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Chapter 10

"Spring is the most beautiful time of the year," David had told Eliza over a hundred years before. "It comes stealing upon you, full of promise, long before you expect it."

Spring came in mid-February that year, first with patches of green clover in the lawn, followed in a few days by the purple of the clover blossoms. It came gently and as unexpectedly as he had warned. I awoke one morning and found the tangled terrace ablaze with the yellow of forsythia and jonquils, the leafless forest filled with the pink of redbud and white of wild plum. Masses of delicate lavender wisteria appeared on the bare twisted vines climbing the walls of the house. In March, chartreuse bangles of incipient acorns pushed the remnants of last year's dead leaves from the branches of the oaks, and a palette of greens announced new leaves on other trees on the hillside.

Although I welcomed a fire at night, I put aside my jacket and, in spite of Martha's admonitions, wandered coatless through the vibrant, pulsing rainbow my hill had become.

The telephone was installed, in the quarters, at my insistence. No response had come to my carefully phrased inquiries in the letters Martha had mailed for me the day Marie died, and I began to doubt that one ever would. But a copy of David Richards's will arrived by mail in a plain manila envelope. From McCollum? Or from John? I wondered, but decided that it made no difference.

The will contained generous provisions for his two nephews, apparently his only heirs, and then the trust. Stephen Ward had been named as first trustee, with the bank in Fairview to succeed him, provided that no Richards held controlling interest of that bank.

I pored over the trust provisions until my eyes blurred, but other than the feeling I already had, that David Richards had preserved this home for Eliza, the provisions made no sense to me. Otherwise, why must the heir be a female Richards?

And why the one-year residency requirement? Why the insistence on providing for the claimant? And other than the obvious, legal age to inherit, why the insistence that the claimant be at least twenty-one? Why? Why? Why? Why?

The biggest question was still David. If I were Eliza, and strange as it seemed, I had to accept that I was, David had to be somewhere near. But in the almost three months since my arrival I had found not one clue to where he was, or even if he was, other than Marie's dying assurance.

I shut the papers in the desk and wandered to the library window. Mack had started work on the terrace the week before, and most of the jungle was gone. He worked with an easy grace, identifying weeds and wasted plants, spading the rich earth, separating and transplanting those shrubs and bulbs that crowded each other, and filling the bare spaces where only weeds had survived.

When he started the work, I had offered to help, but he had declined my offer with his quick laugh.

"Joannie wanted to help me once," he told me. "She was just a little, bitty girl, but she was so serious I gave her a hoe, showed her what Johnson grass looked like, and asked her to hoe a row of new corn." His eyes sparkled with the memory. "She worked all morning on that row and was so proud of her work I didn't have the heart to tell her."

"What?"

"That was the neatest row of Johnson grass I'd ever seen. She'd taken out everything else, even the corn."

I laughed with him, knowing he was telling me I didn't know weed from flower and not minding his gentle mockery.

"I'll get the grass out," he had said. "Then you can tend the corn."

I drew open the drapes, flooding the room with afternoon sunlight. Mack wasn't on the terrace. Instead, Martha knelt on the ground beside a box of plants.

I slipped outside to join her, enjoying the warm breeze on my face.

"Where's Mack?" I asked.

"Trouble with his irrigation lines. He asked me to get these plants back in the ground for him."

I dropped to my knees beside her, stifling a cough as I did so.

"You're determined to catch your death, aren't you?" she asked, but a concerned smile softened her words.

"Oh, Martha, please stop worrying. It's a beautiful spring day. Let's enjoy it."

"It's not spring yet. We've got at least one more frost coming, maybe tonight if the weather report is right. Now, you get off that cold ground."

"It's not cold." I buried my hands in the warmth of the freshly turned earth. "And how can you say it isn't spring? Just look at the new life around you."

I reached into the box for a plant. "You know, we even have trees alive in the orchard. When I looked out the window this morning, I saw a mass of blossoms."

"Oh, no." Martha sank back on her heels clutching a forgotten seedling. After a silent moment, she stood, picking up the box. "Can you take care of yourself for a while?"

"Of course, but what's the matter?"

"I've got to go to Mack's. If the peaches are in bloom and it frosts tonight, he's going to need his irrigation system. He's going to need all the help he can get."

I scrambled to my feet. "Then I'll go with you."

For a moment I thought she was going to tell me I wasn't wanted. Finally, though, she nodded her assent. "But get a jacket."

Mack's orchard was on the eastern end of the hill. Martha drove through Richards Spur, but where the asphalt curved left toward the highway, she veered to the right and followed a gravel road around the base of the hill.

Bright orange flags on small stakes dotted one side of the road and spread over into a field.

"What are those?"

Martha glanced at them and then back at the road. "They look like survey stakes. I guess the county commissioners have finally decided it's time to do something about this road."

I looked in awe at the lush valley to the left. The grasses already stood knee high, and sleek, fat cattle grazed behind well-tended fences.

"It's all Richards land," Martha said in the same tone she might have used to tell me it was all snake-filled swamp. Her recent softening toward John had apparently hardened once again to hatred.

"This, too?" I asked, trying to ignore her bitterness and remembering her once pointing out other Richards lands to the south.

She nodded. "Everything you've seen since we left the hill. Except the church."

"You mean except for the town, don't you?"

"Everything. If he doesn't own it, he holds the mortgage, and with him that's just about the same as owning it."

She turned right onto a narrow road, and her car groaned up the hill, drowning out any further conversation, if any had been offered. It wasn't.

My first impression of Mack's place was that it was immaculate—a picture postcard version of an ideal country homestead. A rambling one-story bungalow faced the south, sheltered on the north by a grove of towering oak trees. A cluster of barns and outbuildings lay to the west of the house, and the orchards stretched out in neat rows to the south and to the west.

We saw Mack loading a length of pipe into the back of his battered truck at one of the outbuildings. Martha pulled up near him. A strange expression crossed his face when he realized I was with Martha, but his easy, familiar smile had replaced it by the time he walked to the side of the car.

Martha spoke as he walked up. "We thought we'd see if you needed any help."

"I appreciate that, Aunt Martha, Elizabeth, but I don't think there's anything you can do right now. I'm pretty sure I've got all the leaks fixed, except for this last piece of pipe, but I won't know until I can turn the water back on."

"Is Joannie in the house?" Martha asked.

Mack nodded.

"Do you think she would mind if we went in and waited to see if you're going to need us?"

I thought he looked at me, but it may have been a play of the sunlight. "No," he said. "Go on up and tell her I'll be in as soon as I can."

 

Martha tapped on the front door, opened it, and called out before going into the house. I hesitated a moment, then followed her.

The inside of the house was as immaculate as the outside. I longed to see the glow of wax on the spotless, dark wood floors and thought colorful throw rugs would have added to the charm, but other than that, I found the house delightfully welcoming. Martha led me to a large room with two walls of windows overlooking the orchard. Across the room a woman sat in a high-backed chair facing the windows.

"Joannie?" Martha spoke from the doorway. "This is Elizabeth. Mack said to tell you he'd be in as soon as he could."

Without pausing, Martha crossed to the back of the room, which was a large country kitchen. "Coffee ready?"

"Yes, Aunt Martha." Joannie's voice was as soft as a whisper. "Please bring some for Elizabeth, too." She was knitting an afghan that spilled over her lap to the floor. She made no effort to rise, but crossed the needles in her lap and indicated a couch next to her. "Won't you please come over here, Elizabeth?"

As she spoke, she turned partially toward me and I saw her clearly for the first time. I was speechless for a moment. A cloud of golden hair haloed exquisite, delicate features and dark, fawnlike eyes.

"Please," she repeated.

I took the seat she indicated. I couldn't help looking out the windows. Mack was in view, and I realized there were few places in the orchard where he could not be seen from where Joannie sat.

Joannie followed my glance. "He's been working all day. He didn't even stop for lunch."

Fleetingly, I wondered why she wasn't outside helping him, but that seemed disloyal to her, and I had the strangest need to protect her from any disloyalty, from any discomfort or pain. That need was overpowering, and alien to anything I had ever felt for anyone before. I tried to name the feeling, but the closest I could come to identification was wondering if this was how a mother would feel about her child.

Martha brought coffee and returned to the kitchen. I heard the noises of dishes being placed on the table, but Joannie still made no effort to rise. Another nibble of disloyalty. I pushed it away, but it didn't go so easily.

"Mack told me you were very pretty," she said. I wondered how Mack could think anyone else pretty when he had her to compare them to, and told her so.

Her childlike laughter bubbled into the room. "Thank you," she said shyly. "I do so want to be pretty. For Mack."

Martha brought a tray bearing a bowl of stew and a glass of milk and set it on the table near Joannie. "You didn't have your lunch today, either, did you, young lady?"

Joannie shook her head. "I wanted to wait for Mack. I didn't realize until you came that it was so late."

"Well, remember, you've got to keep your strength up."

"Are you ill?" Concern, as unexplained and as intense as my desire to protect her, rocked me.

"She's going to have a baby," Martha said firmly.

"That's wonderful. When?"

An expression I would have called fear in anyone else darkened Joannie's eyes. "In June."

While she ate, I watched her, tying to visualize this girl as a mother, for, though she had to be at least as old as me, she seemed a child herself, protected and loved and unaware that some people in this world could be harsh and uncaring.

We talked then, or rather Joannie talked and I listened. She talked about Mack. He filled her world. She saw through his eyes, dreamed his dreams. And when she talked, she seemed to glow.

When I heard a heavy step in the hall, I realized that the room had grown dim, brightened only by the light from the kitchen behind us. I glanced outside. The sky had turned an ominous shade of gray, although it was too early for nightfall.

Joannie turned toward the sound, her face radiant. "Mack."

His clothes were crusted with mud, and his face showed exhaustion and frustration, but as he crossed the room carrying an armload of blossom-laden peach boughs, his gentle smile erased all signs of frustration.

Mack placed the boughs in Joannie's lap and kissed her upturned cheek.

"You shouldn't have cut them," she chastised gently.

"Yes, I should have."

"Did you get the line fixed?" Joannie asked, holding the blossoms to her face and breathing deeply of their perfume.

Mack knelt beside her. "Let me get some of this mud off before we talk." He looked at me. "I see Aunt Martha has supper on the table. I'd be real pleased if you'd stay."

I nodded my acceptance. Mack ruffled Joannie's hair and excused himself.

Joannie clutched the peach boughs without seeing them, obviously lost in thought. I watched her for a moment, but it seemed an invasion of her privacy. I stood and reached for the boughs. "I need to go into the kitchen. Can I put these in water for you?"

She smiled at me, but some other unexpressed emotion darkened her lovely eyes.

In the kitchen Martha handed me a vase. I filled it with water and arranged the boughs. "Should we leave?" I whispered.

"No." She held out a cup of coffee.

I leaned against the sink, nursing the coffee, wondering about the mixed signals I was getting from Joannie. I heard voices from the front of the room—Mack's saying, "You have nothing to be ashamed of," and Joannie's, a little sharper than I had heard before, an insistent, "No!"

Martha busied herself then, placing last-minute dishes on the table and directing traffic. "Mack! You get over here before this gets cold again. Elizabeth, you sit there," ignoring the fact that Joannie still sat in her chair, half turned away from us, until the three of us were seated around the round oak table with thick stew, golden steaming cornbread, and rich, creamy milk, all crying for our attention.

Mack's face once again showed frustration. I felt as though I shouldn't have come, much less stayed. Martha seemed bent on pretending that the tension in the room did not exist by passing dishes and urging the two of us to eat.

"Is the line fixed yet?" I asked abruptly.

"Part of it, yes. The rest, I don't know. Aunt Martha, after we finish super, will you turn the valves while I check the sprinklers?"

Martha nodded.

"I don't know anything about orchards," I said. "Why do you need your irrigation lines so badly now?"

"Frost," Mack told me, and then must have realized that told me nothing. "There are a couple of ways to fight frost," he said. "The old way, with smudge, is still used in some parts of the country. The way taught now is with irrigation. If I can wet down the blossoms, that moisture will insulate them against a light freeze. If not . . ." He shook his head as if denying that alternative. "If not, I'll have no peach crop."

Martha spoke briskly. "Then you hurry and eat your supper and let's get out there, young man. We don't have a whole lot of time before dark."

"It doesn't make any difference, Aunt Martha. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, there's nothing I can do about it now."

A movement from the room in front of us caught my eye. Joannie had thrown off the afghan and was reaching under the couch beside her. Mack's attention remained focused on the design of the tablecloth.

"I should have replaced the line last year," he said softly. "It was a gamble I had to take. In the same situation, I'd do it again."

The objects retrieved from under the couch, Joannie began to rise. I didn't mean to stare, but I couldn't turn my eyes away as she labored upright and balanced herself on crutches. Her right leg twisted at an unnatural angle as she made her way with painful slowness across the room.

"I just didn't believe I was going to lose," Mack said.

Joannie stopped beside his chair. "We haven't lost yet," she said, resting her slender hand on his shoulder. He clasped it and held it to his cheek.

"No, we haven't, have we?"

Mack's chair scraped across the hardwood floor as he rose. "Aunt Martha, if you're ready, let's go turn on the water."

I watched Joannie as Mack settled her into his chair. I couldn't remain in the house alone with her and not question her.

"Let me help instead," I said quickly.

 

The temperature had fallen at least fifteen degrees since we'd arrived. Mack cast a wary eye at the sky as he led me to the control house. He opened the main valve behind me, explained the smaller valves to me, and after brief instructions left me there. He was to drive to the end of each row and on signal I would turn the valve controlling those sprinklers. If all was well, he'd move on to the next set of sprinklers. If not, he would signal, and I'd turn off the valve.

"It's an artesian well," he told me. "I've never run out of water, but to be on the safe side, let's start with the lower slopes."

I don't know what went wrong. I held my breath as I turned each of the first three valves on signal and the sprinklers began pulsing out their life-saving water. Mack was on his way to the fourth set when water began hissing from the first valve. I reached for it, uncertain as to whether I ought to turn it off, when the second one began hissing, and the third one blew completely off. I ran for the door, screaming for Mack. His truck was tearing toward me. All the outside sprinklers were silent.

When he reached the control room, water was trickling from the main valve. Mack took one quick look around the room, grabbed for the main valve, and shut it off.

He stood silently before it, holding it for a second, before he turned to me. "That's it," he said finally.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" I asked helplessly.

The expression on his face told me there were no other options. "Not if we get a freeze."

 

Martha and Joannie were quiet when we returned to the house. A small radio sat on the kitchen table, but it, too, was silent.

"Any change in the weather forecast?" Mack asked.

Joannie said bleakly, "They're predicting temperatures in the low to mid-twenties."

Mack poured himself a cup of coffee, pulled out a chair and slumped into it. Joannie looked stricken.

"Don't worry, honey," Mack said. "We still have the apples."

"But you'll have to work for Richards again."

"That's okay," he told her. "Once more year, and this place will be paying for itself."

"Mack?" I asked hesitantly. "Did I . . . could I have done anything?"

He shook his head. "No, you did fine, Elizabeth. The system is just worn out. It's been patched too many times." He took Joannie's hand in his.

"What about smudge?" I persisted, unwilling, unable to see him lose his crop.

He looked at me, a question in his eyes.

"You mentioned that some people still use smudge to fight frost. Couldn't you?"

"I thought about that earlier. I have the fuel, but I don't have anything to burn it in. When I took over this place, there wasn't a smudge pot on it. Then I had to make a choice between spending money on pots or on the irrigation system. This afternoon I had to decide whether to spend time looking for containers or trying to get the lines in order."

I thought of all those buildings full of equipment on the other side of the hill and felt hope beginning to grow. "What does a smudge pot look like?"

Mack couldn't understand my intensity, but he answered, gesturing. "It's about so big, made of metal, and you fill it with coal oil, diesel fuel, kerosene, just about anything you have that will burn."

I began to relax. "Do they look a little like bowling balls?"

In spite of his exhaustion, Mack laughed outright. "I hadn't thought about it that way before, but yes, they do. Why?"

"Because," I said, "I think I have more smudge pots than you will ever need. Do we have time to go get them?"

I had everyone's attention.

"Are you sure?"

I had to shake my head. "No. I only know there are crates of round metal pots—crates of them, Mack—in a barn behind the house."

"I'll get the truck," he said.

Surprisingly, the opposition came from Martha. "Maybe I ought not say anything, but I can't not say it. I know what Stanley McCollum told you, Elizabeth, about filing charges against you if you took one more thing off the hill. He will."

Mack stopped, halfway to the door.

"We won't tell him," I said. "We'll have them back by tomorrow. He need never know."

Martha bit her lip and stammered slightly. "Somebody keeps track of everyone who goes up your road, and everyone who comes down. There's no way McCollum wouldn't learn about a truckload of equipment coming down."

"Oh, no," Joannie moaned.

I hadn't realized Louise Rustin was reporting my activities, but the knowledge came as no surprise. McCollum, with his insistence on following not the spirit but the letter of the trust provisions, would have to have someone to help him keep his checklist.

Damn him! It wasn't fair for him to force me to choose between sacrificing Mack's crop and jeopardizing my inheritance.

"I won't!"

Mack started back toward the table. "I understand," he said.

"No. No, you don't," I hurried to explain. "If he insists on my following the provisions to the letter, I will. We won't take the pots off the hill. If there's any way we can do it, we'll bring them across the top. Can we?"

I saw a speculative look in Mack's eye, and I knew then that while Mack was normally honest and straightforward about his activities, he wasn't averse to besting McCollum at his own game.

"Maybe," Mack said. "There's an old wagon road that hasn't been used for years. It's all overgrown, and there are a couple of fences across it on your side, but I might be able to get over it with the tractor."

There was one more, brief opposition from both Martha and Mack when I insisted on going with him. He had hitched a trailer to the back of the tractor and was ready to leave when I asked him where I should ride.

"Even if I could tell you where they are, you'd have to spend valuable time just looking for them. I'll have to show you."

Martha acquiesced, and I climbed onto the tractor, standing on the frame below and behind the seat and holding onto the seat as Mack instructed. The temperature was still dropping, the sun only an outline of silver in the gray sky.

It was exhilarating at first, the coolness against my face as we jostled along the track. I was happy to be defeating McCollum in even this small way and, at the same time, feeling somehow that I was repaying a debt long owed to Mack. But as we went on, the air became biting, small daggers cutting into my face and hands and later seeming even to stab into my lungs and my ears. The noise of the tractor engine made it impossible to talk without shouting, so we were silent. At each of the two fences Mack had to stop to cut, he asked me how I was doing. I smiled reassuringly at him.

The relative warmth of the barn came none to soon. I stumbled from the tractor, cupped my hands over my mouth, and breathed into them for a moment, then placed them over my ears until the worst of the tingling ceased. I looked longingly at the welcoming glow of a light in Martha's sitting room, but Martha had the door key with her, and besides, we had no time to spare.

Mack put his hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Umm. Just let me get my bearings." I glanced around the barn, unfamiliar in the dimming light only slightly brightened by the tractor's headlights. "They're in a side room, behind some other things."

I found a familiar wagon, and after that it was easy. They were in the back of the second room we entered.

Mack breathed a deep sigh. "You were right. They are smudge pots, and, Lord, there are hundreds of them!"

He pulled the tractor close, and we loaded the trailer until he insisted we had enough. Then it was back across the hilltop, with the sun sinking rapidly behind us and the temperature dropping almost as fast as the sun.

Joannie and Martha waited by the fuel tanks with the pickup truck. As we offloaded the pots, they began filling them and setting them in the back of the truck. Mack and I left in the truck, and, because I could drive it, I drove the truck through the orchard while Mack set the pots among the trees and lighted them. When we emptied the truck, we returned and took the tractor and now loaded trailer. I didn't know how to drive the tractor, so Mack drove and I set and lighted the pots. It was a silent operation, saved from being grim by the few words of encouragement we had time to give each other. It was dark when we finished, the stars bright in a clear, cold sky, but throughout the peach orchard we saw the glow of burning fuel, the warm black smoke rising among the blossoms.

Mack clasped my shoulders. "We did it," he said. He hugged Martha. "We did it." He turned to Joannie, grasped her to him, and twirled around with her in his arms. "We did it!" he shouted.

Back inside the kitchen I sank into a chair and gratefully accepted the coffee Martha offered. I huddled into my jacket, refusing to take it off, and only then did I realize how deeply the chill had penetrated. I felt as though my bones were frozen, and I held myself stiff to keep from trembling.

Martha glanced warily at me. "I think I'd better get you home," she said.

"Not yet," I protested. "Let me get warm first."

She brought an afghan from the front of the room and put it around my shoulders. I snuggled into it, still holding the coffee but having neither the strength nor the energy to drink it. I felt a cough rising but stifled it because I knew it would only cause her worry.

Mack and Joannie were talking happily about other adventures, and Martha joined in their reminiscences. How nice it would be, I thought as I shrugged deeper into the afghan, to be a part of a family this close. How nice it would be to belong to someone, as Mack and Joannie belonged to each other. How wonderful it would be, I added as much more than an afterthought, if I could just get my body as warm as my spirit felt. A deep lethargy stole over me as I watched the diffused glow from the orchard through the fog-covered windows.

 

Eliza

Eliza remembered little of the remainder of the train ride to St. Louis. David found a woman on the train to dress her wounds and tend her during the trip. They reached St. Louis with barely enough time to make a few necessary purchases before boarding the steamboat for Little Rock. David, Eliza, and Wilson, who was traveling with David, reached Little Rock in record time, only to learn that the Arkansas River was too low for passenger boats to work their way upriver to Fort Smith. David sent Wilson on by horseback and found accommodations for Eliza in a boarding house, in spite of the shortage of rooms because of the earthquake earlier that month. He insisted that she see a doctor while they were there, so she did, knowing what the doctor would tell her. Her body was healing.

The ache she felt was not caused by physical pain. It was brought by the sense of betrayal she had seen in David's eyes when he thought she was spying on him, and the memory of his words, "I owe you that much."

What had she expected? That he would declare his undying love for her? That was too much to ask, even if his love for her hadn't died. The fact that her own tightly concealed love for him threatened to make itself known was another matter. The years had hardened him. Just as she was no longer the innocent child he had known, he was sterner, and grimmer, than she remembered.

The wonder was that he could bear to look at her at all. Not only was she another man's wife, she was the wife of a man who had proven himself to be an enemy of David's people.

The tears unlocked on the night she had collapsed in his arms came often now, but he never saw them again. They came at night, when she was alone in her room, when she remembered their brief moments of happiness and realized they would have no more. They came when she admitted that once he had helped her establish a life without Owen, David would also be gone from her life.

The first two weeks of August were dry, with the Arkansas remaining low, freight piling up on the docks, and stranded passengers searching for rooms all adding to the chaos of the damaged town. Eliza felt strong enough to suggest they continue their journey overland. David vetoed the suggestion, but she noticed his growing preoccupation and his increasing irritation with various articles appearing in the newspapers.

The rains came. She watched as the river rose slightly and then became too swollen for river traffic. Finally they booked passage on the first steamer able to move upriver and arrived in Fort Smith late in August, five weeks after her flight from Owen.

Wilson met them at the dock. David greeted him solemnly. "Were you able to take care of everything here?" he asked.

Wilson nodded. "I found a house and a housekeeper, and I've made inquiries into the other matters."

David helped Eliza into the carriage as Wilson collected their trunks. "Do you have the reports from home?"

Again Wilson nodded.

"Then take us directly to the house," David told him. "I want to go over them as quickly as possible."

Wilson turned the horses onto a broad thoroughfare. Eliza stared about her. She had expected a garrison encampment, a frontier outpost. Instead she found a small city. Shops and houses lined each side of the road they traveled until they reached a pile of rubble marring the pleasant drive.

"Pull up," David said, looking at the rubble, concern evident in his voice. "What happened to the mill? I didn't think the earthquake damage reached this far west."

"That's not damage, Colonel," Wilson grunted. "That's progress. Kanady's torn down his mill and shop. They're going to build a block of brick buildings there. Three stories high, the newspaper said."

David shook his head and leaned back in the seat. "Have you been saving the newspapers for me?"

"Yes, sir. Just like you asked."

Wilson turned off the avenue. The street now was narrower, bordered by large houses set back in well-kept lawns. Wilson pulled up in front of a small, porch-lined house.

"The housekeeper is going to take some getting used to," he said. "She's a preacher's widow, and just about as dour as they come." He cast an apologetic glance in Eliza's direction. "But with her around, there won't be a chance of any kind of scandal."

"Thank you, Wilson," Eliza murmured. Then David helped her to the carriage block and down to the brick sidewalk.

In the shadows of the porch, Wilson produced a ring of keys and handed them to David. David turned to Eliza, holding out the keys to her. "Your home, Mrs. Griffith," he said softly.

Eliza took the keys with trembling fingers and opened the door. Wide-planked pegged floors gleamed softly. The walls wore new paper; the mantels and trim, new paint.

"It's lovely," she exclaimed.

"I'll get your trunk." Wilson left the house and returned with the small camel-backed trunk they had purchased in St. Louis. He indicated a door to the right of the entry. "This is the room you'll want to use," he said as he carried the trunk into the room and set it at the foot of a high-post bed.

Eliza thanked him and had just knelt to open the trunk when the noise of an ominous throat-clearing drew her attention. She hastened to the doorway, accompanied by Wilson, to see a gaunt woman, dressed in unrelieved black, staring at David, who had remained in the parlor.

Wilson spoke. "Mrs. Jenkins, this is Mrs. Griffith, the lady you'll be looking after. I expected to find you here when we arrived."

"I've been to church, Mr. Wilson, as I should have been. I did not realize anyone would be traveling on the Lord's day."

Foreseeing a confrontation, Eliza interceded. "Of course not, Mrs. Jenkins. And under different circumstances, we would not have been." She attempted a smile, but the woman facing her was formidable. "I'm going to freshen up, but I wonder if you would be kind enough to prepare coffee for the gentlemen?"

Mrs. Jenkins nodded stiffly and strode from the room. Wilson rolled his eyes upward, Eliza stifled a smile, and David said, grinning ruefully. "I think your reputation will be well guarded."

With relief Eliza changed from her heavy traveling costume into a lighter dress with loose, flowing sleeves. She bathed her face and the back of her neck with water from the pitcher waiting on the marble-topped washstand and sank into a chair near a window. A few moments—that was all she needed, she told herself. Just a few moments alone.

She glanced curiously about the room, and a smile curved her lips as she did so. This was a pleasant room; airy, tastefully decorated, and feminine without being frilly. Two doors other than the one by the entry opened from the room. She wondered about them but remained seated.

"Enough," she said with a small shake of her head. It was obvious that her future was being planned. She might as well find out now what those plans were. She squared her shoulders and returned to the parlor.

David had papers scattered around him and sat scowling at a document in his hand. The coffee had been served. The tray sat on a small table near the fireplace, but Mrs. Jenkins, Eliza saw gratefully, had left the room.

David looked up, his scowl deepening as he looked at her, and she shrank inwardly from that look. "Should I leave the two of you alone a while longer?" she asked.

David shook his head impatiently. "No. We have to talk." He indicated a chair, and Eliza crossed the room hesitantly and sat facing him.

He continued to look at her for a moment, studying her, examining her features for . . . for what? Then he tossed the papers he held to one side, rose, and paced restlessly about the room. He paused at the tray, poured a cup of coffee, and handed it to her.

"Wilson," he said abruptly, "please tell Mr. Grimes that we have arrived and would like to see him today."

"Yes, Colonel," Wilson said. He nodded in Eliza's direction and hurried from the room.

David leaned against the mantel and stared at her again, a penetrating stare that she could not meet.

"Do you want me to notify your father of your whereabouts?"

"No!" She glanced quickly at him to see if he had noticed her sharpness, then lowered her lashes. "He would only tell Owen where I am."

"Do you want me to get word to him that you are safe?"

Eliza thought of what her father had said to her the night he let Owen take her away. "It's better that he knows nothing about me."

"He must be concerned about you."

"It's better that he knows nothing," she insisted.

David gripped the mantel. "I've been away from home too long," he said. "There are matters that must be taken up with the council. I have to return."

Eliza kept her head averted so that he could not read the despair she felt at his words. "I expected as much," she said softly. "When must you leave"

"Tonight, if possible."

Not so soon! She cried silently. But of course she couldn't say that.

"That's why I've asked Grimes to come here today," David continued. "I want to be certain that you are taken care of before I leave."

"Who is Mr. Grimes?" Her voice surprised her. It sounded almost natural.

"He's an attorney. He will advise us as to how you can obtain your divorce."

Her head jerked up at his words. "Divorce? Oh, David, I can't!" she cried.

He crossed the room and gripped her hand. "Eliza." His voice bit into her. "Do you still love Markham?"

She closed her eyes against the anguish of the last four years. "No," she whispered.

He released her hand and rested his lightly on her shoulder. "There is no alternative," he said firmly. "If Markham finds you, he can demand that you return to his home. You have no recourse, no protection from him as long as you remain his wife."

"But David, the scandal . . . the shame—"

"Will that be worse than what you went through the night I found you?"

She buried her face in her hands and shook her head mutely.

 

Jeremiah Grimes was about thirty, with a shock of white-blond hair and clear blue eyes and an accent that was unmistakably northern. Wilson introduced him to David and Eliza and excused himself, going into the dining room and pulling the doors shut behind him.

"Minnesota," Grimes said, smiling. "The next question is usually, what am I doing down here? I came to Fort Smith to muster out, but we had to wait for the Choctaw Nation to surrender before the army would let us go home. That's not a complaint you hear in my words, Colonel Richards. If anything, it's gratitude. Because while I was waiting, I discovered I had a real affinity for this country. I had an opportunity to read for the law, and I stayed."

"You come highly recommended," David told him.

"Thank you, sir. So do you."

"Did Mr. Pike explain the circumstances to you?"

"No. He told me that he normally handles your legal matters in the States, but that there was a conflict of interest at this time and asked if I would assist you." He glanced at Eliza. "He did say that it was a matter of personal urgency for the lady."

David leaned toward him. "It is. Now I must ask for the cloak of your professional confidence, because I consider her safety at stake if what I am about to tell you becomes known outside this room."

Grimes's joviality faded. He became all business. His clear blue eyes met David's dark ones without wavering. "Of course, Colonel Richards."

"Other than Mr. Pike, only Wilson and I know her true identity at this time. Everyone else, her housekeeper included, believes her to be Eliza Griffith, the recent widow of a kinsman of Wilson's."

Grimes nodded his understanding.

David went on slowly, "It has become necessary for her to leave her husband and seek a divorce."

"Will her husband agree to a divorce?" Grimes asked.

"Obviously not," David told him, "or this subterfuge wouldn't be necessary."

"Can he be found for service of a summons?" Grimes asked.

David's smile was brittle. "Quite easily. He's Owen Markham, undersecretary with the Department of the Interior."

"Oh, my God." Grimes cast an apologetic look at Eliza. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said before proceeding intently. "Colonel Richards, do you realize what a compromising position you're in? If Markham should discover your involvement, he could discredit you in Washington, perhaps even with your own nation."

Eliza had to speak. "No, please. David is involved in this only accidentally."

"She means that she did not actively seek my assistance," David interrupted, "but I have offered it, and I meant to follow through. I owe—I owe Mrs. Markham a debt of long standing."

"This could be an extremely expensive way of repaying that debt, Colonel."

There was no trace of emotion in David's expression. "I owe her my life."

Grimes was silent for a moment. "Very well." He turned to Eliza. In a gentle voice, he carefully chose his words. "Mrs. Markham, please understand that I have to ask you some questions."

"I understand." Eliza swallowed back her fear of answering those questions and waited for him to proceed.

"Good. The most important one is, are you sure—very sure—that you want to do this?"

Eliza cast an apprehensive glance at David, then at Grimes. Did she want to do this? There was no question that she wanted to be free of Owen, but could she deny her vows to him?

David answered for her. "She does not want to do this, Mr. Grimes. She has no choice. Show him your arms, Eliza."

"Must I?" she whispered.

David's answer was firm. "Yes."

She turned to one side, fumbled with the buttons of one cuff, and slowly pushed up the sleeve.

"Both of them," David insisted.

She drew a ragged breath, turned toward Grimes, and reluctantly bared both arms, exposing red slashes which, though healing, still marred her pale flesh and the remains of angry bruises which, though faded to a dull yellow, still showed where Owen had gripped her.

"That is sufficient, Mrs. Markham," Grimes said in a reassuring voice. Eliza drew the sleeves down over her shame and rapidly refastened the buttons.

"When did this happen?"

"It was the evening of July the thirteenth," she murmured, unable to look up from her hands, unable to face the pity or derision she felt sure she must see in Grimes's eyes.

"That would have been five weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"Did your husband do this to you?"

"Yes."

"Did you give him any provocation?"

Eliza looked up in astonishment at the question.

Grimes smiled at her and choose new words. "Did you do anything to him to cause him to—"

Provocation? Was not loving a man provocation for the pain Owen had caused her? "I gave him no reason to do this to me, Mr. Grimes."

"All right," he said. "Had he ever been violent with you before?"

Eliza's voice was so low it was almost inaudible. "Not to this extent."

Grimes went on, persistent, probing. "When was the first time he was violent with you?"

She saw David's dark, brooding scowl. He didn't know. He mustn't know. There was no way she could ever tell anyone of the brutality Owen had shown her on their wedding night.

"Isn't this enough?" she cried. "Isn't what he did to me this time enough? Why do you keep asking these questions?"

Grimes took her hand in his and went on in his measured, even tone. "Because the courts have held in some cases that a single act of cruelty is not sufficient grounds for granting a divorce."

David's scowl was still firmly in place as he spoke from across the room. "Her injuries were not confined to those you saw on her arms, Mr. Grimes. Her clothing was shredded in the assault. Her back was severely lacerated and will probably bear the scars of that evening as long as she lives. I have affidavits from the woman who tended her during the trip to St. Louis and from the doctor who examined her in Little Rock."

Voices intruded from the dining room. Immediately following a staccato rap on the door, the dining room door slid open. Mrs. Jenkins stood stiffly in the doorway, Wilson behind her with his hand raised in ineffectual protest.

"Mr. Grimes, I didn't know you—"

"Mrs. Jenkins," Grimes said pleasantly, revealing no trace of the seriousness of their discussion as he rose to greet her. "I heard that you had found a position. I'm delighted to know that it is with such a charming employer."

"But I don't understand . . ."

"I knew the lady's husband during the war. I've come to pay my condolences."

"Oh." Then, apparently remembering her excuse for entering the room, the woman faced Eliza. "Mrs. Griffith, I'm sorry for interrupting, but I need to know if you want me to prepare supper. It's getting late and I'm expected at evening services."

Eliza forced herself to think about something as trivial as an evening meal, or as mildly irritating as the fact she heard no apology in her housekeeper's voice in spite of her words. Long years of practice came to her aid. Mrs. Jenkins was upset by the change in her schedule and would need special treatment for a few days.

"It's much too hot for a heavy meal," Eliza said, "but I would appreciate it if you would set out a cold supper and make another pot of coffee before you leave."

"Very well."

"And Mrs. Jenkins?" Grimes said.

"Yes, Mr. Grimes?" Her voice was decidedly softer when she spoke to him.

"My wife will be at church. Will you be so kind as to tell her that I'll be a little late but I will join her there?"

When Mrs. Jenkins left, Eliza sank back into the chair, her smile fading. Wilson pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the three of them alone again.

"Did you know him?" she asked.

Grimes was no longer smiling, either. "Yes. I did."

"Does that mean you won't help me?"

"Not at all." Grimes seemed to regain his earlier good spirits. "I have a few more questions—easy questions. When and where were you married, where you lived, if you have any children, and what kind of property settlement you want."

Eliza answered his questions. They were easy after his earlier ones. He seemed surprised when she said there would be no property settlement.

"But you're entitled to something."

"I want nothing from him. I would prefer not even to keep his name."

David had remained silent during the last of the interview. He now walked to Grimes's side. "How long will it take?"

"The divorce itself, if Markham doesn't fight it, shouldn't take much longer than three months."

"So long?" David asked.

"No, I'm afraid it will take much longer." Grimes turned to Eliza. "Before we can even ask that you be granted a divorce, you must have been a resident of this state for at least a year."

"I can't hide from him that long," she said dully.

David refused to be defeated in this. "You have to."

"In the meantime," Grimes continued as though they hadn't spoken, "your guise as widow will explain why you're not out in society." He took a sheet of paper from his folio and wrote a name on it. "I want you to consult with this doctor. He will give you what treatment your injuries require, and he will testify as to the extent of them if it becomes necessary. I'll tell him to expect you tomorrow afternoon, and I'll send a driver to take you to his office."

It was quiet when Grimes left. It was as though he took the life from the room with him. Unspoken words hung heavily in the air. Eliza could not look at David.

She broke the silence. "I must find work."

"Don't be a fool, Eliza. You're not able to work, and you can't take the risk of being among people who might learn who you are."

"But I have no money," she said. "I can't support myself for a year."

"I'll take care of you."

"I can't live on your charity!" she cried.

"It isn't charity, Eliza."

"It is if I have no way of repaying you."

"When did you start keeping a ledger sheet?" he asked. "How much do I owe you? So much for each meal, so much for each night you sheltered me, so much for lying to the Yankee soldiers." He grasped her left arm. "How much did you charge me for the scar you will always bear?"

She felt tears gathering in her eyes, fought to hold them back, and lost.

He released his grip on her arm. "Let me do this, Eliza. After you're free from Markham, after you're safe, I'll help you to establish yourself in any place you want to go. Then, if you insist, we can talk about repayment."

She longed to reach out to him. Every fiber in her cried out to tell him she didn't want to go away from him. Instead, she wiped angrily at the tears which still fell.

"Very well," she said.

 

Elizabeth

The cough tore from me. I couldn't fight it. It left me shivering and weak, huddled in the chair. Martha was at my side instantly, her fingers icy probes against my forehead.

"Mack, you start the car and get the heater going. I'm taking Elizabeth home right now."

Joannie grasped my hand when I said good night to her. "Thank you," she stammered.

Mack met us at the door. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

Memories I didn't know how I knew told me I owed this man, this family, more than I could ever repay.

"You already have," I told him.

Martha remained quiet during the drive down the hill. I was coughing so hard she couldn't have said much, anyway. When we reached Richards Spur, she pulled to a stop in front of the store.

"Why are we stopping?" I managed to ask.

"We're out of aspirin, and I'm going to get you some stronger cough medicine, young lady, and some cold tablets and whatever else I can find in there for you."

I shook my head, knowing it would do no good to argue with her, and leaned back against the seat to wait. My eyes felt as though they had sunk back into my head, and I had absolutely no strength left. I was glad to be going home.

A blast of cold air roused me from a light sleep.

"Do you have any money with you?" Martha asked.

"No," I murmured groggily.

"Then I'll have to come back down," she said. "I left my purse at home."

I forced myself awake. "Just sign the ticket," I said.

Martha muttered and got into the car.

"Can't you sign the ticket?" I asked, now fully awake. "Martha, what happened in there?"

Martha stared at the steering wheel. "She said you'd have to sign it yourself, that my signature won't do anymore."

"Oh, good grief."

"Don't worry about it," Martha said. "I'll come back down with the money."

"No, you won't," I told her. I spoke carefully. "We're going to play their game as long as necessary. If she wants me to sign, I'll sign."

I felt the bite of ice in the air as I walked across the porch and then a wave of stale, overheated air as I entered the store. Louise Rustin stood near the cash register.

"Where's the charge ticket, Mrs. Rustin?"

"I'll get it ready," she said stiffly. She pulled a book from the drawer and began writing.

Martha reached across her for the telephone. "Your phone's off the hook, Louise."

Louise glared at her. "On purpose. Pesky kids."

I leaned against the counter. It seemed to take forever for her to fill out the few items of information. A box on the counter held a jumble of items. I reached idly into the box.

"Are these for sale?" I wondered aloud.

Louise stopped writing. "Yes. They were Marie's."

I found a hairbrush with an ornate, flower-entwined E engraved on its age-blackened back.

"You can't afford it." Louise didn't even look up from the charge book when she spoke. "And even if you could, I wouldn't sell it to you."

I couldn't repress my sigh. Reluctantly I replaced the hairbrush. "Is the charge ticket ready?"

She pushed the book toward me. I glanced at it and scrawled my signature. I started to speak. Why? I wanted to ask. Why are you treating me this way? But then I realized that even she probably did not know her reasons.

Martha picked up the purchases and hurried me toward the door.

Home had never looked so good. Totally dark, a looming shadow in the night, it welcomed me. Martha followed me to my room, lighted a fire in the fireplace, fed me various medicines when I was dressed for bed, and covered me with extra quilts. I didn't mind. For once I wanted to be comforted and pampered, and warm.

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Framed