by Deeanne Gist
Back inside the cottage, she stood a moment adjusting to the relative darkness. Of all the shadows merging and materializing, it was Drew’s that first took shape.
He leaned against the wall, a pail dangling from his outstretched fingertips. “Since Grandma and Mary have the preparation of breakfast in order, you may go and milk the goat.”
Milk the goat! She gaped at him before blushing anew at her state of disrepair.
“You’ll end up having to do it for her, Drew,” Grandma said. ”I’ll attend to it for now and you can show her some morning when you’ve more time.”
Constance scanned the cottage. Where the devil was her clothing?
Setting down the pail, Drew walked to the wall behind her and plucked the skirt she’d worn last night off a peg. “Is this what you are in need of?”
She whirled around. Snatching it out of his hands, she held it up against her like a shield. He smiled. Sweet heavens, he had not one dimple, but two.
“Where is the bodice?” she asked.
His face flickered. “I fear it’s not of much use to you. Wear the skirt and chemise without it.”
She gasped. “‘Twould be indecent!”
“Not nearly as indecent,” he said, brow arching, “as if you tried to stuff yourself into that bodice again.”
Saints above, these ill-bred colonists would say anything. Even the grandmother’s presence did not temper their wagging tongues. “If you’ve but a length of cord, I can manage fine.”
He chuckled. “It’s not just a length of cord you’re needing but an entire bolt of cloth.”
Suppressing a groan, she dropped the issue and quickly searched for a place in which she could dress. Grandma and Mary bustled around the fire. Sally sat on the floor grinding meal with mortar and pestle. Did they do everything together in this primitive little room?
She turned back to Drew. “Be gone. I must dress.”
“Miss Constance, Lady of the Realm, have you still not grasped the essence of your position here? I am the master and you are the servant. When you would like to request something of me, I suggest you couch it in the sweetest of terms.”
“I am not a lady of the realm.”
“That is right. You are a servant. The sooner you accept that, the more pleasant you will find your lot in life here on my farm.”
“The devil’s dung in thy teeth.”
His smile vanished. “You will watch your language.”
“I will do as I please.”
“You will do as you are told or you will have no privileges.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Baths, food, and so forth are privileges awarded to those worthy of receiving them.”
She didn’t think so. Leaving one’s servants in filth and starving them was counterproductive. “Get out. I need to dress.”
He stepped forward and gently grabbed her chin. “Lesson number one: Ask with meekness and servitude.”
A pox on meekness and servitude. If he were a gentleman, she wouldn’t even have to ask. She kept her lips firmly sealed.
“Constance, you were bought and paid for. I have the receipt to prove it.”
She jerked her chin out of his hand. “You said you would send word to my father.”
“It will be at least six months until we hear back from your father.”
She gasped. “Six months?!”
“Six months. Until then, you are my possession.”
“Only in your own sluggish brain.”
“Dear girl, it is within my rights to marry you at any time. Once that happens, you will be bound to me forever under God--father or no father.”
She blanched. It had only been within the last few years that England allowed women a veto in matrimonial affairs. Had this current not penetrated the colonies? She wasn’t at all sure.
“Wish you to marry me?” he asked.
“I do not!”
“Then ask me to leave in a proper manner.”
In a pig’s eye, I will. Hugging the dress closer to her, she opened her mouth.
He gently placed his finger over her lips. “Think, girl, before you speak.”
His callused finger abraded her lips. She pushed the offending appendage away. “I wish you to go.”
“Phrase it with respect.”
Gritting her teeth, she impaled him with her stare. “Will you please do me the honor of leaving the cottage for a moment or two...” you wretched, poisonous, bunch-backed toad?
“Excellent.” Removing a worn but clean homespun dress from a peg on the wall, he handed it to her. “Josh should be back from the creek by now. You may follow the same path as last night for your cleansing in the water. Make sure you return before the breakfast bell is rung. There’s some soap on the shelf, there above the trunk.”
“What of the bucket and rag?”
“Hanging there, on that peg.”
Walking to the peg, she snatched up the bucket and rag. Off the shelf, she removed the soap and dropped the coarse yellowed block into the bucket. “A drying cloth?”
He retrieved a cloth from another peg.
“It’s wet.”
He nodded. “You have to rise early if you want first use of the drying cloth.”
First use? “May I slip on my old skirt before embarking on my excursion, O Great One?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You may.”
Zigzagging her gaze between him and the door, she waited. The dolt simply presented his back to her.
Setting her cloth, bucket, and fresh dress on the table, she slipped on the skirt. Drawing close, Mary silently placed a small wrapped bundle inside Constance’s bucket. The sweet aroma of fresh bread surrounded the girls.
Constance glanced quickly at Drew. His back was still turned. Grandma bent over the bed tightening its ropes. Sally watched the women with unabashed curiosity, while Constance and Mary shared a smile.
Scooping up the items on the table, Constance marched out of the cottage.
Standing ankle deep in the creek, Constance sluiced the bucket of water over her with an invigorating rush, then lathered her hair and body for the third time. She didn’t care if the crude soap stripped off her skin; she wanted no residue from that wretched ship left on her person.
She poured water down her body several more times, then stood with eyes closed, cataloging each part of herself. She felt a droplet of water slide down her neck, hit the upper swell of her breast, then plummet through the valley between. Placing her hands against her ribs, she grimaced at the ease with which she could delineate each one. Pressing her hands lower, she tested the flatness of her stomach, then stopped and circled around her hips and thighs. Yes, she’d lost a considerable amount of poundage, but she was clean. Blessedly clean.
Making her way to the bank, she retrieved her cloth from the bush and dried her face. She raised her chin, inviting the sun to wrap its rays around her, enveloping her with warmth.
Never had she bathed in the daylight hours, much less out in the open. After the dark confinement of the ship, it was precisely the catharsis she needed. Not only did it give her an unprecedented sense of freedom, but it made her feel as if she were sharing this Eden with God Almighty himself.
She smiled. The thought of bathing every day wasn’t nearly as daunting as it had been last night. With a satisfied sigh, she wrapped her hair up in the cloth and reached for the dress.
Unlike the dresses she was accustomed to, this homespun frock was_all one piece. The sleeved bodice had been sewn directly onto the skirt, and there was no chemise at all, nor was there need of one. She slipped it on, and though the crude material grated against her skin, never was she more appreciative of a gown._No matter that the sleeves hung below her hands or the hem drug on the ground. The cut of its bodice covered every inch of her while its cleanliness and open-air scent intoxicated her.
She wondered whose it was, then tenderly rolled up the sleeves and made a cursory effort at drying her abundance of hair.
It was a useless endeavor. She threw the cloth back over a nearby bush.
At the creek’s edge, she wrung out her wash cloth, watching the leftover suds butt up against the bank before scattering and eventually dissipating.
Finding a soft patch of fragrant grasses, she lay down, fanned out her curls, and studied this wilderness called America. A duck squawked at his companion and then dove beneath the water while a bird hovered above the surface, snatching the food away just as the duck reappeared.
She frowned. He should work for his own supper instead of stealing someone else’s. She quickly shied away from that thought, but not quickly enough. Not before it transformed for a fraction of a second into When have you ever worked for your own supper?
She hastily rolled onto one elbow and turned her attention to the land. A grand maple, shouldering back a prolific beech, craned its limbs over the creek at a gravity-defying angle. Flowers of all kinds and colors grew wild within the grove, their beauty rivaling many richly designed gardens and orchards back home.
Back home. Surely she’d be back home in less than six months. She sighed. Not so for Uncle Skelly. He would never make it home. Not subscribing to the king’s supremacy usually meant death. But because of Papa’s influence, Uncle Skelly’s sentence had been reduced to deportation. In the end, it hadn’t mattered.
Tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks. As a youngster in her aunt and uncle’s home, she had spent many a candle-lit evening advancing her prowess for mathematics under Uncle Skelly’s watchful eye. Only he had understood her insatiable zeal for numbers, for he was filled with a passion for numbers equal to her own. Or, at least, he had been. With big dreams and high hopes, he had seen to the editing of The Ladies’ Mathematical Diary every year.
She’d given Skelly an oath that she would maintain the publication until his return. But he wouldn’t be returning. If she did not go back, hundreds of submissions from mathematically talented women throughout Europe would go unanswered. She knew he’d never expect her to fulfill such a promise under the circumstances. Still, she wanted to carry out her obligation. In his honor. For his honor.
Swiping at her tears, she strengthened her resolve. As long as she had a breath in her body, she would not rest until those submissions were answered. She would use her gift for mathematics so Skelly’s dream and Diary lived on. No matter the cost, she would survive in this land until her father came for her. She must.
A squirrel scampered across the clearing just a stone’s throw from her feet, then froze. Scrutinizing her with his unblinking stare, he twitched his tail, then spun around and darted up a young oak. She turned her head, watching him leap from the oak to a larger, more mature tree.
The young oak drew back her gaze. Here was something new and strong that had survived in this land. It was about ten yards in height and had a wispy ivy plant clinging to its trunk. The plant looked nothing like English ivy but instead held dainty tear-shaped leaves.
She was fascinated with the regularity in which the twining plant encircled the column. If the oak’s diameter at the top was, say, six inches and at the bottom one foot and the ivy twisted around the tree so that each twist was approximately ten inches apart, what would the length of the ivy be?
She studied the tender tree and its delicate vine. A soft breeze rustled its leaves and prompted a bird to take wing. She must set a quill to the question as soon as she returned to the cottage.
Burrowing down into her grassy mattress, she unwrapped the unusual smelling bread Mary had slipped her. Taking a bite, she marveled at its taste and texture. She had become so accustomed to the hard, chalky biscuit-bread of the ship that she nearly bit her tongue, so easily did her teeth sink into the bread. And then, by heavens, she needn’t even chew, for it immediately melted.
Closing her eyes, she took great delight in the bread, in the sounds around her, and in the sweet smell of God’s green earth. As had been the pattern for most of her life during moments of such exquisite pleasure, numbers danced in her head.
She pictured the young oak and its vine twisting its way to the top. If the hypotenuse line that the ivy moves around in equals z, and x equals the distance from the vertex to the top of the first turn--The sound of the breakfast bell ringing across the countryside brought her back to the present. Finishing off the delectable bread, she stood, reached for both the drying towel and bucket, and headed back to the cottage.
Breakfast actually melted in his mouth. There wasn’t a thing wrong with Grandma’s cooking, but Mary’s? Saints above, Drew had never tasted mush this good before.
“So,” Grandma began, “are you going to tell me where Constance came from?”
Drew and Josh exchanged a glance. Here it comes. He’d managed to avoid Grandma thus far, but that brief respite was over. He wiped his mouth with the napkin tied around his neck. “I won her.”
Grandma whipped her head around. “Won?”
He grimaced. She was so sensitive about playing cards. He pushed his mush back and forth within the confines of the trencher he shared with Mary. Josh was going to be of no help. He and Mary ate with an unwarranted amount of concentration. Sally, sharing her trencher with Grandma, was oblivious. Constance had not yet returned from the creek.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Won, how?” she asked.
Keeping his eyes on the trencher, he took a bite of mush, chewed, and swallowed. “Playing one-and-thirty.”
Grandma set her spoon down with meticulous care. “I hope you are jesting.”
He shook his head from left to right. Grandma never wasted a moment of daylight. That she would stop eating in the midst of a meal did not bode well. Even Sally began to show an interest in the conversation.
Grandma dabbed at her mouth with her cloth. “What do you plan on doing with her?”
“I know not. She claims the captain kidnapped her.” He took a deep swallow of cider from his wooden noggin.“Says she’s the daughter of an earl.”
Grandma stilled. “What earl?”
“Greyhame or some such nonsense.”
“And?” she asked with lifted brows.
“And, I told her I’d send a missive to her father. So I’m bound by my word to keep her for the time being.”
“For the time being? England is in the midst of a civil war. Have you any notion how long it could take for a missive to catch up with the earl? He’ll be moving from one confrontation to another. Why, the girl could be here for a year or more.”
“What would you have me do, Grandma?”
“What skills has she?”
Slipping a finger inside the neck of his shirt, he adjusted his collar. “That remains to be seen.”
“She has no skills?”
He stiffened. “She stitches.”
“Every female stitches. What skills has she?”
Propping an elbow on the table, he rubbed his eyes. “She claims to have a talent for numbers.”
After a strained moment, he felt his ears and neck burn.
Grandma nodded. “You are being punished for dallying with the devil’s books.”
“Grandma,” he said with a sigh, “they are playing cards, not the devil’s books, and simply a form of amusement for me.”
“Pray tell me, are you amused now?” she asked, glowering at him.
He looked away. Constance walked in the door.
“Good morrow, everyone,” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it a glorious day? Your weather here is quite quaint.” She smiled as she hung her wet cloths on a peg.
Grandma untied her napkin. “I’m going to Nellie’s.”
Drew and Josh looked sharply at Grandma. “For a visit?” Drew asked. “You’re going to Nellie’s for a visit?”
“Where’s a wooden plate for me?” Constance asked, searching the shelves.
Grandma scooted off the bench. “I’m going to Nellie’s to stay.”
Pulling off his napkin, Drew stood. “You cannot. Who will train Mary? Who will watch Constance?”
“‘The Lord is known by the judgment which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands.’”
“Card playing is not wicked!” Drew insisted.
“Psalm 9:16,” she responded.
“I know which psalm it is. David was talking about battles and victories and enemies, not card playing.”
“‘Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight.’”
“By my faith, Grandma, you are testing me sorely. Now, sit down and stop this foolishness.”
Grandma took two steps forward. “You will watch your tongue, young man. I agreed to train Mary, not some useless woman you acquired by wicked means.”
She held up her hands, stopping his denial. “Nay. Talk no more. Nellie’s babe is due any day now. She has need of me, and from the looks of this morning’s fare, Mary requires no assistance. I am away.”
“Grandma, please.”
The tension was palpable, causing them all to jump at the pounding on the wooden door. “O’Connor? Come! We have need of your presence.”
Drew scowled at the door, then looked at Josh.
Shrugging, Josh rose from the table.
Outside, four of the settlement’s most influential men gathered. Drew had known them his entire life--all except for their leader, Theodore Hopkin. The governor, Sir William Berkeley, had left last month for a year’s excursion to England. The Crown had sent Hopkin as his temporary replacement.
Well, at least now Drew wouldn’t have to make a trip to the governor’s plantation. Constance could go ahead and have her audience with Hopkin while he was here.
A fifth man stood back and to the side. It was Jonathan Emmett, the man who’d lost Constance last night in their game of one-and-thirty.
Sparing barely a glance for him, Drew looked at the others. “Is there trouble?”
Governor Hopkin furrowed his bushy gray eyebrows. “Merely a concern or two. I’m sure you can put it to rights.”
Josh stepped out beside Drew. Sunlight streamed down on their secluded homestead. Oak, pine, hickory, and tulip trees towered behind the councilmen like mounted soldiers reinforcing their leaders. What Drew used to take comfort in beholding now cast a menacing shadow about them.
