Before the Scarlet Dawn

11





News came downriver of the Indian massacres along the Blue Ridge Mountains that spread as far north as the Hudson River Valley. Hayward assured Eliza the Indians would not come this far east of the enclaves. Nonetheless, he taught her how to prime and shoot a musket. She had become quite good at it, and it pleased her how impressed he looked each time she hit the target, even if it was not dead center.

She worried those nights when she heard his horse and the hollow sound of hoofbeats fade as he rode off. The gentlemen in the area met in secret, and she prayed for his protection. The events that were unfolding in the Revolution occupied his mind and she felt ignored, but she understood. His life in England was over, and he considered himself to be American. Subjugation to his father had left a bitterness in his soul, a desire to live free. He had come home in the early hours of dawn, weary and spent, yet raging with patriotic zeal. She allowed him to rant, pacing like a restless panther, and then helped him off with his boots.

Eliza shuddered at the thought of war and what kind of suffering it could bring, especially to the people in towns along the coast. Boston already greatly suffered under the tight fist of tyranny. Hayward and she had only been wed such a short time, and to be separated from him was too much to consider.

One balmy night, she knelt before him, clasped her hands around one of his boots and pulled it off, then pulled off the other. “My love, you look troubled.”

He leaned his head back against the chair. Beads of sweat glistened over his forehead, and a damp strand of hair clung to his throat. “I have not told you what the men in the region are discussing.” He drew loose his neckcloth. “But after our meeting tonight, it is important you know.”

She sat back. “It sounds serious. Tell me, won’t you?”

He leaned forward and looked down into her eyes. “I have made a decision. I will take an oath to fight.”

A sharp chill rushed over Eliza. She stared back into his eyes and realized nothing would change his mind. She placed her hand on his knee. “I will go with you.”

“No. It would be too dangerous.”

“We would be together.”

“You would see death, Eliza, and wounded men, some dying in pools of their own blood. No, I want you here. Do not ask me again.” He stood, stretched his hand down to her, and helped her to her feet.

“Other women will follow their husbands. Who else will do the cooking and mending, or tend to their husbands when they are sick, or care for them when they are wounded?”

“That is for the lower classes to do, not the wives of landed gentlemen like myself. I can tell you, Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Adams will not be following their husbands on the battlefields or to Philadelphia. They will be looking after their husbands’ properties in their absence. You are mistress of River Run, and you will oversee it while I am gone.”

She threw her hands over her hips and frowned. “To say a genteel woman cannot accompany her husband in camp is a ridiculous rule.”

“Need I tell you, I am your rule and law?” he said, his tone gentle.

“No, I am reminded of it daily. Can you tell me you will not long for me—miss me? Can you not bend this time?”

“I would be compromising my principles. You will obey me and stay here at River Run.”

She clenched the sides of her gown. “I will worry myself sick over you, and miss you terribly.”

He drew off his waistcoat. “I will not leave you alone here without a man. Addison will stay . . . to protect you and Fiona.”

Her mouth dropped open with a start. “Protect us? But you said the Indians would stay away.”

He turned. “And I believe that is true. But there may be British soldiers and a few stray Indians that wander this far into the wilderness. You cannot be too cautious even when the possibility of danger is slim.”

The thought of Redcoats stomping over River Run, Indians lurking in the woods nearby, and she without her husband, made Eliza frown. Despite Hayward’s assurances, she imagined what the Indians would do to her and Fiona if they were to attack their home. And she feared what English officers would demand of her if they set foot on her doorstep. Yet she raised her face and said, “I am British. Surely no English soldier would harm me.”

“As long as you say you sympathize with them and support the King, and show hospitality to the officer in command, they will treat you well.”

Eliza bit her lower lip. How could he, knowing the risks, leave her? “I hope you are wrong and that no soldiers from either side shall come anywhere near River Run. If they do, I shall be certain to write to you and tell you of it.”

“Never mind what I said. Put it out of your mind, Eliza. The fighting will stay well to the east and north of here. I should not have said anything. Now you will worry and do your best to make me feel guilty for it.”

Unable to forbid angry tears from coming, they welled in her eyes, pooled, and slipped down her cheek. “I will not speak of it again, Hayward. Just promise me that you will come back.”

His long sigh drew her gaze. “Where else would I go? River Run is mine. You are mine. Nothing will prevent me from returning, except death.”

A moan escaped her lips, and she leaned into him. “Do not speak of death, Hayward. It frightens me, especially when there is so much for us to live for.”

“There are some things worth dying for, Eliza. Liberty is one of them.”

She lowered her eyes to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps you cannot promise you will come back to me, but I can promise I will be here waiting for you.”

He did not look at her, but nodded. Her lips parted to speak, but the words did not come. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. She felt him breathe out. She had to put it all in the Almighty’s hands and rely solely upon Him. But she could not help but yearn for the mortal closeness and protectiveness of her husband.





The next morning heat fanned across the lowlands and withered the wildflowers that grew in the fields. No breeze stirred in the trees or rippled the tall grass. The courtship song of the cicadas swept through the trees. With each passing rider or odd wagon that passed over the road above the Potomac, rusty clouds kicked beneath hoof and wheel and settled over the flora. The water in the river receded and revealed the deeper boulders and rocks scattered on the muddy bottom.

In the afternoon, when a hazy sun settled above the treetops, a courier upon a brown gelding galloped down the river path toward River Run. Eliza saw him from the porch and stood with her hand above her eyes to block the sun’s glare as he approached. With a sweep of his hat, he dismounted in front of the house and handed Eliza a message sealed in scarlet wax.

Wrought in the most elegant hand were the words To Mr. Hayward Morgan and Mrs. Morgan on the front. Beneath, the slender hand inscribed in decorative scrolls Twin Oaks, Virginia. Along the Potomac.

Eliza, thinking Hayward would indulge her curiosity, broke the seal and unfolded the invitation, and read what she believed would be a turning point in their social life. She stepped into the sitting room, where the sunlight shone bright through the windows, and sat down across from Fiona.

“Promise not to tell Addison I am sewing him a new shirt.” Fiona slipped a needle through the coarse linen fabric. “ ’Tis a surprise. The man has such tattered clothes, not that a laborer like him minds, but a man should have at least one good shirt to wear to church on Sundays and to social affairs—barn dances, no doubt in his case.”

Smiling, Eliza picked up a length of rich apricot silk from the wicker basket beside the chair. She ran her hands over it, relishing the sleek feel of the new cloth and imagining the finished product. She only needed to add a bit of ribbon along the bodice and finish the hem. “You have a kind heart, Fiona. But beware: when a woman makes a shirt for a man, it gives him cause to fall in love with her.”

Fiona hooted and waved her hand. “Oh, go on with you, Eliza. He’d never do that. We are past our years.”

“You are not yet fifty. You are never too old for love. I shall keep your secret about Addison’s shirt, Fiona. And you are to keep mine . . . Still, it is kind of you. I think you like him and do not want to admit it.”

A wave of rose blushed Fiona’s cheeks, and she wiggled in her chair. “Oh, he is a bother. Pesters me like a lad running about my feet.”

Eliza laughed lightly. After a pause she said, “Hayward and I have been sent an invitation to a gathering at Twin Oaks. At last, I’ll have the chance to meet our neighbors on the other side of the river.”

Fiona set her sewing on her lap. “Do you feel well enough? You have seemed tired of late. It may be wise not to go.”

“You are overly protective of me. I am feeling well.”

“But Mr. Morgan may decline. You’ll have to accept his decision.”

“Oh, he will accept . . . I can finish the gown in time, if you will help me.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious, Eliza. A gown of that shade in summer?”

“The color is beautiful. It will be the best gown I have, and I intend to wear it.”

“Women wear light colors in lustring and muslin this time of year. You will raise some eyebrows, I guarantee.”

Despite Fiona’s warning, Eliza pulled thread through a needle. “Why should I look like everyone else? I shall tell them it is the fashion in England.”

Fiona paused, needle held high in the air. “Your good nature is due to your faith, my girl. But wherever you got your impulsive streak, I never could tell.”

“Such rules are meant to be crossed when they are not praiseworthy,” said Eliza. “If I had no compulsion to follow my heart, I may not have won my husband.”

When she heard Hayward dismount outside, she stood and hurried out to meet him in the hallway. He drew off his hat, and she handed him the invitation. In the cool, shadowy foyer she waited while he looked it over.

“I could not resist reading it first. I knew by the handwriting it was an invitation.” She pushed back a curl that brushed over her cheek. Why did Hayward have to look so serious? “I hope you are not angry.”

“No, I’m not angry. It was addressed to both of us.” He folded the invitation and handed it back. “Do you really want to go? There will be a lot of stuffy elites there.”

“I can handle the stuffiest of persons, Hayward. What matters the most to me is the chance to attend an elegant affair with my husband. Yes, I wish to go.”

“Then we shall.” He walked inside the brightly lit study. There were books sparsely set upon the bookshelves now, and Eliza had moved his desk near a window so he could see out of doors and feel the breeze on a warm day.

She stood in the doorway watching him. Perhaps when he saw her decked out in her best gown, her hair dressed in the silver band of pearls he had bought her, then he would give in and say he loved her. If only he could do that now when she was plainly dressed, while her hair spilled down her back and the ends whispered over her hips.

She leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m finishing a gown for the occasion. I think you’ll be pleased when you see how lovely it is.”

He glanced up from the ledger he held. “I shall look forward to it. My only concern will be how many men will stare at you in it.”

“I only care that your eyes admire me. Besides, the gentlemen will have their own ladies to ogle over.”

“True enough, but you shall outdo them all. You’ll see.”

Pleased by his words, that he thought so much of her, she gazed at him, wishing he would set the ledger down and come to her. “Not for a moment do I want other men staring at me. I belong to you, and all of me is for your eyes alone.”

He grinned and set the ledger down. “I am convinced it is something that cannot be helped.”

A wave of happiness rushed though Eliza at his comment. But she meant what she said. To have other men admire her bothered her greatly, for too often admiration led to lust. “Perhaps I shall be of interest because I am a newcomer, and only that.”

She spoke softly and shyly, glad he had no interest in what was in or out of fashion, or the etiquette of dress for ladies of her standing. Some husbands would have questioned their wives on the gown they intended to wear, or they would insist to see them in it beforehand in order to approve it.

He laughed lightly. “You underestimate the power of your beauty, Eliza.”

She released a heavy sigh. “It pleases me that you see me that way, but I am not beautiful, Hayward. Not in a worldly sense.”

He shook his head. “I do not understand you. Women are vain creatures. Why not you?”

“If God does not look on the outer appearance of anyone, then why should we? My heart is what is important, my love.” She moved to him, placed her hand in his, and held it against her breast so he could feel her beating heart. “I long that you would look here, Hayward. My true self is what you shall find if you do.”

With a wary look in his eyes he drew his hand away. “You are too philosophical for your own good, Eliza. God made your face and body for me, as your husband, to admire. Think on that for a while, will you?”

He pulled away from his desk, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her. Indeed she felt his desire, but what was desire without love? Perhaps that would change in time, and their marriage would grow into a lasting friendship.

He then asked her to wait for him upstairs, and as she ascended the staircase she whispered, “Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.” Be that woman, Eliza. Do not falter, no matter how difficult it may be. If he never says he loves you, stay true, and know that what is in the heart is deeper than any words can describe.





The day Eliza had anticipated finally arrived. She came down the staircase in her new gown feeling excited and hopeful. Fiona had brushed out her hair until it gleamed in a nimbus of ebony spirals. Long strands hung over one shoulder, with the rest pulled up and fastened with a pearl band. Sunlight, warm and sultry, streamed through the open windows and spilled over her.

Hayward waited near the door, and when his eyes lifted to her as she descended the stairs, they warmed at the sight of her in the gown. How she hoped it would be enough to distract him from thoughts of war, for she had no doubt the men would engage in conversations concerning America’s break with England.

At the bottom step, she turned in a complete circle for his inspection. “Do you approve, my love?” She ran her hands down the fabric. “Is it not pretty?”

His eyes ran over the lightly boned bodice, over the falls of ivory lace at the sleeves, and the lacings in the back that drew in her waist. Then he turned his eyes away. “I do not think you should wear it.”

Disappointment vanquished her smile, and dashed her hopes of pleasing him. “Why not? What is wrong with it?”

“The ladies will . . .”

“Disapprove?”

“They will envy such a gown. And they will think you quite forward for wearing such a color. Do you want to be the subject of their gossip?”

“I will bear up under any scrutiny that may come my way.”

She raised the hem above the heels of her satin shoes, exited the house, and made her way to the carriage. Determined she would not bend to any rules she found absurd, she sat down in the seat with her back toward Addison, who acted as coachman. She was ready to have it out then and there with Hayward if he were to order her back inside to change. But, to her surprise, he climbed inside and sat across from her without saying a word. The expression on his face, the smirk that crossed his lips, said she would get what she deserved for being so bold and defiant.