An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  To make matters worse, the spatterdashes Tessa fashioned were equally well made, thoughtful even, and wore a deeper hole inside him.

  Alone now in the blockhouse, Clay did another unthinkably foolish thing. Lifting a stocking Tessa had fashioned, he breathed in its scent and felt the wool softened by sheep’s lanolin. It held the very essence of her, of all things earthy and honest and good.

  Gathering up the work of her hands, he climbed the stairs to his sleeping quarters. A trunk was open, home to his finer garments, and he put the stockings inside, closing the lid with a resounding thud.

  Out of sight if not out of mind.

  What did Maddie mean by believing a lie? How could it be a lie when nearly every person he’d cared for deeply was lost to him, severed from his life with hatchet-like ferocity? His parents by an Indian raid. His adopted Indian family by disease. A tutor to a duel. And the one woman who in hindsight he might have married had she survived a riding accident.

  He was no prize. Raised among Indians, more at home in the wilds than a cabin, always on the move and exposed to every danger. What sensible woman would stake a claim on a man who’d likely leave her a widow? With children who’d be apprenticed, bound out, because he had no inheritance?

  Aye, he had wealthy Pennsylvania kin, Plain folk who looked askance at him because his years with the Lenape had eroded any white kinship or familial feeling. That and his gun-toting. Though his aunts, uncles, and cousins still welcomed him into their homes, they seemed to regard him as half-feral still. No doubt due to the fight he’d given them as he became Clay Tygart again after being seized from the “red brethren” and Christianized.

  How ingrained was the memory of his first day at Hallowells Friends School. He’d been dragged toward civilization scratching and kicking and been tied fast in a chair, the cold scrape of the razor against his sun-browned neck shearing the hair that had grown out on his recapture. He’d nearly lost his spirit those years in Philadelphia, before he’d run away to rejoin the “sons of the forest,” as the Quakers called them, only to become a scout interpreter for the British army instead.

  Averting his gaze from the burgeoning trunk, he went below and resumed studying his maps, preparing for the fort’s spies who would soon ride in and give the latest report.

  “Like this, lieverd,” Keturah said, taking a leather thong and stringing a shiny tubular bead the likes of which Tessa had never seen. “Wampum.” In her lap was a hill of purple and white shells that had been hidden in her medicine pouch, along with two fetching feathers.

  “Wam-pum.” The echoed word felt flat, even foolish, on Tessa’s tongue. Surely such pretty beads deserved a prettier name. But Keturah had again called her by the Old Dutch endearment. Such was cause for joy.

  “From the big water,” Keturah told her, clearly fulfilled by her task.

  “The sea?”

  Their eyes met, each of them grappling with new words. They sat on a quilt near the creek that shot through Swan land like a blue arrow, spared the sun by a sycamore’s shade. ’Twas the Sabbath, the quiet hours between their morning Bible reading and hymn singing and supper. Axe and anvil were idle. Jasper and Zadock had gone to the fort. Ma napped in the cabin, worn down by a summer fever. Lemuel sat beneath the barn’s eave, whittling. Ross was repairing a rifle near the well. No telling where Cyrus was. Her own rifle was primed and within reach.

  “Who taught you to do such fine beadwork?” Tessa asked. “Your Indian mother or sister?”

  “Chitkwësi.” Keturah’s fingers stilled. “No talk of the dead.”

  Was this Lenape custom? Tessa mumbled an apology, sorry for the flash of pain in Keturah’s face. Forehead furrowed, Keturah returned to her beading.

  Tessa’s fingers worked the wampum a bit hesitantly, even clumsily, slowly creating a passable design. The undertaking was more troublesome than she expected, maybe because her thoughts of late scattered like dandelion seed. How did fort folk spend the Sabbath?

  With no preacher to be had, there would be no preaching, just a quiet observance of the day while overmountain folks gathered to worship in a church, a structure she’d never seen. More miraculous still, some of these civilized places had bells and pointed spires called steeples. The mere thought lanced her with a peculiar longing. On the other hand, the wilderness surrounding her, the glory of creation, called for worship without walls every day of the week.

  No doubt Clay had seen a man-made church, even worshiped in one. Was he a God-fearing soul? He’d once commenced eating breakfast at the fort without saying grace, then bowed his head at their supper table. Troublesome to her at the time, it raised other questions that would possibly never have answers in light of his callous treatment of her.

  She sighed, spying an error in her second row of beads. Despite her keen concentration, her thoughts could not be corralled. How long had Clay lived among the Lenni Lenape, the True People, as Keturah called them? Forced west by the tide of settlers, scattered bands were now in the Ohio country, a place few whites had ever seen. Keturah had come from there, somewhere along the Muskingum River. Deep in the heart of Indian territory.

  Betimes Keturah still seemed to be there. Even now, though an arm’s length away, Tessa sensed she was still on the Muskingum in spirit, her beadwork returning her to places and people she could not talk about. Maybe she was even pondering Clay, the one person in the white world who understood her red ways. Despite his sudden coldness to Tessa, at least he was kind to Keturah. Had they crossed paths at some point prior to this?

  Tessa pondered their predicament, Jasper’s scowl ever before her. Just yesterday he’d come from the fort having served as spy, churlish and ravenous. “The militia’s set to muster again at week’s end. I plan on asking about the Braams, see if there’s any word from Keturah’s kin. The colonel’s posting in the eastern newspapers should relieve us of the burden of her care.”

  Keturah had continued setting the table while Tessa stabbed a skillet of venison collops at the hearth with a long-handled fork, wishing it was her brother instead. Jasper set her blood to boiling like never before.

  Ma regarded him with fevered eyes from her rocking chair in that way that bespoke she was still the head of the household no matter what her eldest son had to say. “And what makes you think she’s a burden?”

  “Feeding and lodging her. Letting Zadock get witless over her. She’s better off under Colonel Tygart’s charge at the fort.”

  “It’s not all give, understand,” Ma countered firmly if quietly. “She does her share of the work without complaint, and her wildcrafting serves us well. But all that aside, ’tis simple Christian charity to do as we’ve done, and I’ll abide no Indian haters in this house.”

  Tessa froze, fork suspended over the sputtering skillet. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Keturah had finished setting the table and seemed unaware of the testy exchange. Jasper strode out the door, heading to the woods, anger stiffening his stride.

  Later that day Zadock came in as she was drawing water at the well. He’d gone with Jasper to the fort hours earlier, whistling as he went. Now he faced her darkly, one eye blackened, a gash on his jaw, nose and cheek swelling. She went hot, then cold. Clearly, Zadock had gotten the brunt of the beating. Over Keturah, no doubt.

  “Jasper’s orneriness just backfired,” Tessa said, linking arms with him as they turned toward the cabin. “Keturah will see to what ails you.”

  Keturah waited on the cabin stoop, eyes on Zadock, a certain softness in her face Tessa hadn’t seen before. And so Keturah tended him, applying from her medicine pouch whatever remedies would mend his battered face.

  Jasper had not returned for supper, his empty place at table glaring but making Tessa glad. Nor had he returned this morn for the Sabbath. How could he stand before them and read from the Bible with hatred in his heart?

  Tessa pondered it now, praying for some spark, some sweet feeling to kindle on Keturah’s part. Zadock would make a good husband, his indiffere
nce to Keturah’s Indianness remarkable.

  Her pleasure in any pairings, her prayerful petition that they might soon celebrate a wedding, was blunted when Keturah said, “Soon go to fort.”

  “Soon, aye, when the militia musters.” Tessa slid another bead onto the string. Her girlish delight over muster days had turned to gall.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ma approaching. Her mother surveyed the woods surrounding the clearing as she walked, ever more wary since Pa’s passing. Never did they dodge the shadow that this day might also be their last.

  Ma settled on the old quilt beside them, admiring their beadwork, her lined face finally free of the flush of fever. A breeze stirred the loose strands of her silvered hair, once the inky gloss of Tessa’s own. “Come Friday we’ll be at the fort. Zadock says Hester’s after us to stay the night.”

  Tessa strung another bead. She couldn’t confess she feared folk’s reactions to Keturah. Ruth had already shown her disdain, as had other fort dwellers, Ross had whispered in warning. This she would spare Keturah if she could. “I say let’s keep to home and let the men muster.”

  Ma’s surprise was palpable in the beat of silence that followed. “You’ve not said such before, Daughter. Ruth and Hester will be sorely disappointed.”

  “We’ve a busy week ahead with salting that buffalo and making ticks for beds.”

  “Which is why a little merriment is in order. Besides, there’s to be a contest amongst the women this time, not just the usual wrestling and shooting matches of the men.”

  At this, both Tessa and Keturah looked up from their handwork.

  “A baking contest, of muster-day cakes,” Ma said.

  Partial to cake, Tessa felt a bit of her dander melt. “I’ve never heard of such.”

  “They muster so overmountain, Maddie told me. Muster cake sounds to me like gingerbread. Each woman bakes one and a judge decides which is best.”

  “Who’s to judge?” Tessa suspicioned it was none other than Clay Tygart himself. That prospect alone made her want to forsake her apron.

  “Maddie didn’t say, except that she’s craving cake. You even have nutmegs, a boon for baking. I misdoubt another settlement woman can say the same.”

  “What’s mine is yours. You use the nutmegs.” Extending an open hand, Tessa accepted more wampum from Keturah. “I’d rather bead than bake.”

  Ma chuckled. “But baking, not beadwork, is what’s called for.”

  “And the prize?” Tessa asked despite herself.

  “We’ll soon find out.” With that, Ma stood and returned to the cabin, closing the door on Tessa’s resistance.

  17

  Hands stained purple from the dying shed, nutmeg grater in her pocket, and an unwavering dread in her spirit, Tessa rode her mare, Blossom, into Fort Tygart at week’s end. She’d gladly give a day of her life to move Hester’s cabin as far away from the commander’s blockhouse as she could, even down by the nose-curling privy pits. As it was, she had to sashay past that open blockhouse door, concoct a muster-day cake, and try to stay atop her fractured feelings as the summer slid into July.

  If the man said but a few words to her at their last meeting, spared her nary a glance, and went on his way, what cause had she to care? Why did it feel like he’d horsewhipped her instead? Because of it she’d taken no pains with her person. No flounced petticoat. No fine cap and apron. Her careless braid hung to her hips.

  Out of sorts, she dismounted, taking care to stay near her brothers, who always made a great deal of commotion mostly because of their number. Hester’s door yawned open, but before she’d walked but a few feet in its direction, Ruth stopped her. Tessa regarded her friend without a smile, in no more of a mind to chat than she was to cross paths with the colonel.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tessa.” Ruth gave Keturah nary a greeting as she and Ma walked past.

  The slight turned Tessa tetchier. “Seems like you could call upon your Christian self to bestow a kind word to a former friend.”

  “Former, aye,” Ruth spat.

  A hasty retort sprang to mind, but Tessa set her jaw. She didn’t care to decipher the depths of Ruth’s dislike. The morning sun poked heated rays into her back as it scaled the east palisades, adding to her present angst. She longed to be free of Ruth as well as her linen stockings and heavy shoes, but being barefoot would unleash the full measure of Hester’s ire.

  Ruth looked at her askance, riveted to Tessa’s braid tied with a string of purple wampum. “You think it’s wise, the both of you wearing them beads?”

  “I don’t know why not.” Tessa itched to be on her way as well, not stand amid the bustling common like a block of wood. But Ruth’s grip on her arm stayed steadfast.

  “You entering the cake contest? Every woman within these walls aims to win.”

  “What’s the prize?” Tessa said as Ruth fell into step beside her.

  “It’s secret, part of the reason it’s all the buzzle. As for who’s judge, that’s hush-hush too.”

  They passed the magazine with its dwindling ammunition, then the garden nearing its riotous peak. Tessa glanced at the west blockhouse, her brothers just entering to mark their mustering.

  That terrible tightening coiled inside her, a low-spiritedness born of high hopes shot down. She listened to Ruth’s recitation of the latest settlement happenings, of birthings and grievances and maladies, of Indian sign along Cougar Creek, and of who had gone overmountain.

  “Well?” Hands on her hips, Ruth awaited Tessa’s own accounting.

  “I’m plumb out of words,” she replied, to Ruth’s disgust.

  Ever since they were small they’d chattered like magpies, mimicking their mothers. But today, nay. Absently fingering the nutmeg grater in her pocket, Tessa gave the sky a last look, wishing it would rain in the slim hope the festivities would be dashed. Yet why rob another’s sport with her sour mood?

  Without another word, Ruth strode away, spite stiffening her spine. Tessa entered Hester’s cabin, joining Ma and Keturah, the humid air already fragrant with gingerbread. Hester’s cake sat proudly on a tarnished pewter platter at the table’s center.

  “We can’t all of us be at the hearth at once,” Hester exclaimed, looking pleased with herself, her usually tidy apron bearing a spackle of grease.

  “Keturah’s brought some strawberry cakes,” Ma announced with a smile.

  Hester’s focus narrowed to the linen-wrapped offering in Keturah’s hands. “A dish as Indian as your beads, I reckon.”

  “Glad I am Keturah won’t be in the contest,” Tessa said, “as her baking might well trump ours.”

  They’d grown as fond of Keturah’s corncakes mixed with strawberries as her medicinal teas. Hester pinched off a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Tessa did the same, and soon only the berry-stained linen remained, leaving Keturah looking satisfied.

  “Best begin,” Ma announced, giving them ample time to remake a cake if a first one fell or succumbed to some other mishap. But even a failed cake would be devoured. Little was ever wasted.

  Summoning her nerve, Tessa set to work, glad Hester had already laid out supplies. Butter. Eggs. Sweetening. Flour. Mace. Cloves. Candied lemon and orange peel. There was a sweet sameness to baking that restored Tessa’s sagging spirits.

  By noon the entire fort common was overcome with spices as cabin after cabin turned out an abundance of muster-day cakes. Maddie was soon at their door, looking less wan than before. Had the herbs Keturah given her helped?

  “Feel almost sorry for the judges with so many sweets to sample,” Maddie jested as the women rounded the table to look at the three cooling cakes from every angle.

  Tessa had dusted hers with a sprinkle of hammered sugar and nutmeg, giving it a special polish. Ma had refused Tessa’s offer of nutmeg and Hester was not fond of the spice, so Tessa’s cake alone bore that touch. Next the women began the communal task of making the noon meal. With so many hands at the hearth, Tessa took a seat and snapped green beans by
the window.

  Near the flagpole stood all the able-bodied men from sixteen to sixty. Though Tessa tried not to dwell on him, Clay couldn’t be missed. His unusual height made a fine target. ’Twas a wonder he’d survived the wilderness and numerous forays for a decade or better. She’d heard tell he’d served with George Washington, who was widely known for his military bearing and physical prowess. That and their wits kept such men alive, surely.

  The men stood in neat rows, equal distance apart, as the colonel inspected their weapons in a blinding haze of sunlight. Free to study him unawares, she did so, another tendril of affection wrapping itself round her hungry heart.

  Clay vowed to pray for rain, or at least clouds, on future muster days. A coastal Philadelphia wind would be welcome this windless morn. No breeze stirred the earth they stood upon or dispelled the aroma of unwashed bodies and garments begging lye. As he passed in front of the Buckhannon militia, all in need of spring water and already craving their fair share of muster-day rum, he took solace in the heavily spiced air.

  One of his earliest—and rare—memories of his boyhood was of his mother at her hearth. She’d been tall and graceful and capable to a small, clumsy boy. He’d been her firstborn, his vision of her unclouded by other images and voices. Oddly, his fragile grasp of her was scented with what he thought was gingerbread, the lingering aroma so familiar, so fragrant, his eyes smarted from more than the sweat stinging his vision.

  He stepped sideways as he finished his inspection, to the very end of the last column, and came face-to-face with Zadock Swan. The sun’s glare highlighted every bruise and bump, rescuing Clay from his bittersweet memory.

  “Tussle with a panther in the woods?” he asked Zadock quietly.

  “Nay, sir. Kin.”

  “Your sister, mayhap?”

  A broad smile strained Zadock’s split lip. “Jasper.”

  Unsurprised, Clay examined Zadock’s rusted musket, a sad affair from the last war, woefully inaccurate and making a frightful amount of noise. It underscored his concern that there were more farmers than frontiersmen here, forced to carry weapons because of the ongoing hostilities. He far preferred the arrows of his youth. Unlike guns, arrows fired repeatedly and with deadly accuracy, the bows easily maintained and repaired. The tomahawk served well in a hand-to-hand tussle, yet few had them along the Buckhannon, most relying on skinning knives instead.