An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  He stared without focus at the list of colonial laws, allowing himself a look into the future. Why did he see it so clearly? A house of solid stone. Fencing around a colorful garden with Tessa at its heart. Around her, running and playing, were sons and daughters that bore both their features. Held captive by the scene, he shut his eyes, trying to picture himself there, somewhere.

  “Clay?”

  Tessa’s voice snatched him back to the present. He opened his eyes. She walked toward him, her smile encouraging. Cyrus hadn’t worsened then.

  “He’s awake and taking some of Hester’s tea. And he’s asking for blackberry pie.” She held up a basket. “Don’t want to take you away from your work, but if you could spare some time . . .”

  He reached for his powder horn and shot pouch in answer, unable to keep a smile from his own face. With the country calm, there’d be no reason to deny her even a half hour. The morning’s fair scouting report that had let the settlers loose surely extended to them.

  Bolt was glad to be free if only on a short jaunt, snorting softly and pawing the ground as they readied to ride out. Tessa sat behind Clay with her pail, their closeness an outright declaration. As they left, Maddie waved from her cabin doorway while a dozen other fort dwellers stared in brazen curiosity.

  For once the heat wasn’t oppressive, the noonday sun tucked behind cloud cover that stretched for miles. He felt no sense of danger, not only because fort spies spread out like spokes on a wheel in every direction. His own soul bespoke peace. For the first time in a long time, all the tension drained from his frame, the enjoyment of the moment foremost.

  The thicket they sought was still abundant, the berries spared the summer’s sun by a dense surround of white oak. Tessa stood within reach of a rich harvest, gleeful as a girl. He chuckled as she flew through her task, her lips soon stained a telling purple. Ever generous, she fed him the plumpest, juiciest berries. Bolt ignored them both, tearing rapturously at a patch of bluestem.

  “I prefer whortleberries to blackberries,” he told her as her basket filled, overcome by a vivid memory. “Baked into cornbread, they were a prize.”

  “Whortleberries, aye. I was fond of Keturah’s strawberry cakes.”

  Keturah and Heckewelder were never far from his thoughts. Had they safely reached the Tuscarawas? Already laid out their newest mission in pursuit of peace? He leaned back against an oak’s rough bark, mindful of all that was at stake. He was here to help bring about safety and peace in his own small way. Yet he was growing increasingly disheartened defending a cause he didn’t wholeheartedly believe in, pushing back the Indians till they lost not only their lands but a way of life. Unrelentingly, his part in their demise cut across his conscience whenever he gave orders in the blockhouse or scouted land that surveyors and settlers had grabbed and gouged with their implements, refusing to stop till they’d claimed every acre. The Indian in him hated such. The settler and officer in him saw it as a grim necessity. The spoils of war.

  But for now, a moment’s peace. Tessa. She glanced up as a sudden breeze teased the leaves overhead. Her throat was bare, and he kissed the hollow of her shoulder where her fichu had slipped slightly. She sighed, the sound content. His own heart was so overfull he couldn’t speak.

  “I wish I owned time and could slow it down, especially when you’re near me,” she said.

  “How about forsaking the Buckhannon for the Monongahela?”

  “I hear the Mon is a mighty big river.” She studied him, their noses almost touching. “Makes the Buckhannon look like a creek. Most fertile land west of the Alleghenies, Pa always said.”

  “A garden as big as your heart is set on, aye. As near paradise as I’ve ever seen in my rambles. Unless you’d rather live overmountain.”

  Her expression clouded. “I don’t know that in town is where you belong.”

  He didn’t know either. Emptying his mind of the notion, he breathed in the scent of a coming rain and called for Bolt. “We’d best hasten back. Mayhap one day soon we won’t have to.”

  Helping her into the saddle, he kissed her again. Already he was dreading her leaving and returning home. She was becoming as necessary to him as his daily bread.

  They returned to a fort no different than when they’d left, with just as many eyes on them. But his mind remained on the expansive Monongahela and what needed to be done to begin a life there. Or mayhap, in a wild flight of fancy, he would trade it all for town.

  Tessa showed her brimming berry bucket to a heavily bewhiskered Cyrus, who was awake now and being fed bone broth by Ruth. Hester was busy gossiping beneath her neighbor’s eave, the women’s spare frames clothed in dark homespun, their cackling reminiscent of crows. Setting out the ingredients she would need, Tessa began making the requested pie, her mind not at all on her task.

  All she recalled was Clay’s talk of the Monongahela. Were his thoughts sprinting hard ahead just as hers were, no longer content with a happenstance courtship, a chance meeting, but something more enduring? His wistful words cracked open the door to an altogether different life. A life lived without looking over one’s shoulder, Lord willing.

  “What are you smiling about, Sister?” Cyrus had finished eating, and Ruth took the empty bowl away. “More the colonel than your peck of berries, I’m thinking.”

  At Ruth’s chuckle, Tessa glanced up from the cookbook Clay had given her, a copy of The Complete Housewife Suitable for the Virginia Kitchen, printed in Williamsburg. She devoured it as much for the reading as the receipts.

  “And I’m thinking that pie’s more the colonel’s too,” Cyrus said with a wink at her continued silence.

  “Big enough for the both of you,” Tessa returned with a smile, pouring the berry filling into the rolled crust.

  Cyrus lay back and plowed a hand through lank hair, his boredom at being in bed apparent. Ruth went to fetch cards, giving Tessa an opportunity to whisper, “Seems like Ruth is sweet on you.”

  “She’s set her sights on me today.” His features grew ruddy. “I can’t speak for the morrow.”

  “I’d be pleased to have a brother married and gain a sister.”

  “So you’d feel better about running off with the colonel, I suppose.”

  “Amen,” she said, not caring who heard. But Clay was again in the blockhouse, hearing someone’s complaint over a stolen pig. The man’s voice rose in agitation as he recited a list of grievances against another settler.

  On the Monongahela their future shone brighter yet still held the mists of a winter’s morn. All she knew was that she’d gladly trade town for Clayton Tygart.

  27

  Cyrus found his feet within a fortnight, the sutures were removed, and then in a blink both he and Tessa returned to the Buckhannon, her fort tryst with Clay seeming a hazy dream. Ma was at the cabin to meet them, making Tessa believe for just a moment nothing had changed. But after a brief visit, Ma headed to Westfall’s again with a favorite kettle and other necessities, leaving Tessa the sole woman in charge of Swan Station.

  Her August days were unendingly busy now as she did the work of two women. At week’s end Ma helped share the burden of soap and candle making, half going to her new larder. A calm Sabbath unspooled, and they went to Westfall’s. Mention was made of Clay’s coming, but as the day wore on, no horse and rider materialized.

  Her spirits sank to her Sabbath-shined shoes with their tarnished brass buckles. Might he have had a change of heart about her? Though he’d left little doubt of late about his feelings, his cool regard of her in the past still made her skittish.

  By and by a low growl from Westfall’s hounds foretold someone’s coming. Tessa all but jumped up, having lost count of how many days it had been since she’d seen Clay. And now here he was, standing tall in Westfall’s doorway, welcomed by all. He smiled and said little, but the haggard lines of his face bespoke much. The latest dispatches from Fort Pitt foretold trouble, of raids on farms and on smaller stations to the north and south of them. The men discussed
matters in low, solemn tones while she and Ma prepared supper.

  “Seems like the raiders give Fort Tygart wide berth,” Ma said as she turned corncakes onto a platter. “Except for that one night you and your brothers were ambushed, or nearly so, coming into the fort following the Clendennins’ burial.”

  A shiver rode Tessa’s spine, more from the fate of the Clendennins than their own narrow escape. “Cyrus took the brunt of it but seems to be mending.”

  “What’s this I hear about him and Ruth?”

  Tessa set a bowl of applesauce on the linen-clad table. “He’s said nary a word to me about Ruth since we left the fort.”

  “Some grandchildren would be a fine thing.” Ma expelled a rare sigh. “This cabin’s a mite big for just us two.”

  Was Ma missing them? Tessa couldn’t imagine so light a load with just she and Westfall to do for. But despite Ma’s wish for grandchildren, she seemed content. The place held a dozen womanly touches, including the coverlets and trunk she’d brought from home.

  “And you and the colonel?” Ma’s green gaze speared Tessa. “You’re nigh as bad as Cyrus for keeping secrets.”

  “There’s little to tell, Ma.” She glanced toward the porch at the men. “But Clay’s right here. Surely that bodes well.”

  The men came in and sat about the unfamiliar table. Talk turned to mundane matters like the new irons Jasper was considering for a future gristmill and Westfall’s need for oxen. Beside her, Clay set his fork down again and again to answer questions of the latest news from Boston, of British troops firing into a crowd of people calling themselves Patriots who were protesting at the customs house.

  At meal’s end, Clay’s hand felt for hers beneath the table. ’Twas bliss to have the warm pressure of his fingers on hers, the reassuring heft of him on the bench beside her. Even the guns lined up along the log wall failed to hold the foreboding they usually did.

  Sabbath’s end brought a walk in the twilight through Westfall’s orchard, the fledgling apple trees reminding her of children in varying stages of growth, some thriving, some struggling. Though young, a few of the trees bore fruit. The bee skeps near the orchard hummed, promising honey in time. One bee danced around her, alighting on her shoulder.

  “English flies are what the Indians call them.” Clay flicked it away lest it sting. “You can tell white people are coming by the advance of the bees.”

  She pondered it, squeezing his hand. “I do prefer molasses over honey, and maple sugar over both.”

  “Sugar, aye.” Something came over his face she could only describe as wistful. He’d removed his hat as he always did in her company, a courtesy she found endearing, allowing her a better look at his tanned features. Though the Indians had left their mark, so had his genteel Quaker kin. “Used to be the spring hunt began after the sugar making. My last season with the Lenape was my most memorable. Many horse loads of skins.”

  “Were you more hunter or warrior?” She’d always wondered.

  “I preferred the hunt. Four bears in one day on that last hunt, three the next. That final stretch I brought in fifty-six deer.”

  “The Lenape relied on you for meat, then.”

  “We were always one step away from starvation.”

  “Your leaving would have gone hard on them.”

  “I recollect the lean winters all too well. How glad we were at the return of spring.”

  They were in the middle of the orchard now, hidden from view. Sunlight speared the turning leaves, yellow arrows all around them.

  She touched an apple, a Virginia crab, its pale, pebbly skin stained red. “These blossoms are showy in spring. Might make a good cider apple to have in your orchard someday.”

  “Our orchard, Tessa? Apples, peaches, cherries, pears. Mayhap a quince or two.”

  “You’ve given it some thought.”

  “And you?” He looked down at her, rifle in hand, and she tried to imagine him in their orchard with gun stored, buckskins traded for a simple linen shirt and stock and breeches, even buckled shoes. But he was so handsome as he was, she shuttered the thought.

  “’Tis time, at least in my heart,” she answered. “Time to do different. Time to look forward instead of over my shoulder. But I’ll leave the rest to you.”

  He nodded. “The more I think on it, the more I sense you need to bid the wilderness farewell. Live somewhere civilized.”

  “In town?” Her smile faded. “I’d likely shame you.”

  His face flashed surprise and an almost palpable hurt. “You think you’re something to hide, to keep in the back settlements?”

  “Town-bred women are different, Clay. Your Quaker kin might expect something more than what I am.”

  “You’re not marrying my Quaker kin. I’ll have you be no different than you are.”

  They’d not spoken the word marrying till now, though they’d danced around it. His reassurance she need not be some fan-waving, silken-clad belle sent a little tremor of relief through her. But she did aim to be better than she was, to master the finer graces, to make him proud. She swallowed the question begging to be said as he kissed her, scattering every other thought like garden seed.

  When?

  She sensed it wasn’t time yet for him, not the way it was for her. If he asked her to marry him tonight, she would. She’d give up the Swan homestead for good, let her brothers fend for themselves. Even as her heart raced on, her head reminded her there was no preacher or magistrate to be had.

  “Sister?” Jasper’s voice carried through the dense foliage of the orchard. “Needs be we head home.”

  Clay released her, and a decidedly bereft feeling overtook her. Forcing a smile, wishing for more tender words, more time, she moved toward the waiting horses. No telling when she’d see him again. There’d been talk of his returning to Fort Pitt for some sort of military gathering. But he vowed he’d not leave till reinforcements arrived first.

  Once mounted on Blossom, she turned back and saw Clay atop Bolt, eyes on her as she turned south, her brothers ringing her, rifles in arm. With a wrench of her head and her heart, she met his gaze a final time in silent farewell.

  For where thou art, there is the world itself . . . and where thou art not, desolation.

  Though learned in Quaker school years ago, he’d never felt the truth of Shakespeare’s line till now. Fort Tygart seemed hollow, lifeless, even weary. The pickets profoundly ugly. Lacking. Tessa seemed to be needed everywhere he looked, not on the Buckhannon where he couldn’t ensure her safety.

  He tripled the spies, sent them out in continuous batches, heard their reports, which included one skirmish at the smallest station upriver, and perused numerous dispatches from Fort Pitt. Privately he’d warned Jasper not to have Tessa at the ferry where there’d been repeated sign. Neither was he comfortable leaving her at the cabin with the men in the fields, but without reason to voice this other than he was in love with her and wanted her safe, he’d stayed silent. His unending prayer was for direction. Protection.

  “What’s this I hear about you spending the Sabbath with my great-niece?” Hester never failed to serve his supper with an inquisitive question or two.

  “Not only your great-niece but your five great-nephews and the new Mister and Mistress Westfall,” he said, sitting down to eat.

  “Humph.” Hester poked at the coals in the hearth. “I suppose courting in all that company slows one considerably. But I reckon you can’t marry her yet. Sometimes I’m sorry you’re not the sort to promise a preacher and just pretend you’re wed till then.”

  “Nay.” He forked a bite of catfish fried to perfection. “She deserves better.”

  “That she does, and don’t you forget it!” Hester straightened, a hand pressed to the small of her back as if it was ailing her. With her other hand she aimed the poker at him. “But I’d like to see her nuptials before I go to glory.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Clay answered, hoping he could indeed fulfill that final wish.

  Sh
e went out, shutting the door to the blockhouse firmly as if to allow him to ponder the matter more thoroughly without interruption. He’d considered sending to Fort Pitt for some official capable of marrying them according to colonial law. But with the frontier so hunkered down, he couldn’t put anyone at risk. Nor would he take her to Pitt, an unholy place to begin wedded life.

  He reached for the salt cellar and sprinkled his potatoes. All he wanted now was Tessa. Tessa opposite him at table, doing her handwork by the fire, reading to him in the firelight. Tessa right here, in whichever way he could have her. To talk to and laugh with. To welcome winter in together.

  All the little details about her drove him to distraction. The dark fall of her hair with its threads of red. The startling hue of her eyes with their forthright gaze. Her smile, a bit crooked, her mouth soft and dimpled. The way his hands spanned her waist . . .

  Lord, let it be.

  28

  The cloudless August day dawned with a sky so blue, the air so crisp, it bespoke the change of seasons. Tessa rose before first light, swinging the kettle on its crane over the ashes she’d banked carefully the night before. Breakfast was a blur of bowls and mugs and terse words as her brothers hurried to their tasks at field and ferry. Ma was never so missed as at peep of day. But she’d made peace with Ma’s going just as her brothers would make peace with her going in time.

  Six days had passed since she’d seen Clay. Would he ride in on the Sabbath like last week? Or would some fort matter keep him rooted? She filled a wash bucket with lye, scrubbed her brothers’ shirts clean, and set out her own Sabbath best. Draping the laundry across a near fence, she pondered what needed doing next.

  Taking the whetstone she’d gotten from the creek bed, she began sharpening knives, the sound rasping her nerves. Next she gathered the last of the greens from the garden, braiding the onions to hang from the rafters. For supper she’d make fried mush with maple sugar that Zadock had expressed a hankering for. Such required a rasher of bacon.