Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (5 page)

“Is
all well, miss?” Margery helped her unlace her bodice.

“I
cannot talk about it, Margery. But I’m to lose you.” She wiped the tears from
off her cheek. Margery let out a heavy sigh.

The
drapes were closed. She went to the nearest, pulled them back, and looked out. “The
moon is behind the clouds.”

Out
on the road beyond the gates, a curious shape emerged, like a man on horseback
with dark cloak and hat. Rebecah leaned nearer.

“What
is it, miss?”

“I
cannot see in the dark to know.” Her imagination leapt within. Her saddened heart
pounded.

Beside
her now, Margery peered out the window. “It’s the gate swinging on its hinges.”

“I
think you’re right. Where will you sleep?”

“In
the servant’s quarters upstairs. Goodnight, miss.”   

After
Margery left her, Rebecah stepped away from the window and slipped under the
covers. She shut her eyes and hoped to drift off. It proved hard. To be in a
strange place, in a bed not her own, made her lonely for home. She tried not to
think of Ashburne, of Endfield, the loss of her father, and now Margery. But
her mind would not let go.

She
turned to prayer, not as a ritual, but an outpouring of her heart to her maker.
She spoke to him until her lips could move no more, until the clock in the hall
struck the quarter hour and she fell to sleep.

Late November

Plymouth

A
ship from the American Colonies loaded with tobacco, furs, and sassafras, quietly
laid anchor. John Nash leaned against the rail, his memory stirring. Nothing
had changed since the day he had left England.

In
the distance, he could see the enormous bell tower and steeple of Saint Charles
Church plunging into the sky. It seized Nash’s heart like the churches back
home. The clustered spires shot into the sky like giant spears, piercing
silvery clouds, stretching toward Heaven.

Thinking
about them caused him to feel homesick.

A
seaman leaned over the rail. “As I recall there’s a tavern a block away that
serves good English ale. Will you not join us, Mr. Nash?”

Nash
swung his bundle over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie, but I must be on
my way.”

“Do
it while you have the chance. When you sail back home, you’ll not taste English
ale for a long time.” 

“You
may be right. But I prefer Boston beer.” 

He threw
him a salute and walked away. A female voice hailed him. “You there. You in the
strange clothes.”

A
coach and four waited on the street. A young woman poked her head outside the
window and held down her wide-brimmed hat with a gloved hand. Her brown
ringlets fell over her throat. Rice powder paled her face, and on her cheeks
were two bright spots of rouge. Beside her mouth, the black patch she wore
looked like a tiny mole.

Nash
stopped and stepped up to the coach. His clothes were not as fashionable as the
men passing him, but was he all that different? Perhaps it was the Indian beads
about his neck she saw. She gazed at him breathless. “My companions and I see
by your attire you’re not from our country.”

“I’ve
come from the Colonies, ma’am.”

Her
eyes faltered and met his again. “Will you come with us to a gathering we are headed
to? You’d bring us a great deal of attention. We’ll pay you two guineas.”

Nash
stiffened. “I’m not for hire.”

She looked baffled.  “But two guineas.”

“If you’re anxious to part with your money, I suggest you
give it to those poor wretches lingering on the street corner.”

She
followed the direction of his eyes. “Are they hungry you think?”

“I’ve
no doubt they are.”

“I
wonder how it feels.” She paused and one of her friends nudged her. “Oh, will
you not reconsider?”

“Sorry.
I must be on my way.”

Unmoved
by her further pleading and the overtures of her companions, Nash moved on.
Outside the bustling city, he trudged his way to a road wide enough for a
horse.

He
had been away for five years and, with the war inevitable, he longed to see his
parents while he had the chance. They lived in a country house, where in his
mind’s eye he saw them seated by the fire with their dog curled on the rug.

His
father in his reckless youth traveled across the ocean to try his hand in
Virginia. The only success he made was a son by Charlotte Easton, the daughter
of a planter. They were married six years and in sequence their babies came and
passed away in infancy. Being of a gentle fortitude, Charlotte died after
birthing their son, causing Sir Rodney to return to England with him in his
arms. 

Devastated
by the loss of his wife, Nash’s father drowned himself in his grief and
loneliness until he met Margaret Lacey, cousin to Kathryn Brent. Within six
months they were wed, and their years together were happy. As a boy, Nash
thrived beneath Lady Margaret’s gentle but firm hand. She was the only mother
he knew, and he loved her with tireless devotion.

When
he reached the glades of his childhood home, he paused in the road to gaze at
Standforth House. It had not changed. The same thatched roof, the square
mullioned windows, oak door, and front garden, livened his memories. The dog
sitting on the doorstep perked its ears and sniffed. Then her shaggy tail
wagged and she raced down the lane toward him.

“Toby!”
He patted and rubbed the dog’s coat, while it licked his face. “Good old gal, I’ve
missed you.”

A
man in work clothes came around the corner of the house carrying a hoe. Wispy
tufts of hair sprouted from the old fellow’s ears and chin, and on the tip of
his long angular nose was a large brown mole. One eye was blind, the watery
pupil white, just as Nash had remembered. He stood in his tracks and stared.

“Is
Sir Rodney and his lady at home?” the younger Nash inquired.

“Maybe
he is, maybe he ain’t.” The man stuck out his chin and cocked his noxious eye. “What
you want with him? If it’s money, forget it. If food, come round the back.”

Nash
stood. “I want nothing but to see my father.” 

The
man squinted. “Sir Rodney’s son is in America.”

 “Your
eyesight has weakened since I left, Angus.”

The
man stepped closer. “Scratch me raw, young Jack, ‘tis you.  You’re dressed like
a heathen.”

“These
are what I’m accustomed to wearing. Buckskin breeches are comfortable.”

“Buckskin?
I recognize those beads you’re wearing from the last war. Never thought I’d see
the day when an Englishman would wear them. What’s the world coming to?”

“
The
Thirteen
, sir.” With a brisk stride, Nash walked to the door. Angus trailed
behind him.

His
father was in the habit of rising early and retiring late. He would be in his
study reading the Gazette and his Bible. A biscuit would be on a plate and a
cup of tea to the side. Nash opened the doors and stepped in.

The
moment they laid eyes on each other, Sir Rodney dropped his cup. The china
handle broke against the saucer. He scrambled from his chair. His son smiled.
The same blue eyes graced with dignified lines glowed with fatherly pride. Dressed
in a buff coat and cream breeches, Sir Rodney smelled of milled soap.

He searched
for his spectacles and with trembling fingers, shoved the wires over his ears.
“Jack!”

Though
his name upon the baptism records in Virginia called him one thing, his father
gave him the name
Jack
, for he thought it endearing.

“On
my word, you’ve come back to us. Bless God.” His smile broke into joyful
laughter. “Your days of wandering have brought you home impoverished?”

“Not
at all, Father. I’ve done very well.”

“I’m
glad to hear it. We’ve missed you.” He threw his arms around Nash’s shoulders
and embraced him.

“Are
you better? Have you recovered from your fall?”

“My
ribs are good as new.” Sir Rodney tapped his left side with his palm. “I still
have the horse that threw me.”

“Where
is Mother?” 

“Upstairs.
You’ve no idea how she has missed you.” Sir Rodney walked his son to the door.
“She has kept you in her prayers since the day you left.”

“That
answers many things. I’m sure her prayers saved my life on more than one
occasion.”

Sir
Rodney drew back and frowned. “You had a few brushes with danger? You must tell
me about them over supper.”

The
morning sun spread over the wall, as Nash ascended the stairs. The Persian
runner in the hallway quieted his steps. He approached his stepmother’s room,
noticing nothing had changed; the pictures on the walls, the candles on brass
hooks, the blue velvet draperies. 

Her
door sat ajar and he saw her seated by the window in her favorite chair. Still
beautiful, even though the radiance of youth had faded, ruby light touched upon
her cheek. She drew her shawl close and turned a page in her book.

“Hello,
Mother.”

Startled,
Lady Margaret dropped her book and leapt from her chair. “Jack,” she cried. “You’ve
come home.”

He
rushed forward, took her in his arms. “There, Mother. Don’t cry. What’s the use
when I’m here safe and sound?”

She
touched his face. “I cannot help it.”

“You
look well. You are well, are you not?”

“I’m
better now that I see you. Has your father seen you?”

“Yes.”

“He
has no consideration for my poor heart.” She laid her hand across it. “It i
t’ownot see in the aside. “It’sStreet.ca, and David set up
a law practice, Lavinia a welcomin t in, a business that both worrie
s
pounding so hard it might have burst. He should have warned me.”

“I
brought you something.” Nash drew the beads over his head. “Let me have your
hand.” He turned her palm over and placed the gift there.

She
held up a strand of beads of an unusual shade of orange. The stones caught the
light coming through the window.  

“Oh,
so beautiful. How did you come by them?”

“An
award given to me by an Indian.”

Surprised,
she glanced at him. “An Indian, you say? Why these must be rare indeed.”

“Chief
Logan is a peacemaker in the Virginias, and my friend.”

“These
are too rich for me. I’m not deserving of them.” She wiped her eyes. 

He
closed her hand over them.  “If I ever see Chief Logan again, I shall tell him
you wear them proudly.”

“I
shall treasure them always. You must be hungry and tired, and in need of a
bath. And those clothes. Is this what the gentlemen wear in the Colonies?”

“Only
those living in the frontier.”

Sir
Rodney entered the room and she held out her hand to him to see the necklace.

“Look
at what Jack brought me, dear. Are they not fine?”

“You’ll
be the only woman in England to own anything like them.”

Lady
Margaret turned to her son. “Tell us what you need, Jack, and you shall have
it. We shall have a feast tonight.”

“You
need not spoil me, Mother.”

“We
must celebrate your homecoming.” Lady Margaret grabbed him by the arm and
embraced him. Toby leapt and barked, and Nash felt his heart lift.

There
was more merriment in that house that day, than there had been in more than a
year.

* * *

Rebecah
could have allowed Endfield to suffocate her. But she refused to give in to its
bleak atmosphere. She had found a sister in Lavinia, and they spent all their
time together. She loved Hugh, and took every opportunity to take him out of
doors, to the woods, stream, and fields. Every morning she opened wide her
bedroom curtains to let the sun in.

The
day of John Nash’s arrival in England, she sat at the spinet in the music room
tapping out a tune. It grew cloudy outside, and her music cut through the dry
monotony like a sunny day. Outside the door, servants hesitated in their work
to listen. The piece she played was difficult. Rebecah lifted her fingers away
from the keys and stared at the sheet music wishing she were better.

She
glanced over at Lavinia. Reclining on the couch, she twisted a ribbon between
her fingers and sighed.

“Are
you weary with my playing?”

“You’re
playing is fine. But I’m bored to tears.”

“Is
there something you’d rather do? My fingers are stiff.”

Lavinia
sat straight up. “Yes. Let us go for a ride. There is a patch of blue along the
horizon.”

Rebecah
could not refuse an invitation to escape. She hurried off to change and joined Lavinia
in the stable. Slipping the bridle over the horse’s neck, she kicked off her
shoes and put her foot into the stirrup, clicked her tongue and flicked the
reins. The mare trotted out of the stable into the sunlight.

“Rebecah.”
Lavinia called. “You cannot ride without boots. What will my mother say?”

Rebecah
glanced over her shoulder. “She will never know unless you tell her. I also
prefer to go without a saddle. But for your sake I shall endure one.”

Lavinia
rolled her eyes. “I should hope so.”

Far
from the house, they paused to give the horses drink from a brook south of
Endfield. Rebecah pulled her hair free from its fastenings, shook her head and
allowed the curls to tumble over her shoulders. She loved the feel of the wind
through it, how it crossed her neck. Beyond the hill, she saw the Carrow’s
farmhouse. Forests were above it and to the north open hills met the sky. 

 Lavinia
brought her horse alongside Rebecah’s. “Your life has been sheltered, Rebecah.
I think I may envy you for it in some ways. You seem so…free.”

“I
wish you wouldn’t say such things, Lavinia. There is no reason to envy me.”

“You
do not understand. The only goal my father has for my life is that I marry well.”