by Deeanne Gist
And so it was with a smile that Constance began her dinner with Drew. As he made inroads into their food, though, she glanced at the fire and felt a pang of concern. There was no extra. When she looked back down, Drew’s spoon was upon the last scoop of carrots.
She slammed her spoon down, stole the carrots from him, and stuffed them into her mouth.
He looked at her in surprise. “Those were mine.”
She shook her head and swallowed them. “I had not even had one taste. Those were mine.”
He frowned a bit but said no more, turning his attention to the meat. Again, he inhaled it, giving her little chance to do more than chew and swallow one bite to his four.
Looking to the window, she pointed and gasped. As soon as he turned his head, she snatched up the remainder of the meat, stuffing the whole of it into her mouth. He turned back to her, his eyes widening. “Constance! That was the last of the meat.”
“I know,” she managed around her mouthful.
He reached for the bread. She got to it first, tore it in two, and handed him half. After what could only be called a warning glare, he dipped his bread into the gravy, slopping up a goodly portion of it. She chewed faster but could only watch as the gravy and the greens began to disappear.
Shouldering him back some, she blocked his way and swallowed what was in her mouth so as to partake of some greens.
“Constance, what has gotten into you?”
She ate three spoonfuls before answering. “You do this every single meal. You eat twice as much as I do, leaving me next to nothing.”
“I’m twice your size. It’s only right I have the most. Now, scoot over and share the greens.”
She hovered over the plate. “I’m fair to starving tonight. I’ll only eat my share. You may have your half when I’m done. And no more gravy for you either.”
“Constance, this is ridiculous. I’m still hungry and I want some greens.”
“You’ll have some greens, just as soon as I’m finished.”
“I’ll have some greens now.”
She hugged the trencher to her, shoveling her share into her mouth. Placing his hands on her waist, he moved her to the opposite end of the bench, wrenched the trencher from her, and placed his back to her while eating what was left of the greens.
A good deal of her hunger had been appeased now, but the gravy was quite tasty and she only wanted her half of it.
She came up behind him and reached over his shoulder to dip her bread into the gravy. He snatched away her bread. She gasped. “Give that back!”
“Not likely. You ate all the meat, most of the greens, and the last bite of carrots. Your meal is over.”
“I didn’t eat all the meat. I ate only my share and that’s my half of the bread. Now give over.”
Slopping it in the gravy, he took a huge bite. Hunger had nothing to do with it now. She’d been a fairly good sport about her whole predicament. She’d tried her hand at cooking, she’d done her share of cleaning, she’d milked that wretched goat, and she’d even planned to face down Mr. Meanie alone. To top it off, she’d offered to stay and had that offer thrown back in her face. The very least he could do was let her have her portion of the meals.
She yanked at his arm with no success and then reevaluated her position. In order to eat that bread, he’d have to bring it to his mouth. And when he did, she’d grab it. She ceased to interfere yet stayed behind him, waiting to strike. And strike she did, but he anticipated her and blocked her move with his shoulders.
In desperation, she grabbed his elbows and jerked back, keeping the bread from reaching his mouth.
How they ended up wrestling on the floor, she wasn’t quite sure. But there was really no contest. He not only had her pinned, but he still held the roll out far beyond her reach.
He didn’t even attempt to hide his amusement. “No more naps for you. I think I prefer to share my trencher with you when you’re a bit more tired.”
She squirmed and writhed beneath him in an effort to get away. Then, wonder of wonders, that smug expression on his face transformed into what could only be tagged desire.
So she hadn’t imagined it, after all? No, if the quickening of his breath and the tensing of his body were any indication, the man definitely desired her, but that yearning would go unrequited because she was educated and therefore unacceptable. Well, since he’d been so absolute in the making of his bed, she’d ensure the lying in it would be uncomfortable in the extreme for him.
Ever so slowly, she skimmed her nails up the length of his torso until her palms rested against his chest. “I’m still hungry, Drew,” she whispered.
His gaze fell to her lips. She moistened them. He jumped to his feet, tossed her the bread, and made a hasty retreat from the cottage.
She closed her eyes, praying for God to grant her wisdom. It was then Sally jumped on her.
“Sissy, you’re lots more fun than Gamma!”
Good heavens. She’d forgotten all about Sally and Mary. Opening her eyes, she sat up and put a calming arm around Sally. Mary had made herself right busy at the fireplace.
Sighing, she kissed Sally’s head. “To bed with you, my girl. I’ll be up in a moment to tuck you in.”
Constance watched her make her way up the ladder before standing. That entire episode had done much for her self-esteem, and she now had no need to cover her head in shame at her attempt to set their marriage aright. Certainly she was annoyed with him, but at least she hadn’t imagined an attraction that wasn’t there.
Moving to the table, she mopped up the last of the gravy, slowly chewed her bread, and hoped to heaven her own bed wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drew hurled the broken treenail across the yard. He should have finished making this cursed chair hours ago and yet here he sat, still trying to drive wooden pins through the last two joints. Now he only had one treenail left. If he broke this one, he’d be making two more.
He picked up the gimlet and checked the hole he’d bored through the joints. It was all her fault. Thanks to her, he needed a chair, for he would not share one more trencher with that shrew. Not after last night.
He sighed. He’d been doing so well, had almost conquered his traitorous thoughts. Setting down the gimlet, he worked the treenail into the hole.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was doing it a’purpose. I’m still hungry, Drew. Hungry? What folly. She was foxing him, trying to lead him astray. Well, no more. No more would he leave this to chance. He was going to remove every last opportunity she might have for such mischief, beginning with the sharing of trenchers.
Picking up the hammer, he gently drove the treenail the rest of the way through. Many a master in the colony had a chair, and now he would as well. He would sit at the head of his board in his own chair, eating out of his own trencher. If it meant she had more to wash, then so be it.
And that was another thing. No more would he carry her dishes to the creek and help her clean them like some smitten half-wit. No, the tobacco looked ready to chop and cure. He’d have plenty to keep him busy there, and he’d also have Thomas and Samuel begin the brickmaking. It was time to get started on the house.
The treenail went through, thank God. Picking up a small block of timber, he began the arduous procedure of carving one more wooden pin. At least he hoped it was just one more.
She chewed. The fish held no taste for her, and swallowing became more and more difficult. There was plenty of it, though. Her trencher was fair to brimming with food. She sighed, forced another swallow, and took another bite.
When he’d brought in his chair she’d been quite impressed. He’d made the thing within a day’s time and it was beautiful. It might not have all the spindles, cushions, and elaborate carvings as those back home, but it was handsome just the same. He’d come in without a word, set his thronelike chair against the wall, and turned and left. Sally had been mesmerized, touching it, crawling beneath it, and finally asking if
she might sit in it “real quick.”
Constance hadn’t been much better. She’d stroked it too, surprised to find it so smooth. A simple carving of several large broad leaves fanned across the upper back and along the arms. She traced the leaves with her fingers, knowing his had been there first.
Never did it occur to her he’d made it so he would no longer have to sit by her. Imagine. Going through all that. The fish threatened to stick in her throat. She took a swallow of cider.
Breaking off another bite, she thought back to how she used to scoff at her friends, thinking them silly and feeble-minded to snivel and cry over what they claimed was a broken heart. She’d never dreamed of expending such emotions on a man.
Yet here she sat, barely able to eat, wishing she had the luxury of succumbing to such sentimentality. She stole a peek at Drew. He didn’t seem to have any problem eating his supper. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying his meal with great relish.
It made no sense. She knew he desired her as a man desires a woman. She might not have been so sure if she hadn’t endured that longing herself. But having experienced the feeling, she could certainly recognize it in him.
Yet he’d refused her. And all because she was educated. She frowned. Then why had he not only encouraged her mathematical games but actually participated in them? She shook her head. Something just wasn’t right. She glanced at him again. Perhaps she’d confront him tonight at the creek.
The next bite was a bit easier to swallow. Yes, they were due to compare solutions to his puzzle tonight. Kneeling at the creek side-by-side would be the perfect opportunity to bring the subject up. Perhaps, just perhaps, she ought to tell him of her feelings then as well. What did she have to lose? He’d already rejected her. The worst he could do would be to reject her again, and that was no different from what he was doing now. And there was, of course, the possibility he would change his mind. Hadn’t Uncle Skelly always said there was nothing more attractive to a man than a woman in love?
With a sigh of relief, she finished the meal, if not enjoying it exactly, at least no longer choking on it.
Anxious to be alone with him, she wasted no time in dumping the trenchers and cooking utensils into the pots for carrying to the creek. Drew went to the fireplace, as usual, to light his pipe, then walked to his chair. But instead of setting it back against the wall, he placed it in front of the hearth and sat down.
She frowned. “Drew? Are we not going to the creek?”
Stretching his legs in front of him, he blew a stream of smoke into the air. “I think you’ve grasped the way of it now and no longer need my assistance. You may proceed without me.”
A deep gripping pain seized her chest. He couldn’t mean that. “I’ll be happy to clean them, Drew, but won’t you please help carry them for me?”
He stayed silent so long, she feared he might not answer. Surely he wouldn’t make her voice the request again. Finally, he folded his hands against his chest and looked down at them. “I think not, Constance.”
So soft were his words, she barely heard them. But the effect they had on her could not have been any stronger had he shouted them. Her throat closed and she barely had time to pick up the pots and exit the cottage before all saw the tears quickly filling her eyes.
Stumbling down the path, she allowed her tears to fall freely. How naïve she’d been to think a second rejection would be no worse than the first. Thankfully she hadn’t proclaimed her feelings for him like some pitiful peagoose.
At the edge of the creek, she dropped the pots to the ground, her arms stinging. Sinking to her knees, she blindly reached for the dishes, scrubbing them with vigor one after the other until finally she doubled over and allowed the deep sobs to come forth, racking her body.
The embers in the fireplace had dwindled down to a dull glow, and his now cold pipe lay drying against the hearth. Mary and Sally had long since retired and still she was not back. Anchoring his elbows on his knees, he propped his chin against fisted hands. Where was she? Surely it didn’t take her this long in the mornings and the afternoons to cleanse the dishes.
Might she be trying to do mathematics in the dirt by the creek? Nay, it was much too dark, yet it was plain she’d been upset and he knew the math somehow soothed her.
He glanced at the chest. The diary was in there. She referred to it often, but he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. Certainly, he’d flipped through it that first night she’d arrived, but he hadn’t given it much thought since. Of a sudden, he could think of nothing else. Well, almost nothing else.
He leaned his head into his hands. She’d said she wanted to edit it because her uncle couldn’t. It needed editing? He looked again at the chest. Oh, fie for shame. Standing, he strode to it and threw it open. There the pamphlet lay. Right on top. If it hadn’t been so easily accessible, he might have talked himself out of digging through the chest in the dark. As it was, he saw its outline, clearly delineated in the shadows.
Picking it up, he returned to the fireplace, stoked the fire a bit, and sat down on the hearth. The compact volume of some twenty leaves lay squarely in his palm, just the size to tuck away in a lady’s reticule. The Ladies’ Mathematical Diary blazed across the cover in fancy gold letters beneath which was written A Woman’s Almanac Adapted for the Use and Diversion of the Fair-Sex. Opening it, he took a much longer look at the booklet.
It appeared to be an annual publication, initially giving solutions to last year’s puzzles, each answer accredited to a woman. He rolled his eyes as he noted one answer set to verse.
When EIGHT fair shepherdesses to your view,
Were altogether met beholding you,
Who came to see their harmless flocks of sheep,
Which daily they did on the common keep;
The number just ONE HUNDRED, TWENTY-EIGHT,
On which they did so diligently wait.
Which numbers both do very well agree:
The question’s solved as you may plainly see.
The second half of the journal had about fifteen questions, all equally absurd. Still, he found himself wondering which was greater-three solid inches or three inches solid.
The last leaf posted the residence of one Skelly Torrence Morrow, to whom subscribers could send their solutions. The first women to submit correct answers would have their names published in next year’s almanac.
He looked through it one more time and almost passed over the preface again before Morrow’s signature at the bottom caught his attention. It was a lengthy address stating the English lady mathematician was of high distinction both at home and abroad. Further down, he encouraged the fair sex to attempt mathematics and philosophical knowledge once they saw here that their sex had “as clear judgments, as sprightly quick wit, as penetrating genius and as discerning and sagacious facilities as their male counterparts.”
What a great bunch of tripe. Nevertheless, Drew found himself finishing Morrow’s discourse, wherein the man admitted to having seen women cipher and was fully convinced the works in the diary were solved by members of the fair sex. He concluded by relating “all should glory in this as the learned men of his nation and foreign nations would be amazed were he to show them no less than four or five hundred letters from so many several women with solutions geometrical, arithmetical, algebraical, astronomical and philosophical.”
Four or five hundred? The man was daft. Drew drug a hand down his face. This was Constance’s uncle? The man she held in such high esteem? The man whose footsteps she wanted to follow? No wonder her head was so cluttered.
A distant clank of a pot signaled her approach. He bolted to the chest, tossed the book inside, and made it to the bed just before she entered.
He watched her from beneath half-closed lids, then held himself still when she stopped mere feet away, staring at him. He couldn’t see her face, but when she finally moved to put the dishes away, her steps were heavy, her shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes against her, convincing himself she was tired. After she sett
led onto her pallet on the other side of the room, a great deal of his tension eased. He was glad she’d made it home, tired or otherwise.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The days grew shorter, the nights grew cooler, and Constance grew lonelier. The magnificent reds, oranges, and yellows of October had come and gone, yet she hadn’t reveled in their glory, nor did she take any particular notice to the suggestion of winter just around the corner. She merely went about her duties, performing no more and no less than what was expected of her. Even Mr. Meanie ceased to draw her out.
The morning after the rejection, as she secretly referred to it, she had marched into the chicken coop, strode directly to Mr. Meanie, and said, “Do your worst.”
The contemptible creature did nothing, so she sang, adding a jump and a jig to each verse for good measure.
Here’s to the man with a heart made of coal;
Now to him who refuses to marry;
Here’s to the husband who hasn’t a soul,
And now to the man that is hairy:
Let the toast pass,
Break the long fast
I’ll warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Mr. Meanie charged. With a swipe of her hand, she snagged his legs and held him upside down, giving him the biggest dressing-down of his life. Since then, Mr. Meanie had kept his distance.
Drew had kept his distance as well. In the past four months, he and the men had cut all the tobacco, impaling their stalks onto slender sticks that they hung head down across beams in the ventilated tobacco barns to wilt and cure.
Her shoulders slumped. Those months had certainly taken their toll on the indentured men. Seven had been struck infirm; two did not survive. Still, time marched forward, and the surviving servants carried on.
The curing would last through winter, allowing most Virginia farmers to have a few months rest. Not so on the O’Connor farm. The men worked from dawn to dusk on the big house, Drew at their side. He would leave before Constance awoke, only to return well after she’d retired. Mary made sure the men were well fed, faithfully carrying their midday meal up to the building site.
