Before the Scarlet Dawn

18



February, 1776





Hayward’s recovery took time, but his temper quickened. Kept from joining his regiment in Annapolis, unable to ride, forbidden to walk without aid, the inactivity had hardened him. As Eliza’s baby grew, her figure changed, and it broke her heart to see how he resented it. She saw in his eyes a cool gaze that said he longed for the once soft curves of her waist and hips, the slightness of her weight, and he told her on more than one occasion he hoped she’d return to her former beauty soon after his child was born.

More and more he withdrew affection from her, offering no embraces or even a warm kiss upon the cheek. She’d lie in bed long into the night and weep in silence. She missed the touch of his lips against hers, how he’d fill her with desire and make her feel wanted—loved. She said nothing to him about it. She needed to be patient.

His leg healed with time, but it left him with a slight limp. Determined not to allow his injury to affect his part in the fight for independence, he kept up with the correspondences that were a regular occurrence but kept the contents a secret. Once he had read them, they were tossed into the fire, and Eliza wondered as she watched them burn what they were about. He would never share them with her.

After the harvest, farmers came to the mill, and Addison would take Hayward down to the creek to see them. Eliza would follow, and as soon as she came within earshot, the conversations among the men would stop. Although she disliked the secrecy and exclusion, she welcomed the sacks of flour they gave her, and sat beside Hayward, watching the mill wheel turn and the water splash over the rungs.

Mr. Halston had passed River Run with his blacksmith and apprentice on three occasions. He owned a substantial apple orchard and sent up to the house a barrel of the ripened fruit, a cask of cider, and several pounds of dried venison. Always his messages were directed to her, never Hayward.

Dear Madam,

Seeing we are neighbors, I am sending a portion of the fruit of my labor. I have heard of the impending arrival of your child and hope these gifts will sustain you in good health through the winter.

Your humble servant,

Jeremy Halston



At Christmas another gift arrived, a bolt of flax linen. Eliza ran her hands over the smooth fabric, elated by such a kind present, for linen of this quality was precious.



Dear Madam,

For your child—in hopes of a fine baptismal

gown.

Your devoted servant,

Jeremy Halston

She had never shown Hayward the notes or mentioned the gifts. He was too preoccupied with going to war to be bothered by a barrel of apples and a bolt of fabric. In some ways, Eliza felt guilty for accepting Halston’s presents. But as the notes became more frequent, she found herself anticipating them, and her heart beat more rapidly as her eyes traced his words, thinking it was only friendship she felt—nothing more than that.

A clouded sky thickened that night. A lengthy letter was placed in her hand, and at the end of the missive, Halston said he loved her. Deeply troubled by this, she stared at the ceiling and watched the shadows quiver over her head.

I must tell him not to send me any more letters. It could come to this, that he loves me—oh, but I think he does, Lord, and it is wrong. And wrong that I should feel anything for him. I must stop this at once. I mustn’t accept anything from him, or see him, especially if Hayward joins the army and leaves me here alone. You must help me, Lord. Strengthen me to resist what my heart is feeling.

She drew herself up. Hayward was asleep in the chair by the fire. Bits of wood were bright red in the hearth, the ashes white. Snow stuck to the windows and heavy gales rushed across River Run. At the stroke of midnight, she felt the first pang of labor.

Shifting her legs over the side of the bed, she stood and made her way toward him. “Hayward . . . you must wake.”

He sat forward and ran his hand over his face. “What is it?”

“I think you may need to wake Fiona.”

He stood. “The child?”

“Yes.” She gathered the bedclothes in her fists and clenched her teeth.

The fire crackled. The wind pushed against the house and deepened the chill of the room. A woolen wrap lay at the foot of the bed, and Eliza drew it over her shoulders. She shivered, and the babe turned within her.

“No, you mustn’t.” Hayward lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed, and laid her in it. Afraid of what she faced, she noted the first tender gesture he’d given her in months.

“You love me, don’t you, Hayward?” Please tell me.

“How can I not?” He drew her feet beneath the blanket. “I’ll be back in a moment with Fiona. Lie quiet.”

She set her hand over his arm. “I wish you would say the words. Especially now.”

“It is hard for me. Besides, a man shouldn’t have to say it. A wife should know.”

“It is no effort for men to declare their love before marriage. Why should they stop afterwards?”

“Deeds are greater than words.”

“But you’ve been so distant and angry since your accident . . .”

“Only because it prevented me from joining the Continentals.”

She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. “You are well now, so I suppose you will leave me soon.”

“Yes, but my heart is yours alone.”

I do not believe you.

He touched her cheek. “Is that not enough?”

Not without you telling me you love me.

“Now I must wake Fiona. Stay in bed.”

Hurt, she looked away from him to hide her feelings. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced them back with a vengeance. “You must stay out of the room until your son is born.”

He paused by the door, nodded, and went out with a candle in his hand. She had done everything she could to please him, and still his feelings for her were not the swift, constant current she desired. Had she made a mistake in marrying him, in thinking he would love her as she loved him? She had to accept his ways. That was all. He showed his love through deeds, not words. He’d given her his name, protection, a roof over her head, and food to eat. Did that not show he loved her? She had beautiful clothes, and everything she wanted. Now she was about to bear his child. It would only deepen his feelings for her, would it not? To press him again for poetic words of love might drive him away. And after the baby, her figure would return. Surely this would please him.

Another pain gripped her, and she reached for the bedpost and pulled herself up.

Hayward returned with Fiona, who hurried to Eliza with outstretched arms. Eliza turned to her, and with her dark hair falling over her shoulders, with fear that rose to the surface as her breath was snatched from her lungs, she watched him turn aside, place his hand over the brass knob, and quietly pull the door closed.





Alone in his study, Hayward stared at the flames that licked the bricks in his hearth. Troubled, he dragged his hunting knife over a piece of kindling, caring not for the shavings that fell onto the floor. His leg ached, and he paused to rub the muscle. Then he threw the chafed wood into the fire.

Nothing could drown out Eliza’s cries upstairs. Not his thoughts, not the crackle of the fire, not the rattling branches outside his window. He squeezed the arms of the high-backed chair and tried to resist the impulse to go to her. Another anguished cry caused his muscles to tighten. He could stand it no more and rushed upstairs.

As he stood in front of their bedroom door, his hand hesitated over the brass knob. He dared not go in. She had told him not to, and so he withdrew his hand and leaned his back against the wall, waited, and found himself praying for Eliza’s and his baby. The door drifted open and out stepped Fiona. She took him by the arm and pulled him inside.

I cannot get the child to cry,” she whispered. “Please, sir. You must try. Rub the baby’s back vigorously.”

Eliza lay quiet against the pillows, the sheets wrapped around her legs. Her damp hair clung to her throat, and her eyes were closed. “Is she all right?”

Fiona nodded. “She had a time of it, but she will be fine.” She handed him the newborn, wet and coated, and as pale as the fear that stole into his breast. No sooner had he taken the infant into his arms that it began to whimper and turn pink. It thrust out two fists and wailed.

“Ah, she is perfect now,” cooed Fiona.

“A daughter?”

“Yes, sir. And pretty as her mother the day she was born.”

Hayward felt slightly disappointed, but the glassy dark eyes that stared at him, the delicate bow mouth, and the tiny fingers conquered his heart. “Thank you, Fiona. I suppose you feel like a grandmother, having raised Eliza as you did.”

Fiona wiggled her head and smiled down at the babe. “If only it could be so, sir. But I know my place. I shall serve this little girl and love her just as I have loved her mother until the day I die.”

Eliza opened her eyes and stretched her arms out to Hayward. “Are you angry that I did not give you a son?”

“No. We do not determine our children, Eliza. That is God’s doing.”

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Beautiful and healthy.”

“I’d like to call her Darcy, after my grandmother. I did not know her, but my father said she was a good woman, happy in life and love, and that is what I want for our little girl.”

And so, Darcy Morgan came into the world on a cold winter’s night to a hopeful mother, and to a father whose duty to The Glorious Cause outweighed his duty to her.