by Deeanne Gist
Straightening, he winked at her as she plucked a berry from the cluster. “I hereby start a new tradition, Granny,” he proclaimed in a voice that reached every person present. “I say the winner claims one kiss and one kiss alone, then hangs the mistletoe above the meetinghouse entry, giving all a sporting chance.”
The single and married men alike roared their approval, and Granny Apperson held up her hands for silence before announcing, “Let it be so!”
Drew held Constance still, allowing the revelers to swarm past them as they followed Josh back to church.
Emmett sauntered by, his gun resting against his bony shoulder. “Too bad yer not feeling well, Mistress, or you might have been able to catch me under the mistletoe and seen just what could’ve been yers had yer husband not cheated me out of yer hand in matrimony.”
She felt Drew tense, but before he could respond, his grandmother approached. “Run along, Emmett,” she said, “for he who envies admits his inferiority.”
Drew quirked a brow. “You’ll have to speak more plainly, Grandma. Inferiority is too long a word for Emmett here to grasp.”
“You hush up too, Drew, and get your woman home.” Grandma gave Emmett a push, prompting him to proceed forward. When he and Grandma moved around the bend, Drew nuzzled the top of Constance’s head. “Are you all right?”
She rested her cheek against his chest. “I am fordone. I want to go home.”
I want to go home.
How prophetic had that statement been? Drew thought. Had she meant England? No, of course not. She’d meant the cottage, but still, that wasn’t her real home.
He hammered a head onto the barrel of tobacco, effectively sealing it. Home for her was something he couldn’t begin to reproduce. Even if he built some huge manor house, it would be for naught. The manors in London were made for entertaining, and no one “entertained” here. There were no dances, no balls, no teas. There wasn’t even a city.
Lifting one shoulder, he wiped his brow against it, then continued hammering. If only he hadn’t gambled that long ago summer night. But then, Emmett would have her.
If only he hadn’t married her. But he’d had no choice.
If only he hadn’t loved her, bedded her. But he did and had.
The only thing to be done now was to send her back, for she was as misplaced here as a rainbow trout in a school of gasper goo. Jamestown was nothing more than a harbor for their tobacco trade. They had no theater, no roads. They didn’t even have horses.
He shoved the hogshead onto its side, then rolled it to the barn. She didn’t belong here. It had all become so clear on Christmas. And ever since, nothing had been the same.
She’d slept almost solid for those first few days after the celebration, and he’d begun to grow concerned. But she’d evidently just been taxed. Once she caught up on her rest, she’d immersed herself in the running of the cottage like never before, starting with that ludicrous sneezeweed she and Sally had draped across the bedposts.
What worried him, though, was how she insisted on cooking the meals. It had caused some tension heretofore absent from the cottage, for Mary, of course, resisted relinquishing her duties to her mistress, but Connie insisted. And once Connie dug in her heels, Mary hadn’t a prayer.
With assistance from Isaac, Drew heaved the barrel up on its end, wedging it next to other hogsheads lining the outside of the barn. Only a few more to go and his shipment would be ready to roll down to the public warehouse near the wharf.
He watched Isaac move back to the tobacco press. It wasn’t just the cooking either. For some reason, Connie had decided to launch into all kinds of domestic projects. She’d tried to make candles out of the old bayberries she and Sally had picked last fall, but not only were there not enough berries, but neither could she get the temperature of the fire quite right. At first, the candles came out lumpy, so she added fuel to the fire. Then the paraffin became so hot it melted the already deposited wax right off the candles she was re-dipping. She ended up with a huge mess, a bunch of wasted wicks, and about four questionable-looking candles instead of thirty. The yard sure smelled good, though.
Drew returned his attention to the task at hand. Pulling the knife from his scabbard, he carved the O’Connor identity mark and the grade of tobacco into the barrel’s side. Connie’s attempt at soap-making hadn’t gone much better. She’d managed to drip the lye all right, but when it came time to mix it with lard, she’d used the leftover candle wax instead, got the proportions wrong, and could never get it to harden. The yard smelled good that day too.
He moved to the next hogshead and reached inside to break off a piece from the top leaf, testing for quality. The thing to do was to let her go back to England. Right now she was young, and this domestic role of hers was new. But she’d grow older and wiser, and the newness would wear off. And that was the crux of the whole problem.
When that happened, she’d compare the life she could have had in London to the life she had in the colonies. It wouldn’t measure up. He wouldn’t measure up. He needed to send her back.
He could never marry again, of course, but what was that compared to this torture of knowing his wife was miserable?
Satisfied that the grade and quality were good, he picked up a new head for sealing the barrel. Yes. He’d send her back as soon as the next ship came through. It was the decent thing to do. The responsible thing to do. Weariness engulfed his body in tides. It was the only thing to do.
He hammered the head’s rim. Meanwhile, he’d have to address her endless questions about the tobacco seedlings. He’d planted his close to Halfway Creek in a patch of sunny new ground with a southeastern exposure. He’d covered his seedbed with oak leaves and straw, then laid oak boughs on top for protection. Now that the weather was mellowing and the frosts appeared to be gone, he’d planned to remove the debris and expose his tender plants so they could grow strong and large enough to be transplanted come May.
He couldn’t possibly tell Connie of his precious seedbed. She’d insist on helping and ruin it for sure. And if anything happened to those plants, there would be no crop and he’d be in great trouble.
He lifted up his hat, then resettled it on his head. He still had some seeds left, though. Every planter worth his salt saved many more seeds than he needed in case some were lost or mildewed or didn’t sprout. Mayhap he could collect some of those extras and make a flatbed for her to keep in the house. If she killed those, no harm would be done. If she didn’t, he’d take her out to the fields come May and show her how to plant them in little mounds.
He stopped, disgusted with himself. What rubbish. He would have no earl’s daughter working in his fields. She wouldn’t even be here come May. The ship with his furniture was due in a few more weeks, and he’d see that she sailed back to England aboard it.
He again swung the hammer down onto the barrel, catching the tip of his finger. Cursing, he yanked back his hand, then hurled the hammer across the yard. Josh and the men paused, then continued with their packing.
With his finger throbbing, his teeth grinding, and his heart breaking, he pulled his hat low and strode after the hammer.
Constance aroused herself from the melancholy that weighed her down. Drew had insisted she tutor Sally, even though she now knew how ridiculous that pursuit was. The child would be much better off hanging on to Mary’s skirts and learning of what really mattered. Drew had been adamant, though, so here she and Sally sat at the table.
The child was, as usual, quick and eager to please. They’d concluded their reading lesson and now practiced rules for behavior at the table.
With a spoon, Sally scooped some imaginary food from her empty trencher ever so slowly. “Eat not with greedy bee-haver.” She sipped from the very tip of the spoon.
Constance gave a slight shake of her head. “Make not a noise with your tongue, mouth, lips, or breath in your eating.”
Sally scooped up more invisible victuals, stretching her mouth wide in order to poke the spoon i
nside without making any noise.
“Very good. Now watch me.” Constance demonstrated with her spoon, stretching her lips like Sally had. Sally clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling.
“What do you find amusing?”
“You open too much.”
Constance smiled. “Do I? Please show me how to correct it.”
Sally demonstrated, this time placing the spoon in her mouth with decorum and without noise. And so the morning went as they practiced breaking imaginary bread instead of biting it, sloping the knife instead of holding it upright, and drinking to the health of Sally’s elders.
As she watched the child’s efforts, tears threatened at the back of Constance’s eyes, and a nauseating sinking despair overcame her. She’d decided she must go back to England, just as soon as the next ship arrived. It wasn’t what she wanted to do but what she had to do. Drew had all but told her outright he no longer wanted her for wife. Why, he’d completely withdrawn his affection after Christmas.
What a disaster that day had turned out to be. She’d left the cottage with hopes high and outlook bright, only to have her expectations dashed time after time throughout that fateful celebration.
Her many inadequacies had become glaringly apparent, but exactly which of those had caused Drew to retreat from her so completely she did not know. Up to then, he’d loved her. He had.
Was it that pox-smitten dress? Her ignorance of their customs? Her physical weakness--which prompted the whole chair-sled mess?
Whatever it was, it was major.
At first, she’d thought to soothe his fears by showing him she could be a good colonial wife. Yet the harder she tried, the more obvious it became that she didn’t belong.
And worse, he didn’t even want her to perform those wifely duties for him. He wanted Mary to. Mary, who should have been his wife in the first place. Or Leah. Now there was an appalling discovery.
She swallowed. All this time and never had he mentioned his long lost love. He wouldn’t even speak of her now. When Constance had questioned him, he’d only said, “It’s done and no longer an issue.”
No longer an issue! Why, Leah was not some tobacco bride he’d bought on a whim. Oh no. Leah was a young woman he had met, fallen in love with, and brought home--clear from England. Nellie had told her so.
What a fool she’d been. She should have accepted the first marriage contract her father had ever presented her with. Only now, after it was too late, did she finally realize why brides were left out of such negotiations. Because they had no idea what was best for them.
Constance reached over, tucking a stray curl into Sally’s cap. What a pair she and Sally made, both wanting to make daisy chains from a field that no longer produced them. Her daisy chains, though, were of becoming the perfect colonial wife for Drew while editing the Ladies’ Mathematical Diary for Europe.
What ignorance. What arrogance. And not only the “perfect colonial wife” part. What made her think she could edit the Ladies’ Diary, especially from here? And what made her think the world would stop spinning simply because the Diary quit publication? Why, for all she knew, Aunt Katherine had already returned this year’s submissions, disclosing to all that the Diary was no more. And even if she had not, Drew would most likely have forbidden it.
“Look not earn-ist-lee at any other that is eating.”
Constance blinked.
Sally looked at her expectantly.
“Your pardon.” Kissing the top of the child’s head, cap and all, she gathered up the trencher, noggin, and spoons. “All done for today. Let us pray.”
As soon as the prayer was over, Sally shot out the door to enjoy the springtime sun finally beginning to warm the land. Soon, new life would burst all around them.
Constance stacked the utensils on the shelf. Spring wouldn’t bring new life to her, though. The new life she sought here in the colonies was not to be had. At least not for her.
She watched him cradle the handkerchief as if it held hundreds of precious gems instead of tiny seeds. “Would you like to help me start a seedbed for my next tobacco crop?” he asked.
She pulled her gaze away from his hands--callused yet gentle, loving, wonderful. “I thought you were supposed to have started one already.”
“You don’t have to help. I merely thought...”
They were alone in the cabin. He had come home in the midst of the day, an unusual occurrence. Mary had wasted no time in taking Sally outside to feed the chickens.
“No, I want to help. What do I do?”
“Hold out your hands.”
She cupped her hands as he gingerly transferred the cloth. Their fingers connected and a shiver of longing spread through her. The seeds blurred.
God help her, she would not cry. Not again. She’d done enough of that to last her a lifetime. She rapidly blinked back her tears.
Placing one hand beneath hers, he removed some seeds from the cloth she held. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed, relishing the feel of his touch.
“Before sowing, you test the seeds by throwing a few into the fire. If they sparkle like gunpowder, they’re good and should produce.”
She gave him a curt nod, keeping her head carefully bent. He removed his hand, then tossed his seeds into the fire. They immediately popped, shooting sparks outward.
She looked up, surprised to find his eyes not on the fire but on her, an odd heaviness and a twinge of pain seeming to lurk in their depths.
She closed her fingers over the handkerchief, nestling its contents within her grasp and pressing it against her waist. “The seeds are good.”
“Yes. Mix a fair amount of them with some ashes and we’ll sow them.”
“Show me.”
He retrieved an earthen jar and filled it with soot. “Put some in here,” he said, holding it out for her.
She carefully siphoned a number of seeds into the jar, then laid the handkerchief on the table.
“Good. Now stir it.”
Allowing him to retain hold of the jar, she sunk her finger into the mixture and slowly whirled it around. And around. And around.
She needed to go ahead and tell him. Tell him of her decision to spare him from any more of her bumbling ways. Tell him of her decision to release him from any misplaced responsibility he might have for her. Tell him of her decision to leave.
“Why are you crying, Connie?” he whispered.
She jumped back, wiping her finger against her apron. “I’m not.”
It was a foolish statement, of course, for even now, she felt fresh tears fall from her eyes.
“You don’t have to help me with the tobacco. I thought you wanted to. I mean, you had asked, and...”
She swallowed. “I very much want to care for your seedlings. I know not what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been such a watering pot in all my life.”
“Are you in pain?”
Not like you mean, but yes. Oh, yes. My heart is rending in two. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
Tell him. A frenzied desperation infiltrated her body. No. She didn’t want to leave. What she really wanted was to stay. Stay and be his wife. And maybe an editor on the side?
What would he do if she voiced such a thing? What would he say? She searched his eyes. What if he said yes? She felt her throat closing up.
But he wouldn’t. He’d say no. “Why have you not taken me to the big house, Drew?”
After a moment, he diverted his gaze, the tension within him palpable. Then, as clearly as if someone had lifted blinders from her, she saw. Saw what she’d been oblivious to all along.
Her decision to leave or not to leave was inconsequential, for clearly Drew had already made up his mind. He was going to send her back, and she had no say in the matter whatsoever.
Her cheeks burned. And here she thought she was being so noble, so sacrificial. Yet all the while, he’d intended to send her back regardless.
An internal roaring resounded in her ears. “Don’t answer that.�
�� She turned and found a shallow wooden crate. “Is this what we plant the seeds in?”
He hadn’t moved, but his focus had now honed in on her.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Drew. Forget I spoke. Is this for the tobacco?”
After another long pause, he set the jar down on the hearth. “We need to talk.”
Her composure slipped a notch. “No we don’t. Everything’s fine, truly. Come. Let’s plant the tobacco. You get the crate, I’ll get the seeds.”
She hustled forward and reached for the jar, only to be halted by a gentle grip on her wrist. “We tried, Connie, we did. But we both know...it simply isn’t going to work.”
No. Not yet. She wasn’t ready. She needed more time! She broke free from his grasp, picked up the jar, and plopped down onto the hearth. Swishing the ashes inside with her finger, she dug a small hole. “How much dirt is there in a hole the dimensions of which are an inch, do you suppose?”
He squatted down beside her, his knees cracking. “I haven’t taken you to the big house because, all things considered, I thought it best not to.”
She jumped to her feet. “Let’s go plant the tobacco.”
He stood and closed his hands over her shoulders. “Connie.”
“Please, Drew, please,” she whispered, tears surging to her eyes, tumbling down her cheeks. ”Can we please just plant the tobacco?”
Maybe if she did a good job with the seedlings he wouldn’t send her back. If he would give her a chance, he’d see. She would water them, nurture them, set them in the sun. Whatever it took. And it would be the best blessed crop he’d ever had in all his days.
A tiny niggling voice reminded her he’d be better off without her. She drove it from her mind, convincing herself that if she could just do this one thing, it would be a start. Her heart thumped madly as she waited for his answer.
Backing up a step, he let his hands fall. “Very well. We’ll plant the tobacco, for now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was her favorite time of day, and for a short while it managed to chase her oppressive sadness away. During this early morning hour, the world belonged to her, for though she was up, hundreds more throughout this primitive land still snuggled in their ticks, resisting the moment they must arise.
