By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  He got clumsily to his feet and crossed the room to feel around and find an iron chest. On his knees, he carefully unlocked it with a key on his watch fob and then he rummaged about in it until he came up with a somewhat rumpled, soiled letter and a stained sheaf of paper. He peered closely at both, holding them mere inches from his eyes, then satisfied, handed them to Foxy and resumed his seat.

  Foxy turned the letter over in her palm, as if she could decipher the contents by touch. The seal was unbroken, and the front was addressed simply to Fidelia Grace Nelson. It was odd to see her name thus written for she had been Fox Nelson for such a very long time. The sheaf of papers was her much abused journal, finally returned to her. As she prepared to open the letter, Benta flung open the door to announce supper.

  Regretfully, she shoved both items into her pockets to be read later. She took Charles’ arm to help him to the table.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THE DINING TABLE seemed overlarge now that there was only the two Scotts and Foxy but whoever had set the places had done so wisely for they were all cozily placed at one end. The other boys who were still at home, Charles explained, preferred to dine in their cottage. They enjoyed what they called, “the rough life.” Foxy noticed an extra setting and pointed it out. Margaret blushed and turned about in a curious manner. “That is for Catherine. Excuse me while I see to her.”

  Foxy and Charles took their seats and Foxy making conversation, queried him. “Catherine? That must be the daughter still at home. How old is she?”

  Charles squirmed in his seat, which intrigued Foxy, before replying. “Eighteen. She’s eighteen now.”

  He cut the conversation short and impatiently beckoned for a slave to fill his wine goblet. Foxy wisely remained silent. Presently, Margaret came in leading a young girl by the hand. At first glance, Foxy thought her no more than twelve, for she was of such small stature. She was beautiful though, incredibly so, with skin white as alabaster. Looking much as her mother had when Foxy first met her, Catherine possessed glowing black hair with auburn highlights, hair which she wore partially loose and reached well past her waist. Her eyes were enormous, much too big for her tiny, heart-shaped face. Those eyes were of the darkest blue and were fringed by the longest dark eyelashes that Foxy had ever seen.

  Quickly she rose to welcome the girl but was hindered by her grimace of terror and the way she clutched frantically at her mother’s waist.

  Margaret, impatiently made the introductions while giving her daughter a little shake. “Catherine, stop, now. I’d like you to meet a very dear friend of the family. This is Fidelia—Foxy— Nelson. Do you remember Papa speaking of Giles and Mary Nelson? This is their child who used to live here many years ago, even before you were born.”

  Anxiously, gaze never leaving Foxy, Catherine gave an almost imperceptible nod. Margaret smiled sheepishly at her guest and bustled her daughter around the table, where she placed her firmly in a chair and sat next to her.

  The meal progressed through course after sumptuous course but Foxy found it difficult to eat with the girl’s eyes never leaving her. Though Margaret heaped her plate high with the choicest morsels, Catherine only ate a bite here and a bite there. There was a maturity to her that caught Foxy’s interest. Though child-like in appearance, she yet had an air of intelligent maturity, evident in her attentive eyes and polite mannerisms.

  Charles kept up a steady stream of engaging conversation, informing Foxy of the plantation’s progress and the changes that had been made during the years but Foxy found her attention being drawn to the quiet woman, more and more.

  Finally, Catherine, with real tears in her eyes, gently grasped her mother’s arm, gaining her attention. She glanced fearfully at Foxy then gave her mother a long imploring look. Margaret feigning indifference, spoke to her gently but firmly. “Use the paper, Catherine.”

  Angrily, her daughter grabbed the charcoal pencil laying atop the sheaf of paper next to her plate and wrote hurriedly with it. She pushed the paper toward her mother, who nodded. “Yes, Catherine, you may be excused but please, stay inside. I do not like you outside after dark.”

  Catherine nodded and with a smile of relieved happiness, even bestowed on Foxy, rose and left the room.

  A strange, uncomfortable silence fell after she left. Charles cleared his throat and said ruefully, “I suppose I should explain...”

  Foxy, sensing the man’s discomfort, stated softly. “No explanations are owing, Charles. She is an incredibly beautiful child. Well raised.”

  Charles face twisted in frustration. “Yes, yes, she is, but she doesn’t talk anymore. She is talented, as well as beautiful, can read, write, sew, embroider, ride, dance, even cook. No facet of education has been neglected her, but to what avail? She is destined to spend the rest of her life with aging parents. What happiness can she find?” His voice was bitter, regretful.

  Foxy wiped her hands on her napkin. “Has she never spoken?”

  Margaret answered, joy lighting her face. “Oh, yes, Fidelia. When she was little we could do nothing to keep her quiet. Inquisitive cuss! She wanted to know everything. We can only believe that she had a terrible experience which she cannot talk about, as yet. One evening she came into the house as if in a daze and has not spoken since. It was a few months ago. Since then she has been as you saw her tonight.”

  Foxy grew thoughtful. “Surely with her beauty, accomplishments and wealth, some man has taken an interest.”

  Charles slapped his napkin upon the table angrily. “Oh, she has no lack of suitors, but it takes physical force to keep her in the same room with a man other than myself or her brothers and they all soon lost interest.”

  Margaret sighed audibly, obviously distressed and seeking escape. “Well, if you two will excuse me, I will leave you to your reminiscence.”

  The rest of the evening was pleasant as she and Charles caught up on the years. They had much in common concerning the management of their plantations and Catherine was forgotten for the moment but later that night in her bed, Foxy thought with a lurch of sadness about the beautiful, mute youngest daughter.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  THE NEXT DAY was a wonderful day for Foxy. She spent the morning riding about the plantation with Charles and in the afternoon, they were besieged by the Scott brood. First to arrive was Elizabeth, driven in an elaborate two-wheeled carriage. She alighted and greeted Foxy with enthusiasm. Foxy was surprised at her appearance for the skinny little girl had grown into a stout, managing middle-aged woman.

  Next to arrive, a bit later, was Charles Allen in his carriage. On the back, to everyone’s merriment, he carried three flustered angry women. Foxy could not believe that tiny Charity and even tinier little Sarah could have grown into such lovely ladies. Two were slim and similar in appearance, but Sarah stood out. Though she must be in her thirties, she still had the little girl dimples that she had possessed as a child of two. Laughing, she flung her still plump arms about Foxy’s neck and cried, “Oh, Foxy! I wuvs you so much!”

  This caused them all, especially Foxy and Margaret to double over with laughter.

  Any mention of Maggie had already been privately foresworn, so supper that evening was very merry indeed. There was much talk of the past and reminiscing was contagious so everyone except for Mary and of course, Catherine, had a story to tell of something they and Foxy had done when younger.

  Foxy was puzzled by the sibling’s relationships with Catherine. They always included her in the conversation, talking as though she would reply. She did, in her fashion, talk for her charcoal flew constantly across paper. She seemed, among her brothers and sisters, to have lost much of her shyness and fear for her wit on paper kept many laughing or chuckling. She was a different person entirely that evening, for her sisters had dressed her hair for supper and had outfitted her in a beautiful, empire gown of green silk. Attired as she was, Foxy could easily believe that she was truly a young woman of ten and eight instead of the reticent child she had thought h
er originally.

  Foxy found herself strangely drawn to the laughing, mysterious young woman. Watching as she laughed with her sisters, she felt her heart warm in a way that she’d forgotten. Puzzled, she examined these feelings and they frightened her. To dive back into the world of emotion, of caring for someone again, was a perilous excursion and one she was not sure she was ready for.

  Too soon, it was time for all to leave, to go back to their families and their homes. It was with real regret that Foxy bade them farewell. She was unsure of the length of her visit but felt that she would probably not be able to see them again.

  Catherine came near to breaking Foxy’s heart as she stood in the lane, great tears flowing down her cheeks as she waved her siblings out of sight. As she turned sadly, to go back inside, Foxy saw Catherine, out of the corner of her eye, slump to the ground against an outer wall, her shoulders shaking in great silent sobs.

  Compassionately, she strode to Catherine’s side and laid a hand on her shoulder. It was as though she’d unleashed a whirlwind. Catherine literally sprang to her feet, her face a mask of fury and she lashed out at Foxy with her tiny, sharp fists.

  Foxy grasped her arms, trying to control her, but with a look of terror and a silently mouthed scream, Catherine broke free and fled into the forest.

  Quickly, Foxy limped to the house and flung the door wide, crying out for help. “Charles! Margaret! Please come.”

  Margaret rushed from the parlor. “Whatever’s the matter, Fidelia?”

  “It’s Catherine. I tried to comfort her when she seemed so sad over her brothers’ and sisters’ departure. Now, she has fled.”

  Margaret assumed a defeated air. “Which direction did she go?”

  “Off toward the forest, toward the old creek.”

  Margaret sighed resignedly. “Well, that’s that then.”

  Foxy was slowly getting mad but she held it in check. “What do you mean? Aren’t you going to get her?”

  Margaret gave her a gentle smile. “Come into the parlor, Fidelia. You are a good woman, a saint.” She took her hand, led her to a chair and pushed her into it. “We could search all night and not find her. She has more hiding places than there are stars in the sky. She’ll be back when she’s ready so, please do not worry. I am her mother and I have learned not to do so.”

  Charles in the other chair, agreed with her. “lt’s true, Foxy. Even with my sight so bad, I used to hunt all night to no avail. If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. Margaret love, will you have Benta fetch us a hot toddy. I don’t feel quite myself tonight.”

  Margaret sighed. “Ah. The children always wear you out. After the toddy, it’s bed for you. I’m sure Fidelia will agree?” She glanced her way seeking agreement.

  “Yes sir,” Foxy agreed jovially. “I’m to bed early myself this night.”

  Later, in her bed in the upstairs guest room, she tossed and turned restlessly. Finally, as she dimly heard the clock downstairs strike three, she could stand it no longer and flung the coverlet back. Sitting up, she wondered at herself. What was it about that damned girl that drew her? She was worried about her and could not rest easy until she knew the girl was safe.

  Grimly, she dug in her satchel until she found her well-worn buckskins and moccasins. After donning them, she crept out into the hall. Glancing at Catherine’s door, she found it gaping open, proof that she had not yet returned, Silently, Foxy descended the stairs and went out into the cool night air.

  Her Indian life had served to make her many things, among these was silent and swift in a forest. In no time at all, she had reached the creek bank without disturbing the rest of a single sleeping creature. She stood still, getting her bearings and her sensitive ears picked up on unusual splash of water. Keeping low and well hidden, she made her way upstream until she spied her.

  It was Catherine and yet not her, a wood nymph. She had shed her clothing and was frolicking happily about in the no doubt night-cooled water as if she had not a care in the world. Foxy watched spellbound, almost afraid she was still asleep and dreaming. Soon, Catherine rose from the water and not even shivering in the coolness, slowly proceeded to braid her long, wet hair. She was thin in a boyish way, almost too thin, but Foxy recognized the unusual roundness of her abdomen. Her breasts, though small and spare, had become evident, and her slim hips were rounding.

  Foxy watching, though she understood more now, felt no guilt for spying. She did so not in a voyeuristic sense as she was enthralled by the beauty of the scene. To her, Catherine was more a wood sprite than a real person, so she watched as a child listens to a fairy tale, while Catherine slipped into her chemise and moved away.

  Surreptitiously, Foxy followed, keeping well behind but with her always in view. Catherine came out into a clearing, where her green dress lay in a heap upon the leaves. A stump had been moved to the center and she sat there and bent forward. Foxy crept stealthily around so she could see what she was doing and was surprised to find a black mama cat with four tiny kittens nursing.

  Catherine was smiling as she lifted one of the kittens up to nuzzle it. Then to her sensitive ears, a sound penetrated. Catherine was crooning to the kitten! Three words were heard clearly, she was saying, “poor hungry baby.”

  Foxy without thinking stepped forward, but even so, Catherine didn’t hear her until she was right behind her. Sensing her presence, she turned and terror marred her features. Still holding the kitten, she turned to flee but Foxy’s lightning fast reflexes prevented it. Foxy held her around the waist as she forced her back to the stump. It was then that Catherine thoroughly frightened her by fainted.

  Chapter Thirty

  SHE STOOD AND held the limp form for a long time, uncertain as to what to do beyond keeping her warm and cursing herself for her insensitivity. She finally laid her down gently and sat on the ground next to her, patting her cheeks and calling her. Soon she stirred, and Foxy smiled with relief. When Catherine’s eyes opened, Foxy spoke gently. “Feeling better? Are you all right?”

  Calmer now, she nodded and sat up, eyes wide with terror, no doubt wondering what this tall man wanted of her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Foxy spoke in answer. “I will not harm you, Catherine, I promise. I am a friend to your family and thus to be trusted. Please tell me—why do you not speak when obviously you can?”

  Catherine dropped her gaze as if needing to think. Unconsciously, as if not seeing it, she picked up the forgotten kitten and absent-mindedly fondled it. Foxy realized that it had probably been some time now since anyone had tried to get her to talk.

  She glanced up from beneath her long lashes as if weighing whether Foxy could be trusted. Foxy knew that she was worried about the shame of her pregnancy. Would her family no longer have anything to do with her?

  Before either could think any longer, the words burst from Catherine as if of their own volition and Catherine seemed shocked to find herself speaking of the things that she had so long kept deep within herself.

  “It was terrible, and I thought I would surely die from the blood and the pain. There were two of them in the barn at first, but one left. I was in the loft, though I’d been told not to go there. I tried to sneak past, but he saw me and grabbed me, and I could not get free and I’m so afraid that he might come back so I never told who he was. Then I realized Papa had freed the Irish one who...who hurt me and that he must have moved on. I was still afraid. There may be others, such as him, who will hurt me again.”

  She paused then for her voice, unused to so much strain gave way to hoarseness. Foxy instinctively, gently, took Catherine onto her lap and let her cry it all out. Great, tearing sobs shook her small frame as the wind shakes a leaf on a tree. Foxy rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair and crooning gently to soothe her until Catherine dozed.

  As dawn was lighting the sky to the east, she shifted the sleeping girl into a more comfortable position and did some deep thinking. The poor woman. It was small wonder that she didn’t talk. A horrible expe
rience and shaming. How could one tell one’s parents, especially at such a tender age, I’ve been raped by an indentured servant? She did not begrudge her the healing silence but knew that it must end. The air must be cleared if for the coming babe alone. It was a terrible thing, but it had happened. Life must go on and Catherine had so much to live for, though her chances for a good marriage were slim. Foxy stared at her peaceful, sleeping face and felt a great surge of tenderness for the frail girl who had been so misused. She cuddled her closer whereupon she opened her eyes and fixed Foxy with her frank, clear gaze.

  “Good morning,” Foxy whispered. “How do you feel?”

  Catherine thought a moment then smiled as if she had never felt better. The dread that she had lived the latest part of her life in seemed to have totally dissipated. She smiled then, a whole real smile, such as Foxy had never seen before and scrambling free, she stretched her arms and legs mightily. Her face clouded suddenly, and she murmured her main concern. “The kitten!”

  Foxy laughed. “I pushed him in the right direction and from his mama’s contented purring I assumed he had made it.”

  They went together and watched the kittens, who had made themselves into a fur ball, struggling for better sleeping positions. “I wonder where their mama went,” Foxy mused as she watched. She was secretly seeing if Catherine would continue to talk. She did.

  “Probably to get something to eat. I imagine nursing these hungry little devils totally famishes her.” Her eyes were merry, and she reached down to pick up her obvious favorite, the black and white one she’d held the night before. She asked Foxy, thoughtfully, “Do you think he’s old enough to take home?

  Grinning, Foxy shrugged. “I believe so, but you’d better ask his mama.” Foxy pointed off to her right, where the black cat was emerging from a grove of undergrowth. While Catherine bent down and talked to the mother cat, Foxy limped over and fetched her dress, shaking it and trying to smooth out the wrinkles.