to guide him forward. The child’s hair was almost ebony but his eyes were the color of a summer sky, just like those of his apparent supervisor.
The boy’s expression was stoic, perhaps even tinged by hostility, yet he stepped boldly and stood tall in his tailored white-man’s clothing. How brave he was. And how distressed he must be to have been given away like a stray cur’s unwanted pup.
As Annabelle watched, Margaret’s beseeching gaze focused on her statesman husband, silently begging him to refuse. Instead, he shook his head ever so slightly. Obviously, this was an offer they must accept graciously. To do otherwise would be to commit a grievous social and political error.
Annabelle’s heart went out to the young child. She knew exactly what it was like to become someone’s ward, especially when the adults involved were not happy about the situation. Yes, John Eaton had continued to care for her after his first wife’s death but she had quickly learned that he did not consider her a daughter. And when he married widow Margaret Timberlake? Annabelle had quickly learned then what it was like to be truly ostracized.
She wanted to go to the Indian child now known as John and bestow the welcoming smile that the rest of the family was denying him. Naturally, she could not. Her place in the household was tenuous at best, and the less trouble she made, the more likely it would be that she would soon be sent to boarding school in Connecticut for a proper education, as she’d been promised.
The drawing room fell so silent that Annabelle was certain everyone could hear the rapid beating of her heart. No one moved. No one spoke.
Finally, because her armload of garments was so heavy and cumbersome, she began to edge toward the arched doorway nearest the hall.
One of the Cherokee wraps dragged just enough to tangle her ankles. She faltered. Staggered. Was about to fall and disgrace her guardian in front of all these important emissaries.
A strong hand grasped her billowy sleeve at the elbow. Stopped her fall. Righted and steadied her.
Preparing to thank her rescuer, she looked up straight into the eyes of the Cherokee gentleman she had admired mere moments ago.
There was steadiness to his gaze, yes, but she imagined empathy, as well. He seemed to sense that she was held in little regard here.
It was hard to be certain of his age but she guessed him to be only a few years older than she. He was wiry yet muscular, strong yet gentle. There was a control within him that she admired and also envied.
A cautious smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she whispered, “Thank you, sir.”
His answer was a brief nod, but in Annabelle’s eyes he had just bestowed a most pleasing grin.
One meant only for her.
When he leaned closer to say, “Pleased to be of service, Miss Annabelle. My name is Charles,” she was afraid the floor was going to fall away beneath her feet.
* * *
Charles McDonald couldn’t get his mind off the afternoon’s events. Leaving the boy behind in the Eaton house was the most difficult thing his chiefs had ever asked him to do. He and the child were kin through their mothers from the Wolf Clan, and as an uncle it was his job to help raise and teach the male children.
If it had not been for the presence of a clearly sympathetic soul in the person of the fair-haired young woman called Annabelle, he might have rebelled.
“No, I wouldn’t have,” Charles told himself. “I am not like some of the others. I obey my chiefs.”
Even if they’re wrong? Charles wondered. Cherokee history proved why leaders of opposing sects within the tribe didn’t trust others to negotiate for them. Hence, the trip to Washington with Major Ridge, his son John Ridge, Elias Boudinot and a half-dozen others to try to gain an audience with President Jackson and plead their case against forced relocation.
Placing the boy in the Eaton household was the strongest symbol of trust anyone could bestow. He hoped Eaton realized that, treated the child as the son he was meant to be and saw to it that he received a good education. A white man’s education. The kind that would prepare him to one day speak for the Cherokee with the authority and intelligence that Charles’s current companions exemplified.
Leaning on a lamppost across from the imposing Eaton residence on New York Avenue, Charles sighed. In a few more days he and his party would return to Georgia. How would the boy cope when he was left behind to fend for himself?
The grounds of the brick mansion he was observing were encircled by a wrought-iron fence. At the rear lay a vegetable and herb garden. As Charles watched, a familiar flaxen-haired figure, wearing a lacy cap that complemented the white collar of her darker dress, appeared in the kitchen garden. The handle of a shallow basket was looped over one arm. Her other hand held that of the Cherokee child.
Straightening, Charles shaded his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. The boy seemed to be instructing the young woman by pointing to various plants. Perhaps this new life was not going to be the ordeal for him that Charles had expected.
He adjusted his cravat and tugged on the points of his vest while dodging wagon traffic to cross the broad street. The young woman had seemed a bit timid when he’d originally encountered her but at the moment she was acting quite forthright. Another good sign. One he wanted to encourage.
She didn’t seem to notice his approach but the child did. Not only did he begin to grin, he called to Charles, “Siyo!”
“In English,” Charles replied firmly. He tipped his hat to Annabelle as he said, “Hello again, miss.”
To his surprise, Little John ducked behind her skirt. Her hand rested against the child’s cheek as if sheltering him while she smiled a greeting of her own. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“You may call me Mr. McDonald or simply Charles, if you wish,” he said pleasantly. “And you are Miss Annabelle...?”
“Annabelle Lang,” she replied, blushing demurely.
“Have you worked for the Eatons long?”
“You are mistaken, sir. I was brought into the family long ago, the same way John just was, except I was less a gift than a charity case taken on by the first Mrs. Eaton.”
“Please forgive me. Had I known you were not a servant I would not have spoken so boldly.”
“You have not given offense. My grandmother raised me until a fever took her. Mrs. Myra Eaton took on the burden of my care when I was three years old.”
“I cannot imagine you could ever be a burden,” Charles said, growing more empathetic by the second. “Are you from Washington City, then?”
“No. Tennessee. I became a ward of the Eatons, stayed on there after Myra died and came to Washington when my foster father was elected to the senate.” She cast a brief glance at the rear of the house. “The new Mrs. Eaton didn’t take to me when she and the senator were wed last year, but she has promised to send me to a special school in Connecticut. The Cornwall Mission School.”
“Cornwall?”
“Yes. You know of it?”
Charles wondered if he
