Excerpt of HER
CHEROKEE GROOM
(John and Margaret
Eaton entertained a delegation of Cherokee
Indians who were in Washington to sign a treaty
John had helped negotiate on behalf of President
Andrew Jackson. One of the gifts they brought
their hostess was strange, indeed.)
“He that delicately bringeth up his servant from
a child
shall have him become his son at the length.”
Proverbs 29:21
ONE
Washington DC – 1830
“What are you doing out here? Spying?”
Seventeen-year-old Annabelle Lang was so
startled by the voice she nearly gasped aloud.
Her guardian’s new wife had caught her loitering
in the hallway and peeking into the parlor to
look at visiting dignitaries. How embarrassing.
Biting her lip, Annabelle shook her head enough
to make her flaxen blond side curls swing
against her rosy cheeks and replied, “No, ma’am.
I just wanted to see the Indians
“Well, you’ve seen them. Now stop wasting time,
get back to the kitchen and help Lucy finish
preparing the lemonade. I want both those new
washtubs filled to the brim.” With that,
Margaret Eaton swept past, skirts and petticoats
belling and swishing, long, dark, side curls
bobbing, to make a grand entrance into the
parlor and join her husband, John.
Annabelle’s heart pounded. Her feet were
unwilling to carry her away. She had no clear
recollection of her early years, before coming
to live with the first Mrs. Eaton, yet the mere
sight of the Cherokee delegation stirred her
emotions and left her light-headed.
Little wonder! These men were tall and stately,
some wearing the kind of tall hats, vests and
cutaway coats with which she was familiar.
Others were garbed in turbans and long tunics
with elaborately woven sashes at the waist. None
was bearded, nor did they seem the downtrodden
savages she had overheard Mrs. Eaton railing
about. These men were regal-looking to the point
of inspiring awe.
Before she could turn away, John Eaton spied her
peeking from behind the doorjamb.
He gestured. “Annabelle. Come here and take
these gentlemen’s hats and capes. We must make
our guests comfortable.”
Trembling and wondering if she was going to be
able to walk steadily enough to do as
instructed, she started forward. Everyone
glanced at her except Margaret, an advantageous
snub Annabelle prayed would continue.
Not all of these Indians had swarthy complexions
and ebony eyes, she noted. Some were grayed with
age, particularly the largest, most impressive
old gentleman. His clothing was not only
embellished with lace and gilding like that of
nobility, his bearing befit royalty and inspired
respect.
Several of the younger members of his party had
the fairer hair and the blue or light-brown eyes
of folks she saw every day. Perhaps that was
because these men were the offspring of mixed
marriages. She’d been told that was the way of
many Cherokee, including prominent tribal
leaders. They also spoke and read at least two
languages, English and their own, a feat for
which Annabelle admired them greatly.
One particularly stalwart young man whom she
guessed to be in his twenties caught her eye.
She chanced a surreptitious glance at him as she
approached and found that he was studying her,
too. It was as if she were a captive of his
startling blue gaze, unable to break away,
unable to consider anything or anyone but him.
His dark hair was fairly long, thick and slicked
straight back, and he had his top hat in hand,
having politely removed it when he’d entered the
parlor. As Annabelle received it from him in
passing she saw a tiny smile twitch one corner
of his mouth. That simple acknowledgment made
her insides quaver like dry leaves in a Potomac
storm.
A much smaller version of that stately Cherokee
emissary stood stoically by his side. The two
were so similar, except for age, she wondered if
they might be brothers.
She’d almost reached the doorway when Margaret
let out an excited squeal. Annabelle stopped to
look back. There was an expression of delight on
the older woman’s face.
One of the venerable Indians, the one bedecked
with all the lace and gilding, was speaking
while a younger man who bore a strong
resemblance to him translated his message into
perfect English. Words and phrases of both
languages flowed like the impressive political
orations she had heard her foster father make.
“We have brought you a fine tea service as a
token of our esteem.” As his speech was
repeated, the elder Cherokee gave a slight bow
that was less than submissive but nevertheless
did not lack gentility.
A member of the Cherokee party had first
unwrapped a finely-tooled, gleaming, silver
teapot. Now, her fan fluttering like the wings
of a demented butterfly, Mrs. Eaton watched a
matching silver tray and other accoutrements
follow.
Annabelle knew little about such elaborate
trappings, except that they needed constant
polishing, but she could see that her new foster
mother was clearly impressed with the gift.
That, alone, was remarkable since Margaret was
so terribly hard to please.
John Eaton offered his hand to the original
spokesman and said, “Thank you, Major Ridge. We
are honored to accept your exceptional gift.”
The Indian leader then gestured to the rear of
his entourage and the crowd parted like the
waters of the Red Sea had for Moses. He was
pointing toward the handsome young man and
little boy who had taken Annabelle’s fancy
moments before.
The translation began anew. “This child is the
most valuable of our gifts, a presentation from
Chief John Ross. You may call him after
yourself, as well. From this day forward he is
John H. Eaton Ross.”
Annabelle’s jaw dropped. She knew she was
staring but could not help herself. The young
man she had been watching so closely placed his
hands on the boy’s shoulders 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 Margaret? Then Annabelle had
learned 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!
Closing her eyes for an instant, Annabelle
silently prayed to regain her balance.
A strong hand grasped her billowy sleeve at the
elbow. Stopped her descent. Righted and steadied
her.
Preparing to thank her rescuer she looked up -
and 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.
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