Somerset (13 page)

But all questions regarding Joshua narrowed down to the one most important: Was Silas wrong to ensure for his son the birthright and future his own father had denied him, no matter what the cost might be?

Only time held the answer.

S
omething was bothering Jeremy. Silas could read his friend like a well-thumbed book. Jeremy was the only one of his clan to inherit its patriarch's Greek-god features (Lettie had called him Helios), and his friend's face, for all its golden, sculpted handsomeness, was as open as a clear day rarely disturbed by clouds. Today, something had caused the clouds to gather.

“What's got ahold of you, Jeremy?” Silas asked as his friend followed him up to his room at Queenscrown. It was past the supper and reading hour, and his family and servants had retired for the night.

Silas prayed it had nothing to do with Jeremy deciding to go off and help the Texians fight their revolution. His comrade-in-purpose had hinted at the desire some time back. “Caleb Martin is as capable of helping you organize and lead the wagon train as I am,” Jeremy had said, and I'll meet up with you at the point where you cross the Red River.”

Jeremy's grandfather had fought in the American Revolution sixty years before and while he lived, never let his offspring and their children forget the reasons the war with England was fought. The concept of a citizen having certain innate rights in his own country had been inbred in them, more so than in the Tolivers' line, who in their heart of hearts still felt some fealty to their Royalist pasts. Jeremy seethed at the gall of the Mexican government to levy taxes on the Texas colonists without representation and to pass sudden and arbitrary civil policy and laws it enforced by the use of military power. “I have no one but myself to see after,” he'd said to Silas. “I ought to go help the Texians. It's our war, too.”

Silas had used all his powers of persuasion to convince Jeremy that the Texians could do without his proficient gun arm for now. Many of those who had signed up to join the wagon train in his group had done so because of Jeremy's known courage, cool head, and keen intelligence. For the same reason, Silas's flock had signed on and stuck with him. The scandal of his marriage may have tarnished his image but not his leadership abilities. The feeling was that if anybody could get them to Texas, Jeremy Warwick and Silas Toliver could. Not so if one-half of the team was turned over to Caleb Martin, a strong, tough man but of untested abilities without knowledge of the pertinent information Silas and Jeremy had collected and studied over a year. And what would happen if Silas were rendered incapable of leading the train along the way?

Jeremy had granted that he'd been thinking only of himself even to consider turning his charges over to Caleb, but today, so close to departure time, Silas wondered if his friend's old yearnings had come back to possess him.

“I apologize for the late hour, but Tomahawk rode in an hour ago and brought the worst news yet,” Jeremy said.

Tomahawk Lacy, a Creek whose tribe lived in Georgia, was one of two scouts Jeremy had hired and trusted to bring back reports from Texas. As one returned, the other rode out, so that the leaders of the wagon train were kept abreast as much as possible of the current perils they would meet. “Let's hear it,” Silas said, ushering him into his sitting room where he had a new map spread out on his desk, the first topographical map of Texas prepared by a man named Gail Borden, a surveyor for the Stephen F. Austin colony.

“Santa Anna's brigades have fanned out along the Rio Grande,” Jeremy said, placing his finger on the drawing of the river that served as a border between Texas and Mexico. “Tomahawk estimates the number of troops at several thousand, probably more, along with hundreds of wagons, carts, mules, horses. It must be a heart-freezing sight. He says they'll cross at various points and times in the next week and gather on the Texas side of the Rio Grande. Santa Anna himself is leading the army and will cross with his battalion from a place called Laredo in the south. His intent is to retake Texas and put down the rebellion like he did in the separatist states in Mexico.”

Silas felt a chill creep over his skin. He understood Jeremy's meaning and reference to the “separatist states.” Santa Anna meant to show no mercy to the upstart Anglo colonists as he had shown none to the rebels in the Mexican states who had opposed his taking over the government and declaring himself dictator of the country. On the long march toward Texas, he and his armies had blazed a path of terror through the provinces that had separated themselves from his rule, systematically burning villages, killing livestock, raping women, and massacring the rebels and their families and communities without quarter. A handful of survivors had carried news of the atrocities into Texas to warn the Texians of the kind of wholesale slaughter and brutality that awaited them when General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna and his Mexican Army crossed the Rio Grande.

Silas thought instantly of Joshua and Jessica. “So he'll take no prisoners, women and children included?”

“That's the report. Everyone in arms and their families will be treated as pirates, unworthy of mercy.”

“The son of a cur! I'd like to string the bastard up by his gonads and stake him over a slow fire,” Silas said, realizing how ineffectual he sounded. In Toliver fashion, he swept his hand through his hair. “So what do we do—take the tide while it is upon us or decline? We're on a full sea, Jeremy. The wagons are packed. If we delay, even for a month, we may lose the current.”

Jeremy offered the flicker of a grin. “You and your Shakespeare. As bad as Morris and his Bible.” His tone sobered. “No matter the full sea. You would risk Joshua and…your wife?”

“This news gives me reason to suggest another route I've been considering,” Silas said, and turned the map toward Jeremy. Once upon a time, they favored a specific table at the Wild Goose in Willowshire to study maps and discuss their plans over flagons of ale, but that was before Silas's disgraceful conduct became the topic of tavern talk. These days they met in the Warwick library or in Silas's rooms at Queenscrown, not the most cordial venue since Elizabeth and Morris were aware of the reason they had gathered.

“What if we drop down to New Orleans and cross the Sabine River into Texas?” Silas said. “It will be out of our way, but the advantage is that the Mississippi will be easier to navigate there, and we'll have cheaper and more convenient access to water transport than we're likely to have at Shreve Town farther north. Ferries are in place in New Orleans, and flatboat construction is a flourishing and competitive business.”

Silas pointed to the river's mouth on the map. “We can cross the Sabine here at its estuary and make our way up through the bayou country through the pine forests north, then cut west to our land grants. If we cross where we'd intended”—he indicated a place farther up on the map—“we might run directly into Santa Anna's army. He's bound to be headed toward the eastern part of the territory where the largest settlements are located.”

“And by entering Texas from the south, should that madman have taken the territory, we'd have the biggest chance of retreat,” Jeremy said.

“That's right.”

“I like it. The Comanche will be less of a threat as well.”

“We'll need to call a meeting for tomorrow night to inform everyone of the change of route and to assure them we're still going,” Silas said.

Jeremy turned away to pour himself a glass of brandy.

“What's the matter?” Silas asked, rolling up the map as Jeremy took a seat before the fire. “You still seem…daunted by the news.”

“Not for myself, Silas, you know that, or even for those who have entrusted their destiny to our care. We've kept them apprised of the risks they're taking, the price they may have to pay for the rewards they seek, but there are those innocent of the
dangers
…who are totally unprepared to deal with them.”

Silas joined him with his own brandy glass. “You're speaking of Jessica, of course.”

“I am. Far be it from me to tell a man how to deal with his wife, but it seems to me Jessica ought to be given some training in how to defend herself if need be. She doesn't even know how to load or fire a gun.”

“How do you know this?”

“I ran into her while she was out riding last week. By the way, she should leave her filly at home. That silly little horse is too dainty for the trek to Texas, tethered to the back of a wagon.”

To his surprise, Silas felt a pang of some unidentifiable emotion at Jeremy's interest in Jessica's welfare. Not jealousy, surely, but he found the feeling unfamiliar and unpleasant. “I'll send word to her father that she should be instructed in shooting a gun and to include a firearm in her belongings. I'll also advise that Jingle Bell be left behind. Let Carson deal with her tantrum when she's told.”

Silas had intentionally and familiarly dropped the name of Jessica's horse in rebuttal to his friend's implication—accurate and unintended, though it was—that he had neglected his wife. “What else did you and she discuss?”

“Only that she wishes she could be privy to more information about what to expect. She says she reads the newspapers and knows what's going on in Texas but not to the extent we do and share with the others. Jessica is aware of our meetings and that wives are invited. She feels…excluded.”

“She'd only be the object of gawking if she attends. The girl ought to be grateful to have been spared the embarrassment, and she needn't be concerned for her well-being, nor should you. Believe me, Carson will see to her every comfort, and”—Silas took a sip of the brandy—“I plan to drop Jessica and Joshua off at a hotel in New Orleans—the Winthorp—until it's safe to send for them.”

Jeremy raised a sandy brow. “Ah. Another reason to change the route.” After another taste of his drink, he asked casually, “What if Jessica refuses to stay in New Orleans? She's proven a girl who doesn't mind being in harm's way.”

“It's not harm's way she'll wish to remove herself from, Jeremy, but me,” Silas said.

“J
essie, do you think this is a good idea?” Eunice asked, the question carrying a note of reproach as she watched her daughter pack a number of small, brightly colored, hand-carved blocks into a sack. “Your
husband
should be the one arranging this first visit with his son.”

“If I depended upon my
husband
to introduce me to the boy, I might have to wait until we're in Texas. Cowardliness is not fast overcome.”

“In that opinion I believe you've wronged Silas, Jessie. He's probably thinking of his son, who is still pining for Lettie, and Elizabeth, who had hoped she would become his stepmother. Perhaps he's waiting for the appropriate time to introduce you to Joshua.”

“And just when would be the appropriate time, Mama? In one week when we leave for Texas? How awkward would that be for the boy?”

Jessica slipped the last colored block into the sack. The blocks made up a set of twenty-six with letters of the alphabet drawn on one side, numbers on the other, and farm animals, fences, pastures, sheds, and equipment on the others, all exquisitely painted by Tippy. Jessica had gotten the idea of them as an introduction gift to her stepson one night when she was lying awake wondering how she could manage, not to replace Lettie in Joshua's affections, but at least to make friends with him. She knew nothing about child rearing and had never experienced a second's maternal longing to produce a child. She'd gone to Tippy with the idea.

“I want something to be a learning tool as well as a toy,” she'd said, and Tippy's imagination had immediately taken off in collaboration with Willowshire's talented carpenter to produce the result Jessica would be transporting to Queenscrown today. Along with it was a stick horse whose head had been carved and painted as a facsimile of her beloved Jingle Bell whom she'd been told she must leave behind.

“Besides,” Jessica added, “my
husband
has forgotten about me.” She'd seen Silas only once after they'd said “I do.” Two weeks later, the first of February, the day he was to have married Lettie, he'd sent word by one of the servants to expect him that afternoon, and she'd stood on the upstairs gallery to watch for his approach up the lane. She'd expected to view him with disdain, but her heart had flown to her throat when he came into sight on his high-prancing gelding, the handsomest man she'd ever seen—her husband—and among the
oldest
, too, Jessica reminded herself,
and
an advocate of slavery to boot, she must remember.

Shocked and angry at herself, bewildered, she'd escaped quickly inside before he saw her and mistakenly believed she was eager to see him. By the time she met him for tea in the small parlor, she'd set her face against him. Uninspired by his reception, Silas was no less impassive to her. There was no sign he was aware of the significance of the date. He had come to give her a list of dos and don'ts to consider in preparations for the trip and outfitting her Conestoga wagon, delivered the day before. Apparently they were not to occupy the same “camel of the prairie,” as the vehicle was called. Her father had bought her and Silas their individual wagons as a wedding present. The scandal that the married couple was not cohabiting—now fodder for every gossipmonger in South Carolina—would travel with them to Texas.

“Well, frankly, I hope your husband
has
forgotten about you,” Eunice said. “There is no
telling
what the train will run into in Texas, even if you make it there. Elizabeth agrees. She's frightened out of her mind for Joshua.”

Jessica turned away from the mirror where she'd been adjusting her bonnet to prevent her mother from reading her same worry. The
Charleston Courier
weekly carried news of the rebellion in Texas, and yesterday they had read a report that 6,000 Mexican soldiers led by Santa Anna, Mexico's ruthless military commander, had crossed the border of the Rio Grande to crush the Texian forces once and for all. Silas had estimated that the trip to Texas would take five months, barring disastrous delays, which would place the date of their arrival at the site of their land grant no later than the end of July. But what would they find when they got there? Burned lands? Hostile Mexican soldiers waiting to take them prisoner? Would their land grants even be honored?

She shrugged off the flurry of worries for her more immediate concern and asked, “Where is Tippy? She's to go with me to Queenscrown. I want her to see the look on the boy's face when I present him his toys.”

“For God's sakes!” Eunice moaned. “Must Tippy share everything? This is to be a private moment between you and your stepson and Elizabeth when you meet her as her daughter-in-law. What will you do if Elizabeth invites you to stay for tea? Will you insist Tippy share that, too? Spare the girl and allow her to remain here.”

“Tippy will take herself off to the kitchen on her own accord, Mama,” Jessica said, picking up the sack. “To spare me, she respects the place others have assigned her. I don't want her to miss the boy's reaction.”

Silas felt a small start when he recognized the Wyndham coat of arms on the two-seater, single-horse trap tied before the verandah of Queenscrown. It was not a conveyance he'd think favored by the Wyndham men. It must be Eunice Wyndham come to offer an olive leaf to her old friend and her daughter's mother-in-law after a strained stand-off between the two plantations. Or—surely not—could it be Jessica come to call?

Silas hastily dismounted and slapped his horse's flank. The gelding took off for the groom to look after when he reached the stables.

The sound of voices came from the drawing room—voices threaded with laughter he had not heard in a long time. Silas peered around the door to see Jessica and her maid sitting on the floor with his son, gazing on as he stacked little blocks of colored wood on top of one another. His mother watched the activities from her chair before the fire, looking amused despite that it was not Lettie on the floor playing with her grandson.

“
A
,
B
,
C
—what follows
C
, Joshua?” Jessica was saying.

“D!”
his son squealed delightedly. “My uncle Morris taught me!”

Tippy, the maid, applauded with her floppy hands. “You is so smart!” she cried.

“I know it,” Joshua said matter-of-factly. “Can we make a farm?”

“Of course,” Jessica said.

Silas cleared his throat and stepped forward. “May I join the party?”

Joshua, seeing him, jumped to his feet. “Papa! Papa! Come look what Jessica and Tippy have brought me!” He grabbed his father's hand and pulled him to the scattering of colored blocks on the floor. “There are numbers and pictures, and I can build a farm with animals and everything! See?” Joshua grabbed up a barn and a cow for his father's inspection.

“I see,” Silas said.

“And, look, look!” Joshua straddled the stick horse. “I have a pony with a real head. Gee haw, horse! Gee haw!” And with a whoop and a cry he galloped off to ride the terrain of the room on his handsome-headed stallion.

Jessica had gotten to her feet. Tippy, too, had hopped up. The maid folded her hands before her apron and stepped back from the group into the dusky shadows of the room, her head down.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Toliver,” Jessica said, adjusting the folds of her dress. “I hope you do not mind the intrusion into your home.”

“It is a visit most welcome, Miss Wyndham.”

“The toys were an idea I had that Tippy made possible as a means to introduce myself to your son.”

“A very gracious gesture, Miss Wyndham.”

Joshua reined his pony in beside them. “
Jessica
. Her name is
Jessica
, Papa. She and Tippy are going with us to Texas.”

“So I've heard,” Silas said, his eyes holding Jessica's.

Elizabeth rose from her chair. “Let us be off to the kitchen to see about tea, Tippy, and perhaps you can show our cook how to cut the sandwiches in those designs that were served at Miss Jessica's birthday party.”

“I be happy to,” Tippy said.

Joshua was back on the floor engrossed with the blocks, his horse temporarily hitched. “Thank you,” Silas said to Jessica, taking her by the elbow and drawing her from his son's play. “I…didn't quite know how to arrange a meeting between you and Joshua. It should have happened sooner. Forgive my irresolution.”

Jessica waved away his apology. “Perfectly understandable, Mr. Toliver. Your son is adorable. I believe we'll become very good friends.”

“Does he know you're…my wife?”

“I thought it less confusing for him not to know yet. Our…situation will easily conceal the fact until the time is suitable to disclose it to him.”

“Very wise…Jessica.”

She smiled slightly, a flickering light quickly extinguished, but not too soon for Silas to see its benefit to her face. “Silas…” Jessica said his name musingly. “I'll have to get used to calling you that.”

“It will not be as hard as hearing yourself referred to as Mrs. Toliver.”

“Not any more so than believing I am,” Jessica said, and Silas understood the cause of her blush. She had wandered into marital territory in which they might never venture. The possibility—probability—of their never sharing a bed was fine by him. He had his heir to Somerset.

“I'm glad you came over,” he said. “I was meaning to come by tomorrow with information which should make you very happy.”

A leap of panic flashed in her dark eyes. “You're not canceling the trip, are you?”

Curious, surprised by her reaction, he asked, “Would that make you happy?”

She looked perplexed, but only momentarily. Silas saw her quick mind make short work of her confusion. “I dare say that would put us in a pickle neither of us would prefer, so by logic that news would not make me happy. I was silly to ask such a question.”

“I can't imagine you ever being silly, Jessica. The information is this: Our route will take us to New Orleans, and I propose that you stay comfortably there in a hotel with Joshua until I can get the lay of the land in Texas. Of course your maid will remain with you. When all is well, I will send for you. You will like the Winthorp. I've stayed there before. It is in the Garden District and run by an English couple who understand the niceties of southern hospitality. I'll give you the address to leave with your mother and friends in case they wish to mail you letters there.”

Silas had expected to see her blow out a breath of relief. Instead, her small, freckled face tightened. “Of course I will stay behind for Joshua's sake,” she said, her voice thick with what sounded like disappointment. “I'm sure you're worried about the danger to him.” She raised her chin to a lofty angle and turned away from him. “It really is time we were getting home. If you'll be kind enough to direct me to the kitchen, I'll go fetch Tippy.”

Silas was astonished to see that he had somehow wounded her. Her hurt feelings were as easy to perceive as the bright blocks scattered on the floor. Lord have mercy, what had he said to injure her so? At a loss, flustered, he inquired, “Are you all packed and ready for departure? Remember that three-quarters of your wagon is to be reserved for supplies.”

The one time he'd seen her since their marriage, he had strongly advised her not to bring anything along she could live without. Later, when they were established, things could be shipped to their settlement upriver from the Gulf of Mexico, he'd told her. As a leader of the wagon train, he had met many times with his group and preached keeping their conveyances as light as possible. Guidebooks, newspaper articles, and letters from those who had already made the five-month journey told of settlers having to discard nonessential items to lighten loads because of various problems with terrain or in case of emergency. The trails west were littered with abandoned items—furniture, clothes, bedding, books, equipment, musical instruments—that travelers coming after them found and picked up for their own use. He had left Jessica a list of suggested substitutes for heavier and less practical items, such as candles in lieu of oil and a few sets of sturdy, warm clothing rather than trunks full of silk and satin finery. Silas was sure that half of Jessica's elegant possessions would be left in the wake of the wagon train.

“I am ready, Mr. Toliver,” Jessica said crisply. “You may rest your concerns about that, and I am relieved that news of that dreadful despot bent on humbling the Texians has not dampened your will to go. At this point, I am ready to say to Plantation Alley, Willow Grove, my family, and the whole state of South Carolina what Mr. David Crockett said to his constituents when he was defeated for reelection to Congress: ‘You may all go to hell. I am going to Texas.'”