American Dreams (10 page)

"That is what we believe," Will said, then turned as Victoria approached, carrying their youngest.

Temple was relieved. The Blade was not as confident as her father that the Cherokees would be fairly treated, and his doubts frightened her. She watched as her father helped her mother and then Miss Hall into the carriage. She took a seat opposite Victoria, who, after settling the baby on her lap, directed a wan smile at Eliza.

"How are the children progressing in school, Miss Hall?"

"Quite well, Mrs. Gordon."

"And your new pupils, Shadrach and Phoebe?"

"Extremely well," Eliza asserted, feeling defensive. "Shadrach has shown a particular aptitude for learning."

"Then you have had no difficulties with them?" Victoria said with mild surprise.

"None." But Temple saw Eliza glance toward Kipp.

Although her brother hadn't repeated his objection to the presence of Phoebe and Shadrach in the classroom, he had expressed his hostility toward them in other ways, taking malicious delight in any mistake they made and seeking every opportunity to torment them unmercifully outside of school. At times his abuse had bordered on cruelty. Yet Eliza did not bring his behavior to her employer's attention. The tutor's discretion pleased Temple. She hoped the Supreme Court judges would hold as wise a counsel as Miss Elizabeth Hall.

 

 

 

8

 

 

"You are a poor correspondent." Eliza turned a look of mild reproval on her unexpected visitor, the gangly minister Nathan Cole, who had accompanied her on her journey to this mountain frontier. "It has been weeks since your last letter."

In truth, Eliza had received one brief letter from him in answer to her rather lengthy epistle describing her new home at Gordon Glen. When her second letter met with no reply, she had refrained from writing a third.

"I apologize for that. I was away preaching in the mountains. When I learned I would soon be traveling this way..." He paused self-consciously. "I confess, I am a poor man with a pen. When I read your letters, it is as though you are in the room talking to me. Mine, I fear, are cold and stilted."

Eliza couldn't agree with him more, but she was too happy to see him to criticize. "Whatever your reason, I forgive you. You are here now and that is enough."

"I couldn't pass this way without calling to see how you were faring." He walked beside her, looking gawky and awkward, all arms and legs. Everything about him was exactly as Eliza remembered, from his thin face and straw-colored hair to his soulfully kind eyes. She found it difficult to believe that nearly three months had passed since last she had seen the young minister. Yet September was upon them, bringing milder days to Gordon Glen and ending summer's reign of heat. Eliza was grateful for that, and for the chance to have someone with whom she could talk freely.

As they strolled among the strutting peacocks on the lawn, she shared her recent triumph with Nathan Cole—her success in persuading the Gordons to let her teach the two slave children— and her trials, particularly her current situation with Kipp.

"His resentment of them borders on hatred," Eliza admitted. "I never expected to encounter such prejudice from ... well, Indians."

"The attitude of the Cherokees is no different from many of the Southern whites'. They regard themselves as superior to the Africans. Although sometimes I think the Cherokees are slightly more arrogant."

"The entire practice of slavery is one I find intolerable. It should be regarded as a mortal sin."

"I know. In my heart, I cannot believe God intended for men to own other men. Yet when one reads the Scriptures, there are a number of passages that relate to slavery. Some of the missionaries hire slaves from their masters and then pay them a little extra so they can earn money to buy their freedom. The number is insignificant, though."

"But the gesture is a statement in itself." Eliza considered it a noble and laudable act, one that she quite admired. She had always believed one person could make a difference. It was that belief, more than any other, that had brought her to this place.

"I suppose it is."

The peacocks set up a noisy cry, ceasing their vain swagger to scramble about in alarm. Automatically, Eliza glanced toward the road leading to the plantation's manor house. A horse and rider cantered into view.

"They are more reliable than dogs in warning you of some one's approach," she said to Nathan, raising her voice to make herself heard above their racket.

"Such a terrible sound to come from such beautiful fowl." He smiled ruefully at their noise, then turned to gaze at the approaching rider. "More company?"

"The Blade Stuart. He comes regularly to court Temple." She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, but the very subject of Temple and The Blade made her uncomfortable. Nathan Cole was a minister and she found it impossible to discuss her concern for Temple's virtue with him. She started walking again, angling away from the house so they wouldn't witness the meeting between Temple and The Blade, meetings that always seemed to be marked by the throb of passion just below the surface. "Tell me what you have been doing. You said you went into the mountains."

"Yes. There are many Cherokees who live in isolated cabins, venturing out one or two times a year." His glance swept their surroundings, taking in the bricked paths, the lawn, the ornamental shrubs, the numerous outbuildings of the plantation, and finally, the imposing brick mansion itself. "Not all Cherokees are as affluent as your Mr. Gordon. Many live in humble log cabins and farm a small patch of ground, raising only enough to feed their families. These are the ones we seek to reach now."

The living conditions he described were what she had expected to find when she arrived here, Eliza recalled. "And were you well received by them?"

"Yes." A musing smile curved his mouth, giving a roundness to his thin cheeks. "They have names for the missionaries from the different religions. The Presbyterians are called the Soft Talkers. The Baptists are known as the Baptizers. And the Methodists are called the Loud Talkers." Eliza laughed, finding the descriptions aptly matched the representatives that she'd met of the various sects. Encouraged by her reaction, Nathan Cole went on. "At one farm where I stopped, an old Cherokee by the name of Buffalo Killer asked me to tell him a story from the talking leaves—that's their phrase for a book. You should have seen him, Eliza ... Miss Hall," he quickly corrected himself, a flush of red creeping up his neck at his inadvertent familiarity.
 

"You may call me Eliza."

"If you call me Nathan," he offered with a touching hesitancy.
 

"Very well, Nathan," she replied.

"Yes ... uh . .. well, as I was saying, I wish you could have seen Buffalo Killer. He had snow white hair down to his shoulders, and he wore a red-and-yellow-striped turban on his head with a feather plume sticking out the back. His shirt was made of homespun and he wore buckskin breeches and beaded moccasins that came all the way up to his knees. He smoked a pipe continuously while I was there. Anyway, I told him the story of Christ and explained to him about the Bible and the teachings of Christ. When I finished, he was silent for a moment, then nodded very solemnly and said, 'The things you have told me are good. But my mind wonders—if the palefaces have known the message of the talking leaves for this many winters, why have
they
not become good?' "

Considering the current situation between the Cherokees and the Georgians, Eliza regarded the question as a sadly accurate observation. "How did you answer him?"

"I had to admit there were many white men who failed to follow the teachings of Christ. I had the impression Buffalo Killer thought I should be carrying the Word of Christ to them."

"Sometimes I think a good thrashing is what these members of the so-called Georgia Guard truly deserve."

"Eliza." Nathan stared at her, surprised by the violence inherent in her remark.

"It's true," she asserted. "They are behaving like greedy little bullies trying to take something that doesn't belong to them. I would not tolerate such behavior in my classroom." She looked at him. "Does that shock you?"

He paused, then shook his head. "I agree disciplinary action should be taken by the proper authorities."

"That is what the Cherokees are doing." Eliza went on to tell him about the efforts being made by Chief Ross and the National Council to bring their plight to the attention of the Supreme Court. The recent murder conviction of a Cherokee named George Corn Tassel had provided attorney William Wirt with the test case he needed.

It troubled Nathan that Eliza was becoming embroiled in the legal maneuverings going on. Such things were the province of men. It was embarrassing and unbecoming that she should take such an interest in them. He found it most uncomfortable himself.

 

When Will Gordon returned from the fields shortly before the evening meal, Eliza was obliged to introduce him to her visitor. Will immediately insisted the young missionary stay the night and continue his journey in the morning, an invitation Victoria quickly seconded. After mildly protesting the inconvenience to them, Nathan agreed.

When the meal was finished, they withdrew as usual to the family parlor. Will Gordon poured a measure of brandy for himself and another dinner guest, The Blade. Nathan abstained.

Eliza sat at the rosewood piano as she did most evenings. Instinctively, she began playing her favorite nocturne. One song seemed to flow into another. Eliza was only vaguely aware when Victoria Gordon excused herself to tuck the children into bed.

After several selections, she finally paused and glanced at Nathan. He sat in a wing chair facing the piano. "Is there a particular song you would like to hear?"

"No." He shook his head. "You play like an angel, Eliza."

"I have thought that myself," Will Gordon agreed, glancing up as his wife rejoined them.

"I have a request," The Blade inserted. "Do you know any music suitable for a quadrille, Miss Hall?"

Eliza hesitated a moment. "I believe so, yes."

"Temple says she has never danced it." He cast a challenging look at Temple. "This would be the perfect opportunity to teach her. You know the steps, do you not, Will?"

Briefly taken aback, Will Gordon frowned. "It has been years, but... Do you remember them, Victoria?" He turned to his wife.

"I think so." She laughed hesitantly. "I am not sure."

"Doesn't it require four couples to form the square?" Will frowned.

"Temple can learn it with two." Without waiting for them to agree, The Blade began moving furniture to clear a space in the center of the room. Everyone joined in to help except Eliza. She tentatively played the tune, trying to refresh her memory of the melody.

When all was in readiness, The Blade nodded to her, and Eliza struck the opening chord. She partially turned to watch, keeping the tempo slow as The Blade led Temple through the pattern.

The second time through, she played the song at its normal tempo and smiled briefly at Nathan when he came to stand beside the piano. Laughter accompanied the moments of confusion by the dancers. Eliza smiled along with them, never losing a note.

Soft as a murmuring breeze, the music drifted from the parlor into the night, its melody faint, too faint for Deuteronomy Jones to recognize. He waited on the hard wooden bench that ran along the outer wall of the detached kitchen, well within earshot of the house should his master call. Pale amber light streamed from the windows of the big house, laying a long trail on the ground and holding the darkness at bay. Deu was beyond its reach, sitting in the shadows.

The evening breeze, redolent with apples, whispered around him. It was harvest time in the apple orchards of Gordon Glen. The sheds bulged with crates of red, ripe apples ready for shipment to southern ports. For now, the cider mill was silent, but come morning, it would be running again, crushing more apples and releasing the sweet smell of their pulp into the air; the ketties in the plantation's kitchens would be bubbling with more fruit being cooked into applesauce, apple butter, and preserves.

From the woods near the mill, Deu could hear the grunts of hogs greedily rooting through the discarded mash and skins. He huddled deeper in his coat, knowing how good a mug of hot cider would taste right now.

A dark figure hurried across the grass toward him, and inside himself everything tightened up. It was Phoebe, of the shy and dancing eyes. Forgetting the night's chill, Deu stood up, warmed by the gladness singing through him. When she stopped before him and gazed up with such timid eagerness, Deu wanted to look at her forever.

"I brung—I brought you some hot cider. I spilled some, tho', and it's prolly just warm now, but. . ." Jerkily, she thrust the tin cup at him, along with an object in her other hand. "Here's an apple fritter, too. It's okay," she hurried to assure him. "Dat... that reverend didn't eat his and I hid it away when I was clearin' the table. No one'll know I gives—gave it to you."

"I was wishing for some cider." When he took the items from her, Deu felt the coolness of her fingers, then noticed the way she quickly wrapped the old shawl more tightly around her shoulders once her hands were free. "Are you cold? Maybe you should drink this." He glanced at the thinness of her dress.

"No, it's for you," she insisted, then looked over her shoulder in the direction of the slave quarters, as if she should go back.

"Can you sit with me awhile?" Deu didn't want her to leave, not yet. It didn't seem to matter how many times he told himself she was too young. Each time he was around her it was harder not to touch her.

"For a spell, mebbe." She tipped her head down, avoiding his eyes, but he saw her lips curve in a smile, and he knew she was glad he had invited her. Was she? Did she want to be with him? he wondered, conscious of the sudden leaping of his heart. She moved past him and sat down on the wooden bench. Deu gulped down a swallow of cider, barely tasting the tepid liquid, then sat next to her, careful not to sit too close. "You like de—the fritter?" she asked. "I made it m'self."