They were setting around the dinner table when a rider came to the house, Mary took the baby and went up stairs. She heard the rider come to the door and knocked loudly. John, flanked by Dark Henry and Tall Tom went to the door. It was dark out and John held a lantern to see who had come. All other lights in the house were kept sheltered. A darkened house was less of a target if you couldn’t see it. Mary moved to an open window and hid behind the curtain to listen.
John lifted the lantern; he could see it was a young man. His eyes scanned around but he saw no one else.
“Is you John Anderson, sir?” the young man asked, holding a letter in his hand. John thought the young man looked frightened. Fear shot down John’s back, something told him, he didn’t want to take the letter.
“Yes, I am.” He was surprised his voice didn’t shake. The young man handed John the letter and turned and went back down the steps to his horse. John stood unmoving on the porch as he watched the young man ride away. Looking down, he noticed he had all but crushed the letter. He turned and saw the two large men flanking him and he smiled. These men had become close to him. He’d not say friend, but something close to it.
“Can you have Mary come to me?” He asked Dark Henry, who nodded and disappeared. John moved through the darkened house and went to his study, the lantern light leading the way. When Mary came in, she was followed by Tall Tom and Dark Henry. They all sat down to resume their dinner. John had taken to eating with Mary, Henry and Tom. It was during this time they could discuss strategies to keep their recourses, or what was the best method of farming and so on.
John was lonely, his wife shut away of her own volition, and his sons had deserted him. He had come to count on the three people at his table and grateful for their company. John had turned seventy-two that spring and he knew he was getting on in years. His body was failing him, his strength and sight were nearly gone. His mind seemed to wander and he felt as though he were floating in and out of this world around him. A world he no longer understood.
No one spoke about the letter, it lay like a cancer on the table, their eyes going back to it in the lull of conversation. When dinner was finished, Mary cleared the plates, taking them to the yard. Cookie no longer cooked in the kitchen, they wanted it to appear abandoned. They had a makeshift kitchen in the woods, a small shack had been built for her. Cookie was guarded by several of the men when meals were made.
The house was no longer cleaned, leaving it to appear neglected. Only the mistress’s chambers were cleaned. There were many nights that Mary slept on a pallet in her mistress’ chamber. Dark Henry didn’t resent it, he knew Mary loved Victoria dearly. He knew the old woman was dying. Henry slept outside the chamber when he wasn’t guarding the house. Henry looked up when John picked up the letter.
Anderson broke the wax seal and opened the letter. He squinted his eyes. He sighed heavily and handed the letter to Mary. Mary shifted to catch the light of the lantern and Henry watched her face closely. Tom had left to take a walk around the house. Alarm filled him when he saw Mary’s eyes tear up. She looked up at Mr. Anderson.
“Suh, I’m sorry to tell you this. It says that Samuel was killed in a skirmish outside of Charleston.”
A low sorrowful moan escaped the old man’s lips and his hands flew up to his mouth. His eyes were wide and he shook his head in denial. He slumped back in the large leather chair and began to weep. Henry looked at Mary, who shook her head and shrugged. There was nothing they could do, but let him grieve. Mary got up and she turned, intending to leave the study. She gathered up Ida, who had been asleep on the settee. Dark Henry followed behind, pausing to lay a large hand on the old man’s shoulder. He squeezed it gently and left the man to his sorrow. When Mary and Henry got to the door, they saw Victoria, standing in her bedclothes. A strangled cry came from her lips and she fell to the cold floor. Mary rushed over to Victoria, gathering her up awkwardly in her arms, handing Ida to Henry. John came and knelt on the floor, his hand gently pushing back the hank of hair that had fallen into Victoria’s face.
Mary felt her neck and listened to her breathing, there was nothing. Panic raced through her and she shook the old woman.
“Mistress, Mistress, answer me, are you alright?” Mary asked, fear and sorrow deepening her voice. John’s legs gave out from under him and he sat down hard on the dusty floor beside Mary. Victoria Anderson was dead; news of her son’s death had killed her. Victoria no longer wanted to be on this earth, she wanted to join her child. Mary and John wept, as John took his wife and held her in his arms on the cold wooden floor. Henry took his wife and held her in his massive arms and rocked her and his daughter.
Tom came into the house and helped his master up and carried the dead woman back to her bedchamber. Mary and Henry followed. Henry carried the lantern high, to light their way. Tom gently placed Victoria in her bed and pulled the counterpane
