Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Gage closed his ledger, thrust the quill into the well and pushed his stool back from the desk. Taking up a candlestick, he touched the wick to a lighted taper and then snuffed the other candles in the room. Leaving the corridor, he approached the rocking chair as Shemaine hurriedly folded the chemise that she had been hemming.

  “You’ll need this to find your way upstairs,” he said, offering her the lighted candle. “There’s a quilt in the chest near the bed if you have need of it. I strung a line across the balustrade and hung canvas over it while you were finishing up in the kitchen. All you need do is draw it closed.”

  Thanking him, Shemaine accepted the candlestick and watched in confusion as he picked up a nearby lantern, bade her good night, and made his way toward his bedroom. Refusing to embarrass herself by confessing her failure to provide herself with sleeping attire from Victoria’s trunk earlier that afternoon, she gathered the garments she had mended and moved toward the kitchen door.

  Gage reached the entrance of his bedroom before he remembered his servant’s sparse clothing. He turned, drawing her attention as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Shemaine. I quite forgot to ask if you might need anything else from Victoria’s trunk.”

  “A nightgown and robe would be nice, sir, if you don’t mind,” she admitted shyly. “I didn’t think of them earlier.”

  “Then come and fetch them. There’s no need for you to be timid.” He beckoned to her before turning away and entering his bedroom.

  By the time Shemaine followed, Gage had already lifted the trunk lid and was sorting through the contents. As she watched, he dug past a torn nightgown that lay near the top and delved deeper through the clothes, finally setting aside a gown which she had previously admired as the prettiest of the lot. He chose another for her, heedless of its better quality and dainty smocking, added the only robe to be found in the trunk, and handed the three garments to her.

  “But these are much too fine for a servant to wear,” Shemaine insisted, making no attempt to take them.

  Gage pushed them toward her, forcing her to take them. “There’s no sense in letting them go to waste, Shemaine.”

  “You can save them for your wife when you get married again,” she argued, helplessly clasping the bundle to her.

  As if considering her suggestion, Gage set his jaw thoughtfully askew as he slowly contemplated her. Seeming to come to a sudden decision, he gave a slight nod. “If I like the way you look in them, perhaps I’ll take your advice and marry you.”

  Shemaine stared at him agog, incapable of forcing any words past her gaping lips. She was too astounded by his suggestion to even mutter a refusal.

  With a devilishly smug look, Gage placed a forefinger beneath her small chin and slowly closed her mouth. “Don’t look so shocked, Shemaine. It wouldn’t be the first time a marriage of convenience has taken place here in the colonies, nor would it be the last. With such a shortage of available women, it’s not an uncommon occurrence for a man to take a stranger to wife. If he’s too shy, he’ll likely find the maid snatched away by another before he can loosen his tongue to propose.”

  Shemaine finally found her voice and hastened to assure him, “I didn’t mean to suggest that we should marry, Mr. Thornton . . . I mean . . . I certainly never thought of such a thing . . . I would never presume . . . I . . . couldn’t . . . I was betrothed, you see. . . .” She stumbled to a sudden halt, realizing she was protesting far too much.

  “ ‘Tis a late hour for us to be quibbling over such matters, Shemaine. Wear one of the nightgowns and go to bed. Rest yourself. Regain your strength. Hopefully, before too much time has elapsed, my men and I can deliver the furniture we’ve finished to our customers in Williamsburg. Whenever we go, whether a couple of weeks or even a month from now, I would like to take Andrew with me, but I’ll need you to come with us to watch after him. The men and I will have to carry the pieces from the barge, load them on wagons and then take them into Williamsburg. I can’t rightly do that and look after the boy, too. I’m sure you’ll need all the strength you can muster to keep up with him the whole day long.”

  “I’ll try to be fit whenever you decide to go, Mr. Thornton,” she answered, retreating through the doorway.

  Gage followed as far as the door and, lifting a forearm, braced it across the jamb as he caught her gaze and held it with unwavering brown eyes. “If you aren’t aware of it, Shemaine O’Hearn, you speak with a very nice brogue. I hear it quite clearly when you address me by my proper name, and since you seem disinclined to use my given name, you may continue calling me Mr. Thornton with my wholehearted approval.” A quick grin flashed, and his eyes gleamed teasingly. “Until that day we marry, of course.”

  “Warts off a toad,” Shemaine mumbled petulantly as she turned crisply on a heel, but his laughter made her break into a smile as she dispatched herself with haste toward the back room.

  In the silence of the cabin the hurried slip-slap of her slippers drifted back to the man, and for a long passage of time he listened to her movements upstairs, thankful there was something more pleasurable for him to hear than the haunting screams of his dead wife.

  CHAPTER 5

  It had long been the custom for the adult members in the Thornton household to begin stirring ere the sun showed its face above the treetops. Shemaine was unacquainted with predawn risings, for in England she had been allowed to slumber well past the daily appearance of the solar orb. She had been pampered to a goodly extent, being the only child. Nevertheless, she had been repeatedly cautioned by her mother and the old family cook that things would change drastically once she became mistress of her own house. On the London Pride she had slept whenever she could, but those tormented attempts had been anything but soothing. In contrast, her first night in the Thornton cabin had been both physically relaxing and mentally nurturing. Her awakening, however, came with the harsh reality that she could no longer lie abed until a leisurely hour. She was bondswoman now and was therefore expected to function as one, serving instead of being served.

  She had first been roused to a vague awareness of her surroundings when Gage’s bedroom door had opened that morning, but when his footfalls progressed across the parlor and entered the back corridor, she came fully awake, expecting her new master to climb up the stairs and roust her out of bed. Then the subtle squeak of the porch door as it was opened and closed indicated his departure from the cabin, and the frantic beating of her heart eased to a steadier pace.

  Shemaine was still a-tremble as she scrambled from the cot and struck sparks from a tinderbox to light a candle. Dragging the dead woman’s robe over the nightgown she’d been given, she took up the taper and hastened from the loft. The tiny flame dipped and sputtered in the breeze she created in her brisk descent to the kitchen. Despite her state of dishabille, she lit a lantern, stirred up the fire in the hearth and started putting a meal together, having already decided that her morning toilette would have to wait until a later hour. As for now, she had work to do.

  Having planned the morning fare the night before and set a batch of buns to rising away from the heat of the hearth, Shemaine had managed to avoid the folly of being ill prepared. Bess Huxley had once lauded the wisdom and importance of a woman being well organized in whatever task she set herself to and had tried to instill such motivations in her young student. But it was only now, when Shemaine felt pressed to prove her merits to the man who owned her, that the benefits of good, orderly timing were finally recognized and appreciated. The pleasure Shemaine derived at seeing the hot cross buns browning in the hearth oven, the smoked strips of venison sizzling on a griddle, and eggs thickening as she stirred them in a skillet above an open fire was totally different from the boredom she had once suffered when pressed to do such monotonous tasks. While still at home with her parents, she had considered any assignment in the kitchen a loathsome imposition and had done what had been required only to mollify Cook or to perhaps win a few days of reprieve from the tedium of her instructions.

 
The first rays of the morning sun streamed in through the windowpanes when Gage began folding back the shutters. By the time he finished his outside chores and returned to the cabin with a pail of fresh milk and a basket of eggs, the interior abounded with light and the delectable aromas of hot buns and venison. Upon passing Shemaine in the kitchen, Gage stared in amazement at the fare she was dishing up.

  “You’ve made yourself out to be a liar, Shemaine,” he observed, setting the bucket and basket down on the side table near where she worked. He could hardly take his eyes off the rolls, for he seriously doubted he had ever seen bread that looked so delicious. But then, it may have been his own hunger that befogged his memory.

  His statement caused Shemaine immediate consternation. “How so, sir?”

  “Well, ‘tis apparent you know how to cook,” Gage replied, sweeping a hand to indicate the food. “Perhaps even well enough to put Roxanne Corbin to shame. Why did you let me believe the converse?”

  Intent upon learning the reason, Gage bestowed his full attention on her, but the thoughtful frown that had creased his brow gradually faded as those warm brown orbs slowly descended, sweeping downward from her untidy pigtails to the thin toes peaking from beneath her hem. Those small extremities curled awkwardly beneath his casual contemplation before he reversed his scrutiny. This time his eyes glided upward, pausing ever so briefly on the soft, rounded bosom that was obviously unfettered beneath her night garb.

  Painfully conscious of her disarray, Shemaine laid an arm at an angle across her chest and dragged the lace-edged collar of the robe up close around her neck. Had the garments been transparent and her pale body completely vulnerable to his unswerving regard, she would have found no less cause to be disconcerted. His close attention made her jittery to a fault, for she had absolutely no assurance that he would continue treating her with polite deference. She was, after all, nothing more than a slave. She had no haven to which she could run and absolutely no one from whom she could obtain protection. Indeed, if she had correctly discerned the timidity of the hamlet’s inhabitants when Gage Thornton had looked their way, then she could suppose they’d be far too cowardly to confront the man on her behalf. Others like Alma Pettycomb might have the nerve, but if similarly averse to convicts, they certainly wouldn’t bother.

  Gage finally dragged his gaze higher to meet hers, but Shemaine turned away to hide her vivid blush and quickly busied herself spooning eggs into a bowl. For all of her effort to appear unruffled, he might as well have been breathing down her neck. Every fiber of her being screamed of his nearness.

  Trying to control the quaver in her voice, Shemaine hastened to answer him, hoping he would then move away. “When you questioned me about my abilities, sir, I wasn’t at all sure what I would be able to remember. You see, my mother thought it essential that I be instructed by our cook, but I detested the lessons and saw no future in them. They kept me from what I really enjoyed doing.”

  Taking up the bowl and the platter of meat, Shemaine stepped to the table and leaned across to place the serving dishes conveniently near the two plates she had set out earlier for her master and his son. She had no need to take note of the direction of her master’s gaze, for she could feel the weight of it roaming her back.

  “And what was that, Shemaine?” Gage asked, intrigued by the way the nightgown and wrapper molded her trim buttocks. The degree of detail she unwittingly presented him was definitely worth admiring for as long as she afforded him the view.

  “Riding, sir,” Shemaine replied, feeling some chagrin over her passion for horses. Edith du Mercer had disdained the idea of a young woman racing recklessly across the countryside on the back of a headstrong stallion which many a man had proven incapable of handling. Shemus O’Hearn had taught her to ride at an early age, and the two of them had shared a great love for the sport. Maurice was the only one she had ever known who could ride as well as her sire. “My father owned some of the finest steeds in all of London. He put me on the back of a mare when I was only two, and my mother swore thereafter that that single event proved my undoing in years to come. I suppose she was right in a way. ‘Twas clear the thieftaker knew where to wait for me, for ‘twas in the stable that he made his arrest.”

  “Are you suggesting that the thieftaker had been told of your penchant for horses by your fiancé’s grandmother?” Gage queried, only slightly disappointed when she faced him. Her loosely garbed bosom was tempting enough to draw more than a few surreptitious glances. The soft peaks teased him with random appearances, stirring his imagination no small degree.

  “Or at least by someone in her hire, sir,” Shemaine replied. “That’s what I’ve come to believe. I’ve bad a lot of time to think it through since my arrest, and the clandestine way in which it was all done convinced me that someone wanted to keep my disappearance a secret, for no one was around when I was taken. The grooms had gone to feed grain to the mares in the field. If I’m wrong about what I’ve come to surmise, then I’ve done a great disservice to the lady by judging her unfairly.”

  “If you were found by your family, would your suspicions about this woman hinder you from marrying your fiancé? This . . . Maurice du Mercer?”

  That particular issue had monopolized Shemaine’s thoughts almost from the time of her arrest, and she was extremely weary of the mental debate. She certainly hadn’t been able to arrive at any firm conclusions, but the need to do so didn’t seem so crucial now, for she could not imagine a marquess taking to wife a convict. “ ‘Tis highly unlikely that my parents or even Maurice would ever think of searching for me here. Besides, I rather doubt that Maurice would be able to spare the time for such a quest. He has many affairs and properties in England that demand his constant attention, and I cannot imagine him lightly setting aside his obligations to come here.”

  “Not even to seek his betrothed?” Gage was rather amazed at her conclusion, for he couldn’t conceive of any man forgetting a woman as winsome as she.

  Shemaine resented having to explain and did so succinctly. “Maurice never had a shortage of titled ladies fawning over him before our engagement. I’m sure by now he’s turned his thoughts and attentions elsewhere.”

  Gage studied her closely as he posed a question. “Then you’ve put that part of your life behind you?”

  Unable to trust the stability of her composure, Shemaine gave him a jerky nod and busied herself putting butter and fruit preserves on the table, lest she fall prey to feelings of loss and regret.

  Thoughtfully Gage reached across the space between them and took a bun from the breadbasket. Tearing off a piece, he mulled over her reply as he popped the morsel in his mouth and began to chew. After a moment the luscious flavor seized his full attention, and his eyes began to sparkle with hearty pleasure. It was a cold, hard fact that he hadn’t tasted anything so delectable since leaving his father’s house. Not even Victoria had been able to make such delicious bread.

  “I shouldn’t have limited my comparison to Roxanne Corbin, Shemaine. ‘Tis no farfetched compliment to say that you may be the best cook in the area.”

  Shemaine smoothed a wayward tendril back from her face as she peered up at him. “Does that mean you’ll be keeping me, Mr. Thornton?”

  Gage was surprised by her question. “Of course, Shemaine! I told you before that I wouldn’t be taking you back. Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Some men say one thing, sir, and do something else entirely,” she answered diffidently.

  “I’m not one of those men.”

  His bedroom door creaked slowly open, and they glanced around as Andrew came padding barefoot across the floor. The boy looked so adorable in his little nightshirt and with his dark, curling hair rumpled and falling into his eyes that Shemaine wanted to go to him herself and gather him up in her arms, but she knew he was still leery of her. She was, after all, nothing more than a stranger.

  Gage approached his son, and with a yawn Andrew trustingly raised his arms. His father swung him up high into the a
ir, drawing a burst of giggles from the youngster before he was settled on a shoulder.

  “We’ll be back in a couple of moments, Shemaine,” Gage said, approaching the back hall. “Andy has been trained to use a chamber pot, but he prefers to go outside to the privy. You’ll have to go with him when I can’t. He tries to act like a man, but ‘tis best to be careful.”

  “Of course, Mr. Thornton.” Shemaine turned away, fighting a blush. In England, she had occasionally passed through the countryside and, from her carriage windows, seen young children playing naked in the rain or in water-filled gullies. As brief as those occurrences had been, she had gained some insight into the anatomy of little boys. Still, she suspected she was not quite as knowledgeable about the opposite gender as her master might have supposed.

  A short time later Gage returned to the washstand in the kitchen. There he elicited more giggles from his son as he made a game of washing their hands and the boy’s face.

  With the food now laid out for the family, Shemaine could foresee an easy escape to her room. She was reluctant to put a blight on their morning meal with her disheveled appearance and had every intention of leaving as Gage settled his son in the high chair. She passed behind them, heading for the rear corridor, but her master, sensing her intentions, reached out and caught her arm, bringing her abruptly about in some surprise.

  With heart-thumping confusion, Shemaine searched the sun-bronzed visage for some hint of her master’s mood, but the only thing she could be certain of at the moment was his height, for Gage Thornton stood more than a head taller than she. The quaver in her own voice made her realize just how fainthearted she had become, for she was as skittish of the man as his son had been of her. “Is there something else you wish, Mr. Thornton?”