Tomorrow's Dreams (49 page)

Again he tried to speak. This time he succeeded. “Feels good,” he muttered, his voice cracking and breaking like that of a youth making the transition into manhood.

The cloth paused on his belly, then was pulled away. After a beat, he felt a work-roughened hand cup his cheek, just as Penelope always did.
No. Not Penelope
, he reminded himself.
Her hands were soft … silky, like the skin of a newborn lamb
. His brow furrowed. Where was Penelope, anyway? It seemed as if there was something he ought to be remembering about her.

“Can you hear me?” a vaguely familiar voice inquired.

Curious to match the face to the voice, Seth slitted open his eye again. Again he clamped it shut, this time moaning, “Light … hurts.”

She made a soothing little clucking noise and patted his cheek. Something about that noise tugged at his memory. “The doctor warned me that your eyes might be sensitive to the light at first. He said it's normal after what you've been through.”

After what he'd been through … doctor?
None of it made the slightest bit of sense. The hand left his cheek, and he felt the bed move as the owner of the voice stood up. He heard her move away, then a-
swish!
and a-
clink!
followed by the sound of muffled footsteps approaching the bed again.

“There. I've drawn the drapes and dimmed the lamp a bit,” she said. “Why don't you try to open your eyes again?”

He did, experimentally peeping out of one eye. No pain, just an infusion of soft lamplight. Sighing, he opened the other one. Everything was a blur. He blinked several times in rapid succession trying to clear his vision. Gradually the colors and shadows merged into the shape of a tall, willowy woman; a woman who was older, yet beautiful; one who looked distinctly worried.

Recognition niggled at Seth's brain as he stared up at her face. Though shadows obscured the color of her eyes, there was something familiar about the variegated shadings of her wheat-shot honey hair. And her jaw … it was unusually strong for a female, square and stubborn, like—

Then memory assailed him.
Louisa … Tommy … death
…

“Penelope!” he screamed, bolting up. Instantly he crumpled back down again, crippling pain lancing through the side of his skull. “Jesus,” he muttered, reaching up to press his hand to the throbbing area. His fingers met with what felt like a thick swathe of gauze.

Louisa made a soothing sound and patted his shoulder. “She's fine,” she crooned. “She's sleeping right now.”

“The … baby?”

“At the undertakers, poor little dear,” she informed him, raising his head a bit to hold a glass of water to his lips. “For a while there we were afraid you might join him.”

Seth obediently took a sip. It tasted good. Suddenly thirstier than he'd ever been in his life, he tried to take a bigger gulp, but she pulled the glass away. “Slowly,” she instructed, returning it to his lips. “We don't want it coming right back up again.”

When Seth had drunk as much as Louisa would allow and was once again lying down, he asked, “What happened?”

“Do you remember fainting?”

He started to nod, but then thought better of it. “Yes.”

“Doc Larson said it was due to the swelling of your brain; the result, he believes, of some blows you took to your head a day or so earlier.” She gently touched the bandage. “When you didn't regain consciousness after eight hours, he told me quite frankly that there would be little or no chance for your recovery unless he opened your skull and released the pressure.”

Her fingers glided downward to cup his cheek again. “As terrifying as I found the operation, I saw no choice but to let him do it. I wanted you to have every possible chance.” She bent nearer, and he could see tears shimmering in her eyes. “I simply couldn't bear to lose you again.”

Seth laid his hand over hers on his cheek, the genuine tenderness in her expression and voice erasing the last of his doubts. “You're never going to lose me again,” he promised. “I intend to be your son whether you want me or not.”

The joy on her face was so radiant, it was like watching the sun rise in her eyes. “Of course I want you. I wanted and loved you from the first second I looked at your wrinkly little face,” she declared fiercely.

Seth chuckled. “Wrinkled was I?”

“And red and skinny with the baldest head I'd ever seen.” She reached down and lifted his right arm to reveal the scar on the underside. “You also had a nasty cut on your arm.” She gently caressed the mark. “The midwife mistakenly grasped your arm with her forceps during your delivery and tore your flesh. As tired as I was from giving birth, I insisted on tending the wound myself.”

She smiled suddenly, her eyes misting over. “I'll never forget how you looked lying naked and squalling on my lap. You were so beautiful. I'd never seen a newborn before, and I found every finger, toe, even your tiny sex, fascinating. I bandaged your arm with my finest cambric handkerchief.” A sob caught her voice. “It was the first and last thing I ever did for you.”

“No, not the last,” Seth said in a hushed voice. “How can you say such a thing after all you've done for me these past few days? Without your care, I'd probably be dead now.” He shook his head gingerly and took her hand in his. “No … Mother. With God's grace the last will come many years from now.”

“Mother. How I've longed to hear you call me that.” The look she gave him was almost shy. “Do you know what else I've wished?” At his encouraging smile, she replied, “To hold you again as I did the day you were born. Though you've grown to remarkable”—she eyed his long form—“and splendid proportions since that day, I'd like to hold you again if you'll let me.”

Seth held out his arms, too choked with raw emotion to tell her that being held was exactly what he wanted at that moment. With a strength he found surprising, she swept him into her embrace, hugging him fiercely while alternately crooning loving nonsense and covering his face with kisses.

Peace such as he'd never known before engulfed Seth as he laid his head on her shoulder. Sighing his contentment, he closed his eyes, cozy and safe in the shelter of his mother's arms.

It was a long while later when Louisa eased him back down to his pillows. Then she sat by his side practically devouring him with her gaze. It was as if she was trying to memorize every detail. “Your beautiful hair … I'm sorry,” she murmured, touching the bandage. “What the doctor didn't shave, he cropped.”

For some odd reason, Seth didn't feel more than a passing twinge at the loss. What was the sacrifice of a little hair when compared to the gains of a family and his life? He said as much.

She chuckled at his philosophical reply. “You sound just like your father when you talk like that. He was the most levelheaded man I ever met. That's part of why I loved him so.”

Seth stared at his mother as if she'd lost her mind as well. Mad Pieter Van Cortlandt, levelheaded?

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “Oh, no, my darling son. I haven't turned lunatic on you. And I know what you're thinking. I saw the Pinkerton reports when I transferred your belongings here from the American House.” She shook her head. “My poor, poor dear. How awful it must have been for you these last couple of years thinking that Pieter was your father.”

Seth's chest tightened with wary hope at her words. “Pieter wasn't my father?”

She shook her head again. “Oh, no. Your father was Martin Vanderlyn, the finest man in the world.”

“Then, I'm not in danger of going mad?” he asked cautiously, afraid to believe in fate's sudden, merciful twist.

“Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “You don't have a drop of tainted blood in you, and neither do I. Pieter inherited his madness from my father's first wife, Lucy Decker. She hanged herself shortly after he was born. My mother was Sarah De Vries, father's second wife, and a more sound-minded woman never lived.”

If Seth had had the strength, he'd have jumped up and down shouting his joy. Instead he settled for a weak whoop and a wide grin. But it was enough. He had the rest of his life to celebrate his good fortune.
He had the rest of his life
. He let out another whoop at that exhilarating truth.

“Calm down … ssh … lie still,” Louisa urged, pushing him back down on the pillows as he tried to rise. “The doctor said under no circumstances are you to become overexcited.”

Too eager for details to heed her admonishments, he struggled up on his elbows and shot off in a barrage, “Why was I told that Pieter is my father, and how did I end up at St. John's Chapel? And why did the caretaker tell me that you ordered me killed at birth? And what about—”

“Later,” she interrupted in a firm voice, forcing him to lie down again. “Right now I'm going to finish bathing you; then you're going to sleep.” At his mulish scowl, she chided, “It won't do you any good to jerk your chin at me. Don't forget that you're not the first stubborn Vanderlyn I've dealt with.”

He slanted her a sly look from beneath his eyelashes. Ah. But she hadn't dealt with this particular Vanderlyn before. Relaxing his frown into a good-natured grin, he bargained, “I'll make you a deal. I'll close my eyes and lie completely still while you bathe me, if you'll answer my questions while you work. Afterward, I'll go straight to sleep. I promise.”

She laughed as she poured fresh water into the basin on the bedside table. “Now you really sound like your father. If ever there was a man with a flair for bargaining, it was Martin.”

“I wish I'd known him,” Seth murmured regretfully.

“I wish you had, too. He'd have been proud to call you son. You look like him, you know.”

Seth stared at her, puzzled. “How can that be? I've seen the portrait of your father, and I'm the mirror image of him.”

She looked up from the towel in her hands to study his face, then shook her head. “You've got the Van Cortlandt features, true. But those aren't what I see when I look at you. I see the gentleness of your smile and the warm intelligence in your eyes. I see things that have nothing to do with your skin and bones, things that show me what kind of man you are. What I see are all the marvelous qualities I'd hoped you'd inherit from Martin.”

“Will you tell me about him, and about yourself?” Seth looked up at her imploringly. “Do we have a deal?”

“That will take far longer than it takes to bathe you,” she said, arranging the bedcovers around his waist.

“Then, tell me what you can. Tell me how you met my father and about my birth. Please?”

“All right,” she agreed, dipping a clean towel in the water. “But if I notice you becoming even the slightest bit agitated, I'll stop talking.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed. “Then, close your eyes.”

When he did, she resumed bathing him, starting over again with his face. “Hmm. Now, where should I begin?”

He opened one eye. “The beginning is always a good place.”

“A smart aleck?” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Another family trait I'm afraid, one of the more unfortunate ones.”

“One of my father's?”

“No. Mine,” she retorted, grasping his ear and swabbing it as if he were a two-year-old. “Now, close your eyes and be quiet.”

He made a face and obeyed.

“All right, from the beginning, then. Our branch of the Van Cortlandt family are direct descendants of the mighty Wouter Van Cortlandt. We, along with the Van Rensselaers and the Livingstons, were one of the few families to successfully cultivate and perpetuate the old system of partroonship.” She mopped down his neck. “Are you familiar with a patroonship?”

“No.”

“It was an oppressive system, much like the feudal system of the Middle Ages. My father's land tenants were bound by a perpetual lease taken out, in many instances, by their ancestors two hundred years earlier. The terms of the lease were despotic, stating that the manor lord be entitled to a tribute of one-tenth of everything grown, raised, or manufactured on the manor land, plus an annual rent of $300. As if that weren't enough, each tenant was also required to contribute labor toward the upkeep of the buildings and roads; cut, split, and deliver six feet of firewood for the manor hearths; and give the manor lord three days' service with his horses and wagon.”

Seth shifted his arm to allow her to wash the underside. “Why didn't the tenants just leave?”

She shook her head. “Most couldn't afford to. The system kept them so poor that they were never able to save enough money to start anew. Besides, their families had lived there for generations, and they viewed the manor as their home. The Vanderlyns were one such family.”

“They were farmers?”

“No, brewers. And fine ones at that. Their beer was in demand from the very beginning. So much so, that by the time Martin was born in 1810, the Vanderlyns would have been wealthy had it not been for the heavy tariffs levied by the patroonship on all goods sold outside the manor.”

“Surely such tariffs were illegal by then?”

“Most of the tenants thought so,” she replied, her touch gentle as she bathed the bruised flesh over his broken rib. “As a result, they organized a farmers' alliance with a common objective of abolishing the patroonship.”

She paused to rewet the towel, resuming her story as she washed his belly. “The alliance, however, was split on how to attain their goal. Half thought it best to discredit the Van Cortlandt land grant titles in court, thus dissolving the partroonship, while the rest felt that stronger measures were needed. Those advocating stronger measures soon went their own way. Their first act was to burn an effigy of my father on the throne where he sat to collect his annual tributes.”

Louisa pulled the blankets to his knees and draped a towel over his loins in one efficient movement. “When my father retaliated by evicting the farmers his spies said were responsible for the act, things turned violent. From then on, we couldn't leave the manor without having our carriage stoned or being confronted by alliance members. It was as a result of one of those confrontations that I met your father.”