Wild, Beautiful, and Free(60)

I wrapped the reins around my hands until my fingers throbbed and ached. Oh God. If he was married, if he was under fire in a distant field far from me, I could make this prayer, perhaps even a sacrifice? I would stay near, endure the witness of his attachment to this woman, if it meant that he might survive. It seemed a meager, useless bargain, but it was all I had to offer.

But if I were being truthful with myself and my God, I’d have to confess that if I were to come upon a resident of Lower Knoll and call out to him for the news of the village, and he said, Mr. Colchester is married! and proceeded to tell me about the celebration, I would hail the news, thank the person who gave it to me, and then bypass the road to Lower Knoll. I would keep driving and never return.

It was a dull hot evening when I did make my way into the vicinity of the village. There were haymakers from the local farms at work all along the road. The air was hazy, thick with water but with no promise of rain. The clouds hung above in soft blue-gray folds. It felt like everything around was heavy with waiting—waiting for the heat to break; waiting for rain; waiting, perhaps, for the sound of cannon fire in the distance. It reminded me of my first conversation with Mr. Colchester about the air in southern Louisiana. What we had not discussed was how such air often preceded awful storms that flooded the land and blew wind so powerful that it flattened the sugarcane in the fields. Maybe we both had the sort of minds that chose to recall what was pleasant and forget what was not. It might be better for me now to pay close attention—to read the signs that the earth offered. Would there be a destruction waiting at the end of my journey?

And yet as I drew closer, I was aware of an energy, a small star of excitement igniting deep within me. It stirred with anticipation, conscious of impending joy. I tried to tell myself it was because of the hours I had been in solitude. How I would be happy to be home safely, among familiar faces. I was eager to tell Templeton that I’d delivered Dorinda and that she was now on her road to Catalpa Valley. But I knew that while all this was true, none of it was what sparked my hope. I thought of his eyes. I whispered his given name, chewing on the sound of the letters and enjoying the sweetness as if it were sugarcane.

I also told myself the prospect of seeing him, who didn’t think of me at all, should not spur me on. This journey should have been my practice, my adjustment to being without him. It had been easy enough to not think of Mr. Colchester when I’d had Dorinda to keep me company and no expectation of encountering him. Now it was as though my heart knew its proper place and delighted in returning. But I checked myself. I resisted the urge to coax Bella, my mare, who had been so patient with my less than expert mastery of the reins, to trot faster. Instead I cherished the pace, savored the anticipation. My destination would be in sight soon enough.

Eventually I did recognize the landscape, the curve of the river and the hill that would dip into Lower Knoll. As the road stretched upward, I saw a lone figure walking ahead in the same direction. I couldn’t see any distinguishing features other than that he wore no coat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His hat sat back on his head, like its owner had pushed it there off his hot forehead. The man walked with purpose, not speed. But his stride, I saw at once, was familiar—long and powerful, the foot striking the ground with his heel on each step. His arms swung and propelled him up the growing slope. To see him was such a surprise that I doubted my senses. Perhaps I had fallen asleep and out of my carriage, and I was now unconscious and dreaming this odd scene. In speaking, I hoped to prove to myself that I was awake and alive.

“Mr. Colchester!”

He turned, waved, and stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for me to pull up to where he was. He patted the horse’s neck. “Well done, Bella!” he said in her ear. Then he came around to me. “Back from the river Styx, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have delivered your friend to the other side?”

I nodded.

“I feared for you, my little friend. You didn’t cross any battlefields? You’re all right?”

“Yes, sir, a little tired.”

“And hungry. Here, let me take you the rest of the way.”

He climbed onto the carriage and took the reins from my hands. I leaned against the side of the seat. I was more exhausted than I’d realized. The shock of the happy meeting had shaken me as well. I’d known there would be pleasure in meeting him again, but I was ashamed that I took such pleasure. I was feasting on the crumbs he deigned to scatter my way, to a poor servant who could hope for no better. And yet in this moment I had no better home. He was the home I had returned to, the one I most loved returning to.

“I didn’t know you would be here, sir. I thought you would be in Washington by now.”

“Yes, well. I still have one more matter to settle before I go. You know what it is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because you know me. You know where my life is headed.”

I turned away from him and said nothing.

“My bride will be the queen of Fortitude. I doubt she would have it any other way. She will rule well in my absence.”

“She is—” I sought out Missus Livingston’s word. “She is capable, sir. Quite capable.”

We rode on in silence. I noticed he turned away from the road through Lower Knoll and took a side route to the drive and stables of Fortitude.