Chapter Fifteen
"I mean I'll not marry him." Deborah stood before her father's desk, her eyes fixed on his bulbous red nose. "You can't force me to do it."
The Earl slammed down his meaty fist. "This is an important alliance we're forming here between the Hogarths and our family. You know full well what influence they have in London. It's viscount Hogarth's good name that's bringing in our tobacco prices!"
"I don't care." She shrugged. "I don't care about tobacco prices. I don't care about your new prize house. You gave your word you would let those men go. You had no intentions of carrying through your end of the bargain. John Wolf was falsely accused and it will be by your hand that he swings by a noose."
The Earl's eyes narrowed. "So that's it, is it? You're worried about the red man?" He rose up out of his chair. "I don't know what they did to you there"—he held up his hand—"and I don't want to know, but you just forget it. John Wolf is going to pay for the crime he committed and as for the other man . . ." He chuckled.
Deborah's breath caught in her throat. "The other man, yes?"
The Earl pointed his finger accusingly. "No woman should look at a man the way you looked at that redskin, no woman but a man's whore!" he spat."
"What of him? What of Tshingee?" She leaned forward across the desk, unafraid of her father's seething anger. "What were you going to say?"
He sat back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head. "I was going to say that there's no sense in you waiting for your red man to come back for you, because he won't. Lester found him up along the river, what was left of him, that is."
Tears rose in Deborah's dark eyes. "I don't believe you. You're just saying that."
"Wild dogs—you know there's been a pack of them running this woods for a couple of years now."
Deborah shook her head in disbelief. "You're lying, I know you are," she breathed.
The Earl smiled wickedly. "You'll marry the Honorable Thomas Hogarth as agreed and let me warn you, I'll have no redskinned bastard for a grandchild. You spawn before your due time and that satan's child will never see the light of day!"
Before the Earl had finished his last sentence, Deborah was running for the door. "You can't do this to me," she shouted over her shoulder. "I won't let you!"
Her father laughed. "Oh, but I can, and I will."
Deborah flung open the door of her father's office and ran into the hall, slamming the door behind her. "I hate you," she murmured beneath her breath. "I hate you all!"
For a long time Deborah lay on her bed, the curtains drawn, her head buried in a goose-tick pillow. Was Tshingee dead? No man could survive those bullet wounds, but Tshingee was no ordinary man. Why had her father made such a point of telling her that Tshingee was dead? Was it because he hadn't found the body? A glimmer of hope rose in Deborah's chest. Her heart fluttered.
What if Tshingee is alive, lying out there somewhere in the forest? she thought. Leaping off the bed, Deborah ran to her clothes chest across the room and threw open the lid. Coming up with a pair of high leather boots, she stuffed her feet into them.
The first thing I'll do, she told herself, is go see Bridget. Maybe she's heard from him! Why didn't I think of that before? What if he's there right now? For the first time in three days, Deborah's heart lifted with hope.
An hour later Deborah urged her horse into the clearing where John's cabin was. Sliding off her mount she stared at the charred skeletal remains of the barn that had been burned to the ground. Shaking her head, she trudged through the snow to the cabin's door. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney, filling the air with the rich scent of burning wood.
Taking a deep breath, Deborah knocked hesitantly. When there was no response, she knocked harder. The third time she pounded on the door, the latch lifted and the door swung open a crack. Mary's face appeared.
"Mary!" Deborah smiled. "It's Deborah. Is your mama here? Might I came in?"
Mary held up her finger, then closed the door. It was opened a moment later by Bridget. "What do you want?" She wore a brown woolen shawl over her head.
"Tshingee. Have you seen him? He was hurt. Couldn't I please come in?"
"I have seen no one since the last time your father's men came to pay their respects. They stole my chickens, the vegetables in my root cellar. They took the cow."
"Please let me in." Deborah laid her hand on the rough hewn door. "Please, I want to help."
"How can you help? Has my John been set free?"
"No." Deborah hung her head. "Tshingee tried but my father . . . he played them false. It was a trap. Tshingee was shot, but escaped. John is still in custody."
"If Tshingee could not free my husband: no one can. It's not God's will."
"That's ridiculous. You mustn't give up hope, for Mary's sake. Please let me in."
Begrudgingly, Bridget stepped back, and Deborah came through the door.
Deborah was surprised to find the cabin cold and dark. A tiny pile of smoldering ashes was all that rested on the fireplace's hearth. "It's freezing in here! Why isn't there wood on the fire?"
"There is no more wood. All that John split is gone." Bridget draped her arm protectively around Mary's shoulder.
"No more wood!" Deborah nearly laughed. "The whole forest is full of wood—all you have to do is cut it. Even green wood is better than none."
"I do not know how," was Bridget's reply.
Deborah stared at Mary's pale, hollow cheeks. "Don't you have food either?"
"I told you, they took it all. All I've left is a little flour and cornmeal."
Her own troubles forgotten for the moment, Deborah took charge. "I'll get you food, but the first thing we've got to do is cut wood. You can't live here all winter without wood. You'll freeze to death!"
"Whatever the Lord wills—"
"You think it's the Lord's will that you freeze to death when you're surrounded by firewood?" Deborah interrupted. "Well, you're wrong!" She walked to the far wall and took down an axe. Hanging beside it was a long-handled hammer and a small metal wedge. She took them too.
"Dress warmly and come along with me," Deborah told Bridget, an air of authority in her voice.
"We've been afraid to go out. The men who took John might come back."
"They won't hurt you as long as I'm with you. Besides if they were going to do something to you, don't you think they'd have done it by now?" Deborah knelt in front of Mary. "Would you like to go play in the snow?"
The little girl bobbed her head with enthusiasm.
"Good. First we cut wood, then we'll make angels in the snow. Would you like that?"
"Could we? Mama hasn't let me out to play since those bad men took Papa away."
Deborah smoothed a lock of the child's red hair. "Ask your mama."
"Could we?" Mary begged. "Could we go out and play with Deborah in the snow?" She pulled at her mother's hand, hopping up and down.
Bridget looked from her daughter to Deborah in indecision.
"You'll be safe, I promise you. Now come on, Bridget. What would John think if he knew his daughter was cold at night?" Deborah heaved the axe on to her shoulder.
"Maybe you're right," Bridget conceded. Deborah smiled. "Dress warmly and meet me outside."
All through the afternoon Deborah labored, chopping wood. Though she'd never done it before, she'd seen it often enough. Choosing a small fallen tree not far from the cabin, she tackled the chore with optimism. Swinging the axe again and again over her head, she chopped the tree into reasonable-sized chunks and Bridget carried them back to the cabin. Meanwhile, Mary scoured the area, collecting branches for kindling.
As the hours passed, Deborah's hands grew blistered then bled through her woolen mittens. But she didn't care—the physical pain was an escape from the pain she felt in her heart. Where was Tshingee? Was he dead as her father had said, or was he alive somewhere out in the forest, suffering?
"Are you certain you've not heard from Tshingee?" Deborah leaned on the handle of the axe, breathing heavily.
Bridget struggled with a large log. "I told you, he's not been here."
"If . . . if he did come, would you tell me?"
"I don't know," Bridget answered honestly.
Deborah nodded, lifting the heavy axe over her head again and letting it fall on its mark. "I'll cut this last and then we're carrying these logs up to the cabin." Splinters of wood flew through the air as she spoke. "But then I have to go. My family will be looking for me."
"You said you would help make angels in the snow!" Mary protested.
Deborah's face softened. "That we will, and the next time I come we'll make a snowman, all right, princess?"
"You don't have to come again," Bridget said.
"I know. But I want to. I'll bring food. I'll go to John for you if you want."
"They'll let you speak to him?"
"No." Deborah swung the axe a final time and a length of wood separated from the tree. "But I'll find a way."
"I just want to know how he is. I want him to know our prayers are with him."
"I'll go tomorrow before I come here. That way I can bring his message to you."
"Why are you doing this?" the Irish woman asked suspiciously.
"Because your husband was kind to me . . . and because I feel responsible for my father's actions." Deborah lifted a log on to her shoulder. "Now come on, let's get this to the cabin and make snow angels."
"Hurray!" Mary shouted, bounding ahead of Deborah down the snowy path.
"Where have you been?" Lady Celia's mouth twisted in a scowl. "The Earl is furious."
Deborah beat the snow from her cloak, taking her time to reply. "I've been out." She removed her mittens.
"Out where?" It's dark, you've been gone half the day." Lady Celia smoothed her already perfect chignon.
"I wasn't aware that I was to be a prisoner in my own house."
"A prisoner? Don't be ridiculous. The Earl is simply concerned for your well-being. It's not safe for you to be out wandering in the woods."
James poked his head around the corner. In each hand he held a slice of apple pie. "We thought maybe the redskins had carried you off again." He wrinkled his pudgy nose. He'd put on weight while Deborah was in the Lenni Lenape village. He was looking more and more like the Earl every day. "Pity," he added.
"Where's Father?" Deborah shrugged off her cloak and allowed a serving girl to carry it away.
"In his office, but he's busy. Said he's not to be disturbed. He and the Viscount are discussing the new land acquisition."
"Good. I can speak to both of them at the same time."
"Certainly not!" Lady Celia protested in a pitched squeak. "You'll do nothing of the sort. Go to your bedchamber. I'll have your supper sent up."
Deborah brushed past her stepmother. "Not until I've spoken to my father." Lady Celia followed Deborah, waving her hands in protest, but Deborah ignored her. She pushed open the door to her father's study.
The Earl looked up from his behind his desk. "Deborah!"
"Father, good evening." She turned to Thomas's father, nodding. "Good evening, sir."
"I tried to tell her you were occupied," Lady Celia offered weakly from the doorway. "But she'd hear nothing of it."
James wandered in, munching on his second slice of pie. "She's been gone most of the day, Father. Wonder where she's been."
"Father, I need to speak to you about John Wolf."
"Not now, Deborah."
"No, it has to be now. The Viscount has as much to do with it as you do."
"Lower your voice before the entire household hears you!" The Earl waved his hand angrily at Lady Celia, and she backed out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
The instant the door closed, Deborah moved forward to her father's desk. "You've got to let him go. He didn't commit any murder and you know it."
The Earl stiffened. "I know nothing of the sort. John Wolf is a common murderer and I mean to see justice done. We can't have these redskins causing unrest any longer. It's time they were driven from our land once and for all."
"Our land!" Deborah scoffed. "It was theirs first! We came and we took their land!"
"Deborah, I think that's quite enough. You're embarrassing yourself and me in front of our good neighbor." The Earl poured himself a healthy portion of whiskey from a decanter and offered the bottle to the Viscount.
"You say you'll see justice done?" Deborah went on, unwilling to give up. "Then tell me why John Wolf is still locked in MacCloud's barn. Why haven't the authorities come and gotten him after all this time? You've taken the law into your own hands, haven't you?"
"Deborah!" the Earl of Manchester boomed. "That is enough!" He came up out of his chair and around his desk. "Now you go to your bedchamber. I'll have a sleeping draught sent up to you." He clasped her arm with his hand, his fingers biting viciously into her flesh. "You've obviously not recovered from your ordeal," he went on, ushering her to the door.
"Father, you can't do this. Just let John go!" she pleaded. "His wife and daughter are near starvation." She didn't dare openly accuse him of having their foodstuffs stolen.
"Good night, dear. I hope you're feeling better in the morning." The Earl opened the door and pushed her out, closing it behind her.
Deborah stared at the closed door in disbelief as she heard the lock turn. "My apologies, Morris," she heard her father's muffled voice saying. "I'm sorry you had to see that outburst, but I can assure you she'll be fine. The sooner we can see her and Thomas wed, the better."
Dejected, Deborah started up the grand staircase. "Is nothing ever going to be right again?" she whispered.
"John! John!" Deborah called in a hushed tone. Slowly she made her way through the dark barn, trying not to run into anything. The sound of the snoring sentry wafted through the early morning stillness. "John Wolf!"
"Here . . . " a weak voice replied. "Who's there?"
"It's Deborah, Deborah Montague." On the far wall she spotted the slumped figure of a man. As she drew closer, she saw that John was shackled to the barn wall, his arms spread so that he was forced to sleep sitting up. "I brought food and some water."
"Bless you." John managed to smile.
Deborah knelt in front of him. A large gash ran down the side of his head and across his cheek, it had been crudely stitched with horsehair. His once shining cap of ebony hair was dirty and blood-encrusted with bits of straw stuck in it. He smelled of human waste. "Here, drink." She lifted the crock jug to his lips and he drank thirstily.
"What of my brother, does he live?" John asked between gulps.
Deborah hung her head. "I don't know. He was shot several times. My father say's they found his body but I don't believe him. He's a liar."
"Such harsh words from such an angelic face . . ." John shook his head. "I am sorry you've been caught up in this. I see your innocence in your face."
She lifted a piece of bread and cheese to his lips and he bit off a hunk. "I think I would feel it in my heart if Tshingee were truly dead but—"
"Then you must look for him."
"Look for him? Where?" She offered him another bite of the fresh bread. "I rode up and down the riverbank until it was dark last night. I'll look again today, but he could be anywhere," she said passionately. "Maybe he is dead."
"No. You are right. He is not dead. I feel his life's blood still in my heart. Our Lord protects him. He is somewhere out there, injured but alive."
"I thought maybe he would have gone to your cabin. I was there yesterday, but Bridget hadn't seen him."
John's face lit up in the dim light of the rising sun. "You saw my Bridget? Mary? How are they? Do they fare well?"
"Well enough, considering your absence," Deborah lied. "Just yesterday Mary and I made angels in the snow." She reached out and tightened the muslin sack he wore around his shoulders for warmth. "Bridget sends her love and reminds you that you are always in her prayers."
He nodded. "I must thank you for the Bible you left. It has been a great comfort to me in these trying days."
"But how can you read with your arms chained like that?"
He smiled. "I slip off my shoe and turn the pages with my toes."
Deborah reached into her leather sack. "I have whiskey too, would you like some before I go?"
He shook his head. "No, no spirits. Just more water."
"Don't they feed you?"
"Yes, bread left out for the poultry, I think." He gulped the water. "But not every day."
"I have to go now before someone finds me here, but I'll come again tomorrow."
"Do not put yourself at risk for me, Deborah. The Lord provides for me. It is in His hands that my life lies, not your father's. Not any mortal man's."
"Just the same, I'll be back." She stuffed the empty water crock into her bag.
The Lenni Lenape man looked up at her solemnly. "The greatest thing you can do for me is find my brother . . . alive."
In the dim light of the barn John looked so much like Tshingee that it made Deborah's heart twist beneath her breast for want of him. "I'll do my best, John," she whispered. "I'll do my best."
The following night a light tapping at the paned window of Deborah's bedchamber wakened her. Confused, she lay still in her bed listening for the sound. Yes, there it was again. Sitting up, she stared through the darkness at the two windows along the front wall. A shadow lingered just behind the first window. Blinking, she waited for her eyes to adjust. How could there be someone at her window on the second story?
"Tshingee!" she whispered. Leaping out of bed she ran across the hardwood floor and flung open the window. "Tshingee," she cried joyfully.
Instantly, she saw that the figure was too small to be Tshingee. "Mary? Mary what are you doing out there?"
"I'm sorry, Deborah. I didn't know how else to find you." The little girl held her cloak tightly at her neck. She was balanced precariously on the window's brick ledge.
Deborah grabbed Mary and lifted her through the window. The child was trembling with cold. "Come to the fireplace," Deborah insisted, leading her to the hearth. "You're nearly frozen through."
"I wanted to come today, but Mama said no." She looked up at Deborah with her dark eyes. "Please don't tell. I waited until she was asleep."
"How did you know which window was mine?"
"I came last night and saw you in the window, but I was afraid to climb up so high."
Deborah grabbed a dressing gown off the end of the bed and slipped it on. Then she knelt before the little girl and pulled off her cloak. "What is it, Mary? What does your mother not want me to know?" She took the small hands in hers, rubbing them briskly.
"It is my uncle."
Deborah grew light-headed. "Your uncle?"
"I found my father's brother. I found Tshingee in the forest and I took my mother to him." The words tumbled from the Mary's mouth. "Only my uncle is very sick and my mama, she doesn't know how to make him better. I told her she had to come get you, but she said no, so I came alone. I knew that you could make him better." Fat tears ran down her copper-colored cheeks. "I knew if anyone could make Tshingee better, it would be you."
Deborah reached out and pulled Mary against her, holding her tight.
"So will you come?" Mary asked, peering into Deborah's face.
Deborah laughed, kissing the top of her head. "I'll come, Mary. Of course I'll come."