Legacies (20 page)

"I haven't waded in a creek in years," she retorted in a half-hearted denial.

"Look at you now. The mistress of Oak Hill sitting with her skirts up to her knees letting the breeze blow up her legs."

Made suddenly and self-consciously aware of the sensation of air on her legs, Eliza looked down at the material bunched in her lap, the strip of broderie anglaise that edged her drawers, ending just below her kneecaps, and the white bareness of her legs below that. "It's hot," she offered in her own defense, then looked at Will, and laughed. "Perhaps I haven't changed."

"I hope you never do. I love you just the way you are."

"And I love you, Will Gordon." She clasped his hand a little tighter and felt the answering pressure. She leaned over and kissed him, their lips moving familiarly against each other and clinging for a tender moment before Eliza drew back. After twenty years their passion might not be as intense, but she knew their love was stronger. And that, after all, was what mattered.

"It feels good to sit here with you," he stated.
 

"For me, too."

She was glad now she hadn't told him about the milk cows that had been stolen from the pasture sometime in the night. She almost had at dinner, but Will had looked so tired she decided not to bother him with it. After all, there wasn't anything he could do about it. They were gone, no doubt stolen by Confederate troops in the area. Before he had gone over to the Union side, Kipp had complained often about the lack of adequate food, warm clothes, and ammunition in the Southern army. Eliza wasn't surprised that the rebels had begun foraging on their own. By now, those cows had probably been butchered, cooked, and eaten, which was a shame; they were good milk cows.

No, she didn't regret her decision not to tell Will. There was time enough to do it later. Right now this peace and quiet was what he needed.

"Miz 'Liza? We's gots the dishes all done." The call came from the house, the voice belonging to Lucy, the maid Eliza had placed in charge of the house staff.

Sighing, Eliza realized how much she had come to rely on Shadrach. Now that he wasn't here to direct the staff, no one seemed to know what to do next.

"I will be right there." Reluctantly, she untwined her fingers from Will's and nipped her skirt and petticoat over her knees. When she stood up, he started to rise, too, but fell back, wincing and pressing a hand to his left shoulder. "I wish we could go to the oil springs at New Spring Place," Eliza murmured. "Your rheumatism always seems better after you've bathed in that green oil."

"Maybe after the harvest is over." Again Will made a move to stand up. "No, you stay here and finish your cider." Eliza glanced at the half-full glass in his left hand.

"All right." Will settled back against the bench.

Although surprised by his ready agreement, she didn't question it. She was glad he was taking advantage of these few minutes to rest. He did it too seldom.

 

As Eliza walked away, Will watched her, a tall willow of a woman with curly hair and gold-flecked eyes. How strange that in his mind he could still see her so clearly—the way she had been when he first saw her, alarmed but not afraid. He couldn't remember a time when she had ever been afraid.

Absently, Will glanced at the house, studying the white-columned veranda and the neat layers of red brick—brick made right here in their own kiln. The house sat on the crown of a hill, surrounded by towering trees. Lately, the house reminded him more and more of Gordon Glen, his old home back in what was now Georgia. Everything did: the gardens; the row of Negro cabins tucked in the grove of trees; the layout of the buildings; the orchards; the fields of cotton, corn, and indigo; the pastures of cattle; even the clay red soil of the land. The only thing lacking was the sight of peacocks strutting over the lawn. Maybe the next time he went to see John Ross, he would buy a couple of peahens and a
cock. No, he couldn't do that. John Ross had left. Gone east, into exile.

He wanted to get up, but he felt too heavy, too tired to move. Then he heard the distant tinkling of music. Was that Eliza playing the piano? It had to be. The tune sounded like his favorite nocturne, the one she always played for him. Smiling, he leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes.

The glass of cider slipped from his loose fingers and fell, crashing against the bench leg and spraying cider onto the grass.

 

"Will? Will, wake up." Marveling that he could sleep so soundly on the hard iron bench, Eliza gave his shoulder a
shake. At her touch, he slumped sideways. "Will," she murmured in vague alarm and bent over him, her hands clasping his wrist. She couldn't find a pulse. "Dear God, no." The first sob rose in her throat. She pressed a fist to her mouth to force it back, but it came through. And more followed. "No, no, no, no," Eliza sobbed over and over again as grief drove her to her knees.

That was the way the housemaid Lucy found her, kneeling beside him and weeping softly, her head resting on his legs, her hands clutching at him. Uncertain, Lucy ventured closer, not wanting to believe what her eyes told her.

"Miz Eliza, Master Will—is he—" She couldn't say the word. He looked too peaceful.

Slowly, very slowly, Eliza pulled herself away from him and rose to her feet, struggling against the heaviness that weighted her heart and her body. She kept her back to the woman, needing to keep her pain private a little longer.

"Will is dead." The words came from that deep cavern of emptiness she felt inside. Eliza made no attempt to wipe the tears from her face as she stared at the gentle man who had been her husband, her lover, and her dearest friend. "Tell Shadrach—" She stopped, remembering that Shadrach had left. Suddenly, her mind was crowded with the hundred things that had to be done, things Shadrach would have seen to if he were still there. Now it was left to her. "Old Tom should be at the stables. Have him get someone to help carry Will into the house."

Lucy hurried away. Alone again, Eliza realized this was the last private moment she would have with her husband. She bent down and kissed him for the final time. "I love you, Will Gordon," she whispered tightly. "Always and forever."

 

Two days after Will's death, Lije and The Blade arrived at Oak Hill. A heavy stillness enveloped the house and grounds as if the summer wind had ceased its blowing out of respect for the owner's passing. The black cloth draped around the front door told Lije more clearly than the message they'd received that his grandfather would never again step out of the house to welcome him.

When one of the Negro maids admitted them, Lije found himself missing Shadrach's familiar presence in the house. He hadn't been at all surprised to learn Ike had run off to join the Union's new colored regiment, to the utter shame of his father, Deuteronomy. But Shadrach—Lije still couldn't visualize that slender Negro donning a uniform and taking up arms.

"You came." The relieved words came from his mother as she crossed the great hall to meet them, reaching out a hand to each of them, her dark eyes haunted with grief. "I didn't know if—I wasn't sure—" Her voice threatened to break and Temple stopped, her mouth trembling in a forced smile. "You are both all right? You're both safe."

"We're fine," The Blade assured her.

"I couldn't stand it if anything should happen to you. Not now, not after losing my father," she declared stiffly.

"I know." He gathered her close. For a moment, she allowed herself to accept the solace he offered. Then she drew back. "There was no warning. No warning at all. He was sitting alone in the garden. He was fine when Eliza left him."

"Where is Eliza?" Lije asked.

"She's in the parlor with him."

Lije started for the parlor, then noticed a very subdued Sorrel standing by the archway, pressed close to the wall. Guiltily, he realized he had never given a thought to his younger sister. His concern had been solely for his mother and Eliza. That changed when he saw the hurt and confusion in her expression.

He went to her. Before he could speak, Sorrel announced, "Alex and Uncle Kipp aren't here. Granny El sent a message to tell them about Grandpa, but she doesn't know whether they got it. She said even if they did, they probably wouldn't come because it's too dangerous for them here." Her eyes accused Lije of being to blame for that.

"These are dangerous times for everyone, Sorrel."

"It isn't right that Alex and Uncle Kipp aren't here."

"A lot of things happen that aren't necessarily right."

"Grandpa always tried to make things right. Now he's gone, nobody will." She turned quickly, hiding the tears that spilled down her lashes, and fled down the great hall.

Once Lije had objected just as passionately to life's injustices. Like Sorrel, he had been young, and he hadn't understood why people couldn't stop hating and killing each other so his father could come home. He still didn't understand it, even though it was once again tearing his family apart.

Sobered by the thought, he turned toward the parlor. Inside, the room's furniture had been rearranged to accommodate his grandfather's casket. Eliza sat beside it, one hand resting on the Bible in her lap and the other on his coffin, her head bowed in silent grief.

She glanced up absently when he entered the room. "Elijah." Asmall smile of welcome lifted the corners of her mouth, but it couldn't erase the sadness that clouded her eyes. She looked past him. "The Blade," she began, "is he with you?"

"He's with my mother." Lije sat in the chair next to hers and gathered her hand in his.

“Temple has been so worried about both of you."

"I know. How are you, Eliza?"

Tears sprang into her eyes, but she only shook her head and gave him another brave smile. "It was so quick—and he looked so content." She glanced down at the Bible in her lap. "I wish Reverend Cole could be here."

"Where is he?"

"In Kansas—at Baxter Springs, administering to the refugees from the various Indian Nations who have gathered there." Her attention strayed back to the casket. "Perhaps Kipp will see him there. Nathan would want to know about Will."

"Yes, he would."

The Blade entered the parlor, accompanied by Temple, and offered his condolences to Eliza.

In the awkward, emotional moment that followed, Temple glanced around the room. "Where's Sorrel?"

"I believe she went out to the garden." Lije kept his reply casual.

"I hope she doesn't wander too far from the house." Temple went to one of the parlor windows to look. "There are too many raiders about, too many acts of reprisal taking place now that the Federal troops have left." She turned back to the room, her glance turning to The Blade in silent appeal. "I have tried to convince Eliza that Oak Hill is a prime target. Everyone knows Father's sympathies were always with the North. Now that Kipp and Alex have gone to the Union side, it won't be safe for her to stay here alone. She needs to come live with us at Grand View."

"It would be wise, Eliza," The Blade told her.

"Wise or not, I'm staying here." There was a sharpness to her voice that matched the sharpness of her grief. "This is my home. Will and I built it together. Susannah was born here." At the mention of her daughter, Eliza paused, suddenly distracted. "The letter to Susannah, I must remember to post it," she said, then sighed. "Goodness only knows whether it will reach her. The mails have become so unreliable with all this fighting going on."

"Give it to me," Lije said. "I'll see that it gets through to Susannah."

"How—" Temple broke off the question, a look of dread entering her expression. "You'll be going north again to raid, won't you?"

Lije was careful to avoid a direct answer. "Our regiment has the assignment of patrolling our northern border, and the South is not without friends in Missouri. One of them will see that it gets into a mail pouch bound for the East."

Tears welled in her eyes as Eliza reached out and squeezed his arm. "Thank you."

When Lije rode away from his grandfather's graveside, the letter to Susannah was in his saddlebag. Within a week, his regiment received its orders to move out. The direction was north.

 

 

 

13

 

 

Fort Scott, Kansas

November 1862

 

A
blustery northwest wind swept off the Kansas plains, raising a cloud of dust that swirled around the train depot. Diane shook the worst of it from the skirt of her dove gray suit and glanced idly around the waiting room. When a hand touched her elbow, she turned and looked into the smiling face of her escort, Major Adam Clark, the post surgeon.

"Why don't you have a seat while I find out when the train is due?" He gestured toward the wooden bench along one wall. "Hopefully, it won't be running too late."

"Hopefully," Diane echoed the sentiment and turned toward the bench.

But after riding in the dubious comfort of the post's ambulance wagon, Diane wasn't eager to sit again. Instead, she wandered over to the potbellied stove and held out her gloved hands to the toasty warm heat radiating from it. A short, middle-aged man in civilian clothes stood on the other side of the stove. Although his face was familiar to her, it wasn't until he smiled that Diane recognized the clerk from the local mercantile store.

"I'm sure glad Charlie fired up this stove," the man declared. "It's a cold wind blowing out there today."

Diane nodded in agreement, the memory of its sharp bite producing a small shudder. "Winter is just around the corner, I'm afraid."

"You're right about that." He glanced out the nearest window. "It won't be long before that wind will be blowing snow instead of dust." He paused and eyed her curiously. "Are you headed off somewheres?"

"No, I'm here to meet Reverend Cole. He'll be arriving on the train."

"Reverend Cole.” He frowned, trying to place the name. "He's the missionary with them Indians encamped over near LeRoy, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. He's been in the store a time or two. I take it he's a friend of yours."