An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  Ruth’s disappointment was plain. “Seems he could have at least donned a fine frock.”

  She understood Ruth’s complaint. Surely in that newly hewn blockhouse of his was a handsome linen shirt and breeches, stock and waistcoat, maybe even buckled shoes.

  “Reckon he’ll dance?” Ruth nearly shouted above the music.

  “I doubt it.”

  But something told her he could not only dance but dance well. ’Twas in the way he moved and held himself, that odd glimmer of refinement despite the roughness. It was even in the way he spoke, never stumbling in speech like some folks, but able to set forth a matter simply without a blizzard of words. He had a knack for listening intently to any who spoke to him, his manner one of quiet courtesy and control. She couldn’t abide rudeness or arrogance or cowardice. There was none of that about Clay Tygart. Though she’d only just met him, he seemed to embody the verse “Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.”

  She fingered Hester’s cameo absently till whisked away for a jig. Whom she danced with hardly mattered. Her attention was fixed on Clay Tygart. Not one dance did he step as the night wore on, instead keeping to the shadows even beyond the firelight’s reach. She couldn’t dismiss a niggling worry that his holding back might lead some to label him contrary, even big-headed. She could see it already clouding some countenances, those settlers who took offense easily. Having grown up with them, she knew. And it was in her nature to counter it if she could.

  She worked her way through the boisterous crowd till she stood behind him. Keen observer as he was, he’d likely been aware of her movements from the first.

  “Miss Swan,” he said over his shoulder, confirming it.

  She would not play coy. “Why are you not dancing, sir?”

  The firelight revealed his amusement. “And who would you have me partner with?”

  “Granted, there are few petticoats here, but surely you can delight one of them.”

  Her ready answer turned him round. For a second he seemed to consider it. “Name her.”

  Her own rueful smile surfaced. “If you dance with me we’ll set every tongue wagging. Best partner with Great-Aunt Hester or some widow woman. There are those who’ll hold it against you if you don’t.”

  “Such folks are seldom appeased either way.”

  “True.” She pondered this as the fiddler finished a frenzied jig and struck a spritely reel.

  At the first beat, Colonel Tygart reached for her with a swift decisiveness that left no room for a nay. A self-conscious warmth drenched her that had nothing to do with the humid summer’s heat. The dusty dance floor seemed to clear. They were the head couple for the set, without a doubt. She was partial to the English country dances, especially Sir Roger de Coverley, which she’d learned when she was small. She’d partnered with all manner of boys and men since then, but none like the odd-eyed giant before her.

  What drawing rooms had he seen overmountain? He swung her around with a gentle power, unlike most clumsy men who all but sent her flying. With him she was at her nimble best. Not once did he misstep, while she felt stretched to the seams keeping up. Swirling past Maddie and Jude, she realized Maddie’s look of pleasure.

  Winded, Tessa came to a stop as the dance ended. She curtsied as prettily as she could, color still high, and was drawn to the punch bowl, a rude piggin of mostly rum. Hester oversaw the beloved concoction, pouring the brew repeatedly between pitchers till well blended. Tessa tasted molasses, cream, egg. She only allowed herself half a cup. No sense entertaining the likes of Colonel Tygart by weaving about the common like a drunkard.

  Ruth pushed toward her, barely heard over the squeal of the fiddle. “How’d you get the colonel to dance with you?”

  “I all but asked him,” Tessa confessed. No need to reveal her deeper motives to Ruth.

  “You always was one for getting things done.” Ruth made a face. “If only your brothers were as bold as you.”

  Before the words left Ruth’s mouth, they were both spirited away by men who’d tired of squiring each other. Tessa tried to shut the thought of the colonel away, to not compare, as one gollumpus yanked her about the common now dampened by a warm drizzle. But there was simply no dodging Colonel Tygart in her mind.

  Clay, Maddie called him, while she herself hadn’t moved beyond the ramrod-stiff sir or Colonel Tygart. Maddie’s term bespoke a familiarity Tessa craved.

  Free of the clutches of yet another fawning man, she fled again to the punch bowl, taking a rare second helping before standing in Jasper’s shadow by the gunpowder magazine. Rain made a frizz of her hair, the damp wisps pushed back by a hasty hand.

  “Enjoying the frolic, Sister?” Jasper asked.

  She followed his gaze to Keturah beneath a far cabin eave, Maddie keeping her company. She nodded. Once Jasper had been sweet on Keturah. Since then the long, hard years had lined him, even scarred him with the pox. He’d assumed his place as head of the family at Pa’s passing without complaint, tamping down his grief. Betimes he seemed a powder keg ready to explode. And since he’d returned from overmountain there’d been a new edge to him that unnerved her. Had something happened in the East? Or was it Keturah’s coming?

  “You might ask her to dance,” she dared him.

  Jasper shot her a dark look. “Ask an Indian?”

  “She’s no more Indian than Pa was at their hands.”

  Her simple logic brought a smirk. “Keturah talks like an Indian. Moves like an Indian. There’s little white left about her.”

  “But she’s come back. And it’s up to us to help her find her way.”

  “Nay.” He spat into the dirt. “Keturah’s not our concern. I expect she’ll run. That’s the only reason I didn’t naysay it when Ma wanted her to stay.”

  “She’s not gone yet.”

  “Give her time.”

  She’d struck a nerve without wanting to, the jut of his jaw fueling her own ire. Still sore over Pa, would he somehow besmirch Keturah simply because she’d associated with the murderous savages, as he called them, through no fault of her own?

  Her voice held the iron of Hester’s. “A warm heart is a fine thing to have in a cold world, Jasper Swan.”

  He shrugged, clearly unmoved. Turning his back on her, he helped himself to the punch Hester was replenishing.

  Stung, Tessa started toward the southwest corner of the fort, where a limestone spring cascaded over mossy rocks. A few children, bored with the dancing, played in the water that ran cold and pure. After a heavy rain, the spring rushed up from the underground with such force it seemed to seethe. Fort folk called it The Boils. But now, in the gray shades of twilight, the water flowed serenely, its surface dimpled by the rain.

  “Miss Tessa.” A bare-chested boy smiled up at her, holding out a small, speckled stone. “For you.”

  She knelt, unmindful of the mud and her new petticoat, and took the offering. “Mighty handsome, Matthias. My thanks. See any frogs or lizards?”

  “Nary a one,” he said in a grown-up voice so like his pa’s.

  She pocketed the stone, fingertips brushing the rag doll taken from the Braams’ abandoned cabin. Kept away from Jasper’s disapproving gaze, maybe meant for Keturah in time. How her brother’s words wounded. Any rosy notions she’d had about him and Keturah as sweethearts took wing.

  Tessa moved on, making her way along the south wall past cabins and knots of folks savoring the evening. A silvered spear of lightning lit the horizon far beyond the fort’s pickets, yet the dancing showed no signs of ending despite the chancy weather.

  Smiling at Keturah and Maddie, Tessa passed to Hester’s cabin, suddenly aware she would lodge by Clayton Tygart himself, the sturdy blockhouse casting a large shadow. Thankfully, Hester’s dwelling was empty. They’d stay the night here, her brothers bedding down on the fort common.

  Alone in the cabin, she took a turn. On the hearth’s mantel was a small collection of books. Gulliver’s Travels had been Pa’s favorite. Beside it
was Hester’s worn Bible. A collection of Matthew Henry’s sermons. Old copies of the Virginia Gazette papered the log wall in a corner, the ink so faded it escaped perusing. No new reading material beckoned.

  Still tetchy over Jasper, she stood in the cabin doorway, knowing she’d catch what for if she holed up alone for long. Dutifully she took herself outside again, occupying Maddie’s place by Keturah when Maddie danced with Jude. And then the lively fiddling ground to a halt mid-reel at the upward thrust of Colonel Tygart’s staying hand. All high spirits halted with it.

  She stood abruptly as the gates were closed and barred, any dawdlers outside coming in. Beside her, Keturah stayed seated and eyed everything with solemn stoicism, hands in her lap. Something was amiss, enough to stop the merriment of the fort’s first occasion. Next came not the thought of firsts but of lasts.

  Last dance with the colonel. Last taste of Hester’s punch. Last argument with Jasper. Last jaunt to the spring . . .

  The colonel was deep in conversation with the newly appointed militia officers nearby, their grave expressions telling. Tessa knew that look. One of the fort’s spies had just ridden in from a scout, based on the disheveled, rain-smeared look of him, his gestures and winded answers to the colonel’s questions gnawing at her.

  Orders were given, and men who’d been at the punch bowl or dancing assumed their places along the rifle platform. The mood grew more and more grim. But at least the colonel was here. Somehow that fact comforted Tessa in her oft-comfortless world. Here on the savage border, things changed in a heartbeat, a breath.

  Life was lived in the shadow of lasts.

  11

  Hester’s waspish gaze settled on Tessa as she descended the loft ladder at first light. Not one gunshot nor war whoop had troubled her sleep. With Ma gone to milk and Keturah still abed, Tessa braced herself for whatever Great-Aunt Hester would say.

  “My rheumatism’s raging this morn.”

  “You look hale and hearty to me,” Tessa returned.

  “Nonsense. You know nothing about my old bones. Now tie on your apron and finish what I started.”

  Tessa looked to the hearth’s fire, where a lone kettle simmered. Nary a whiff of breakfast to be had. Resigned, she did as her bossy aunt bade and reached for her apron, eyes going wide at Hester’s next brow-raising order.

  “Colonel Tygart likes his coffee hot and his hoecakes brown.” At that, she pulled a rocking chair nearer the window and sat down hard, adding an exclamation point to her words.

  Tessa set her jaw. Did Hester truly expect her to fix the commander’s breakfast? She’d rather face a multitude of redmen than obey this blatant attempt at matchmaking. Her great-aunt had many fine qualities, but tact wasn’t one of them. Nor was patience.

  “Quit your dawdling!” Hester scolded as Tessa took a quick look in a cracked looking glass hauled overmountain long ago. “The man can’t manage a garrison on an empty stomach.”

  Tessa shot a glance at the half-open cabin door. Doggone the milking! Where was Ma when she needed her to put a stop to such foolishness?

  “Oh, and he’s overfond of sweetening, just so you know,” Hester said with a wave of her hand. “Prefers loaf sugar but he’ll take molasses in a pinch.”

  Biting back a retort, Tessa stepped outside into a morning of warm mist, the sky a pleasing pink, the common littered with last night’s revelry. A stone’s throw away was the blockhouse, door open wide, the hearty smell of bear bacon beckoning. Her own stomach rumbled.

  Shutting her eyes, she uttered a hasty, heartfelt prayer and then, still addled as a bee in a butter churn, bridged the short distance to the blockhouse. There at the hearth were the fixings of a commander’s breakfast. She noted both coffee and tea. Plenty of sweetening.

  No colonel.

  From the loft above came a few decisive sounds. The thud of a boot. The opening of a shutter. Singing.

  Though low, the voice was distinct and melodious, even rich. “The Nightingale”? ’Twas a tune she knew well. She bit her lip to keep from joining in and focused on the task before her. First, a daub of grease in a hot iron skillet, then hoecake batter fried a deep brown. She herself liked them golden with butter, no sweetening.

  “Good morning, one morning, one morning in May,

  I spied a young couple all on the highway,

  And one was a lady so bright and so fair,

  And the other was a soldier, a brave volunteer . . .”

  She half chuckled at her old aunt’s prank on Colonel Tygart. What would he think of that?

  “Good morning, good morning, good morning to thee,

  Now where are you going, my pretty lady?”

  Clay paused singing long enough to shave, maneuvering the razor with long, even swipes over his bristled skin. He toweled off on a soft piece of tow linen, taking a last look at the common below through his open window.

  A few discarded wooden cups, even a pewter one, glinting in the dirt and grass. A muddy shoe and colorful handkerchief. A few crude toys. All evidence of a merry time, even if one of the fort’s spies had brought a grim report. Few who’d come for the frolic would likely leave the fort till better news was brought.

  He resumed his low song, something he’d missed on the trail, though he heard Boone oft sang at the top of his lungs in devil-may-care defiance. But he couldn’t risk the women in his party, so he’d stayed silent all the way from Fort Pitt to Fort Tygart.

  As his boot struck the first step, a warm, womanly voice joined in from below. Not Hester. The old woman hadn’t a song in her wilderness-hardened soul. His steps quickened till his boots sounded like a small storm.

  “Good morning, good morning, good morning to thee.

  Now where are you going, my pretty lady?

  I’m going to travel to the banks of the sea,

  To see the waters gliding, hear the nightingales sing.”

  There at the hearth was a becoming if surprising sight. Miss Swan? Her back to him, she deftly flipped his favored hoecakes, using a free hand to grasp hold of a kettle’s handle with her apron.

  Taking a seat at the table, he hated to end her singing. She had a lovely voice, sweet and full-bodied. When she swung around armed with his breakfast, her blatant consternation made him chuckle.

  “And your great-aunt is . . . ?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” she answered. A telltale pink stained her features, confirming his suspicions.

  Best say it outright. “And bent on a little matchmaking.”

  Tessa gave an aggrieved nod. It wasn’t hard to figure. Hester Swan had left a trail of bread crumbs to her niece since she’d cooked his very first meal.

  “Tessa is a hand with her garden. Her quince preserves are second to none. She can knit a pair of stockings nearly as fast as I fry an egg. Ever since she was small, my niece has been a wonder digging ginseng. Fleet of foot too. She may not be fancy as a town-bred girl, but she steps a fine reel . . .”

  Tessa turned her back on him, retrieving a rasher of bacon. Molasses and butter were already before him, including his usual pewter plate and cup. Eyes down, she set the meat on the table. In the ensuing quiet came a noisy growling. Her stomach?

  “Let’s give Hester some satisfaction, aye?” Forking two hoecakes off the stack onto his plate, he added meat and the neatly turned eggs she’d almost forgotten, then reached across the crude table and plunked down the plate.

  Their eyes met, hers befuddled. Already she’d begun backing out the door.

  “Nay, Miss Swan. Stay.”

  A slightly sheepish smile and a blush graced her face. “Is that an order, sir?”

  He nodded and started to rise to fetch a second plate, but she’d already whisked it from a shelf. “Overmountain tea or coffee?” he asked.

  She sat, eyeing both. “Tea.” Slowly, she reached for the jug of cream yet bypassed the sweetening. “No trouble during the night, I reckon.”

  “False alarm, mayhap,” he said, taking coffee with plenty of cream, the fragrant steam
rising. “Or a close call.”

  Fork mid-mouth, he stayed his hand when she said without a flinch, “I’d be obliged if you’d bless breakfast.”

  Tarnation. Suddenly at sea in his own fort, Clay simply stared at her like the heathen he was. Her earnest gaze was violet-gray in the morning shadows, reminding him of polished silver in a shop window.

  “We always hold hands doing it,” she said, reaching across the bountiful plates between them.

  Humbled and caught off guard, he took her warm, callused fingers in his as she bowed her head reverently and waited. The words that lodged in his throat were so dusty, so tarnished, he had to reach to the uttermost to grasp but a few.

  “We thank Thee, Lord, for this our food for life and health and every good . . . By Thine own hand may we be fed.” He swallowed, still groping. “Give us each day our daily bread. Amen.”

  Somehow she looked satisfied. He felt he’d successfully run the gauntlet. They released hands, returning to their blessed breakfast, the finest the frontier had to offer. Closing her eyes, she took a sip of fine English tea from Morris and Willing of Philadelphia. Her childish delight tickled him. She was used to making do with nettles and sassafras, likely. City tea was a luxury.

  This morn she’d exchanged her pretty party dress for plain homespun. The linen fichu about her shoulders was spotless and smooth, tucked into a striped bodice of common frontier weave, her skirt indigo blue. Covering her dark hair was a linen cap, the barest ruffle at the edge, its strings untied and dangling.

  Bare of foot, she accidentally brushed his boot beneath the table. Mercy, but she made it hard for a man to mind his meal. Despite the heavy aroma of fried meat and the more delicate fragrance of hyson tea, he detected clean linen. Herbs. Something else he couldn’t name. Thankfully, he didn’t reek of the trail and was clean-shaven to boot.

  She ate slowly, pinching off a bite of hoecake, then taking another sip of tea. A caution for him to slow down, rein in his plans to clean up the common and meet with the settlement men before the sun was three fingers high.