Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (10 page)

Lady
Margaret ran a brush through her hair, long and soft, tinted with silvery gray.
“Did you notice the way he looked at her?”

Sir
Rodney yawned and stretched his arms. “You mean Jack?”

Her
ladyship turned and set the brush down. “Whom else would I be speaking of? Little
escapes me when it comes to our son. Oh, I need my tea.”

“Our
son is a man, and makes his own decisions. Let us hope they’re the right
ones.”  Sir Rodney sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes.

“There
are times when one is blind to what is right. Or one may resist.”

“You
know matchmaking can lead to disaster, Margaret. We must leave him alone.”

She
stood and kissed his cheek. “It’s true we should not interfere. But if he asks
our advice we should give it.”

 “I’m
proud of Jack. He did what was proper as a man, to stand for her against a
bully.”

“Yes,
it is sad the way Samuel behaved and how he treated Rebecah.”

 
“I tell you this, after last night I’m anxious to leave Endfield.” He tightened
the sash of his robe with a jerk. “And never come back.”

“I
cannot say as much. I promised Kathryn I would return next week to look at her
garden plans. Also, her dressmaker will be expected, and I should like to see a
few fabric swatches and patterns. But not for me, mind you. A few ladies are
not faring well in our fellowship and are in need of new clothes.”

Sir
Rodney squeezed her waist. “Love, gardens, and clothes…I will have coffee and
the London Gazette if they have it.”

She
lowered herself upon his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. “That you,
an Englishman, would drink anything other than tea is astonishing.”

“I
like coffee,” he smiled.

“Drink
it in private.”

“Why?”

“Some
might think you sympathize with the Americans.”

“Let
them. I can stand up to scrutiny.”

She
brushed his lips with her finger. “I think your boldness attracted me to you,
and your good looks and the way you kissed.”

“On
my soul,” he breathed. “You still light a fire in me.” He kissed her once more,
only this time upon the lips and with more passion.

* * *

From
a white porcelain basin, Nash splashed his face with cold water, dried off with
a towel, and paused. This foreign pang refused to leave. It burned in him like
fire, pounded him like a tempestuous sea. He mulled over what to do. Should he
follow the demands of logic, or the dictates of his heart? Could he fulfill
both his duty to his country and love an English woman?

He
put his face in his hands. What he considered doing now would change
everything. Tensions were mounting in America. The country poised for war. He
knew he should leave England soon, or risk being trapped there. But he was
torn. He did not want to leave Rebecah. He loved her.

A
coach pulled up at the front doors. From the window, he watched Brent walk
toward it dressed in dreary gray. Inside the ban of his tricorn hat, a red tag
showed his loyalty to English sovereignty. His cloak wrapped around his body as
he climbed in. The footman adjusted the step, closed the door, and climbed to
his seat. With a crack of the whip, the horses jerked forward and the coach
rolled away.

He
felt a sense of relief for Rebecah the tyrant was gone.

An
hour later, the Nash’s coach waited for them on the drive. After they had
boarded, and it rolled away, he looked back to see her standing outside the
front door, hand raised, her hair unbound and lifting in the breeze.

For the next week, he
paced, wrote letters, and counted the days when he would see her again.

The
cottage Henry Carrow lived in with his wife Jane and two boys stood off a
beaten path south of the manor. He worked the land for the Brent’s for two
decades and thought to himself it was really his, not the haughty gentry’s. He
sat smoking a clay pipe by the kitchen fire. Jane wiped her forearm across her
brow, smudged flour over her freckled face while she kneaded dough for the
day’s bread.

Henry
watched her with vested interest.

Jane
looked over at him as she pushed the dough. “Is it not time you get to work, my
love?”

“How
can I, my darlin’ girl?” He drew on his pipe and blew circles into the air. “It
looks like rain.”

“If
it’s a piece of pie you want, go on eat it. I’ll not slap the hand that feeds
me.”

Henry
reached over and drew the pie closer. Pulling a large hunk out of the plate, he
leveled it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and took a bite. Jane smiled. She was
an attractive woman, not much older than Kathryn Brent. Her face was round and
smooth, her eyes deep brown beneath slim auburn brows the same color as her
hair.

She
tossed the dough it into a greased wooden bowl and laid a piece of cheesecloth
over it. Soon it would rise and the cottage would fill with the smell of
baking.

Jane
ran her hands across her apron when her oldest son Harry came into the kitchen.
He was nine years of age, strong in body, with dark hair and eyes. His arms
were loaded down with wood for the fire. His younger brother Christopher, age
six, followed behind him with the kindling.

“We
saw a man walking up the hill toward the house,” said Harry. “Do you know him,
Papa?  He’s coming from the manor.”

Henry
rose from his chair. “Well let’s see who the man might be.”

“I
know him,” announced Christopher with a chipper. “It’s Mr. John from America.
He has a flintlock pistol, Da. I bet he’s got a knife too, and fought plenty of
Indians and low Frenchmen with it.”

“More
likely it’ll be Redcoats soon enough, my lad.”

Jane
threw her hands to her hips. “Such talk, the lot of you. If the gentleman is
coming to see us, don’t pester him with such things as fighting Indians and low
Frenchmen. Nor make mention of Redcoats. You mind me.”

Off
the boys scampered while their father watched John Nash walk up the hill. “I
wonder why he’s coming’ here, Janie.”

“Lord
knows, my dear. Be sure to offer him some of that pie before you gobble it all
down.”

From
his doorway, Henry waved. Nash lifted his hat. “The lad’s got a strong stride,
my pet. I imagine living in the frontier makes a man that way.”

Jane
came alongside her husband. “Don’t be angry with me for saying so, my love, but
I’ve never seen a handsomer man. It’s a wonder the girls aren’t pining away for
such a face.”

“You
can count on it, Janie.”

*  *  *

The
first thing John Nash noticed about the Carrow’s cottage was how the thatched
roof turned golden brown in the sun—a warm comfortable dwelling, unlike Endfield.

He
pondered how Henry kept the farm, how Brent need not lift a finger. If the Carrows
lived in
The Thirteen
they could own land and keep the profits. Yet,
Nash knew first hand that was easier said than done. In the frontier there was
much to worry about—famine, fever, drought, and Indian raids. Only the stoutest
of souls settled there.

He
knew, too, there were prying eyes at the manor. Deciding not to fight the
feelings he had for her, Nash slipped Rebecah a note by way of the chambermaid.

Once
inside, he sat by the fire in Jane’s kitchen. A few moments later, Rebecah
stepped through the door. Her eyes met his. Wispy curls touched her cheeks. She
pushed back the hood of her cloak and his heart pounded.

“How
many loaves have you baked today, Jane? I smelled the bread coming up the
path.”

“Five
in all, miss. I’ll send some up to the house if you think they’d want some.”

Rebecah
put her hand on the oak table. “I’m sure they would, as long as you have
enough.”

“Oh,
there’s plenty. I’m sending a loaf home with you too, Mr. Nash.”

“Thank
you, Mrs. Carrow.” He smiled. “I leave in the morning on business in the north.
We’ll have it with our supper tonight.”

Rebecah
drew in a breath. “For how long, Mr. Nash?”

 He
stood. “Miss Brent. Would you walk with me?”

She
agreed and they took the bridle path. “I received your note. The chambermaid
promised not to tell anyone where I’ve gone.”

“It’s
a shame we have to meet in secret.”

“Only
because my uncle would not approve.”

Spears
of sunshine streamed through the branches of the trees and dappled the path
with light. It was not much different from the woods at Laurel Hill. He
described them for her, the tranquil Catoctin Mountains, the teaming forests, the
rivers cutting deep into the valley pouring into the Potomac.

“It
sounds like the Garden of Eden.”

“To
me it is. To others it is overrun with thistle and thorns.”

“My
father wrote to me about the Colonies. He never described things like you.”

“Perhaps
he was too busy with military affairs to have noticed.”

“Will
you be returning soon?” 

“Yes,
in a few months I think.” 

“But
war may come, and you are Sir Rodney’s only son.”

“My
father will support whatever I choose to do.” 

They
walked on.

“Sometimes
I wish I had been born a boy.”

He
laughed. “Why?”

“I
could do what you’ve done. For English girls, our lives are planned out for
us.”

“You
speak of marriage. You have a choice.”

“There
are consequences no matter what I decide.”

“I wouldn’t
wish Lanley on you for the world.” He kicked a stone and sent it rolling down
the path into the dry leaves. “Why would you agree to marry him? You don’t love
Lanley, and he has nothing to offer except his estate. I refuse to believe you
are the kind to want a man for his money.”

She
looked at him with those beautiful eyes of hers. His heart told him to fight,
to claim her before she’d slip through his fingers into the arms of another
man.

“Love
is a luxury, Mr. Nash. Better to marry for wealth, I’ve been told. Better to
marry a title than a good man who has none. Now you tell me, you’re going away
and…”  

They
stared at each another. Her lips parted, while her eyes glistened from the
sunlight, and a single tear formed in the corner and caught upon her lashes. 

Nash’s
heart slammed against his chest, and desperation rose. “You could leave this
place.” He stood close and the breeze blew the hem of her cloak around his
boots. 

He stopped.
“Don’t marry him, Rebecah.”

“I
don’t want to.”

“Promise
me you won’t do it.”

He reached for her, kissed
her long and soft as the ruby sun slipped above the treetops.

Lady
Kathryn’s sitting room fell silent when Rebecah walked through the door. Her
hands trembled as she removed her gloves. Her face felt flushed and joy pulsed
through her veins. Never had she felt so happy. Nash declared his love, and she
could hardly concentrate. Her mind whirled wondering if he would next propose.

Please
ask me. I’ll go away with you and love you forever.

America.
Yes, she would go there to begin a new life with the man she loved, and nothing
on earth could stop them.

“Rebecah?”
Lady Kathryn sat a swatch of blue silk on her lap. “Where have you been?”

“Out
walking, Aunt.”

“I
grew concerned. It is rather cold out. Are you well?”

“I
am.” A smile trembled over Rebecah’s lips.

Her
ladyship turned her attention back to the petite dolls that modeled the latest
fashions. “This is a fine silk, don’t you think?”

“Yes,
It’s very nice, Aunt Kathryn.”

“It
makes for a lovely bridal gown. Do you agree?”

“Yes,
Aunt. But I hope you are not thinking of me.”

Lady
Margaret reached for Rebecah’s hand and drew her down beside her. “Mrs. Rigby.
Haven’t you anything else? Say, some light wool or broadcloth?”

An
elegantly dressed woman in a wide-brimmed hat cocked her head to one side,
which caused her head of heavily powdered ringlets to sweep over the white lace
edging of her bodice. Upon her cheek, she wore a black patch, an odd thing,
thought Rebecah, to wear this time of day. Rice powder and rouge made up the
rest of her face.

“These
are the latest fashions, my lady.” Mrs. Rigby widened her eyes. “Londoners are
paying top dollar.”

Lady
Kathryn sighed. “Expense is no matter.”

Rebecah
listened to the conversation and then looked over at Lady Margaret. The tone of
her voice was soft yet firm, and the way she carried herself was so unlike
other genteel women. She graciously voiced strong opinions on matters of
politics and religion, yet with temperance. Her charity was renowned, though
she herself never spoke of it. Rebecah felt the sudden impulse to know her
better. She wondered, too, what Lady Margaret would say if she knew her son had
confessed his love for her.  

“Why
waste money on such extravagance? One does not need a silk or brogue for every
day of the week.”

Mrs.
Rigby leaned forward. “Because of your status, my lady, it is a necessity.” She
chose a chocolate from a box on the table and popped it into her mouth.

Lady
Margaret looked over at Rigby and smiled. “I don’t care much for status, nor
for fancy silk gowns. I’ll buy twenty yards of this gray broadcloth.”

“For
charity no doubt.” Mrs. Rigby smiled, her cheek puffed out with more chocolate.
“But perhaps this blue would be a bit more cheery?”

“Yes,
perhaps.” Lady Margaret studied it. “I’ll take twenty yards of that also.”

Rebecah
stepped forward. “It’s a lovely color, my lady. Like the sky in winter.”

Lady
Kathryn looked at her niece confused. “What has come over you, Rebecah? No
offense, Margaret, but the color is dull.”