Chapter 19

Rebecca leaned from the open bedroom window and inhaled the fresh spring air. How could she have slept so late on such a wonderful morning? Not ten feet from the window ledge a mockingbird trilled saucily, as if daring her to intrude upon his domain.

Rebecca laughed. "Your nest is safe enough, noisy one. My hawk is fastened to her stand. I won't let her hunt in your territory." She leaned even farther out and strained her eyes to discern the tiny figures of men and horses plowing in the south fields. The man on horseback was surely Adam. He would tease her for lying abed when he was already at work.

How glorious the spring was in this Chesapeake country! Rebecca closed the window and began to dress hastily, choosing an English riding habit for the morning. She would saddle up and ride out to the fields to watch the big horses and sweating men carve long furrows in the eager earth.

Isabel had said something about teaching her to order supplies for the kitchen, but that would have to wait until later. Rebecca had no intention of remaining indoors today! Her skills in mathematics were atrocious, and she would not subject herself to the struggle with smeared ink and badly formed numbers when she could be as free as the wind.

Rebecca paused to transfer the sparrow hawk from its stand in the corner of the bedroom to her wrist, then moved swiftly down the grand staircase and out through the front doors. Isabel would be looking for her in the kitchen, or at least expecting her to come down the servants' stairway. Rebecca's stomach felt hollow, but she could always beg some bread from one of the workers' wives or do without. Freedom was worth being hungry.

She had nearly reached the safety of the barn when a scream came from the house. Rebecca stopped in her tracks as the wailing of another woman was added to the first. She grabbed the arm of a stable boy and pulled him around.

"Here, take my hawk and put her in her cage in the stable. Treat her gently. I must see what is wrong." She passed the bird to the boy and ran back to the house, entering by the kitchen.

The cook looked up from the table, her dark face lined with sorrow. "It's the master," she said slowly. "Master Thomas."

Rebecca dashed up the back stairway and pushed her way past weeping servants. Her grandfather lay in his four-poster bed as if he were asleep; only his waxen color and the absence of movement showed that he had passed from this world to the next; Isabel, standing by the bed, turned to look sadly at Rebecca.

"He's gone, child. At least he was in no pain," Isabel said gently.

Rebecca came closer and sat on the edge of the bed, catching up her grandfather's lifeless hand. How small he looked in death! His expression was serene, his eyes closed. "Adam," she whispered. "Adam must know."

"I've sent a boy to fetch him." Isabel turned to the maids and Thomas's manservant. "Out! All of you! Leave your master some dignity. There's plenty to do. The house must be cleaned from top to bottom, and we must be prepared to feed all those who come to the funeral. Well, what are you waiting for?" She clapped her hands sharply, and the servants fled. "They'll take any excuse to avoid work," Isabel said to Rebecca. "You must be firm with them." Her crisp words did not quite cover the quaver in her voice. She sighed heavily. "He's gone to a better place and left us to carry on. You must be strong, Rebecca. I know you can be."

"May I be alone with him for a few minutes?" A lump in her throat made it difficult for her to breathe. She had not believed it would hurt this much when the old man died. "Please?"

Isabel nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Rebecca lowered her head to rest it on her grandfather's still hand. She felt such a sense of emptiness, of words left unsaid. No tears filled her eyes; the ache was too deep. With Thomas Bradford's passing, she had lost the last link to her English heritage. She had Adam, but it was not the same. Her grandfather had been of her blood; sometimes he had understood her when no one else could. And he had loved her in spite of all their differences.

Rebecca had no fear of death. Her Shawnee mother had taught her that death was part of life. Always, for every living thing, be it tree or stalk of corn or bird or human, there was a never-ending circle of birth and death and rebirth. Thomas Bradford had been old; he had been sick and weak. Once he had been a strong and virile man. In time he would be born again into the body of a babe and would have a new life to live. It was the way of all things.

Still, the way was hard for those left behind. Rebecca could only hope that someday she would look into the eyes of a child and see her grandfather's indomitable spirit staring back at her. She would offer prayers that she and Adam might have a baby and that their son might be the one chosen to carry her grandfather's soul.

Soon others would come and begin the rites for English burial. Her grandfather would belong to her no longer. She must hurry to the kitchen for cornmeal and water. She would send him on his journey with all the tenderness due a Shawnee warrior, and should the English godman not be powerful enough, Shawnee prayers would see him safely to the spirit land. There was only one God, no matter what men called him. Surely, Wishemenetoo would welcome Thomas Bradford and keep him safe until the time of his rebirth.

"Swift journey, Grandfather," Rebecca whispered in the Shawnee tongue. "Dah-quel-e-ntah."

* * *

People came from Annapolis and the Eastern Shore and from plantations up and down the bay for the funeral of Thomas Bradford. He had been a wealthy and powerful man, well liked and honest, and not one of those who came could claim an unpaid debt.

Thomas was to be buried in the family graveyard on Sheffield. An open grave waited beside the marble stone carved with the name and dates of birth and death of Martha Rourke Bradford. The graveyard was a peaceful place, with tall chestnut trees and carefully tended boxwood; the whole was enclosed by a low brick wall. Rebecca approved of the spot. It was a good place for her grandfather to rest; someday, perhaps, her own bones would lie nearby.

Isabel had been a rock in this time of confusion. She had given orders as regally as any queen, meeting the distinguished guests and seeing that everyone, high sheriff and lowly farmer alike, was offered refreshment and attention.

Adam never left Rebecca's side, pointing out the various officials and introducing her to the colonial governor, John Seymour, who had taken time from his busy schedule to pay his respects to the Bradford family.

Rebecca had hardly had a minute alone with her husband since her grandfather's death. Even at night, they had fallen into bed exhausted, too tired to do more than sleep in each other's arms.

Adam had been deeply shaken by the old man's death, and he had shed private tears. Rebecca knew that he wondered why her eyes were dry, but their relationship was still too new for her to try and explain to him. She had performed the ritual of the soul's departure, using the fresh water and cornmeal in the ancient manner, a custom going back among the Shawnee people to the dawn of time. She had done this alone, with no one to watch or scorn her heathen ways. She knew instinctively that Adam would disapprove, and so she had not told him of it.

She had done all she could do for her grandfather until the English had finished with their burial ceremonies. She did not want to embarrass Adam or Isabel, or to bring disgrace to the Bradford name. But the rituals must be completed. She must do what she must do. Until then, she would wait and try to act as they wished her to.

Playing the part of the stricken mistress of Sheffield was not difficult. People did not expect her to talk; she could hide her face behind a handkerchief and keep her eyes lowered. If she let Adam speak for her, no one thought it strange. Rebecca Bradford Rourke was regarded as somewhat backward anyway. And if there were sly glances and whispers, it made no difference to her.

The service at the graveside was long, as behooved the ceremony for a man of Thomas Bradford's position. The minister spoke of his good qualities, of his long life of hard work and sacrifice, and of the loss the colony had suffered in his passing. Rebecca waited patiently, her arm linked in Adam's. She did not listen to the godman's words; they meant nothing to her. If the high sheriff died tomorrow, the godman would give an equally impassioned sermon.

When the talking was finished, everyone returned to the house to eat and drink and to talk again. Faces and voices swirled until Rebecca wanted to run and hide. She could eat nothing, drink nothing, until the rituals were carried out. If she were at home on the Ohio, she would have slashed her arms and face in sorrow and rubbed ashes in her hair. She would have wailed with the other women without loss of dignity. Here, she could only stand silently and murmur foolish nothings. She had never felt like such an outsider.

At last the guests were gone. One by one the carriages and wagons rolled away down the dusty lane, and the sloops pushed off from the dock. Men and women on horseback and on foot made their way homeward, and Rebecca and Adam and Isabel were left alone with the people of Sheffield.

"You haven't eaten a thing all day," Isabel fussed. "You're white as a sheet. You'd best go up to bed. I'll have one of the girls bring you some broth and bread."

Rebecca looked toward Adam questioningly. "Go along," he said. "I've got some things that have yet to be done. Jock's waiting for me down by the prize house."

Nodding, Rebecca ascended the stairs. She would not lie down, but it suited her purpose that they should think she had. She had little time; the sun was already sinking in the west. The sky was a canvas of pinks and oranges and vivid rose, each shimmering shade blending into the next over the edge of the world and into infinity.

The ancient chestnut trees were casting long shadows by the time Rebecca reached the brick-walled cemetery. She paused by the iron gate, listening to the chorus of spring peepers and the regular breathing of the horse she was leading. A robin hopped across the new grass almost at her feet, a fat worm dangling from his beak. She took it as a good sign; the red-breasted bird was a messenger of the coming season of growth, as were the tiny frogs. It was good for a soul to leave the earth in the midst of new life. It would hasten that soul's return.

The stallion next to her pawed the ground restlessly and shook his proud head. Even the herbs Rebecca had fed him could not quench the fiery spirit of this noble animal. His hide was as white as snow, his tail hung in rippling glory, and Rebecca had braided his mane with eagle and hawk feathers and bright red beads. On his glossy rump shone mystical symbols drawn in her own blood. Her mind reached out to join with that of the horse, praising him for his beauty and assuring him that there was nothing to fear.

Adam would be furious when he learned she had taken the animal. Caesar was the pride of Sheffield's breeding stable. He had sired riding horses that were now prized animals in stables as far away as Philadelphia and Williamsburg, and many of his colts and fillies showed the speed that had won the stallion a reputation as a racehorse to be reckoned with.

Caesar was in his sixteenth year, too old to be risked any longer in racing but not too old to carry Thomas Bradford as long and as far as he had to go. Adam had bred Caesar to a dozen Sheffield mares, and men were still bringing strange mares to be mated with him before the season passed. Rebecca had asked Adam what the value of such a stallion was. He had replied that Caesar had no price.

Yes, Adam would be very angry. He would not understand, but that did not matter now. The ritual must be carried out at the last moment before the sun vanished. It must be done in the time between day and night, when the door to the spirit world stood open.

The gate squeaked as she pushed it open and led the stallion inside the graveyard. The earth was trampled beneath their feet, a reminder of the many people who had stood there that morning for the burial of Thomas Bradford. Rebecca sniffed the air. It smelled of salt and newly turned earth. The mound over Thomas's grave was raw despite the partial covering of evergreen boughs and early spring flowers. She slipped off her moccasins and began to chant, letting her spirit seek the soul of her grandfather, which must be close by.

The singing began as a whisper and slowly grew louder as every part of her body became entranced. She was no longer Rebecca but Star Blanket, the Shawnee, and she became part of the song, indistinguishable from the rhythm and words, an instrument for the spinning of a web of magic that would guide and protect the soul of Thomas Bradford on its journey from this life to the next.

Slowly, gracefully, she began to unfasten the polished saddle that lay across the stallion's back. Her movements were as stylized as a long-forgotten dance as she knelt to place the saddle beside her prized pistol on the mounded earth. Smiling, swaying to the music in her head, she added the leather bags of tobacco and cornmeal, the stone knife she had patiently chipped out herself, and Thomas's finest musket. From a basket, she took freshly shaved cedar kindling and dried hardwood. Flint and steel made fire, and the spark leaped to catch the waiting wood. The air was filled with the stench of burning leather and oil.

In that instant, when the last salmon ray of light spilled across the newly plowed fields of Sheffield, Rebecca grasped the stallion's halter rope and drew a razor-sharp steel blade across the great vein in the horse's throat. The great animal gasped and fell forward across the burning grave goods, his life's blood running down across the raw earth and mingling with her prayers for the safe passage for her grandfather.

The scent of blood filled the air, and the flames scorched the sleek hide of the animal, sending up a column of black smoke into the trees overhead.

"For the love of God!"

Rebecca turned slowly, still caught in the spell of the sacrifice, and saw Adam and Jock standing just inside the cemetery gate.

"What have you done?" Adam thundered.

"Ach, lassie," Jock added. "It's an evil thing."

Rebecca shook her head to clear away the fog. The English words meant nothing to her. What were they saying? She looked down at the knife in her hand, which ran red with the blood of the horse; her arms and dress were soaked in it.

"Kesathwa," she murmured. The sun. Did they not realize the sun had set? There should be no talking now, nothing to hold the soul of the departed loved one to the earth. The gateway was open. Her grandfather could ride his horse into the spirit world as proudly as any chieftain. He could swim the bottomless river. "Kotha," she said to Adam. "Kotha, lenawawe." Your father lives. He had been released from his box in Ake, the earth. It was a time for joy, not anger. Why was Adam's face a thundercloud? Why was Jock staring at her as though she were a mad woman?

"Rebecca." Adam's voice was accusing.

Puzzled, she took a step toward him; then a blackness began in the back of her brain and spread to encompass everything in a crackling lightning bolt of sizzling energy.

Rebecca was aware of the earth falling away, but she didn't know it when Jock caught her unconscious body.

* * *

"How could you?" Adam ranted. "Do you have any idea what that animal was worth? To be slaughtered for some pagan rite! My God, woman! Are you a mindless savage?"

A night and half the following day had passed since Jock had carried Rebecca up to the bedchamber she shared with Adam. Now, the sun was high in the heavens. She had passed from fainting into a deep sleep, a sleep that had lasted until only minutes ago. And when she opened her eyes, Adam had been staring at her.

At first he had spoken calmly to her, almost too calmly, as though she were a backward child. He had asked her if she was in pain or if she was ill. And when she had denied both and began to dress, his anger had spilled over like water from a cracking beaver dam.

"Do not speak of what you do not know," Rebecca answered softly. She did not want to fight with Adam. There was no need for his anger. What was done was done. Could all his fury bring back the horse or make him understand why she had done it?

"I want an answer out of you! Why did you do such a thing?" His eyes were black with unconcealed wrath. "I've put up with a hell of a lot from you, more than any other man would, and now this! Damn it, Rebecca! I think you truly are crazy. These Indian practices have gone far enough. Do you have any idea what you looked like covered in Caesar's blood? It sickened me." He doubled his fist and plunged it into the other hand. "What am I going to do with you? What will the servants say? There's no way to hide a dead horse roasted in the family graveyard. We'll be lucky if they don't accuse you of witchcraft."

Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed and bent to slip on a moccasin; her hair hung over her face in dark waves, hiding the expression in her eyes. "I am not a witch. That is a foolish thing to say. You know better, Adam." She parted a lock of hair and peered up at him. "Besides, they do not try witches in the Maryland colony. Master Byrd told me so."

"That doesn't change anything. You killed a magnificent horse without reason. Caesar would have given us another ten years of colts and fillies, if we were lucky. He was one of a kind. How could you do it?"

"Would you have my grandfather walk into the spirit land? Would you have him trade a future life for passage across the bottomless river? Would you deny him the rank of which he was worthy?" She made a guttural sound in her throat. "It is you who sickens me, Adam. You care only for the worth of the horse, not for my grandfather! You said all of Sheffield was mine on his death. If all is mine, you should not begrudge me a single horse and a few flintlocks. The pistol was mine in any case."

"You know damn well we're not talking about the cost of the horse or the guns," Adam lashed back. "We're talking about you, about this delusion of yours that you're some kind of primitive savage. You're white, Rebecca, do you understand? White!"

To her horror, Adam caught her by the shoulders and shook her. "Unhand me," she cried coldly.

He let her go and stepped back, breathing heavily. His face was ashen, the lines around his mouth taut. "We've got to settle this, woman. Once and for all." He regarded her strangely. "How do I know that if we had a child you wouldn't take it into your head to drown it in the river to appease some heathen spirit?"

Rebecca put her hand to her mouth and gagged, turning away to the window. The room spun around her. By sheer willpower she regained control of her body, gripping the windowsill with both hands so tightly that her flesh turned numb from the wrists down. Adam's words echoed over and over in her head. She had suggested that she might kill their child. He had called her a savage, a heathen. His accusations had insulted her soul.

Her head rose proudly as she turned and fixed him with a gaze as far away as that of a hawk. "So you believe," she whispered. "I am sorry. There is nothing I can say that will change what is in your heart. I cannot deny such evil. To do so would be to admit that it could exist. I will not." She raised a hand and pointed at his chest. "You are English-manake. I am Shawnee. It was wrong that we tried to blend our worlds." Sorrow filled her voice. "It was not to be, A-dam Rourke. We are too different."

"There's no sense in this," he snapped. "You are my wife, and you will remain so. You'll live like the civilized woman you are if I have to lock you up and set a watch on you day and night to keep you from hurting yourself."

Rebecca's green eyes narrowed to smoky slits as she brought her other hand forward and made a slashing motion in the air, one palm above the other. "It is finished between us," she spat out. "I divorce you."

"It's not as easy as that," Adam said with a shake of his shaggy head. "We were married in the sight of God, once and for all time. I don't believe in divorce. Whatever is wrong between us will have to be fixed, or we'll have to learn to live with it. I married you for better or worse, and if worse means a mad wife, then..." He shrugged and turned toward the door. "There'll be no running away, Rebecca. I'll set men to watch you. I've told them your grandfather's death has unbalanced you." He sighed and looked back, his eyes an open wound. "I love you more than the hope of my immortal soul, woman. But I'll have an end to this craziness or know why."

She took a step toward him in disbelief. "You cannot believe me crazy. You know why I do these things. I am a free woman. I only follow the time-honored beliefs of my people."

"No, Rebecca, you're wrong. I don't know why you act as you do. I've tried to understand you, but I can't. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to argue with you anymore. I've a plantation to run. There's more work than hours to do it. Stay in your room today. Sleep. Perhaps you'll feel better in a few days. I won't bother you; I'm moving into another bedchamber."

"Where? Into my grandfather's room? Will you try and wear his coat next?" she demanded. "It won't fit! You aren't big enough," she said sarcastically.

Adam slammed the door behind him and stomped down the hall to the stairway and out of the house. Rebecca ran to the bedroom door and fired a parting volley. "You'll never be the man he was!"

A maid coming from the opposite room blushed and nearly dropped the armload of sheets she was carrying. Rebecca ran back to the bed and reached underneath for Adam's good leather boots. She carried them to the window, pushed it open wider, and threw the boots at Adam's retreating back. "I divorce you!" she yelled. He continued on down the brick walk and through the gate without looking back.

Rebecca returned to her bed and curled up in a miserable ball. Her mouth tasted like the floor of a henhouse, and her stomach still felt queasy. She had not believed that she could feel worse than when her grandfather had died, but she did. Not even the growing suspicion that she was with child could raise her crushed spirit.

She loved Adam. Leaving him would be like leaving part of herself, but her grandfather's death had freed her in more ways than one. She was no longer bound here by honor. She had a choice. She could remain and be what Adam wanted, or she could return to the Shawnee. After what had just passed between them, she no longer had a decision to make.

She had no intention of telling Adam about the baby. She was only late in her woman's time; it could mean nothing. Besides, a child belonged to its mother. If Adam knew, he would make it harder for her to leave. Perhaps he would not even want the child of a savage. He had said she sickened him! Would he always watch their child for evidence of her taint?

She had no doubt that she would be welcome among the Shawnee. In time, she might decide to choose another husband—probably not. Men complicated life. Some Shawnee men tried to dictate to their wives as the English did, and she would not have it. She would manage her own life and that of her child by herself.

The jingle of a tiny bell drew her attention to her hawk. The bird was hooded and tied on her perch in the corner of the room. "Ooh, poor Reine. You don't like all this loud talk, do you?" Rebecca pulled on the leather glove and took the hawk on her wrist. "It is me-loh-cak-ne, the season of spring," she crooned to the bird. "It is time you flew free to find your own destiny, to mate and build a nest... to raise young ones and teach them the art of hunting."

Gently, she carried the hawk to the window and removed the hood and tiny leather straps. "You are free," she said. "Fly well." Without hesitation, she cast the bird up and out, watching with pride as Reine beat her wings a few times and then soared up and over the trees toward the bay. You long to be free as I do, she thought. And she knew she would never keep another hawk.

* * *

In the days and weeks that followed, Rebecca put on a gentle face. She said nothing more about the Shawnee, and she even wore her English clothing. Although she and Adam did not share a bed, at least they did not fight. Once she even found a bouquet of spring flowers at her place at the dinner table.

Adam threw himself, body and soul, into the work of Sheffield. There were the new tobacco plants to be tended in the woodlots and fields to be prepared for the transplanting in late May. The corn and vegetables had been planted, and the work of clearing timber must go on continually. A new tobacco barn was being built near the prize house, and repairs had to be completed on the dock. There was little time for Adam and Rebecca to be together, even if they had wanted to.

By May, Rebecca was certain that she was carrying Adam's child. The time of sickness had passed, and she was always hungry. Her thoughts were often of home and her family. She wanted to see her mother's face, to feel the touch of her father's hand on her cheek. She wanted to go home. And if she lay awake at night and wept into her pillow for the loss of Adam's love, it was something that must be endured.

She had not forgotten Adam's threat to keep her a prisoner at Sheffield, and she was well aware of the servants who kept her always in sight, following her when she rode out. Let them watch! It was nothing to her; when she was ready to go, the English could not hold her.

Isabel found her more obedient, more willing to spend days learning to supervise the maids, discovering the secrets of spice, and being instructed in how to make cheese. The older woman accepted these changes as the natural order of things. She had known that time and marriage would settle the girl.

It was not until the third week of May that Rebecca found her opportunity. There was a discrepancy in the manifest of one of Sheffield's sloops, and Adam was called to Annapolis to clear up the matter and pay the additional tax if it was needed. He did not want to leave Rebecca alone, but Isabel had assured him that there was no need for worry.

"What happened after Thomas's death was unfortunate," Isabel stated flatly, "but that was weeks ago. Her behavior has been without fault since then. I think she's learned a lesson. Besides, she's been complaining of a headache and has taken to her bed. If you go at once and come back in the morning, I doubt she'll know you're even gone."

Adam's conscience nagged at him all the way to Annapolis. He'd been hard on her the day of Thomas's funeral. The shock of seeing her kill the horse had made him say things he hadn't meant, things he'd regretted as soon as they were out of his mouth. His anger had cooled in the past weeks, and he was sorry he'd moved out of her bedchamber. It had been a stupid thing to do. He missed having her beside him, and he didn't know how to move back in without making a fool of himself.

She didn't seem to be carrying a grudge, but it was hard to tell with Rebecca. Behind those enigmatic emerald eyes lay unfathomable thoughts; she was unlike any woman he had ever known. And she was as stubborn as he was. If there was to be a reconciliation, he would have to bring it about. He decided to buy her something special in Annapolis. Maybe a puppy. She seemed to miss Reine. Isabel had told him the hawk had flown away and hadn't come back. Perhaps a cuddly puppy would do the trick.

He had gone to say good-bye to Rebecca, but she'd been asleep. She'd turned a cheek for him to kiss and then snuggled down under the sheets. Adam moistened his lower lip. She'd looked so irresistible! If she hadn't been ill, he'd have climbed into bed with her then and there, and the high sheriff be damned.

Rebecca's conscience did not trouble her at all. She had waited for such a chance, having made her decision long ago. In her heart she had already said her good-byes to Sheffield and to Adam. The pattern had been broken; it was time to form a new one.

Patiently, she waited until the household was asleep. It was the time of the full moon, and the trails would be as bright as day. She would need the light; she wanted to ride hard and fast before morning. She would head west and south. They would hunt north for her, if they bothered to hunt at all. She would ride west until she reached the foothills of the mountains and then cut north until she found a pass. With luck, she would be in the Ohio country before the next full moon. If not... Rebecca shrugged. The weather was warm and growing warmer. She would be well mounted and well armed. She had no doubt that she would reach home safely.

To sneak a horse from the stable was child's play, to take three only a little harder. She used rags to muffle their hooves so no one would note their passing. She would have preferred to take more horses, but it was not possible. Three would be enough to handle, and she could switch mounts as each animal tired.

Silently, she led the animals from the farmyard, swinging up into the saddle only when they were far enough from the barn so that no one could hear them. She had enough supplies for several weeks, good English muskets and steel knives and powder. It was little enough to take as her portion. Adam could have everything else.

Blinking back bitter tears of regret, Rebecca turned the black gelding's head west. Adam and Sheffield were behind her; soon they would be only memories. With a cry, she kicked the horse into a gallop. She could shed tears tomorrow; now, she would only ride.