Chapter 7

The Christmas music awed Edmund and sent shivers of delight up his long slender arms. The deep notes of the pipe organ set the floor to vibrating and caused the vaulted edifice above him to echo. He could feel the music coursing through his body. The sensation was exhilarating.

Carefully he copied everything Lord Dunsmore did, from reading the responses to rising at all the appropriate times. The entire procedure seemed silly to him. Surely this god of Englishmen did not demand such complicated worship.

His mind rambled back to his home in the Kentucky woodlands. The Creator desired only heartfelt praise and devotion. A Cherokee honored the Creator by performing all ceremonies and walking in the full circle. Then one's life would be blessed. He was thinking of the winter celebrations when he noticed that everyone around him was standing. Quickly he jumped to his feet just as his father's hand came down heavily on his shoulder and squeezed painfully.

The shock caused the boy to look up into the painted face of the nearest statue. The painted blue eyes held the boy's own, the painted lips seemed to be lifted in a taunt. A flush of hatred coursed through the boy's tall body. Then he was being pushed out of the pew and into the long aisle of the church. Wordlessly the congregation filed out of the large stone building and onto the wintry sidewalk.

Several men and women nodded to his father. The man in a long white gown spoke to him for several minutes. All around him Edmund could hear the murmured comments of the congregants as they stared at him.

"Murray's bastard," was the term most often whispered. The patrician lips sneered as the words passed through. Edmund did not understand the term but he knew that it was derogatory. His hands balled into fists as the nearly uncontrollable desire to hit them flooded his heart.

His father's heavy hand once again gripped Edmund's shoulder. They walked the few steps to their coach and stepped inside. Just as the coach pulled from the curb another gentleman gestured for it to stop. John Murray leaned out the window as Ethan Baldwin gripped the door handle.

"I say, Murray, glad to see you've returned from that hellish trip to the colonies." The man's light blue eyes flashed to Edmund sitting withdrawn against the dark velvet interior. In the shadows the boy was nearly invisible. "And what's this? A boy?"

John Murray cleared his throat and gestured at his son. "Yes, an orphan. I knew his mother. I have decided to raise him and educate him as far as his intellect allows. He's a Cherokee from Kentucky."

Ethan Baldwin's eyes never left Edmund's brown face. Suddenly he turned to John and nodded his head. "Yes, a very Christian thing to do. Couldn't leave him alone in that God-forsaken wilderness, what? I'd like to call on you day after tomorrow, just to renew our acquaintance. Will you be at home?"

John nodded. "Would two in the afternoon be amenable? I will be certain to have your favorite port. Until then, Baldwin. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Murray. I commend you for doing all you can to save the boy's heathen soul. Well done." Ethan Baldwin stepped back from the curb and watched the carriage pull away. Behind him Owen Evans placed his warm hand on Ethan's shoulder.

"Well Baldwin, I'd say you owe me. I said he'd come back with an Indian in tow, and he did."

" 'An orphan. I knew his mother.' No doubt he 'knew' the boy's mother! What fools he must think we are. So, Murray's dark paramour is dead. If he intends to pass that bastard off as the next Lord Dunsmore he's got a battle on his hands! I for one do not intend to accept such a mixed blood heathen as peer to my Huntley."

"Nor I to my Kingsley or Royce. Murray was always bold. But now he's gone too far. Too far!"

"Just the thought of that heathen's hand touching my Daisy or Rose makes my blood boil! It will be a cold day in hell before that bastard comes near any one of my children."

Owen Evans nodded in agreement and watched the carriage turn the corner and disappear. Together the two distressed men walked back to their own carriages and accompanied their families home to a hearty English Christmas dinner.

Just after the new year began Edmund's English tutor knocked on the library door as the winter sun deserted the west windows. John opened the sliding door, a snifter of brandy in his hand. His hard blue eyes gleamed in the gathering darkness. He frowned at the thin tutor.

"Yes, Master Simmons? What is it? Has the boy behaved badly again? In what way?"

"No sir, rather the opposite. He's too tractable. Please forgive me sir, but I think the boy is ill."

"Ill? Ill? How is he ill?"

"I believe that he has a fever, sir. He's quite flushed and is very listless."

"Damn! Is there no end to the trouble that boy causes me?" John stepped out into the hall and shouted for the upstairs maid.

"Emma! EMMA!"

The young woman scurried to the head of the stairs and ran down as fast as possible.

"Yes sir, Master Murray?"

"Is that Indian boy ill?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Well, go and see. This tutor says he is. Check on him and let me know immediately."

Emma curtsied and climbed rapidly up the staircase. She disappeared into Edmund's room. A minute later she was back by her employer's side.

"He is hot to the touch, sir. He says his throat hurts."

Into his mind flashed the memory of last evening's meal. The boy had eaten nothing and drank very little. He thought Edmund was just being stubborn. The tall man stood in the hall, undecided. Emma and Robert Simmons stood before him, waiting for his decision. His face flushed in anger, John shouted for the downstairs butler.

When the tall sedate man arrived John pushed him to the door and sent him for the family physician. Then turning to Emma he told the young woman to make the boy go to bed and prepare the room for the doctor's visit. Emma curtsied and climbed back up the stairs to do John's bidding.

Robert Simmons stood before the library, waiting. When John turned to the thin tutor the timid man cleared his throat and spoke. "Lord Dunsmore, I think the boy has been ill for days. I should have told you before. But I feared that if I was wrong you would dismiss me. I see now that I should have acted on the boy's behalf, come what may."

"I am offering my resignation to you, sir. I cannot continue to tutor a boy that I believe is brilliant when my employer believes he is dull, no matter the salary. Good day, sir." The thin tutor walked to the door and slipped through into the darkness.

John Murray stood in the quiet hall, thinking. If Edmund was truly ill, what if he should die? Many children died of illness. The thought brought a sudden and unexpected chill to the tall man. He must not let Talota's son die.

Without conscious thought he climbed the stairs and stood in the open door to Edmund's room. The boy lay under the blankets, his eyes closed. Even from the door John could see that the boy was fevered. A red rash covered his brown cheeks and extended down his throat to his shoulders. His slender hands plucked aimlessly at the top blanket. His dark head rolled on the soft feather pillow.

Emma sat beside the bed gazing out the window into the garden. John walked silently to the other side and looked down at his son. He slowly reached out his hand and touched the black hair. He could feel the boy's hot brow. The child turned in response to the touch and John stepped back from the bed. Even in the dim light he could see the thin trickle of saliva that ran from the boy's cracked lips.

He had never been this close to anyone who was ill. He himself had a hearty constitution and had seldom been ill even as a child. His nose wrinkled at the musty odor of disease. Turning from his son's bedside he exited the room just as the doctor came into the big stone house.

Minutes later the physician pronounced his sentence. The boy had scarlet fever, a dreaded and often fatal disease common in childhood. His throat was so swollen that he could not swallow all the saliva his mouth produced. Edmund's fever was rising alarmingly fast, and the doctor pulled John into the hall.

"I won't tell you fabrications, John. That boy is very ill, though the case is not unduly severe. Why did you wait so long to send for me? Why didn't you send for me when the fever first began?" The doctor looked into John's stunned blue eyes and shook his head.

"Never mind. That's the Indian boy that you brought from the colonies isn't it? I thought so. I've heard that Indian children nearly always die from this fever. Measles and the pox too. They just don't have any strength. They're weak. But I'll do what I can. I'm sending for my most trusted nurse. Of course I'm assuming that you want me to try everything in my power to save him. You do, don't you?

"You do want me to try and save him?" What kind of question was that? John's mind whirled in confusion. How much easier his life would be if Edmund died! But unbidden came Talota's dark eyes, her soft voice. Unwelcome came the memories of the lodge in winter, Mingo's little hand on his father's arm, his little head resting on his father's chest. From deep memory came the sound of the small child's voice reading as his father's finger pointed to the words. The joyous greeting piping from the boy's throat as the weary surveyor returned from weeks in the wild. Try to save him?

John shook his head to clear it, then looked the doctor full in the eyes. "Do everything that you can to save him, doctor. Spare no expense. Just let me know what you need. Do everything!" The doctor raised his eyebrows at the unusual vehemence. He'd known John Murray all his life and had never seen the man display any emotion other than impatient selfishness.

"I'll make the arrangements then. Emma's sponging him now. The nurse should be here within the hour. She's very good. Between us we'll do everything that can be done. I promise. Even though he is a little heathen." The doctor turned to go. Then he turned back to face the tall man still standing motionless in the hall. "Oh, and I also suggest that you alert your minister. Prayer may be all that we can do in the end."

Wordlessly John nodded and stumbled down the stairs to the library. He closed the doors and poured a large amount of brandy into a crystal glass. Quickly he downed the liquor and poured more. The doctor's last words repeated in his troubled mind. Was the doctor offering no hope? Edmund also had white blood, his blood. Perhaps that would make the difference.

But did the boy want to live? Was that what the doctor was suggesting with his last statement? In the end, perhaps Edmund wished to die. At that thought the brandy spilled from the glass as John's hand shook violently. For the first and only time in his life the tall Englishman looked into his own heart and cringed in horror. Had he made the boy's life so untenable that he'd seek death?

Though unfamiliar with disease himself, he'd overheard conversations between his mother and her friends. Often he'd seen them shake their heads and murmur "She didn't want to live, poor thing." He'd taken their meaning at face value. What if the same applied to Edmund? Could he live with the knowledge that he'd caused a child such pain as to make him wish for death? Talota's precious child. In his mind's eye he saw Talota in the firelight, rocking the tiny nursing baby, her eyes glowing with immeasurable love and joy. The tiny baby gurgled and mewed in her arms.

He heard the outer door open and pulled the library doors to reveal the nurse. She bustled quickly up the stairs behind Joseph. John stood undecided, then followed slowly behind them. From Edmund's open doorway he watched as the doctor and nurse stripped the boy of his nightshirt and laid him back upon thick towels. The nurse poured water into a basin and immediately bent to sponge the slender brown body with the cool water.

John noticed the thinness of his son's body. The brilliant red rash covered his son's chest and stomach. He realized that the tutor was correct. Edmund had been ill for days. He closed his eyes in unexpected sorrow at the knowledge. Remorse surged through his rapidly beating heart.

"U-ni-tsi?" The strangled word startled John as he stood in the doorway. "U-ni-tsi?" He saw the boy's slender hands reach out. Though he knew the doctor and nurse could not understand Edmund's words he stiffened his spine and clenched his jaw. Edmund's dark eyes opened and John could see the searching. The doctor turned and beckoned. Reluctantly he walked into the room to the bedside.

"Who is he calling? I can't understand. Can you?"

John shook his head. "I don't speak that heathen language, doctor. This boy is an orphan. I found him on my last surveying expedition."

The doctor looked long into John Murray's blank face. Finally he nodded. "Well, it's obvious that he's calling someone. Since he knows you and not us, I think it would be very beneficial if you'd at least respond to him. Speak to him, Murray. Go on."

John swallowed and followed the doctor's command. "Edmund? You are ill. The doctor and nurse are here to help you. Do what they say and you'll soon be well." He stepped back from the bed and walked to the door. Behind him the doctor and nurse exchanged a look of disbelief.

The total lack of warmth in John Murray's voice distressed them and they bent over the suffering boy with compassion. The doctor spooned water into Edmund's dry mouth as the nurse pressed a cool cloth to the boy's burning forehead.

The Cherokee words continued to escape the boy's swollen throat. "U-ni-tsi? A-li-s-de-lv-di a-ya!" Edmund's cry for his mother's help caused his father to clench his jaw so hard his muscles quivered in his cheek. Again and again the child called for his mother until John Murray could no longer contain himself. He strode to the boy's side and slapped his burning cheek. Edmund cried out and cringed into the pillow.

The nurse released a cry of alarm and soothed the boy's cheek with the cool cloth. The doctor leaned over and grabbed the tall man's hand. "What are you doing, man? Striking a sick child? What are you thinking?"

"I was……just trying to bring him to consciousness, doctor. That's all. I slapped my guide in Kentucky when he was fevered and he stopped babbling and got well." Lord Dunsmore's face was fiery with embarrassment. The doctor shook his head in warning.

"Don't do it again. You'll kill the boy! I never heard of such callousness."

Edmund continued to babble in broken Cherokee. The soft sounds echoed in the tall silent room. "U-di-tle-ga!" The boy threw off the blankets as his fevered body sought coolness. "A-ya ga-le-yv-sv!" The nurse pulled the blankets back over the thin body and kept bathing his fevered forehead.

"I wish I knew what he was saying. Nurse, do you have any idea?"

The elderly woman shook her head and once again pulled the thrown blanket around the shivering boy. John Murray paced in the hallway. Hours passed. The cries continued as Edmund called for his mother again and again. The tall man closed his eyes and drifted down the years to the same voice calling for Talota as they played a game of hide and seek together. Intense emotions tugged at the Englishman's heart. They warred with his cool and calculating mind.

"U-ni-tsi! U-yv-dla a-ma. A-da-do-da, a-li-s-de-lv-di a-ya!" The boy's wailing cry echoed in the quiet chamber. He thrashed under the heavy blankets. His father could stand no more. He strode into the bedroom, beckoning the doctor.

"Doctor Perkins! May I see you a moment please? It's important."

Though the doctor frowned he accompanied John into the dark hall. In the dimness the doctor could just make out the other man's features. It was evident that John Murray was struggling with something. He seemed to be hiding from the light.

"Doctor, the boy has white blood too. He's a half-breed. Won't that make it more likely he'll live?"

The doctor stared at the tall man opposite him. "How do you know this? You said he was an orphan. Did you know his parents? Is the mother white?"

John closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. The doctor had to lean closely to hear the whispered words. "I am his father."

The four words drifted to the tall ceiling and evaporated. The doctor's mouth fell open in surprise: not surprise in the revelation but surprise that John Murray would admit it. In the silent hall the two men could hear the boy's frantic calling for his mother.

"You know what he's saying. Don't you!"

"Yes."

"What?"

"He's calling for his mother. He says he's hot, like a fire. He's burning. He wants cold water."

"Damn it, Murray, you could have said that before now!"

The doctor rushed into the room. He grabbed the tall pitcher and poured a glass of water, holding it carefully against the boy's dry, flaking lips. Then he threw the blanket off of Edmund's fevered body. "Nurse, sponge him until the fever goes down. And talk to him! Say things a mother would say. Murray! Come here and tell her what to say."

With faltering steps the trembling Englishman approached his son's bedside. "The Cherokee word for mother is 'u-ni-tsi'."

The nurse bent over the suffering child and murmured softly. She took his hand and held it gently in her own. "U-ni-tsi, u-ni-tsi," she repeated over and over. Edmund stopped calling and relaxed into the soft feathers of his bed. He sighed audibly. The doctor strode to John and took his arm forcefully, dragging the tall man into the hall.

Once outside the room the doctor faced the father once again. "You had scarlet fever as a boy. I remember. This boy has a relatively minor case, rather like yours. Maybe you gave him the disease. Think about that in your more lucid moments, Lord Dunsmore. And show him what small morsel of compassion you can muster!" The doctor turned on his heel to reenter the room, then stopped and once again faced the Earl.

"Forget about praying. I'm sure your prayers would be so offensive to the Almighty that he may call the boy to heaven just to get him away from you!"

The doctor's words cut sharply and far more deeply than the old man would have believed. Staring sightlessly before him John stumbled down the long staircase and into his library. He quickly moved to close the doors, but Joseph stepped into the room with a question.

"Sir, how is the boy? Will he recover? We all want to know, sir."

John swallowed, then cleared his throat. "The doctor says there's a chance. The case is rather mild, though very serious because he's Indian." The butler turned but John grabbed his arm in detention. "Wait, Joseph. There's something else you need to know. You all need to know." John closed his eyes and swallowed. He opened his blue eyes and stared into the butler's curious face.

"He's my son, Joseph. He's my son." John turned his back on the silent butler and filled his glass to the brim. Then he sat before the library fire as the long hours of the night drifted slowly through the winter darkness. The brandy and the firelight captured John Murray and he followed them once more into the familiar pit of dashed dreams and broken promises. The winter dawn held no promises for the Earl of Dunsmore.