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 should be the one to deliver the bad news. It hardly seemed fair to let her continue to hope in vain.
“My condolences, Miss Annabelle. I must inform you that that school has closed.”
“Surely not for good.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But, why? It’s said to be a wonderful school.”
“Yes, it was. There was an unfortunate incident that caused its financial support to be withdrawn.”
“What could have happened that was so bad? Was someone killed?”
Charles had to chuckle at her naïveté. “No, no. Let me simply say it was because of an affair of the heart.”
“Oh, my. Was it very sad?”
“No, dear lady. Actually, Cherokee Elias Boudinot and a missionary’s daughter Miss Harriet Gold not only married, they already have the beginnings of a lovely family. You saw him with me today in your parlor. He’s the editor and publisher of The Cherokee Phoenix.”
“I’ve heard of that amazing newspaper! So, something good did come out of the tragedy.”
“That depends upon one’s point of view,” Charles said. He gestured at the child who remained hidden behind her full skirts. “Some things which are deemed best at the time may not prove to be prudent in the future. Like my nephew, Usdi Tsani.”
“Is that his real name?”
“No. That simply means Little John.”
“Tell me again. Let me learn it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Charles asked, genuinely puzzled.
“So I can speak to him in his own language and make him feel settled here. I know how hard it is to be thrust into a strange home the way he has been.”
“Which is why you and he have already become friends,” Charles observed. “That is a good thing.”
“What about you and your companions? Will you be leaving Washington soon?”
“Yes.” His gaze rested on the child as he answered and he saw John look away as if in pain. Although he would rather have died than show tender emotion, Charles yearned to embrace the child one last time, to bless him and wish him well.
Instead, he merely squared his hat on his head and nodded to Annabelle. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, miss. I know you’ll look after the boy. If there is anything he needs, anything at all, send word to me at Plunkett’s Boarding House before the end of the week and I shall see he gets it.”
“All right.”
The rosy glow of her cheeks reminded him of the blush on a peach and her eyes mirrored the bright, clear sky. He didn’t know what her lineage was but the fact that she had been promised an education at the Cornwall School meant that she might very well have a part Indian heritage, whether she knew it or not.
Good thing this young woman resided in Washington and he lived down in Georgia, he mused, or he might seriously consider disappointing his mother by courting Annabelle Lang instead of choosing a full-blooded Cherokee bride the way his family wanted.
* * *
Annabelle wondered if her snug corset was the reason she could hardly draw in enough air to maintain her equilibrium. She gently stroked the hair of the little boy at her side. Perhaps someday she, too, would have such a beautiful son, although that dream was not likely to come true as long as the new Mrs. Eaton was in charge.
Being lied to about going to the Cornwall School did not sit well with Annabelle. All this time she had dutifully served the Eatons in the hope that her obedience and faithfulness would result in the education she had been promised.
And now? The mission school was gone. So where else could she study? What other institutions would accept an untutored, common girl like her? The Georgetown Academy for Young Ladies was far too elite for someone who had never been formally instructed, not to mention someone with questionable origins.
Charles had paused at the iron gate for a last word. “Perhaps the Eatons will provide you with a tutor since you are so determined to learn.”
Annabelle smiled. “I have gleaned some basic skills on my own, including how to read and write. When young John is given a tutor I will copy those lessons, as well.”
“Very wise.” He touched the brim of his hat once again. “I bid you a good evening.”
And good it is, thanks to your unexpected visit, she thought, blushing.
Adding sprigs of rosemary to her basket, she held out her hand to the boy. “Come. Let’s go back inside and give these to Lucy, the cook. Then I’ll show you around the house and point out your room.”
The child stood staring after his departing kinsman as if made of marble.
“John? Tsa-ni? Is that how you pronounce it?”
A slight smile teased a corner of his mouth.
“I said it poorly, didn’t I?” Annabelle asked with a benevolent grin. “Tell you what. Johnny sounds a lot like that so I’ll call you Johnny. All right?”
A simple nod was his only reply but it was enough. Better communication would come later, once the child was more comfortable with her. She would do all she could to hurry that along, even if it meant slacking off on her household duties. Dusting and mending would wait. The little boy’s broken heart would not.
“How old are you?” Annabelle asked as they entered the house and left the basket for the cook.
“Six summers.”
“What a big boy you are. I’ve always wanted a brother just like you.”
“Why?”
“Because I get lonely in this big old house. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton are not my parents, as you heard me say. The servants
