Around the River's Bend (7 page)

She had, during this time, met with two of her old friends, but it had been a painful meeting in each case. Both of them had tried to appear as though nothing had happened, but it was obvious to Sabrina that she was now not one whose friendship was highly regarded. As a matter of fact, she saw that she embarrassed both of them as they tried to show a sprightly interest. Why should they be interested in her life? Were they interested in making a few pence to buy food for two women? Could they take any possible interest in making old clothes over to last longer?

Sabrina gained some wisdom from these two encounters. She saw in her friends the woman she once had been. “I would have done exactly the same if one of them had been in my position and I still had money,” she muttered. This came as a bitter truth to Sabrina. She had led a shallow, selfish life without realizing it, and now she was reaping some of the results.

One late February day the pastor came to visit. She seated him by the fire, and he twisted his hat nervously between sips of his tea. His name was Simms, and Sabrina had seen him only in the pulpit, except on two occasions when he had called at the house. That had been months ago, and now as Rev. Simms sat in her aunt's humble cottage, Sabrina realized that he was at a loss. His parish was composed primarily of wealthy people, and he knew well how to deal with their problems. But as she watched him squirm and try to make conversation, she realized he had no idea at all what to say to her.

Finally, after a five-minute struggle to keep the conversation going, Rev. Simms put his cup down and said, “I'm so very sorry for your loss, Miss Fairfax. Your father was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” Sabrina said and offered no more.

Simms looked around the room, which offered no evidence of wealth, and said, “I trust that you're—” He broke off and then stood to his feet. “If there's anything, my dear Miss Fairfax, that I can do, I pray that you will let me know.”

“Of course, Rev. Simms.”

Simms was turning his hat even more rapidly, and Sabrina knew that he was not yet finished with his mission. He had come, she realized, with something definite to say and wondered what in the world it could be.

“I think I should mention that we have a certain fund, which is under my hand.”

“A fund? What kind of fund, Rev. Simms?”

“Well, it's—it's for those who are in need.”

“The paupers' fund,” Sabrina said, and polar ice was never colder than her eyes. “Thank you, Reverend. I'm not quite a pauper yet.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to offend you, but obviously—”

“Thank you for coming by, sir.” She ushered the clergyman out and refrained from slamming the door. Instead, she forced herself to close it gently, then stiffened and leaned back against it. She felt like screaming and cursing and pulling her hair, but again she refrained from following her first instinct. “He meant well,” she whispered. “But deliver me from people who mean well!”

****

When Sabrina had moved out of the house, she had dumped all of the papers from her father's desk drawers into a bag with the intention of sorting through them later. With her aunt gone for the morning, now was as good a time as any. There were letters from people of all sorts—some from twenty and thirty years earlier—bills, notes, and old legal documents, most of them musty with age.

Sabrina had no thought of finding anything worthwhile, but she checked every document just in case it was something she had need of. She read some of the love letters that her parents had sent to each other, trying to go back to the time when her mother had been alive. She missed her mother, who had been a soft-spoken, gentle woman who had left this earth at the age of thirty-three. She went over the lines of one tender love letter, thinking of the young woman who had written it and of the man who had received it, and wished that they were both still alive.

She placed the letter with the stack of some fifteen or so items that were worth keeping. The larger pile was full of worthless things destined for the fire.

She picked up the next item, which was a rather large envelope, and pulled two pieces from it. One proved to be a map. When she unfolded it, she did not recognize any of the places on the map, but a section of it was traced out with a heavy black line. She saw the names
Holston
and
Cumberland
. She knew that Cumberland was in England, but she had never heard of Holston.

She wondered at the significance of the map for some time before turning to the other smaller sheet of paper that had been in the same envelope. She started reading it and realized that it was a deed. She was not, of course, an expert in law, but the deed plainly said that the property in question had been sold to Roger Fairfax, and it included the legal description. It seemed to be a rather large tract of land—some two thousand acres!

A sudden hope came to Sabrina. “Two thousand acres! That must be worth
something
. And since the deed's here, the lawyers and the creditors didn't get it.”

She read the deed more excitedly, and she saw that it had been signed in North Carolina. The name sounded familiar, but she could not place it. For a long time Sabrina sat there studying the map. There didn't seem to be any large cities on it, but there were many rivers with strange names. Finally she realized with a shock that this land was not in England at all but in another country.

But what other country? She could not tell, but she would go tomorrow to Mr. Franks. “He'll know where it is,” she whispered. “Maybe it'll sell for enough money so I can get out of here and start a new life.”

****

The wind was chilled as Sabrina walked along the shore of the River Thames. Fishing boats were bobbing up and down, for the river was rough. The clouds rolled dirty and dark over the horizon, and the wind came ashore, making a keening noise.

Sabrina drew her coat tighter around her throat as she went over her conversation with Mr. Franks once more in her mind. When she had shown the map and the deed to Mr. Franks, he had taken one look and said, “Why, this is in the Colonies, Miss Sabrina.”

“The Colonies!” Sabrina had thought little about the Colonies.

“The deed is clear, Miss Fairfax, as much as I can tell from this far away. But, of course, things have been in a flux in that part of the world for some time. Especially the land west of the original Colonies. One would simply have to go there to find out. The land may be very valuable, or it may be worth nothing—or the deed may even be questionable. Impossible to say from this distance.”

Sabrina stopped and stood there looking out at the river. She tried to imagine that it was the Atlantic Ocean and she was looking across at the new nation that had been borne out of the Revolution. She knew so little about that land. There were wild Indians there, she knew that much. She had heard there were large cities along the seaboard, but Franks had told her that this land lay far away, a rough land. She had never thought of leaving England, but now there was nothing here for her.

I could sell the diamonds to get enough money for my fare to go to America. The land may be worth a great deal
. The thought took her by surprise and disturbed her greatly. She couldn't leave London! This was the only home she had ever known. She turned and walked quickly away from the river and tried to put the alien thought out of her mind. She was afraid, and she knew it. The idea of going to a strange land, knowing no one, with no profession, no friends, no relatives. Who wouldn't be frightened?

Suddenly she realized she was passing by the barge where she had seen the fight and thought of the man who had been beaten down. He had fought until he could not fight any longer. She stopped and stared at the barge. All signs of the fight were gone, but she remembered his courage and his strange name—Zion, was it?

He's from the lower class
, she thought,
but he has more courage than I have
.

Sabrina argued with herself for several minutes. Finally she decided, “What have I got to lose? I have nothing here—no belongings, no family, no land. I might as well go. Even if I discover that the land isn't really mine, I haven't lost anything! At that instant she made up her mind. “I'm going to sell the necklace and go to America!”

Part II

Sion

June 1791-March 1792

Chapter Five

Back to the Mines

As soon as Sion Kenyon entered the house of his employer, Cradoc Evans, he knew that what he had feared had come to pass.

“Come in, Sion—may we have a small drink, is it?”

“To be sure, Mr. Evans.”

At Evans's gesture Sion took a seat and glanced around the kitchen. Mrs. Evans was not there, which was unusual. He suspected that Cradoc had sent her away so she would not have to be witness to the scene that might be painful.

“There we are, my boy. Drink it off!”

Sion drank the small beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and said quietly, “Very good it is, Mr. Evans. You always make the best small beer in all of Wales.”

“Kind of you to say so, it is,” Evans said. He turned the large cup around nervously in his hands. Finally he looked at his friend with troubled eyes. “It's sorry I am to have to tell you this, Sion, but you'll not be able to stay in this place.”

“You sold it, then?”

“Aye. I agreed with Thomas Powell yesterday. He'll be taking over in a week.” With a futile wave of his hand, Evans added, “Sorry I am to have to tell you this.”

“I've been expecting it.”

“Indeed, I suppose you have. Molly and I have been fearful to tell you. You've become like a son to us. Indeed you have, Sion.”

“You've been very good to me, sir. I remember the first day I came here. I had no more knowledge of farming than a stone.”

“That you did not, but you caught on quick. Quicker than anyone I ever saw.”

Sion Kenyon had lost his mother to cholera when he was just a lad and his father to a mining accident not much later. He had come to work for Cradoc Evans and his wife just outside the village of Carmarthen. The farm had become a home to him, and Cradoc and Molly Evans had become more like parents than employers. They were growing older now, though. Cradoc was troubled with rheumatism and able to do very little except make the small beer he so enjoyed.

They had first mentioned moving over a year ago, when Cradoc had moaned in pain as he tried to work in the field. “I'll not be able to do this much longer, Sion. Molly and I will have to go stay with my brother, and it pains me greatly.”

Since then Sion had known that the day would come when the farm would be sold. Now as he sat with the man who was a second father to him, he took another sip of the frothy liquid and said, “I'm grieved you're in bad health, you and your dear wife.”

“Well, God has been good to us. He has given us a long and good life. We had no children, but we had you, Sion. That's meant a lot to Molly and me.”

The two men sat there quietly enjoying each other's companionship in the kitchen. It was a quiet hour, but Sion well knew that he had turned a corner in his life. After a time Sion leaned forward and pressed the arm of Cradoc Evans that was stretched out on the table. “You'll not be worrying about me. I'll make out fine.”

“I know you will. You're a good man, Sion. I never saw anyone better with a farm. When you took over two years ago, I wasn't sure. But you've not made a mistake that I know of.”

Sion laughed. He was a well-built individual with light brown hair and brown eyes. He ran his fingers along the scar on the side of his neck as he remembered the day he got that scar. He had been down in the mines leading a pony out as he pulled a cart full of coal. A timber broke and fell onto Sion's neck, leaving a jagged slash, and his father simply put some coal dust on it and laughed, saying, “There you are, me boy. You'll have a fine scar now to show you're a miner.”

Sion ran his forefinger along the scar absentmindedly, a habit he had tried to break himself of. When deep thought came upon him, or a decision had to be made, he found himself stroking the scar.

“I talked to the new owner and told him what a good man you are about a farm, but he has two grown sons of his own. They'll all be coming here to do the farming. So there it is. No place for you, I'm afraid.”

“No matter. I'm strong, and the good Lord will look out for me.”

“That He will. I thought, perhaps, you'd be going back to the mines.”

“A thing I'd never do!”

“You disliked the mines so much, then?”

“They killed my dad, and it's no job for a human being.”

Evans shook his head. “Many a Welshman would fight you over that, to be sure.”

“They work in the mines because they have to. There's nothing else to do in this land. It's either farming or coal mining, especially in this valley.”

Cradoc Evans leaned forward and put his hand out. It was frail now, although it had been strong ten years ago when Sion Kenyon had first gripped it. Now age had had its way with Cradoc, and Sion was careful to hold it gently. “You'll be leaving the valley, then?”

“I'll try to find work here. This is the only place I know. A man hates to be torn up from his roots.”

“Aye, the Scripture says, ‘As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place.'”

“I'll not be wandering—but no mines for me, not unless it's a matter of staying alive!”

****

The sun cast its pale gold light down over the valley, a great wash of antiseptic light. The trees that Sion passed on his way down the winding road shed shadows on the ground like columns. The landscape had a tawny hue. The reds and golds were long gone, brought down by wind. Far to the west the ancient hills hunched as the north wind broke upon them.