A Bride Most Begrudging

by Deeanne Gist

  Not Constance. She and her dear companion, Snowflake, took in nature’s concert every morning. They had standing reservations, with the best seats in the house. She rested her cheek against Snowflake’s coarse hide, working milk from the goat’s teats by rote as they waited for the concert to begin.

  Sweet heaven, this country had taken her by surprise. It was lovely in the summer, a virtual painter’s palette in the fall, a marvel in the winter, and an absolute Eden in the spring. She wished she’d paid more attention to her art lessons. How glorious it would be to capture this place and keep a piece of it with you always.

  She breathed in the freshness of dawn, picturing in her mind the multicolored spectacle spring made of itself here. Many of the unfamiliar trees and shrubs she’d learned of last summer now clad themselves in blooms that took the very breath from her body.

  Dogwoods crowned with thick, lush clusters of white looked as if snow covered their boughs. Spicebushes filled her senses with fragrance while simultaneously awarding a charming yellow floral display. Wild trumpet creepers in blossom festooned the trees. And trimming these exquisite ensembles were iris, lilies, poppies, peonies, larkspurs, hollyhock, and more.

  The concert was in full swing now, bursting with twitters, whistles, cackles, and fluting. Some short and staccato, some with crescendo, some with irregular haphazard rhythms.

  The milking was done, her hands lax against her knees. Yet Snowflake stood still, cushioning Constance’s upper body as she rested against the gentle beast. She opened her eyes. A hare, no bigger than the coneys back home, sprang across the clearing. She smiled as she followed its progress until it disappeared into the thicket.

  A movement captured her attention, and finding its source along the perimeter of the yard, her eyes widened. What in the world is that? A slow-moving furry black creature with a wide white stripe from its head to its tail lumbered into the yard. Constance slowly lifted her head from Snowflake’s side. The goat fidgeted, backing up a step or two.

  Constance quickly grabbed the pail and pulled it out of harm’s way. Snowflake turned and headed toward the front of the cottage. Constance stayed on the stool and looked again at the fascinating animal moving toward her.

  “Good morrow. And what might you be?”

  “Eeeeth, eeeeth, eeeeth, eeeeth.”

  “I see. And might you be hungry? I can give you not the milk, but I might be able to round up some chicken feed. Would you like that?”

  The animal paused and, nose twitching, examined Constance with its marblelike eyes. Reaching into her pocket, she tossed some feed to the animal. It froze, erecting its white-plumed tail into the air.

  Constance sat very still, sensing she’d frightened it. After several long moments, it lowered its tail and ambled forward, snatching up the feed before scurrying back into the safety of the forest.

  She sighed. Oh, how she loved this country. Thoughts of smelly, crowded, confining London crept into her musings. She didn’t care to ever see it again. She missed it not. Not at all.

  She did miss her family, though. Still, Uncle Skelly, God rest his soul, and Aunt Katherine had been her real family, and she’d been taken from them years ago. Her siblings were busy with their own lives and, of course, the war. And Father, too, for that matter.

  But here, here she felt...well, free. Free in that she had no tedious social obligations to fulfill. Free in that she could venture forth alone without putting her person or reputation in jeopardy. Free in that everyone was quite expected to be unconventional. Even now she wore no shoes.

  She burrowed her toes into the grass. Why, she’d never realized how cumbersome the numerous garments and undergarments she wore at home had been until she’d come here and discarded all for one simple gown. And now that the weather had warmed, everyone put away their shoes, not wanting to use them when there was no need.

  She dipped her finger into the milk, then brought its creamy taste to her mouth. Yet while she felt free, she also felt so vulnerable. She always seemed to be sabotaging something, her relationship with her husband included.

  But today was a new day. Maybe this would be the day the tobacco seedlings would nose their way to the surface. Maybe this would be the day Drew took her to the big house. Maybe this would be the day he decided to keep her.

  Please, Lord. Let this be the day.

  The seedlings didn’t come forth that day, nor did Drew. But a week or so later, a tiny suggestion of green grazed the surface of the soil, and now her plants had reached about an inch in height. Drew had been pleased. She had been ecstatic.

  Still, he hadn’t shown her the new house. She could have gone and seen it for herself. She certainly had the time and the desire. But she’d fantasized so often about going there with Drew, being carried over its threshold in his arms, wandering through its corridors together, that to go there now without him would be the same as admitting defeat.

  And she was far from admitting defeat. Her cooking was improving. Her seedlings were thriving. And she had a new pet she called Blackberry. He visited her most every morning during the milking and many an evening at the creek while she washed dishes. If the animals here accepted her, then surely it was a sign from God that Drew would too.

  Please Lord, let it be a sign.

  The sun had gone down, so Constance brought her treasures inside. They now stood two inches tall, and a new one had just sprung up this morn.

  Placing the flat carefully on the shelf, she picked up her diary and recorded a puzzle that had come to her when she’d watered her flat this afternoon.

  A seed is planted. At the end of two years it produces a seed, and one each year thereafter. Each of these, when two years old, produces a seed yearly. All the seeds produced do likewise. How many seeds will be produced in twenty years?

  The salty air whipped Drew’s hair against the side of his face. He stood on the shore before the weather-beaten Myrtilla, sitting low in the water, anchored some one hundred yards out on the Chesapeake Bay. In its hatch rode, among other things, enough furniture to fill his house. Soon, that furniture would be replaced with tobacco. He should be pleased. Drew was anything but.

  Crewmen crowded the deck, continually coming and going, their step quick, their ribald laughter carrying across the water. A lusty tune of a milkmaid and her lover cut through their den of exchanges. A sturdy sailor came into the bows, dumping a bucket of refuse overboard. Screeching, the seagulls swooped down, their squawks drowning out all other sounds.

  Maybe he could keep the ship’s presence from her. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Only men came to shore for the unloading and loading of ships, none of whom would have any reason to make a social stop at his cottage.

  So, if he could ensure that Josh and the indentured men remained quiet, he might could secret the furniture off and the tobacco on, then allow the Myrtilla to sail again before Connie was ever the wiser. But, no, Josh would be on board with the tobacco and he’d not leave without saying good-bye.

  Drew wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay away from her anyway. He helped not with the washing of dishes, he came home for only one daily meal, and he’d created a handful of extra projects to keep him busy until she fell asleep each night.

  He’d repaired the old raft that they never used at the creek and even now had begun to whittle a new hickory handle for an ax whose handle still had plenty of wear left.

  He’d considered relinquishing their bed to her completely but could never quite bring himself to do so. He’d be sleeping in an empty one soon enough. Still, he mustn’t join with her, for the risk of pregnancy was too great. They were lucky she wasn’t already breeding. Sending her home a “widow” was one thing; sending her home a “widow” with child was something else entirely. Something he wouldn’t do.

  Constance stared at Mary, then sunk down into Drew’s chair. “You cannot be serious.”

  Mary continued to stir the pudding. “You know it to be true, you do.”

  Constanc
e placed a palm against her stomach. She’d kindled? Surely not. She would have known. Wouldn’t she? “But I’ve not been ill.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  She took a deep breath. “Now, Mary. I’ve been through quite a lot these past several months, what with the kidnapping, the marriage, the seasoning. It could simply be my poor body is a bit abused and confused.”

  “Your body knows exactly what it’s doing.”

  “But how can you be certain?”

  “You’re tired all the time, you are.”

  “²Of course I’m tired. I did not but collect eggs before. Now I do much, much more.”

  “You cry all the time.”

  Constance lifted a brow. “I’ve never been married before.”

  “You cannot eat large meals, yet you’re continually nibbling on everything in sight.”

  “That’s part of learning how to cook. I must taste so as to see what the concoction needs. Then, when the meal’s finally ready, I’ve tasted so much, I’m too full to eat.”

  “Your breasts are tender?”

  Constance said nothing.

  Mary turned, amusement touching her eyes. “You’re with child, all right. And soon, me thinks you’ll be feeling the wee one squirming around in there, you will.”

  A warm glow flowed through her. Tears rushed to her eyes. She was going to have a baby! Drew’s baby! She hugged her stomach. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. A baby. Imagine that.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Drew. She stilled. Drew. What would he think? Would he be happy?

  Of course he’d be happy. But...but what about their marriage? She knew in the deepest core of her being that once she told him, he wouldn’t send her back.

  Would he be bitter? Resigned? Would he feel trapped? But what could she do? Go on to England and never tell him he had a child? Of course not. That would be unthinkable.

  “How far along do you suppose I am, Mary?”

  “How long has it been since your last monthly?”

  Constance blushed. “Since December.”

  “I’d say you’re close to four months, then.”

  “How long before I show?”

  “Within the next few weeks, I’m thinking.”

  Constance bit her lip. “Mary, I’m not going to tell Drew right away.”

  Mary stopped stirring midmotion, looking sharply at her.

  “Please. Don’t say anything.”

  After a moment, Mary nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

  A sure sign of her displeasure, the use of mistress was. But it couldn’t be helped. The babe changed everything.

  Constance would have to stay now, but it would be ever so much better if Drew thought it was his own idea. Men were so very testy when they felt pushed into something.

  She clasped her hands together. Yes, she must make certain he insisted upon her permanence here--before he found out about the babe. And she had very little time.

  She pursed her lips. Winning his adoration by performing wifely duties around the cottage had reaped nothing. She must think of something else.

  A slow smile crept upon her face. There was one thing he’d never been able to distance himself from, even in the beginning. She smoothed her apron down. And of that, she had plenty. Plenty with which to use in the seduction of her husband.

  “Drew! Drew! We bring you lunch!”

  Drew gave one last push against the lever, wedging an opening in the large crate, then looked to the west. Sally bobbed across the grass with cap, caught by its strings around her neck, flopping against her shoulders, her long black curls fluttering free. Constance followed a few paces behind.

  She carried a large cloth-covered basket in one hand and reached high above her head to wave with the other. His senses leapt to life. Propping his lever against the crate, he moved to the edge of the shipment.

  Sally reached him first. “What’s in the boxes?”

  “Furniture.”

  Sally darted off to investigate before Constance even reached them.

  Drew wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as he watched Connie’s progress. The sun splashed onto her shoulders, and his gaze traveled to the gentle sway of her hips.

  He stayed as such until she stopped mere inches in front of him. She raised a delicate freckled hand to her chest, marking the swells of her labored breathing. “My, it’s been a while since I’ve walked out here.”

  A while? It had been a blasted century. As far as he knew, she’d not been here since Sally’s mishap. So what was she doing here now?

  He stood rigid as she scrutinized the house.

  Her eyes filled with an indefinable emotion. “Oh, Drew. It’s magnificent. I had no idea.” She turned to him. “Will you show it to me? I’ve so wanted to see it.”

  He waved his hand toward the structure. “Help yourself.”

  A small intimate smile crept onto her lovely sunburned face. “I’d prefer a guided tour. From you. Please?”

  “I’m rather busy.”

  She peeked around his shoulder, exposing a nice portion of freckled slender neck. “So I see. What have you in the crates?”

  “Furniture.”

  “Furniture! You told me not the house was finished. When did you complete it?”

  “A fortnight ago.”

  Her face lit with pleasure. “Why, that’s wonderful! Congratulations! We must have a celebration.”

  He had to put some space between himself and her. His blood was pumping, his heart was hammering, and his senses were reeling. “What are you doing here?”

  She hesitated, then held up her basket. “I decided to bring you something special for your midday meal.”

  He frowned. Had her voice taken on a husky quality or had he imagined it?

  She raised the basket higher, pressing its handle against her chest. “Go ahead, take a peek.”

  He quickly lifted a corner of the cloth.

  “Trout,” she whispered. “I caught it and made it myself.”

  “Caught it?”

  Her entire face spread into a smile, dazzling him. “With a frying pan! You’ve never seen such a thing, Drew. The trout are so plentiful, I needed only to scoop my pan into the water and up came enough fish for dinner and supper too!”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “I know. So you fried it up too?”

  She hugged the basket closer to her, nodding her head proudly.

  There may have been trout in the basket, but it was the scent of Constance that filled his senses. Lilacs and woman. A lethal combination.

  He gave himself a mental shake. Her ticket home was floating right down by the wharf and he’d not stand here billing and cooing in the meanwhile. He glared at her. “I already have a meal.”

  Turning, he moved back to the crate he had been working on. He’d meant to hurt her feelings, but he’d not done a very good job of it, evidently, for she followed him to the crate and rested her shoulders and back against it, flinging her chin up toward the sky. Long cinnamon-colored lashes lay against her cheeks as he moved his gaze along the enchanting profile she displayed.

  Grabbing the crate’s side, he wrenched it off, jostling her from her position. It mattered not. She settled right back against it.

  “I’m not leaving, you know.”

  His heart stopped beating. Did she know about the ship?

  “At least not until you’ve eaten my trout.”

  Lips thinning, he grabbed the basket from her. “Then by all means, let me eat.”

  She jumped from the side of the crate, laying a hand against his. “No, not here. Not like this. Take me inside, Drew. Take me inside, show me the house, and we’ll sit down and eat in there.”

  He jerked his hand free. “Why?”

  “Because it’s important to me. I want to see what you’ve worked for, what you’ve sweated for, what you’ve forsaken your family for.”

  He whipped himself up to his full height. “Forsaken my family for? What is that supposed to mean?”


  “Sally and I never see you anymore. You leave before dawn and return well after nightfall. You’ve even quit taking meals with us. She misses you.” She fingered the laces at her neck. “We both do.”

  He scoffed. “It’s a lonely life, the life of a farmer’s wife.”

  “Only if that wife is a widow. Which I’m not. What keeps you out so long?”

  “Somebody’s got to work around here.”

  She took a deep breath. “And that somebody’s got to eat.” She lifted a brow. “I went to a lot of trouble to fry that fish for you. So you’d best just resign yourself to taking me inside, showing me my new home, and eating your midday meal.”

  He spun on his heel, heading toward the house. “Well, don’t do me any more favors.”

  He didn’t want her in the house. It held no memories of her within its walls and he’d wanted to keep it that way. But she was going to ruin that for him too.

  Well, so be it. He would take her inside. He’d show it to her. He’d eat her pox-smitten trout. Then he’d kick her fancy backside out.

  He slammed open the front door, moved into the great room, dropped the basket of trout onto his new hardwood floor, and plopped down to eat. He’d taken no more than two bites when her voice reached him from the front steps. He looked up to find her hovering in the doorway.

  “Will Sally be all right out there?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “The men will look after her.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve never been in before.”

  He ripped off another bite of fish with his teeth. “Well come on, then. Otherwise, go away and leave me be.”

  Her shoulders straightened and she stepped across the threshold, pausing there before entering the great room. Removing the bones from his mouth, he said not a word as she circled the room, touching this, running her fingers along that.