Wild Yearning

by Penelope Williamson

  The marriage between Delia McQuaid and Nathaniel Parkes would take place that afternoon. Already Anne’s servants were setting out trestle tables on the village green, preparing for the feast that was to follow. “I’ve never seen that poor boy so scared. His knees were clacking together louder than the batten on a loom.”

  Delia heaved a huge sigh. “Lord above us, Anne, my knees are all a-wobble, too. I’ve never been married before.”

  Anne burst forth with one of her cackles. “Well, it’s hardly the sort of thing that gets easier with practice.”

  Delia set the slate on the floor, standing up just as a servant came through the wide double doors, wheeling a tea cart. “Take that back, Bridget,” Anne said, waving a hand. “And bring us both a glass of sack.”

  Delia joined Anne at the front of the veranda. Anne could feel the girl looking at her, her open face full of affection. Strangely, for she was not a demonstrative person, Anne longed to wrap her arms around Delia and hold her close. The yearning was so fierce it brought tears to Anne’s eyes. The tears surprised her; she hadn’t cried in years and years.

  The tidal wheel turning in the sawmill next door filled the air with a soothing, tinkling sound that was in sharp counterpoint to the raucous cries of the herring gulls swooping overhead. The early afternoon sun shone on the waters of the bay, making it gleam like a field of marigolds, and sunbeams danced among the high treetops of the white pines. A gentle breeze brought with it the smell of sweet fern and bayberry.

  Delia breathed a soft sigh. “It’s so pretty here.”

  “Oh, Merrymeeting is truly the most beautiful spot on earth,” Anne said. “But it isn’t paradise. Never, never mistake it for paradise.” And I ought to know, Anne thought. For haven’t I buried one husband and three children on this land?

  Bridget came back with the sack in two slender pewter chalices. Anne took a large swallow of the tart white wine and felt its coolness flow down her throat into her chest. She turned and held her glass up to Delia in a silent toast. “It’s a beautiful day for a wedding and a frolic.”

  A sadness came over Delia’s remarkable golden eyes. “If anybody bothers to come.”

  “Why wouldn’t people come?”

  “Sara Kemble. She’s told everyone that back in Boston I was a … that I would lie with any man for the price of a tallow candle. All of Merrymeeting’s talking about it. They do it loud enough so’s I can hear.”

  Anne snorted. “It doesn’t matter a hang what that gadder Sara Kemble’s been saying. Some people always manage to get the wrong pig by the ear and Sara sure is one of them.” She leaned close to Delia and lowered her voice. “Sara’s problem is she’s homelier than a basket of eels and barren as a bedpost. She’s jealous of a young and pretty thing like you.”

  Delia’s lips trembled into a smile. “To the devil with Sara Kemble then.” She took a sip of the wine, then choked. “Ugh!” She looked down at the glass in her hand, screwing up her mouth in distaste.

  “Ladies drink sack, Delia,” Anne said. “You must acquire a taste for it.”

  Delia nodded and dutifully took another sip of the wine, trying politely not to show her dislike, and Anne smothered a smile. The girl was so damn strong. Strong enough to do whatever she must, to face whatever life demanded of her—and life would demand a lot, Anne knew. Life could demand everything you had, and more. So much more. For a moment Anne envied Delia her strength and her youth. For years and years, it seemed, Anne had felt so tired. So very tired and so very old.

  “I haven’t seen Dr. Savitch around this past week,” Delia said, oh so very casually, and Anne felt an empathetic ache in the region of her heart that she thought had long ago hardened into stone.

  “He sailed his skiff across to Falmouth Neck on Wednesday.”

  “Oh…” Delia swallowed hard and her fingers on the stem of the chalice tightened.

  “To deliver a baby of a woman at Cape Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, a baby!” Delia exclaimed, relief plain in her voice.

  “It’s showing rather badly, my dear.”

  Delia’s eyes dropped down to her bodice in alarm. “What’s showing?”

  Anne laughed. She set her wine on the veranda railing and cupped Delia’s cheeks between her rough, bony hands. “Your love for Ty Savitch. It shows in your face, in your eyes, in the very way you say his name.”

  Delia pulled away from her, turning her back.

  “I have to admit I’m a little in love with him myself,” Anne said. “I doubt there’s a woman in Merrymeeting who isn’t. That man is as good to look at as a mountain in dogwood time.”

  Delia whipped back around and her chin came up. “I would love Tyler Savitch if he was scarred by the pox. I’ll love him when he’s old and stooped and toothless. I’ll still go on loving him long after I’m dead and buried and my flesh has rotted and my bones have turned to dust!”

  Anne let out a loud snort. “Never mind that romantic nonsense, girl. What about tonight, after you are married to Nathaniel Parkes? Surely you know about what goes on between a man and his wife, the intimacy of the shared bed …?”

  Delia’s face was so pale it looked siphoned of blood. “I know,” she said, her throaty voice so strained it cracked. “I know, and I swear to you that I’ll be a good wife to Nat for he’s a fine man and he deserves no less. And it isn’t as if he’s in love with me, for he still loves his dead wife. So I won’t be taking something away from him by loving Ty deep inside the secret part of myself that Nat will never see.”

  “Oh, Delia, that could very well be true now, but things change—”

  Delia reached out, clutching Anne’s hands. “Oh, Anne, don’t you see? I love Ty, but he doesn’t love me. And there’s a tender side to him, a hurting side, although I think sometimes he hates that part of himself. But he knows how I feel about him, how deeply I love him, and it makes him feel so uncomfortable and guilty and—”

  “He should feel guilty!”

  Tears welled in Delia’s eyes. “No, no, you don’t understand. He touched me with his magic hands and I fell in love and he couldn’t help that any more than he can help breathing. But if I marry Nat, Ty can stop feeling so bad about me, about me being in love with him.” Her mouth twisted into a watery, rueful smile. “And when the day comes that Ty marries, I’ll rejoice for him, aye, for he’ll be happy then. He’s not happy now. He’s lonely, lonely and sad.”

  My God, Anne thought, to be loved like that. Tyler Savitch was no fool after all. To be loved like that … No wonder he was frightened.

  Suddenly Anne Bishop saw a familiar figure sauntering toward them down the wharf. “Speaking of the devil …” she said, but Delia was already turning as if some extra sense had alerted her that Tyler Savitch was near.

  Silently, Anne picked up the two pewter chalices and left the veranda. As she did so she thought about life, about how there was always so much pain. So much loss.

  Delia stood on the veranda, one hand wrapped around a post, leaning into it. At the sight of her his step quickened. When he became aware of it, he made himself slow down.

  Still, he ran up the steps two at a time and almost pulled her into his arms. He stopped himself just in time. Their eyes met and his breath caught. He hadn’t remembered her being quite so beautiful.

  But she also seemed different in a way that didn’t please him. Her hair, that glorious wine-colored hair, was hidden beneath a cap. The bodice she wore had long sleeves with stiff white turned-back cuffs that covered her slender wrists, and her petticoat came down to the tops of her shoes. She looked fresh-scrubbed and pure and innocent, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He wanted back his waterfront wench.

  “How are you, Delia?”

  “Oh, I figure I’ll make out.” She said the words teasingly and her smile shone from her face like a blazing sun. Her love for him glowed in her tawny eyes and he felt it as a caress on his face. To his shame he realized he had been waiting for that look, needing it.

  He too
k her arm. She jumped and tried to pull away from him, but he held it fast. He unbuttoned the cuff at her wrist.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. There was a breathless note in her voice, and when he looked into her eyes he saw the pupils were wide and dark. For a moment he stared into those eyes, not moving, saying nothing. His fingers where they touched the bare flesh of her wrist felt on fire.

  He saw her lips move and her voice came at him from a long way away. “Ty … let go of me. Please.”

  Ty jerked his eyes off her face. He could feel her pulse; it was racing abnormally fast. “There’s no need to fly into a fit,” he said gruffly. “I only want to examine the inoculation.”

  He rolled up her sleeve. The pustule had scabbed over and was healing well. “Have you been feeling all right? Any fever?”

  “N-no …” She bit her lip. He could feel the tremors rippling through her whole body. He released her arm and she immediately backed away from him, pressing her spine along the length of the veranda post. She rolled down her sleeve and refastened it. “It itched some.”

  Ty nodded. “And have you settled into life at Merrymeeting, then?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I love it, Ty.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s good … I’m glad.”

  A heavy silence fell between them. Their eyes met and held. Ty felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her, but he fought it down. Today was her wedding day, for Christ’s sake. Her wedding day…

  She suddenly spoke, and in spite of all the armor he had tried to wrap around himself, her words warmed him. “I’ve missed you, Ty. I’ve missed seeing you.”

  “I’ve been gone.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know. You went to birth a baby.”

  “You’re well informed.” His eyes fixed on her face. Not only did she look different, she sounded different as well. Almost, by God, like a real little lady. The thought made him smile.

  “The mother and child, are they well?” she asked, oh so very refined and politely. His smile deepened. “It was bad, but they survived it.”

  “And did you visit Susannah Marsten while you were at Falmouth Neck?”

  Now that, he thought, with a startled mixture of amusement and exasperation, was more like the old Delia. Damn her, but she could still disconcert him. He could feel his face coloring and it infuriated him that she could do this to him.

  “Yes. I saw her,” he said, knowing what she would think and knowing it would hurt her.

  “Did you take her to bed?”

  Jesus…

  He hadn’t taken Susannah to bed. He hadn’t because he had spent every damn minute of the past week thinking about, dreaming about, hungering for the silky feel of those heavy round breasts filling his hands and the sound of that soft, husky voice caressing his ear, saying I love ye, Tyler Savitch … love ye … love ye…

  No, he hadn’t slept with Susannah Marsten and he probably never would now. His silence, however, was as good as saying that he had. As he knew it would be.

  “You ought to marry her,” Delia said.

  “I might consider it.” Ty’s smile showed a good part of his teeth and he leaned closer, so close their breath commingled, so close he could smell her. Sassafras soap and bayberry candles and a musky, erotic smell that was all hers and made him think of sex. It brought his manhood to instant hard and trembling life. He thought he just might hate her for being able to do that to him.

  Her lips parted open as she took in a breath and he considered smothering her mouth with his. Instead he said, “Have you taken up matchmaking, brat? Now that you’re going to be a happily married woman yourself.”

  She actually laughed. He was deliberately trying to wound her and she was laughing. For a moment he fantasized wrapping his hands around that slender neck and throttling her. She was driving him crazy.

  “Why won’t you marry her?” Delia asked.

  “Damn it!” He slammed his hand on the post, inches from her face. She didn’t even flinch. “What is this obsession that you have with marriage?”

  “She’s a nice person, Ty. And she’s in love with you.”

  “Well, that’s too bloody bad because I’m not in love with her!”

  He hadn’t meant to say that, but once said he had thought the admission would at least please her. Instead she frowned. “Hasn’t there ever been a woman you loved, Ty?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  He leaned close to her again, so close this time that their lips almost touched. Hers parted open again as she sucked in a sharp breath. “This is all some kind of a trick, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and hard. “You and Nat Parkes and this bloody ridiculous marriage. You think I won’t let you go through with it, that I’ll stop it at the last minute—well, I’ve got a surprise for you, Delia-girl …”

  He seized her arms, giving her a rough shake, and continued to shake her as he shouted into her face. “I don’t love you, Delia, and no amount of wishing and conniving on your part is going to convince me that I do. And there is nothing, nothing you can do that will make me love you!”

  He flung her away and stepped back the better to survey the damage he had done. He was hurting inside, confused, and, to his shame, frightened. He blamed her for it and so, like a child, he had wanted to hurt her back. He got his wish. Her face was white and frozen, as if sculpted of ice, her eyes two black, bottomless holes, and he couldn’t bear it.

  He came within a second of enfolding her in his arms and telling her that it was all lies, lies, lies. Not only was he afraid that he did love her, but he thought he was probably damned to love her the rest of his life. And if he let himself do that, let himself love her, then he would inevitably lose her. And if that happened just one more time, he wouldn’t be able to bear it, it would certainly kill him, and still … still, he almost gave himself away.

  But then she thrust out that proud, defiant chin and her eyes flared wide. “Are ye done shoutin’ at me, Tyler Savitch?”

  “No, by God—”

  “Because I don’t have the time t’ listen t’ it. I’m supposed t’ be gettin’ dressed. For my weddin’.”

  She brushed past him, heading for the open doorway.

  “Delia!” he shouted after her.

  But she didn’t stop and she didn’t look back.

  Nat Parkes climbed the sloping hill behind the barn, his wooden foot dragging through the green wheat. The hill had been the first of his land that he had cleared and planted the year he bought the farm. He did it first because it backed up to the house and he feared the murdering, heathen savages could sneak up too easily on them through the dense trees and underbrush.

  Mary had worked right alongside him to clear the hill, until she realized she was carrying Meg. Then she slowed down on the heavy work, and chopping down brush and pulling stumps was indeed heavy work. Perhaps it was because they had worked this hill together, but whatever the reason, it had always been Mary’s favorite spot. She often would come up there alone, “to have a conversation with myself,” as she would say.

  And so it was the place he had chosen to bury her.

  After two months the freshly turned black earth had dried to brown. But the marker still looked new. He’d had a stone carver in Portsmouth hew it for him. It was etched with a death’s-head on top, and below that the words: Here lies the body of Mary Parkes born 1693 aged 28 years. He’d wanted to have Beloved Wife and Mother in there somewhere, but the stone carver had run out of room.

  He knelt and traced the letters of her name.

  Mary…

  It’s happening today, Mary. I’m marrying that girl. I guess I told you already her name is Delia McQuaid. I’m not sure you’d approve of her much. She’s a bit ungodly, I’m afraid, and I suspect she can be notional too, at times. He gave a weak laugh. You always said a man should steer clear of notional women … Trouble is, Mary, she’s what Dr. Ty brought back with him from Boston, so I suppose she’s the one it has to be. I haven’t th
e heart to go looking for another.

  His head fell back and he gazed up at the sky, his throat working to suppress the tears. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  I wish now you hadn’t asked me for that promise, Mary. I suppose you were thinking of the girls and you knew I’d never marry again if left to my own will. And I wouldn’t have. There can never be one to take your place, Mary. Never—

  His shoulders jerked and hunched, and he pressed his palms hard into his face to stifle a sob.

  Aw Lord, Mary … What did you want to go and die on me for?

  Anne Bishop wound a wreath of goldenrod and daisies through the shining black coils of Delia’s hair. Her hand lingered on the single curl that had been left to fall over Delia’s shoulder, her rough fingers snagging in the silken tresses.

  Anne stepped back and Delia looked down at herself, running her palms over the smooth bodice of her new linen short gown. She lifted the folds of the calico petticoat, marveling at its light softness. It was the shade of an apple tree in full bloom, with tiny green dots. Her short gown was the color of forest moss with ruffled elbow-length sleeves. Her skirt rustled when she walked and brushed against her legs, feeling like the soft strokes of a hundred goose feathers. It was a practical outfit for a wilderness wedding—too fine for wearing to work in the fields, but not so extravagant that it wouldn’t do for a typical Sabbath-day meeting.

  Laughing suddenly, she twirled on the toes of her new leather slippers. “Oh, Anne, I feel so pretty!”

  Anne rubbed at the corner of one eye with her knuckle. “You look as beautiful as a Kennebec swan.”

  Delia stopped dancing. She smiled into Anne’s pinched and weathered face. Faded brown eyes looked back at her, unblinking, but with a warmth that brought a soft glow to Delia’s chest. During the past ten days she had grown to love this strange, irascible woman. In many ways Anne Bishop had become for Delia the mother she had lost when she was nine.