Chapter Sixteen
They had buried Priscilla at Mount Auburn, the fashionable cemetery that was so innovative because of its ornate monuments and grounds. It was almost like a lovely park, sharp contrast to the former grim church graveyards. The family was in mourning, wearing black and seeing few visitors. However, within a couple of days, Silas had soon returned to his business duties.
Summer had planned to return west now that Priscilla was dead. However, she felt much too ill to travel, and she hadn’t heard anything from Iron Knife, despite her letters and wires. Evidently, that part of her life was over. She waited until a couple of days after the funeral while Father sat reading his newspaper after breakfast to decide to tell him about the coming baby.
“Ye Gods, it’s about time the war ended.” Silas smiled. “Lee has just surrendered! Custer was right in there for the kill! General Sheridan was so pleased, it says he gave Custer the table on which the surrender was written for his wife, Libby.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now David and Austin may be coming home. Elizabeth Shaw says Austin is still smitten with you, despite all the half-breed children.”
She decided to ignore that. Outside in the cool morning, the laughter of her children playing with Mrs. O’Malley in attendance drifted through the windows. “It is wonderful it’s over, isn’t it? No more killing.”
Father looked blank a moment, shrugged. “Oh, that, too, I suppose. I was thinking of the increased markets and all the money to be made selling supplies to rebuild the South.”
“Father.” She took a deep breath for courage, then plunged on, “You—you know I haven’t been feeling well lately.”
“I was afraid you might have caught something from your mother,” he muttered and went back to his newspaper.
“Father, we need to talk.”
“Hmm,” he grunted and hid himself behind his paper. Silas Van Schuyler never really communicated with his family, she thought, not in all these years. He talked about business; they listened. No conversation went any deeper than that unless he was chiding Priscilla about her drinking.
“Father, there’s something I need to tell you.” It took real courage to tackle the subject again. I must tell him I am expecting another child, but he will be furious. Everyone had always been afraid of Father’s wrath.
“Beau St. Claire has asked permission to call on you.”
“With Mother just dead, it isn’t appropriate.”
“Quite so,” Silas agreed, and appeared to be thinking aloud. “Austin’s almost as soft as David; neither one of them could run my empire. Now Beau might be able to until little Lance grew up and took over.”
“My son?” The idea surprised and horrified her.
“Why not?” Silas’ cold blue eyes gleamed. “He’s smart and he seems to like business. If you gave him the choice, do you think he’d rather be living in a tipi eating half-cooked meat and hunkering over a fire like a savage?”
“He belongs with his family; he’s only a little boy.”
He seemed to realize he had pushed her too far. “You’re right, my dear. I was only pointing out that should you decide to remain in Boston, I can offer your children every advantage.”
Hadn’t they had this conversation already? “Angela won’t like your idea; she hopes to run your empire herself someday.”
“She’s enough like me to do it, too, except she’s a girl and so she can never make her mark in business, no matter how ambitious she is.”
More and more, Summer was beginning to feel like her mother, trapped in this house by circumstances she couldn’t control. How long could she hide her pregnancy before it was noticed if she couldn’t get the courage to tell Father? Yet how could she return to Colorado if she wasn’t certain Iron Knife wanted her? She was no longer sure how she felt about him. On the other hand, as poorly as she felt, even if Iron Knife wanted her, she was too ill to make the long trip. What on earth was she to do?
“Father, we must talk,” she said again. Her heart began to hammer as it always did when she had to confront him.
“Damn it, you keep saying that, but you don’t say anything!” Father roared. “Now, if you’re upset because I promised Lance a new pony and fancy red-wheeled cart, I’ll have you know, it’s my money and I—”
“No, it’s not that; I didn’t even know about the pony.”
“Well, out with it then!” He glowered at her.
Summer took a deep breath for courage. All these years he had bullied Mother, and mostly, no one had stood up to him, demanded he stop. She felt deeply ashamed of that now; Mother was such a pathetic thing who had made such an easy target for his venom.
“Well?”
It was so quiet, she could hear birds chirping outside the window. There was no easy way to do this except blurt it out. “I—I’m expecting another baby.”
Silas looked at her a long moment as if he didn’t comprehend; then his face became mottled with anger as he stood up. “Ye Gods!” Silas put both hands to his head and paced the floor. “Who is this villain? Austin? Beau St. Claire? To think I trusted both of them—”
“Father, don’t be ridiculous; it’s Iron Knife.”
That put him into a fresh tirade of swearing as he paced. “Oh, isn’t this a pretty kettle of fish now? Three bastard children now and another—”
“They are not bastards!” Summer’s temper rose, and her voice did, too. Silas might bully her, but she would go toe-to-toe with him for her children. “We were married in a Cheyenne ceremony.”
“Wonderful!” He paused and glared at her, his words cold with sarcasm. “When is this blessed event due?”
“September.”
“Can’t you just see that in the Boston Sun? ‘Mister Silas Van Schuyler, the eminent financier and social leader, announces his daughter’s latest child by a savage who paid many ponies for her!’ ”
“I don’t have to stay and listen to this!” She was raging and brave now that he had dared to attack her man and her children. From outside, she heard the wail of a child and the noise of Lance and Storm arguing. It sounded as if they were fighting over a toy. Lance would try to negotiate and bargain; Storm Gathering would sock his brother in the eye and take it.
“Excuse me, Father, my children need me. We’ll talk later.” Summer stalked out and went outside to settle the dispute. At least now she no longer had to dread telling him. The next move was up to him.
Silas lit a cigar and poured himself a glass of brandy. Dr. Morgan had warned him that someday he might have a stroke if he didn’t do a better job of controlling his rage. He mulled over Summer’s unwelcome news. Ye Gods, now what was he to do? All those plans he’d had for marrying her off to either Austin or Beau were shot to hell. Then again, maybe not. Silas smiled and took a deep puff from the expensive cheroot and savored the taste of the brandy. Obviously, as badly as Summer felt, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while, which gave him an even longer time to plot. This new turn might even help his plans for his grandson.
Silas stared out the window at the bare dirt where the rose garden used to be. Immediately after the funeral, he had ordered it destroyed and had had the pleasure of being there to watch it happen. Cold, calculated action, that’s what always paid off. Tomorrow, he would force himself to apologize to Summer, be kind and sympathetic. Maybe this latest news wasn’t a problem, but an opportunity instead. This new child might be a handsome, white-skinned little grandson like Lance, and that would give Silas two heirs.
Time. Time was on Silas’ side. By next autumn, Summer could be interested enough in Beau or Austin to stay, and that savage might be dead or have another woman in his tipi. If Beau was loathe to take on a woman with four children, Silas would give him a partnership, or offer to raise the children—at least the white ones.
Yes, this might work out fine after all. Silas sipped his brandy and willed himself to cool his rage. A smart businessman always figured the angles and how to work them to his own advantage. Now maybe it was time to send that final telegram that would end this relationship between the daughter and that savage. Silas had lost Priscilla, but he damned well didn’t intend to lose Summer and her children!
Summer heard the doorbell ring and leaned over the upstairs bannister, listening to the butler answer it. Who could that be? In mourning as they were, she certainly wasn’t expecting any company. Father was at his office and had been very kind to her since that initial blow-up yesterday. In fact, he had even apologized to her this morning before he went to the office. Maybe her mother’s death was softening him a little. “Evans, who was that?”
He looked up at her. “A messenger boy, Miss Summer, a telegraph wire for you.”
Her heart leaped with hope as she hurried down the stairs. At last! It was bound to be a message from Iron Knife, or at least from Todd Shaw. She took the envelope, stared at it a long moment, then realized Evans was discreetly hovering in the background. “I’ll be in my room,” Summer said coolly and went up the stairs. She wasn’t about to share this with that snooty servant.
As she went down the hall, she could hear the children in the nursery with Mrs. O’Malley. Summer went into her room, sank down on the window seat and stared at the envelope for a long moment. It must be important or Todd would have just written a letter. The more she stared at it, the more unsure she was that she wanted to open it. Suppose Iron Knife had been killed? Suppose—?
Stop it, Summer, you’re imagining the worst, she scolded herself. It’s been difficult. for messages to get through because of the Indian war or maybe Todd has not been able to connect with Iron Knife and sent a wire because he knew you’d be in a hurry for news.
She found she was holding her breath, and her hands trembled as she opened it. She read it twice before the words sunk in:
Dear Summer: Stop. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Stop. You have been gone so long, Iron Knife has taken a Cheyenne girl as wife. Stop. Perhaps it was never meant to be. Stop. You were not cut out for this rough life. Stop. My best and warmest wishes. Stop. Todd.
She stared at the words for a long moment as if they were written in some foreign language. She felt empty inside, and then the grief came and the anger and the jealousy. With an oath, she tore the paper to bits and collapsed on the window seat in a torrent of sobs. If she had felt pain at the knowledge that he had made love to Gray Dove, this was sheer agony. Summer wept until she had no tears left and her eyes were swollen and red.
What should she do now? Contact Todd for more information? Why? Try to get tickets to return to Colorado Territory? What for? She wasn’t in any kind of physical condition to travel west, even if she had been certain of a warm welcome. How like a man! She had been gone about three months, and already her supposed once in a lifetime eternal love had found himself another woman. Summer was too ill to journey a long distance to fight for what was hers right now, or she would be on a train this afternoon. She wasn’t one to let another woman take her man without a fight. She found it almost impossible to believe Iron Knife would do this, but here was the evidence in her hands.
She finally forced herself to stop weeping because she began to fear her melancholia might be harming her baby. Late that afternoon, when she finally emerged from her room, she refused to discuss it with the sympathetic Mrs. O’Malley, and the other servants were looking at her swollen eyes with curiosity.
Father came home early and immediately sought her out in the music room, his voice warm with sympathy. “Summer, are you all right?”
“What are you doing home?” Father never let anything interfere with business.
“Evans sent for me; the whole house is abuzz that something terrible has happened!”
She tried to make an airy gesture, but her voice was ragged. “It—it’s nothing. I—I may not be returning to Colorado Territory after all.”
He didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ as she had dreaded. In fact, for a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all. “I know you won’t believe me, Summer, but I really am sorry.” He didn’t look her in the face; he studied the piano where Priscilla used to sit and play.
“Thank you, Father.” She was touched by his concern. Perhaps all these years, she had misjudged him. Perhaps he wasn’t as cold and calculating as she had always thought.
He cleared his throat. “Please don’t take it so hard, daughter; you know this was an improbable union to begin with—”
“Please, Father”—she held up her hand to shush him—“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“All right.” His voice was almost gentle. “You and your children have a home here as long as you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“I know this may seem like the end of the world to you, but you’ll get over it in time; they say time heals all wounds.”
She didn’t want to discuss this. Her soul felt bleeding and raw. Summer didn’t want to think about next week, next year, or even tomorrow. Just getting through the rest of the day was all that mattered right now.
Silas said, “Summer, if you don’t want to have supper with us, would you like me to have Bridget bring a tray up to your room?”
She thought about having to face Angela’s impertinent questions and the servants’ stares. “Yes, I—I would like that. Maybe by tomorrow, I’ll feel better.” She turned and fled up the stairs.
Silas watched her go. He was almost ashamed of himself for having sent the telegram; almost, but not quite. After all, it was for her own good, and certainly it was better for the children. Eventually, when Todd Shaw finally came home for a visit, Summer might figure out what Silas had done; but by then, she might have forgotten about that damned savage and married again, so it wouldn’t matter. The end justified the means; every practical person knew that. He smiled with satisfaction; yes, it was for her own good. Now that the war had ended, Austin might be coming home, and certainly Beau would be back in town during next weekend, and Silas would prevail on Summer to invite him to share Easter dinner. One way or another, the Van Schuylers would be rid of that savage half-breed, and Silas would have Summer’s children in his power.
It had been a long, long week since Lee’s surrender, Summer thought. In the several days that had passed since she had received the telegram from Todd Shaw, she had pulled herself together but was still not certain what to do about her life. Well, she certainly had time to think about that between now and the time the new baby arrived.
It was Saturday morning, and Summer had just finished breakfasting with Father and Angela. Once Father had gotten over the shock of her announcement of an impending child, he had been quite nice and good-humored toward her; in fact, almost sympathetic over the fateful telegram. Perhaps she had misjudged him.
Now she sat in the music room planning a festive Easter dinner for tomorrow. They would go to church. Even Father attended on Easter and Christmas; he said it made a very good impression. Beau was in town again, and Father had insisted they invite him for Easter dinner, since the poor man really had no place to go for the holiday. It was still quite early; the ice man had not yet made his delivery. She’d left Father sitting in the dining room drinking coffee and reading his morning paper.
The front doorbell rang suddenly, over and over as if someone was hitting it in great agitation. “Who on earth can that be—?”
She got up and ran into the hall as Evans hurried to open the door.
Father stuck his head out of the dining room. “Ye Gods, what idiot would be—?”
Portly Robert Shaw burst through the door as the butler opened it, his florid face agitated, his breath coming in gasps. “News just came in over the telegraph! No telling how it will affect the future of our investments!”
“Ye Gods, Robert,” Father bellowed, “have you gone daft? What—?”
“The president was shot last night at Ford’s Theater by some crazy actor! Lincoln died early this morning!”
The nation had never had a president assassinated before and went prostrate with grief. Newspapers told of how the president and Mrs. Lincoln had gone to the theater on Good Friday evening to see a play called Our American Cousin. Because there had been threats on the president’s life, he had been urged not to go, but pouty Mary Lincoln had insisted on attending the entertainment. Numerous people had been invited to accompany them, but each had a reason or excuse not to go. The stalwart Major Rathbone and his fiancée, Miss Clara Harris, daughter of New York’s Senator Harris, had finally been persuaded to accompany the president.
The handsome and popular actor, John Wilkes Booth, had burst into the president’s box, shot him in the head, and stabbed Major Rathbone when he tried to stop the assassin from fleeing. Booth had jumped from the box to the stage, and escaped. He was still at large, although a huge manhunt was now in progress.
Newspapers described in great detail the expensive walnut casket with silver handles, the cross of lilies at Lincoln’s head, and the anchor of roses at the foot of his casket during the funeral in the East Room of the White House. Lincoln and his little son, Willie, who had died while his father was president, were to be reburied in Springfield, Illinois. As the funeral train wended its way back to Springfield, it stopped in many cities along the way where the body was placed on display for the public to see. It was estimated that seven million people saw the coffin along its journey.
John Wilkes Booth was cornered in a Virginia barn and shot to death April 26th by a policeman named Boston Corbett. Seven other. conspirators were arrested, including a Dr. Mudd, who protested he had done nothing but treat Booth’s leg which the actor had broken in jumping from Lincoln’s box to the Ford Theater’s stage.
Almost lost in the news was the sinking of the riverboat Sultana. The overloaded craft, carrying more than two thousand returning Union soldiers, blew up and sank in the Mississippi River just above Memphis on the night of April 27th. The loss of life was horrible, some said more than fifteen hundred dead, but with all the other news, the boat disaster got small notice by the newspapers.
In May, to celebrate the end of the war, there was a huge victory parade in the nation’s capital. According to the papers, young General Custer, sporting a scarlet scarf at his throat, looked dashing on his spirited mount leading his troops. His horse ran away with him along the parade route, creating much publicity and setting ladies’ hearts aflutter.
Summer had hoped Austin and David might be coming home soon, but there were still so many wounded to deal with and rebellious Southern soldiers returning home to be controlled by victorious occupation forces.
In late May, Summer attended the wedding of her old friend Maude Peabody, who had survived the sinking of the Sultana. Maude and her new husband then moved to his home state, leaving Summer feeling lonelier than before.
Again it was dark and dangerous to go to Denver, but Todd had sent him a message. The Cheyenne had split up. Those who favored peace had gone with Black Kettle to the land south of the Arkansas River; the ones who wanted to fight had joined up with some of the Sioux and were ranging the northern plains. The choices split families, even Iron Knife’s. His younger cousin, Two Arrows, took his wives and children and went south with those seeking peace. Lance Bearer, his other cousin who carried the Dog Rope, elected to join up with the warring Sioux and ride the war trail. His old uncle, Clouds Above, was so feeble, he and his wife, Pony Woman, went south with Two Arrows.
However, Iron Knife could only wait near Denver, refusing to leave the area until he heard from Summer. Now Todd had sent a message to come. He slipped into town to Todd’s office.
Todd frowned when he turned from his desk at the sound. “I—I got a message, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.” Todd opened his desk drawer and took out a piece of paper. “This came by telegraph and—”
Iron Knife jerked it from his hand.
To Todd Shaw, Denver, Colorado Territory. Dear Todd. Stop. Mother still very sick. Stop. May be in Boston for months yet. Stop. I’m also having second thoughts about the Cheyenne. Stop. Not sure I didn’t make a terrible mistake. Stop. May not return after all. Stop. If you see him, break it to him gently Stop. Summer.
Iron Knife reread it three times before he remembered to breath again, and when he did, it came out as a ragged sigh that sounded almost like a sob. “No”—he shook his head—“she wouldn’t do this; she wouldn’t say our love was a mistake.” He wadded the paper and threw it against the wall. For a long moment, only the sound of a wagon passing by in the street out front and the creak of Todd’s chair broke the silence.
Todd chewed his lip. “I wish I knew what to tell you. Things change and people change, too, Iron Knife.”
Iron Knife shook his head and took a deep breath. The offices smelled of ink and newsprint. “Our love is a forever thing; nothing can change that.” He paced the floor. “I must talk to her, find out why she sent this.” He whirled on Todd. “I will go to Boston now.”
“It’s a loco idea.”
“I know, but I’ll go anyway.”
Todd shrugged in defeat. “Okay, you’re a stubborn fellow. With a little coaching, you might manage to ride the train to Boston without any trouble.”
Iron Knife felt his spirits fall. “I have no money for a ticket or clothes.”
“I have plenty of money; my father, you know.”
Iron Knife drew himself up proudly. “I’ll not take charity.”
“Oh, you are an arrogant one.” Todd grinned. “All right then, sell me one of your many horses. I could use a good saddle horse and I’ll pay top dollar.”
Iron Knife brightened and held out his hand. They shook solemnly. “Will you help me; tell me what to say? What to do?”
“You bet! I’m only sorry I can’t go with you. I’d give a year of my life to see all the proper aristocratic faces when a Cheyenne dog soldier walks into their parlors in Boston!”