a swiftness that surprised all of them, he sprang at six-year-old Johnny with a whoop and a shout. Johnny shrieked and pretended fear and took off running. When Will splashed into the shallow stream after him, mindless of his boots, Eliza went after Xandra. Soon they had both children on the run, led by a laughing Shadrach.

In less than a minute, they had the children cornered against a tall bank. When Johnny made a dash for freedom, Will scooped him up. Johnny squealed with laughter and yelled to his sister, "Help! Xandra, help me!"

She went to his aid, and Eliza didn't interfere. Instead, she retreated and sought the dry footing of the opposite bank. Once there, she sat on a fallen log and watched the fun, smiling with pleasure at the scene. Between the demands on his time by his people and the duties of the plantation, it was a rare occurrence for Will Gordon to have time to spend with his children, let alone to be at play with them.

She watched as he laughed and tussled with the giggling pair, getting almost as wet as they were. The years seemed to lift off this strong, handsome man who stood head and shoulders above most of his people. It was good to see him like this, happy and carefree, unburdened by the travails of his position.

Eliza said as much to him later, on their way back to the house, with Johnny and Xandra riding the gray horse Will led. "I am convinced the romp was as good for you as it was for the children," she told him. "We all need to put our troubles aside from time to time and enjoy the simple pleasures life offers. It is a balance we all need in our lives."

"The children give you that, don't they?" Will guessed, glancing at the tall woman in the water-splattered dress at his side, matching him stride for stride.

"They do." A warmth stole into her eyes and softened her expression. He wondered if she knew the deep affection she had just revealed.

"The children are very fond of you, Eliza." The formality between them had long since ceased. Will could no longer remember the last time he had addressed her as Miss Hall. He regarded her as one of the family, and treated her as such.

"And I of them," she replied easily.

As they neared the house, Will noticed a rider coming up the lane. "We have a visitor."

"Perhaps he brings good news from John Ross in Washington."

The rider brought news from Washington, but it wasn't good. On May 17, the United States Congress had ratified the false treaty. Six days later, President Jackson had signed it, proclaiming it law.

The unthinkable had happened.

That evening, after the children had gone to bed, Eliza sat in the family parlor, her knitting needles flying with the fury of her thoughts. "One vote," she fumed. "The treaty was ratified by only one vote. If only one member of Congress had cast his ballot against it, this terrible travesty would never have occurred."

"I know." Will sat in the wing-backed chair, his shoulders slumped under the awful weight of the news.

Eliza heard the grimness in his voice and let her knitting needles fall silent. "What will you do now?"

"We will resist it, of course," Will stated.

"How? I mean, will you fight, the way the Seminoles in Florida are doing?" She had read accounts of the skirmishes between

American soldiers and the Seminole Indians that had taken place in the swamps—the fighting and the killing. She dreaded the thought of Gordon Glen becoming a battleground.

"Fight with what?" Will chided. "We are farmers. We have no arms, other than the shotguns we use against predators."

"But what is the alternative?" Eliza wondered aloud, shaking her head in puzzlement and frowning.

"We have only one," Will announced. "To redouble our efforts in Washington. The Phantom Treaty was ratified by one vote. If we can get a new measure introduced to repeal it, perhaps we can get it passed by the same margin. We have two years in which to accomplish that before the federal government enforces the terms of the treaty."

"Two years is—" Eliza was interrupted by the loud
thud
of a heavy object hitting the floor above them. Smiling, she laid her knitting aside. "Something tells me Johnny fell out of bed again."

"It has become almost a nightly occurrence," Will remarked.

"It has," she agreed and rose from her chair. "I will go tuck him back in."

Before she could take a step, a shouted cry came from the second floor. "Master Will, Master Will, come quick. It be Miz Victoria." It was Sulie May, the servant girl who had taken Phoebe's place in the household and had been assigned to sit with the ever-ailing Victoria.

Will sprang from his chair as Eliza broke into a run. He reached the staircase a step ahead of her. Hampered by her long skirts, Eliza couldn't keep pace with him as he raced up the stairs.

When she reached the second-floor landing, Eliza could hear the muffled sound of Victoria's horrible racking cough coming from the master bedroom. She ran to the open door. There she hesitated for a fraction of a second, held motionless by the sight of Will Gordon supporting his wife as she was convulsed by the hacking spasms.

Swiftly, she crossed the room. "I will take over now," she ordered crisply. Victoria looked up, her dark eyes full of fear and a silent appeal for help. "I am here. You will be fine." Eliza fixed a reassuring smile on her face.

"The attacks, they keep coming one after the other." Sulie May hovered next to the bed, watching. "She don't have no time to rest 'fore another starts."

"You will find a bottle of laudanum in the top drawer of the bedstand, Will. Bring it to me."

An eternity seemed to pass before the coughing subsided sufficiently for Eliza to administer the drug. She gently wiped Victoria's face with a damp cloth and tried to keep her calm enough to allow the laudanum to take effect. But Victoria's own exhaustion hastened that.

Once Eliza was reasonably confident there would be no more attacks, she took the handkerchief from Victoria's limp fingers. She started to lay it aside, then noticed the splotches of blood on the white cloth. She looked at Will, more worried about his wife than before.

"What is it?"

She shook her head, warning him to keep silent, and handed him the kerchief. "I will get her a clean one."

A clatter of footsteps sounded in the outer hall. A second later, Kipp charged into the room with Black Cassie directly behind him. He stopped and stared at his mother, his face stark with apprehension. In a stupor of exhaustion and laudanum, Victoria was motionless and pale as death.

"Mama—" He took a step toward the bed, his voice choked.

"She is resting, Kipp," Eliza said, regretting that she had ever believed that anger was the only emotion Kipp could feel.

When Kipp turned to his father, she noticed the furtive way Will balled the bloodstained handkerchief and held it at his side, hiding it from Kipp's view. "I got Black Cassie here as fast as I could," Kipp said as the buxom woman scurried past him to her mistress.

"You did fine, Kipp." Will laid a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder and slipped the soiled cloth into his own pocket with the other. "Your mother will be all right."

"I looks after Miz Vi'toria. You don't be worryin' 'bout that none, Master Will." Cassie took the clean handkerchief from Eliza and gently tucked it in Victoria's hand. "Does ya wants me t' cup her? I brings my things."

"No." Eliza spoke up quickly, not allowing Will an opportunity to answer. "Sleep is what she needs now."

"Yes," he agreed. "Tomorrow, move Miss Eliza's things to Temple's old room, Cassie." His glance locked with Eliza's. "I want you close by in case Victoria needs you in the night again."

"Of course." She nodded.

"Go back to your room now, Kipp," Will said. "There is nothing more you can do here."

Reluctantly, Kipp left. In the ensuing silence, broken only by the soft rustle of Black Cassie moving about, Will watched while Eliza tended to Victoria. Her calm efficiency and cool competence impressed him, especially after the righteous outrage she had displayed over the treaty's ratification only moments ago.

Leaving Victoria's bedside, Eliza approached him. "She is resting now," she said in an undertone. "Come." She indicated for him to follow her into the hall. Will did. Outside the bedroom door, Eliza stopped. "I will help Cassie move my things downstairs. If Victoria begins coughing again, you can give her some laudanum, but no more than ten drops," she cautioned.

"Ten drops," he repeated with a nod, then mused, "We have all come to depend on you a great deal, Eliza."

"I expect you have," she acknowledged, but she was uncomfortable with his words.

Will tried for a moment to imagine Gordon Glen without her; it was a bleak and cheerless place he saw. She had become more than just a teacher and housekeeper; she had become like a mother to his children, laughing with them, treating their cuts and scrapes, tucking them into bed at night.

But it wouldn't be only the children who would miss her if she ever left, Will realized. He would too. He had only to recall the lively conversations at the dinner table, the endless opinions Eliza had on almost any subject, the confiding talks they sometimes shared in the evenings about the children, or the letters she wrote him when he was away, letters filled with amusing anecdotes and information about the children or the plantation.

"I wonder if Reverend Cole really knew what he lost when you chose not to marry him, Eliza."

"That is the second time today someone has made reference to Reverend Cole. First Temple and now you. I cannot understand this sudden interest in him," Eliza declared.

"Perhaps both of us realized how very fortunate we are that you have remained here with us. I am glad you did, Eliza."

"Thank you, but your gratitude is quite unnecessary."

"It isn't gratitude I am offering." It was a simple statement, but there was nothing simple about the way he held her gaze.

Afraid of misinterpreting his words, Eliza remained silent. When he turned and went back into the bedroom to stay with Victoria, Eliza thought her heart would break into a million pieces. But that was foolishness. Hearts didn't break, any more than they soared. People imagined such things.

 

 

 

22

 

 

Temple shook out the blue calico dress and tried desperately to forget that it was The Blade's favorite. For the past two and a half weeks, she had postponed informing him about the baby—and her decision to leave. But she had seen very little of him during that time. What with the ratification of the false treaty by the American Congress and Ross's subsequent message that it was to be treated as though it didn't exist, The Blade had been away a great deal. When he was home, the time never seemed right to tell him.

Determined to delay no longer, she was packing her things now, before he returned, so that when he did, she would have to confront him. Behind her, Phoebe loudly blew her nose, the sound scraping her already raw nerves.

"Stop that sniffling, Phoebe," Temple snapped. "How many times must I tell you that we will not leave until they come back? You will get to see Deu before we go."

"I know," she said, her voice strangled with grief.
 

"It isn't as though you will never see him again. I told you he could visit you at Gordon Glen." Almost angrily, Temple folded the dress and jammed it into the open trunk.
 

"I know."

"Then stop this bawling! Do you have to make it harder than it already is?" She fought back her own tears as she grabbed up another dress.

Suddenly, Temple stiffened, sensing The Blade's presence even though she hadn't heard a sound. When she swung around, he stood motionless in the bedroom doorway, his lean features devoid of expression, his blue eyes colder than a winter sky. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen him smile. That side of him was gone, buried so deep she wasn't sure it would emerge again.

His glance flicked to the trunk. "You are leaving," he said flatly.

"Yes." Unconsciously, she held her breath, waiting for his response.

He started forward. She backed up a step, expecting him to rip the dress from her hand and empty the trunk. But he walked past her to the balcony doors. He stopped in front of them to stare at the treetops outside.

Finally she realized that he wasn't going to break the crushing silence. "I am going to have a child and I want it to be born at Gordon Glen." She deliberately linked the two statements together.

"When—" He stopped, then started over, his voice flattening out again. "When are you planning to leave?"

"As soon as possible." Her throat was so tight she could hardly get the words out. Beyond his initial surprise, The Blade acted as if he didn't even care that they were going to have a baby.

For several seconds he stood motionless. "I will have a wagon brought around for your things and send a couple of the field workers to load your trunks." He didn't look at her as he walked out of the room, and Temple didn't see him again before she left.

 

At Gordon Glen, Temple waited for The Blade to visit. If he wasn't going to acknowledge her pregnancy, she thought he would surely come to bring the news of the July arrival of federal troops commanded by General Wool and sent by Jackson as a show of force. But he didn't. Nor did he come to deride Ross's persistent attempts to obtain a new treaty that would cede only the Cherokee lands within the boundaries claimed by Georgia.

Nor did he bring a copy of the November general order number 74 posted by General Wool, which called for the original treaty to be enforced.

Her only news of The Blade came from Phoebe, who saw Deu frequently. Even that was scant and hardly satisfying. According to Deu, The Blade had become increasingly short-tempered and given to anger at the slightest provocation, a failing Temple had recently suffered herself. The family blamed her irritability on her "condition." She couldn't admit, not even to Eliza, how very much she missed The Blade and how much it hurt that he hadn't cared enough to come see her, knowing she carried his child.