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Chapter 12

Eliza

As Eliza feared, once the painting was finished, the nightly visits ceased. Stephen seemed pleased with the painting, as did David. Secretly, Eliza felt that the artist had portrayed her as too lovely. There was a youth reflected in the painting that she no longer felt, and something troubled her about the expression which stared back at her from the canvas.

The winter was fierce, but brief. The early spring David promised her finally arrived and when she was able to get out of the house for even short periods of time her spirits lifted. With the assistance of Jeremiah Grimes she obtained bedding plants and seeds and hired a man to spade up the overgrown flower gardens that bordered the porch and walk.

She enjoyed feeling the warm sun on her back and the moist coolness of earth between her fingers. The hours she spent in her garden each morning were precious because she found that there she had the ability to lose all track of time.

David's visits were once again sporadic. Eliza sometimes wondered if it would be easier for her if he didn't return, but when weeks stretched by with no sight of him she knew that separation was not the answer for the ache always within her.

She played out scenarios in her mind in which she confessed her love to him, but too often, even in her fantasies, he scowled at her and said in clipped, measured tones, "It's too late, Eliza."

His face was lined now by the frown he so often wore. Heavy marks creased his forehead and each side of his mouth. She frequently found him staring at her, a brooding look in his eyes. She wondered why he came. He seemed preoccupied and impatient. But when he spoke to her, his voice was always gentle.

On a steamy late afternoon in mid-July he seemed more preoccupied than usual. As usual, Wilson remained in the dining room after supper, papers spread before him on the table. Eliza and David went outside, onto the porch.

There was no breeze, and the heat did nothing to allay the discomfort she felt as she watched David lean silently against the porch rail, staring vacantly into space. When he began to pace restlessly up and down the length of the porch, she could stand it no longer. "David, what is the matter?"

David stopped his pacing and turned to her. A bitter smile twisted his mouth. "A question? Eliza, you never ask me questions. You never ask what I'm doing, what I'm thinking, where I've been, where I'm going. Why is that?"

"I wasn't—" She stopped herself before telling him that she hadn't been allowed to ask questions of Owen.

He watched her intently. "You weren't what?"

"I wasn't—" Oh, Lord, if she looked at him any longer she would be lost. She turned away from him and stared over the wilting heads of her heat-parched flowers. She forced into her voice a calmness she was far from feeling. "I was trying not to pry."

"Pry, Eliza," he said softly. "If you're not interested, pretend that you are."

Pretend to be interested? It took all her strength to pretend not to be. Her voice caught in her throat. "Of course I'm interested."

"Of course," he said dully.

She heard his footsteps cross the porch and the scrape of chair legs as he sat down.

"I've been appointed to fill a Senate vacancy," he said.

She kept her back to him as she felt moisture gathering in her eyes. "I remember your once telling me that someday you would be principal chief."

"If I ever am," he said in a tone that tore at her heart, "it may be an empty honor."

"No," she protested.

He didn't hear her. "Our nation is dying. And not dramatically. After all the promises, after all our work in building a new home in this wilderness that they happily pushed us into to get our lands in the South, after all the pain of the Civil War—not even our war, as you once reminded me—after all our 'brilliant' negotiations following that war, we're still being nibbled away. They're like mice after cheese—a little piece here, a little piece there, a concession here, a compromise there. Soon there won't be anything left of our nation except perhaps a word or two of the language.

"Oklahoma," he said bitterly. " 'Land of the red men' is how they translate it. If they have their way, one day there won't be enough 'red men' here to remind the world that these were ever separate nations.

"The Council at Okmulgee is a start. The editorials that question whether our land is too valuable to be held for so few. The railroad —already in the Creek Nation, bringing white men who will want our timber and our valleys. The growing pressure to survey our lands and allot them to individuals instead of holding them for all. The warnings are all there, but I don't know what we can do. I don't know if there is anything we can do."

She turned toward him. He leaned forward in the chair resting his elbows on his knees and massaging the furrow in his forehead.

She went to him and knelt beside him, hiding the pain she felt. "Last summer," she said firmly, "you told me you weren't defeated. This winter you told me that you thought you had enough support to keep the constitution of the Okmulgee council from being ratified. Surely, now that you are a member of the legislature, you will be able to exert even more influence. Won't you have some say in what your government does with its land? Won't you have some influence over the railroad as it crosses your country?"

He looked up at her with an expression in his eyes she couldn't interpret. Speculative? Pensive? She forced herself to continue in an even voice.

"You won't give up. You are not able to give up. Your nation has cost too many people too much to be allowed to die."

He took her hand in both of his. "No. I won't give up. I can fight the survey. I can fight allotment. I can be highly critical of those railroads that want the east-west line through the nation. But I'm only one person."

"But you are not the only person who cares."

Eliza lay awake long after he left, staring into the shadows of her room. David's nation couldn't die now. It couldn't!

 

Something shook my shoulder. I tried to ignore it, but the pressure returned. The quilts were so heavy I couldn't breathe.

"Elizabeth?"

Why, it was Jane. What was she doing here? She should be down at the store taking care of Marie. Such a beautiful daughter she had. One day I would have a little girl just like her.

"Elizabeth, here's your tea."

She was one of his people; she could help.

"You won't let him give up, will you, Jane? You'll help him, won't you?"

"Elizabeth?"

"Where's Marie? You shouldn't leave her alone. She's so little."

It was so hot. Why was it so hot? I'd be all wilted by the time David arrived, and I did so want—no, needed—to look nice today.

 

Eliza dressed with special care. It was the first time since last winter that she had known with certainty when David would arrive. He had promised to be with her. Today her year of exile was over and she could formally ask to be released from her marriage vows. Her hands trembled as she arranged her hair. It wasn't wrong. Surely it couldn't be wrong to end a marriage that had been forced upon her. She pushed the final hairpin into place with a defiant gesture.

Mrs. Jenkins's unsmiling presence at breakfast reminded Eliza of how severely she would be censured should it become known that she was divorced. The woman disliked her now, for no valid reason. If she knew the truth . . .

Eliza couldn't tolerate her presence any longer, not if she were to go through with what faced her today.

"Mrs. Jenkins?"

"Yes?"

"Do you not have any family in Fort Smith?"

The woman looked at her quizzically. "Of course I do."

"You never mention them."

"It's not my place to discuss my family with you," Mrs. Jenkins said, sniffing.

Eliza's composure was daunted by the woman's barbed response, but she had made up her mind to be rid of her for at least this day.

"Would you like to visit them?"

"Why?"

Why did this woman have the ability to infuriate her? It was impossible to be subtle.

"I would like for you to take the day off and visit your family."

"I have work to do. I don't neglect my work."

Eliza didn't scream at her to get out of her house, that she didn't want her around to cast a pall on what must be done. She looked at her steadily. "I insist."

It seemed hours before David arrived. She went through agonies of indecision. It was not too late to stop Mr. Grimes; no papers had been filed. She had promised, before God, to be Owen's wife. Till death do us part kept running through her mind. Perhaps if she could remain hidden from him, it wouldn't be necessary to take this step. No. She had to sever all ties with Owen Markham. If only she didn't have to face the rest of her life alone. If only David still cared, it would be easier.

But David didn't care for her, and she would be alone, forever. Where could she go? What could she do? She had not been able to face those questions before. There had always been time, later, for making decisions. Now there was no more time, and she had no answers.

A parade of empty years stretched before her, lonely and joyless. A sob broke from her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep another from escaping. "I will survive," she vowed.

That vow sustained her when David arrived, accompanied only by Jeremiah Grimes. It sustained her through the brief reading of the complaint. It kept her hand from shaking as she signed her name where Grimes indicated.

"Now," Grimes said as he tucked the papers back into their folder, "we have a problem."

Eliza looked at her hands. They were trembling again. She clasped them together.

"In a case like this I would ordinarily suggest that we try for what is known as constructive service of summons. It's quicker, and, in your case, it might be safer for you. We would simply have to publish a notice for four weeks, and in thirty days it would be all over. Your husband might not ever know he had been sued for divorce."

"But you can't risk that with a man of Markham's position?" David interrupted.

"No. We can't. Someone will have to be appointed by the court to take the summons to him. Someone who knows him." He turned to David. "Do you know anyone who can do that?"

David was studying Eliza. He spoke to her. "I can't be gone that long at this time."

"No," Grimes said. "Under no circumstances, Colonel Richards, should you even consider going yourself."

"It's a great deal to ask of someone else," David said. He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of both hands, a gesture Eliza now recognized as one he used unconsciously when in deep thought. "Stephen Ward has wanted to return to Washington. Would he be acceptable?"

"I'll have to research the law, because of his citizenship. It may be necessary to appoint someone to accompany him and actually serve the summons, but I believe the court will accept him."

Grimes was especially solemn as he took his leave. He clasped Eliza's hand. "If your husband should contact you, or if you become frightened for any reason, please let me know. We can protect you."

She held her head erect and spoke with deceptive calm. "Thank you, Mr. Grimes."

After Grimes left, David lapsed into silence. Eliza was afraid to speak, afraid that if she opened her mouth words which she must never say would pour forth.

"Have you decided where you will go?" David asked abruptly.

Must they discuss it now? She shook her head.

"You could go home."

"I have no home," she said.

"To Virginia. To your father."

"I have no home."

David stood facing the mantel, gripping the ledge. "Perhaps you would like to visit friends in Washington before you decide."

She stared past him into the brick of the unused firebox. "No."

"You'll just of off to a new city, a new life, and put all this behind you?"

She felt a constriction in her throat and pressure behind her eyes. "I suppose."

He beat his fist against the mantel once before turning to face her. "How very calm you are," he said slowly. "Haven't you heard? We're the ones who are supposed to be stoic. And yet you constantly amaze me with your ability to show no emotion at all.

"Was it this easy for you to forget me when you married Markham?"

She felt her heart twisting and the pressure in her throat growing.

"Do you know that in the year you've been here you've not once voluntarily spoken of the man you lived with for four years? Nothing bad. Nothing good. Nothing."

He walked toward her as he spoke. Her eyes were trapped in the bitterness she saw in his. She was too stunned to respond, too stunned even to think.

"Your friends in Washington don't exist for you any longer, do they?" He stopped in front of her. "It's as though your father isn't even alive."

She stood and tried to push past him, but he caught her by the shoulders.

"How do you do it, Eliza? How do you turn off love?"

Oh, David, she cried inwardly. Don't do this. Please don't do this. I can't take much more.

His fingers bit into her shoulders. "Was I so wrong about you? I remember you as warm and vibrant, but most of all . . . caring."

She felt tears rising. She turned her head and strained away from him as his words railed down on her.

"When did you change? Why did you change?"

He forced her to face him, and she knew the pain in his eyes would haunt her forever.

"What have you done with the girl I loved?"

She could stand no more. "Please let me go," she moaned.

"No! I have to know."

"She's dead!" Eliza cried, and once she spoke she could not stop. "She died the night her father sold her to Owen Markham."

David released his grip on her shoulders. She stared into his stricken eyes and then, as she had longed so often to do, she threw herself against his chest.

"I don't want to go away. Please don't make me leave. I know you don't love me, but I can't go on living if I lose you again."

"Oh, God," she heard him groan. "I should have known."

A shudder ran through him before he grasped her to him.

"You're not going away. Nothing is ever going to take you from me again."

He held her pressed to him, her face buried in the fabric of his coat. She felt the beat of his heart beneath her cheek, the heat of his body mingling with hers. His arms were bands holding her ever tighter, ever closer to him, and she prayed they would never release her.

He held her away from him and she murmured in protest. He looked down at her face, unspoken questions shadowing his eyes, and bent toward her, his warm mouth kissing the tears from her cheeks.

Groaning, he pulled her to him, and his mouth claimed hers, searching, needing, and within her stirred longings she had felt but once before. She was fifteen again, with David beside a creek, in a world without pain, feeling anew the wonder of wanting to be one with this man, of knowing he felt the same.

She felt weak, without the strength to stand alone, and a warmth flowed through her body. Her arms crept around him, pulling her closer to him. She was floating, she was drowning, she was dying, but she had to go on. This delicious agony must continue.

He tore away, his voice a ragged imitation of the one she knew. "We can't do this."

She reached to touch his face. With tentative fingers she explored each beloved feature and smoothed at the lines which now marked him.

"Please love me," she whispered. "David, I need you to love me."

"Eliza, do you know what you're asking?"

In response she slid her hands behind his head, her mouth seeking his, and when she kissed him, it was with the hunger of seven years of separation, seven lonely years of longing.

How could she have pretended, even for a moment, that Owen was David? She felt David's need, yes. But that need was tempered by love, a love she could feel even though David had not spoken the words.

He pulled away from her again, slowly and reluctantly, and looked into her eyes.

"I've waited for this moment forever," he told her.

"And so have I."

With a smile which, for so many years, she had seen only in her dreams, he lifted her into his arms.

"I love you, Eliza. I never stopped loving you. I never will."

"Nor I you," she promised.

She felt one moment of panic as David lowered her to her bed. She had never known love in the act of love, only pain.

But David did love her. She felt it in the gentleness of his touch, even as he trembled with the demands of his body. No, not Owen, she thought, never Owen. Lifting herself to David's caress, she surrendered to her own needs.

 

An unbearable weight pushed down on me. A band tightened across my chest and refused to let me breathe. I reached out beside me and found only cold, empty sheets.

"David?" My voice rattled in my throat. "David, where are you?"

The face that stared back at Eliza from her dressing table mirror was softer than she had seen it since childhood. She found herself smiling at her reflection and realized with a little start of surprise that the smile was becoming as familiar to her now as its absence had been for so long.

In less than a week she would be David's wife. In less than a week she would be home, in the house on the hill he had promised her.

"It isn't completed," he had warned her. "I stopped work on it when—when I thought you weren't coming."

David had stayed in Fort Smith, near her, until the legislature convened in early October. Bit by bit he drew from her as much of her story as she was able to tell. In scattered fragments she learned of his life since the end of the war, of his disappointments, and of the mistaken impressions of her marriage that he had formed after talking with her father.

David had rejoiced with her when the telegram came from Stephen advising that Owen was on an extended tour of the western tribes and not available to be served with summons, making constructive notice possible after all. Together they laughed at the added message. "Am painting second most beautiful woman in the world."

The only dark moment came after Stephen's affidavit about Owen had arrived by mail. "If I sit with the Senate," David told her, "I can't be with you at the time of the divorce."

Alone? Was she strong enough to go through that alone? Eliza pushed those thoughts from her mind. Of course she was. David loved her, and they would be together forever, soon.

She took his hand in hers. "What do you mean, if you sit with the Senate? Too many things require your attention. And you told me there would be there would be dissension over the selection of the new delegates to Washington and the new candidate for principal chief. You must go."

He drew her to him. "I know. It's only for a month. I'll be back by early November. I just don't feel right about leaving you alone at this time."

"What can go wrong?" she chided. "Owen doesn't know where I am. I have Mr. Grimes to take care of any emergencies, and"—she laughed gently—"I have Mrs. Jenkins to protect my virtue."

He held her close.

"I don't want you to leave me, either," she told him, "but I know why you have to go, and I know that if you don't, you will never forgive yourself."

A rap at the door startled her, and Eliza looked up from the mirror and her memories in surprise as Mrs. Jenkins entered her room, her black coat buttoned up to her neck and her stiff black hat perched primly on her head.

"I have to go out," she announced.

How very strange, Eliza thought. "Of course, Mrs. Jenkins. Is something wrong?"

"No," the woman denied quickly. "No. It's a—it's a matter of an unfortunate woman who needs my help. It shouldn't take too long."

"Take as long as you need," Eliza had told her. This surprising sign of compassion in the housekeeper came much too late, but the woman had lost her power to irritate Eliza. Perhaps because she knew that soon she could say good-bye to Mrs. Jenkins.

Nothing could bother her now, Eliza thought as she dressed for bed. As if to reassure herself that it really had happened, she took the blue-backed legal document from its place in her trunk and read it again. After all the waiting, the dread and the anticipation, it had been too simple. Without Owen to contest the divorce, it had amounted only to a formality, a few questions asked in the privacy of the judge's chambers. There should have been a drum to toll the knell for that part of her life, or perhaps a woman pointing an accusing finger at her and shrinking away in horror. There was nothing but a scrawled signature across an already prepared page.

"But it is over," she said as she replaced the papers in the trunk.

She walked through the room gathering the little things she would take with her, things she could easily pack now, and found herself humming half-remembered melodies her mother had once taught her. She suddenly realized it had been years since she had felt happy enough to sing.

When Wilson had made a special trip to Fort Smith on the first of November to tell her that David had been detained, his message had bothered her at first. "An additional three days," Wilson had said. "At the most. It's important that he stay."

Of course it was important. David wouldn't be kept away if it were not. And now the waiting was over. Even at this moment he might be riding toward home.

Eliza stopped humming and went back to the mirror. Her eyes shone with the joy of her secret surprise. When David left, she had not been sure. Now she had no doubt. Her complexion glowed. She rested her hand on her no longer flat stomach. "A boy," she prayed, "one who looks just like his father."

She heard the sound of steps on the porch outside her room. It was too soon for Mrs. Jenkins to return, but perhaps she had forgotten something. No. The steps were too heavy. They stopped at the door to her bedroom. David! she thought as she heard the knob being tried. He's come early.

She ran to the door, words of welcome on her lips. The door slammed open, and she froze in midstep, her mouth forming a silent scream. Owen stood there. His eyes raked over her. His handsome face twisted in contempt. He spoke with quiet, deadly cold. "You whore."

 

Cold. Now I was cold. How could that be? I was going somewhere; I knew that, but not where. But when I tried to rise, to run, something held me down. "No," I moaned. "Let me go. Please! Let me go."

 

Eliza huddled behind the fence. She held her breath for fear that her ragged breathing or the sight of it in the chill night air would give her hiding place away. Her heartbeat seemed to echo in the darkness, and she was afraid it, too, might tell him where she hid. After an eternity, Owen's footsteps had faded into the night, but the memory of his words rang loudly in her ears. "There's no place for you to hide, Eliza. I'll find you wherever you are. He'll never have you."

She tried to straighten her tattered dressing gown and discovered that she couldn't raise her right arm. She pulled her clothes together as well as she could with one hand and crept down the alley, scraping her bare feet on the stones of the roadway.

She had only one clear thought. David. She must get to David. He would help her. She felt tears cold on her cheeks. She couldn't go through this again. David! she cried silently. Don't let him find me!

The houses were unfamiliar now. Somehow, though, she knew she was going toward the heart of town, toward the road to David.

Surely she was far enough away from Owen to risk standing, to risk running. There were lights ahead, and voices carried through the sound of wind-driven leaves.

She crept cautiously past a row of small stores, dark as the night they were outlined against, toward the freight yard. She peered through the gate, making sure Owen was not there. She saw three men outlined by the torches in the yard. One stood alone, unloading a wagon. Two stood by another wagon, involved in a heated argument.

She staggered into the yard. The two stopped their argument to look at her.

"Please. Help me." She forced the words through her bruised lips.

The taller of the two, bearded, broke into a broad grin. "Damn, girl, if they catch you this far uptown you're going to go to jail for sure. What are you doing off the row?"

Not understanding him, she repeated, "Please. Help me."

The bearded one walked toward her, calling back over his shoulder, "So much for your argument that we didn't have time to go to Jean's place." He stopped in front of Eliza and inspected her, still grinning. "You like it rough, girl?"

There was a film before her eyes. It was painful now to breathe, difficult to stand. She stumbled, and the man caught her around the waist.

"Well, come on," he said. "If you're looking for business, you found some."

"No," she whispered, finally understanding his words. "Have to get away."

"Come on, I said." His hands tightened on her waist. "We've got to get this wagon out of here before daylight."

"No," she cried, beating with her one good hand against his chest. His grin was gone as he lifted her from the ground.

"You'll be putting her down." A man's voice, a broad Scot's brogue, cut through the night. The man who had been standing alone strode toward them carrying a blanket over one arm.

The bearded man turned toward him, still holding Eliza. "And why would I do that?"

The Scotsman looked warily at him, and at the other man now poised nearby.

"Because she's not a harlot."

The bearded one broke into a laugh. "Are you crazy, man? Look at her."

"I'm looking," the Scotsman told him, "and it grieves me. She's my wife, and she's not been right since I got her back from the Comanche."

The bearded man released her as though he had been struck, and the Scotsman hurried to her side, draping the blanket over her, speaking softly to her. "Come, lass. You know I've told you not to be wandering off alone." He helped her toward his wagon, and Eliza went thankfully, feeling only gentleness flowing from him.

He lifted her into his wagon. When she tried to speak, he silenced her with a quick gesture. "Rest now, lass. We'll be leaving soon," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the other two. She nodded her understanding and lay back against the side of the wagon, still trembling.

When the noises in the yard told her that the other wagon had left, the Scotsman joined her.

"My name is William MacDougal," he told her, "and I'll be helping you if I can."

"Why?" she asked, sensing the danger he had so quietly confronted and the deep sadness that seemed to have come over him.

"For my wife," he told her. "Because there was no one to help her. Because . . . because I never got her back."

 

"Elizabeth."

Jane leaned over me. I could barely see her in the dim light, and her voice seemed to come from far away.

"Elizabeth, we're taking you to a doctor."

"No." Why would she do that? "William promised to take me to David. He's got to do that. We can't stop now. I have to get to him."

"Elizabeth, listen to me." Another voice intruded. "This is Mack. Aunt Martha is here with me. We're going to take you to the hospital."

His words penetrated slowly. I tried to focus my vision, but I couldn't see clearly. Martha leaned over me.

"Martha?"

"Yes, dear."

"Isn't it morning yet?"

A smile trembled across her lips. "It's late afternoon. I've been so worried about you."

"How are the peaches?"

"Oh, thank the Lord," she said. She pressed her hands to her face and turned away, her shoulders shaking.

"They're fine," Mack told me. "We saved them." His voice sounded curiously patient and controlled. "Listen to me. You are ill. We have to take you to Fort Smith, to the hospital. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The hospital? No. It was out of the question. "I can't go."

"We don't have any choice."

I shrank back into the pillows, hearing the rasp of my own breathing. "Oh, but I do. I can't be away from here. McCollum would use it against me. Mack, don't do this to me."

Mack's voice was firm. "Not even Stanley McCollum would do that."

It took all my strength to speak. "You know he would."

He turned to Martha. "She may be right."

I was drifting, but I had to hear what was said. It was so difficult to listen. Martha's voice was softer. "But what can we do?"

Mack's deeper tones were almost inaudible. "I don't like it any better than you do, but we'd better call him. He got a doctor for Marie. If he will, he can help us."

 

Eliza awoke to the touch of David's hand on her cheek and his lips on hers. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him even closer to her as she returned his kiss before she reluctantly opened her eyes.

He looked down at her, a teasing smile in his eyes. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Still not fully awake, Eliza pulled herself awkwardly up against the headboard and sank back against the pillows with a sigh of gentle protest. The feather mattress sagged with his weight as David sat beside her.

"Are you sure you want to get up now?" he asked as he handed her coffee from the waiting tray.

"No," she murmured before taking a sip of the steaming liquid, "but I won't miss this time with you."

He traced the hollows beneath her eyes with slender, tanned fingers. "You had another dream last night, didn't you?"

Eliza's breath caught in her throat. He knew. How she wished she could hide this from him, but he always knew.

He took the cup from her and set it on the tray. "Can you remember the dream?"

She leaned forward and circled his waist with her arms. When she spoke, she spoke against his chest.

"No. It's like the others. All I know is that something horrible was going to happen, something so bad I couldn't even see it in the dream."

A shudder ran through her, and she held him tighter, grateful for the strength and comfort he so selflessly gave her.

"It will get better," he promised. "After the child is born. And after a little more time has passed."

She managed to smile as she pulled away from him, touching his lips with a whisper of a kiss before she sank back against the pillows.

"I know," she said. "It's just that I resent the dreams so much. They intrude on my time with you. They have no right to do that."

He rested his hand on her swollen stomach. "How is he acting? Is he giving you any trouble?"

"No," she said with a laugh, "he's no trouble at all. Just growing every day." Pride touched her voice. "I've shown them, haven't I? All those people who said I'd never carry this baby are going to be surprised."

David turned to the tray, taking extra care as he lifted her cup and handed it to her.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.

"Are they gone?"

"All but one, and he's leaving this morning."

She looked toward the window, where sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains. "Is it warm enough yet?"

David's chuckle echoed through the room. "All right. Today, definitely, we walk in the orchard. But not for very long." He touched her cheek. "Not long enough to tire you."

 

She dressed warmly. Although the sun shone brightly, David had told her often that the winds still carried a chill. She smiled as she replaced her brush next to his razor on the washstand. Now, at last, their things were mingled, just as their lives must always have been. She stopped by the window, looking over the valley. It was a scene she could summon with her eyes closed, one she never tired of: the valley below, the river winding its way through it, the mountains in the distance.

"It's almost too perfect," she said to herself.

She took a shawl from the wardrobe and made her way carefully down the curved staircase, feeling very awkward and yet so very thankful that the baby still grew within her.

The door to David's study was closed, but the sounds of voices carried through to the hall. Eliza shook her head. These men who came so often now, what did they want?

In the kitchen she found the old Choctaw woman who served as David's cook muttering over a tray. Short of breath from even this brief exertion, Eliza eased herself into a chair, feeling strangely weak.

No. Not today. She didn't have time to be weak or ill or anything else that would interfere with today's walk in the orchard. She had waited too long.

Something twisted uncomfortably within her. She placed her hand on her stomach. Was that movement? She felt it again, sharper this time. David, she thought triumphantly through the discomfort, our son is finally kicking me. It seemed important that he know that.

The old woman finished filling the tray and picked it up to leave the room.

"Is that for David?" Eliza asked.

The woman nodded, and Eliza stood and reached for the tray. "I'll take it to him."

She paused at the study door to shift the tray to one hand. The voices inside were louder now. Should she disturb them? Of course she should. She tapped firmly on the door. The voices stopped. She waited impatiently for David to call out for her to enter. Instead, he flung the door open, his scowl softening when he saw her.

"We're almost finished," he told her as he took the tray from her.

"David, I . . ." She wanted to tell him about the child, but this obviously was the wrong time to interrupt him.

"What is it?" He put the tray on a nearby table and took her hand. "Is anything wrong?"

"No." She smiled at him. "I'll tell you later."

"By all means, tell him now," a bitter voice said from inside the room. She looked up in surprise at the man standing behind David. His scowl was as deep as David's had been, but it didn't soften when he looked at her. If anything, it deepened. "Apparently you're the only one he will listen to."

David drew her closer to him. He did not turn but spoke in clipped words. "You will not talk to my wife in that tone of voice."

"Your wife?" The derision in the man's voice tore at Eliza's heart, but David's eyes were locked on hers. She could not show the pain. She could not turn and run.

David put his arm around her shoulder as he led her from the room. He stopped at the door and spoke without looking back. "I have nothing further to say to you. I expect you to leave immediately."

With his arm still around her shoulder, David led her down the hall to the front doors, which he threw open, not stopping to close them. She stumbled in her effort to keep up with his determined stride.

"David," she protested with a gentle laugh as they crossed the lawn, "I am slightly less than graceful these days. Can we please slow down?"

He stopped and took her in his arms. She felt his heart pounding beneath her cheek, felt the tension within him as he held her, but when he spoke his words were light.

"Of course we can. This is your morning. We can do anything you want."

She moved her hands across his chest, up to his face, where she smoothed the lines across his forehead and around his mouth with her fingers.

"The orchard," she reminded him softly.

"The orchard."

He led her across the lawn to the stone wall. There were wooden steps built against it on each side, but he stopped her when she started to climb them.

"This is much better," he said as he lifted her and seated her on the wall. He scrambled across the steps and lifted her down.

He seemed reluctant to release her, keeping his arm around her, but she felt the tension gradually leaving him as they strolled through the neatly trimmed and evenly spaced peach trees.

"In less than a month," he told her, "when you look this direction from your window, all you will be able to see will be pink." He stopped to break off the end of a low branch. "See? Already the buds are beginning to swell."

"Like me?" she asked, but her accompanying laugh ended in a gasp as the child once again made his presence known.

"What is it?" David asked urgently.

She leaned against him until the spasm ended.

"It's what I wanted to tell you earlier," she said between controlled breaths. "It seems that after waiting so long to be active, your son has decided to make up for lost time." She managed a shaky laugh. "I think I need to sit down for a moment."

David helped her to the wall and settled her onto the steps. She was breathing heavily now. She leaned against the steps and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw David staring across the valley, his brow furrowed, with the dark look she had seen so often lately clouding his eyes.

"Don't you think it's time you told me?" she said.

"What?" he asked, too sharply.

"What those men want. Why you are so angry with them."

He passed his hand over her hair and then dropped it to her shoulder. "They are not important. What they want doesn't matter."

She took a sustaining breath before confronting him. "Apparently it does," she said firmly. "You try to hide it from me, but I know there have been many angry words, that there is a serious problem. It's about your nation, isn't it?"

"Eliza," he said equally firmly, "nothing matters now but you and I and our child."

She reached for his hand as she sought the right words. "We spent too many years not talking, hiding our feelings from each other. We can't do that any longer. Please don't keep this from me. I have a right—" She stopped herself. "No, I'm not talking about rights. I'm talking about needs. I need to know. Are they saying you should send me away?"

His averted eyes gave her the answer she feared.

"I see," she said finally. She gripped his hand. "Talk to me, David. Tell me what is being said. It can't hurt any worse than what I'm imagining. It can't hurt any worse than your silence."

He drew his hand away. He turned and leaned against the wall, staring vacantly across the valley while he massaged the furrow of his forehead. When he spoke, his words came slowly and reluctantly.

"I was late coming to you this fall because the legislature was selecting a candidate for principal chief."

"You told me they would do that sometime during the session," she prompted him.

He nodded, still not facing her. "They were impressed by my negotiations following the war, and later in Washington. They liked the stand I took on the railroad and in dealing with the survey. In short, they thought I would probably be able to overcome the fact that my father was white."

She held her breath as she waited for his next words.

"They asked me to stand for election."

"As principal chief?"

"Yes."

She saw his tension in the rigid lines of his body. "That was last fall." she said slowly. Oh, God, did she really want to hear this? "What are they saying now?"

He stood outlined between her and the distant mountains, each feature of his profile in sharp relief. Although she could see his tension, the muscles clenching in his throat and the firm line of his jaw, he remained silent.

She struggled to her feet and stood beside him. She reached out, touching his face and drawing it around to her until she could look into his shadowed eyes.

"Tell me," she said softly.

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to him. "Eliza," he said, his voice rasping, "They don't know what you've been through, and I can't tell them without jeopardizing your safety."

"Would it make any difference?" she wondered aloud.

He held her tightly, as if the sheer force of his grip could protect her from everything outside themselves. "I don't know."

"What do they want you to do?"

She felt him sigh deeply. "They insist that I be more active now, that I be among the people—" a sound that should have been a laugh broke from him, "showing them what an honorable man I really am."

A chill crept through her, invading the warmth of his arms.

"They want you to go? Now?"

He looked down into her eyes. "I will not leave this hill until after our child is born and you are able to travel with me."

"But they don't want me to travel with you, do they?"

Once again, he didn't answer her.

"That man today," she persisted, "the one you told to leave—what else did you say to him?"

He was silent so long she thought he was not going to speak. When he did, his words were hesitant. "I told him that . . . I thought it would be wise for them to select another candidate."

"Oh, David, no." She tried to twist away from him, but he held her. "All your dreams. All your plans. You can't stop now."

"I will not leave you again."

"David, your people need you. You can't abandon them. Think of the things you told me this summer. You won't be able to live with yourself if you just let them happen, if you don't fight with every ounce of strength you have."

"You need me." His words cut through her, silencing her but not the guilt that ran rampant through her thoughts. Why? Why must he be forced to choose? It wasn't fair. She could not allow it to happen.

"And our son?" she asked. "What will he think when he realizes that his father could have helped save a nation, that his father could have held the highest office in that nation, and that his mother kept him from it?"

"Our son—" The words seemed torn from him. She could not bear the look of pain in his eyes. He took a long, deep breath. "Our son will have the most wonderful mother any child could hope for."

She pulled away so quickly he had to release her. She felt tears brimming in her eyes. She must not cry. "When he learns what was lost because of her, will that be enough for him?" The tears demanded release. She must not break down in front of him. "Will that be enough for you?" she asked as she turned and stumbled up the steps.

"Eliza?"

She heard David calling her, saw him reaching for her. She had to get away, had to return to the safety of her room, had to have time to learn what she must do.

"Eliza!"

Tears blinded her now. She reached the top step and started over the wall.

"Wait!"

Pain knifed through her, doubling her over. Something was terribly wrong. She saw David reaching for her as she gave in to a wave of weakness. She felt the pull of fabric as he grabbed her skirts, but it was too late. She heard his cry, prolonged and agonized, as the ground beneath the wall rushed up to greet her.

 

Pain was a constant, blinding red cloud enveloping her. David knelt beside her, gripping her hand.

"I've killed our baby," Eliza moaned.

"No. No, you haven't," he protested, his voice hoarse against her cheek.

"Oh, God, please let my baby live. I'll go away," she cried. "I'll go away."

He clenched his hand on hers. "You mustn't say that. You can't leave me. Before God, I won't let you leave me."

 

There was a weight on my chest, bearing me down into the mattress. I couldn't breathe. I tried to push it away, but Jane held my hands.

"No, Elizabeth, you need the covers over you."

"David? Where is he?"

My voice grated in the silence of the room. "Where is he? He promised!"

Jane smoothed my forehead with icy fingers. "It's all right, child. Don't fret now."

"My baby?" I asked, struggling up in the bed. "Jane, where is my baby?"

"He's all right, dear." Her voice broke as she tried to push me down. "He's asleep now."

I felt the cough building within me. It tore through me, leaving me shaken and spent. Jane put her hands on my shoulders. "Lie back now."

"No. I have to find David. I have to be with him." I fought against her restraint. "He has to know."

"You'll have to hold her still," a man said from behind Jane.

I had not been aware of anyone else. "Who are you?" I choked out.

He spoke calmly, almost hypnotically. "I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you." Jane held my shoulders. He took my arm and pushed back the sleeve of my nightgown. A blast of cold air assaulted my skin as he positioned the hypodermic, but I barely felt it as he pushed the needle into my arm.

"Is there a child?" he asked as he pulled my sleeve down.

Jane's voice broke. "No."

"It might help if we could contact the man she's calling for. Do you know how to reach him?"

Jane eased me back against the pillows, shaking her head in mute denial. For an instant it was so very clear to me. For an instant there was no other answer. Now I knew why I had at last seen that shadowy form in the flickering candlelight.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" I murmured. "It's the only way I can be with him again." Desolation washed through me. "David?" I cried out. "Where are you?"

"I'm here."

The doctor was gone; Jane was gone. He reached for my hand, sitting beside me on the bed.

"I've waited so long." I whimpered as he gathered me to him.

"I know." His voice was as soothing as the hand he passed over my hair. I sighed against him, marveling at his touch until that was not enough. I had to see him. I pulled away and reached for his face, smoothing the lines I found there as I had done so often. As his anguished eyes met mine, I felt a shudder pass through me.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I spoiled it for you."

He pressed my head against his chest, rocking me, soothing me, murmuring over and over, "It's all right. It doesn't matter now."

I gave in then to the need to cry. Great hacking sobs broke from me, but no tears fell from my burning eyes. It was all so pointless, so futile. I held on to him with all the strength I had. "Must I?" I choked out. Then the words were torn from me. "I don't want to die! I haven't lived yet."

"I won't let you die," he whispered against my cheek. "You can't leave me now."

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