Beyond the Valley, page 23
In the haze, she saw Hayward draw his horse out of the barn doors and into the grass. Darcy ran up to him in her white cotton frock, her rag doll clutched in her hand. Fiona walked slowly behind her. Sarah tried to absorb what she saw, but it seemed surreal.
“He is taking her away, and then leaving her for good.”
She hurried down the steps and struggled to run, to reach Darcy before Hayward rode off. “Please, sir. Let me say goodbye to her,” she called out.
He turned his horse toward her. Sarah reached up to Darcy and brought her down. On her knees she embraced the child. “I love you, Darcy,” she whispered in her ear. “Your mother loves you, too. Never forget her. Never forget me. Be happy.”
Darcy stroked her palm over Sarah’s cheek. It felt warm, smooth. “Do not cry, Sarah. Papa says I will be happy living with my cousins.”
A curl tumbled over Darcy’s forehead and Sarah brushed it back. “Certainly you will, darling. It will be like having sisters.”
“Come visit me when Papa comes.”
“Yes, Darcy.”
Hayward dismounted, placed his hands on Darcy’s shoulders and drew her away. He lifted her onto Gareth’s back, then climbed up behind her. Darcy’s white-stockinged legs dangled against the soft brown of the horse’s coat Sarah stepped back, and wiped her eyes.
“I will be gone overnight.” Hayward’s eyes were upon Sarah. “Have your things packed for when I return. I am giving you Eliza’s mare.”
She lowered her head and turned away. Would he bestow what possessions remained behind of Eliza’s to her as well? A bitter taste rose in her mouth, and she set her teeth. She glanced up at him and his eyes shifted to Fiona.
“Fiona, I want all of Darcy’s belongings packed in a trunk for you to take to her when you leave. I have ordered a carriage for you, and the driver will know where to go. It will be here in a few days.”
“It will do my heart well to see Darcy is settled,” Fiona said, her body stiff. “But please, won’t you reconsider and allow me to take her to her mother?”
His mouth twisted at her request. “You are to leave the keys to River Run with my brother. You are not to stay, but take the carriage on to Point Lookout. Here’s the money for your fare and expenses.” He reached inside his pocket and handed her a moneybag.
Sarah stood beside Fiona. Perspiration trickled down the nape of her neck into the back of her dress. The heat seemed as oppressive as Hayward’s plans. For a moment, he locked eyes with her, and drew his horse away, toward the lane at the front of the house, then out to the river road.
Sarah heaved a sigh. Tears pooled in her eyes. Dust from the road kicked up behind the horse and soon she saw them no more. Fiona’s hand touched Sarah’s shoulder. “Come inside out of the heat. We’ve work to do.”
“Will I ever see Darcy again, Fiona?”
Sadness etched the older woman’s face. “I do not know. I pray she will grow up happy, and not regret her parents.”
“And poor Eliza. It is cruel he denies her of her child.”
Fiona drew in a long breath and looked out at the trees along the edge of the land. “Hayward Morgan may never return, and even if he does, he will not be able to keep them apart forever. Perhaps his stepbrother will send Darcy to England when she is grown, so she can reunite with her mother.”
In silence they walked on. Then Sarah halted. “I have to leave, Fiona.”
“What do you mean? Captain Morgan expects you to go with him, not that I approve.”
“I have been called away. That is all I can tell you.”
“Called away? Did you hear from Dr. Hutton?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? You have no place to go.”
“God will lead me to where I need to be. I shan’t be alone or afraid.”
“Let me speak to Captain Morgan when he returns. I will tell him you are going with me to England. Why shouldn’t he allow it?”
“Because he believes he owns me.”
“Oh, dear child. Then we must hide you somehow and see to it you meet the carriage on the road.” Fiona pulled Sarah by the sleeve toward the door.
Sarah twisted away. “I cannot go with you. I will be considered a runaway and you would be an accomplice. I will not have you risk prison for me.”
Fiona paused, her hand over her heart. “Oh, those men that were here. I had forgotten them.”
“You need not know any of the details.” Sarah set her finger against Fiona’s lips when she opened her mouth to reply. “Say no more.”
Fiona stood motionless, her eyes filling. Sarah knew how hurt she felt to be separated from another person in her life. Ilene was taken from them so young. Then, Eliza and Darcy were carried off. Now Sarah was going away, too.
“Remember to protect yourself, Fiona. Tell Captain Morgan I slipped away without you seeing. Do not let anything prevent you from leaving America and going to Eliza.”
“You are right in what you say.” Fiona wrung her hands. “But are you sure this is the right thing for you to do?”
“I am. You forget, I escaped Indians, trekked through the wilderness on my own, and survived.”
“But where will you go, Sarah?”
“Where He leads me.” She threw her arms around Fiona’s shoulders and embraced her. “I will never forget you.”
“Then, if this is how it must be, I will get to the kitchen and fix you a bag to take.” A sad smile lifted Fiona’s mouth. “I will not have one of my girls fainting on the path she is to follow.”
Sarah stood in a fan of sunlight that poured through the cabin window. She ran her eyes over the room one last time and said farewell to the memories. Most dear were the ones of Ilene. She saw her at play on the floor, sitting in the chair by the fire, drinking from the tin cup that now sat on the mantelpiece. She felt her huddled in her arms as she told her stories and rocked her to sleep. She heard the sighing of the tiny bundle curled up in the bed next to her, her little hands holding her doll, her hair over the pillow.
The small quilt she had stitched for Ilene’s cradle still lay at the foot of the bed. She walked over to it and ran her fingertip across one of the red squares. “I shall love you always, Ilene,” she whispered. “I will never forget.”
Before turning away, Sarah pinned the tiny quilt to her skirt, wanting a reminder of the adored child to take with her. Past the threshold, she pulled the door closed and headed for the forests above the river.
38
A mile from River Run, beyond the stone mill at Israel Creek, the path Sarah followed grew narrow. Ancient sycamores dwarfed white ash and maple. Sunlight twinkled between the branches of the trees. Birdsong echoed through the woodland.
Her fears lifted as the beauty that surrounded her settled into her soul. She leaned against a fallen oak, the bole taller than she, draped with bright green lichen. Easing down to the ground she listened to the sigh of the breeze, the rustle of leaves, and the murmur of the river flowing over the rock terraces below.
Slowly she drifted off to sleep, and woke from the chirps of chickadees above her head. For a moment she watched the tiny birds dart from branch to branch, their black eyes glancing down at her and their heads turned as if they wondered what sort of creature she might be. They did not seem to fear her, and she reached inside the bag Fiona had given her, took out a bit of bread, and scattered it on the ground. The curious onlookers dove to the forest floor and flew back into the trees with morsels in their beaks.
Standing, Sarah dusted off her dress and trudged on, but not without noticing the sun had sunk lower in the sky. It would be dusk soon. She remembered how it felt to spend the night in the woods, where fear would jar her awake at the slightest sound or movement.
When she escaped the Indian village, she would lie in beds of leaves under wild vine and the shelves of great rocks—alone and afraid. Even now, she could hear the owls call to one another, and feel the eyes of some woodland creature watching her.
She moved on until, through the trees, she spotted an inn situated on the road below in the waning light. It may have been the one Hayward had retreated to with Darcy, but she could not tell. Too weary to go any farther, Sarah hobbled down the slope and reached the scullery door. She knocked and a woman dressed in a dingy cap and apron opened the door just enough to peak outside. Her cautious eyes latched onto Sarah.
“What is it you want?”
“Could I rest here? It is going to be dark soon, and—”
“Go around the front to my husband and pay.”
“I have no money.”
“We are not a charity.” She started to shut the door. Sarah stretched a hand out to her.
“I will work for it.”
The woman pressed her lips together and eyed her. “Hmm. I suppose by the state of you, you know how to work.” She opened the door wider. “Let me see your hands.”
Sarah held them out and the woman turned them over. “Well, they certainly are not the hands of a lady, that’s for sure.”
“I can clean and cook. Do most anything.”
“Surely you can. I see the calluses. I should probably ask where you are coming from, or rather is it running from? You do not have to say if you don’t want to, as long as it will cause no trouble to us.”
How could she assure it would not? “I am very tired. I have walked a long way. I promise I will not be any trouble.”
“Well, come inside.” The woman stepped back. Sarah entered a large kitchen. The hearth covered an entire wall. “I could use another pair of hands for a day or two.”
“I only wish to stay long enough to get my strength back. I will not burden you.”
“No burden to Christian folk. Call me Mrs. Sadler.” She went to a door that swung out into a large meeting room. “George, my dear. This girl is traveling alone and is in need of shelter for the night. I am putting her to work for it.”
A foyer led to the desk where Mr. Sadler kept an enormous ledger for guests to sign. On the corner sat a silver bell, a brass inkwell, and white quill. Coming around to take a closer look, George Sadler adjusted his spectacles and paused to glance Sarah over.
“Wash your face and hands, girl. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
She curtsied. “Yes, Mr. Sadler.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Sarah, sir.”
“No last name?” He scratched his chin. “Well, you must have your reasons for not giving it. I do not care who you are or where you are going. Don’t want lots of talk. Just work. Understand?”
Sarah nodded. Mrs. Sadler turned her back into the kitchen. She gave Sarah a bowl of stew and a hunk of brown bread. In no time, she felt her strength return. The minute she finished, Mrs. Sadler handed her a bucket and brush.
“The floor needs doing, Sarah. Think you can finish by the time we all will be abed?”
“I can, Mrs. Sadler.” She emptied water from a pitcher into the bucket. The lye soap within it foamed. If she could have stretched out on the floor, she would have fallen right to sleep, so weary was she from her journey. But she rolled up her sleeves and got down on her hands and knees. The water felt cold, but she did not mind for the heat of the day had lingered into the night.
As she pushed the bristles over the flagstones, she heard the patter of feet. She looked up to see three children grouped together. She knew they were curious about her and so she sat back on her haunches and smiled.
“Hello,” she said.
“Mama says you are a gypsy.” The girl looked to be no more than six years, her hair yellow as the bowl of golden apples on the table. Her staring eyes were bright blue.
“I am not a gypsy,” Sarah assured the children. “My name is Sarah.”
“Sarah was a princess in the Bible,” said the girl’s older brother.
“Indeed she was. But, I am no princess either.”
“What are you then?” asked the girl standing in the middle.
“I am just a girl. Just Sarah,” she answered.
Mrs. Sadler burst through the door. “Out with you. You have had your supper, now off to bed.” One by one they headed up a small flight of stairs to the upper floor and the family quarters.
Sarah shoved the brush across the floor. “They are your children, Mrs. Sadler?”
“All three, yes.” She snatched up an apple and sliced it in two. “Each more precious to me than gold. Janet is the baby and quite spoiled by her pa. Our son is a good lad, and our Nan is growing up fast. I suppose you noticed how different she looks to her brother and sister, her hair being so dark and her skin tanned right down to her bare feet. She takes after my dear mother.”
“They are fine children. Such a blessing they must be.”
“Indeed they are. Now, I am fixing a tray for a gentleman that is seated out front. You are to take it out to him. You can finish the floor later. This is more important.”
With a little effort Sarah stood, then untied her damp apron and set it across the back of a chair. Mrs. Sadler gathered dishes onto the tray, then spooned a helping of boiled fish onto a plate. “Are you sure you can manage a tray? You do not walk so well.”
“I have learned to compensate for my flaw, Mrs. Sadler. No need to worry. I shall not spill a thing.”
“I would not want an accident in my dining room.” Mrs. Sadler moved the tray across the table to Sarah. “Now, be nice to the man. He is a widower and comes here every night to get away from the memories. Served under General Braddock in the French and Indian War, then under George Washington. He has a few scars to prove it.”
“I shall be kind.” To help Mrs. Sadler’s task to go faster, Sarah set a fork and knife on the tray.
“Yes, be kind, but also attentive. Mr. Blye is a sad man who misses his wife.” Mrs. Sadler sliced the apple pieces again and placed them on the plate of fish. “He does love apples.”
“Did you know her?”
“Who, Sarah?”
“Mr. Blye’s wife.”
“I did. She was a sweet soul. Died last winter of consumption.” She waved Sarah away. “Go on. We do not want his food to grow cold.”
Sarah heaved the tray to her hip and left the kitchen. She knew Mrs. Sadler kept an eye on her from the doorway. “Remember not to spill anything,” she called in a hushed voice.
The dining room extended across the entire front of the inn. Along the wall were oak tables and benches with a few Windsor chairs. Although no fire burned in the fireplace, the scent of charred ash and cedar lingered in the air.
An older man sat at a table with his hands around a mug of ale, his head hatless and bowed low. He did not look up when Sarah approached him.
“Your supper, sir.” She spoke softly, and when he finally glanced up to see her, she saw the grief in his eyes. “Smells good, does it not? Mrs. Sadler prepared it especially for you.”
“Venison stew? It is what I always have.”
“Not today, sir. Mrs. Sadler has provided fish. And fresh bread, too.”
He removed his eyes from her, picked up the fork and dug in. Sarah turned, but he stopped her by touching her elbow. “I have never seen you before.”
“I am new here. But not for long.”
“Is that so? Why?”
“I am on my way to the man I am to wed.” If I can find him.
Mr. Blye’s eyes lit up. “Ah. That is good indeed. But why did he not come for you himself? ’Tis ungallant for a man to make his bride travel alone. Are you alone?”
She gave him a slight smile. “Shall I bring you another mug of ale, sir?”
He chewed his food and swallowed. “I have plenty, miss. But if Mrs. Sadler has any pie, I would like some. Apple suits me best.” He popped an apple slice into his mouth and bit down.
Mrs. Sadler would be put out that she could not persuade him to take more fish. She turned once again and went toward the kitchen door. But at the sound of horses drawing up outside, Mr. Sadler called her over.
“We’ve more guests.” With a wide grin, he craned his neck to see out the large bay window. “You must be good luck, Sarah. Go tell my wife.”
39
Before Sarah could carry out Mr. Sadler’s order, the inn door swung open. The hot breeze touched her face. The lantern in the post outside flickered as three men stepped inside.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mr. Sadler said, anxiously making his way around the counter. “You wish rooms or refreshment? Oh, beg your pardon. I did not realize it were you, Constable. How are you, sir?”
“Well as can be, Sadler. It has been some time since we last saw each other. Refreshment if you please.”
Sarah felt a chill race up her spine. She turned to retreat to the kitchen and out the back door before they could see her. But before she could take five steps, a hand grabbed her arm and swung her around. Her eyes met Sawyer’s. Cold and hard, they bore into her. Surprised, he curved his mouth into a cruel grin.
“What were the chances we’d find you here?” he laughed.
With a moan of fear, Sarah tore at his fingers and twisted away, but she was helpless against his strength and he jerked her forward. Her hair fell over her eyes, and when she looked up she came face to face with a man a head taller than the others, broad-shouldered and heavily armed with two flintlock pistols in his belt.
“What have you here, Sawyer?” the constable said.
“Sarah Carr,” Sawyer snarled.
The kitchen door banged against the wall behind her. “Let that girl go, you ruffians.”
Quickly, Sarah looked over her shoulder to see Mrs. Sadler, a pot raised above her head.
“I will strike you down if you do not.”
The constable stepped up to her. “You would not strike an officer of the law, would you, Mrs. Sadler?”
Her angry face went blank. “Oh, dear. I am sorry, sir.”
“Not to worry. Lower the pot, if you please.”
