Before the Scarlet Dawn: Daughters of the Potomac, Book 1 Page 18

  Darcy wrinkled her nose and glanced down at the leggings that covered her feet and calves. “Mus’ I? They itch.”

  Eliza opened the top drawer to the dresser and took out a pair of stockings Darcy wore on Sundays, made of a blend of wool and silk. “Here, my sweetheart. These are much softer.” She sat Darcy on the bedside and drew the old stockings off, then put on the newer ones. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, Mama . . . Why you need quiet?” Darcy whispered.

  “Quiet soothes the soul, little one.” She drew down the bedcovers and tucked Darcy’s legs beneath them.

  At the window, a candle flame was reflected in the glass. Darcy yawned and lay back against the pillow. “The moon, Mama.” She pointed at the silver spray that crossed the room.

  Eliza allowed a gentle smile to tug the corners of her mouth. “Yes. See how it washes over the walls?”

  “Angels brought it.” Again Darcy spoke in a whisper. She touched Eliza’s cheek. A tear slipped from her eye, and she kissed her little girl’s palm.

  Darcy frowned. “Why you sad, Mama?”

  “I have tender feelings at times, Darcy.”

  Darcy screwed up her face. “Why?”

  “Because there are things I wish were another way that cannot be changed.” She kissed the top of Darcy’s head and blew out the candle. “Go to sleep.” Before she pulled the door shut, she looked over at Darcy. Her eyes had closed, and Eliza wished Hayward could see her. His absence these years had not grown any easier. Her hand gripped the brass knob and she pulled the door to.

  Craving a hot cup of tea and not wishing to bother Fiona with a trivial task, Eliza descended the staircase and headed toward the kitchen. A thump of footsteps crossed the porch outside. She reached for the pistol kept on the mantle, and waited with her breath heaving. A loud knock, then another— until a voice called to her from beyond the door.

  “Mrs. Morgan. I’ve been sent to River Run. I must speak to you, ma’am.”

  “Who are you?” she called back. Fiona and Sarah drew up behind her.

  “My name is Ezra Lyndall, ma’am. I know Captain Morgan. Please, ma’am. It’s mighty cold out here.”

  Eliza held the pistol at shoulder height. “Sarah, open the door.”

  “Are you sure I should? He could be dangerous and not at all who he says he is.”

  “Yes. But if he speaks the truth, we have nothing to fear. How would he know my husband’s name if he did not know him?” Eliza cocked the hammer of her pistol and steadied it. “But it is wise to be cautious.”

  Sarah’s fingers moved over the iron bolt, drew it back, and a man in worn buckskins, a tricorn hat, and moccasin boots stepped back. He was beardless and his eyes were youthful and bright, but his face was ravaged with the hardships he had endured in war.

  Once he dragged his hat from his head, he bowed short. “Captain Morgan, your husband, told me if ever I needed a good meal and a warm bed of hay, I’d find it at River Run, and that his lady would welcome me.”

  “How do you know my husband?”

  “I served with him, ma’am. I’m about starved and weary to the bone.” His eyes begged her for entrance. Could he answer the many questions that turned in her head? Could he describe for her Hayward’s bravery in battle, his fortitude against the adversities he faced? Did he speak of her?

  Pricked with compassion, Eliza lowered the pistol. “Come inside, Ezra Lyndall.”

  Ezra’s eyes glanced over at Sarah and Fiona. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

  Eliza turned and he followed her to the kitchen. She bid him sit with a gesture of her hand. From the cupboard, she took out the largest pewter plate she owned and piled it with venison and a hunk of bread. Ezra’s eyes lit up, and he dove into his meal.

  Eliza sat across from him and poured apple cider into a pewter mug. Sarah and Fiona stood by, one curious about the newcomer, the other protective.

  “You knew my husband? What have you to tell me about him?” Eliza asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I knew him.” Lyndall skewered the venison with the two-pronged fork, shoved it into his mouth, and swallowed. “He’s been through a time of it, I can tell you that. Wounded at Brooklyn Heights, was he. The Maryland Patriots fought bravely. Their stand kept most of the army from being captured. Washington quietly retreated us all to Manhattan without losing a single man. But we were driven out of New York eventually. The worst of it was at Monmouth Courthouse last June. I cannot speak of it to women.”

  A bit confused as to why he spoke of Hayward in the present tense, Eliza said, “I am glad you knew him, and I thank you for telling me how brave he was.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Morgan.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “He spoke of you, saying he had a pretty wife that took care of things back home. I can see he was right.”

  Eliza’s heart swelled. “What else can you tell me?”

  “His leg pained him something awful, but he never let it hold him back. He was sick with yellow fever too. But on the mend when I left. We have one of the best field doctors God ever created.”

  Lyndall’s list of events as compared to her own confused Eliza, and she stumbled over her words. “Hayward was alive when you left him? That must have been a long time ago.”

  “Not long. Two weeks, in camp when I left.”

  Shocked, Eliza stood. “That cannot be. I received word he had been captured at the Battle of Brooklyn Heights and that the British hung him from the prison ship. But you say he was in camp when you left?”

  Lyndall set his fork down and stood so quickly he knocked his chair back. “Hung? Oh, no, Mrs. Morgan. Why, Captain Morgan is as alive as I stand here before you. I swear I spoke with him the day I left just two weeks ago. He understood when some would have called me a coward. Some would have wanted me shot, but my wound prevents me from handling a rifle. I can’t lift it to my shoulder, let alone fire it. And my wife is alone in our cabin with our twin boys. It took months for me to get her letter and . . .”

  The air in Eliza’s lungs was suddenly snatched away. Tearful, she laid her hand across the swell of her belly. Lyndall’s eyes followed her gesture, and she could see what he thought. Fiona and Sarah helped her to a chair.

  “Speak plain, man,” said Fiona. “Are you saying Captain Hayward Morgan is alive?”

  “I am.”

  “That he sent you?”

  “Aye. I’ll put my hand on the Bible and swear it. And I almost forgot I have a note here to Mrs. Morgan that he asked me to deliver.”

  He handed her a folded paper tied with a coarse string. The worn brown paper, one single page by its size and weight in her hand, must have been difficult to come by. Her hands shook violently as she stared at it.

  His expression strained, Lyndall picked up his hat. “I wish you and Captain Morgan happiness when he returns. We men know times have been hard on our womenfolk. I know mine has been terrible lonely. I’ve been gone a long time.”

  Eliza understood his meaning. “Thank you, Ezra. Our barn has a good amount of hay in it for sleeping.”

  Lyndall stepped away from the table and promptly left through the kitchen door. Eliza laid the letter in front of her on the table.

  “Perhaps the man is mistaken and that is an old letter,” Fiona said. “And dear me, we must be more careful with people coming to the door, though so few do. I suppose the wind and the crackling of the fire drowned the sound of his horse out.”

  “I heard him before he knocked.” Eliza felt the blood rush from her head. “The handwriting . . . it reminds me of Hayward’s.” She pressed it to her breast. Tears stung her eyes. She drove them back, swallowed down the lump in her throat. She felt her baby turn, and her emotions grew stronger. “It is from . . . Hayward.”

  Sarah took up Eliza’s hand in hers and held it tight. “If it is true that Captain Morgan is alive, it is a gift. I wish there were some way to bring back the man I loved.”

  Knowing Sarah had suffered for loss, that her
husband had drowned in the sea, Eliza looked at her with compassion. Then she loosened the string and allowed it to fall free. She unrolled the page and read it with mounting hunger. Her eyes absorbed each letter. But upon reaching the date at the end, the paper dropped from Eliza’s hand. She looked into the faces of her dearest companions. Her body shook. Joy and fear mingled in one raging emotion that coursed through her like the rapids in the river.

  Though she covered her mouth with her hands, a strangled cry burst from her. Fiona snatched up the letter and glanced over it. She threw her arms around Eliza and drew her against her shoulder.

  “It is true?” Sarah said.

  Fiona’s eyes were full of worry. “It is from Captain Morgan. Dated this year.”

  “Then he lives.”

  “ ’Tis true he was wounded at Brooklyn Heights and taken prisoner. He escaped, though his wound was severe. He dared not go to his half brother. It would have put William and his wife and children in danger. He rejoined his regiment and says he will bear it out until the end of the war.”

  Eliza dashed the tears from her face. “My soul rejoices that he is alive. But I will bring him shame.”

  Since the day when she first realized she carried the child, she had lived in fear. She believed that her soul was condemned, and her mind reeled with images of heat and fire, suffering and pain, and eternal separation from God. Convinced that no amount of penance would change her destiny, that the prayers she uttered to her Creator were never good enough to reach His throne, she had cried for days, and had drawn comfort from Fiona and sympathy from Sarah after she revealed her secret. Halston left days after their night together—to fight in the Revolution—with a promise he would return and marry her. He left instructions with Tom to look after her and the women, and sent over a provision of food for the cold cellar.

  To Eliza’s dismay, in the months that followed, rumor had it Halston’s property would be sold. It was then she believed she would see him no more.

  Not once in nine months had she stepped outside the boundaries of River Run. She resigned herself to being confined in the house, and spent her days sewing by the light that came through the windows. At night, she read by candlelight.

  Month after month, she agonized in prayer. How she hated herself for giving in to her grief and loneliness for want of tenderness. What wretched thing had possessed her to the point she could have feelings for another man? How hurt her husband would be, how he would despise and reject her, if he knew of her disgusting betrayal.

  “Oh, Fiona. He may come any day. What shall I do? I cannot send the child away.”

  “Be at ease,” Fiona said. “It is unlikely he will return anytime soon. The war will go on for some time.”

  “I want him home with all my heart. Yet at the same time I dread it. I have repented more times over than I can count.”

  “The Almighty has forgiven you. Of this you should have no doubt.”

  “I hope it is as you say. But how will I gain Hayward’s forgiveness? He could walk through the door at any moment.”

  “If that were to happen, then we will face him together. But it is unlikely.”

  “I will not allow you and Sarah to suffer for what I have done.”

  “No suffering, my girl. But if you think I will stand by and see you abused or thrown out, you are sadly mistaken.”

  Eliza turned into Fiona’s arms. “How can he pardon such a betrayal as mine?”

  Sarah touched Eliza’s arm. “He will have no need to. Captain Morgan will never know.”

  Eliza shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  “When he returns home, Fiona and I will remain silent about you and Mr. Halston. Allow me to say the child is mine.”

  Stunned by such a suggestion, Eliza hastened out of Fiona’s arms. “No. That would be deceit.”

  “Maybe. But it will save your marriage,” Fiona said.

  “But Hayward will accept the child and forgive me. I cannot do it. I must be truthful with him.”

  Fiona set her hands on Eliza’s shoulders. “If you tell him the truth, you will be exposed to a life of shame. How will you explain the child to Reverend Hopewell, his wife, the congregation, and your neighbors? You have done well so far concealing being with child. But it has raised questions. They ask at Sabbath services where you are, if you are ill, and why you have not attended. They have visited and I’ve had to turn them away. You must look at everything involved, my girl.”

  “I am trying, Fiona. If Hayward forgives me, then it will not matter what wagging tongues say. Let them judge me. He’ll stand up for his wife.”

  “Listen to me, Eliza. He may not. What will you do then, when he sends you away saying you have humiliated him?”

  Eliza covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I do not know.”

  “Could you stand being separated from Darcy?”

  A tremor of heartache filled Eliza at the mere thought. “I could not.”

  “Then you must think of her too,” Sarah said.

  “How can I deceive my husband? How can the three of us conspire against him?”

  Able to bear it no longer, Fiona dabbed her eyes with her apron. “My girl, if it were Darcy when grown, wouldn’t you do all you could to protect her from being made an outcast?”

  Blinking back her tears, Eliza paused and thought about what Fiona said. She would lay her life down for Darcy. She’d do anything and everything to protect her from harm. She looked at Fiona. “I understand now.”

  “Good.”

  “But I shall have my way of doing this. If he looks surprised and troubled, I will know to say it is Sarah’s child. If he shows compassion and questions me kindly, if I see in his eyes understanding, then I shall speak the truth.”

  “All right, my girl. But no matter what happens, Sarah and I will stand by you.”

  Later that night, the first pangs seized her, and Eliza sunk to her knees. “Father in heaven, forgive me. Take my life if you must, Lord, but have mercy upon this child.”

  Part 3

  Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.

  Psalm 25:18

  26

  On a warm spring afternoon in 1782, Hayward made his way along the river path toward home. The familiar hills of Maryland deepened in the light—leafy walls of shale cast cool shadows over the Potomac.

  As he urged his horse to a gallop, he imagined that Eliza’s pretty face had not altered, and that her hair would be longer. For a brief moment, he thought about the hardships and loneliness she must have suffered during his long absence. For the good of The Glorious Cause, there was nothing either he, or his fellow compatriots could have done except hope for the best for the families they had left behind, and pray that the Almighty would watch over them.

  He shook off the feelings he had come to know in war, the hardened heart of a warrior that had possessed him for too long. Now it was time for married life again. Tonight he’d sleep with her in their bed, between soft cotton sheets, with her silky skin against his. He ached for her as the weary miles lessened, which caused him to smack the sides of his horse to quicken the animal’s pace along the shadowy road above the Potomac.

  He left the woodland path and rode alongside fields thick with corn and knee-deep wheat. There would be a good harvest, and the mill would bring him money.

  A half-mile later, under the shade of a limestone bluff, he dismounted and dragged the reins over his horse’s head. Stiff from the long ride, he stretched his limbs and led his horse down to the riverbank to drink. Far in the distance, on the opposite side of the river, he watched a blue heron spear its beak into the water.

  He cupped his hand, dipped it into the water, and drank. He saw his reflection in the quiet pool and noticed the lines around his eyes. How would Eliza react to his changed appearance? He looked down at his hands, plunged them back into the water, and rubbed them together. He hoped to wash away the stains—reminders of the British blood he had spilled in the fight for fre
edom.

  Refreshed, he stood and pulled his horse back to the path to remount. He rode on and reached a point where the river grew narrower. Green-headed mallards and their mates skirted along the bank, followed by troops of ducklings. He urged his horse to a trot, and it stepped forward and raised one leg higher than the other. After he drew rein, he jumped down from the saddle and examined the hoof. No stone— just a loose shoe.

  The blacksmith shop stood close by. He walked the horse toward it. A young man pounded an iron hinge with a hammer against a black anvil. Sweat soaked his shirt, for he stood close to the fire in the forge. He was dressed in ragged canvas breeches and leather-buckled shoes. Upon sight of Hayward, the smith paused in his work and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “You there. Where is Old Ben?”

  “Old Ben’s in Heaven, sir.” The corners of his eyes creased.

  Hardened by the sights and sounds of death, Hayward threw the reins over a post. “The last time I saw him, he was in fine fettle. When did this happen?”

  “Five years ago, sir. Can I be of service to you?”

  “If you are skilled at shoeing a horse, yes.”

  “Old Ben taught me everything he knew. I can do the work.”

  Hayward moved inside. Stacks of firewood and iron, along with a barrel of water, cluttered the opening. “My mount has a loose shoe. I shall pay you good silver to make it right, and to do it quick.”

  The smith shook his head. “No silver, sir. A few copper pennies for one shoe is all.” Stepping away from the oppressive heat of the forge, he moved outside, where he lifted the gelding’s hooves to inspect them. “The others are in good shape, sir. But he cannot go any further with this shoe. I can make it right.”

  Hayward leaned against a post. “What’s your name?”

  “Thomas, sir.”

  “Well, I pray you be quick with my horse. I am in a hurry to get home.”