Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,16

across Betsy’s cheeks. She quickly picked up the sterling-silver coffeepot and filled the two waiting cups. As the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room, Elliot smiled to himself. He had been right, of course. The little busybody was lingering to hear the rest of his disagreement with his mother.

Neither Elliot nor his mother spoke until Betsy had set a steaming cup of black coffee at their places and, with a nervous little curtsy, backed through the door into the butler’s pantry. Adding two lumps of sugar to his coffee, Elliot said, “You cannot be serious, Mother. It is absolutely out of the question for my sister’s children to be raised in the howling wilderness of Dakota Territory by a half-breed savage.”

Margaret sputtered, “Genevieve LaCroix is not a half-breed savage! Why won’t you believe me, Elliot?” She reached up to brush a wisp of white hair out of her eyes. “I won’t deny that last year when Ellen wrote that she and Simon would be bringing one of their students here, I had my doubts about housing an Indian. But, Elliot, Genevieve was nothing like what we have read in the papers. Everyone here was impressed with her.”

Elliot harrumphed and stabbed the meat on his plate. Stuffing it in his mouth, he chewed, staring defiantly at his mother.

Seeing that her pleas were having little effect on her eldest child, Margaret pressed on. “She is half French, you know. And Miss Bartlett had only praise for her as a student.” She pleaded, “You weren’t here, Elliot. You didn’t see. Simon was completely undone when Ellen died. If it hadn’t been for Genevieve, I honestly do not know what would have become of Meg and Aaron. She brought Simon back to his children.” Margaret’s deep brown eyes filled with tears. “It was so touching, Elliot. Truly. Simon became a father after Ellen died. And Genevieve made it happen.”

Sarcasm dripped from every word as Elliot enjoined, “You mean the great, the all-righteous, the holy Reverend Dane came down from his throne?”

“If only you had seen it, Elliot, you wouldn’t be so disbelieving. God worked a miracle in Simon. And He used Genevieve to do it. The children adore her. She was practically their mother already by the time they left for Minnesota last August.” Defiance shone in her eyes as she said, “I think Simon should marry her.” While her son snorted his disapproval, Margaret withdrew a rumpled envelope from a pocket. She laid it on the table and pushed it across toward Elliot. “Read for yourself, son. You’ll see how the children feel about her.”

“Children haven’t the slightest idea what’s best for them,” Elliot said crisply. He ignored the envelope, reaching for a biscuit instead. Cutting it in half, he slathered it with butter. Taking a huge bite, he spoke as he chewed. “At least that’s what my mother told me when she packed me off to a military academy against my wishes.” He swallowed and stared across the table at his mother with icy gray-blue eyes.

Margaret paled and bowed her head. She fumbled with her napkin and blinked back tears.

Taking a boiled egg from a silver bowl to his right, Elliot laid it on his plate and began to tap the shell with the back of his spoon. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I’m not chastising you.” He sliced the egg in half and removed the shell from each half with one hand. “In the end, you were vindicated. Military life suits me. Or should I say suited me.” His mouth turned down at the edges. “What a pity I won’t be able to continue the family legacy of stellar military careers.” He ran his hand through his long white hair.

The gesture sent a pang of grief through Margaret Leighton. She had given a healthy, raven-haired son to the Union. The Union had taken him first to Bull Run, then on to Shiloh. And on Bloody Monday, down at Antietam, the Union had taken his left forearm and hand, turned his hair white, awarded him a medal, and then handed him his discharge papers.

“You have served the cause well, Elliot,” Margaret said gently. She ran a finger absentmindedly around the rim of her coffee cup as she said, “I’m very proud of you, son. As is the entire village. As would be your father and your grandfather if they were still alive.” Margaret looked up. Her voice trembled as she said, “What you gave to preserve the Union can never