Before the Scarlet Dawn (27 page)

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

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

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

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

“Could you stand being separated from Darcy?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

Part 3

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

Psalm 25:18

26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You there. Where is Old Ben?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thomas, sir.”

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

“Is home far, sir?” Tom reached for a pair of pliers.

“Not very. I hope to be there right before the light fades.” Hayward picked up a piece of iron and examined it. “I’ve been away at war and am eager to get home to my wife and daughter. Do you know River Run?”

The tool slipped in Tom’s hand. “I know of it, yes. You’re Captain Morgan?”

“Yes. Perhaps you have shod my wife Eliza’s horse. We always brought our horses to Ben when he was alive. I left a brown mare with her. Surely she’s come here.”

Tom kept his eyes on his work. “I’ve shod so many horses, sir, I could not say.”

Hayward drew out his watch and checked the time. “You would remember her if she had. She has a look not easy for a man to forget.”

Tom yanked the nails free from the shoe. “Long time ago, maybe.”

“Eliza might like a new kettle or something like it. Can you make those?”

Tom nodded, and hammered a new shoe on his anvil. “I can make anything you require, sir.” He plunged it into the water. Steam rose and seethed. As he tacked the shoe into the horse’s hoof, it sidestepped slightly. Tom steadied Hayward’s horse with a firm grip as he kept the horse’s leg between his knees.

Hayward tucked his watch back into his waistcoat. “It is good to see a man concentrating on his work as hard as you do. You are true to your craft.”

Tom tossed the old shoe onto a pile of rusty iron and glanced over at Hayward. “Thank you, sir.” Again he drew the rag over his sweaty brow.

“Were you in the struggle for our independence?”

“No, sir. I stayed right here, and worked for Mr. Halston.”

“That is regrettable . . . for a man, that you missed out on the fighting.”

Tom shrugged. “I did my part. I made shoes for the officers’ horses, sent some upriver to Fort Frederick. I hear your time away was not so fortunate.”

“Really? What did you hear?”

“That you were on a prison ship. Folks thought you were dead. Mr. Halston said your half brother wrote to Mrs. Morgan, said you attempted to escape, and the British hung you. It came as quite a surprise to everyone in these parts when we heard you were alive.”

A smile crossed Hayward’s face. “Before heading home, I wrote to my half brother. No doubt he’ll be astonished to learn he was told wrongly about me.”

“Aye. And Mrs. Morgan believed it for a long time, until she got the good news. Reverend Hopewell said a special prayer of thanksgiving at the church, and the whole congregation joined in praising God that you had been spared.”

“Except for Mr. Halston, I imagine.”

“Mr. Halston left before then. He was good to your wife and child.”

“What do you mean
he was good to them
?” Hayward’s muscles grew taut. He did not like the idea Halston had known anything about Will’s letter to Eliza, or that he had given Eliza comfort, whatever that meant. Had she been faithful to him?

“Well, the Good Book does say to take care of the widows and the orphans. He made sure she had enough provisions to last the winter months. There was a fierce blizzard and an Indian attack. He . . .”

Despite hearing of the dangers his family had faced, Hayward raised his hand. He knew if he did not stop Tom, he’d hear the praises of Halston’s valor. Part of him was thankful Halston had been there for Eliza in his absence. But jealousy ran deep within him and overtook gratitude. “There is no need to tell me anything more,” he said. “I’ll want to hear it from my wife.”

He took the reins from Tom, mounted his horse, and paid the fee. “Whatever happened to Mr. Halston? Is he at home like some of the other cowardly Tories?”

“Mr. Halston was no Tory, sir. Like I said, he left a long time ago to join the army and never returned—he was killed at Yorktown. His land was bought up.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know, sir. But I hear tell the new owner intends to lease the land and house.”

Hayward looked up the lane leading from the blacksmith shop and fixed his eyes on the house. It would be a suitable dwelling for the Breese family. “I will write my half brother of it. He has a growing family and this would be a suitable home for them. Thank you, Tom.”

Drawing his horse back, Hayward tipped his hat, and made his way toward home. The clop of hooves echoed through the trees, and with eagerness, he pushed his horse to a gallop through the dappled sunshine. Before him waited his beloved, and the daughter he had left as an infant.

The sky shone as blue as the broken robins’ eggs Darcy held in her hand and showed to Eliza. “I found the nest by the tree, Mama. Sarah said the wind blown it down.”

Eliza took in the excited glow within her daughter’s eyes. “I’ve no doubt Sarah is right, my darling. Here, put your treasures in this.” Eliza handed Darcy the basket she used to collect herbs from her garden. “Show them to Ilene.”

Darcy, barefoot and dressed in a white cotton shift, set the eggs carefully inside the wicker cradle, then dashed away to kneel beside Ilene. Having been parted from him at such a young age, she would not remember her papa’s face, but she had told Eliza she imagined his gentle voice. She asked Eliza when he would come home, what war and revolution meant, something that in her young innocence Darcy could not comprehend, and no one, not even Eliza, tried to explain. Word had spread through the villages and hovels along the rivers that General Washington had won a victory at Yorktown and the war was over. Menfolk would be returning to cabin and manor. But not Mr. Halston.

Would Hayward come riding home today, tomorrow, to rescue her out of her loneliness? Or would weeks pass by, and rack her nerves with worry? Her face had not changed—not a spot or wrinkle to mar it. On this score, she was not worried he would be disappointed. No, the years had not changed her in appearance. However, events and circumstances had caused her to age internally.

The house had been readied, the pantry stocked with his favorites, the barrel in the kitchen filled with ale, his long-stemmed pipe set on the table beside his chair.

“Look, Ilene. Are they not pretty?” Darcy gently picked up one egg, and it toppled into her palm.