Before the Scarlet Dawn: Daughters of the Potomac, Book 1 Page 17

  She shook her head. “Friends do not forget each other, Mr. Halston. I wish you Godspeed.”

  “I have wondered if loving you is a sin,” he said.

  Stunned, she stared at her hand, closed tight over the knob. His confession, a flaming arrow, caused her to draw in a ragged breath, for his were words that should not be spoken, feelings that should never be felt, and as to whether or not it were a sin—that should never be questioned.

  As he leaned against the wall, moonlight outlined his form. “I think we both know we feel something for each other, and anything more than that, acting upon what we feel, would be wrong in God’s eyes.”

  “I know nothing of how you feel. I do not want to know. I love Hayward, him and him alone. My feelings for you are nothing more than gratitude and friendship. They will never be any more than that.”

  Halston stared at her. A frown twitched over his mouth. “God forgive me, but how can I not love you? It is not only your eyes and your beautiful face that I adore. Your spirit, your heart is so full of life, and . . .”

  She raised her hand. “Say nothing more. You must forget what you feel and never speak of it again.”

  She opened the door to her room, shut it as soon as she slipped inside, and set her back against it. A sense that he hesitated outside it overtook her and she turned the brass key, though she knew he would not enter, knock, or speak to her through it. His footsteps passed slowly down the corridor and descended the staircase. Moments later, she heard the neigh of his horse. At the window, she peered out and saw him mount his steed and gallop off into the sultry night.

  He left Tom behind. Staying would only have allowed his feelings to mount higher. She wanted him gone, hoping she would never see him again, never hear another confession of love, never be tempted again with kindness or with warm looks that spoke of his desire. But how could she discount a friendly acquaintance with a man who had saved her life?

  On the table beneath the window, where the spray of moonlight was strongest, Eliza set her candle. She pulled the curtains wider, without any concern renegades might see a light in the casement. “If Hayward returns home tonight, this candle will show him the way.”

  Her hand trembled, and hot wax splattered over her fingers. She wiped it away with a little cry and with tears in her eyes.

  It burned, but not so deep to linger.

  24

  A warm breeze stirred the curtains through the open windows. Eliza pushed her heavy hair off her neck, then braided it, and fastened a ribbon at the end. She left the house, stepped down the porch steps onto the parched lawn in her faded homespun gown, and headed down the dusty drive. She’d tucked her flintlock pistol into the band of her apron and she thought now of the last time she used it—when those scruffy robbers stopped them on the way to River Run.

  Oppressive heat shimmered across the land in the late afternoon hours. The Potomac ran placid, and the leaves on the trees curled. She would have sent Sarah, but she needed to be alone—to pray, to long for Hayward in private. At the house she had to put on a brave face, and waited until nighttime when all were abed to release her pain in the sanctuary of her room. Now the river called her.

  At riverside, she drew off her shoes and dipped her feet into the water. She shaded her eyes to look across the span of gray rock to the other side. With a turn of her head she saw a canoe gliding toward her. Two men were seated in it—one a dusky youth who dipped the paddle gingerly into the current, and the other the Reverend Hopewell.

  A thrill seized her. He has brought me news about Hayward!

  Hopewell raised his hat and shouted. “Ho, Mrs. Morgan. Good day to you.”

  She waved back, stepped out of the water, and put her shoes back on. The canoe skidded to the bank, and Hopewell, hat in hand, climbed out.

  “My old horse has gone lame,” he told her.

  “I am sorry to hear it, sir.”

  “Well, the river was quicker than walking. I have an arthritic knee, you see, that would have made my journey here unpleasant.” He smiled warmly, his hair lifting in the summer breeze like the down of a goose.

  “And you are wise to come armed after your ordeal with the Indians, Mrs. Morgan. Praise God you and your household are safe. It will do you good to know I have heard of no other attacks in the area. The Indian warriors have gone further north to fight alongside the Redcoats.”

  She looped her arm through his. “I am relieved to hear it. Have you news of my husband?”

  “Let us go to the house, and I shall tell you what I know.”

  Together they went up the embankment and strolled alongside the creek, to the lane leading to the house. Hopewell puffed out his cheeks and kept pace alongside Eliza.

  “The heat is bearable today. Not like last week. How is your little girl, Mrs. Morgan?”

  “Growing fast, sir. She is reading her letters already.”

  “Children are a blessing from the Lord. I hope and pray you have many more.”

  Many more. Would he have made such a statement if he had bad news to bear? “Thank you, sir. Mr. Morgan and I would like a large family.”

  At first Hopewell made no reply. Then he said, “I visited Mr. Halston on the way here.”

  Surprised at this, Eliza shook her head. “I thought he had gone to fight. He told me he intended to, and I, that is, we have not seen him for some time.”

  “He has been delayed by a deep melancholy. I did all I could in ministering to him.”

  “Can you tell me the cause of his depression?”

  Hopewell shook his head. “I cannot. But I ask that you pray for him.”

  It is my fault. I allowed this to happen. Now he is in pain because of me.

  She, too, had been conscious of a sadness that had lingered since the night he confessed his feelings for her. But she shoved away every thought that came to her about him, and believed all her pain and sorrow was due to missing Hayward—the worry and the fear of what he might be enduring.

  When they entered the house, she untied the ribbon under her chin and hung her hat on the peg near the door. She laid the pistol on the mantle, out of Darcy’s reach. Fiona stepped out from the end of the hallway. Darcy trailed behind her, dragging her doll by the arm.

  “Shall I bring a cool drink for the reverend?” asked Fiona.

  He gave her a slight bow. “I have no need of anything, Fiona. And is Darcy well today?”

  Darcy looked at him with large eyes, then at Eliza. “Very well, are you not, my darling?” Eliza said. The child nodded and scampered over to the table near the door and picked up the bottle that held blue bachelor buttons. “Take them to Fiona. They need water.”

  Eliza showed Hopewell into the drawing room and closed the door. Once she was seated, he settled into the chair across from her. Her modest dress spread over the settee. Hopewell scooted forward at the edge of his seat, reached over and picked up her hands. Eliza’s heart went into her throat. Something is wrong. Oh, Lord. Please, let Hayward be safe.

  “Mrs. Morgan, as you are well aware, The Cause has drawn many a man away from his wife, with good reason. Patriots risk their fortunes and lives to liberate our country. Their sacrifices will affect generations to come and will not be forgotten. Your husband has fought for your freedom, for Darcy’s, and for her children’s children.”

  Disturbed by his words, Eliza creased her brow. “I fear you have come to tell me ill news, sir. Do not spare me. Speak plainly.”

  He moved forward and squeezed her hands. “I have received a letter in answer to the inquiry I made to General Smallwood. Unfortunately, he knew nothing of Captain Morgan’s whereabouts; only that he had been separated from his attachment. The same day I received two letters from . . . are you familiar with your brother-in-law?”

  “We have not met, but his wife Mari has sent me two letters since Hayward and I were married. They live in New York, and it is my understanding that the city is occupied by the British.”

  “Yes, and it is so difficult to pass
even the smallest message through. But I have these.” From his pocket he drew out two letters, one with the red wax seal still unbroken. “He would have sent your letter to you directly, but wished for me to meet with you as you read it.”

  She looked at him, worried. “Then it cannot be good news. He thinks I need to be comforted.”

  That her brother-in-law would do this meant something too dreadful for her to face on her own. She glanced at the handwriting on the front, already feeling the burn of tears welling in her eyes. “I wish this was from Hayward.”

  “I am sorry it is not.”

  With quivering fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the page of the first letter. Her eyes scanned the opening line. “I am afraid to read it.”

  “Permit me.” Hopewell took it from her, put on his steel spectacles, and cleared his throat.

  “Dear Eliza, I pray you and your child fare well. I write with a heavy heart concerning my half brother Hayward, your husband, whom I have no doubt has loved you with all the deepest affections a man could.”

  Eliza stared at Hopewell, a swell of tears blurring her vision. At the words loved you, the tears slipped from her eyes. All warmth rushed from her face, and a dire chill rushed through her limbs to the tips of her fingers.

  “My brother was imprisoned on a transport ship, the Whitby, anchored in Wallabout Bay. There have been reports that provisions are poor, the water putrid, and rations scant. No doctors have been allowed to attend the sick. Hundreds have died from pestilence and starvation. The sandy shore has become a graveyard.”

  She drew in a breath. “Hayward—imprisoned?”

  His eyes grave, Hopewell nodded. “Yes. There is more. Do you wish me to continue?”

  Eliza nodded and steeled herself.

  “I attempted on several occasions to speak with Provost Marshal Cunningham (a man I count among the ranks of Satan for his cruelty and unjust actions toward the Patriots), but I was refused. It was only by paying a guard all the money I had in my purse was I able to learn of Hayward’s fate. He was captured at the Battle of Brooklyn and secured aboard the prison ship. He survived several months, until . . .”

  Pale and terrified, Eliza sat mute with her eyes transfixed upon Hopewell. Sunshine vanished from the room, and a low wind stirred the trees outside the window.

  “In the middle of the night he and a handful of his fellow prisoners were roused from belowdecks. It pains me to imagine it was the first time his lungs breathed in Heaven’s air or his eyes beheld God’s stars shining in the night sky since his imprisonment. He and the men with him had attempted escape, and for want of freedom . . . they were . . . hung side by side . . . from the yardarm.”

  Hung! A moan crawled up Eliza’s throat and became a ragged sob that shook her to the marrow. The pain gripped her as if a flaming arrow had been shot into her heart. Tears spilled faster from her eyes.

  “I will regret until the day I take my last breath that I could not save him. When this war is over, my wife and I will travel to Maryland with our children and make our home there, if anything, to aid you and your child. Mari and I shall pray for you that the God of all comfort will comfort you and hold you close during your time of grieving. Your faithful brother-inlaw, William Breese.”

  Eliza stared at the letter as Hopewell folded it closed. She gathered the fabric of her gown into her hands until he handed the letter back to her. As the letter lay in her hand, the wind returned and the forest of River Run swayed. The fields had grown parched with heat. Vines had withered. Now, shafts of sunlight vanished from the windows, and a grim silence fell over the house.

  She heard the muffled patter of Darcy’s feet above and Sarah’s gentle reprimand not to run. The child had lost a father she had never known. But Eliza had lost her husband, the man she loved, and the agony of it cut deep, ravaging her.

  “Hayward . . . is dead,” she stammered and held back the desire to scream.

  Hopewell looked at her, his eyes sympathetic. “He is at rest in Heaven, Mrs. Morgan. It is but a temporary separation.”

  Slowly Eliza stood. “Thank you, Reverend. If you do not mind, I should like to be alone.”

  Long she stood in the doorway after he had left. Her eyes were wide open but she saw nothing, as her mind struggled to take in the news William Breese had sent. Now she knew why Hayward had not written. He had suffered, starved, been plagued with disease, and cruelly treated. She was sorry she had ever doubted him.

  Softly Fiona stepped into the room. “Reverend Hopewell told me about Mr. Morgan. I am so sorry, my girl. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, leave me alone for a while.” Eliza accepted an embrace, and then went upstairs to her bedroom. Beneath the window sat the boots he had worn when he worked. In all this time, she had not moved them. She opened a drawer and took out one of his shirts. She crushed the linen in her hands, pressed it to her face, taking in the scent of him that remained. A wave of grief overtook her, and she wept.

  She staggered to the window and leaned against the frame, her breathing hurried. A vision of a riderless horse plodding down the road came to her mind. She drew in a ragged breath and then remembered the day Hayward had mounted his horse. His eyes had held hers one last time, and then he had ridden off. She had believed she’d see him again.

  Anguish coursed through her, and she hurried downstairs to the front door and pulled at the handle until it swung open. A hot breeze met her, and she went down the porch steps, lifted her skirts and ran down the lane and to the river path, her eyes blurred by tears.

  When she came to the sycamore where she had found him the day his horse threw him, where he lay sick and wounded, she threw herself against the trunk, buried her face within her arms, and cried.

  “He is gone,” she uttered between sobs. “He is dead, and I am the last to know.”

  She sunk to the base of the tree and stared through the canopy of green to the blue patches of sky that flashed between the leaves. The breeze lay low, and all she could hear was the pounding of her heart and the sound of goldfinches darting about the branches of a pine.

  “God knows when the sparrow falls.” She hugged her knees. “God is a husband to the widow and a father to the orphan. Oh, God! I am both!”

  Long she stayed in that place, weeping, praying, then falling silent at times. She listened to the gentle wind and the bird songs, to the still, small voice that tried to comfort her. The sun sunk lower, and thunderclouds crossed the sky. The leaves made a rustling noise. Her hair clung about her face and shoulders, and she wished the gales of the advancing storm would lift her from the earth and carry her off.

  When she finally stood, the wind had risen from temperate to fierce, and whipped her gown about her body. She walked down the river road unaware of time or direction. Hoofprints had cut deep into the hardened ground. She followed them to where they turned at a sandy lane. Nearby stood the blacksmith shop. Smoke rose from the chimney. She heard the clang of a hammer against an anvil.

  She went on, her eyes fixed ahead, until she saw Halston’s house. It drew her with its empty windows and chiseled stone. She went toward it, her legs heavy with the weight of despair. Closer, then the door opened and out stepped Halston. She lifted her eyes to him and shoved back her hair. In his eyes she saw compassion.

  “Eliza. I’m sorry. Reverend Hopewell told me about Hayward.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. She fought back the tremor that shook her body. She hurried to him, and he gathered her into his arms. While she wept against his shoulder, his hand glided down her hair and pressed her to him.

  The wind strengthened. Thunder rolled in the distance. Rain burst from the sky and beat down the tufts of grass. Halston drew her back, away from the deluge. Then he took her inside and closed the door.

  25

  Northern winds drove down hard through the misty mountains and shook the walls of the house. Eliza pressed her palm against the window glass, and the moist cold gripped it. She thought of the months that had p
assed since she had been with Halston—since she had learned the British had hung Hayward. Her grief had turned manifold. Her husband would not return, and Halston had joined the Maryland regiment. Who could tell whether he would survive or not? Perhaps God intended her to live the rest of her life as a widow, and raise her children without the protection of a man.

  Streams of airy clouds drifted across a turbulent, leaden sky on a winter’s afternoon in 1780, above the currents of the Potomac. Swift as red-tail hawks that hunted above the river, the blanket of gray moved off, and a clear, cold night descended rife with stars against an inky-black heaven. Would spring ever arrive?

  She lifted Darcy to the window seat to allow her to view the enchanting moonlit world outside. A draft leaked through the window frame, and she drew her wool wrap about her shoulders. Snow weighed down the trees in hues of dusky white and pale blue. Veils of silver moonlight crept over the pine needles and caused ice crystals to flicker.

  The towering sugar maple in front of the house stood stripped of leaves, its lighter branches bending in the wind. Darcy’s swing moved as if pushed by an unseen hand. Frost glistened all the way up the heavy ropes. Addison had climbed the tree and tied the swing to a thick limb while Darcy sat Indian-style upon the grass in the shade to watch him. In her memory Eliza could still hear the song he had whistled, could still see his broad smile.

  After setting Darcy down, the child in her womb kicked, and when she ran her hand over her belly, she felt the outline of a tiny foot press hard against her. Joy battled guilt, and she felt the all-too familiar pain that came with a heart full of regret. She could not forgive herself, no matter how many times she beat her breast with her fist and cried out to her Lord for forgiveness.

  “ ’Tis a cold night, my darling, and a wonder we all do not freeze. Now you must go to sleep. I know you are accustomed to having the run of the house, but not tonight. Mama needs quiet.” She fastened the ribbon at the top of Darcy’s nightgown. “Keep your wool stockings on.”