Her Cherokee Groom
Her Cherokee Groom
Valerie Hansen
Runaway WeddingOn the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!
Runaway Wedding
On the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.
Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!
“I suggest we travel from here on as a family.”
Charles glanced at the child before turning a steady gaze on her. “He has your eyes and all of my coloring. He could easily be our son.”
“Yes, but...” Annabelle stammered.
“If we have to, we can make it official.”
Annabelle’s jaw gaped. “What?”
“Marry.”
“You should not joke about such things.”
“Believe me, I am not joking,” Charles said flatly. “It would not have to be forever if you didn’t want it to be. That way your reputation would be safe.”
But what about my heart? She let her horse fall back behind the big bay so Charles could not see her if she failed to curtail the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks.
Why weep? she asked herself.
The answer was as clear as if it had been shouted in her ear. Because I will soon be the wife of a man whose heart does not belong to me—and whom I already love.
Dear Reader (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3),
This story takes place before the disastrous Trail of Tears, as the forced removal has come to be known. Instead of being a single event, however, it took place over time, ending with a final push in 1838 to oust those individuals and tribes who had refused to migrate west.
To make matters worse, there were warring factions among the Cherokee that each claimed authority to legally sign treaties and make promises on behalf of all. Both sides resorted to violence. The result was a painful split in the tribe and a loss of credibility in Washington.
I now live in the part of Arkansas that one of the routes, Benge’s Trail, passed through. That’s what caused me to begin this book and travel to visit the Cherokee Museum in North Carolina. I highly recommend it (Cherokeemuseum.org (http://www.Cherokeemuseum.org)).
Almost all the characters in this story are actual historical figures, including the boy Johnny and the way he arrived in Washington. I have fictionalized his life, and those of others, while keeping the basic facts as true to the written record as possible.
Blessings from the Ozarks,
VALERIE HANSEN was thirty when she awoke to the presence of the Lord in her life and turned to Jesus. She now lives in a renovated farmhouse in the breathtakingly beautiful Ozark Mountains of Arkansas and is privileged to share her personal faith by telling the stories of her heart for Love Inspired. Life doesn’t get much better than that!
Her Cherokee Groom
Valerie Hansen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.
—Proverbs 29:21
Thanks to my Joe for taking me to North Carolina to see the Cherokee Museum and reenactments of tribal life. And thanks to the Cherokee clans who faithfully labor to keep their history and culture alive.
Contents
Cover (#ucab0f8ff-3f6d-59ec-978d-63b077a37e30)
Back Cover Text (#ud7137400-0d82-5b42-95b6-327f15a8f242)
Introduction (#u79cf2c31-d4fe-5da1-85f7-d1e72ab0c10d)
Dear Reader (#u5d7e94ea-2b6d-5112-af9c-39a729ae6d32)
About the Author (#ub79adff7-6b31-57ac-ba8c-4a84ed84f996)
Title Page (#u52ad8176-e0c2-53eb-892b-f0780bd00a57)
Bible Verse (#u49e6581c-6f4f-5614-a06d-310859bf2663)
Dedication (#u3f8b9cfd-a9f9-5787-84de-52131ca78df8)
Chapter One (#u897d3da0-ffd3-545a-a67d-f4e055268bc9)
Chapter Two (#u582c7616-a1be-544d-8fc6-90c9a140e723)
Chapter Three (#u4827d2c0-caf7-56bb-8b9e-99b7b3998915)
Chapter Four (#ue5ecfdf9-5515-5bb7-a2bf-d1dbe54eb056)
Chapter Five (#uceaff666-d298-571e-8809-964fad882ae1)
Chapter Six (#u8fc0274c-c30e-5e16-9c1e-ddfa3f67bace)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Washington, DC—1830
“What are you doing out here? Spying?”
Seventeen-year-old Annabelle Lang was so startled by the voice she nearly gasped aloud. Her guardian’s new wife had caught her loitering in the hallway and peeking into the parlor to look at visiting dignitaries. How embarrassing.
Biting her lip, Annabelle shook her head enough to make her flaxen blond side curls swing against her rosy cheeks and replied, “No, ma’am. I just wanted to see the Indians.”
“Well, you’ve seen them. Now stop wasting time, get back to the kitchen and help Lucy finish preparing the lemonade. I want both those new washtubs filled to the brim.” With that, Margaret Eaton swept past, skirts and petticoats belling and swishing, long, dark side curls bobbing, to make a grand entrance into the parlor and join her husband, John.
Annabelle’s heart pounded. Her feet were unwilling to carry her away. She had no clear recollection of her early years, before coming to live with the first Mrs. Eaton, yet the mere sight of the Cherokee delegation stirred her emotions and left her light-headed.
Little wonder! These men were tall and stately, some wearing the kind of tall hats, vests and coats she was familiar with. Others were garbed in turbans and long tunics with elaborately woven sashes at the waist. None was bearded, nor did they seem the downtrodden savages she had overheard Mrs. Eaton railing about. These men were regal looking to the point of inspiring awe.
Before she could turn away, John Eaton spied her peeking from behind the doorjamb.
He gestured. “Annabelle. Come here and take these gentlemen’s hats and capes. We must make our guests comfortable.”
Trembling and wondering if she was going to be able to walk steadily enough to do as instructed, she started forward. Everyone glanced at her except Margaret, an advantageous snub Annabelle prayed would continue.
Not all of these Indians had swarthy complexions and ebony eyes, she noted. Some were grayed with age, particularly the largest, most impressive old gentleman. His clothing was not only embellished with lace and gilding like that of nobility, his bearing befit royalty and inspired respect.
Several of the younger members of his party had the fairer hair and the blue or light-brown eyes of folks she saw every day. Perhaps that was because these men were the offspring of mixed marriages. She’d been told that was the way of many Cherokee, including prominent tribal leaders. They also spoke and read at least two languages, English and their own, a feat for which Annabelle admired them greatly.
One particularly stalwart young man whom she guessed to be in his twenties caught her eye. She chanced a surreptitious glance at him as she approached and found that he was studying her, too. It was as if she were a captive of his startling blue gaze, unable to break away, unable to consider anything or anyone but him.
His dark hair was fairly long, thick and slicked straight back, and he had his top hat in hand, having politely removed it when he’d entered the parlor. As Annabelle received it from him in passing she saw a tiny smile twitch one corner of his mouth. That simple acknowledgment made her insides quaver like dry leaves in a Potomac storm.
A much smaller version of that stately Cherokee emissary stood stoically by his side. The two were so similar, except for age, she wondered if they might be brothers.
She’d almost reached the doorway when Margaret let out an excited squeal. Annabelle stopped to look back. There was an expression of delight on the older woman’s face.
One of the Indians, the one bedecked with all the lace and gilding, was speaking while a younger man who bore a strong resemblance to him translated his message into perfect English. Words and phrases of both languages flowed like the impressive political orations she had heard her foster father make.
“We have brought you a fine tea service as a token of our esteem.” As his speech was repeated, the elder Cherokee gave a slight bow that was less than submissive but nevertheless did not lack gentility.
A member of the Cherokee party had first unwrapped a gleaming silver teapot. Now, her fan fluttering like the wings of a demented butterfly, Mrs. Eaton watched a matching silver tray and other accoutrements follow.
Annabelle knew little about such elaborate trappings, except that they needed constant polishing, but she could see that her new foster mother was clearly impressed with the gift. That, alone, was remarkable since Margaret was so terribly hard to please.
John Eaton offered his hand to the original spokesman and said, “Thank you, Major Ridge. As Secretary of War, I am honored to accept your exceptional gift on behalf of President Jackson.”
The Indian leader then gestured to the rear of his entourage and the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea had for Moses. He was pointing toward the handsome young man and little boy who had taken Annabelle’s fancy moments before.
“This child is the most valuable of our gifts, a presentation from Chief John Ross. You may call him after yourself, as well. From this day forward he is John H. Eaton Ross.”
Annabelle’s jaw dropped. The young man she had been watching so closely placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders to guide him forward. The child’s hair was almost ebony but his eyes were the color of a summer sky, just like those of his apparent supervisor.
The boy’s expression was stoic, perhaps even tinged by hostility, yet he stepped boldly and stood tall in his tailored white-man’s clothing. How brave he was. And how distressed he must be to have been given away like a stray cur’s unwanted pup.
As Annabelle watched, Margaret’s beseeching gaze focused on her statesman husband, silently begging him to refuse. Instead, he shook his head ever so slightly. Obviously, this was an offer they must accept graciously. To do otherwise would be to commit a grievous social and political error.
Annabelle’s heart went out to the young child. She knew exactly what it was like to become someone’s ward, especially when the adults involved were not happy about the situation. Yes, John Eaton had continued to care for her after his first wife’s death but she had quickly learned that he did not consider her a daughter. And when he married widow Margaret Timberlake? Annabelle had quickly learned then what it was like to be truly ostracized.
She wanted to go to the Indian child now known as John and bestow the welcoming smile that the rest of the family was denying him. Naturally, she could not. Her place in the household was tenuous at best, and the less trouble she made, the more likely it would be that she would soon be sent to boarding school in Connecticut for a proper education, as she’d been promised.
The drawing room fell so silent that Annabelle was certain everyone could hear the rapid beating of her heart. No one moved. No one spoke.
Finally, because her armload of garments was so heavy and cumbersome, she began to edge toward the arched doorway nearest the hall.
One of the Cherokee wraps dragged just enough to tangle her ankles. She faltered. Staggered. Was about to fall and disgrace her guardian in front of all these important emissaries.
A strong hand grasped her billowy sleeve at the elbow. Stopped her fall. Righted and steadied her.
Preparing to thank her rescuer, she looked up straight into the eyes of the Cherokee gentleman she had admired mere moments ago.
There was steadiness to his gaze, yes, but she imagined empathy, as well. He seemed to sense that she was held in little regard here.
It was hard to be certain of his age but she guessed him to be only a few years older than she. He was wiry yet muscular, strong yet gentle. There was a control within him that she admired and also envied.
A cautious smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she whispered, “Thank you, sir.”
His answer was a brief nod, but in Annabelle’s eyes he had just bestowed a most pleasing grin.
One meant only for her.
When he leaned closer to say, “Pleased to be of service, Miss Annabelle. My name is Charles,” she was afraid the floor was going to fall away beneath her feet.
* * *
Charles McDonald couldn’t get his mind off the afternoon’s events. Leaving the boy behind in the Eaton house was the most difficult thing his chiefs had ever asked him to do. He and the child were kin through their mothers from the Wolf Clan, and as an uncle it was his job to help raise and teach the male children.
If it had not been for the presence of a clearly sympathetic soul in the person of the fair-haired young woman called Annabelle, he might have rebelled.
“No, I wouldn’t have,” Charles told himself. “I am not like some of the others. I obey my chiefs.”
Even if they’re wrong? Charles wondered. Cherokee history proved why leaders of opposing sects within the tribe didn’t trust others to negotiate for them. Hence, the trip to Washington with Major Ridge, his son John Ridge, Elias Boudinot and a half-dozen others to try to gain an audience with President Jackson and plead their case against forced relocation.
Placing the boy in the Eaton household was the strongest symbol of trust anyone could bestow. He hoped Eaton realized that, treated the child as the son he was meant to be and saw to it that he received a good education. A white man’s education. The kind that would prepare him to one day speak for the Cherokee with the authority and intelligence that Charles’s current companions exemplified.
Leaning on a lamppost across from the imposing Eaton residence on New York Avenue, Charles sighed. In a few more days he and his party would return to Georgia. How would the boy cope when he was left behind to fend for himself?
The grounds of the brick mansion he was observing were encircled by a wrought-iron fence. At the rear lay a vegetable and herb garden. As Charles watched, a familiar flaxen-haired figure, wearing a lacy cap that complemented the white collar of her darker dress, appeared in the kitchen garden. The handle of a shallow basket was looped over one arm. Her other hand held that of the Cherokee child.
Straightening, Charles shaded his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. The boy seemed to be instructing the young woman by pointing to various plants. Perhaps this new life was not going to be the ordeal for him that Charles had expected.
He adjusted his cravat and tugged on the points of his vest while dodging wagon traffic to cross the broad street. The young woman had seemed a bit timid when he’d originally encountered her but at the moment she was acting quite forthright. Another good sign. One he wanted to encourage.
She didn’t seem to notice his approach but the child did. Not only did he begin to grin, he called to Charles, “Siyo!”
“In English,” Charles replied firmly. He tipped his hat to Annabelle as he said, “Hello again, miss.”
To his surprise, Little John ducked behind her skirt. Her hand rested against the child’s cheek as if sheltering him while she smiled a greeting of her own. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“You may call me Mr. McDonald or simply Charles, if you wish,” he said pleasantly. “And you are Miss Annabelle...?”
“Annabelle Lang,” she replied, blushing demurely.
“Have you worked for the Eatons long?”
“You are mistaken, sir. I was brought into the family long ago, the same way John just was, except I was less a gift than a charity case taken on by the first Mrs. Eaton.”
“Please forgive me. Had I known you were not a servant I would not have spoken so boldly.”
“You have not given offense. My grandmother raised me until a fever took her. Mrs. Myra Eaton took on the burden of my care when I was three years old.”
“I cannot imagine you could ever be a burden,” Charles said, growing more empathetic by the second. “Are you from Washington City, then?”
“No. Tennessee. I became a ward of the Eatons, stayed on there after Myra died and came to Washington when my foster father was elected to the senate.” She cast a brief glance at the rear of the house. “The new Mrs. Eaton didn’t take to me when she and the senator were wed last year, but she has promised to send me to a special school in Connecticut. The Cornwall Mission School.”
“Cornwall?”
“Yes. You know of it?”
Charles wondered if he should be the one to deliver the bad news. It hardly seemed fair to let her continue to hope in vain.
“My condolences, Miss Annabelle. I must inform you that that school has closed.”
“Surely not for good.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But, why? It’s said to be a wonderful school.”
“Yes, it was. There was an unfortunate incident that caused its financial support to be withdrawn.”
“What could have happened that was so bad? Was someone killed?”
Charles had to chuckle at her naïveté. “No, no. Let me simply say it was because of an affair of the heart.”
“Oh, my. Was it very sad?”
“No, dear lady. Actually, Cherokee Elias Boudinot and a missionary’s daughter Miss Harriet Gold not only married, they already have the beginnings of a lovely family. You saw him with me today in your parlor. He’s the editor and publisher of The Cherokee Phoenix.”
“I’ve heard of that amazing newspaper! So, something good did come out of the tragedy.”
“That depends upon one’s point of view,” Charles said. He gestured at the child who remained hidden behind her full skirts. “Some things which are deemed best at the time may not prove to be prudent in the future. Like my nephew, Usdi Tsani.”
“Is that his real name?”
“No. That simply means Little John.”
“Tell me again. Let me learn it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Charles asked, genuinely puzzled.
“So I can speak to him in his own language and make him feel settled here. I know how hard it is to be thrust into a strange home the way he has been.”
“Which is why you and he have already become friends,” Charles observed. “That is a good thing.”
“What about you and your companions? Will you be leaving Washington soon?”
“Yes.” His gaze rested on the child as he answered and he saw John look away as if in pain. Although he would rather have died than show tender emotion, Charles yearned to embrace the child one last time, to bless him and wish him well.
Instead, he merely squared his hat on his head and nodded to Annabelle. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, miss. I know you’ll look after the boy. If there is anything he needs, anything at all, send word to me at Plunkett’s Boarding House before the end of the week and I shall see he gets it.”
“All right.”
The rosy glow of her cheeks reminded him of the blush on a peach and her eyes mirrored the bright, clear sky. He didn’t know what her lineage was but the fact that she had been promised an education at the Cornwall School meant that she might very well have a part Indian heritage, whether she knew it or not.
Good thing this young woman resided in Washington and he lived down in Georgia, he mused, or he might seriously consider disappointing his mother by courting Annabelle Lang instead of choosing a full-blooded Cherokee bride the way his family wanted.
* * *
Annabelle wondered if her snug corset was the reason she could hardly draw in enough air to maintain her equilibrium. She gently stroked the hair of the little boy at her side. Perhaps someday she, too, would have such a beautiful son, although that dream was not likely to come true as long as the new Mrs. Eaton was in charge.
Being lied to about going to the Cornwall School did not sit well with Annabelle. All this time she had dutifully served the Eatons in the hope that her obedience and faithfulness would result in the education she had been promised.
And now? The mission school was gone. So where else could she study? What other institutions would accept an untutored, common girl like her? The Georgetown Academy for Young Ladies was far too elite for someone who had never been formally instructed, not to mention someone with questionable origins.
Charles had paused at the iron gate for a last word. “Perhaps the Eatons will provide you with a tutor since you are so determined to learn.”
Annabelle smiled. “I have gleaned some basic skills on my own, including how to read and write. When young John is given a tutor I will copy those lessons, as well.”
“Very wise.” He touched the brim of his hat once again. “I bid you a good evening.”
And good it is, thanks to your unexpected visit, she thought, blushing.
Adding sprigs of rosemary to her basket, she held out her hand to the boy. “Come. Let’s go back inside and give these to Lucy, the cook. Then I’ll show you around the house and point out your room.”
The child stood staring after his departing kinsman as if made of marble.
“John? Tsa-ni? Is that how you pronounce it?”
A slight smile teased a corner of his mouth.
“I said it poorly, didn’t I?” Annabelle asked with a benevolent grin. “Tell you what. Johnny sounds a lot like that so I’ll call you Johnny. All right?”
A simple nod was his only reply but it was enough. Better communication would come later, once the child was more comfortable with her. She would do all she could to hurry that along, even if it meant slacking off on her household duties. Dusting and mending would wait. The little boy’s broken heart would not.
“How old are you?” Annabelle asked as they entered the house and left the basket for the cook.
“Six summers.”
“What a big boy you are. I’ve always wanted a brother just like you.”
“Why?”
“Because I get lonely in this big old house. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton are not my parents, as you heard me say. The servants are nice to me but it’s not the same as having a true family.”
“You want blood kin,” Johnny said wisely.
“I suppose you could put it that way.” Annabelle bent closer to whisper. “I don’t complain, though, and you shouldn’t, either. It’s very good of the Eatons to take us in and provide for us.”
The boy tugged on her hand, then looked around as if making sure they were alone. “I will run away. You can come with me.”
“What? Oh, no. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. What would your uncle Charles say if you did something like that?”
“I am the son of a chief’s son. I will go.”
“Please, don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. “Think of all the trouble it would cause if you left.”
She could tell by the child’s stoic expression that he was beyond listening to the pleas of a mere girl.
There was only one thing to do. She would have to send word to Mr. McDonald to stop by again and have a stern word with the boy before he and the rest of the delegation left town. Until then she’d keep a close eye on Johnny. A very close eye.
“I think you and I should take our supper alone tonight and get to know each other,” Annabelle suggested.
“Will they not miss you?”
“No,” she admitted sadly. “The family usually insists I be present only for formal dinner parties.”
She reached down to gently smooth his hair. “I’m certain they will want to present you to their Washington friends soon. Mr. Eaton is a very important man. Being secretary of war means he works closely with President Jackson.”
The child did not look impressed. Smiling, she offered her hand. “Come. We’ll explore the house together so you won’t get lost.”
“I never get lost,” he insisted.
“Good for you.”
Grinning, Annabelle started up the spiral staircase, explaining as she went. “Down the hall at the end is the guest room. You’ll sleep there.”
Before he could ask she added, “My room is right next to that one,” and sensed him starting to relax.
Poor little thing. He acted so brave and put on such a grown-up front it was easy to forget how young he was.
No wonder he’d thought about running away. He had to be frightened nearly out of his mind.
Shivering, she realized she, too, was worried about his future. It was easy to put herself in his place because she shared it. Neither of them truly belonged in this stoic family and neither could depend on fair treatment from their so-called parents.
John Eaton had always acted preoccupied and distant toward her. His new wife, Margaret, was far worse because she paid attention to everything and could be very vindictive if displeased, which was most of the time. The older woman had had a sordid reputation in Washington before her marriage to Eaton. The more Margaret and Annabelle interacted, the more credence the rumors of perfidy gained. And the more trepidation they generated.
Margaret had already fired every young female servant in the Eaton household and had made it clear that Annabelle’s presence was barely tolerable. There was no foundation for such jealousy but it nevertheless existed. Perhaps, because Johnny was a boy, he would not encounter so much of Margaret’s malice.
Until the child got used to his new life here in Washington City, Annabelle vowed she would protect and guide him. It would be no chore to teach him city ways and household rules. Truth to tell, she was looking forward to the opportunity.
The fact that he was a smaller version of his uncle gave her heart an added prick and reminded her that she must contact Charles McDonald as soon as possible and entreat him to return and lecture the child about fidelity.
Annabelle’s stomach clenched. If Margaret even suspected that Johnny was planning to run away, the whole household would suffer her fits of foul temper, probably for weeks on end.
Chapter Two (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Moonlight gleamed on the rippling surface of the Potomac, making the water shimmer like molten silver. If not for the noise of the city behind him, Charles might have imagined that he was standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, back home, listening to a cacophony of frogs and the calls of night birds.
How much longer would Georgia be home to the Cherokee? he wondered. Some of his people had already migrated of their own volition but until the tribal elders had the solemn promise of the current president that their claim to lands farther west would be honored, he and many others were reluctant to pack up and go.
A flock of white egrets took to the sky, startled by something near the river’s edge. Charles instinctively slipped into a copse of trees.
“I seen him come this way,” someone said. “High falutin he was, too. Real fancy dressed.”
Another man chortled and spat. “Well, he can’t have gone far. We’ll get him. And then we’ll teach ’em to stay where they belong.”
“Don’t forget, I get his stickpin.”
Charles automatically reached for his pistol and grabbed empty air. The delegation had been instructed to exemplify peace. Consequently, he was unarmed.
Moving so slowly, so fluidly, that the roosting wild birds were not disturbed, he inched backward until his shoulders met the trunk of an enormous oak. Then he consciously calmed his mind and waited.
Leaves rustled. Nearby bushes shook.
The would-be assailants were nearly upon him.
* * *
Annabelle’s supper with Johnny had been uneventful except that he had eaten little. She felt so sorry for him she didn’t argue when he asked, “May I go up to my room?”
“Of course. I know you must be weary.”
“Are you coming upstairs?”
“In a few minutes,” she replied. “I have one errand to take care of first. Go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”
She watched him climb the stairs, then turned to check the empty hallway. There was pen and ink in a writing desk tucked into an alcove off the parlor. While the Eatons were dining, she could avail herself of the opportunity to write a short note to Charles—Mr. McDonald. The mere thought made her blush and hurry toward the desk. She must not be observed, nor did she dare let anyone see to whom her innocent letter was addressed. Not if she hoped to be able to carry out her plan and stop the child from fleeing.
She dipped the nib in the inkwell and began, “Dear Sir,” ending with her signature and placing his name on the outside of the folded note paper. Her penmanship was not perfect because she’d had so little chance to practice and because her hands were trembling, but it would suffice. It would have to.
Replacing everything she had moved and used, she quietly closed the slanted lid of the desk and slipped the note into her pocket.
A quick, furtive check of her surroundings confirmed that she was still alone and she quietly headed for the carriage house to seek out one of the grooms and ask him to carry her missive to Plunkett’s.
Although the sun had set, the moon was nearly full and there was plenty of reflected light from the lampposts lining the broad avenues of the capitol as she entered the rear garden. A few couples strolled arm in arm outside the iron fence while drays and coaches went about their business in the street.
Annabelle had swung a thin, gray cape around her shoulders as soon as she was outside. Now she lifted the hood, less for warmth than to hide her passage through the garden.
She patted her pocket. The sooner the note was delivered, the sooner she’d stop worrying.
In the street beyond the familiar garden path a teamster snapped his whip and shouted, “Out of my way!”
Curiosity caused her to look. Astonishment stopped her cold. Was that...? Could it be...? She’d left him only a few minutes ago, yet the young boy in the street looked terribly familiar. And with good reason.
Heart pounding, Annabelle almost called out, “Johnny!” before she thought better of it. So far, no harm had been done. If she could overtake him and get him back into the house before either of them was missed she might save everyone a lot of unnecessary grief.
She fumbled the gate latch in her nervousness, thereby slowing her progress. By the time she reached the street the boy had vanished.
Where would he go? Washington was a big city and they were both on foot. If she were Johnny, what would she do?
“Go back to the boardinghouse where the Cherokees are staying,” Annabelle guessed. She had to be right. If Johnny disappeared in a city this vast, his chances of being hurt or accosted were immense, particularly since he didn’t blend in with the dirty street urchins who were out and about at this hour.
Nervous, she glanced back at the house. Few lamps were glowing. No one would miss her. Gathering a handful of her skirt and cape she hurried in the direction where she had last spied the runaway child.
Prayer was on her lips. “Please, God, please. Help me? Guide me?”
It was then that she realized her Heavenly Father already had. She already knew that the boardinghouse the Cherokees had chosen was only a block or so past the cathedral where the family worshipped every Sunday. She knew the way.
Circumventing trouble as best she could, she darted back and forth across the broad streets, dodging coaches and buggies while evading those individuals who might wish to do her harm. She had never ventured out alone at night and the face of the city was quite different than she had expected.
The boardinghouse Annabelle sought was built in the Federalist style with tall, narrow banks of windows facing the street and a small porch that led directly into the parlor. Seeing Plunkett’s finely lettered sign gave her hope and renewed energy.
Before she’d taken two steps up the front stairs, however, Johnny burst out the door and ran past, snatching away what was left of her breath.
She lunged to grab his sleeve.
He struggled, twisting and kicking.
“Johnny! Stop. It’s me.” She pushed back her hood so he could better see her features.
“We have to go.” Johnny pointed. “This way.”
“No. I came to speak to your uncle.”
“That is why we have to go,” the boy insisted. “The man inside said he went to the river.”
“He’ll be back. We can stay here and wait.”
The child tore himself from her grasp. “No! It is not good. We must find him.”
Annabelle was unconvinced. Now that they had both made it to the boardinghouse the most sensible choice was to tarry there.
Unfortunately, Johnny was already running again.
“All right,” she called, quickly recovering. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
They soon left the open streets for a parklike area and slowed to a walk because there was no artificial light. Patches of fog drifted in front of them as if clouds had sunk to earth, muting even the moon glow.
Johnny abruptly grasped her hand and tugged. “Stop.”
Annabelle’s breath caught. “Why? I thought you were in a hurry.”
Rethinking their possibly tenuous safety, she pushed back the hood of her satin cape once again and bent over him to speak more softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Men. Bad men. Fighting.” He pointed.
She had barely made out shadowy shapes when there was a muffled shout. The boy broke free and raced toward the altercation!
“Johnny, no!” Fisting her skirt she ran after him.
Someone yelled.
Annabelle drew closer. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”
A well-dressed gentleman was doing hand-to-hand battle with two ruffians and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. Now she understood the boy. Charles McDonald was being attacked and although he seemed to be holding his own at the moment, he was definitely outnumbered.
Charles threw a punch that sent one of the thugs reeling out of sight among some saplings, and dove after him. Bushes rustled and shook. A man grunted. Another shouted. The thug left in the open staggered and fell to his knees as if hurt or intoxicated. Perhaps both.
The seconds passed for Annabelle in slow motion. She heard another cry. Was that a splash? Were they that close to the Potomac?
The man she could see struggled to his feet and braced himself, ready for more fight. Charles reappeared and engaged him by circling, arms wide, ready for further attack. They locked arms and began grappling while Johnny beat the back of his uncle’s foe with a broken branch and screeched unintelligibly in his native language.
The men fell together. Charles scrambled up first. His foe moved more slowly yet was far heavier and thus had the advantage of sheer weight when he threw himself back into the melee.
This was a new conundrum for Annabelle. She had never seen grown men fight, so she stood aside, gaping helplessly and standing clear. Her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly they ached.
Then she saw something metal flash in the stranger’s hand and her attitude changed. “A knife! He has a knife.”
Charles crouched and stepped sideways, keeping just out of the assailant’s reach. “Stay back!”
The other man was slow and clumsy, carving harmless arcs in the night air, yet Annabelle knew it was only a matter of time until someone made a fatal misstep. What could she do? How could she possibly help the Cherokees?
Without warning, the attacker changed tactics and lunged for Johnny.
The child was too quick for him.
Charles grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the other man’s face. “Hey! Over here.”
The ploy worked. The burly man whirled, distracted, wiping at his eyes. But how long would that hold him off?
Annabelle had never in her life felt so powerless. So useless. As long as Charles’s adversary was the only one armed, there was no way she could be certain the Cherokee would prevail. Unless...
Whipping off her cape she twirled it at arm’s length and watched it billow out. The man with the knife was temporarily distracted and Charles darted in to try to disarm him. They wrestled until the attacker whipped one arm to the side and threw Charles to the dirt.
Annabelle could tell he was stunned when he landed. Johnny ran between his uncle and the knife-wielder, shouting and hitting him with the leafy branch.
The man roared and stood tall, facing both Cherokees. He was taller and much bulkier than she was but as long as his attention was so focused on Charles, Annabelle knew she had the element of surprise on her side.
With an unspoken prayer, she circled behind the big man, threw the cape over his head and yanked it down.
Blinded and surrounded, he flailed and slashed at the silky material, cutting portions of it to ribbons and opening gaps that were almost wide enough to let him see his opponents.
Annabelle screamed. Johnny rushed at the confused thug from one side, hitting him with a solid enough blow that he instinctively whirled to redirect his attack.
That gave Charles enough time to get to his feet, knock the other man off balance and disarm him. He threw him to the ground facedown and pinned him there. “Give up and I won’t hurt you more.”
Johnny was not so forgiving. “No! Hit him again!”
Annabelle sympathized with the child, even after the thug stopped struggling, and she had to admire Charles’s self-control. She stood back, hands clenched once more, while he and Johnny tore strips from her ruined cape to truss up the would-be robber like a Christmas goose.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” Charles warned, getting to his feet and taking a defensive stance with the other man’s knife. “There were two of them. I knocked one into the river but he could have climbed out by now.”
“If he has half a wit he’s long gone,” she said. “What in the world were you doing out here all alone?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I followed Johnny,” she replied. “I’d written you a note asking you to visit and talk some sense into him before you left the city. I was on my way to the stables to ask someone to deliver it to you when I saw him running down the street. That changed everything.”
Seeing the doubt reflected in his shadowed expression she said, “Here, I’ll prove it to you.” As she slipped her hand into her skirt pocket her self-assurance turned to chagrin. “Oh, dear, I don’t know what became of my note.”
“How big was the paper?” Charles was scanning the nearby ground.
Annabelle joined him. “Small. I had folded it so it would fit in my pocket. I doubt we’ll find it without a torch.”
“Then forget it.” His brows arched. “I had thought the boy was in good company with you. Looks as though I’ll have to rethink my conclusion.”
“We had both expected to find you at the boardinghouse, sir,” Annabelle countered, spine stiff and eyes blazing from his scolding. “If you had been there, none of this would have happened.”
“Sadly, true.” He closed and pocketed the thug’s knife, then dusted off his clothing and his hands. “All right. I’ll escort you both home and then go report this fellow’s crimes.”
“But, what if he gets loose and escapes while we’re gone? What if his friend comes back and frees him?”
“That can’t be helped.” Charles slipped off his coat and shook it, then draped it over her shoulders. “You’re shivering. This will help.”
“Thank you. My cape is ruined.”
“Since you saved my life with it I will be delighted to replace it.”
“I can’t let you do that. What would people say?”
“That a gallant lady sacrificed her cape to rescue the victim of a mugging?”
“I hardly see my part as being gallant. I was merely trying to keep the fight fair.”
That made him laugh. “Have it your way. Just please allow me to buy you a new cape.”
Annabelle sighed. “I suppose that can be arranged, if you insist. The Eatons always use the same wonderful seamstress, a Miss Mills. Her shop is in Arlington, but...” Her eyes widened and she faltered, staring up at her stalwart companion. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of what?”
“No one knows I ventured out tonight. If Mrs. Eaton finds out from the dressmaker that I need a new cape, she will be furious with me. And perhaps with Johnny, too.”
“Then we’ll simply keep this incident to ourselves and I’ll pay Miss Mills to do the same when I engage her,” Charles promised. “Right now, I think I should see you home so you can go back inside as if nothing has happened.”
“I never lie.”
“Then you are a truly exemplary lady,” he said, sounding amused. When he looked down at Johnny, however, his countenance sobered. “You will do as you’ve been told and stay out of trouble, Tsani. This is your home now and you will honor our tribe’s promises. Understand?”
Annabelle saw the child nod and bow his head as if the weight of the world lay on his thin shoulders. Poor little thing. Truthfully, it would be just as well if she were not sent off to boarding school. Johnny needed her there.
Her thoughts whirled and danced like moths drawn to a glowing lantern. She had prayed for guidance, assuming the answer lay merely in the choice of an alternate school. Now it was beginning to look as if her answer to those prayers was a resounding no, but for a very good reason. One that certainly countered the disappointment.
Shivering as the excitement wore off and weariness lay heavy, she was thankful for many things. One was the Cherokee ambassador’s strong arm around her shoulders and his strength to lean against.
Having been warned against allowing any grown man to touch her thus, she was terribly confused. Surely those admonitions did not apply to her current situation.
Nothing that felt this right, this perfect, could possibly be wrong.
Chapter Three (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
“Were so many lamps burning in the house when you left?” Charles asked, pausing with his little group before escorting them back across New York Avenue.
Annabelle shook her head. “No. Mrs. Eaton usually does needlework in the evenings and Mr. Eaton sometimes reads the newspaper or personal communications from the president, but the rest of the rooms are rarely lit.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I suspect they have missed you already.”
“Oh, no.”
“It may not be as bad as it looks. I suggest you and the boy go back inside alone, though. Being seen with me will probably not be to your advantage.”
“We did nothing wrong.”
“You and I know that. Others may be harder to convince and I’m not looking forward to being lynched on my first diplomatic mission.”
“Surely, if I tell the family you have assisted me they will understand.”
“To do that you’d have to admit to having gone out after dark. Alone. Are you sure that’s wise?”
She looked so crestfallen he had to smile. “I’ll be fine. I’m going straight to my elders to report the attack by the river. You go inside and tell the Eatons you and the boy just stepped out into the garden. That won’t be a lie.”
“All right.”
As he reclaimed his coat she tilted her face up to him and he could see moisture sparkling on her lashes. Against his better judgment he gently took her hands, noting that she was trembling. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait right here until you’re safely inside.”
“Thank you for seeing us home.”
“I should be the one thanking you for saving my neck. I’m sorry about your cape. I’ll send a messenger to the dressmaker for you first thing in the morning.”
“A cape was a small price to pay for our victory over evil.”
Let her go, his mind insisted. Step away from her and forget you ever met Annabelle Lang.
But he would not, could not, do so. Although he assumed that this goodbye would be their last, he also knew she would linger in his thoughts and in his dreams for a long, long time. Being so taken with this innocent beauty had not only been a surprise, it had left him questioning his future without her.
That notion was beyond ridiculous, of course. Even if he happened to be sent to Washington again, chances were good that Eaton would forbid them to court properly, meaning he would be fortunate to encounter her at all.
That was one way in which Cherokee courtships and marriages were better. All a couple basically had to do was share a meal and exchange blankets and they were considered wed. Many of his kinsmen partook of two ceremonies, the Christian one and the tribal one, thereby satisfying both factions.
What was he thinking! Charles asked himself, coming to his senses. He barely knew this girl.
I’m far from home and lonely, that’s all, he insisted. There’s nothing wrong with me that being back in Georgia where I belong won’t fix.
He purposefully released Annabelle’s hands and stepped away while donning his coat. To his chagrin the fabric retained her warmth and a trace of a sweet scent like roses. Just like Annabelle’s hair.
“You’d better go in,” Charles said, sounding more brusque than he’d intended.
She bowed her head demurely. “That’s wise. Good night. And God bless you, sir.”
“He did that when He sent you to my aid.”
“Perhaps because in my prayers I had asked to be of help to you and the boy. Are you a Christian, then?”
“Yes. I went to the missionary school.”
Her smile was so sweet, so tender, all Charles could do was stand there and watch her walk away. And with her went a tiny portion of his heart despite his firm decision to remain stoic.
* * *
Lucy, the heavyset, dusky-skinned cook, was in the kitchen poking the ashes of the stove to get them to ignite fresh fuel when Annabelle and Johnny entered. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Land sakes, girl. Where you been? Mr. John is tearin’ his hair.”
“I—we—stepped out into the garden to look at the stars.”
“Then why didn’t you come when he hollered for you?”
“I guess I didn’t hear.” Annabelle’s guilty conscience nagged at her to explain further. If she hadn’t had little Johnny to protect she would have confessed without delay.
“Well, get in there and let the mister know you’re all right. After the trouble tonight he’ll surely be glad to see you.”
“Trouble? Because of me?”
“Mercy, no.” The cook’s coffee-colored forehead knit above graying brows. “Somebody done made off with that fancy silver tea set the missus got from them Indians.” Her gaze darted to the boy, then quickly back to Annabelle. “He be with you all the time?”
“Yes. Of course he was.”
“If you say so. But Mr. John, he was plum mad, ’specially when he couldn’t find neither of you.”
“Thank you, Lucy. We’ll go right in and set his mind at ease.” She reached for the boy’s hand and held tight, urging him to follow as she admonished, “You let me do all the talking.”
Both Eatons were in the parlor when Annabelle entered. Their expressions contrasted; John’s being one mixing anger with relief while Margaret simply looked disgruntled.
“Where have you been?” John demanded.
“Out in the garden, looking at the stars.”
Margaret pointed at the boy. “Him, too?”
“Of course.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking into tears of shame, Annabelle stood very still and waited to be dismissed. She had no idea what had become of the silver set but she was certain the Cherokees had had nothing to do with it. Washington was a bustling city, filled with all kinds of riffraff, as demonstrated by the incident at the river. Undoubtedly, a criminal element like that had robbed the Eatons.
“I have the servants checking the carriage house and the stables,” John said. “Go upstairs to your rooms and stay there. Both of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Annabelle curtseyed politely.
She was more than delighted to take her leave. This current Mrs. Eaton might be a special friend of President Jackson but she wasn’t kind and loving the way Annabelle’s first foster mother, Myra, had been. Oh, how she had wept when that dear lady had gone to Glory at such a young age.
Climbing the spiral staircase with Johnny, Annabelle realized she was actually happier being ignored than being watched too closely. That revelation was a surprise. A welcome one. It not only helped her feel less unwanted, it gave her a sense of freedom she had never before sought or even imagined.
“A servant will assist you getting ready for bed,” she told the child. “I’ll call Adams. He helps our father.”
“I have no father,” Johnny said flatly. “And I can take care of myself.”
“All right, whatever you say.” Annabelle continued to hold his hand until she said, “Remember. You promised to be good and stay here.”
“I remember.”
She hated to leave him alone looking so small and forlorn, yet she knew she must. With a deep sigh she eased the door closed and walked away. It was bound to be a long night for the child, not to mention how hard it was going to be for her to stop thinking about Charles McDonald’s narrow escape and her part in his rescue.
She smiled to herself and gave a little shiver, then headed for her own room. Many nights she had prayed for a cessation of dreams but tonight she was eagerly looking forward to seeing if the handsome Cherokee would appear in them.
Given a choice, she would definitely have wished to include him as a part of her nighttime imaginings.
* * *
Charles headed straight for the boardinghouse when he left Eaton’s. Instead of a quiet atmosphere, he found the male guests gathered in the sitting room, smoking and talking while uniformed soldiers in blue and police officers moved among them.
“Where have you been?” Elias Boudinot asked Charles, speaking aside. “Tell me you weren’t near the river.”
“As a matter of fact, I was. Why?”
The shorter, slightly older man pulled him into a corner and spoke with a coarse whisper. “Don’t admit it. These men are out for blood, preferably ours.”
“What for? What happened?”
“Somebody got knifed tonight.”
Charles felt the blade in his pocket, glad he hadn’t been a victim of the same kind of mayhem. “I’m not surprised. A couple of toughs came after me. It was only by the grace of God I managed to escape.”
“Good thing you didn’t have a woman with you.”
The hair on Charles’s nape prickled. “What do you mean?”
“They say the dead man was all tangled up in a woman’s outer garment. It looked as if whoever killed him had rendered him helpless before driving a knife blade between his ribs.”
Charles plopped onto the brocade-upholstered, horsehair sofa. “Say that again?”
“It wasn’t a normal mugging. The victim was trussed up first, then murdered in cold blood. Worse, he was a soldier on leave.”
There was nothing Charles could think to say or do other than sit there and stare. The man they had tied up had been alive and well when he, Annabelle and Johnny had left him. Charles knew she would swear to that—except she’d have to admit to having been on the scene if he asked for her support. And then what would happen to her already tenuous standing in the Eaton household?
There was only one real problem as Charles saw it. The cape. If anyone recognized the fabric remnants left behind and questioned Annabelle, she’d be honor bound to tell the truth.
As long as the police believed all her story, everything would be fine. If they chose to twist her words, however, his whole diplomatic mission could be in jeopardy, not to mention his neck. Murder was bad enough. The thought that a visiting Cherokee might have killed a Washington citizen, let alone a soldier, was far worse.
Charles’s choices were poor on all counts. His tribe depended upon its ambassadors portraying an image of refinement and civility. So, what should he do? Tell the whole story and reveal the girl’s name? Keep mum and pray that nobody knew Annabelle had come looking for him? And what about Johnny? Suppose he remained with Eaton while Annabelle was ostracized?
Agonizing over the unacceptable possibilities, Charles decided he could not sit there and let an innocent young woman suffer needlessly. He must slip out and return to warn her, even if it meant sneaking into the Eaton mansion and somehow using his nephew as a go-between. Then, if he and Annabelle could not see a solution to their dilemma, he would return to Plunkett’s and confess his part in the altercation being investigated.
Leaving the sofa with the fluid movement of a skillful hunter, he was out of the room and headed for the back door without any of the soldiers noticing.
Elias watched him go without a word.
* * *
Annabelle tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. She’d opened the windows partway to ventilate her stuffy bedroom and could hear voices coming from the yard below as well as from the mansion’s ground floor.
Was that her name? Had someone just called to her?
“Annabelle!”
There it was again. Curiosity drew her to the open window, made her lean out and look down. “Charles? What are you...?”
“Hush. There may be troops headed this way. I came to warn you.”
“Why?”
“They’re at Plunkett’s now. Police, too. We must have been seen together in the park.”
She drew her nightclothes around her more tightly and tried to still her trembling. Surely there was no way anyone could have found out about her unauthorized excursion.
“We didn’t do anything wrong. You were the victim.”
“The man we tied up is dead,” Charles said.
“No! He can’t be.” Her head was starting to spin and she leaned heavily on the smooth wooden windowsill. “You must be mistaken. He was fine when we left.”
“Somebody killed him after we were gone.” Charles’s voice was barely audible over the noise beginning to arise from the front yard and portico.
And there she stood, in her nightdress, holding an inappropriate conversation with a man she barely knew. A man whose presence in the garden would be further damning evidence of her mistakes if they were observed.
“Annabelle!” John Eaton’s voice boomed, echoing up the stairwell. “Annabelle!” Boots thudded. Her door was hit hard and slammed open against the wall.
She whirled, her back to the window, the collar of her long gown fisted at her throat. There was no mistaking her foster father’s tone or his reddening face. Someone must have discovered her trespasses, as Charles had warned.
“Downstairs. Now. And cover yourself decently.”
“Yes, sir.” Threading her arms through the sleeves of a linen wrapper, she belted it over her gown and freed her long, heavy braid from the collar.
Eaton pushed past her to the open window and leaned out, giving Annabelle a terrible fright. It wasn’t until he slammed down the sash and turned away that she was able to breathe. If he had spied Charles McDonald waiting below he would surely be shouting. At least one thing had gone her way this evening.
She followed, barefoot, to the upper landing.
John Eaton was descending to join a group of heavily armed men. The foremost one wore a constable’s badge. The others were mostly scowling, uniformed soldiers bearing rifles.
For an instant she entertained the thought that Charles had been wrong about the killing and someone had recovered the missing silver service. Then she realized there would be no reason to summon her if that was all that was wrong.
No. This all had to be happening because of what she’d done—or what they believed she’d done—earlier.
Frozen in place at the top of the staircase Annabelle stared at the angry crowd.
Eaton motioned to her. “Come down here. These gentlemen have some questions for you.”
“May I dress first?”
“No. Come as you are. The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better.”
Her bare feet on the carpeted steps made no sound. She slid one hand along the banister to steady herself and obeyed his command, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where were you tonight?” Eaton demanded.
“I beg your pardon? I was with the family.” Her nervous fingers found the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder and unconsciously worried the end of it.
“Not every second. I recall that you did not answer when I called to you. You told us you were out in the garden. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Annabelle’s stomach was churning and she wondered if she was going to be ill.
One of the soldiers nearest the front door held up a soiled, ruined garment for all to see. Eaton pointed to it. “Then how do you explain this?”
For the first time in her life, Annabelle wished she were the kind of frail female who fainted at the drop of a hat. Surely being unconscious would be preferable to having to admit that the shredded remnant was her cape.
“What a shame.” She used the stair railing for support. “It was so pretty.”
“Then you don’t deny it’s yours?”
“No. It’s mine. How did they know?”
“There was a note found nearby with your name on it.”
“I did nothing wrong. Truly.” She fought to hold back tears.
Dismay and disappointment on her foster father’s face was countered by the vehemence of Margaret Eaton’s railing. “Do you see now? I warned you the girl was up to no good. Blood will tell and hers is tainted.”
Eaton whirled on her. “She caused no distress while Myra was caring for her.”
“That was years ago. She’s nearly a grown woman and a wily one at that.” Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Your reputation in Washington will be ruined, John.”
“We—I will stand by Annabelle,” Eaton vowed.
Margaret clung to his arm, weeping. “You mustn’t. Think of the scandal. She’s not even kin.”
“Nevertheless, I made a commitment.” He faced the armed cadre to say, “Annabelle Lang will be secure in my care. Contact my office at the Capitol if you wish to speak with her further and I will make those arrangements.”
All the men looked uneasy. The veteran constable who was clearly the spokesman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. The murder victim was from the president’s old regiment and our orders are to apprehend and arrest the suspect.”
“Tonight?”
Frozen in place, Annabelle held tight to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the final decision and wondering if she dared speak to defend herself. If she did, there was a very good chance that Little Johnny would also be blamed, not to mention his uncle. If no one believed she was innocent, how could she possibly convince anyone that others were blameless?
The constable nodded as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the military men. “Yes, sir. Tonight.”
Annabelle quailed. This could not be happening. Not to her. She looked to her foster father, pleading with her gaze, and saw indecision. Was his influence so weak in Washington that he could not prevail?
Then she recalled how close Margaret had been to the president himself. Could this accusation be her doing? Had there been enough time to have influenced Jackson? No. Yet he must know how Margaret felt about sharing her home, even with her own three offspring, because as soon as she’d learned of her first husband’s death she’d shipped the Timberlake children off to live with her late husband’s relatives.
John Eaton’s expression grew regretful and he stepped back before gesturing to the officers. “Do what you must, but rest assured I will engage an attorney on her behalf. She had better be treated with kid gloves or heads will roll, starting with yours.”
Annabelle found her voice. “They’re really arresting me?”
“I’m afraid so. You won’t be held for long if I have anything to say about it.”
She tried to fill her lungs with breathable air and failed.
Light flashed before her eyes as if she were staring directly at the summer sun and unable to look away.
A tingling on her soles and palms, coupled with the spinning of the room, made her light-headed.
Seconds later she closed her eyes, lost her grip on the banister and slumped to the floor.
* * *
Charles caught a passing cab and made it back to Plunkett’s in time to hear Major Ridge, the graying patriarch of the Cherokee delegation, addressing the crowd in the parlor. He was speaking himself, instead of asking his adult son to translate.
“The Cherokee Nation is self-governing by order of your own President Jefferson. We will handle the matter.”
“We got proof! A name wrote down,” someone in the back shouted.
Another voice chided, “Since when can you read?”
“May I see your proof?” Ridge held out his hand.
“It’s not here. Which one is McDonald?”
Charles stepped forward. “I had nothing to do with killing that man or any other.”
“Can you prove it?” Ridge asked him.
“If I have to.”
Grumblings grew to shouts and several men shook clenched fists and brandished weapons.
“Then we will hear your testimony when the time comes,” Ridge said. Unwavering, he faced the gathering and raised one hand as if taking an oath. “All of you. Go. I will vouch for the carrying out of justice.”
Slowly, begrudgingly, the venerable man’s orders were heeded. As the room began to clear, some onlookers were still muttering but the Indian delegation stood united, shoulder to shoulder.
Charles didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door slammed behind the last accuser.
“All right,” Ridge said. “I want to hear the whole story. From the beginning.”
When Charles was through, the older man was shaking his head. “We must go and speak with the girl.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes.” The old leader was adamant. “Is this woman truthful? Can she be trusted?”
Sighing, Charles nodded. “Yes. But if Eaton doesn’t already know she was with me, asking questions could ruin her life.”
“That is her problem, not ours. Those soldiers will be back. As soon as we have spoken with her, we will leave Washington.”
“Before we’ve been granted an audience with President Jackson?”
“Eaton and Coffee say they speak for him. That will have to do. Our presence here is no longer wise.”
“I am sorry,” Charles said. “I truly did nothing wrong. The man was alive when I left him by the river. Here. See? I even took his knife.”
Withdrawing the blade from his pocket he laid it across his palm and held it out.
It wasn’t until then that he was surrounded by enough ambient light to notice the rusty color of dried blood on part of the blade.
Chapter Four (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Annabelle took as long as she dared to dress and prepare to leave the house. Part of her mind was spinning while another part felt numb. There had to be some way out of this dilemma, yet no answers came to her.
Worse, she mused, if the authorities had recovered her note they not only knew her name, they knew to whom it had been addressed. That put Charles McDonald in jeopardy and made her hope he had not returned to the boardinghouse after leaving the Eaton garden.
Everything, all their troubles, pointed back to the boy, didn’t they? Too bad the opinions of children were not given credence, even under normal circumstances. Certainly Johnny would not be listened to in a Washington court. He might, however, make a good emissary to his uncle’s group.
Annabelle rapped on the wall between their rooms. An answering tap came quickly. All she said was “come” and he appeared at her door in seconds.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
The child nodded.
“I need you to go to the Cherokees, tell them what has happened here tonight and warn your uncle. Will you?”
Another nod.
“Good. Be sure you do it secretly. Don’t run up the street the way you did when I was chasing you. You must be very, very careful. No one must see you or catch you. Can you do that and sneak back into this house later?”
“Y-yes.”
Johnny’s lower lip was quivering so she bent to give him a hug of encouragement before adding, “God be with you.”
Placing a kiss on his cheek she straightened, tossed her braid to hang behind her and stepped into the hallway, knowing she was in the right and prepared to prove it somehow.
By the time she was halfway down the stairs, however, most of her courage had evaporated like a drop of water on a hot day. She was determined to hide her fear, though. The less she looked and acted helpless, the braver she felt, so she did her best to stand tall, to face whatever awaited.
* * *
“I have to go now, to make sure she’s all right,” Charles insisted after he had listened to the boy’s story and sent him back to Eaton’s with another member of their group acting as guardian.
Ridge shook his gray head. “You will stay here until morning when we will go together.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. I’m afraid it may already be too late.”
“If you disobey you will cease to be under my protection,” Ridge warned.
Charles had not anticipated that severe a reaction but he accepted it. “So be it. The woman would not be in trouble if she had not come to my aid. She saved my life.”
“And now you will lose it by foolishness?” Ridge countered. “I had thought better of you.”
That was the last comment Charles heard as he left the boardinghouse and hailed a cab. The horse seemed to sense his urgency because it was prancing as he boarded. “The Eaton house,” he shouted to the driver. “Fast.”
He had to arrive, to intercede, before Annabelle was taken away. He had little doubt that she would be, given the attitude of the soldiers who had confronted his delegation, and his people were important diplomats. The young woman, by her own admission, was merely a ward, and one who was not wanted by the new mistress of the household. What chance would she have if the Secretary of War did not stand up for her?
Perhaps Johnny had misjudged Eaton. Charles hoped so, because otherwise Annabelle’s chances of escaping unjust punishment were slim.
If the party of lawmen and soldiers had not called his name and mentioned Annabelle’s lost note he wouldn’t have worried so much. Since they had, however, he assumed they had not only read his name but her signature, as well. They were both in trouble up to their necks.
Yes, necks, he affirmed. The part of a criminal where the hangman put the noose.
* * *
When Annabelle felt cold shackles close around her wrists she nearly fainted for the second time. Only pride and an immense desire to present herself blameless before her foster father and Margaret kept her on her feet.
The constable led her onto the porch by the short chain between her wrists, making her feel as if they considered her a dangerous animal rather than an innocent girl. Reality dimmed. If this was a nightmare it was the worst she had ever experienced.
Pausing to get her balance on the top step she lifted her gaze. A curious crowd had gathered and most were craning to get a good look. Some onlookers actually pointed at her and called out insults.
From the east, a cab was approaching at speed. The driver pulled hard on the reins. The horse reared. Women screamed. Men cursed and jumped out of the way.
The door of the cab swung open. Annabelle gasped. Charles! No, no, he mustn’t be here.
She saw him start to push his way through the crowd. There was no way he could hope to rescue her from all these armed men. However, he might be a good witness to her innocence in the future, if he survived and kept himself out of prison. John Eaton had promised to hire legal representation, yes, but she doubted he would be amenable to adding a Cherokee client to the venture.
Given so little time and so few options she took a deep breath, looked directly into the crowd where Charles was and screamed, “No!”
The instant he faltered and met her gaze with his, she shook her head and mouthed another, “No,” praying he’d take heed. She sensed his indecision and resisted being pulled down the steps.
Once more she spoke, this time calmly. “No. Not now.”
And this time he gave a brief nod in response.
Heartened, she stood tall and descended until she stopped in the midst of the cadre of soldiers and civilians. The best thing, truly the only good thing, was that Charles McDonald had not rushed into the fray and joined her in chains.
As soon as Johnny explained to his kinsmen and they understood her dilemma, she would somehow assure them she would not testify against any of them. After all, they were innocent, as was she. This was Washington City, where the law of the land stood strong. She would be fine. This was a mere glitch brought on by a mob. People who were not guilty did not end up staying in prison.
* * *
Charles considered going back to the boardinghouse but could not make himself give that order to the cabbie. Instead, they slowly followed the group walking alongside the wagon carrying Annabelle to the closest jail.
He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from jumping out again and rushing to her rescue. He huffed, disgusted with himself. She had been right to stop him. Such a rash act would have been too stupid to be heroic. And it would have accomplished nothing worthwhile.
Instead, he disembarked near the jail, paid the cabbie and sent him away while he infiltrated the milling crowd to listen to rumors. Clearly, a Cherokee presence at the river altercation was known and he was thankful his clothing fit city life. The only way he’d be identified was if somebody besides Annabelle happened to recognize him.
Knowing she was held inside those barred doors made him want to pound on them with both fists. The more irrational claims he overheard about her character, the harder it was to control his temper, so he slipped away and circled the stone building, hoping to calm down enough to think clearly.
Shadows absorbed him the way a placid lake smoothly covers her sunken secrets, and he easily reverted to instinctive oneness with nature.
His shiny black boots sank in mud and fetid odors assailed his nostrils. He ignored everything. Barred windows set high in the walls permitted sound to escape while denying direct sight. Since all the noise was concentrated at the front of the building where the soldiers were busy congratulating themselves, Charles took a chance and softly called, “Annabelle?”
All he heard was street chatter. He moved on to another window. Then another. Wait! Was that sobbing? “Annabelle?”
The weeping stopped.
Charles came closer. “Annabelle?”
“Y-yes.”
“It’s me.”
She sniffled. “Go away.”
“I can’t. I have to help you somehow.”
“That is the worst thing you can do. Secretary Eaton has promised to hire an attorney and have me released as soon as possible.”
“Why didn’t he stop them from taking you in the first place?”
Although her voice kept breaking, he heard her explain about the victim’s relationship with the president’s regiment and her suspicion that Margaret’s wishes had also prevailed.
“Then I will stay here until you are free.”
“And be caught? I would weep forever.”
“But you saved my life.” As he spoke he was casting around for something to climb up on. A wooden barrel provided a prop.
“I had to act for the sake of the child. He was counting on both of us,” she said.
Charles assumed that was her way of covering her revealing admission that she would weep if anything bad happened to him. So, she felt their emotional attachment, too. That was heartening—and worrisome.
One booted foot on the barrel, he pulled himself up until he could reach through the barred window. He still could not see her but perhaps he could take her hand and convey moral support.
Hearing her gasp he said, “You see my hand?”
“Yes. But I can’t reach it.” She paused. “Wait!”
The sound of metal scraping against stone echoed and Charles thanked God for background noise to cover it.
First he felt her touch his hand. He closed his fingers around hers. Willed her to draw strength from him. And then her damp cheek and wisps of her beautiful hair brushed the back of his wrist. Their connection was tenuous yet deeply moving as she held tight to the lifeline of his presence.
The words that came to him were in Cherokee and he whispered them tenderly, knowing she would not understand yet needing to express affection. Perhaps no translation was necessary, he mused, because when he spoke, Annabelle’s grasp tightened and her cheek pressed more firmly.
Then, suddenly, she broke away and was gone. Metal clanked and someone shouted, “Get away from that window.”
Charles jumped off the barrel.
His hand felt cool and he glanced down. It was glistening with Annabelle’s tears.
* * *
Annabelle did not even try to sleep. The cot she had moved under the window was so dingy she couldn’t bear to lie upon it, let alone unfold the blanket. Her eyes often drifted back to the tiny window Charles had reached through and she gave thanks he had escaped unseen. That he had tried to comfort her at all was a conundrum. After all, they hardly knew each other and any involvement with her while she was incarcerated was taking a terrible chance.
She sighed and leaned back against the cold wall, crossing her arms. The authorities had her note. Therefore, they also had his name. Although it didn’t sound Cherokee it might nevertheless lead back to him, partly because the whole delegation had attracted so much attention when visiting her father. Perhaps that was why soldiers had been sent to Plunkett’s so quickly.
Although she didn’t know how much time had passed, she had watched the movement of the sun across the sky. What was taking her foster father so long to come for her? Surely he would act. At least she hoped so. Given Margaret’s animosity and obvious bias against her, she was beginning to wonder if John was going to help her, after all.
It was late the next day when Annabelle heard the approach of footsteps. Her spirits rose the instant she recognized John Eaton’s voice. The sight of him brought her to tears again and she fought to stay stoic as the jailer unlocked the cell door.
The deepest urge was to shout, “Father!” but she refrained. There was nothing about his somber countenance that was encouraging. When he merely nodded to her and turned away from the open door, she wasn’t sure if she was free to follow. The jailer guffawed and gestured, “Well, go, girlie, or do you like it here?”
That lit a fire under Annabelle’s feet and she hurried after John Eaton. He had a carriage waiting. For a moment she thought he might climb in ahead of her as if she were unworthy of gallantry but he did pause and allow her to board first. He even offered a hand, which reminded Annabelle of the much more tender touch of another man through the bars of her window.
“Thank you,” she ventured as the carriage started off.
Eaton made a guttural noise that sounded like a growl. “There is only so much I can do when the president is set against you. You do realize that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That is not what the evidence shows. There is a very good chance that you will be arrested again and tried for murder. If I could stop it, I would.”
“Can’t Margaret... I mean, she and President Jackson are friends. Isn’t there something she can do?”
“Ha! You will be fortunate to get her to tolerate you at home, let alone expect her to speak on your behalf. My wife can be headstrong, as you well know.”
“Even if you plead my case?”
The expression on her foster father’s face was stern and seemed almost wily. When he answered, Annabelle understood why.
“I had to fight other suitors to win Margaret Timberlake’s hand and I will not give her up, nor will I choose you over her. That should go without saying. I suppose, if you were older, affairs of the heart would not puzzle you so.”
The carriage had slowed and entered the Eaton yard before Annabelle was ready to ask, “What shall I do?”
“I haven’t decided. If I send you away, I will be abetting an escape. If I let you stay here and vouch for you, it will look as if I support what you have done. Either choice may pose a risk to my career. Since one of the Cherokee delegates seems to also be involved and is technically untouchable by our laws, you will take full blame.” He disembarked with a sharp, “You have shamed me.”
Annabelle was less concerned for herself than for Johnny as she followed. “What about the little boy? What will become of him?”
Eaton grimaced. “As if I didn’t have enough troubles with Indian affairs. I suppose I shall have to keep him for the sake of a temporary peace. As soon as the President and Congress decide against the treaty, however, I won’t care what becomes of him.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“Self-preservation, my dear girl. Politics is a cutthroat business and it’s time I treated it as such.”
“You sound just like your wife.”
That finally brought a slight smile. “She will be delighted to hear that.”
“Should—should I come in?”
“Of course. You still live here. But I suggest you and the boy make yourselves scarce, particularly when Margaret is around.”
Watching the man she had once thought of as a father walk away, Annabelle felt so downtrodden she was dazed. Had he really changed so much? It was hard to fathom that the once mellow man had hardened his heart but his words backed up that painful conclusion. Perhaps the best parts of him had passed away with Myra and his marriage to Margaret had brought out his sterner side. To put it that way was to simplify, of course, but she was fast losing hope for her future. Any future. Anywhere.
Starting for the kitchen she took time to admire the flowerbeds and smell a pinch of fresh basil while she thought of the servants and how so many of her former friends and allies had been let go. She still had Lucy, the cook, and Adams, her father’s valet, but no one else had known her for long. No one else could be counted on to provide solace while she resided in the Eaton home.
That was where she would start, Annabelle decided. If she could find Lucy she would ask her for advice. If not, she’d turn to Adams. Truth to tell, the grandfatherly man had bounced her on his knee when she was small far more often than John Eaton had.
Thoughts of her friends brought a smile. She was still smiling when she sensed someone nearby. The whispered “Siyo” told her who.
“Johnny!” Crouching, she opened her arms for the child’s embrace.
“You are back.” His shrill voice was muffled against her shoulder.
She set him away and grinned. “Yes, I am. Are you all right?”
The child nodded. His sky-blue eyes glittered. “I took your message to my uncle.”
“I know. What did he say?”
“He was mad.”
“I am sorry for asking you to disobey. I just didn’t know who else I could trust.”
Johnny stood taller, proud. “Will you run away with me now?”
A tiny part of her conscience wanted to set aside responsibility and tell him yes, but she refrained. Knowing that Eaton didn’t plan to make a permanent home for the Cherokee child had changed things. What she wasn’t sure of was how she should behave and how much she should reveal from then on. If he did decide to leave she certainly could not allow him to travel alone, yet if she accompanied him she would be considered a fugitive.
“I need to speak with your uncle again,” Annabelle finally said, “but I don’t want you to get in more trouble by going to get him for me. Do you know when the delegation is planning to leave? Is it today?”
His ebony hair swung against his shoulders as he rapidly shook his head. “It was tomorrow.”
She sensed more to the story. “And?”
“They are gone.”
“What? Now? Already?”
The boy looked ready to cry. “Yes. All gone.”
“Are you certain?”
With a slow nod he assured her before beginning to sniffle and pointing to the uppermost dormer of the elaborate home. “I saw them pass. From up there.”
Bereft, Annabelle sank to her knees in the garden and embraced the child while they both silently mourned and the setting sun cast their shadows among the fragrant blooms.
Chapter Five (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
A trip back to the jail where Annabelle had been held had proved fruitless, so Charles had returned to the Eaton estate and stationed himself across the street to watch, as before.
Now that Major Ridge had released him as a diplomat, he had to be even more cautious. Ridge had kept him out of jail once. That would not happen again.
And now? Although he had sent most of his belongings home with Elias, he had kept enough provisions to sustain him a few more days or weeks, if need be. And he had rented a saddle horse rather than keep hiring cabs and take the chance there might not be one available when he next needed it.
What he wanted to do was spirit Annabelle away to safety in Georgia. To do so, however, would not only be dangerous, it would be insane, and he was no fool. How their lives had become so entangled in such a short time was an unsolvable puzzle. Perhaps, if his assumption were correct and she did have Indian blood, that was part of the reason they’d been so drawn to each other.
A bigger question was, what did Annabelle want? He knew she had aspirations of an education but there had to be more to her future plans than that. Most young woman her age were already thinking of marriage, yet she had never mentioned suitors, probably because she was trapped between the servant class and the snobbish elite of Washington City and didn’t fit into any social strata.
Charles swung a leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground beside it the moment he saw activity in the Eaton garden.
He was about to call “Annabelle!” when she spotted him. He made it across the street just in time to receive her headlong rush through the gate and fold her into his arms. To do so in broad daylight was to muddy her already sullied reputation, yet he could not stop himself.
“What happened?” He set her away and feasted his eyes on her natural beauty. “How did you get out of jail?”
“John Eaton came for me. The things he said on our ride home were frightening. It was awful. He said I had shamed him and, and...” Tears began to brighten her eyes and she sniffled. “I thought you were gone. Johnny said your party went home.”
“They did.”
“What about you? Aren’t you in danger of arrest, too?”
“No. Since I’m a Cherokee and an emissary to President Jackson, Major Ridge convinced them that the tribe would mete out my justice.”
“But, they all left. Why did you stay?”
Charles gazed deeply into her eyes. “I had to stay after I saw them taking you away in shackles. We know we are not guilty of killing anyone but if we cannot prove it, I will pay a visit to the powers that be, tell them the whole story and throw myself on their mercy.”
“No! What if they don’t believe you?”
“All I care about is convincing them that you are innocent. After that it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. You mustn’t do that.” She sobered even more and glanced toward the house. “There is more to tell. Secretary Eaton was very angry when he came to get me out of jail. He admitted some terrifying things.”
“What things?”
“For one, he’s not going to keep Johnny as a son, the way you thought. He’ll only let him stay until the treaties with your tribe are finalized in some way. I don’t know the whole story but I fear there will be nothing of benefit to the Cherokees when all is said and done.”
“As many of us have suspected,” Charles murmured. “Was there anything else? Any details you can give me?”
“Only that President Jackson is not to be fully trusted.”
“What do you want to do now?” Charles asked, unsure of anything other than his concern for the young woman.
Annabelle shook her head and sighed. “I wish I knew. I had thought to escape unhappiness by being sent off to boarding school but with Margaret having such a strong influence on my future, I do not see that happening. Not even if we manage to prove our innocence.”
“Then rethink everything. Start from the beginning. Let yourself dream.”
“What possible good can that do?”
When she lowered her head in despair, Charles lifted it with one finger under her chin. Tears were trickling down her cheeks and he brushed them away with a gentle touch. “Don’t give up.”
“But...I have no hope.”
He placed a light kiss on her forehead as he said, “You have me.”
“For how long?” she asked in a shuddering whisper.
Because he had no idea when he would have to follow the rest of his party back to Georgia, he didn’t answer.
* * *
Given a choice, Annabelle realized she would just as soon remain right where she was, in the company of Charles McDonald. That, of course, was unacceptable no matter how much she wished otherwise.
His suggestion about her dreams for the future made her pull herself together, step back and look up at him. “There was a time, when I was much younger, that I used to imagine returning to see my grandmother and finding the happiness I once enjoyed. The only way I will ever do that, of course, is when she and I are together again in Heaven.”
“You were living in Tennessee, you said?”
“Yes. Sometimes I recall little pieces of those times. They come and go like the flash of a firefly. When I try to remember details, I fail.”
“Did you bring any possessions with you when you came to live with the Eatons?”
She paused to think. “There was an old doll I named Rosie. And of course my clothes, although Myra insisted on having a new wardrobe made for me.”
“No papers? Letters? Anything like that?”
“No. I have asked. Why?”
“Because they might tell us who your people are.”
“I have no one. I told you.”
Charles’s brow knit. “No, you told me exactly what you have been told all your life. As you recently noted, that does not mean it’s the truth.”
“If John Eaton is hiding secrets, he will never reveal them at this point. He’s furious with me. I think he almost hopes I’ll be convicted and sent to prison so he won’t have to deal with me anymore.” She made a face. “At least Margaret does, and she has the ear of the president.”
“How is that possible? She can’t be that influential.”
“Yes, she can.” Annabelle was nodding. “Before she was widowed she ran a boardinghouse here in the city. John Eaton used to stay there. A lot of politicians did, including Andrew Jackson. Margaret is supposedly the reason why Emily Donelson, the president’s niece, moved out of the White House and he has no hostess in residence. Emily refused to entertain the Eatons.”
“The president sided with Margaret against his own family?”
“Yes. So you see my dilemma.”
“That I do.”
Annabelle cast a surreptitious glance at the rear door of the mansion. “I should go back in.”
“Why did you come out in the first place?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I have always preferred to be outside, and this morning I was particularly loath to encounter anyone other than Johnny.”
“The authorities are no longer bothering you?”
“Not at present. My freedom is legal, although that could change in a heartbeat.” The instant Annabelle mentioned hearts, she felt hers leap and placed her fingertips at the base of her throat. Such an intense fear of the unknown was new to her and gave her palpitations.
“If it would not cause tongues to wag, I would invite you and the boy to join me for a picnic lunch.”
“There is no way I dare ride out with you, sir, especially now,” Annabelle said. “Surely you understand.”
“Of course. It was a foolish notion.”
“I am sorry. Breaking bread together can be a good way to get better acquainted and I would like that. Diplomats share sumptuous dinners to help facilitate conversation.”
He eyed the house. “I hope you are not suggesting that I publicly darken the halls of Secretary Eaton’s home without being asked.”
“No, of course not. We will just have to hope a suitable opportunity arises someday. If your party was still in the city, perhaps they would be invited for lemonade and sweets again and we could spend a little time together without raising eyebrows.”
Johnny appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and ran up to them. Charles scowled at him. “Where have you been?”
“Exploring. I found another garden. Much better than here.” He started to tug on his uncle’s hand. “Come see.”
Giving Annabelle a questioning glance he resisted. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
“I think so. I’m told an old retainer and his wife used to live in an apartment of sorts at the rear of the carriage house. When the Eatons moved in, they filled it with stored possessions. The yard is not much to look at but you can tell they enjoyed their privacy.”
“Privacy? Can it be seen from the street?”
Annabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. I really didn’t pay much attention when I first looked.”
He bowed slightly and swept an arm in the direction the boy was going. “After you.”
Raising her skirts above her shoe tops, she circled the far end of the carriage house and stable, pushing aside bushes as she went. She paused in a tiny garden surrounded by overgrown foliage and pointed to the remains of a small corral beyond. “I had forgotten this was even here.”
She could tell he was thinking because he was half frowning, half smiling. “It can’t be seen from the street. Do you realize what this means?”
“Not really.”
“We could meet here later for the picnic we dare not have in a park.” He hesitated. “That is, if you are willing.”
“With Johnny, of course,” she added, blushing.
“Of course. I would not have suggested otherwise. The boy will chaperone us and we will be meeting in broad daylight. Nothing could be more socially acceptable.” He grinned. “At least in our peculiar circumstances.”
“All right. I’ll ask Lucy to pack us a basket lunch. She does not have to know where Johnny and I have gone or who else will share our meal.”
“When shall I return?”
“Margaret meets with a sewing circle for tea today and John will be leaving for the Capitol earlier than that.” Annabelle grinned. “Will you wait until Margaret’s gone?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He tipped his hat and gave another bow. On most men such actions might have looked effeminate, but not when Charles McDonald made them. The strength and power of his physique were impressive indeed, enough to warm her cheeks all the more.
Annabelle rested her hand beneath her throat and felt her heartbeat accelerating. And this time it was not due to trepidation. It was definitely a result of watching the Cherokee emissary walking away.
The only thing better was going to be his return.
* * *
Charles knew that every additional hour he spent in the city after the departure of his kinsmen increased his risk. Nevertheless, he was not going to just ride off and leave Annabelle. Nor Johnny. If what Eaton had told her was true, the boy’s days of good care in that household were numbered. In that case, it might behoove him to allow the child to flee as he’d wanted all along.
Unfortunately, the timing was off. If Johnny stayed until the treaty disagreements were settled, one way or the other, many months could pass. By then, chances were good that Annabelle would have been tried and probably wrongly convicted due to outside influences.
Charles grimaced. She wasn’t the only one who could end up in prison. He was in the same boat. With Ridge and the rest of the diplomats gone, there was no one to assure Washington authorities that Cherokee justice would be carried out. Charles had lost his primary defense.
He saw to the needs of his rented horse, loosening the saddle girth and watering the animal at one of the livestock troughs shaded by poplars along Connecticut Avenue. Grass there was thick and kept trimmed by sheep. Too bad he couldn’t bring Annabelle here for a picnic instead of lurking in an overgrown, abandoned garden, but he could see the problem of being seen together in public. Word would surely get back to Margaret Eaton, one way or another, and she was a force to be reckoned with.
It was not hard for Charles to accept that a woman could be in charge because that was the way his tribe functioned. His own mother ran a successful plantation. Inheritance and authority passed down through women and so did clanship. It was because of her that he was numbered among the Wolf clan.
Rows of soldiers marched by in the street, rifles on their shoulders. Uneasy, Charles tightened the saddle girth, mounted up and headed back toward New York Avenue. He didn’t know why he kept imagining that he and Annabelle Lang belonged together, he simply did, and mental arguments against such feelings failed repeatedly. Truth to tell, the closer he got to the secret garden, the more anxious he was to see her again.
He left his horse hitched to a rear portion of the wrought-iron railings that surrounded the entire property rather than bring it through one of the distant gates. As soon as no one was watching, he vaulted over the fence and ducked into thick shrubbery. It was debasing to have to skulk around. His pride would not have allowed it under other circumstances. But this time? This time was different.
Pushing through the leafy branches, he spied her. Ringlets of her hair reflected the sun’s glow as they peeked from beneath a small bonnet and she was waving boldly, a far cry from the shy way she had behaved when they had first met.
“I am so glad you didn’t change your mind,” she said as soon as he was closer.
“Never. Margaret’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“You had no problems?”
“None worth mentioning.” She tugged Johnny out from behind her. “I did have difficulty convincing this little man that we weren’t going to get into trouble by doing this.”
“I pray you are right.” Charles laughed and tousled the boy’s dark hair.
“Where did you leave your horse?”
“I tied him out behind. It’s a lot easier to hide myself than a full grown mount.” He eyed the basket. “The servants didn’t suspect anything?”
“No. Lucy has been the family cook for longer than I can remember and nobody else saw me leaving.”
“Good. Where shall we set the food?”
“I brought a cloth and swept the ground a little while I was waiting for you,” Annabelle said. “There is a lovely place over there beneath the honeysuckle.”
“Perfect.” Charles helped her lay the cloth, then recruited the boy to keep watch for a bit, just in case.
Johnny pouted. “I’m hungry.”
“We will call you when it’s time to eat. I know Miss Annabelle will not let you starve.”
As soon as the child walked away she began to speak quietly to Charles. “I tried to listen in as John was discussing Indian affairs with Margaret this morning but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to learn anything new. It is clear the president and his cabinet do not value treaties. Especially not since gold has been discovered in Georgia.”
“We have known about the gold for many generations. It is unfortunate that word has gotten out,” Charles said.
“Is that why the powers that be want the Cherokees to move west?”
He nodded. “That, and coveting the land. It’s not just us. Have you ever heard of the Five Civilized Tribes? We are the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek and Seminole.”
“I think so. It seems unfair to expect you to uproot and leave the farms that you have worked for so many generations.”
He managed a smile for her benefit even though his heart was hardened. “It is more than unfair. It is criminal. And unless we can solve our tribal differences and learn to work and stand together, we will lose.”
Turning her sky-blue eyes to him and growing somber, she offered, “Sadly, I believe the same can be said of you and me, Mr. McDonald.”
* * *
Spreading her skirts gracefully, Annabelle settled at the edge of the cloth and began to take food from the basket. There was fresh bread and cold meat and Lucy’s delicious sweet pickles, plus part of a pound cake for dessert. A clay jug held lemonade which she poured into small tin cups.
Yet she hardly tasted the meal. Ideas kept whirling through her mind and being rejected by the logical side of her personality. She felt she would burst if she did not share her concerns, so the moment Johnny finished stuffing himself and resumed his guard post she opened a fresh conversation. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Fine.” Charles was seated with his back against a poplar trunk and looked far more relaxed than she felt.
“You wanted to know about my dreams? Well, I have given that a lot of thought and I know what I want.”
He sat forward, legs crossed, and studied her. “Go ahead.”
“I want to find my family, whatever is left of it. I have no idea where to start or how to proceed but I think, if I could just learn who I am and where I come from, I’d be happy.”
“Even if the story is a sad one?”
“Yes. Even then.”
She could tell he was weighing his words carefully. Finally, he spoke. “What if there is Indian blood in your line? How will you feel then?”
“Oh!” Taking a moment to think it over, Annabelle said, “Probably the same way you felt when you were old enough to realize your last name came from a Scot.” She began to smile at him. “We are what we are. God made us in His image. Who are we to complain?”
“Nevertheless, it will change the way you are viewed and accepted. It will make you someone else.”
She disagreed. “No. It will change nothing other than the perceptions of others. I will still be Annabelle Lang. I will still be a foundling without roots or history. If you could choose, which would you prefer, knowing the truth or wondering for the rest of your life?”
Charles stood, approached and offered a hand to help her up. “I would take you to Tennessee tomorrow if not for the damage it would do to your reputation. You would not only be branded a loose woman, everyone would think we were running away because we killed that man.”
“I know. I haven’t worked out any details yet.” She glanced in the direction the boy had gone. “Or decided what we should do about him.” Lowering her voice further she added, “We can’t leave him behind.”
The lack of a definitive reply from her companion bothered her so much she said, “I am far more worried about Johnny than I am about myself.”
Charles bent to help her gather their leftovers and put them back into the basket. “Then you must understand why my concern is more for the both of you than for my personal safety.”
It did not surprise her to hear him add, “That is why I stayed in Washington.”
At that moment she knew she should try to dissuade him, to make him leave for his own sake. Instead, she disappointed herself by remaining silent.
Chapter Six (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
They refreshed themselves with the clean water from a pump used to refill the horse troughs, then prepared to part. It was not an easy parting. “I think you and the boy should go back to the house and act as normal as possible,” Charles said firmly.
“But...”
He shushed her. “Hear me out. While you’re there you will be in a perfect position to glean information that may help my people. I’ll continue to pose as a gentleman and listen to rumors as I move around town.”
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Valerie Hansen
Runaway WeddingOn the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!
Runaway Wedding
On the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.
Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!
“I suggest we travel from here on as a family.”
Charles glanced at the child before turning a steady gaze on her. “He has your eyes and all of my coloring. He could easily be our son.”
“Yes, but...” Annabelle stammered.
“If we have to, we can make it official.”
Annabelle’s jaw gaped. “What?”
“Marry.”
“You should not joke about such things.”
“Believe me, I am not joking,” Charles said flatly. “It would not have to be forever if you didn’t want it to be. That way your reputation would be safe.”
But what about my heart? She let her horse fall back behind the big bay so Charles could not see her if she failed to curtail the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks.
Why weep? she asked herself.
The answer was as clear as if it had been shouted in her ear. Because I will soon be the wife of a man whose heart does not belong to me—and whom I already love.
Dear Reader (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3),
This story takes place before the disastrous Trail of Tears, as the forced removal has come to be known. Instead of being a single event, however, it took place over time, ending with a final push in 1838 to oust those individuals and tribes who had refused to migrate west.
To make matters worse, there were warring factions among the Cherokee that each claimed authority to legally sign treaties and make promises on behalf of all. Both sides resorted to violence. The result was a painful split in the tribe and a loss of credibility in Washington.
I now live in the part of Arkansas that one of the routes, Benge’s Trail, passed through. That’s what caused me to begin this book and travel to visit the Cherokee Museum in North Carolina. I highly recommend it (Cherokeemuseum.org (http://www.Cherokeemuseum.org)).
Almost all the characters in this story are actual historical figures, including the boy Johnny and the way he arrived in Washington. I have fictionalized his life, and those of others, while keeping the basic facts as true to the written record as possible.
Blessings from the Ozarks,
VALERIE HANSEN was thirty when she awoke to the presence of the Lord in her life and turned to Jesus. She now lives in a renovated farmhouse in the breathtakingly beautiful Ozark Mountains of Arkansas and is privileged to share her personal faith by telling the stories of her heart for Love Inspired. Life doesn’t get much better than that!
Her Cherokee Groom
Valerie Hansen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.
—Proverbs 29:21
Thanks to my Joe for taking me to North Carolina to see the Cherokee Museum and reenactments of tribal life. And thanks to the Cherokee clans who faithfully labor to keep their history and culture alive.
Contents
Cover (#ucab0f8ff-3f6d-59ec-978d-63b077a37e30)
Back Cover Text (#ud7137400-0d82-5b42-95b6-327f15a8f242)
Introduction (#u79cf2c31-d4fe-5da1-85f7-d1e72ab0c10d)
Dear Reader (#u5d7e94ea-2b6d-5112-af9c-39a729ae6d32)
About the Author (#ub79adff7-6b31-57ac-ba8c-4a84ed84f996)
Title Page (#u52ad8176-e0c2-53eb-892b-f0780bd00a57)
Bible Verse (#u49e6581c-6f4f-5614-a06d-310859bf2663)
Dedication (#u3f8b9cfd-a9f9-5787-84de-52131ca78df8)
Chapter One (#u897d3da0-ffd3-545a-a67d-f4e055268bc9)
Chapter Two (#u582c7616-a1be-544d-8fc6-90c9a140e723)
Chapter Three (#u4827d2c0-caf7-56bb-8b9e-99b7b3998915)
Chapter Four (#ue5ecfdf9-5515-5bb7-a2bf-d1dbe54eb056)
Chapter Five (#uceaff666-d298-571e-8809-964fad882ae1)
Chapter Six (#u8fc0274c-c30e-5e16-9c1e-ddfa3f67bace)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Washington, DC—1830
“What are you doing out here? Spying?”
Seventeen-year-old Annabelle Lang was so startled by the voice she nearly gasped aloud. Her guardian’s new wife had caught her loitering in the hallway and peeking into the parlor to look at visiting dignitaries. How embarrassing.
Biting her lip, Annabelle shook her head enough to make her flaxen blond side curls swing against her rosy cheeks and replied, “No, ma’am. I just wanted to see the Indians.”
“Well, you’ve seen them. Now stop wasting time, get back to the kitchen and help Lucy finish preparing the lemonade. I want both those new washtubs filled to the brim.” With that, Margaret Eaton swept past, skirts and petticoats belling and swishing, long, dark side curls bobbing, to make a grand entrance into the parlor and join her husband, John.
Annabelle’s heart pounded. Her feet were unwilling to carry her away. She had no clear recollection of her early years, before coming to live with the first Mrs. Eaton, yet the mere sight of the Cherokee delegation stirred her emotions and left her light-headed.
Little wonder! These men were tall and stately, some wearing the kind of tall hats, vests and coats she was familiar with. Others were garbed in turbans and long tunics with elaborately woven sashes at the waist. None was bearded, nor did they seem the downtrodden savages she had overheard Mrs. Eaton railing about. These men were regal looking to the point of inspiring awe.
Before she could turn away, John Eaton spied her peeking from behind the doorjamb.
He gestured. “Annabelle. Come here and take these gentlemen’s hats and capes. We must make our guests comfortable.”
Trembling and wondering if she was going to be able to walk steadily enough to do as instructed, she started forward. Everyone glanced at her except Margaret, an advantageous snub Annabelle prayed would continue.
Not all of these Indians had swarthy complexions and ebony eyes, she noted. Some were grayed with age, particularly the largest, most impressive old gentleman. His clothing was not only embellished with lace and gilding like that of nobility, his bearing befit royalty and inspired respect.
Several of the younger members of his party had the fairer hair and the blue or light-brown eyes of folks she saw every day. Perhaps that was because these men were the offspring of mixed marriages. She’d been told that was the way of many Cherokee, including prominent tribal leaders. They also spoke and read at least two languages, English and their own, a feat for which Annabelle admired them greatly.
One particularly stalwart young man whom she guessed to be in his twenties caught her eye. She chanced a surreptitious glance at him as she approached and found that he was studying her, too. It was as if she were a captive of his startling blue gaze, unable to break away, unable to consider anything or anyone but him.
His dark hair was fairly long, thick and slicked straight back, and he had his top hat in hand, having politely removed it when he’d entered the parlor. As Annabelle received it from him in passing she saw a tiny smile twitch one corner of his mouth. That simple acknowledgment made her insides quaver like dry leaves in a Potomac storm.
A much smaller version of that stately Cherokee emissary stood stoically by his side. The two were so similar, except for age, she wondered if they might be brothers.
She’d almost reached the doorway when Margaret let out an excited squeal. Annabelle stopped to look back. There was an expression of delight on the older woman’s face.
One of the Indians, the one bedecked with all the lace and gilding, was speaking while a younger man who bore a strong resemblance to him translated his message into perfect English. Words and phrases of both languages flowed like the impressive political orations she had heard her foster father make.
“We have brought you a fine tea service as a token of our esteem.” As his speech was repeated, the elder Cherokee gave a slight bow that was less than submissive but nevertheless did not lack gentility.
A member of the Cherokee party had first unwrapped a gleaming silver teapot. Now, her fan fluttering like the wings of a demented butterfly, Mrs. Eaton watched a matching silver tray and other accoutrements follow.
Annabelle knew little about such elaborate trappings, except that they needed constant polishing, but she could see that her new foster mother was clearly impressed with the gift. That, alone, was remarkable since Margaret was so terribly hard to please.
John Eaton offered his hand to the original spokesman and said, “Thank you, Major Ridge. As Secretary of War, I am honored to accept your exceptional gift on behalf of President Jackson.”
The Indian leader then gestured to the rear of his entourage and the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea had for Moses. He was pointing toward the handsome young man and little boy who had taken Annabelle’s fancy moments before.
“This child is the most valuable of our gifts, a presentation from Chief John Ross. You may call him after yourself, as well. From this day forward he is John H. Eaton Ross.”
Annabelle’s jaw dropped. The young man she had been watching so closely placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders to guide him forward. The child’s hair was almost ebony but his eyes were the color of a summer sky, just like those of his apparent supervisor.
The boy’s expression was stoic, perhaps even tinged by hostility, yet he stepped boldly and stood tall in his tailored white-man’s clothing. How brave he was. And how distressed he must be to have been given away like a stray cur’s unwanted pup.
As Annabelle watched, Margaret’s beseeching gaze focused on her statesman husband, silently begging him to refuse. Instead, he shook his head ever so slightly. Obviously, this was an offer they must accept graciously. To do otherwise would be to commit a grievous social and political error.
Annabelle’s heart went out to the young child. She knew exactly what it was like to become someone’s ward, especially when the adults involved were not happy about the situation. Yes, John Eaton had continued to care for her after his first wife’s death but she had quickly learned that he did not consider her a daughter. And when he married widow Margaret Timberlake? Annabelle had quickly learned then what it was like to be truly ostracized.
She wanted to go to the Indian child now known as John and bestow the welcoming smile that the rest of the family was denying him. Naturally, she could not. Her place in the household was tenuous at best, and the less trouble she made, the more likely it would be that she would soon be sent to boarding school in Connecticut for a proper education, as she’d been promised.
The drawing room fell so silent that Annabelle was certain everyone could hear the rapid beating of her heart. No one moved. No one spoke.
Finally, because her armload of garments was so heavy and cumbersome, she began to edge toward the arched doorway nearest the hall.
One of the Cherokee wraps dragged just enough to tangle her ankles. She faltered. Staggered. Was about to fall and disgrace her guardian in front of all these important emissaries.
A strong hand grasped her billowy sleeve at the elbow. Stopped her fall. Righted and steadied her.
Preparing to thank her rescuer, she looked up straight into the eyes of the Cherokee gentleman she had admired mere moments ago.
There was steadiness to his gaze, yes, but she imagined empathy, as well. He seemed to sense that she was held in little regard here.
It was hard to be certain of his age but she guessed him to be only a few years older than she. He was wiry yet muscular, strong yet gentle. There was a control within him that she admired and also envied.
A cautious smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she whispered, “Thank you, sir.”
His answer was a brief nod, but in Annabelle’s eyes he had just bestowed a most pleasing grin.
One meant only for her.
When he leaned closer to say, “Pleased to be of service, Miss Annabelle. My name is Charles,” she was afraid the floor was going to fall away beneath her feet.
* * *
Charles McDonald couldn’t get his mind off the afternoon’s events. Leaving the boy behind in the Eaton house was the most difficult thing his chiefs had ever asked him to do. He and the child were kin through their mothers from the Wolf Clan, and as an uncle it was his job to help raise and teach the male children.
If it had not been for the presence of a clearly sympathetic soul in the person of the fair-haired young woman called Annabelle, he might have rebelled.
“No, I wouldn’t have,” Charles told himself. “I am not like some of the others. I obey my chiefs.”
Even if they’re wrong? Charles wondered. Cherokee history proved why leaders of opposing sects within the tribe didn’t trust others to negotiate for them. Hence, the trip to Washington with Major Ridge, his son John Ridge, Elias Boudinot and a half-dozen others to try to gain an audience with President Jackson and plead their case against forced relocation.
Placing the boy in the Eaton household was the strongest symbol of trust anyone could bestow. He hoped Eaton realized that, treated the child as the son he was meant to be and saw to it that he received a good education. A white man’s education. The kind that would prepare him to one day speak for the Cherokee with the authority and intelligence that Charles’s current companions exemplified.
Leaning on a lamppost across from the imposing Eaton residence on New York Avenue, Charles sighed. In a few more days he and his party would return to Georgia. How would the boy cope when he was left behind to fend for himself?
The grounds of the brick mansion he was observing were encircled by a wrought-iron fence. At the rear lay a vegetable and herb garden. As Charles watched, a familiar flaxen-haired figure, wearing a lacy cap that complemented the white collar of her darker dress, appeared in the kitchen garden. The handle of a shallow basket was looped over one arm. Her other hand held that of the Cherokee child.
Straightening, Charles shaded his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. The boy seemed to be instructing the young woman by pointing to various plants. Perhaps this new life was not going to be the ordeal for him that Charles had expected.
He adjusted his cravat and tugged on the points of his vest while dodging wagon traffic to cross the broad street. The young woman had seemed a bit timid when he’d originally encountered her but at the moment she was acting quite forthright. Another good sign. One he wanted to encourage.
She didn’t seem to notice his approach but the child did. Not only did he begin to grin, he called to Charles, “Siyo!”
“In English,” Charles replied firmly. He tipped his hat to Annabelle as he said, “Hello again, miss.”
To his surprise, Little John ducked behind her skirt. Her hand rested against the child’s cheek as if sheltering him while she smiled a greeting of her own. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“You may call me Mr. McDonald or simply Charles, if you wish,” he said pleasantly. “And you are Miss Annabelle...?”
“Annabelle Lang,” she replied, blushing demurely.
“Have you worked for the Eatons long?”
“You are mistaken, sir. I was brought into the family long ago, the same way John just was, except I was less a gift than a charity case taken on by the first Mrs. Eaton.”
“Please forgive me. Had I known you were not a servant I would not have spoken so boldly.”
“You have not given offense. My grandmother raised me until a fever took her. Mrs. Myra Eaton took on the burden of my care when I was three years old.”
“I cannot imagine you could ever be a burden,” Charles said, growing more empathetic by the second. “Are you from Washington City, then?”
“No. Tennessee. I became a ward of the Eatons, stayed on there after Myra died and came to Washington when my foster father was elected to the senate.” She cast a brief glance at the rear of the house. “The new Mrs. Eaton didn’t take to me when she and the senator were wed last year, but she has promised to send me to a special school in Connecticut. The Cornwall Mission School.”
“Cornwall?”
“Yes. You know of it?”
Charles wondered if he should be the one to deliver the bad news. It hardly seemed fair to let her continue to hope in vain.
“My condolences, Miss Annabelle. I must inform you that that school has closed.”
“Surely not for good.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But, why? It’s said to be a wonderful school.”
“Yes, it was. There was an unfortunate incident that caused its financial support to be withdrawn.”
“What could have happened that was so bad? Was someone killed?”
Charles had to chuckle at her naïveté. “No, no. Let me simply say it was because of an affair of the heart.”
“Oh, my. Was it very sad?”
“No, dear lady. Actually, Cherokee Elias Boudinot and a missionary’s daughter Miss Harriet Gold not only married, they already have the beginnings of a lovely family. You saw him with me today in your parlor. He’s the editor and publisher of The Cherokee Phoenix.”
“I’ve heard of that amazing newspaper! So, something good did come out of the tragedy.”
“That depends upon one’s point of view,” Charles said. He gestured at the child who remained hidden behind her full skirts. “Some things which are deemed best at the time may not prove to be prudent in the future. Like my nephew, Usdi Tsani.”
“Is that his real name?”
“No. That simply means Little John.”
“Tell me again. Let me learn it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Charles asked, genuinely puzzled.
“So I can speak to him in his own language and make him feel settled here. I know how hard it is to be thrust into a strange home the way he has been.”
“Which is why you and he have already become friends,” Charles observed. “That is a good thing.”
“What about you and your companions? Will you be leaving Washington soon?”
“Yes.” His gaze rested on the child as he answered and he saw John look away as if in pain. Although he would rather have died than show tender emotion, Charles yearned to embrace the child one last time, to bless him and wish him well.
Instead, he merely squared his hat on his head and nodded to Annabelle. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, miss. I know you’ll look after the boy. If there is anything he needs, anything at all, send word to me at Plunkett’s Boarding House before the end of the week and I shall see he gets it.”
“All right.”
The rosy glow of her cheeks reminded him of the blush on a peach and her eyes mirrored the bright, clear sky. He didn’t know what her lineage was but the fact that she had been promised an education at the Cornwall School meant that she might very well have a part Indian heritage, whether she knew it or not.
Good thing this young woman resided in Washington and he lived down in Georgia, he mused, or he might seriously consider disappointing his mother by courting Annabelle Lang instead of choosing a full-blooded Cherokee bride the way his family wanted.
* * *
Annabelle wondered if her snug corset was the reason she could hardly draw in enough air to maintain her equilibrium. She gently stroked the hair of the little boy at her side. Perhaps someday she, too, would have such a beautiful son, although that dream was not likely to come true as long as the new Mrs. Eaton was in charge.
Being lied to about going to the Cornwall School did not sit well with Annabelle. All this time she had dutifully served the Eatons in the hope that her obedience and faithfulness would result in the education she had been promised.
And now? The mission school was gone. So where else could she study? What other institutions would accept an untutored, common girl like her? The Georgetown Academy for Young Ladies was far too elite for someone who had never been formally instructed, not to mention someone with questionable origins.
Charles had paused at the iron gate for a last word. “Perhaps the Eatons will provide you with a tutor since you are so determined to learn.”
Annabelle smiled. “I have gleaned some basic skills on my own, including how to read and write. When young John is given a tutor I will copy those lessons, as well.”
“Very wise.” He touched the brim of his hat once again. “I bid you a good evening.”
And good it is, thanks to your unexpected visit, she thought, blushing.
Adding sprigs of rosemary to her basket, she held out her hand to the boy. “Come. Let’s go back inside and give these to Lucy, the cook. Then I’ll show you around the house and point out your room.”
The child stood staring after his departing kinsman as if made of marble.
“John? Tsa-ni? Is that how you pronounce it?”
A slight smile teased a corner of his mouth.
“I said it poorly, didn’t I?” Annabelle asked with a benevolent grin. “Tell you what. Johnny sounds a lot like that so I’ll call you Johnny. All right?”
A simple nod was his only reply but it was enough. Better communication would come later, once the child was more comfortable with her. She would do all she could to hurry that along, even if it meant slacking off on her household duties. Dusting and mending would wait. The little boy’s broken heart would not.
“How old are you?” Annabelle asked as they entered the house and left the basket for the cook.
“Six summers.”
“What a big boy you are. I’ve always wanted a brother just like you.”
“Why?”
“Because I get lonely in this big old house. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton are not my parents, as you heard me say. The servants are nice to me but it’s not the same as having a true family.”
“You want blood kin,” Johnny said wisely.
“I suppose you could put it that way.” Annabelle bent closer to whisper. “I don’t complain, though, and you shouldn’t, either. It’s very good of the Eatons to take us in and provide for us.”
The boy tugged on her hand, then looked around as if making sure they were alone. “I will run away. You can come with me.”
“What? Oh, no. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. What would your uncle Charles say if you did something like that?”
“I am the son of a chief’s son. I will go.”
“Please, don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. “Think of all the trouble it would cause if you left.”
She could tell by the child’s stoic expression that he was beyond listening to the pleas of a mere girl.
There was only one thing to do. She would have to send word to Mr. McDonald to stop by again and have a stern word with the boy before he and the rest of the delegation left town. Until then she’d keep a close eye on Johnny. A very close eye.
“I think you and I should take our supper alone tonight and get to know each other,” Annabelle suggested.
“Will they not miss you?”
“No,” she admitted sadly. “The family usually insists I be present only for formal dinner parties.”
She reached down to gently smooth his hair. “I’m certain they will want to present you to their Washington friends soon. Mr. Eaton is a very important man. Being secretary of war means he works closely with President Jackson.”
The child did not look impressed. Smiling, she offered her hand. “Come. We’ll explore the house together so you won’t get lost.”
“I never get lost,” he insisted.
“Good for you.”
Grinning, Annabelle started up the spiral staircase, explaining as she went. “Down the hall at the end is the guest room. You’ll sleep there.”
Before he could ask she added, “My room is right next to that one,” and sensed him starting to relax.
Poor little thing. He acted so brave and put on such a grown-up front it was easy to forget how young he was.
No wonder he’d thought about running away. He had to be frightened nearly out of his mind.
Shivering, she realized she, too, was worried about his future. It was easy to put herself in his place because she shared it. Neither of them truly belonged in this stoic family and neither could depend on fair treatment from their so-called parents.
John Eaton had always acted preoccupied and distant toward her. His new wife, Margaret, was far worse because she paid attention to everything and could be very vindictive if displeased, which was most of the time. The older woman had had a sordid reputation in Washington before her marriage to Eaton. The more Margaret and Annabelle interacted, the more credence the rumors of perfidy gained. And the more trepidation they generated.
Margaret had already fired every young female servant in the Eaton household and had made it clear that Annabelle’s presence was barely tolerable. There was no foundation for such jealousy but it nevertheless existed. Perhaps, because Johnny was a boy, he would not encounter so much of Margaret’s malice.
Until the child got used to his new life here in Washington City, Annabelle vowed she would protect and guide him. It would be no chore to teach him city ways and household rules. Truth to tell, she was looking forward to the opportunity.
The fact that he was a smaller version of his uncle gave her heart an added prick and reminded her that she must contact Charles McDonald as soon as possible and entreat him to return and lecture the child about fidelity.
Annabelle’s stomach clenched. If Margaret even suspected that Johnny was planning to run away, the whole household would suffer her fits of foul temper, probably for weeks on end.
Chapter Two (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Moonlight gleamed on the rippling surface of the Potomac, making the water shimmer like molten silver. If not for the noise of the city behind him, Charles might have imagined that he was standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, back home, listening to a cacophony of frogs and the calls of night birds.
How much longer would Georgia be home to the Cherokee? he wondered. Some of his people had already migrated of their own volition but until the tribal elders had the solemn promise of the current president that their claim to lands farther west would be honored, he and many others were reluctant to pack up and go.
A flock of white egrets took to the sky, startled by something near the river’s edge. Charles instinctively slipped into a copse of trees.
“I seen him come this way,” someone said. “High falutin he was, too. Real fancy dressed.”
Another man chortled and spat. “Well, he can’t have gone far. We’ll get him. And then we’ll teach ’em to stay where they belong.”
“Don’t forget, I get his stickpin.”
Charles automatically reached for his pistol and grabbed empty air. The delegation had been instructed to exemplify peace. Consequently, he was unarmed.
Moving so slowly, so fluidly, that the roosting wild birds were not disturbed, he inched backward until his shoulders met the trunk of an enormous oak. Then he consciously calmed his mind and waited.
Leaves rustled. Nearby bushes shook.
The would-be assailants were nearly upon him.
* * *
Annabelle’s supper with Johnny had been uneventful except that he had eaten little. She felt so sorry for him she didn’t argue when he asked, “May I go up to my room?”
“Of course. I know you must be weary.”
“Are you coming upstairs?”
“In a few minutes,” she replied. “I have one errand to take care of first. Go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”
She watched him climb the stairs, then turned to check the empty hallway. There was pen and ink in a writing desk tucked into an alcove off the parlor. While the Eatons were dining, she could avail herself of the opportunity to write a short note to Charles—Mr. McDonald. The mere thought made her blush and hurry toward the desk. She must not be observed, nor did she dare let anyone see to whom her innocent letter was addressed. Not if she hoped to be able to carry out her plan and stop the child from fleeing.
She dipped the nib in the inkwell and began, “Dear Sir,” ending with her signature and placing his name on the outside of the folded note paper. Her penmanship was not perfect because she’d had so little chance to practice and because her hands were trembling, but it would suffice. It would have to.
Replacing everything she had moved and used, she quietly closed the slanted lid of the desk and slipped the note into her pocket.
A quick, furtive check of her surroundings confirmed that she was still alone and she quietly headed for the carriage house to seek out one of the grooms and ask him to carry her missive to Plunkett’s.
Although the sun had set, the moon was nearly full and there was plenty of reflected light from the lampposts lining the broad avenues of the capitol as she entered the rear garden. A few couples strolled arm in arm outside the iron fence while drays and coaches went about their business in the street.
Annabelle had swung a thin, gray cape around her shoulders as soon as she was outside. Now she lifted the hood, less for warmth than to hide her passage through the garden.
She patted her pocket. The sooner the note was delivered, the sooner she’d stop worrying.
In the street beyond the familiar garden path a teamster snapped his whip and shouted, “Out of my way!”
Curiosity caused her to look. Astonishment stopped her cold. Was that...? Could it be...? She’d left him only a few minutes ago, yet the young boy in the street looked terribly familiar. And with good reason.
Heart pounding, Annabelle almost called out, “Johnny!” before she thought better of it. So far, no harm had been done. If she could overtake him and get him back into the house before either of them was missed she might save everyone a lot of unnecessary grief.
She fumbled the gate latch in her nervousness, thereby slowing her progress. By the time she reached the street the boy had vanished.
Where would he go? Washington was a big city and they were both on foot. If she were Johnny, what would she do?
“Go back to the boardinghouse where the Cherokees are staying,” Annabelle guessed. She had to be right. If Johnny disappeared in a city this vast, his chances of being hurt or accosted were immense, particularly since he didn’t blend in with the dirty street urchins who were out and about at this hour.
Nervous, she glanced back at the house. Few lamps were glowing. No one would miss her. Gathering a handful of her skirt and cape she hurried in the direction where she had last spied the runaway child.
Prayer was on her lips. “Please, God, please. Help me? Guide me?”
It was then that she realized her Heavenly Father already had. She already knew that the boardinghouse the Cherokees had chosen was only a block or so past the cathedral where the family worshipped every Sunday. She knew the way.
Circumventing trouble as best she could, she darted back and forth across the broad streets, dodging coaches and buggies while evading those individuals who might wish to do her harm. She had never ventured out alone at night and the face of the city was quite different than she had expected.
The boardinghouse Annabelle sought was built in the Federalist style with tall, narrow banks of windows facing the street and a small porch that led directly into the parlor. Seeing Plunkett’s finely lettered sign gave her hope and renewed energy.
Before she’d taken two steps up the front stairs, however, Johnny burst out the door and ran past, snatching away what was left of her breath.
She lunged to grab his sleeve.
He struggled, twisting and kicking.
“Johnny! Stop. It’s me.” She pushed back her hood so he could better see her features.
“We have to go.” Johnny pointed. “This way.”
“No. I came to speak to your uncle.”
“That is why we have to go,” the boy insisted. “The man inside said he went to the river.”
“He’ll be back. We can stay here and wait.”
The child tore himself from her grasp. “No! It is not good. We must find him.”
Annabelle was unconvinced. Now that they had both made it to the boardinghouse the most sensible choice was to tarry there.
Unfortunately, Johnny was already running again.
“All right,” she called, quickly recovering. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
They soon left the open streets for a parklike area and slowed to a walk because there was no artificial light. Patches of fog drifted in front of them as if clouds had sunk to earth, muting even the moon glow.
Johnny abruptly grasped her hand and tugged. “Stop.”
Annabelle’s breath caught. “Why? I thought you were in a hurry.”
Rethinking their possibly tenuous safety, she pushed back the hood of her satin cape once again and bent over him to speak more softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Men. Bad men. Fighting.” He pointed.
She had barely made out shadowy shapes when there was a muffled shout. The boy broke free and raced toward the altercation!
“Johnny, no!” Fisting her skirt she ran after him.
Someone yelled.
Annabelle drew closer. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”
A well-dressed gentleman was doing hand-to-hand battle with two ruffians and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. Now she understood the boy. Charles McDonald was being attacked and although he seemed to be holding his own at the moment, he was definitely outnumbered.
Charles threw a punch that sent one of the thugs reeling out of sight among some saplings, and dove after him. Bushes rustled and shook. A man grunted. Another shouted. The thug left in the open staggered and fell to his knees as if hurt or intoxicated. Perhaps both.
The seconds passed for Annabelle in slow motion. She heard another cry. Was that a splash? Were they that close to the Potomac?
The man she could see struggled to his feet and braced himself, ready for more fight. Charles reappeared and engaged him by circling, arms wide, ready for further attack. They locked arms and began grappling while Johnny beat the back of his uncle’s foe with a broken branch and screeched unintelligibly in his native language.
The men fell together. Charles scrambled up first. His foe moved more slowly yet was far heavier and thus had the advantage of sheer weight when he threw himself back into the melee.
This was a new conundrum for Annabelle. She had never seen grown men fight, so she stood aside, gaping helplessly and standing clear. Her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly they ached.
Then she saw something metal flash in the stranger’s hand and her attitude changed. “A knife! He has a knife.”
Charles crouched and stepped sideways, keeping just out of the assailant’s reach. “Stay back!”
The other man was slow and clumsy, carving harmless arcs in the night air, yet Annabelle knew it was only a matter of time until someone made a fatal misstep. What could she do? How could she possibly help the Cherokees?
Without warning, the attacker changed tactics and lunged for Johnny.
The child was too quick for him.
Charles grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the other man’s face. “Hey! Over here.”
The ploy worked. The burly man whirled, distracted, wiping at his eyes. But how long would that hold him off?
Annabelle had never in her life felt so powerless. So useless. As long as Charles’s adversary was the only one armed, there was no way she could be certain the Cherokee would prevail. Unless...
Whipping off her cape she twirled it at arm’s length and watched it billow out. The man with the knife was temporarily distracted and Charles darted in to try to disarm him. They wrestled until the attacker whipped one arm to the side and threw Charles to the dirt.
Annabelle could tell he was stunned when he landed. Johnny ran between his uncle and the knife-wielder, shouting and hitting him with the leafy branch.
The man roared and stood tall, facing both Cherokees. He was taller and much bulkier than she was but as long as his attention was so focused on Charles, Annabelle knew she had the element of surprise on her side.
With an unspoken prayer, she circled behind the big man, threw the cape over his head and yanked it down.
Blinded and surrounded, he flailed and slashed at the silky material, cutting portions of it to ribbons and opening gaps that were almost wide enough to let him see his opponents.
Annabelle screamed. Johnny rushed at the confused thug from one side, hitting him with a solid enough blow that he instinctively whirled to redirect his attack.
That gave Charles enough time to get to his feet, knock the other man off balance and disarm him. He threw him to the ground facedown and pinned him there. “Give up and I won’t hurt you more.”
Johnny was not so forgiving. “No! Hit him again!”
Annabelle sympathized with the child, even after the thug stopped struggling, and she had to admire Charles’s self-control. She stood back, hands clenched once more, while he and Johnny tore strips from her ruined cape to truss up the would-be robber like a Christmas goose.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” Charles warned, getting to his feet and taking a defensive stance with the other man’s knife. “There were two of them. I knocked one into the river but he could have climbed out by now.”
“If he has half a wit he’s long gone,” she said. “What in the world were you doing out here all alone?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I followed Johnny,” she replied. “I’d written you a note asking you to visit and talk some sense into him before you left the city. I was on my way to the stables to ask someone to deliver it to you when I saw him running down the street. That changed everything.”
Seeing the doubt reflected in his shadowed expression she said, “Here, I’ll prove it to you.” As she slipped her hand into her skirt pocket her self-assurance turned to chagrin. “Oh, dear, I don’t know what became of my note.”
“How big was the paper?” Charles was scanning the nearby ground.
Annabelle joined him. “Small. I had folded it so it would fit in my pocket. I doubt we’ll find it without a torch.”
“Then forget it.” His brows arched. “I had thought the boy was in good company with you. Looks as though I’ll have to rethink my conclusion.”
“We had both expected to find you at the boardinghouse, sir,” Annabelle countered, spine stiff and eyes blazing from his scolding. “If you had been there, none of this would have happened.”
“Sadly, true.” He closed and pocketed the thug’s knife, then dusted off his clothing and his hands. “All right. I’ll escort you both home and then go report this fellow’s crimes.”
“But, what if he gets loose and escapes while we’re gone? What if his friend comes back and frees him?”
“That can’t be helped.” Charles slipped off his coat and shook it, then draped it over her shoulders. “You’re shivering. This will help.”
“Thank you. My cape is ruined.”
“Since you saved my life with it I will be delighted to replace it.”
“I can’t let you do that. What would people say?”
“That a gallant lady sacrificed her cape to rescue the victim of a mugging?”
“I hardly see my part as being gallant. I was merely trying to keep the fight fair.”
That made him laugh. “Have it your way. Just please allow me to buy you a new cape.”
Annabelle sighed. “I suppose that can be arranged, if you insist. The Eatons always use the same wonderful seamstress, a Miss Mills. Her shop is in Arlington, but...” Her eyes widened and she faltered, staring up at her stalwart companion. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of what?”
“No one knows I ventured out tonight. If Mrs. Eaton finds out from the dressmaker that I need a new cape, she will be furious with me. And perhaps with Johnny, too.”
“Then we’ll simply keep this incident to ourselves and I’ll pay Miss Mills to do the same when I engage her,” Charles promised. “Right now, I think I should see you home so you can go back inside as if nothing has happened.”
“I never lie.”
“Then you are a truly exemplary lady,” he said, sounding amused. When he looked down at Johnny, however, his countenance sobered. “You will do as you’ve been told and stay out of trouble, Tsani. This is your home now and you will honor our tribe’s promises. Understand?”
Annabelle saw the child nod and bow his head as if the weight of the world lay on his thin shoulders. Poor little thing. Truthfully, it would be just as well if she were not sent off to boarding school. Johnny needed her there.
Her thoughts whirled and danced like moths drawn to a glowing lantern. She had prayed for guidance, assuming the answer lay merely in the choice of an alternate school. Now it was beginning to look as if her answer to those prayers was a resounding no, but for a very good reason. One that certainly countered the disappointment.
Shivering as the excitement wore off and weariness lay heavy, she was thankful for many things. One was the Cherokee ambassador’s strong arm around her shoulders and his strength to lean against.
Having been warned against allowing any grown man to touch her thus, she was terribly confused. Surely those admonitions did not apply to her current situation.
Nothing that felt this right, this perfect, could possibly be wrong.
Chapter Three (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
“Were so many lamps burning in the house when you left?” Charles asked, pausing with his little group before escorting them back across New York Avenue.
Annabelle shook her head. “No. Mrs. Eaton usually does needlework in the evenings and Mr. Eaton sometimes reads the newspaper or personal communications from the president, but the rest of the rooms are rarely lit.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I suspect they have missed you already.”
“Oh, no.”
“It may not be as bad as it looks. I suggest you and the boy go back inside alone, though. Being seen with me will probably not be to your advantage.”
“We did nothing wrong.”
“You and I know that. Others may be harder to convince and I’m not looking forward to being lynched on my first diplomatic mission.”
“Surely, if I tell the family you have assisted me they will understand.”
“To do that you’d have to admit to having gone out after dark. Alone. Are you sure that’s wise?”
She looked so crestfallen he had to smile. “I’ll be fine. I’m going straight to my elders to report the attack by the river. You go inside and tell the Eatons you and the boy just stepped out into the garden. That won’t be a lie.”
“All right.”
As he reclaimed his coat she tilted her face up to him and he could see moisture sparkling on her lashes. Against his better judgment he gently took her hands, noting that she was trembling. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait right here until you’re safely inside.”
“Thank you for seeing us home.”
“I should be the one thanking you for saving my neck. I’m sorry about your cape. I’ll send a messenger to the dressmaker for you first thing in the morning.”
“A cape was a small price to pay for our victory over evil.”
Let her go, his mind insisted. Step away from her and forget you ever met Annabelle Lang.
But he would not, could not, do so. Although he assumed that this goodbye would be their last, he also knew she would linger in his thoughts and in his dreams for a long, long time. Being so taken with this innocent beauty had not only been a surprise, it had left him questioning his future without her.
That notion was beyond ridiculous, of course. Even if he happened to be sent to Washington again, chances were good that Eaton would forbid them to court properly, meaning he would be fortunate to encounter her at all.
That was one way in which Cherokee courtships and marriages were better. All a couple basically had to do was share a meal and exchange blankets and they were considered wed. Many of his kinsmen partook of two ceremonies, the Christian one and the tribal one, thereby satisfying both factions.
What was he thinking! Charles asked himself, coming to his senses. He barely knew this girl.
I’m far from home and lonely, that’s all, he insisted. There’s nothing wrong with me that being back in Georgia where I belong won’t fix.
He purposefully released Annabelle’s hands and stepped away while donning his coat. To his chagrin the fabric retained her warmth and a trace of a sweet scent like roses. Just like Annabelle’s hair.
“You’d better go in,” Charles said, sounding more brusque than he’d intended.
She bowed her head demurely. “That’s wise. Good night. And God bless you, sir.”
“He did that when He sent you to my aid.”
“Perhaps because in my prayers I had asked to be of help to you and the boy. Are you a Christian, then?”
“Yes. I went to the missionary school.”
Her smile was so sweet, so tender, all Charles could do was stand there and watch her walk away. And with her went a tiny portion of his heart despite his firm decision to remain stoic.
* * *
Lucy, the heavyset, dusky-skinned cook, was in the kitchen poking the ashes of the stove to get them to ignite fresh fuel when Annabelle and Johnny entered. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Land sakes, girl. Where you been? Mr. John is tearin’ his hair.”
“I—we—stepped out into the garden to look at the stars.”
“Then why didn’t you come when he hollered for you?”
“I guess I didn’t hear.” Annabelle’s guilty conscience nagged at her to explain further. If she hadn’t had little Johnny to protect she would have confessed without delay.
“Well, get in there and let the mister know you’re all right. After the trouble tonight he’ll surely be glad to see you.”
“Trouble? Because of me?”
“Mercy, no.” The cook’s coffee-colored forehead knit above graying brows. “Somebody done made off with that fancy silver tea set the missus got from them Indians.” Her gaze darted to the boy, then quickly back to Annabelle. “He be with you all the time?”
“Yes. Of course he was.”
“If you say so. But Mr. John, he was plum mad, ’specially when he couldn’t find neither of you.”
“Thank you, Lucy. We’ll go right in and set his mind at ease.” She reached for the boy’s hand and held tight, urging him to follow as she admonished, “You let me do all the talking.”
Both Eatons were in the parlor when Annabelle entered. Their expressions contrasted; John’s being one mixing anger with relief while Margaret simply looked disgruntled.
“Where have you been?” John demanded.
“Out in the garden, looking at the stars.”
Margaret pointed at the boy. “Him, too?”
“Of course.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking into tears of shame, Annabelle stood very still and waited to be dismissed. She had no idea what had become of the silver set but she was certain the Cherokees had had nothing to do with it. Washington was a bustling city, filled with all kinds of riffraff, as demonstrated by the incident at the river. Undoubtedly, a criminal element like that had robbed the Eatons.
“I have the servants checking the carriage house and the stables,” John said. “Go upstairs to your rooms and stay there. Both of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Annabelle curtseyed politely.
She was more than delighted to take her leave. This current Mrs. Eaton might be a special friend of President Jackson but she wasn’t kind and loving the way Annabelle’s first foster mother, Myra, had been. Oh, how she had wept when that dear lady had gone to Glory at such a young age.
Climbing the spiral staircase with Johnny, Annabelle realized she was actually happier being ignored than being watched too closely. That revelation was a surprise. A welcome one. It not only helped her feel less unwanted, it gave her a sense of freedom she had never before sought or even imagined.
“A servant will assist you getting ready for bed,” she told the child. “I’ll call Adams. He helps our father.”
“I have no father,” Johnny said flatly. “And I can take care of myself.”
“All right, whatever you say.” Annabelle continued to hold his hand until she said, “Remember. You promised to be good and stay here.”
“I remember.”
She hated to leave him alone looking so small and forlorn, yet she knew she must. With a deep sigh she eased the door closed and walked away. It was bound to be a long night for the child, not to mention how hard it was going to be for her to stop thinking about Charles McDonald’s narrow escape and her part in his rescue.
She smiled to herself and gave a little shiver, then headed for her own room. Many nights she had prayed for a cessation of dreams but tonight she was eagerly looking forward to seeing if the handsome Cherokee would appear in them.
Given a choice, she would definitely have wished to include him as a part of her nighttime imaginings.
* * *
Charles headed straight for the boardinghouse when he left Eaton’s. Instead of a quiet atmosphere, he found the male guests gathered in the sitting room, smoking and talking while uniformed soldiers in blue and police officers moved among them.
“Where have you been?” Elias Boudinot asked Charles, speaking aside. “Tell me you weren’t near the river.”
“As a matter of fact, I was. Why?”
The shorter, slightly older man pulled him into a corner and spoke with a coarse whisper. “Don’t admit it. These men are out for blood, preferably ours.”
“What for? What happened?”
“Somebody got knifed tonight.”
Charles felt the blade in his pocket, glad he hadn’t been a victim of the same kind of mayhem. “I’m not surprised. A couple of toughs came after me. It was only by the grace of God I managed to escape.”
“Good thing you didn’t have a woman with you.”
The hair on Charles’s nape prickled. “What do you mean?”
“They say the dead man was all tangled up in a woman’s outer garment. It looked as if whoever killed him had rendered him helpless before driving a knife blade between his ribs.”
Charles plopped onto the brocade-upholstered, horsehair sofa. “Say that again?”
“It wasn’t a normal mugging. The victim was trussed up first, then murdered in cold blood. Worse, he was a soldier on leave.”
There was nothing Charles could think to say or do other than sit there and stare. The man they had tied up had been alive and well when he, Annabelle and Johnny had left him. Charles knew she would swear to that—except she’d have to admit to having been on the scene if he asked for her support. And then what would happen to her already tenuous standing in the Eaton household?
There was only one real problem as Charles saw it. The cape. If anyone recognized the fabric remnants left behind and questioned Annabelle, she’d be honor bound to tell the truth.
As long as the police believed all her story, everything would be fine. If they chose to twist her words, however, his whole diplomatic mission could be in jeopardy, not to mention his neck. Murder was bad enough. The thought that a visiting Cherokee might have killed a Washington citizen, let alone a soldier, was far worse.
Charles’s choices were poor on all counts. His tribe depended upon its ambassadors portraying an image of refinement and civility. So, what should he do? Tell the whole story and reveal the girl’s name? Keep mum and pray that nobody knew Annabelle had come looking for him? And what about Johnny? Suppose he remained with Eaton while Annabelle was ostracized?
Agonizing over the unacceptable possibilities, Charles decided he could not sit there and let an innocent young woman suffer needlessly. He must slip out and return to warn her, even if it meant sneaking into the Eaton mansion and somehow using his nephew as a go-between. Then, if he and Annabelle could not see a solution to their dilemma, he would return to Plunkett’s and confess his part in the altercation being investigated.
Leaving the sofa with the fluid movement of a skillful hunter, he was out of the room and headed for the back door without any of the soldiers noticing.
Elias watched him go without a word.
* * *
Annabelle tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. She’d opened the windows partway to ventilate her stuffy bedroom and could hear voices coming from the yard below as well as from the mansion’s ground floor.
Was that her name? Had someone just called to her?
“Annabelle!”
There it was again. Curiosity drew her to the open window, made her lean out and look down. “Charles? What are you...?”
“Hush. There may be troops headed this way. I came to warn you.”
“Why?”
“They’re at Plunkett’s now. Police, too. We must have been seen together in the park.”
She drew her nightclothes around her more tightly and tried to still her trembling. Surely there was no way anyone could have found out about her unauthorized excursion.
“We didn’t do anything wrong. You were the victim.”
“The man we tied up is dead,” Charles said.
“No! He can’t be.” Her head was starting to spin and she leaned heavily on the smooth wooden windowsill. “You must be mistaken. He was fine when we left.”
“Somebody killed him after we were gone.” Charles’s voice was barely audible over the noise beginning to arise from the front yard and portico.
And there she stood, in her nightdress, holding an inappropriate conversation with a man she barely knew. A man whose presence in the garden would be further damning evidence of her mistakes if they were observed.
“Annabelle!” John Eaton’s voice boomed, echoing up the stairwell. “Annabelle!” Boots thudded. Her door was hit hard and slammed open against the wall.
She whirled, her back to the window, the collar of her long gown fisted at her throat. There was no mistaking her foster father’s tone or his reddening face. Someone must have discovered her trespasses, as Charles had warned.
“Downstairs. Now. And cover yourself decently.”
“Yes, sir.” Threading her arms through the sleeves of a linen wrapper, she belted it over her gown and freed her long, heavy braid from the collar.
Eaton pushed past her to the open window and leaned out, giving Annabelle a terrible fright. It wasn’t until he slammed down the sash and turned away that she was able to breathe. If he had spied Charles McDonald waiting below he would surely be shouting. At least one thing had gone her way this evening.
She followed, barefoot, to the upper landing.
John Eaton was descending to join a group of heavily armed men. The foremost one wore a constable’s badge. The others were mostly scowling, uniformed soldiers bearing rifles.
For an instant she entertained the thought that Charles had been wrong about the killing and someone had recovered the missing silver service. Then she realized there would be no reason to summon her if that was all that was wrong.
No. This all had to be happening because of what she’d done—or what they believed she’d done—earlier.
Frozen in place at the top of the staircase Annabelle stared at the angry crowd.
Eaton motioned to her. “Come down here. These gentlemen have some questions for you.”
“May I dress first?”
“No. Come as you are. The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better.”
Her bare feet on the carpeted steps made no sound. She slid one hand along the banister to steady herself and obeyed his command, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where were you tonight?” Eaton demanded.
“I beg your pardon? I was with the family.” Her nervous fingers found the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder and unconsciously worried the end of it.
“Not every second. I recall that you did not answer when I called to you. You told us you were out in the garden. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Annabelle’s stomach was churning and she wondered if she was going to be ill.
One of the soldiers nearest the front door held up a soiled, ruined garment for all to see. Eaton pointed to it. “Then how do you explain this?”
For the first time in her life, Annabelle wished she were the kind of frail female who fainted at the drop of a hat. Surely being unconscious would be preferable to having to admit that the shredded remnant was her cape.
“What a shame.” She used the stair railing for support. “It was so pretty.”
“Then you don’t deny it’s yours?”
“No. It’s mine. How did they know?”
“There was a note found nearby with your name on it.”
“I did nothing wrong. Truly.” She fought to hold back tears.
Dismay and disappointment on her foster father’s face was countered by the vehemence of Margaret Eaton’s railing. “Do you see now? I warned you the girl was up to no good. Blood will tell and hers is tainted.”
Eaton whirled on her. “She caused no distress while Myra was caring for her.”
“That was years ago. She’s nearly a grown woman and a wily one at that.” Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Your reputation in Washington will be ruined, John.”
“We—I will stand by Annabelle,” Eaton vowed.
Margaret clung to his arm, weeping. “You mustn’t. Think of the scandal. She’s not even kin.”
“Nevertheless, I made a commitment.” He faced the armed cadre to say, “Annabelle Lang will be secure in my care. Contact my office at the Capitol if you wish to speak with her further and I will make those arrangements.”
All the men looked uneasy. The veteran constable who was clearly the spokesman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. The murder victim was from the president’s old regiment and our orders are to apprehend and arrest the suspect.”
“Tonight?”
Frozen in place, Annabelle held tight to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the final decision and wondering if she dared speak to defend herself. If she did, there was a very good chance that Little Johnny would also be blamed, not to mention his uncle. If no one believed she was innocent, how could she possibly convince anyone that others were blameless?
The constable nodded as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the military men. “Yes, sir. Tonight.”
Annabelle quailed. This could not be happening. Not to her. She looked to her foster father, pleading with her gaze, and saw indecision. Was his influence so weak in Washington that he could not prevail?
Then she recalled how close Margaret had been to the president himself. Could this accusation be her doing? Had there been enough time to have influenced Jackson? No. Yet he must know how Margaret felt about sharing her home, even with her own three offspring, because as soon as she’d learned of her first husband’s death she’d shipped the Timberlake children off to live with her late husband’s relatives.
John Eaton’s expression grew regretful and he stepped back before gesturing to the officers. “Do what you must, but rest assured I will engage an attorney on her behalf. She had better be treated with kid gloves or heads will roll, starting with yours.”
Annabelle found her voice. “They’re really arresting me?”
“I’m afraid so. You won’t be held for long if I have anything to say about it.”
She tried to fill her lungs with breathable air and failed.
Light flashed before her eyes as if she were staring directly at the summer sun and unable to look away.
A tingling on her soles and palms, coupled with the spinning of the room, made her light-headed.
Seconds later she closed her eyes, lost her grip on the banister and slumped to the floor.
* * *
Charles caught a passing cab and made it back to Plunkett’s in time to hear Major Ridge, the graying patriarch of the Cherokee delegation, addressing the crowd in the parlor. He was speaking himself, instead of asking his adult son to translate.
“The Cherokee Nation is self-governing by order of your own President Jefferson. We will handle the matter.”
“We got proof! A name wrote down,” someone in the back shouted.
Another voice chided, “Since when can you read?”
“May I see your proof?” Ridge held out his hand.
“It’s not here. Which one is McDonald?”
Charles stepped forward. “I had nothing to do with killing that man or any other.”
“Can you prove it?” Ridge asked him.
“If I have to.”
Grumblings grew to shouts and several men shook clenched fists and brandished weapons.
“Then we will hear your testimony when the time comes,” Ridge said. Unwavering, he faced the gathering and raised one hand as if taking an oath. “All of you. Go. I will vouch for the carrying out of justice.”
Slowly, begrudgingly, the venerable man’s orders were heeded. As the room began to clear, some onlookers were still muttering but the Indian delegation stood united, shoulder to shoulder.
Charles didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door slammed behind the last accuser.
“All right,” Ridge said. “I want to hear the whole story. From the beginning.”
When Charles was through, the older man was shaking his head. “We must go and speak with the girl.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes.” The old leader was adamant. “Is this woman truthful? Can she be trusted?”
Sighing, Charles nodded. “Yes. But if Eaton doesn’t already know she was with me, asking questions could ruin her life.”
“That is her problem, not ours. Those soldiers will be back. As soon as we have spoken with her, we will leave Washington.”
“Before we’ve been granted an audience with President Jackson?”
“Eaton and Coffee say they speak for him. That will have to do. Our presence here is no longer wise.”
“I am sorry,” Charles said. “I truly did nothing wrong. The man was alive when I left him by the river. Here. See? I even took his knife.”
Withdrawing the blade from his pocket he laid it across his palm and held it out.
It wasn’t until then that he was surrounded by enough ambient light to notice the rusty color of dried blood on part of the blade.
Chapter Four (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
Annabelle took as long as she dared to dress and prepare to leave the house. Part of her mind was spinning while another part felt numb. There had to be some way out of this dilemma, yet no answers came to her.
Worse, she mused, if the authorities had recovered her note they not only knew her name, they knew to whom it had been addressed. That put Charles McDonald in jeopardy and made her hope he had not returned to the boardinghouse after leaving the Eaton garden.
Everything, all their troubles, pointed back to the boy, didn’t they? Too bad the opinions of children were not given credence, even under normal circumstances. Certainly Johnny would not be listened to in a Washington court. He might, however, make a good emissary to his uncle’s group.
Annabelle rapped on the wall between their rooms. An answering tap came quickly. All she said was “come” and he appeared at her door in seconds.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
The child nodded.
“I need you to go to the Cherokees, tell them what has happened here tonight and warn your uncle. Will you?”
Another nod.
“Good. Be sure you do it secretly. Don’t run up the street the way you did when I was chasing you. You must be very, very careful. No one must see you or catch you. Can you do that and sneak back into this house later?”
“Y-yes.”
Johnny’s lower lip was quivering so she bent to give him a hug of encouragement before adding, “God be with you.”
Placing a kiss on his cheek she straightened, tossed her braid to hang behind her and stepped into the hallway, knowing she was in the right and prepared to prove it somehow.
By the time she was halfway down the stairs, however, most of her courage had evaporated like a drop of water on a hot day. She was determined to hide her fear, though. The less she looked and acted helpless, the braver she felt, so she did her best to stand tall, to face whatever awaited.
* * *
“I have to go now, to make sure she’s all right,” Charles insisted after he had listened to the boy’s story and sent him back to Eaton’s with another member of their group acting as guardian.
Ridge shook his gray head. “You will stay here until morning when we will go together.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. I’m afraid it may already be too late.”
“If you disobey you will cease to be under my protection,” Ridge warned.
Charles had not anticipated that severe a reaction but he accepted it. “So be it. The woman would not be in trouble if she had not come to my aid. She saved my life.”
“And now you will lose it by foolishness?” Ridge countered. “I had thought better of you.”
That was the last comment Charles heard as he left the boardinghouse and hailed a cab. The horse seemed to sense his urgency because it was prancing as he boarded. “The Eaton house,” he shouted to the driver. “Fast.”
He had to arrive, to intercede, before Annabelle was taken away. He had little doubt that she would be, given the attitude of the soldiers who had confronted his delegation, and his people were important diplomats. The young woman, by her own admission, was merely a ward, and one who was not wanted by the new mistress of the household. What chance would she have if the Secretary of War did not stand up for her?
Perhaps Johnny had misjudged Eaton. Charles hoped so, because otherwise Annabelle’s chances of escaping unjust punishment were slim.
If the party of lawmen and soldiers had not called his name and mentioned Annabelle’s lost note he wouldn’t have worried so much. Since they had, however, he assumed they had not only read his name but her signature, as well. They were both in trouble up to their necks.
Yes, necks, he affirmed. The part of a criminal where the hangman put the noose.
* * *
When Annabelle felt cold shackles close around her wrists she nearly fainted for the second time. Only pride and an immense desire to present herself blameless before her foster father and Margaret kept her on her feet.
The constable led her onto the porch by the short chain between her wrists, making her feel as if they considered her a dangerous animal rather than an innocent girl. Reality dimmed. If this was a nightmare it was the worst she had ever experienced.
Pausing to get her balance on the top step she lifted her gaze. A curious crowd had gathered and most were craning to get a good look. Some onlookers actually pointed at her and called out insults.
From the east, a cab was approaching at speed. The driver pulled hard on the reins. The horse reared. Women screamed. Men cursed and jumped out of the way.
The door of the cab swung open. Annabelle gasped. Charles! No, no, he mustn’t be here.
She saw him start to push his way through the crowd. There was no way he could hope to rescue her from all these armed men. However, he might be a good witness to her innocence in the future, if he survived and kept himself out of prison. John Eaton had promised to hire legal representation, yes, but she doubted he would be amenable to adding a Cherokee client to the venture.
Given so little time and so few options she took a deep breath, looked directly into the crowd where Charles was and screamed, “No!”
The instant he faltered and met her gaze with his, she shook her head and mouthed another, “No,” praying he’d take heed. She sensed his indecision and resisted being pulled down the steps.
Once more she spoke, this time calmly. “No. Not now.”
And this time he gave a brief nod in response.
Heartened, she stood tall and descended until she stopped in the midst of the cadre of soldiers and civilians. The best thing, truly the only good thing, was that Charles McDonald had not rushed into the fray and joined her in chains.
As soon as Johnny explained to his kinsmen and they understood her dilemma, she would somehow assure them she would not testify against any of them. After all, they were innocent, as was she. This was Washington City, where the law of the land stood strong. She would be fine. This was a mere glitch brought on by a mob. People who were not guilty did not end up staying in prison.
* * *
Charles considered going back to the boardinghouse but could not make himself give that order to the cabbie. Instead, they slowly followed the group walking alongside the wagon carrying Annabelle to the closest jail.
He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from jumping out again and rushing to her rescue. He huffed, disgusted with himself. She had been right to stop him. Such a rash act would have been too stupid to be heroic. And it would have accomplished nothing worthwhile.
Instead, he disembarked near the jail, paid the cabbie and sent him away while he infiltrated the milling crowd to listen to rumors. Clearly, a Cherokee presence at the river altercation was known and he was thankful his clothing fit city life. The only way he’d be identified was if somebody besides Annabelle happened to recognize him.
Knowing she was held inside those barred doors made him want to pound on them with both fists. The more irrational claims he overheard about her character, the harder it was to control his temper, so he slipped away and circled the stone building, hoping to calm down enough to think clearly.
Shadows absorbed him the way a placid lake smoothly covers her sunken secrets, and he easily reverted to instinctive oneness with nature.
His shiny black boots sank in mud and fetid odors assailed his nostrils. He ignored everything. Barred windows set high in the walls permitted sound to escape while denying direct sight. Since all the noise was concentrated at the front of the building where the soldiers were busy congratulating themselves, Charles took a chance and softly called, “Annabelle?”
All he heard was street chatter. He moved on to another window. Then another. Wait! Was that sobbing? “Annabelle?”
The weeping stopped.
Charles came closer. “Annabelle?”
“Y-yes.”
“It’s me.”
She sniffled. “Go away.”
“I can’t. I have to help you somehow.”
“That is the worst thing you can do. Secretary Eaton has promised to hire an attorney and have me released as soon as possible.”
“Why didn’t he stop them from taking you in the first place?”
Although her voice kept breaking, he heard her explain about the victim’s relationship with the president’s regiment and her suspicion that Margaret’s wishes had also prevailed.
“Then I will stay here until you are free.”
“And be caught? I would weep forever.”
“But you saved my life.” As he spoke he was casting around for something to climb up on. A wooden barrel provided a prop.
“I had to act for the sake of the child. He was counting on both of us,” she said.
Charles assumed that was her way of covering her revealing admission that she would weep if anything bad happened to him. So, she felt their emotional attachment, too. That was heartening—and worrisome.
One booted foot on the barrel, he pulled himself up until he could reach through the barred window. He still could not see her but perhaps he could take her hand and convey moral support.
Hearing her gasp he said, “You see my hand?”
“Yes. But I can’t reach it.” She paused. “Wait!”
The sound of metal scraping against stone echoed and Charles thanked God for background noise to cover it.
First he felt her touch his hand. He closed his fingers around hers. Willed her to draw strength from him. And then her damp cheek and wisps of her beautiful hair brushed the back of his wrist. Their connection was tenuous yet deeply moving as she held tight to the lifeline of his presence.
The words that came to him were in Cherokee and he whispered them tenderly, knowing she would not understand yet needing to express affection. Perhaps no translation was necessary, he mused, because when he spoke, Annabelle’s grasp tightened and her cheek pressed more firmly.
Then, suddenly, she broke away and was gone. Metal clanked and someone shouted, “Get away from that window.”
Charles jumped off the barrel.
His hand felt cool and he glanced down. It was glistening with Annabelle’s tears.
* * *
Annabelle did not even try to sleep. The cot she had moved under the window was so dingy she couldn’t bear to lie upon it, let alone unfold the blanket. Her eyes often drifted back to the tiny window Charles had reached through and she gave thanks he had escaped unseen. That he had tried to comfort her at all was a conundrum. After all, they hardly knew each other and any involvement with her while she was incarcerated was taking a terrible chance.
She sighed and leaned back against the cold wall, crossing her arms. The authorities had her note. Therefore, they also had his name. Although it didn’t sound Cherokee it might nevertheless lead back to him, partly because the whole delegation had attracted so much attention when visiting her father. Perhaps that was why soldiers had been sent to Plunkett’s so quickly.
Although she didn’t know how much time had passed, she had watched the movement of the sun across the sky. What was taking her foster father so long to come for her? Surely he would act. At least she hoped so. Given Margaret’s animosity and obvious bias against her, she was beginning to wonder if John was going to help her, after all.
It was late the next day when Annabelle heard the approach of footsteps. Her spirits rose the instant she recognized John Eaton’s voice. The sight of him brought her to tears again and she fought to stay stoic as the jailer unlocked the cell door.
The deepest urge was to shout, “Father!” but she refrained. There was nothing about his somber countenance that was encouraging. When he merely nodded to her and turned away from the open door, she wasn’t sure if she was free to follow. The jailer guffawed and gestured, “Well, go, girlie, or do you like it here?”
That lit a fire under Annabelle’s feet and she hurried after John Eaton. He had a carriage waiting. For a moment she thought he might climb in ahead of her as if she were unworthy of gallantry but he did pause and allow her to board first. He even offered a hand, which reminded Annabelle of the much more tender touch of another man through the bars of her window.
“Thank you,” she ventured as the carriage started off.
Eaton made a guttural noise that sounded like a growl. “There is only so much I can do when the president is set against you. You do realize that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That is not what the evidence shows. There is a very good chance that you will be arrested again and tried for murder. If I could stop it, I would.”
“Can’t Margaret... I mean, she and President Jackson are friends. Isn’t there something she can do?”
“Ha! You will be fortunate to get her to tolerate you at home, let alone expect her to speak on your behalf. My wife can be headstrong, as you well know.”
“Even if you plead my case?”
The expression on her foster father’s face was stern and seemed almost wily. When he answered, Annabelle understood why.
“I had to fight other suitors to win Margaret Timberlake’s hand and I will not give her up, nor will I choose you over her. That should go without saying. I suppose, if you were older, affairs of the heart would not puzzle you so.”
The carriage had slowed and entered the Eaton yard before Annabelle was ready to ask, “What shall I do?”
“I haven’t decided. If I send you away, I will be abetting an escape. If I let you stay here and vouch for you, it will look as if I support what you have done. Either choice may pose a risk to my career. Since one of the Cherokee delegates seems to also be involved and is technically untouchable by our laws, you will take full blame.” He disembarked with a sharp, “You have shamed me.”
Annabelle was less concerned for herself than for Johnny as she followed. “What about the little boy? What will become of him?”
Eaton grimaced. “As if I didn’t have enough troubles with Indian affairs. I suppose I shall have to keep him for the sake of a temporary peace. As soon as the President and Congress decide against the treaty, however, I won’t care what becomes of him.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“Self-preservation, my dear girl. Politics is a cutthroat business and it’s time I treated it as such.”
“You sound just like your wife.”
That finally brought a slight smile. “She will be delighted to hear that.”
“Should—should I come in?”
“Of course. You still live here. But I suggest you and the boy make yourselves scarce, particularly when Margaret is around.”
Watching the man she had once thought of as a father walk away, Annabelle felt so downtrodden she was dazed. Had he really changed so much? It was hard to fathom that the once mellow man had hardened his heart but his words backed up that painful conclusion. Perhaps the best parts of him had passed away with Myra and his marriage to Margaret had brought out his sterner side. To put it that way was to simplify, of course, but she was fast losing hope for her future. Any future. Anywhere.
Starting for the kitchen she took time to admire the flowerbeds and smell a pinch of fresh basil while she thought of the servants and how so many of her former friends and allies had been let go. She still had Lucy, the cook, and Adams, her father’s valet, but no one else had known her for long. No one else could be counted on to provide solace while she resided in the Eaton home.
That was where she would start, Annabelle decided. If she could find Lucy she would ask her for advice. If not, she’d turn to Adams. Truth to tell, the grandfatherly man had bounced her on his knee when she was small far more often than John Eaton had.
Thoughts of her friends brought a smile. She was still smiling when she sensed someone nearby. The whispered “Siyo” told her who.
“Johnny!” Crouching, she opened her arms for the child’s embrace.
“You are back.” His shrill voice was muffled against her shoulder.
She set him away and grinned. “Yes, I am. Are you all right?”
The child nodded. His sky-blue eyes glittered. “I took your message to my uncle.”
“I know. What did he say?”
“He was mad.”
“I am sorry for asking you to disobey. I just didn’t know who else I could trust.”
Johnny stood taller, proud. “Will you run away with me now?”
A tiny part of her conscience wanted to set aside responsibility and tell him yes, but she refrained. Knowing that Eaton didn’t plan to make a permanent home for the Cherokee child had changed things. What she wasn’t sure of was how she should behave and how much she should reveal from then on. If he did decide to leave she certainly could not allow him to travel alone, yet if she accompanied him she would be considered a fugitive.
“I need to speak with your uncle again,” Annabelle finally said, “but I don’t want you to get in more trouble by going to get him for me. Do you know when the delegation is planning to leave? Is it today?”
His ebony hair swung against his shoulders as he rapidly shook his head. “It was tomorrow.”
She sensed more to the story. “And?”
“They are gone.”
“What? Now? Already?”
The boy looked ready to cry. “Yes. All gone.”
“Are you certain?”
With a slow nod he assured her before beginning to sniffle and pointing to the uppermost dormer of the elaborate home. “I saw them pass. From up there.”
Bereft, Annabelle sank to her knees in the garden and embraced the child while they both silently mourned and the setting sun cast their shadows among the fragrant blooms.
Chapter Five (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
A trip back to the jail where Annabelle had been held had proved fruitless, so Charles had returned to the Eaton estate and stationed himself across the street to watch, as before.
Now that Major Ridge had released him as a diplomat, he had to be even more cautious. Ridge had kept him out of jail once. That would not happen again.
And now? Although he had sent most of his belongings home with Elias, he had kept enough provisions to sustain him a few more days or weeks, if need be. And he had rented a saddle horse rather than keep hiring cabs and take the chance there might not be one available when he next needed it.
What he wanted to do was spirit Annabelle away to safety in Georgia. To do so, however, would not only be dangerous, it would be insane, and he was no fool. How their lives had become so entangled in such a short time was an unsolvable puzzle. Perhaps, if his assumption were correct and she did have Indian blood, that was part of the reason they’d been so drawn to each other.
A bigger question was, what did Annabelle want? He knew she had aspirations of an education but there had to be more to her future plans than that. Most young woman her age were already thinking of marriage, yet she had never mentioned suitors, probably because she was trapped between the servant class and the snobbish elite of Washington City and didn’t fit into any social strata.
Charles swung a leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground beside it the moment he saw activity in the Eaton garden.
He was about to call “Annabelle!” when she spotted him. He made it across the street just in time to receive her headlong rush through the gate and fold her into his arms. To do so in broad daylight was to muddy her already sullied reputation, yet he could not stop himself.
“What happened?” He set her away and feasted his eyes on her natural beauty. “How did you get out of jail?”
“John Eaton came for me. The things he said on our ride home were frightening. It was awful. He said I had shamed him and, and...” Tears began to brighten her eyes and she sniffled. “I thought you were gone. Johnny said your party went home.”
“They did.”
“What about you? Aren’t you in danger of arrest, too?”
“No. Since I’m a Cherokee and an emissary to President Jackson, Major Ridge convinced them that the tribe would mete out my justice.”
“But, they all left. Why did you stay?”
Charles gazed deeply into her eyes. “I had to stay after I saw them taking you away in shackles. We know we are not guilty of killing anyone but if we cannot prove it, I will pay a visit to the powers that be, tell them the whole story and throw myself on their mercy.”
“No! What if they don’t believe you?”
“All I care about is convincing them that you are innocent. After that it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. You mustn’t do that.” She sobered even more and glanced toward the house. “There is more to tell. Secretary Eaton was very angry when he came to get me out of jail. He admitted some terrifying things.”
“What things?”
“For one, he’s not going to keep Johnny as a son, the way you thought. He’ll only let him stay until the treaties with your tribe are finalized in some way. I don’t know the whole story but I fear there will be nothing of benefit to the Cherokees when all is said and done.”
“As many of us have suspected,” Charles murmured. “Was there anything else? Any details you can give me?”
“Only that President Jackson is not to be fully trusted.”
“What do you want to do now?” Charles asked, unsure of anything other than his concern for the young woman.
Annabelle shook her head and sighed. “I wish I knew. I had thought to escape unhappiness by being sent off to boarding school but with Margaret having such a strong influence on my future, I do not see that happening. Not even if we manage to prove our innocence.”
“Then rethink everything. Start from the beginning. Let yourself dream.”
“What possible good can that do?”
When she lowered her head in despair, Charles lifted it with one finger under her chin. Tears were trickling down her cheeks and he brushed them away with a gentle touch. “Don’t give up.”
“But...I have no hope.”
He placed a light kiss on her forehead as he said, “You have me.”
“For how long?” she asked in a shuddering whisper.
Because he had no idea when he would have to follow the rest of his party back to Georgia, he didn’t answer.
* * *
Given a choice, Annabelle realized she would just as soon remain right where she was, in the company of Charles McDonald. That, of course, was unacceptable no matter how much she wished otherwise.
His suggestion about her dreams for the future made her pull herself together, step back and look up at him. “There was a time, when I was much younger, that I used to imagine returning to see my grandmother and finding the happiness I once enjoyed. The only way I will ever do that, of course, is when she and I are together again in Heaven.”
“You were living in Tennessee, you said?”
“Yes. Sometimes I recall little pieces of those times. They come and go like the flash of a firefly. When I try to remember details, I fail.”
“Did you bring any possessions with you when you came to live with the Eatons?”
She paused to think. “There was an old doll I named Rosie. And of course my clothes, although Myra insisted on having a new wardrobe made for me.”
“No papers? Letters? Anything like that?”
“No. I have asked. Why?”
“Because they might tell us who your people are.”
“I have no one. I told you.”
Charles’s brow knit. “No, you told me exactly what you have been told all your life. As you recently noted, that does not mean it’s the truth.”
“If John Eaton is hiding secrets, he will never reveal them at this point. He’s furious with me. I think he almost hopes I’ll be convicted and sent to prison so he won’t have to deal with me anymore.” She made a face. “At least Margaret does, and she has the ear of the president.”
“How is that possible? She can’t be that influential.”
“Yes, she can.” Annabelle was nodding. “Before she was widowed she ran a boardinghouse here in the city. John Eaton used to stay there. A lot of politicians did, including Andrew Jackson. Margaret is supposedly the reason why Emily Donelson, the president’s niece, moved out of the White House and he has no hostess in residence. Emily refused to entertain the Eatons.”
“The president sided with Margaret against his own family?”
“Yes. So you see my dilemma.”
“That I do.”
Annabelle cast a surreptitious glance at the rear door of the mansion. “I should go back in.”
“Why did you come out in the first place?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I have always preferred to be outside, and this morning I was particularly loath to encounter anyone other than Johnny.”
“The authorities are no longer bothering you?”
“Not at present. My freedom is legal, although that could change in a heartbeat.” The instant Annabelle mentioned hearts, she felt hers leap and placed her fingertips at the base of her throat. Such an intense fear of the unknown was new to her and gave her palpitations.
“If it would not cause tongues to wag, I would invite you and the boy to join me for a picnic lunch.”
“There is no way I dare ride out with you, sir, especially now,” Annabelle said. “Surely you understand.”
“Of course. It was a foolish notion.”
“I am sorry. Breaking bread together can be a good way to get better acquainted and I would like that. Diplomats share sumptuous dinners to help facilitate conversation.”
He eyed the house. “I hope you are not suggesting that I publicly darken the halls of Secretary Eaton’s home without being asked.”
“No, of course not. We will just have to hope a suitable opportunity arises someday. If your party was still in the city, perhaps they would be invited for lemonade and sweets again and we could spend a little time together without raising eyebrows.”
Johnny appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and ran up to them. Charles scowled at him. “Where have you been?”
“Exploring. I found another garden. Much better than here.” He started to tug on his uncle’s hand. “Come see.”
Giving Annabelle a questioning glance he resisted. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
“I think so. I’m told an old retainer and his wife used to live in an apartment of sorts at the rear of the carriage house. When the Eatons moved in, they filled it with stored possessions. The yard is not much to look at but you can tell they enjoyed their privacy.”
“Privacy? Can it be seen from the street?”
Annabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. I really didn’t pay much attention when I first looked.”
He bowed slightly and swept an arm in the direction the boy was going. “After you.”
Raising her skirts above her shoe tops, she circled the far end of the carriage house and stable, pushing aside bushes as she went. She paused in a tiny garden surrounded by overgrown foliage and pointed to the remains of a small corral beyond. “I had forgotten this was even here.”
She could tell he was thinking because he was half frowning, half smiling. “It can’t be seen from the street. Do you realize what this means?”
“Not really.”
“We could meet here later for the picnic we dare not have in a park.” He hesitated. “That is, if you are willing.”
“With Johnny, of course,” she added, blushing.
“Of course. I would not have suggested otherwise. The boy will chaperone us and we will be meeting in broad daylight. Nothing could be more socially acceptable.” He grinned. “At least in our peculiar circumstances.”
“All right. I’ll ask Lucy to pack us a basket lunch. She does not have to know where Johnny and I have gone or who else will share our meal.”
“When shall I return?”
“Margaret meets with a sewing circle for tea today and John will be leaving for the Capitol earlier than that.” Annabelle grinned. “Will you wait until Margaret’s gone?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He tipped his hat and gave another bow. On most men such actions might have looked effeminate, but not when Charles McDonald made them. The strength and power of his physique were impressive indeed, enough to warm her cheeks all the more.
Annabelle rested her hand beneath her throat and felt her heartbeat accelerating. And this time it was not due to trepidation. It was definitely a result of watching the Cherokee emissary walking away.
The only thing better was going to be his return.
* * *
Charles knew that every additional hour he spent in the city after the departure of his kinsmen increased his risk. Nevertheless, he was not going to just ride off and leave Annabelle. Nor Johnny. If what Eaton had told her was true, the boy’s days of good care in that household were numbered. In that case, it might behoove him to allow the child to flee as he’d wanted all along.
Unfortunately, the timing was off. If Johnny stayed until the treaty disagreements were settled, one way or the other, many months could pass. By then, chances were good that Annabelle would have been tried and probably wrongly convicted due to outside influences.
Charles grimaced. She wasn’t the only one who could end up in prison. He was in the same boat. With Ridge and the rest of the diplomats gone, there was no one to assure Washington authorities that Cherokee justice would be carried out. Charles had lost his primary defense.
He saw to the needs of his rented horse, loosening the saddle girth and watering the animal at one of the livestock troughs shaded by poplars along Connecticut Avenue. Grass there was thick and kept trimmed by sheep. Too bad he couldn’t bring Annabelle here for a picnic instead of lurking in an overgrown, abandoned garden, but he could see the problem of being seen together in public. Word would surely get back to Margaret Eaton, one way or another, and she was a force to be reckoned with.
It was not hard for Charles to accept that a woman could be in charge because that was the way his tribe functioned. His own mother ran a successful plantation. Inheritance and authority passed down through women and so did clanship. It was because of her that he was numbered among the Wolf clan.
Rows of soldiers marched by in the street, rifles on their shoulders. Uneasy, Charles tightened the saddle girth, mounted up and headed back toward New York Avenue. He didn’t know why he kept imagining that he and Annabelle Lang belonged together, he simply did, and mental arguments against such feelings failed repeatedly. Truth to tell, the closer he got to the secret garden, the more anxious he was to see her again.
He left his horse hitched to a rear portion of the wrought-iron railings that surrounded the entire property rather than bring it through one of the distant gates. As soon as no one was watching, he vaulted over the fence and ducked into thick shrubbery. It was debasing to have to skulk around. His pride would not have allowed it under other circumstances. But this time? This time was different.
Pushing through the leafy branches, he spied her. Ringlets of her hair reflected the sun’s glow as they peeked from beneath a small bonnet and she was waving boldly, a far cry from the shy way she had behaved when they had first met.
“I am so glad you didn’t change your mind,” she said as soon as he was closer.
“Never. Margaret’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“You had no problems?”
“None worth mentioning.” She tugged Johnny out from behind her. “I did have difficulty convincing this little man that we weren’t going to get into trouble by doing this.”
“I pray you are right.” Charles laughed and tousled the boy’s dark hair.
“Where did you leave your horse?”
“I tied him out behind. It’s a lot easier to hide myself than a full grown mount.” He eyed the basket. “The servants didn’t suspect anything?”
“No. Lucy has been the family cook for longer than I can remember and nobody else saw me leaving.”
“Good. Where shall we set the food?”
“I brought a cloth and swept the ground a little while I was waiting for you,” Annabelle said. “There is a lovely place over there beneath the honeysuckle.”
“Perfect.” Charles helped her lay the cloth, then recruited the boy to keep watch for a bit, just in case.
Johnny pouted. “I’m hungry.”
“We will call you when it’s time to eat. I know Miss Annabelle will not let you starve.”
As soon as the child walked away she began to speak quietly to Charles. “I tried to listen in as John was discussing Indian affairs with Margaret this morning but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to learn anything new. It is clear the president and his cabinet do not value treaties. Especially not since gold has been discovered in Georgia.”
“We have known about the gold for many generations. It is unfortunate that word has gotten out,” Charles said.
“Is that why the powers that be want the Cherokees to move west?”
He nodded. “That, and coveting the land. It’s not just us. Have you ever heard of the Five Civilized Tribes? We are the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek and Seminole.”
“I think so. It seems unfair to expect you to uproot and leave the farms that you have worked for so many generations.”
He managed a smile for her benefit even though his heart was hardened. “It is more than unfair. It is criminal. And unless we can solve our tribal differences and learn to work and stand together, we will lose.”
Turning her sky-blue eyes to him and growing somber, she offered, “Sadly, I believe the same can be said of you and me, Mr. McDonald.”
* * *
Spreading her skirts gracefully, Annabelle settled at the edge of the cloth and began to take food from the basket. There was fresh bread and cold meat and Lucy’s delicious sweet pickles, plus part of a pound cake for dessert. A clay jug held lemonade which she poured into small tin cups.
Yet she hardly tasted the meal. Ideas kept whirling through her mind and being rejected by the logical side of her personality. She felt she would burst if she did not share her concerns, so the moment Johnny finished stuffing himself and resumed his guard post she opened a fresh conversation. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Fine.” Charles was seated with his back against a poplar trunk and looked far more relaxed than she felt.
“You wanted to know about my dreams? Well, I have given that a lot of thought and I know what I want.”
He sat forward, legs crossed, and studied her. “Go ahead.”
“I want to find my family, whatever is left of it. I have no idea where to start or how to proceed but I think, if I could just learn who I am and where I come from, I’d be happy.”
“Even if the story is a sad one?”
“Yes. Even then.”
She could tell he was weighing his words carefully. Finally, he spoke. “What if there is Indian blood in your line? How will you feel then?”
“Oh!” Taking a moment to think it over, Annabelle said, “Probably the same way you felt when you were old enough to realize your last name came from a Scot.” She began to smile at him. “We are what we are. God made us in His image. Who are we to complain?”
“Nevertheless, it will change the way you are viewed and accepted. It will make you someone else.”
She disagreed. “No. It will change nothing other than the perceptions of others. I will still be Annabelle Lang. I will still be a foundling without roots or history. If you could choose, which would you prefer, knowing the truth or wondering for the rest of your life?”
Charles stood, approached and offered a hand to help her up. “I would take you to Tennessee tomorrow if not for the damage it would do to your reputation. You would not only be branded a loose woman, everyone would think we were running away because we killed that man.”
“I know. I haven’t worked out any details yet.” She glanced in the direction the boy had gone. “Or decided what we should do about him.” Lowering her voice further she added, “We can’t leave him behind.”
The lack of a definitive reply from her companion bothered her so much she said, “I am far more worried about Johnny than I am about myself.”
Charles bent to help her gather their leftovers and put them back into the basket. “Then you must understand why my concern is more for the both of you than for my personal safety.”
It did not surprise her to hear him add, “That is why I stayed in Washington.”
At that moment she knew she should try to dissuade him, to make him leave for his own sake. Instead, she disappointed herself by remaining silent.
Chapter Six (#u836accec-f7f6-5d09-8f9c-b2b1b49f9dd3)
They refreshed themselves with the clean water from a pump used to refill the horse troughs, then prepared to part. It was not an easy parting. “I think you and the boy should go back to the house and act as normal as possible,” Charles said firmly.
“But...”
He shushed her. “Hear me out. While you’re there you will be in a perfect position to glean information that may help my people. I’ll continue to pose as a gentleman and listen to rumors as I move around town.”
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Valerie Hansen
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Runaway WeddingOn the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!