Edge of the Wilderness

Four


The way of a fool is right in his own eyes.

—Proverbs 12:15

“Are you out of your mind?!” Major Elliot Leighton nearly jumped out of the seat he occupied in his mother’s opulent New York dining room.

Margaret Leighton glared at her son and glanced meaning-fully toward the massive cherry-wood sideboard where the kitchen maid was preparing their after-breakfast coffee.

Elliot grabbed the gold damask napkin off his lap and dabbed at his mouth. He smoothed his black mustache around the sides of his mouth. “Aren’t you finished with that coffee yet, Betsy?” Elliot watched with satisfaction as a blush spread across Betsy’s cheeks. She quickly picked up the sterling-silver coffeepot and filled the two waiting cups. As the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room, Elliot smiled to himself. He had been right, of course. The little busybody was lingering to hear the rest of his disagreement with his mother.

Neither Elliot nor his mother spoke until Betsy had set a steaming cup of black coffee at their places and, with a nervous little curtsy, backed through the door into the butler’s pantry. Adding two lumps of sugar to his coffee, Elliot said, “You cannot be serious, Mother. It is absolutely out of the question for my sister’s children to be raised in the howling wilderness of Dakota Territory by a half-breed savage.”

Margaret sputtered, “Genevieve LaCroix is not a half-breed savage! Why won’t you believe me, Elliot?” She reached up to brush a wisp of white hair out of her eyes. “I won’t deny that last year when Ellen wrote that she and Simon would be bringing one of their students here, I had my doubts about housing an Indian. But, Elliot, Genevieve was nothing like what we have read in the papers. Everyone here was impressed with her.”

Elliot harrumphed and stabbed the meat on his plate. Stuffing it in his mouth, he chewed, staring defiantly at his mother.

Seeing that her pleas were having little effect on her eldest child, Margaret pressed on. “She is half French, you know. And Miss Bartlett had only praise for her as a student.” She pleaded, “You weren’t here, Elliot. You didn’t see. Simon was completely undone when Ellen died. If it hadn’t been for Genevieve, I honestly do not know what would have become of Meg and Aaron. She brought Simon back to his children.” Margaret’s deep brown eyes filled with tears. “It was so touching, Elliot. Truly. Simon became a father after Ellen died. And Genevieve made it happen.”

Sarcasm dripped from every word as Elliot enjoined, “You mean the great, the all-righteous, the holy Reverend Dane came down from his throne?”

“If only you had seen it, Elliot, you wouldn’t be so disbelieving. God worked a miracle in Simon. And He used Genevieve to do it. The children adore her. She was practically their mother already by the time they left for Minnesota last August.” Defiance shone in her eyes as she said, “I think Simon should marry her.” While her son snorted his disapproval, Margaret withdrew a rumpled envelope from a pocket. She laid it on the table and pushed it across toward Elliot. “Read for yourself, son. You’ll see how the children feel about her.”

“Children haven’t the slightest idea what’s best for them,” Elliot said crisply. He ignored the envelope, reaching for a biscuit instead. Cutting it in half, he slathered it with butter. Taking a huge bite, he spoke as he chewed. “At least that’s what my mother told me when she packed me off to a military academy against my wishes.” He swallowed and stared across the table at his mother with icy gray-blue eyes.

Margaret paled and bowed her head. She fumbled with her napkin and blinked back tears.

Taking a boiled egg from a silver bowl to his right, Elliot laid it on his plate and began to tap the shell with the back of his spoon. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I’m not chastising you.” He sliced the egg in half and removed the shell from each half with one hand. “In the end, you were vindicated. Military life suits me. Or should I say suited me.” His mouth turned down at the edges. “What a pity I won’t be able to continue the family legacy of stellar military careers.” He ran his hand through his long white hair.

The gesture sent a pang of grief through Margaret Leighton. She had given a healthy, raven-haired son to the Union. The Union had taken him first to Bull Run, then on to Shiloh. And on Bloody Monday, down at Antietam, the Union had taken his left forearm and hand, turned his hair white, awarded him a medal, and then handed him his discharge papers.

“You have served the cause well, Elliot,” Margaret said gently. She ran a finger absentmindedly around the rim of her coffee cup as she said, “I’m very proud of you, son. As is the entire village. As would be your father and your grandfather if they were still alive.” Margaret looked up. Her voice trembled as she said, “What you gave to preserve the Union can never be repaid.”

Elliot shrugged and took a swig of coffee. He looked down at his empty left sleeve and pulled the end of it across his lap before picking up his fork and stabbing a piece of boiled egg.

The simple gesture brought tears back to Margaret’s eyes. She looked away for a moment. When she could speak again without emotion clouding her voice, she said, “You gained a reputation for levelheadedness and compassion as an officer, son. Please don’t allow what you have read about the West—about Indians—to cloud your reason.”

Elliot set down his fork and ran a finger down a column of the newspaper that lay open on the table beside him. “Listen to this, Mother. It’s an eyewitness account of the recent release of a few white captives who were separated from the main group and kept all winter:

The poor creatures wept for joy at their escape. They had watched for our coming for many a weary day, with constant apprehensions of death at the hands of their savage captors, and had almost despaired of seeing us. The woe written in the faces of the half-starved and nearly naked women and children would have melted the hardest heart.

He continued, “This article speaks of wide, universal, and uncontrollable panic all across the southeastern corner of Minnesota. It says more than five hundred people were murdered, and it describes every mode of death that horrible ingenuity could possibly devise.” His eyes flickered with rage when he looked up at his mother. “When I think of my sister’s children, my own niece and nephew being subjected to that—” He shook his head.

“There are other stories, Elliot,” Margaret argued. “Stories of heroism and bravery—”

“Oh yes, I know. I know. The noble savages who protected the helpless whites.”

“Don’t be sarcastic!” Margaret snapped. “Simon wrote that one of them saved the children. At great risk to himself.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Elliot said firmly. He took another swig of coffee before continuing. “I was too young when Ellen married to do anything about her foolish choices. I was away fighting for the Union when she died. Then I was in that godforsaken military hospital for an eternity. But I am well now, and I will not sit idly by while her children wander along the edge of the wilderness with their weakling father and his half-breed concubine.”

“Elliot!” Margaret’s voice trembled with anger. “Stop it. Simon may have had his weaknesses in the past, but he has done nothing to deserve such contempt. He is a good father and a sincere minister of the gospel. Genevieve LaCroix is a woman of impeccable character.”

Elliot smirked. “Excuse me if I prefer to believe the obvious about the self-righteous reverend’s true reasons for keeping Miss LaCroix close by.”

Margaret frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that after a conspicuously proper period of mourning, the reverend has conveniently found it to be God’s will that he warm his bed with a beautiful young woman.”

Margaret inhaled sharply. Two circles of bright red color appeared on her already rouged cheeks. Removing the napkin from her lap she slapped it down on the table and stood up. “That will do, Elliot. You may be thirty-five years old, but you are still my little boy, and I’ll thank you to keep such improper thoughts to yourself.”

Elliot mumbled a halfhearted apology.

Margaret sat back down. She pushed her plate away before saying, “You seem to think that I am a complete idiot, swayed by romantic notions about noble savages and superhuman missionaries. I’m not a fool. I had months to observe both these people. And I’m telling you that your evaluation of them is wrong.” She took a deep breath and leaned forward.

Elliot got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Leaning against the sideboard he said, “You are happy, then, for the reverend to be hauling Aaron and Meg off to Dakota Territory to be raised in the wilds? You think that is a proper fate for your grandchildren?”

Margaret hesitated. She shook her head. “I’ve never been happy about Aaron and Meg being so far away. That’s why I prevailed upon Simon to send them to me for their higher education.”

Elliot nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Our reasons may differ, but in the end we agree on what must be done. Aaron must certainly be ready for more schooling than they can provide in Dakota. And I can probably convince Meg to come at least for a visit.” He walked to the end of the table and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I’ve booked passage west, Mother. I’m bringing Ellen’s children home where they belong.”

“You—you’ve what?” Margaret looked up in disbelief.

“Booked passage west.” Elliot patted his empty sleeve. “As soon as I get fitted for my hook, I’m headed west. I’ve been rattling around home long enough.” He strode to the door and paused. “If the Reverend Dane has changed as much as you say, he’ll do what’s best for the children. He can’t possibly believe it’s best for Ellen’s children to grow up among savages. Once I’m there, he’ll listen to reason.” He smiled at his mother. “And however civilized the reverend’s dusky maiden may be, I doubt she really wants to raise two white children she didn’t know existed until last year.” Elliot picked up the newspaper and tucked it beneath his arm. “Trust me, Mother. Everything will be fine.”