Читать книгу Her Cherokee Groom - Valerie Hansen - Страница 12

Chapter Three

“Were so many lamps burning in the house when you left?” Charles asked, pausing with his little group before escorting them back across New York Avenue.

Annabelle shook her head. “No. Mrs. Eaton usually does needlework in the evenings and Mr. Eaton sometimes reads the newspaper or personal communications from the president, but the rest of the rooms are rarely lit.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I suspect they have missed you already.”

“Oh, no.”

“It may not be as bad as it looks. I suggest you and the boy go back inside alone, though. Being seen with me will probably not be to your advantage.”

“We did nothing wrong.”

“You and I know that. Others may be harder to convince and I’m not looking forward to being lynched on my first diplomatic mission.”

“Surely, if I tell the family you have assisted me they will understand.”

“To do that you’d have to admit to having gone out after dark. Alone. Are you sure that’s wise?”

She looked so crestfallen he had to smile. “I’ll be fine. I’m going straight to my elders to report the attack by the river. You go inside and tell the Eatons you and the boy just stepped out into the garden. That won’t be a lie.”

“All right.”

As he reclaimed his coat she tilted her face up to him and he could see moisture sparkling on her lashes. Against his better judgment he gently took her hands, noting that she was trembling. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait right here until you’re safely inside.”

“Thank you for seeing us home.”

“I should be the one thanking you for saving my neck. I’m sorry about your cape. I’ll send a messenger to the dressmaker for you first thing in the morning.”

“A cape was a small price to pay for our victory over evil.”

Let her go, his mind insisted. Step away from her and forget you ever met Annabelle Lang.

But he would not, could not, do so. Although he assumed that this goodbye would be their last, he also knew she would linger in his thoughts and in his dreams for a long, long time. Being so taken with this innocent beauty had not only been a surprise, it had left him questioning his future without her.

That notion was beyond ridiculous, of course. Even if he happened to be sent to Washington again, chances were good that Eaton would forbid them to court properly, meaning he would be fortunate to encounter her at all.

That was one way in which Cherokee courtships and marriages were better. All a couple basically had to do was share a meal and exchange blankets and they were considered wed. Many of his kinsmen partook of two ceremonies, the Christian one and the tribal one, thereby satisfying both factions.

What was he thinking! Charles asked himself, coming to his senses. He barely knew this girl.

I’m far from home and lonely, that’s all, he insisted. There’s nothing wrong with me that being back in Georgia where I belong won’t fix.

He purposefully released Annabelle’s hands and stepped away while donning his coat. To his chagrin the fabric retained her warmth and a trace of a sweet scent like roses. Just like Annabelle’s hair.

“You’d better go in,” Charles said, sounding more brusque than he’d intended.

She bowed her head demurely. “That’s wise. Good night. And God bless you, sir.”

“He did that when He sent you to my aid.”

“Perhaps because in my prayers I had asked to be of help to you and the boy. Are you a Christian, then?”

“Yes. I went to the missionary school.”

Her smile was so sweet, so tender, all Charles could do was stand there and watch her walk away. And with her went a tiny portion of his heart despite his firm decision to remain stoic.

* * *

Lucy, the heavyset, dusky-skinned cook, was in the kitchen poking the ashes of the stove to get them to ignite fresh fuel when Annabelle and Johnny entered. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Land sakes, girl. Where you been? Mr. John is tearin’ his hair.”

“I—we—stepped out into the garden to look at the stars.”

“Then why didn’t you come when he hollered for you?”

“I guess I didn’t hear.” Annabelle’s guilty conscience nagged at her to explain further. If she hadn’t had little Johnny to protect she would have confessed without delay.

“Well, get in there and let the mister know you’re all right. After the trouble tonight he’ll surely be glad to see you.”

“Trouble? Because of me?”

“Mercy, no.” The cook’s coffee-colored forehead knit above graying brows. “Somebody done made off with that fancy silver tea set the missus got from them Indians.” Her gaze darted to the boy, then quickly back to Annabelle. “He be with you all the time?”

“Yes. Of course he was.”

“If you say so. But Mr. John, he was plum mad, ’specially when he couldn’t find neither of you.”

“Thank you, Lucy. We’ll go right in and set his mind at ease.” She reached for the boy’s hand and held tight, urging him to follow as she admonished, “You let me do all the talking.”

Both Eatons were in the parlor when Annabelle entered. Their expressions contrasted; John’s being one mixing anger with relief while Margaret simply looked disgruntled.

“Where have you been?” John demanded.

“Out in the garden, looking at the stars.”

Margaret pointed at the boy. “Him, too?”

“Of course.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking into tears of shame, Annabelle stood very still and waited to be dismissed. She had no idea what had become of the silver set but she was certain the Cherokees had had nothing to do with it. Washington was a bustling city, filled with all kinds of riffraff, as demonstrated by the incident at the river. Undoubtedly, a criminal element like that had robbed the Eatons.

“I have the servants checking the carriage house and the stables,” John said. “Go upstairs to your rooms and stay there. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir.” Annabelle curtseyed politely.

She was more than delighted to take her leave. This current Mrs. Eaton might be a special friend of President Jackson but she wasn’t kind and loving the way Annabelle’s first foster mother, Myra, had been. Oh, how she had wept when that dear lady had gone to Glory at such a young age.

Climbing the spiral staircase with Johnny, Annabelle realized she was actually happier being ignored than being watched too closely. That revelation was a surprise. A welcome one. It not only helped her feel less unwanted, it gave her a sense of freedom she had never before sought or even imagined.

“A servant will assist you getting ready for bed,” she told the child. “I’ll call Adams. He helps our father.”

“I have no father,” Johnny said flatly. “And I can take care of myself.”

“All right, whatever you say.” Annabelle continued to hold his hand until she said, “Remember. You promised to be good and stay here.”

“I remember.”

She hated to leave him alone looking so small and forlorn, yet she knew she must. With a deep sigh she eased the door closed and walked away. It was bound to be a long night for the child, not to mention how hard it was going to be for her to stop thinking about Charles McDonald’s narrow escape and her part in his rescue.

She smiled to herself and gave a little shiver, then headed for her own room. Many nights she had prayed for a cessation of dreams but tonight she was eagerly looking forward to seeing if the handsome Cherokee would appear in them.

Given a choice, she would definitely have wished to include him as a part of her nighttime imaginings.

* * *

Charles headed straight for the boardinghouse when he left Eaton’s. Instead of a quiet atmosphere, he found the male guests gathered in the sitting room, smoking and talking while uniformed soldiers in blue and police officers moved among them.

“Where have you been?” Elias Boudinot asked Charles, speaking aside. “Tell me you weren’t near the river.”

“As a matter of fact, I was. Why?”

The shorter, slightly older man pulled him into a corner and spoke with a coarse whisper. “Don’t admit it. These men are out for blood, preferably ours.”

“What for? What happened?”

“Somebody got knifed tonight.”

Charles felt the blade in his pocket, glad he hadn’t been a victim of the same kind of mayhem. “I’m not surprised. A couple of toughs came after me. It was only by the grace of God I managed to escape.”

“Good thing you didn’t have a woman with you.”

The hair on Charles’s nape prickled. “What do you mean?”

“They say the dead man was all tangled up in a woman’s outer garment. It looked as if whoever killed him had rendered him helpless before driving a knife blade between his ribs.”

Charles plopped onto the brocade-upholstered, horsehair sofa. “Say that again?”

“It wasn’t a normal mugging. The victim was trussed up first, then murdered in cold blood. Worse, he was a soldier on leave.”

There was nothing Charles could think to say or do other than sit there and stare. The man they had tied up had been alive and well when he, Annabelle and Johnny had left him. Charles knew she would swear to that—except she’d have to admit to having been on the scene if he asked for her support. And then what would happen to her already tenuous standing in the Eaton household?

There was only one real problem as Charles saw it. The cape. If anyone recognized the fabric remnants left behind and questioned Annabelle, she’d be honor bound to tell the truth.

As long as the police believed all her story, everything would be fine. If they chose to twist her words, however, his whole diplomatic mission could be in jeopardy, not to mention his neck. Murder was bad enough. The thought that a visiting Cherokee might have killed a Washington citizen, let alone a soldier, was far worse.

Charles’s choices were poor on all counts. His tribe depended upon its ambassadors portraying an image of refinement and civility. So, what should he do? Tell the whole story and reveal the girl’s name? Keep mum and pray that nobody knew Annabelle had come looking for him? And what about Johnny? Suppose he remained with Eaton while Annabelle was ostracized?

Agonizing over the unacceptable possibilities, Charles decided he could not sit there and let an innocent young woman suffer needlessly. He must slip out and return to warn her, even if it meant sneaking into the Eaton mansion and somehow using his nephew as a go-between. Then, if he and Annabelle could not see a solution to their dilemma, he would return to Plunkett’s and confess his part in the altercation being investigated.

Leaving the sofa with the fluid movement of a skillful hunter, he was out of the room and headed for the back door without any of the soldiers noticing.

Elias watched him go without a word.

* * *

Annabelle tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. She’d opened the windows partway to ventilate her stuffy bedroom and could hear voices coming from the yard below as well as from the mansion’s ground floor.

Was that her name? Had someone just called to her?

“Annabelle!”

There it was again. Curiosity drew her to the open window, made her lean out and look down. “Charles? What are you...?”

“Hush. There may be troops headed this way. I came to warn you.”

“Why?”

“They’re at Plunkett’s now. Police, too. We must have been seen together in the park.”

She drew her nightclothes around her more tightly and tried to still her trembling. Surely there was no way anyone could have found out about her unauthorized excursion.

“We didn’t do anything wrong. You were the victim.”

“The man we tied up is dead,” Charles said.

“No! He can’t be.” Her head was starting to spin and she leaned heavily on the smooth wooden windowsill. “You must be mistaken. He was fine when we left.”

“Somebody killed him after we were gone.” Charles’s voice was barely audible over the noise beginning to arise from the front yard and portico.

And there she stood, in her nightdress, holding an inappropriate conversation with a man she barely knew. A man whose presence in the garden would be further damning evidence of her mistakes if they were observed.

“Annabelle!” John Eaton’s voice boomed, echoing up the stairwell. “Annabelle!” Boots thudded. Her door was hit hard and slammed open against the wall.

She whirled, her back to the window, the collar of her long gown fisted at her throat. There was no mistaking her foster father’s tone or his reddening face. Someone must have discovered her trespasses, as Charles had warned.

“Downstairs. Now. And cover yourself decently.”

“Yes, sir.” Threading her arms through the sleeves of a linen wrapper, she belted it over her gown and freed her long, heavy braid from the collar.

Eaton pushed past her to the open window and leaned out, giving Annabelle a terrible fright. It wasn’t until he slammed down the sash and turned away that she was able to breathe. If he had spied Charles McDonald waiting below he would surely be shouting. At least one thing had gone her way this evening.

She followed, barefoot, to the upper landing.

John Eaton was descending to join a group of heavily armed men. The foremost one wore a constable’s badge. The others were mostly scowling, uniformed soldiers bearing rifles.

For an instant she entertained the thought that Charles had been wrong about the killing and someone had recovered the missing silver service. Then she realized there would be no reason to summon her if that was all that was wrong.

No. This all had to be happening because of what she’d done—or what they believed she’d done—earlier.

Frozen in place at the top of the staircase Annabelle stared at the angry crowd.

Eaton motioned to her. “Come down here. These gentlemen have some questions for you.”

“May I dress first?”

“No. Come as you are. The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better.”

Her bare feet on the carpeted steps made no sound. She slid one hand along the banister to steady herself and obeyed his command, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where were you tonight?” Eaton demanded.

“I beg your pardon? I was with the family.” Her nervous fingers found the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder and unconsciously worried the end of it.

“Not every second. I recall that you did not answer when I called to you. You told us you were out in the garden. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Annabelle’s stomach was churning and she wondered if she was going to be ill.

One of the soldiers nearest the front door held up a soiled, ruined garment for all to see. Eaton pointed to it. “Then how do you explain this?”

For the first time in her life, Annabelle wished she were the kind of frail female who fainted at the drop of a hat. Surely being unconscious would be preferable to having to admit that the shredded remnant was her cape.

“What a shame.” She used the stair railing for support. “It was so pretty.”

“Then you don’t deny it’s yours?”

“No. It’s mine. How did they know?”

“There was a note found nearby with your name on it.”

“I did nothing wrong. Truly.” She fought to hold back tears.

Dismay and disappointment on her foster father’s face was countered by the vehemence of Margaret Eaton’s railing. “Do you see now? I warned you the girl was up to no good. Blood will tell and hers is tainted.”

Eaton whirled on her. “She caused no distress while Myra was caring for her.”

“That was years ago. She’s nearly a grown woman and a wily one at that.” Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Your reputation in Washington will be ruined, John.”

“We—I will stand by Annabelle,” Eaton vowed.

Margaret clung to his arm, weeping. “You mustn’t. Think of the scandal. She’s not even kin.”

“Nevertheless, I made a commitment.” He faced the armed cadre to say, “Annabelle Lang will be secure in my care. Contact my office at the Capitol if you wish to speak with her further and I will make those arrangements.”

All the men looked uneasy. The veteran constable who was clearly the spokesman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. The murder victim was from the president’s old regiment and our orders are to apprehend and arrest the suspect.”

“Tonight?”

Frozen in place, Annabelle held tight to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the final decision and wondering if she dared speak to defend herself. If she did, there was a very good chance that Little Johnny would also be blamed, not to mention his uncle. If no one believed she was innocent, how could she possibly convince anyone that others were blameless?

The constable nodded as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the military men. “Yes, sir. Tonight.”

Annabelle quailed. This could not be happening. Not to her. She looked to her foster father, pleading with her gaze, and saw indecision. Was his influence so weak in Washington that he could not prevail?

Then she recalled how close Margaret had been to the president himself. Could this accusation be her doing? Had there been enough time to have influenced Jackson? No. Yet he must know how Margaret felt about sharing her home, even with her own three offspring, because as soon as she’d learned of her first husband’s death she’d shipped the Timberlake children off to live with her late husband’s relatives.

John Eaton’s expression grew regretful and he stepped back before gesturing to the officers. “Do what you must, but rest assured I will engage an attorney on her behalf. She had better be treated with kid gloves or heads will roll, starting with yours.”

Annabelle found her voice. “They’re really arresting me?”

“I’m afraid so. You won’t be held for long if I have anything to say about it.”

She tried to fill her lungs with breathable air and failed.

Light flashed before her eyes as if she were staring directly at the summer sun and unable to look away.

A tingling on her soles and palms, coupled with the spinning of the room, made her light-headed.

Seconds later she closed her eyes, lost her grip on the banister and slumped to the floor.

* * *

Charles caught a passing cab and made it back to Plunkett’s in time to hear Major Ridge, the graying patriarch of the Cherokee delegation, addressing the crowd in the parlor. He was speaking himself, instead of asking his adult son to translate.

“The Cherokee Nation is self-governing by order of your own President Jefferson. We will handle the matter.”

“We got proof! A name wrote down,” someone in the back shouted.

Another voice chided, “Since when can you read?”

“May I see your proof?” Ridge held out his hand.

“It’s not here. Which one is McDonald?”

Charles stepped forward. “I had nothing to do with killing that man or any other.”

“Can you prove it?” Ridge asked him.

“If I have to.”

Grumblings grew to shouts and several men shook clenched fists and brandished weapons.

“Then we will hear your testimony when the time comes,” Ridge said. Unwavering, he faced the gathering and raised one hand as if taking an oath. “All of you. Go. I will vouch for the carrying out of justice.”

Slowly, begrudgingly, the venerable man’s orders were heeded. As the room began to clear, some onlookers were still muttering but the Indian delegation stood united, shoulder to shoulder.

Charles didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door slammed behind the last accuser.

“All right,” Ridge said. “I want to hear the whole story. From the beginning.”

When Charles was through, the older man was shaking his head. “We must go and speak with the girl.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.” The old leader was adamant. “Is this woman truthful? Can she be trusted?”

Sighing, Charles nodded. “Yes. But if Eaton doesn’t already know she was with me, asking questions could ruin her life.”

“That is her problem, not ours. Those soldiers will be back. As soon as we have spoken with her, we will leave Washington.”

“Before we’ve been granted an audience with President Jackson?”

“Eaton and Coffee say they speak for him. That will have to do. Our presence here is no longer wise.”

“I am sorry,” Charles said. “I truly did nothing wrong. The man was alive when I left him by the river. Here. See? I even took his knife.”

Withdrawing the blade from his pocket he laid it across his palm and held it out.

It wasn’t until then that he was surrounded by enough ambient light to notice the rusty color of dried blood on part of the blade.