Medicine Wheel (16 page)

Serena’s tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and Rachael rose and sat down on the bed, took her in her arms and held her close while she sobbed.

34

S
ERENA
’
S
BUCKSKIN
MARE
was already tethered at the base of the bluff when Thad arrived. He tied Cato and snatched a poncho from his saddle bags and headed up the trail. A deep rumbling came from the southwest, and flashes of lightening lit up an ominous darkening sky in that direction. An hour from now, it would be pouring buckets, a welcome reprieve from a nasty dry spell but a hostile intruder on his afternoon rendezvous with Serena.

As Thad came over the lip of the mesa, he spotted Serena pacing nervously at the hub. He raced over, took her in his arms, and instantly noted her unresponsiveness. He stepped back. “Are you okay?”

“I have to spit it out now, Thad. I’m leaving in two days. I’m going back to school . . . to Washington.”

Her words struck him like a horse’s kick in the gut, and he was hit by a wave of panic. “But you can’t. What about us? Serena, marry me. Tomorrow if you want. Just stay. I love you. I want to make a life with you. You’ve said you love me. You still do, don’t you?”

She turned away from him. “I want to go to school. I want an education. I cannot . . . will not . . . make a commitment now. You go ahead with medical school. I’ll come back next summer. We can talk then . . . see how things are between us. We don’t have to make decisions now.”

He thought her words sounded rehearsed, and he moved to her and turned her toward him, and with the palm of his hand gently lifted her face, so she had to meet his eyes. He saw something akin to fear in her tear-filled eyes. “Tell me you don’t love me,” he said. “Just tell me that, if you can.”

She kissed him softly on the lips and pulled away. She took a lingering look at the medicine wheel and then darted like a frightened doe for the trail.

Thad started after her. “Serena. Wait. We need to talk.” Then he thought better of it.

He sat in a daze on the hub, watching the storm move in. The thunder and lightning roared and cracked above the bluff, and soon the rain came in torrents, mingling with the tears on his cheeks. But he barely noticed and didn’t care.

Spring 1885

35

C
AMERON
L
OCKE
STEPPED
quietly into the vestibule of the small Methodist Church that was nestled in the tidy, middle-class neighborhood crowding the western boundary of the Kansas capital city. He peered through the open doorway and surveyed the sanctuary before entering. The pews were perhaps one-fourth filled, he guessed—twenty-five or thirty people, more women than men. Seated near the pulpit were an older man with a clerical collar and a petite, young woman with skin tinged the color of burnt sienna. He assumed this was Serena Belmont.

Cam slipped into the sanctuary and claimed a seat in an otherwise unoccupied back row pew. It seemed strange to be in church for something other than a funeral. Most of the Lockes took after the Judge, somewhat neutral in their approach to things religious, respectful but not dedicated church-goers. The sole exception was his brother, Franklin, an ordained Methodist minister who would have been very much at home in this edifice.

This afternoon, though, he was not in church for a religious service. The congregation apparently made its facilities available for other respectable events, and today’s was a lecture sponsored by the Topeka branch of the Bill of Rights Society. The speaker was Serena Belmont, who was also general counsel for the national organization, and, from what Cam had learned, the most sought after speaker in its lecture bureau. The title of today’s lecture was “Equal in Slavery?”

The elderly gentleman rose and stepped up to the pulpit, introducing himself as Reverend John Miller, the pastor of the host church, who also happened to be vice-chairman of the Topeka chapter of the Bill of Rights Society. He presented a brief summary of the organization’s purpose, which Cam gathered was two-fold: to increase public awareness of the importance of the Bill of Rights and to provide legal counsel in selected cases where an individual had been denied one of those rights.

The Reverend Miller moved smoothly to his introduction of the speaker, reciting an impressive list of court victories in defense of the Bill of Rights, including three successful arguments before the United States Supreme Court, a court before which a country lawyer like Cam would never even dream to appear. Why, in God’s name, would this woman want to relocate her practice from Washington, D.C. to Manhattan, Kansas?

The audience clapped politely as Serena Belmont stepped to the pulpit. She was breathtakingly beautiful, Cam noted, attired modestly in a crisp, pale-green dress. She wouldn’t be more than an inch or two over five feet in her stockinged feet, he thought, but she had a natural poise and presence that filled the room. Her dark eyes surveyed the sanctuary, pausing occasionally, evidently making eye contact with an audience member and smiling an acknowledgement before moving on. Then her eyes fastened on Cam, and he met her gaze evenly. She seemed bewildered for an instant before she looked away. That was odd he thought; she acted as if she might have recognized him. But his decision to attend the lecture had been impulsive, and he had not told her of his plans. Besides, she had never seen him before, as far as he knew.

After acknowledging her sponsors and thanking the audience for attending, Serena launched her speech. “Sometimes Americans worship at the altar of equality. Yes, the ideal is equality before the law, but beware of this beast. Alexis de Tocqueville wrote almost fifty years ago that ‘Americans are so enamored of equality, they would rather be equal in slavery than unequal in freedom.’ The Frenchman searched the American soul during his travels here, and what he wrote does not bode well for the future of freedom, and I will be alluding to this man and his words again as I share my thoughts this afternoon.”

“Our constitution was designed to provide the framework for a free country in the context of its time, but as most of you know, guarantee of personal liberties came a few years later with the ratification of the first ten amendments, which were midwifed by James Madison and came to be known as the Bill of Rights.”

 
“These are the gatekeepers of individual liberty, and I repeat—individual liberty. These are all that stand between one person and the mindless mob. The thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth amendments were adopted to assure expansion of these liberties, particularly with regard to the former slaves, but these amendments were never intended to be used as a sword to slice away the sanctity of the first ten. Most women await the adoption of another amendment that will guarantee their rights to cast the ballot, and this will happen, but in the meantime the Bill of Rights stands as the guardian of our other liberties.”

Cam found himself mesmerized by Serena Belmont’s voice and the clarity of her thinking and her manner of expression. There was no shrillness in her speech, and the words flowed like honey off her tongue. Sitting in the furthest pew from the pulpit, he could clearly hear every word. His eyes wandered over the audience and observed that the other attendees were equally hypnotized. It occurred to him there had been no applause, and he realized the listeners were so caught up in her words they had not thought to applaud. Also, she did not utilize the techniques of many other speakers of delivering so called “applause lines” or inserting the poignant pause signaling for audience response.

He checked his pocket watch. She had been speaking for nearly forty-five minutes but it seemed half of that, and he wanted to hear more—but of course that was how an effective speaker wanted to leave the audience.

“The Bill of Rights is not, as de Tocqueville said, an endlessly expanding list of rights: the ‘right’ to education, the ‘right’ to medical care, the ‘right’ to food and housing. That’s not freedom; that’s dependency. Those aren’t rights; those are the rations of slavery . . . hay and a barn for human cattle. Democracy is not freedom. As I remarked earlier, the mob is the purest form of democracy: a majority of the moment deciding, for whatever reason, who will die and why. The Bill of Rights is the last line of defense from the tyranny of kings and other ruling despots, and, yes, in America, sometimes from an irrational and unthinking majority. Thank you.”
 

Serena stepped down from the pulpit and returned to her seat, as the small audience stood in unison and applauded. She rose from her chair and waved and smiled and the applause continued.

As he joined the standing ovation, the thought passed through Cam’s mind that he had just heard and watched someone who could quickly take command of a stage shared with any speaker in America. She was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

Cam waited in the rear of the sanctuary while audience members slowly filed out. Serena remained on the stage, surrounded by half a dozen women who were engaged in animated dialogue with her. He wished they would get the hell on their ways. Waiting was not his forte.

Finally, the group of admirers dissipated, and Serena gathered up her things and prepared to depart. She looked up when Cam had nearly reached the stage. She smiled brightly and stepped down with hand outstretched to greet him. “Cameron Locke, I presume.” Her statement was not a question.

He accepted her hand, and was mildly surprised by her firm grip. Somewhat taken aback by her instant recognition of him, he replied, “How did you know who I am?”

She stepped back and seemed to be appraising him. “It took me a moment when I first caught sight of you at the back of the church, but I was quite certain you were a Locke. Then when you came down the aisle, and I saw the eyes, that confirmed it.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them before. Steel gray, always searching and not missing a thing.”

“I don’t recall we’ve met.”

“We haven’t. But I encountered your brother some years ago.”

“Ian?”

“Thaddeus. But enough of that. I’m hungry and I’m tired. It’s nearly six o’clock. Would you be my guest for dinner . . . or is it supper here?”

A woman buying him dinner? This was too strange. “It’s usually supper if we’re eating at home but dinner if we’re eating out. Don’t ask me to explain the logic. And, yes, I’d be pleased to join you.”

“I suggest the Worthington Inn. It’s near my hotel. I have a rented horse and buggy in front of the church. If you’re on horseback, perhaps, you can tie your horse behind and join me in the buggy.”

36

T
HE
W
ORTHINGTON
I
NN
was an elegant, and Cam surmised, expensive, dining establishment. The maître d’ had instantly recognized Serena and escorted them to a corner table that afforded considerable privacy. It was ironic, Cam thought, that there were eating places in Topeka that would have denied service to a colored woman, and here she was treated as royalty. Casting his eyes about the dining area, he observed several Negro couples eating at another table. Serena obviously staked out her eating places carefully, with an eye toward avoiding incidents.

He dined on a huge steak and fried potatoes, but despite the fact Serena had earlier claimed to be hungry, she picked at the half-serving she had ordered, and in the glow of the new electric lighting—that had not yet arrived Manhattan—she looked a bit drawn and gaunt. Traveling across the country by rail and sleeping in a different bed every night would be wearing, he guessed.

“How long have you been with the Society?” Cam asked, deciding it was time to abandon the small talk.

“A little over six years. Immediately after being admitted to the bar I learned there was a vacancy in the general counsel’s position, and a law professor of mine at Howard lobbied very hard for me to get the position. I had been enraptured by Bill of Rights cases during law school, and my writings on the subject intrigued several members of the board. The Society has several wealthy benefactors, and, fortunately, the position pays well . . . and I am permitted to take private cases from time to time as long as they are not inconsistent with the Society’s purposes.”

“You have very impressive credentials. And when I watched you this afternoon, I concluded you could choose to do anything that suited you and you would be successful at it.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, and her dark eyes bore in on his. “Was I auditioning this afternoon? Is that why you were there?”

Cam smiled. “Not exactly. I am interested in the work of your organization. But I was curious. I admit I would not have made the trip if you had not written to my father about a position. And I think he has notified you that we have a case where you might be of some help to us.”

“Yes. But I’m not sure I can be away from my Washington office that long. Tell me about the case.”

Cam gave Serena a nutshell version of the case, carefully explaining his family dilemma with some of the key witnesses. When he was finished, Serena looked thoughtful.

“It sounds to me like you’ve got a guilty client, but it is second degree, not first.”

“She’s charged with first degree, and there is at least one witness to establish motive. And in hindsight she made some very foolish statements.”

“So what would you expect of me?”

“You would be my co-counsel. With my sponsorship the district judge will allow your appearance in the Kansas courts. This is quite common. We’ll agree on strategy together. You would definitely need to handle the testimony of my wife and brother . . . perhaps another witness or two, if we agree your examination would be more effective. You will be paid your usual hourly rate for the case.”

“No,” she replied, “your client can’t afford my usual rate. I’ll be satisfied with your rate . . . if I decide to get involved.”

“And when can we expect a decision?”

“After I meet with the accused. I plan to take the train to Manhattan the day after tomorrow . . . I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with some Society donors. I should arrive in Manhattan before noon and will dine with my family. After that I will go to your office and meet with you and your father about the possibility of a position.”