Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “But where should I bathe?” Shemaine queried, unfamiliar with the proper procedure of preparing a bath in a cabin. In her father’s house, her baths had been prepared by servants.

  “There’s water heating over the fire for you already, and there’s a well outside at the far end of the back porch from which you can draw more water if you need it. You’ll find a washtub hanging in the storeroom. For the time being, it will have to suffice for any baths you and the boy take and any laundry that you do indoors. One of these days, when I have some time, I intend to turn the storeroom into a bathing chamber, but until then, we’ll all have to make do with what’s available. As long as the weather is tolerable, I bathe in the stream that runs through the inlet. You might have noticed it near the growth of trees on the way up to the cabin. There’s not a great deal of privacy to offer a woman, only what the trees may provide, but if you’re of such a mind, I’m sure my men and I would enjoy the view.”

  “I’ll bathe inside, thank you,” Shemaine replied pertly, feeling a warmth creep into her cheeks.

  Once again Gage accepted her reply with a faint smile. “Hannah usually likes me to visit a while, so you should have plenty of time to bathe and dress while I’m gone. But it also depends on the weather.” He faced her with a question. “Are you afraid to stay here alone?”

  Shemaine smiled a lot easier than he seemed able to do. “Tonight I think I’ll be happy to have some privacy. As you can probably imagine, there was a serious scarcity of it aboard the London Pride.”

  “The front door can be bolted from the inside once I’m gone,” he informed her. “I’d advise you to take the precaution, just in case some stranger spies the cabin and comes searching for food or valuables and finds you here alone. I’d hate for you to be stolen away before I’ve even had a chance to see your face washed.” Another meager glimpse of a smile hinted at his humor. “When I return, I’ll knock three times to let you know it’s safe to open the door. Otherwise, don’t show yourself at the windows. Before the week is out, I’ll try to get around to teaching you how to shoot a musket. I’m not gone that often, but when I am, you’ll feel safer knowing how to use it. You can never predict when you might see a bear or wildcat—”

  “Or an Indian?” she interjected, having heard rumors about their ferocity on the voyage.

  “Or occasionally an Indian,” Gage admitted. “But for the most part, they’ve moved into the mountains or the valleys beyond the Alleghenies. It’s gotten too crowded for them around here with all the English, Germans, and those tenacious Scotch-Irish settling in the area.”

  Shemaine followed him to the door, wondering if there was any need to tell him about Jacob Potts and his threats so soon after he had bought her. But he had seemed distracted since buying her, and she didn’t want to give him any excuse for taking her back. At a more convenient time, she reasoned, when it won’t trouble him overmuch.

  Pausing at the door, Gage indicated the tall kitchen cupboard standing near the hearth. “There’s bread and cheese in there if you get hungry before I return. Hannah usually packs some food for me to bring home when she knows Andrew and I are here alone. At least tonight you’ll be well fed. I can make no guarantees for the morrow.”

  Opening the heavy portal, he stepped out onto the porch, glanced quickly around the area, and then pulled the door closed behind him. The floorboards creaked slightly as he crossed to the front steps. After his departure, a long moment of enjoyable silence ensued. Then, with a soft smile, Shemaine laid the heavy bolt in place across the door, for the first time in many months feeling a surge of hope for the future.

  CHAPTER 4

  A lengthy shampoo and a warm, leisurely bath did wonders for Shemaine’s spirit. She marveled at the enormous change in herself as she dragged on a frayed chemise from the dead woman’s trunk. Once she would have casually discarded the undergarment as a castoff, not worthy of being used for anything but a servant’s dust cloth or a scrub rag. Wearing a riding habit relentlessly day in and day out for several months certainly had a way of making one feel immensely grateful for any apparel that was clean and reasonably intact. Though there were nicer shifts packed away in the chest, even a lace-trimmed one which had obviously been the woman’s best, Shemaine refused to take her new master’s benevolence for granted. In determining her future needs, she had also laid out a second chemise, a green gown, a pale blue one, two long white aprons, and a pair of black slippers, all of which had seen a lot of use.

  Once she had bathed and washed her hair, Shemaine began to sense the importance of demonstrating her gratitude to Gage Thornton for having bought her, and what better way of accomplishing that feat, she decided, than proving herself an enterprising cook and efficient servant. Granted, it would take some time before she regained her strength and stamina, but she wrapped a towel about her wet head and then, garbed only in the chemise, set about testing her ability in the preparation of food.

  A few years had passed since Bess Huxley, their family cook, had tried to stimulate her interest in culinary endeavors and teach her the basic techniques required for success. At the time, Shemaine had grudgingly performed the tasks, doing them over and over again until she had attained the perfection the woman had demanded, but she had loathed stirring sauces endlessly so they wouldn’t scorch and beating egg whites until they peaked. She had been convinced that Bess’s instructions were a wasted effort, for even at a younger age she could not imagine herself marrying a man without the means and properties to warrant a house full of servants.

  So much for her expectations, Shemaine mentally jeered. Bess had warned her not to be so high-minded, for a mere girl could not predict what man would ask for her hand or, for that matter, to whom she would give her heart . . . if she were fortunate enough to be allowed a choice. Despite the cook’s arduous drilling, Shemaine was sure there was much that she had forgotten about her training. Yet it was now necessary for her to prove her capability and, if she could, to recall everything that Bess Huxley strove so hard to teach her. There was nothing quite as motivating as desperation to make one acutely attentive to another’s sage advice.

  Shemaine busied herself making crumpets from memory. While serving out her time in the solitude of the cable tier, she had yearningly remembered the relaxed afternoon teas she had once enjoyed with her family. Those cherished memories came drifting back now with poignant clarity as she made the basic dough. After mixing it, she covered the bowl with a cloth and set it near the warmth of the hearth where the bread could rise while she resumed her toilette.

  It seemed an endless drudgery combing the stubborn snarls out of her wet hair as she sat before the fire. The task took much longer than Shemaine had expected, and she became concerned about the time, for the afternoon seemed to be flitting rapidly away. In desperation she searched about for a pair of scissors to make short work of her hair, but she found nothing better than a butcher knife. The disaster that particular tool might wreak promptly dissuaded her.

  While going through the articles stored in the trunk, she had found a brush with several long strands of blond hair twined about the bristles. Though her new master had given her leave to use whatever she had need of, Shemaine could not bring herself to destroy such a precious keepsake. She searched through the man’s possessions instead, finding most of his clothes and underwear neatly stacked and separated in his armoire. The only exception was a clean bundle of wrinkled shirts that were of much finer quality than the homespun garment he was presently wearing. They had been stuffed in the very back of the cabinet and had been there so long they had taken on the scent of the wood. As pleasant as the smell was, Shemaine decided that one of her very first laundry duties would be to wash, starch and iron the shirts for her master. After that, whether or not they were worn would be entirely up to the man, but at least he’d have an option.

  The rain began again in earnest, and not knowing whether the downpour would deter or hasten Mr. Thornton’s return, Shemaine did not dare dawdle over he
r hair any longer. She finally located a brush in a drawer in the man’s shaving stand and made use of it to smooth the rest of the tangles from her hair. The heavy tresses were still slightly damp when she plaited them and coiled the resulting two braids close against her nape. Then she quickly washed the brush, dried it, and put it back where she had found it, hoping her master wouldn’t notice that it had been used in his absence.

  Both gowns were too long, as Gage had predicted, and snug across her breasts. It amazed Shemaine that a man could remember his wife with such unerring accuracy that he could correctly judge the sizes of other women just by his memory of her a full year after her passing. The bodices could not be let out, Shemaine discovered after examining the seams, and any alterations to the hems would have to wait until she had more time. She selected the green gown to wear only because it seemed a trifle shorter. After donning the shoes, she strapped on thin rawhide laces to hold the light leather slippers on her feet and then wound the cords up around her ankles and tied them in a knot. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at how red and marred her ankles had become from the constant chafing of the shackles. She could only imagine how much more irritated they would become from the leather strips.

  Shemaine checked the dough and, much to her relief and delight, found that it had risen quite well despite being rushed. She added the next ingredients until the batter became the right consistency. Once again she set the mixture near the fireplace. Then she busied herself dusting and tidying the cabin.

  Once the dough had risen sufficiently for a second time, Shemaine laid a griddle on a rack where it could be heated to the right temperature by the flames. Having every intention of presenting her new master with an opportunity to enjoy a light, leisurely afternoon repast, she set a pot of tea to steep near the hearth, hoping fervently that he would return in time to taste the crumpets and tea while both were still hot and fresh.

  Though the lessons had been learned years ago, they had undoubtedly been indelibly etched upon Shemaine’s memory through constant repetition, for the crumpets were an unblemished marvel. For the first time in her life, she was ecstatic over the results and wonderfully grateful that Bess Huxley had demanded excellence in whatever cooking assignment her student had undertaken. If only, Shemaine sighed forlornly, she could recall all of Bess’s meticulous instructions with the same success.

  A rapid ascent of the front steps alerted her to the presence of another, then three quick raps on the heavy door eased the prickling along her nape. Leaving several crumpets browning on the iron griddle, Shemaine ran to the portal, lifted the bolt and swung the door wide to admit the rain-drenched man.

  For the length of his return journey and during his rapid flight to the cabin, Gage Thornton had sought to keep both his young son, whom he now carried, and a large basket of food, which he bore over an arm, protected beneath a tarp. He was still intent upon his mission even as he stepped into the cabin. He gave Shemaine little notice as she hastened back to the hearth, but shoved the door closed with a shoulder and dropped the basket on a rough-hewn table near the entrance before he swept away the sheltering cover from his son. When the boy saw a stranger in the house, he pressed back against his father’s shoulder, immediately shy and reluctant to be parted from the security of his parent, but the aroma filling the cabin soon drew his amber-lit brown eyes to the hearth.

  “Daddee . . . Andee . . . hungee.”

  The delicious smell had attracted Gage’s curiosity as well, and after setting his son down beside him, he peered inquiringly toward the griddle as he tugged the tail of his soaked shirt out of his buckskin breeches. “What smells so good?”

  “I remembered how to make crumpets,” Shemaine announced with a smile that wavered between timidity and pride.

  Whatever she had been about to add was stricken from her mind as Gage dragged the sodden garment over his head and dropped it into an oaken bucket near the door. The sight of his lean waist, wide muscular shoulders and taut chest rippling with thews was more than a little unsettling for a young woman who, during her few excursions on the deck of the London Pride, had been subjected to the sight of many potbellied and narrow-shouldered sailors who had been amply disposed toward strutting about shirtless in front of the women, as if they had imagined themselves admirable examples of manly prowess, worthy of impressing the most discriminating of the opposite gender.

  In comparison, Gage Thornton had an extraordinarily fine physique, possibly the best Shemaine could remember ever viewing in her limited encounters with half-garbed men. Yet, for all of that, he seemed oblivious to his own exceptional appearance and the mental disarray it caused his bondswoman. Shemaine couldn’t recall ever seeing a man who, by simply shedding a shirt, could unnerve her. With that invading jitteriness came the realization that except for the child she was completely alone with a strange man for the very first time in her life. Any true lady would have been less awed by his anatomy and far more cautious of the man, for under the circumstances she was really quite vulnerable to the whims of her master.

  Abashed by her own forwardness at openly admiring his lightly furred chest and broad shoulders, and equally reluctant to be caught gaping, Shemaine turned back to her cooking, adding with a decidedly shaky comment, “I thought you and Andrew might enjoy some crumpets with your afternoon tea.”

  “Let me get out of these wet clothes and I’ll be right with you,” Gage replied eagerly as he hastened to his bedroom. The one thing that had spoiled his complete satisfaction with his indentured servant was his concern over her inability to cook. Despite his efforts not to, he had continued to worry over the matter, wondering how his small family would survive on poorly prepared meals. It was a tremendous relief to realize the girl knew more than she had first let on. When she could cook something that wafted so tantalizingly through his senses it could make his mouth water, it spurred some hope that she would be capable of doing even more.

  “Daddee!” Andrew squealed in sudden anxiety, realizing his father had left him. He shot a wide-eyed look of panic at Shemaine and ran into the bedroom screaming in terror.

  Shemaine smiled as she heard Gage soothe the fears of his sobbing son.

  “It’s all right, Andy. Shemaine is going to be living with us and taking care of you while Daddy makes chests and tables—”

  “An’ big ship, too, Daddee?” the boy asked through his tears.

  “And big ship, too, Andy.”

  Shemaine set the teapot down on the table, added a cup and saucer, two small plates, utensils, and fruit preserves that she had found in the cupboard. A moment later Gage came out of the bedroom carrying his son, having changed into a pair of dark brown hide breeches and a loose-sleeved, homespun shirt. Before her arrest, Shemaine had found herself more inclined to admire men dressed to the hilt in elegant attire. Maurice had been an exceptionally garbed individual, looking the most handsome in black silk frock coats, waistcoats and breeches to match. With hair and eyes of the same dark hue, the stark contrast between the black silk garments and the snowy white shirts and stocks he usually wore with them had been no less than dramatic. Indeed, dressed out for formal occasions, Maurice had been most effective in causing feminine hearts to race in avid admiration. Still, when her new master came nigh to halting her breath wearing such rough garb, Shemaine had to wonder if she would ever again be moved to awe by princely appareled lords in silk stockings.

  Gage sat the boy in the high chair at the end of the table, tied a bib around his neck, and then settled himself on the bench to Andrew’s left. Shemaine leaned across the table to place the plate of crumpets in the center, prompting Gage to glance up as he thanked her, but as the hanging lantern cast its light upon her face, he saw her clearly for the first time since his return.

  If there was anything capable of disrupting that maddeningly cryptic reserve of his or those sparse smiles, Shemaine guessed the change in her appearance qualified. When their gazes had first met on the London Pride, she had been startled by the strength of tho
se glittering brown eyes, but there was something entirely different about the slow, exacting way he looked her over now, as if he were seeing her for the first time as a woman instead of a possession. Shemaine held her breath in trepidation, wondering if the sight of her wearing Victoria’s clothes would cause him to regret his kindness to her.

  “You look different . . .” Gage murmured finally. “Very nice, in fact.” Indeed! Too beautiful for a man who’s been without a woman for the last year, he thought, dropping his gaze and fixing it with great determination on the crumpets. Almost mechanically he reached for one, sliced it apart and spread preserves on one of the halves for his son.

  “Should I pour Andrew some tea?” Shemaine asked uncertainly, still unable to determine Gage’s mood, for he seemed even more distant than he had before.

  Avoiding the folly of looking her way, Gage pushed himself to his feet. It was a painful truth that abstinence had a way of sharpening a man’s senses to an agonizing intensity when a winsome maid was so near at hand. “I’ve got some milk cooling in the well,” he answered at last. “If you’d like, I’ll show you where it’s kept.”

  “Should I get the tarp?” she inquired, not wishing to get soaked and cold again. She hadn’t ventured out to the well while he was gone, for she had been anxious to bathe and had only waited until the water in the kettle had gotten warm enough to use.

  “No, there’s no need. I built a roof over the back porch and extended it far enough over the well so we can stay dry even when it’s raining.”

  Gage led her through the back corridor, lifted the bolt from the door, and swung it open for her. Stepping past him, Shemaine went out onto the porch and once again had a chance to marvel at the diligent man. It was becoming increasingly evident to her that Gage Thornton enjoyed creating things that were not only beautiful to behold but completely serviceable as well.