Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  The harvest was almost upon them. At Shadowbrook they would begin bringing in the wheat in a couple of weeks’ time. They were already making hay. And Quent had seen small farmers closer to the town gathering corn and potherbs in plenty. “Looks to be a good year.”

  “God willing,” Frankel added piously. Then for good measure spat to the north, into the devil’s face, as the old saying had it.

  The women were coming out of the house, heading for where the men stood by the wagon. They sounded like a flock of small birds. Ellie Bleecker kissed Nicole farewell, and Sarah shook her hand warmly. Even Deliciousness May beamed at her.

  “The Frankels like you,” he said when they were once more on the way to the sawmill.

  “I like them. I was sorry not to see the little ones again. Lilac and Willie.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Helping with the haying, according to Deliciousness May. Seems they’re gone until late at night.”

  He heard the distress in her tone. “It’s not always like that. There’s much of pleasure for young folks on the Patent.”

  “You think it a good place for children, then?”

  He glanced at her. There seemed to be no special meaning behind her words. “It can be.” When the harvest began in earnest Lilac and Sugar Willie would work twenty-two hours out of twenty-four for weeks on end. To be fair, Ellie’s children would work almost as hard, but in the winter when there was less to be done they’d be sent to the big house to learn to read and write. Anyone who tried to teach those skills to Runsabout’s twins would suffer mightily. Particularly if John had anything to say about it. Quent had always been fairly certain it was his brother who had fathered those babes on Runsabout, but that didn’t change his brother’s feelings toward the youngest slaves.

  “The slaves, what is to prevent there being a small wage paid them?” Nicole did not realize she was going to ask until the question was out of her mouth.

  “Far as I can see, only money.” Quent’s tone gave away nothing of the fact that lately he had been thinking on that same equation. Could the Patent be made to show a profit and at the same time pay the slaves something for their efforts? So they wouldn’t, strictly speaking, be slaves. The workman is worthy of his hire, said the Rhode Island Quaker he’d met at Do Good all those years ago.

  “We are almost there, are we not?” Nicole’s voice interrupted his reverie. “That little path between the two rowans, I remember it from last week when I came with Madame Hale.”

  “Rowans,” Quent said, repeating the name she’d used. “In these parts we call them mountain ash.” The two small trees were heavy with bright orange berries. Shoshanaya had said they were talking trees, because when the berries were thick on the branch the way they were now, you knew it would be a hard winter, with much snow. “Did my mother take you down that path?”

  “No. We drove right past it.” Nicole noted something odd about the set of his jaw, a kind of hardness that she did not remember seeing before.

  Quent reined in the horse and stopped the wagon. “I want to show you something, but we’ll have to go by foot. Path’s not wide enough for the wagon.”

  “Very well.” Nicole reached into her pocket and brought out the white moccasins. “I have these. May I take the time to put them on?”

  “Good idea,” he said, and turned away while she unlaced her boots. When he turned back, she had on Pohantis’s moccasins and was holding out her arms for him to lift her down.

  Nicole felt his hands on her waist as he swung her to the earth and begged forgiveness of the Virgin. She could easily have jumped to the ground.

  “This way,” Quent said.

  And once more she was following him into the woods.

  Chapter Eleven

  NICOLE ESTIMATED THEY had walked for half a league, most of it uphill, before he stopped. The sun had disappeared and the sky was grayed over with heavy clouds, but still there was no breath of air and she was glad of the opportunity to catch her breath. She looked around, eager to see what it was he’d brought her to see. All around were tall oaks and elms, their thick black trunks interrupted here and there by the white of birch and the dark green of pine. Where trees had been felled, perhaps by the fierce rainstorms that had so astonished her in this New World, or by men needing them for the sawmill, saplings grew. Neither the small woodlots of France nor the neat fields and broad hedgerows of England had prepared her for this unspoiled land. “It is very beautiful. And so peaceful.” She looked at the weapon slung over his shoulder. “Why did you bring your gun?”

  He paused, turned back to her. “I don’t know,” he said after a few moments, with that half smile that was her favorite of all his expressions. “Just habit.”

  A habit of guns. She need only close her eyes to see the burning and the blood that day in the Ohio Country, and before that … No, she mustn’t. She had promised herself she would not. Nicole opened her eyes. She trembled, only a little and only for a moment, but he saw.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He wanted to put his arms around her, to promise her that she had nothing to fear, that he would always protect her, but he couldn’t. Once before he’d made such a promise when a woman feared his world because it was different from hers and had been unable to keep it. “Say my name.” He bit out the words. “Say it.”

  “What … I don’t—”

  “You promised you’d say my name.”

  “Quent.”

  He exhaled loudly, the demons banished by the sound of her voice. “Thank you.” He put out his hand. “Come, it’s only a short distance farther on.”

  Nicole kept hold of his hand and let him draw her deeper into the forest. They’d gone only a short distance when she heard the sound of rushing water. “You’re taking me to see a falls.”

  “The falls are part of what I want to show you.”

  For a time they said nothing more, but the sound of the falls grew louder. They climbed a steep rise and suddenly, without warning, they were in a small clearing the shape of a half moon surrounded by a birchwood. There was a rushing stream, and a few willows grew close by the water. In the places where the shade was deepest, the ground was covered with dark green moss. A path of flat stones meandered through the trees and disappeared. She could hear the laughing falls, but not see them. “It is magic,” she whispered. “An enchanted kingdom.”

  “I made this clearing. I brought Shoshanaya here after we were married.” He tugged her toward the stepping stones.

  “Did you make this path as well?”

  “No, Shoshanaya did that She …” He paused, and put up his free hand to signal silence. They waited a few moments, then he shrugged and moved forward again.

  “What did you think you heard?”

  “The wings of Shoshanaya’s eagle. Handsomest bird you’ve ever seen, with a beak that could rip out a man’s throat. She tamed him back on the Ottawa lands when she was a little girl. Taught him to eat out of her hand. When I brought her here, the bird followed. He used to come every few days and sit on her outstretched arm and she’d feed him parched corn, then he’d rub the top of his head against her cheek before he flew away.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. After she … After we buried her the bird stopped coming. I hung around a whole year waiting for the danged thing, but it never came back.”

  Truly it was an enchanted kingdom, and Shoshanaya was its princess.

  They came to the end of the stepping stones. “Just here,” Quent said, pulling her around a great oak. “Look.”

  The falls were neither very wide nor very deep, simply a drop down a shallow rock face, maybe twice as tall as she was. Even this close they were no louder than a tinkling melody. Quent pointed to a small wooden platform cantilevered out over the water. “I made that as well. Indians usually have more than one name; Shoshanaya’s woman-name was Laughing Brook Soon as she told me that, I knew I wanted to bring he
r here. We had a cabin in that clearing back there, but we used to come sit here lots of days. Some nights as well.”

  “What happened to the cabin?”

  “I took it down.”

  Something cold and hard formed inside Nicole. A little knot of … what? Rage? How could she be angry with a woman who had been raped and murdered? Because Quent had loved her, adored her, the way papa did maman. Nicole felt Shoshanaya’s spirit was in this place. “You still miss her,” she said.

  “I did. Come over here and sit by the falls. The water’s not so cold this time of year, but it’s still a comfort from the heat of the day.”

  “Why do you say ‘did’? As if what you felt was in the past.”

  “Because it is. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to know that. Shoshanaya’s gone. I can’t bring her back, and I’ve come to accept that.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I met you.” He hadn’t expected to be so open with any woman ever again. He turned away, afraid of what she could read in his face.

  Why didn’t she believe him? Because she could still feel the Ottawa squaw, the honey-skinned princess who had loved him and lay with him and had been about to bear him a son, looking down at her. Shoshanaya was laughing. As if she knew that death had given her the ultimate power. She would never grow old and in memory she would always be perfect.

  The platform was still sturdy; they both sat.

  “This water is in a great hurry,” Nicole said. “Where is it going?”

  “To Hudson’s River, eventually. But first, down into the valley where we left the wagon. Then it joins up with a couple of other streams, and by the time it reaches the mill it’s strong enough to power the saws.”

  She touched the smooth boards on which they were sitting. “These came from there? From the sawmill?”

  “Yes.”

  The way in wasn’t wide enough for a wagon. He must have carried the planks through the woods to build this throne for his princess.

  “You look warm.” Quent reached up and moved a stray curl from her cheek. Nicole’s eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “If you take off the moccasins,” he said softly, “you can put your feet in the stream.”

  “Oui.” The word came unbidden, a whisper of consent. But she did not move. Quent reached down and took off the white moccasins.

  He allowed his fingers to linger on her ankle. He could not keep his palm from silding a ways up her calf.

  Such a light touch. Perhaps she was merely dreaming it. Perhaps everything was a dream. Everything. She lay back and closed her eyes, and when she felt his mouth on hers Nicole parted her lips to receive him.

  There had been plenty of rain in the spring, followed by bright sun for much of July and all of August. The grasses were lush, the fronds so heavy with seed they bent with their own weight. The hay made from such grass would be excellent, full of nourishment that would keep the horses and cattle healthy throughout the long snowbound winter that was sure to come. Every hand not doing other vital work had been put to the haying: all the slaves from the sawmill and a number from the gristmill and the sugarhouse. The twins, Lilac and Sugar Willie, were too small to swing scythes, but they ran to and fro gathering the cut grass and helping to build the haystacks that dotted the fields.

  The first flaming arrow landed in a haystack right near eleven-year-old Westerly, the youngest of the three slave brothers who worked the sawmill. The boy beat at the flames with his hands and tried to tear the burning hay away from the stack itself. “Sampson! Sampson! You over there? I needs you to—” Another arrow caught him in the throat and cut off his words. Six more fire arrows were launched at the field. The flames licked at the ripe grass and crackled across the ground, and a few plumes of smoke rose into the overcast sky.

  Sally Robin was bent over, sweeping the hay into a pile for Sugar Willie to carry away, when she saw the child caught up by a tall brave with a red- and black-painted face. A knife slit Willie’s throat and scalped him before she could draw a breath. Then the savage grabbed a hatchet from his waist and Sugar Willie’s naked skull flew in one direction while his body was hurled in another, into the flames leaping up around them. Say Robin composed herself, waiting to die. A song rose in her and she let it loose. The tall Indian stood over her and she saw his knife red with Sugar Willie’s blood, and how the blood dripped down the front of his buckskins. The field was full of screams and war whoops and the sound of fire. Sally Robin’s song couldn’t compete with all that bitter noise, but still it wanted to sing itself and she allowed it to do so.

  Lantak stared at the woman who was singing in the face of certain death and realized she was a witch, and a great danger to him. He turned away just in time to avoid the thrust of the pitchfork carried by a huge man hurling himself forward. Lantak’s hatchet cut the air between them and the man fell. The witch stopped her singing just long enough to scream “Solomon!”

  His tongue traced her teeth; she was as sweet as he’d known she’d be. Her hair started to come loose and Quent let his blunt fingers play with the strands the way he’d longed to do for so many weeks. Nicole breathed a sigh into his mouth and arched toward him; her small, perfect breasts pressed against his chest. He wanted to know all of her. He kissed her eyes and her nose and her cheeks and tasted salt. Her tears or his? He wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter.

  Her skirts had worked themselves up above her bare legs to her waist. He let a tentative hand stroke the inside of her thigh and Nicole uttered a little cry that thrilled him, filled with both desire and innocence. He would teach her everything, show her everything, and she would be his forever. “I want you,” he whispered. “Now.” She did not pull away.

  The platform he had made to sit above the laughing water with Shoshanaya was made of elmwood. He’d given the planks their final smoothing with his own hands. It was hard and unyielding beneath them and he gathered Nicole close, intending to lift her to the softer, moss-covered earth. “No,” she whispered. “Here.”

  He was large with wanting, but he did not hurry. Nicole had contrived to release the laces of her bodice and he bent his head to her breasts and lost himself in the incredibly sweet smell of the skin between them.

  Here, she had told him, because it was Shoshanaya’s place. Nicole could feel the presence of the woman he had loved before her, but she knew she would triumph. I am alive and you are dead. I can satisfy the fire in him, but you cannot. I will give him live sons. Yours is nothing but bones in the ground.

  “Here,” she whispered again. Her hand sought his and she guided it to her breast.

  Quent felt her nipple swell with desire beneath the palm of his hand. He took her mouth again, more eagerly this time, his tongue more demanding, sucking her breath, her life force, into himself. He stretched full length over her, pressing her into the boards. She belonged to him, was his to—There was the sound of someone running, crashing through the woods.

  Quent rolled off her. He’d left his gun back in the clearing and the only weapon he had was his dirk. It was in his hand before his feet touched the earth.

  “Master Quent! Praise God, it do be Master Quent!”

  “Sampson?” What in Christ’s name was the sawmill slave doing here when he should have been haying with the others? For as long as Quent could remember the haymaking at Shadowbrook had begun at the western edge of the Patent, with the fields beyond the topmost sluice that fed the millrace.

  “They be burning up everything, master. And one of ’em, he killed Westerly. Little Sugar Willie, he be dead too. Got his head chopped right off. I didn’t wait to—”

  “Who? French soldiers?” Fort Frédéric was the nearest hostile sanctuary. But it made no sense for—

  “Not no soldiers.” The boy was weeping. “I saw what happened to Sugar Willie and I figured best thing I could do was run and tell.”

  “Who? Damn it, Sampson, make some sense! Who’s attacking Shadowbrook?”

  “Savages, Master Quent. With painted fac
es and their hair all standing up in the middle of their heads like this.” He ran his hand from his forehead to the nape of his neck to signify a scalp lock. “Them Indians be screaming and burning and killing and—”

  Quent heard a small gasp and turned. Nicole was standing behind him; she’d made no attempt to adjust her clothing. She was staring at Sampson and the look on her face was of pure anguish. Quent grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the stream. “Don’t move,” he shouted to Sampson. “Stay right there till I come back.”

  As Quent dragged Nicole across the clearing, the small stones and twigs cut her flesh and lacerated her feet. She felt nothing except the thoughts that pummeled her. My fault. My fault. My fault. Death everywhere. My fault.

  Quent snatched her into his arms and waded with her into the center where the stream was deepest. “Hold your breath.” Nicole looked at him as if she hadn’t heard, as if she had no idea who he was or what they were doing there. “Nicole! Do as I say. Take a deep breath and hold it.”

  He saw her chest move and plunged them both below the water. Holding her with one arm, he swam toward the falls with the other. The entrance to the cave was behind the wall of falling water, entirely hidden by a fold in the cliff face. Solomon the Barrel Maker had shown him this cave, back when Quent was six years old. He had no memory of learning to swim. It seemed like something he had always known, but the cave … He remembered how it was when he’d first seen that. Solomon watching and laughing, delighted with a little boy’s wonder.

  A pale aqueous light filtered through the falls. Fresh air came in from an opening some distance to the rear that led deep into another part of the forest. The walls were glass smooth, except where things had been drawn by people so ancient they were beyond memory, a few faint symbols etched into the rock that meant nothing now but had once meant everything to the artists. “Way I figure, Master Quent, the folks who lived here before, they left these marks to sort of say hello. I can’t rightly figure what they were saying. Maybe when you grow up, you’ll know what the signs mean. Till then, I figure this place has to be our secret, yours and mine.”