Gone to Texas (12 page)

She wore a cream-colored organdy dress of the high-waisted, low-cut Empire fashion, with delicate pink lace rosebuds embroidered at the hem, and a pink satin sash to accentuate her waspish waist, which was the envy of every other woman present. All the men were captivated by her, and that didn't endear her to the other belles, either. She was seated in a chair by the wall, like a queen upon her throne, attended by a dozen young beaux rendered helpless by her charm and grace and beauty, when Christopher entered the East Room. He saw her immediately, but at first she did not see him, and he was relieved, because he was within a hair's breadth of fleeing, and even now he considered slipping out of the White House, to commandeer a fast horse and depart Washington like a thief in the night.

That was a coward's way, of course, but he was afraid, afraid to meet her face-to face, more afraid by far of this than he had been to confront Adam Vickers at the riding hall for their midnight duel with swords. He had let her down by being dismissed from the Military Academy, because that had been her chief weapon in defending him against her father. Now he had next to nothing to offer her. A struggling horse farm in
Kentucky? Life on the Texas frontier, fraught with peril and hardship? Not to mention the disgrace of his dismissal from the Corps of Cadets. And how was he to explain his departure from New York without even showing her the courtesy of calling upon her? The Hudson River Valley estate of Patroon Inskilling was less than a day's ride from West Point. Christopher decided he would rather fight a dozen duels than face Greta at this moment. But here he was. He could not flee. Pride prevented him. And besides, in a sense the President was watching.

The East Room was dazzling. Chandeliers blazed from the high, deeply coved ceiling, their light reflected by the French mirrors adorning the walls. At least two hundred people were present, yet the room did not appear to be overcrowded. On a dais artistically wrapped in starry bunting, a Negro orchestra in blue uniforms was gearing up for the first dance, tuning their instruments—fiddles, bull fiddles, accordions and banjos.

The glamour of the crowd made Christopher feel out of place. He was wearing his only suit of rather worn blue broadcloth. A number of the men were clad in dress uniforms—seeing them was like a knife twisting in his guts. The rest were attired in elegant suits, with boots and shoes polished to a high sheen. The women were decked out in bright lace and silk and braid, with gleaming jewels, swan's down fans, and peacock feathers dangling on velvet ribbons from dainty wrists, tea roses in little garlands in their hair, and more flowers in their sashes, many of which would end up treasured remembrances in the pockets of young men before the night was out.

Stewards passed through the crowd carrying silver service laden with glasses of champagne and sherry. And there was the President, tall and thin with that shock of white hair, clad in black, the color he always wore at public functions to let them all know he would mourn the passing of his beloved Rachel until they laid him to
final rest beside her in the Hermitage garden. He passed through the crowd, stopping often to shake hands and say a few words, and he had Peggy Eaton on his arm. Christopher smiled at that. He had to admire the old general's style. Van Buren had told him there were quite a few locals who had consistently refused invitations to White House functions for no other reason than that Peggy was going to be present. And here was Jackson, forcing the saucy, coquettish wife of his friend down the throat of Washington society until it gagged.

"Grab your partners for the Virginia reel!"

This cry issued from someone in the vicinity of the dais. Suddenly the room was a kaleidoscope of color as the crowd moved closer to the walls, clearing the center of the room for those who wished to dance. Men rushed to choose their partners, bowing to the curtsy, the arms linked, the long rows being formed. Christopher looked for Greta, but he could not see her, as she was hemmed in by her suitors, all begging for the honor of the first dance. Sinking fast into a morass of melancholy, Christopher turned away from this awful spectacle and moved to a serving table where a steward handed him a glass of champagne.

The orchestra launched into the reel. Christopher didn't turn to watch. He didn't want to see Greta dancing with another man. He had not always been able to monopolize her at the West Point hops, and he'd been assailed by jealousy when she danced with other cadets. But this, this was worse, and he supposed it was because he knew he was leaving her, and soon she would find another, perhaps her future husband, perhaps even one among this particular brigade of eligible bachelors, and they would live happily ever after while he rode off into oblivion, an uncertain future on the frontier.

"Christopher?"

Heart lodged firmly in his throat, he turned to find her standing there with a smile on her lips, a sweet and
somewhat querulous smile, and he had the sudden mad urge to kiss her, to taste those lips, to feel her warm breath on his face, as he had done before, in hidden places away from prying eyes. But he dared not compromise her in the presence of so many people. Besides, he wasn't sure how she felt about him now—if he had ever been sure.

"Greta," he said, and stood there, at a loss for words, and feeling like the complete fool.

"Aren't you going to get me a drink?"

"Of course. What would you like?"

"More of that punch, I think. It is absolutely divine."

Drink in hand, she said, "You were going to leave without seeing me, weren't you, you rascal?"

"Well, I . . . "

"No profit comes from making excuses," she said, but her scolding tone was gentled with a smile that made his heart contract. "You probably didn't even think about me. You probably never really cared." She pouted, looking very little-girlish.

"That's not true!" he exclaimed, horrified, and then realized she had lured him into a velvet-lined trap. "Greta, I've thought about you every waking moment. And then, when I manage to go to sleep, I see you in my dreams."

She was delighted. "See there? You can be charming when you put your mind to it. And you should know by now there is no escaping me. Oh, my poor Christopher. I know everything. I heard about your affair of honor with that perfectly horrid Adam Vickers. And that poor Emily Cooper! How tragic."

"I wish she had just stayed away from me," he said, and he could not conceal the bitterness he felt.

"She was in love," said Greta with gentle reproach. "A woman in love will risk all. Love is the most important thing in the world. Far more important than material things. And more important than honor."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Oh, you can be so dense sometimes, Christopher! Must I come straight out and say it? I love you. There. So I am not a proper lady. I don't care. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Greta!" Christopher looked nervously about, afraid of being overheard.

"Are you ashamed of me? I don't care if the whole world hears."

"But you have your reputation to think about."

"Oh, phooey on my reputation. I love you and I am going to be with you, no matter where you go."

"You can't . . . "

"Then you don't love me. You don't want me to be with you . . . "

"That's not what I said."

"Then tell me. Tell me that you love me, and want to be with me always."

"But Greta . . . " Christopher was in sheer agony.

"Tell me."

"What about your father?"

"What about him? Surely you aren't afraid of him."

"No, not afraid . . . "

"Good. Neither am I."

"But you can't come with me. Where I'm going is no place for a young lady like you."

"You talk of Kentucky as though it were still uncivilized wilderness populated by red savages. I know better. I shall be perfectly content in Kentucky. Or don't you think I'm good enough to be your wife?"

"Good Lord, Greta, it's the other way around. You could do much better."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Christopher sighed. He looked around again, to make sure no one was listening. Then he leaned forward, and his voice was reduced to an urgent whisper.

"Greta, it isn't that I don't want to . . . to be with you.
But you just have to understand. I have nothing to offer. You won't be able to live in the . . . in the way you've become accustomed . . . "

She was fuming now. "Oh, you're simply impossible! I don't know why I am standing here trying to reason with you, especially when you insult me that way."

"Insult?
Greta, I never . . ."

"Oh yes you have. You just did, you big lug. You're the one who doesn't understand. I don't care if we live in a one-room shanty with a dirt floor, as long as we're together. Now, I realize that as a man you want to be able to provide for me, but I am not
that
expensive to keep!"

Christopher was stunned. "Why, I . . . I didn't realize."

"No, of course you didn't. How could you?" Having given him a proper scolding, Greta turned suddenly and sweetly forgiving. "Besides, Elm Tree can't be all that primitive, from what you have told me about it. And I think your mother and I would get along famously, don't you?"

"I'm not going to be staying at Elm Tree for long, Greta."

"You're not?"

"I'm going to Texas."

"Texas?" Now she was stunned. "Texas?"

Christopher nodded.

"When did you make this decision?"

"Well, I'm not exactly certain. Today, I think."

"But why on earth would you want to go to Texas, of all places? Texas is . . . why, it's at the end of the world."

"There's room there, Greta. Room for a man to make something of himself, if he's got the guts to try. And in Texas it doesn't matter that much where you come from or what you've been. All that really matters is that you're willing to fight for what's rightfully yours."

"I see," she said, dubious.

He reached out and took her dainty hand, held it
gently in his own big, rough paw. "Greta," he said, and swallowed hard, "Greta, I do love you. I . . . I want you to marry me. But we'll have to wait a little while. Promise me that you'll wait. Until I send for you. I'll go to Texas and make a place for us. Will you come to Texas, Greta? Will you come to me when I send for you?"

She gazed solemnly at him for a moment, and Christopher had to beat down the sudden panic rising up inside him. Tonight, for the first time, he was sure she truly loved him, that it hadn't been merely a flirtation for her, a passing fancy, and he was also sure, at the same time, that he loved her. She was willing to sacrifice everything to be with him—wasn't she? Or was Texas just too big a sacrifice for her to make? He waited, writhing with an inward agony, breathlessly waiting for her next word, the word upon which hinged his future happiness.

Then her eyes sparkled, and she stood on her tiptoes and her lips just barely brushed his, but the touch sent an electric charge through his body, and she put her other hand on his, so that his hand rested between hers, so soft and warm.

"Yes, Christopher," she breathed. "I'll wait. But I warn you, I shan't wait long."

His heart soaring, began to sink like a rock. She laughed at his crestfallen expression.

"No, I won't wait long. If you don't send for me soon, I shall be coming after you. I am not going to let you get away from me, Christopher Groves. Now come and dance. Dance with me all night long, so that I shall have something to remember you by while you are gone to Texas."

PART TWO

The River

Chapter 10

Two years before, on his way to West Point, Christopher had stopped off in Boonesboro to visit his grandfather. The route he took from Elm Tree to Maysville, where he caught a boat going upriver, took him near the village. Now, two years later, his first impression was that Boonesboro had changed hardly at all. There were a few new cabins, but progress seemed largely to have passed Boonesboro by. Towns like Lexington and Frankfort were booming—they were calling Lexington the Athens of the West these days—but the same could not be said for Boonesboro. The old stockade was still standing, and for Christopher it was like stepping back in time fifty years. He could almost hear the crackle of musketry and the war cries of attacking Indians. But the Indian threat was gone now. Had been ever since the death of Tecumseh at the Battle of the Thames sixteen years ago.

Thinking about Tecumseh made Christopher eager to see his grandfather again, and he turned his horse down the road south out of Boonesboro, heading for the old cabin on the bluegrass hill where he hoped to find Nathaniel Jones. Nathaniel had been there in the thick of the fight to see Tecumseh fall, mortally wounded. As a boy, Christopher had delighted in hearing the story, over and over again. Whenever he got the chance he would pester Nathaniel to sit him on his knee and tell the tale. And, if not the story of Tecumseh's death, then one of the many exciting stories his grandfather could tell.
There was the one about his midnight ride to warn Thomas Jefferson at Monticello about the approach of Butcher Tarleton's Tory Legion, back in the days of the War for Independence. Nathaniel Jones had been just a lad then, all of sixteen years old. Christopher had particularly liked the part where a flooding creek carried away a bridge just as Nathaniel crossed it on his hard-running horse, Jumper, with the dragoons hot on his heels.

Then, too, there was the story of how Nathaniel had saved his true friend, Quashquame, the Delaware, from being burned alive at the stake. That was back in the days of Tecumseh. The great Shawnee leader had stirred the other tribes against the white men, even the Delawares, who had condemned Quashquame to death for being a friend of the Long Knives. Nathaniel had arrived at the Delaware village in the nick of time, driving the Indians' horse herd through the teepees to scatter the Delawares, giving himself the time to free Quashquame from the stake. Fleeing the village with his Delaware friend, Nathaniel had been grievously wounded, and later captured. He was given to Tecumseh, who gave him, in turn, to the British. Nathaniel was thrown into the guardhouse at the redcoat outpost of Fort Malden, but he had not lanquished long in captivity, effecting a miraculous escape when a great earthquake caused the guardhouse quite literally to fall down around his ears.