Before the Scarlet Dawn (17 page)

Fiona’s brows shot up. “You are with child? And you helped carry your husband on that litter. I do say, Eliza, I sometimes wonder . . .”

“If I have any common sense in my head?”

Fiona shook hers from side to side. “Oh, ’tis there. But I wonder if you use it. You cannot do tasks like that when you are carrying a babe. Never mind all the reasons why. ’Tis only common sense.”

Sighing, Eliza reached over and touched Fiona’s hand. “You worry a great deal over me. I’ll be more careful. But for now, turn your mind to my husband.”

“Here, let me do that.” Fiona took the cloth from Eliza’s hand. “You sit beside the bed and hold his hand.” And so Eliza obeyed Fiona’s wisdom and sank into the chair. The breeze flowed through the window and brushed over her face, cool and comforting.

“Eliza . . .” Hayward turned his head to see her. His gaze fell on her face, but it seemed as though he did not see her.

She pressed his hand to her cheek. He wet his lips with his tongue. “Snake . . . Omega.” He then drifted off.

Eliza looked over at Fiona. “A snake frightened the horse. It must have reared and thrown him off.”

Hayward moaned. Eliza untied Hayward’s neckcloth and slipped it away from his throat, loosened his shirt, and laid her hand on his chest to feel the beat of his heart.

“I must set my heart to prayer.” Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and prayed as she had never prayed before.

Fiona lit a candle, for the room had grown dark with the thickening sky. She drew beside Eliza, knelt next to her, and folded her hands. “And Jesus saith unto him,” she quoted, “I will come and heal him.”

Two hours passed with no sign of Addison or the doctor. Eliza stayed at her husband’s bedside. He lay so still that at times terror seized her, and she would lean close to hear his breathing, in agony, not knowing whether he were still with her.

By the time the clock on the mantelpiece chimed another hour, a pair of horses galloped down the lane and halted at the door. Footsteps climbed the stairs, and Fiona hurried to open the door and go out into the hall. She returned, tugging a black-clad man by his sleeve. He brushed her off, smoothed his waistcoat, and set his bag on the foot of the bed.

Placing the back of his hand on Hayward’s brow, he paused, his brown eyes attentive to the task. He lifted Hayward’s wrist and timed his pulse with his pocket watch.

“There is no fever, Mrs. Morgan. But your husband may have suffered a concussion. You must keep him still, you understand.” She nodded and kept her eyes intent upon the doctor’s face. From it she could read more than he might want to tell her. He went on examining Hayward’s wound. “You must keep this clean. Change the bandage every day.”

He checked each of Hayward’s limbs, examining his obviously injured leg last. Hayward cried out. “A small fracture of the femur,” said the doctor, looking alarmed. “This is most serious. Again, he must be kept still. Otherwise, the bone may be bent for life. Fortunate for him, it was not a compound fracture. I will place a splint.”

He looked over the rim of his spectacles. “You must keep a close eye on it. We do not want gangrene setting in. He could lose his leg if it does . . . and possibly his life.”

Gangrene. Lose his leg. Possibly his life!
His words sent a shock wave though her.

“As for the concussion, let us pray he wakes soon. It would be wise for you to consider what will happen if he does not.”

Fighting back tears, a lump swelled in Eliza’s throat and she looked worriedly into her husband’s face. His head rested against the pillow. His hair fell over his neck. Such love she bore for him that she begged God to spare his life at any cost to her.

The doctor touched Eliza on the shoulder. “He should be kept quiet and cool.”

“Yes.”

“If he comes around, you may feed him apples boiled in milk if he is hungry.”

“May I give him tea, sir?”

“If he wants it. He will need to stay in bed for several weeks. It is not necessary, however, that he should lie all that time upon his back. After the second week, have your manservant gently raise him up.”

“May we seat him near the window? It is shaded in the late afternoon, and the breeze from the river is refreshing.”

“Yes, that would greatly revive him. Your husband is not to exert himself in any way. It could delay healing.”

She recalled that, when she was fifteen, a poor farmer, one of the members of her father’s flock, had fallen from the pitch of his roof while making repairs. For days, he lingered in and out of consciousness, until at last he died. She remembered the lost stares of his eight children, and how his wife had wept to the point of exhaustion. Nothing her father said or did could console the distraught woman.

After the doctor left, Eliza fell on her knees at Hayward’s bedside and grasped his hand. She put her lips to his fingers and kissed them. She prayed until she could no longer keep her eyes open, drifting to sleep near him, believing that the Father of all comfort heard her pleas.

It was not until the next evening when darkness came that Hayward opened his eyes and looked over at her. A candle set on the bedside table bathed his face in amber light, while the gibbous moon paled the room.

“Eliza . . .” he spoke her name in a sigh.

She drew closer.

“You should be here . . . beside me.”

She kissed his lips. “Only if you promise to be still, my love.”

“I have nowhere to go . . . for now.”

“Yes, only for now.” She told him what had happened, and what the fall had done to him. Tomorrow, she decided, she would tell him about their child.

Softly she climbed into bed, faced him, and eased her arm across his chest. Long into the night, she listened to his breathing, felt the beat of his heart against the palm of her hand. Finally, when the clock on the mantle tapped out two in the morning, she drifted off to sleep with the breeze flowing through the window upon them both.

17

B
right sunshine touched Eliza’s eyelids. She woke at the sound of the cock’s crow and rose quietly—so as not to wake Hayward. Her feet touched the cool floor, and she tiptoed over to the window, where she tied the curtains back with a broad ribbon from her sewing basket. It was already a warm day, the sky pale and cloudy. She stood there a moment to feel the breeze sweep over her face. Eyes closed, she drew in the forest scents that came down from the mountains, where hardwoods shaded fern and rhododendron.

Turning from the window, she slipped into her brown homespun gown of soft cotton. She ran her hand across her belly, the fabric slightly tauter than the week before.

Warmth prickled over her body, and she turned aside to her husband. She touched his hair with her fingertips. It was soft between her fingers, and the feel of it caused her heart to swell as she looked down into his face. He did not stir, and she prayed he would remain so a little longer.

She went to wash her face and hands, but the pitcher and basin were dry. There would be water downstairs in the kitchen, and so she stepped from the room, pitcher in hand, to fetch more. Little remained in the wooden cask, and so she picked up the bucket beside it and went out into the heat and sunshine.

The path had been swept clean by the night winds. Spheres of sunlight flickered over it. Eliza did not neglect to take in the beauty that surrounded her. Great trees shaded the way, and honeysuckle vine wove through patches of wild rose. She could have fetched water from the creek, for it was closer than the river. But when she saw the patch of blue water through the trees and a pair of cranes standing on the rocks, she set the bucket down at creek side, and headed toward it. A few moments to herself was all she needed.

She lowered herself to the shore and dipped her hand into the river. She washed her face, and allowed the water to ripple down her neck. She sat down on the bank, listened to the rapids tumble over the rocks, and watched the water swirl in deep eddies. Hayward would be all right, her heart told her. He would come down to this spot with her in a month or two and watch the sunset tint the river magenta and indigo.

She saw something indiscernible float toward her, turn in the current until it met with a rock and halted. Rapids gushed over it, and a crow fluttered above the water and landed on the rock. The crow paced close to the object, poked it with its beak, and then flew off.

Slowly Eliza stood. Realizing what her eyes beheld, she stared at the mass of gray and blue, at the Indian arrow imbedded in the dead man’s back. She could not cry out, but stood frozen from the horror she saw coming toward her as the body dislodged itself. Hands, white and gnarled, stretched out to her, as if pleading with her to pull him out. A lump in her throat gave way, and a trembling breath escaped her lips. She scrambled up the embankment to the path. Fear gripped her, clutching at her heels as she ran. Could the warrior who killed the man be close by?

A horse whinnied, and she looked in its direction. She hadn’t expected to see Mr. Halston riding toward her on his gray stallion. He lifted his hat to her, swung one leg over the saddle, and set his booted feet on solid ground.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Morgan. I hadn’t thought to find you out walking alone, not with such dangers as we cannot imagine are possible. I heard your husband met with an accident, and I came to offer my condolences.”

Eliza pushed a strand of her hair back from her eyes with a trembling hand. “There is . . . a man in the river.”

Halston glanced toward the Potomac and placed his hand over the hilt of his pistol. “Did he try to harm you?”

“No. There is a body . . .”

“You’re in shock. Come. I will take you home.”

He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his horse’s back. Taking the reins, he led his mount on, over the dry earth that had hardened in the sun. Eliza looked down at him as he trudged ahead, grateful he had come along to help her. Surely Hayward would not object, but be as thankful as she.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Who was the poor soul who had been murdered? What was to be done with him? If he had not come far, she feared warriors were close enough to threaten her family.

The moment Halston helped Eliza down, Fiona bolted out the front door. “Come quick, my girl. Mr. Hayward is burning with fever. It came on him all of a sudden. He’s making no sense in anything he’s saying.”

Eliza hurried up the stairs, then paused before going through the door. “I left the bucket at the mill. The cask is practically dry, and Hayward needs water.”

She turned and started back down the stairs. Halston put his foot on the first step and stopped her. “Send your servant,” he said. “I will return to the river and investigate what you have seen.”

She set her hand over the railing. “Thank you, sir.”

He bowed. “It is my honor.”

She held his eyes a moment, then said to Fiona, “Find Addison for this gentleman. He has need of his help.”

Hayward lay propped against the pillows, his leg wrapped tight in a splint. He made great effort to breathe, something Eliza knew was due to the force of the fever that raged through his veins. He looked at her through barely open, glassy eyes filled with pain. She hurried to him and touched his hands and brow. His skin was moist and hot, and tears welled in her eyes. He turned his head at her touch and spoke incoherently.