Somerset

by Leila Meacham

  So while Silas watched the friendship grow between his son and stepmother, the distance widened between him and Jessica, and by the end of two months, he came to realize that the remarkable young woman who was his wife only by virtue of a signature on a marriage certificate wanted no truck with him. Gradually he formed his plan to pay back Carson Wyndham in full and set her free. He had signed a contract with the man and meant to honor it, though not the terms. If he returned to Carson all he owed him, Jessica would not be bound to stay married to him. She would be free to seek her own life, lived the way she wanted, beyond the reach of her father.

  He desired a smoke before turning in for the night. Now that they were out of hostile territory, he slept in his wagon with Joshua close to his side. Careful not to disturb the sleeping boy, he had dropped softly to the ground to light a cheroot from the campfire when his eye caught a ghostly figure floating in the direction of the creek. It was a woman dressed in a flowing gown with something white flung over her shoulder, and Silas recognized the fall of red hair down her back. Jessica! By God, she’d been told to stay within the fire-lit circle of the encampment at night. Damn the stubborn little minx! Didn’t she know there were animal predators about, snakes, poison ivy? There were men on watch stationed around the perimeter, but Silas pocketed the cheroot, hurriedly retrieved his pistol, and went after her.

  She’d had a good head start but walked carefully, her candle lighting her path but hardly necessary in the full glow of the moon. Where was she going and why? She was headed toward the creek and seemed to know the way. Silas had seen her looking over the area when the train had stopped in the afternoon. He watched the wraith disappear into a grove of trees and hastened his steps, reluctant to call out to her for fear of drawing the attention of a lookout who might shoot first and investigate later. He came upon her at the edge of the creek and halted when he realized her intention. Her back was to him and before he could alert her to his presence, her gown—a robe—slipped from her shoulders and dropped to her ankles. Naked, she picked it up and laid it on a rock along with the towel she’d brought and blew out the candle. Then, with hardly a splash, she slipped into the water.

  Silas, stunned by her body’s beauty in the silvery light of the moon and terrified of the dangers lurking in the creek, swung around at a sound behind him. One of the men standing watch had come to investigate.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Toliver. Anything wrong? I thought I heard something.”

  “It was only me, Johnson. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get the saddle kinks out. You can go back to your post.”

  “Beautiful night.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, have a good stroll.”

  “Good night, Johnson.”

  The exchange must have carried to Jessica. Silas found only her red hair fanned out on the surface of the water when he reached the creek bank.

  “Jessica!” he hissed. He did not dare raise his voice for fear of drawing further attention from the guard. “Come out of there before you get bitten by a snake!”

  Jessica’s wet head popped up. “Go away,” she said, sputtering water, her silvery arms working to keep her afloat below the quiet current. “I’m…I’m naked.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s piss whether you’re naked or not,” he whispered hoarsely. Get out of there!” Consumed with fury at the foolhardiness of the girl, he grabbed her robe and the towel and held them behind him. “I’m turning around, and I’ll give you five seconds to come out of there before I come in and get you. Understand?”

  She did not answer, but there was an immediate splash of water and seconds later the items were snatched from his hand. He could hear her disgruntled shortness of breath as she quickly robed herself.

  “I just wanted a bath, for goodness’ sake,” Jessica said. “It’s been so long since I had a proper one and today was so warm and sticky. Is it supposed to be this hot in Louisiana in May?”

  Silas turned around. Her hair hung long and streaming, and the robe clung to her wet body, outlining her full breasts and tapered waist. He felt an involuntary pang of desire. “Do you have any idea of the poisonous critters in that creek—along the bank, in these woods? Don’t you ever, ever go against my orders for your safety again, do you hear me?”

  Jessica toweled her hair. “Forgive me for not considering your investment, Mr. Toliver, but for my own sake, I can see it was foolish to take such a risk for a bath. The creek looked calm and crystal clear this afternoon and too inviting to resist, but you have my word that I will not be so foolish again.”

  “Is that what you think—that I was considering my investment?” He took a step toward her. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth formed a small, startled O. She looked like a nubile water nymph caught out of her habitat by a ferocious land monster. She moved back.

  “Well, weren’t you, Mr. Toliver?”

  He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her. He opened his mouth to explain, then snapped it shut. “Whatever it pleases you to think, Miss Wyndham,” he said. “Now get back to the camp before we both get shot.”

  Chapter Thirty

  MAY 10, 1836

  A rat’s piss. That’s how he described how little he cared that I was naked. Was I already in the water when he appeared? I can’t express what I felt when I looked up to see Silas looming by the creek bank, so handsome in the moonlight, his face locked in a vise of fury. I felt that…way again, and for a ridiculous second I hoped he would come into the creek after me. How can I be cursed with such carnal urges for a man who could never feel them for me? Not only am I a sparrow compared to the beautifully plumaged woman he’s still in love with, but if my aloof, unfriendly attitude were red meat, it would not attract a green fly.

  And how could a man ever have the least desire for a woman who declared she’d rather copulate with a mule than with him?

  Slave holders still repulse me, but neither Silas or Jeremy are typical of their breed. If the white man must enslave the Negro, then pray God it be done by compassionate men such as they. They see to their slaves’ needs and comforts and are the only owners in the wagon train who provide tents at night for their property. I have recognized several black families from my father’s horde he sent along as part of his agreement with Silas. These, because Silas does not know them, he shackles after dark, but the slaves from Queenscrown he does not, and he allows the Negro children with blisters to ride in his wagon during the day. That says much about the man I’ve married, which is cause enough to excuse somewhat my change of heart toward him.

  We made our trek back to camp in silence. He walked behind me, as if determined to see that I did not deviate from the path by so much as a wayward glance. He saw me to my wagon where he said stiffly, “Good night, Miss Wyndham. Try to stay out of trouble until the morning, if that’s possible.”

  I replied, “It is entirely possible, Mr. Toliver, I assure you.”

  Tippy, with an I-told-you-so sigh at my behavior (She’d tried to talk me out of my plan to bathe in the creek), went back to sleep, but I stayed wide awake, watching Silas adjust Joshua’s mosquito netting through a tiny opening in the flap, then leave his wagon to smoke a cheroot by the fire and drink a glass of brandy. I longed to join him, to ask him what he meant by his response, so filled with incredulity, to my sarcastic request that he forgive me for not considering his investment.

  “Is that what you think—that I was considering my investment?” he almost shouted. He made it sound absurd of me to think “his investment” was all he had in mind when he came after me, but why else would he be concerned for my welfare? I can still feel the small warmth from the tiny flame that flared in my heart, but naturally, my haughty question: “Well, weren’t you?” squelched his desire to explain. “Whatever it pleases you to think, Miss Wyndham,” he’d replied.

  Well, Mr. Toliver, I have an answer for that. It pleases me to think that you do not consider me so plain that you can find nothing about me desirable. It pleases me to think
that you can see through my off-setting attitude as merely a shield to conceal my real, and growing feelings, for you. I am quite sure you would reject me kindly should you discover the truth, but to save my dignity, I’m of no mind to give you the opportunity. Would that you had some of Jeremy’s ability to read people’s true motives and feelings, but you are obviously as dense as a block of wood.

  So there! I believe I’ve aptly expressed what it pleases me to think, Mr. Toliver. In a week’s time when you deposit me in New Orleans, no doubt it will please you to think you do not have to think of me for a long time.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The wagon train was five miles from New Orleans when a screeching hawk appeared out of nowhere and dived at the head of the lead horse in Jessica’s team. The Conestoga lurched sharply out of line, beyond the capability of Jasper to restrain the four animals, and pitched Jessica overboard. Even at the head of the wagon train, Silas heard Joshua’s piercing scream. “Jessica!” Turning his horse around, Silas raced to her wagon, in which Joshua was riding, to see Jessica lying motionless on the ground. Silas grabbed the reins of the lead horse and got the team calmed, then jumped from his gelding to run to Jessica. Tippy stuck her head out the back of the wagon, and Jasper and Joshua scampered down from the wagon seat, both starting to cry.

  “I’se so sorry, I’se so sorry, Mister Silas,” Jasper moaned.

  “Stay with the horses,” Silas ordered, “and keep Joshua with you.”

  “Papa, Papa, make Jessica better,” Joshua sobbed.

  “I will, son,” Silas said. “Go with Jasper now.”

  Jessica lay lifeless on her side, eyes closed, bonnet askew, her calico dress gathered up beyond her knees. Silas turned her onto her back and found blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead caused by having struck a large, sharp rock. A chill fell over him as if he’d passed through a cold patch of shade. She was breathing, but the wound would require stitching or cauterization to prevent infection, possibly gangrene. Tippy ran to join him.

  “We’ll need towels, Tippy.”

  “Right away, Mister Silas.”

  Sick to his heart, Silas untied Jessica’s bonnet to press it to the wound and yanked down the skirt of her dress. Dear God. What was this girl doing here in a wagon train wearing faded calico and muddy boots? What had her father been thinking to subject her to this? What had he been thinking to agree to it? Jessica opened her eyes.

  “Don’t move,” he said softly.

  “What happened?”

  “You were thrown off your wagon seat.”

  Tippy dropped beside him with a handful of towels, her huge eyes drowning in dismay. “Oh, Jessica,” she groaned.

  “I’m all right, Tippy.”

  “Let’s make sure,” Silas said. He could hear Joshua crying as he hung out the back of the wagon. “Tippy, I’ll take care of Miss Jessica. Go be with my son.”

  “Oh, please let me stay with her, Mister Silas.”

  Jessica reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Do as he says, Tippy. Joshua needs you.”

  Silas applied pressure with a towel to stop the bleeding while he explored her shoulders and arms for fractured bones. He pressed her knees and ankles. “Do you feel that anything is broken?”

  “No. I just feel nauseated, and my head hurts.”

  “You’ve had the wind knocked out of you, and you have a deep cut on your forehead. Try moving your arms and legs.”

  Obediently, Jessica pulled up one leg, then the other. She wiggled her arms. “See? I’m all right,” she said drowsily.

  But Silas had doubts.

  Jeremy had ridden up with bandages and ointment, and the driver of the wagon behind Jessica’s had drawn a bucket of water from the rain barrel hooked to the Conestoga.

  Silas could hear Tippy soothing Joshua as he and Jeremy tended Jessica’s wound. She lay pale and listless, and they debated what to do. Once the blood was cleaned away, the cut did not seem as serious as feared. No bone was exposed, but the gash needed immediate attention to prevent infection. Should Jessica be taken in the wagon to a doctor in New Orleans or should a doctor be sent for? They agreed a jolting wagon ride would not be good for her, and much time would be lost trying to locate a doctor in the unfamiliar city.

  “I say let’s have Tomahawk take a look at her,” Jeremy said. “His people have been treating wounds like this for hundreds of years.”

  The Creek was already hovering in the background, his usually impassive face drawn in concern. Jessica’s consideration and courtesy had won his devotion. “Aloe leaves,” he called. “They grow here.”

  “See what you can do,” Jeremy called back, but the scout had already vanished into the woods.

  The wagon train had stopped and word of Jessica’s mishap had passed down the line. Her generosity and way with children had warmed some of the hearts frozen against her, and people had gotten out of their wagons to peer worriedly in the direction of the accident but knew from the many casualties experienced along the journey that it was best to stay out of the way and remain with their families and animals.

  Tomahawk Lacy appeared with a plant spiked with thick, dark green leaves. Silas and Jeremy moved away to allow him to kneel by Jessica. She had been moving in and out of consciousness but came alert when he removed the bandage.

  “I help you, Miss Jessica.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lacy.”

  The scout cut several of the cacti-looking leaves that released a thin, clear sap that he applied to the wound. “The cut up and down,” Tomahawk said, pumping his hand vertically to Silas and Jeremy. “Not straight across.” He sliced the air horizontally. “That good. Skin can be pulled to grow back together.”

  Jeremy immediately began tearing a towel into strips. Tomahawk said, “Wound should be cleaned first with water that has been disturbed over fire.”

  “Boiled?” Silas said.

  Tomahawk nodded. “If no…if no…” He struggled for an English word.

  “Pus, infection,” Jeremy interpreted.

  The scout nodded again. “If no infection, she will get well,” he said. He drew a finger across his temple. “Scar, maybe.”

  “I’m most grateful to you,” Silas said, hoping Tomahawk’s prognosis was right and there would be no need for the usual treatment against infection. The image of a red-hot iron pressed to Jessica’s wound or a needle and catgut sewn through her delicate flesh made him nauseated to contemplate. Boiled water was brought, and Tomahawk cleaned the cut, reapplied fresh aloe, and bound Jessica’s head tightly in a strip of towel to draw the flesh together. Silas and Jeremy conferred over the next step. It was decided that Silas, carefully supporting Jessica’s head on his shoulder, would lift her up to Jeremy in the Conestoga. When it was done, Silas climbed in rapidly after his friend and together they made Jessica comfortable on her pallet.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Silas said. “If she becomes feverish, someone will have to ride for a doctor. Tell Tippy to stay with Joshua in my wagon.”

  “You might get an argument from Tippy about that. She’ll want to be with her mistress.”

  “And I want to be with my wife,” Silas said in a tone that settled the matter.

  “I’ll see to them both and give the order to camp here for the night,” Jeremy said. “Also, I’ll bring down some laudanum. Your wife is going to have one hell of a headache.”

  Jessica opened her eyes as Silas was adjusting her mosquito netting. “Am I going to live?” she asked.

  Silas thought he heard a facetious note in the question. He squatted down and stroked her hair back from the bandage. “Yes,” he said. “That head of yours is too hard for a rock to get the better of it.”

  A small smile flitted across her lips. “Too bad for you,” she said.

  Silas gave a mock sigh. “Worse for the rock.”

  Jeremy returned with the laudanum in the company of a local farmer who’d come out to meet the train with fresh produce to sell. Silas should hear his news, Jeremy to
ld him. Silas said it could wait until he’d gotten Jessica to take a spoonful of the reddish-brown, highly bitter liquid used to alleviate pain.

  She moaned when he lifted her head, the spoon poised before her mouth. “What is this?”

  “Something that will make you feel better. Open wide.”

  She made a face as she swallowed and Silas quickly handed her a ladle of water to wash down the taste. “Where is Tippy?” she asked.

  “With my son.”

  “Why aren’t you with him?”

  “Because I’m here with you.”

  Her lids lowered sleepily. “Good,” she said.

  The farmer imparted news that would cause the dissenters against Tomahawk Lacy to blush with shame from that day forward whenever they thought of him. As the emigrants had passed through Georgia and Alabama, to the disgruntlements of many, the scout had taken the train away from the few existing towns and settlements in the north and guided them through dense forests and marshes and swamps along extremely arduous but safer routes near the states’ southern borders. Some took every opportunity to criticize the scout’s choice of routes. At one point, a settler lost his wagon on a downhill slope and blamed Tomahawk. The man would have taken a steel pike to the scout, but Jeremy stepped in, wrested away the weapon, and reminded the dissenter that his loss was due to his own laziness. He should have locked a wheel to serve as a brake or at least hauled a log behind his wagon to supply drag.