Too Far to Whisper

by Arianna Eastland

  Rosalind silently scolded herself for allowing that fact to unnerve her. After all, it was not as if she rarely encountered Indians. They frequently ventured into town to trade. Still, whenever she was in the presence of one, she felt ill at ease.

  The two workers, both carrying spades, now stood directly before her and Nathaniel. Rosalind’s gaze instantly was drawn to the younger of the two. He wore snug leather breeches, nothing more. His muscular chest and taut, flat stomach glistened with a light film of perspiration. His chest was hairless and smooth, something she was not accustomed to seeing. Her eyes rose. His hair, well past his shoulders in length, was glossy and so black, it shone blue in the sunlight, and was held back with a strip of leather. Rosalind decided that his face, with its high cheekbones, strong chin and jaw, and large, dark eyes with their thick fringe of lashes, was one of the most striking she had ever seen.

  The other Indian, who was similarly attired, was several inches shorter, much older and not nearly as muscular nor as visually appealing as his companion. Curiously, he also had two prominent slits carved just above each nostril on his hawk-like nose.

  “The Indians who trade in town have told us this one is called Shadow Runner.” Nathaniel inclined his head toward the younger man. “Shadow, for short. Last summer, my father caught him trying to steal one of our finest ewes. The savage so badly injured the animal, it had to be slaughtered. Had the decision been mine, he would have been swinging from the gallows, but my father instead chose to put him to work here until he is satisfied the sheep’s value has been met. For some reason, my father seems bent on keeping peace with the savages.”

  Rosalind eyed Shadow somewhat warily. His unblinking black eyes returned her gaze. The way he stood – straight, with his shoulders back – and the way he held his head with his chin tilted upward, gave him an air of importance, even regality. Shadow, she was convinced, was more than just some common sheep thief.

  “Although he appears to understand some of what we say,” Nathaniel continued, “he has never spoken. I do not know if it is because he cannot or will not.” He shrugged. “From what I have heard, he is the son of a sachem, but I am finding that bit of information difficult to believe. No son of a chief ever would have allowed himself to be disgraced by being caught doing something as paltry as stealing a sheep.”

  Shadow’s expression remained closed, but Rosalind noticed his fingers tighten around the handle of his spade. The Indian was neither shackled nor guarded, which puzzled her. “Why does he not escape?”

  “Getting caught for thievery dishonored him,” the older Indian responded in surprisingly good English. “He now must accept his punishment, not run from it like a coward.”

  “That one is called Silver Cloud,” Nathaniel said. “He stole from his own people, repeatedly. Offenders such as he are oft permanently branded to mark them as thieves. In Silver Cloud’s case, the sachem slit his nostrils.”

  Rosalind grimaced at Nathaniel’s words. In all of Ben’s frightening tales about Indians, he never once had mentioned nostril slitting. And even if he had, she doubted she would have believed him.

  “He is an outcast, shunned by his people,” Nathaniel added.

  Rosalind noticed that Silver Hawk’s jaw clenched in response to Nathaniel’s words. She thought it odd the captain would speak of each man as if he were invisible, when both were standing right before them.

  “He was seen wandering about here so frequently,” Nathaniel continued, “my father, with pistol in hand, finally confronted him and threatened to jail him for trespassing. Alas, as you can see…he did not. Silver Cloud has been with us for three years now.”

  Rosalind began to suspect Elias Corwin was not the heartless brute the rumors had led her to believe he was. In fact, from what Nathaniel was describing, he seemed to have more compassion than she ever would have imagined.

  “So, is this your new woman?” Silver Cloud asked Nathaniel.

  His bold question brought an immediate blush to Rosalind’s fair skin. “Nay,” she responded before Nathaniel could. “I am here to see to the care of Mrs. Corwin. My name is Rosalind Chandler.”

  “You are too pretty.” Silver Cloud’s compliment was spoken with no warmth. “Be careful.”

  The warning look in his eyes did not escape Rosalind’s notice. She opened her mouth to ask him for what purpose she should be careful, when Nathaniel interrupted. “Well, enough of this idle chatter,” he said, directing a scowl at Silver Cloud. “You men still have work to complete ere nightfall, so I suggest you hasten back to it. Come, Rosalind.” He took her by the elbow. “We already have been away from my mother far too long.”

  Not wishing to defy Nathaniel, Rosalind allowed him to lead her away from the clearing…and the Indians.

  As she and Nathaniel slowly walked back up the knoll, Rosalind could not dismiss the feeling she was being watched. So disturbing was the sensation, she heard only bits and pieces of Nathaniel’s lengthy narrative about his last voyage to France. Finally, when she could bear the feeling no longer, she stole a glance over her shoulder and spied Shadow, still standing where they had left him, his hands resting on the handle of his spade, his eyes burning into her back. She gasped and snapped her head back toward Nathaniel.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “Indians make me uneasy. They always have.”

  “’Tis not unusual. Many people feel ill at ease around savages…and with good cause.”

  * * * * *

  Rosalind supped with Abigail in her chamber that evening. The woman had invited her to sit on the large bed with her and share a trencher of bread, cheese, boiled pork and dried apples. As they nibbled on the fare, Rosalind seized the opportunity to learn more about Abigail.

  “May I inquire as to how long you have been ailing?” she asked, hoping Abigail would not take offense at such a personal question.

  “For the better part of a year.” She drew a long breath. “At first, the weak spells lingered not more than a day or two, and then several weeks of good health would follow. But now I am constantly weak and tired. There no longer are good days…only bad. I fear I have not much longer to live.”

  “Please, do not say such a thing.” Rosalind took a sip of cider, then gathered the courage to ask, “Have you no desire to live to witness the births of your grandchildren?”

  Abigail shook her head. “’Tis too far away to even consider. Neither of my sons is yet betrothed, and neither seems eager to remedy that situation, despite my constant urging. I shall consider myself fortunate if I am still breathing when…or if, one of them finally decides to wed.”

  Rosalind noticed that the tray on Abigail’s lap was sliding to one side, so she moved to adjust it before any of the food or drink spilled onto the bed quilt. It was such a beautiful quilt, Rosalind thought – soft and white and covered with what resembled an entire garden of embroidered flowers – it would be such a pity if it were to become stained.

  “You cannot predict fate’s plan,” Rosalind said. “Why, Matthew might very well return home from college with a bride on his arm.”

  Abigail smiled. “You do not know Matthew. He is more likely to return home with a stack of books in his arms than a wife. Were he given the choice of a willing woman in his bed or a newly written book, he would opt to take the book to his bed.”

  Rosalind giggled. “You jest!”

  “Nay, I swear ‘’tis the truth.” Abigail’s smile grew. “I do suspect if anyone takes a bride, ‘twill be Nathaniel, long before Matthew even considers the notion.”

  “From what I have heard,” Rosalind said, “the young women in this town would gladly chop off their right hands for the opportunity to wed either of your sons.”

  “Are you one of those women?” Abigail’s eyebrows rose.

  Rosalind’s bite of bread nearly lodged in her throat. “Oh, I did not mean to imply…I –I mean, no, I am not here to pursue one of your sons. I pray I did not give you that impression.”

&nbs
p; Abigail placed her hand over Rosalind’s. “Nay, my dear child. I have become quite gifted at determining which women are out to snare one of my boys. I liken them to spiders, hungrily awaiting their prey to be caught in their webs. You, Rosalind, are not one of those spiders. Of that, I am certain.”

  “I am much relieved to hear you say that. Believe me when I say I have no interest in wedding either of your sons…though I am sure they would make fine husbands. But truth be known, I do not ever wish to wed, and I shall firmly discourage any man who attempts to make me his bride.”

  “’Tis strange talk for such a charming young woman. Tell me, child, what has so poisoned your mind against marriage?”

  “Many things. Trust me when I state that I know what is best for me.”

  Abigail’s brow creased. “And what is best for you is to spend the rest of your life alone, never knowing the joys of motherhood or the warmth of a babe against your breast?”

  “Aye.” The response came in a whisper. “’Twas not meant to be.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “’Tis really not something I care to discuss.” Rosalind lifted pleading eyes to Abigail. “Would it be too terribly rude of me to request a change of topic?”

  Although the girl’s obvious discomfort greatly piqued Abigail’s curiosity, she decided it best not to upset her on the first day of her employ. The topic of men and marriage would be dropped…for now. Nevertheless, Abigail thought, soon enough she would learn the whole truth about Mistress Chandler.

  “So,” Abigail said, “Have you had the opportunity to meet everyone here yet?”

  “I have met your housemaids, Grace and Marian, and also Shadow Runner and Silver Cloud, who were out clearing your land.”

  “Then you have not met Jonathan?”

  Rosalind shook her head.

  Abigail took a nibble of bread that scarcely was larger than a crumb. The woman’s lack of appetite concerned Rosalind. She never would regain her strength if she continued to eat nary enough to fill an ant’s belly.

  “Jonathan frequented our tavern,” Abigail said, frowning at the memory. “The man was always alone and had a fondness for ale, which he drank until he barely could stand. We learned he had lost his wife during childbirth on the first anniversary of their marriage. The babe lived but only a few hours, which probably was why Jonathan took to drinking so heavily. Elias felt sorry for him and decided perhaps what he needed was a purpose in life, so he offered him a job here, caring for our stock. ‘Tis a very rare occasion now when you will spy him lifting a tankard.”

  “Has he no desire to wed again and have a family?”

  “Aye, he does, but I fear the tales of his past drunkenness have made him less than a desirable choice for a future husband in the eyes of most women here in town.

  “Where do Jonathan…and the Indians…sleep?” Rosalind broached the subject somewhat hesitantly. “Here, in the house?”

  “Nay,” Abigail replied. “They sleep in one of the sheds near the stables. ‘Tis quite comfortable there.”

  Rosalind was relieved to learn she would not be sleeping under the same roof with savages. She remained silent for a moment as she stifled a yawn. Suddenly she felt unbearably tired. “I fear the hour has grown late,” she finally said. She stood and lifted the trencher and Abigail’s tray from the bed and set them on a nearby stool. “I think it would be wise for you to get some rest now.”

  “But I am so enjoying our conversation,” Abigail protested.

  “And I, also. But we both could benefit from some sleep. Truth be known, I am feeling quite weary. My anxiety about leaving home robbed me of a good night’s sleep last night.”

  “Oh, dear child! How inconsiderate of me! I should have realized that today would be very trying for you. By all means, feel free to return to your chamber. Do not allow me to delay you a moment longer.”

  “First,” Rosalind said, “I must make certain you take your medicine. Your husband has informed me that despite Dr. Tuthill’s orders to take a spoonful each day, you have been most uncooperative.”

  “It tastes terrible,” Abigail said, sticking out her tongue. “I dare not imagine what dreadful ingredients Dr. Tuthill combined to make the vile potion!”

  Smiling and shaking her head, Rosalind removed the bottle from the waist of her apron and opened it. She then poured a drop of the liquid onto her index finger and licked it. “It tastes of rosemary and hyssop,” she said. “’Tis not unpleasant at all. I am going to give you a spoonful and you will swallow it, will you not?” She raised an eyebrow at Abigail.

  Abigail sighed and scowled, though her eyes could not conceal her amusement. “I was hoping you would be a timid sort, but ‘tis quite apparent you are just the opposite!” She opened her mouth just wide enough to accept the medicine from Rosalind.

  “There, that was not so bad now, was it? You will probably be a new woman by sunrise!”

  “If I could be assured this medicine were indeed some miracle cure, I would gladly drink every last drop of it. I am still not entirely convinced, however, that it is not some foul poison.”

  “Get some sleep now,” Rosalind said. “I shall see you bright and early in the morn.”

  Struggling to carry the trencher, tray and a candle to light her way, Rosalind departed Abigail’s chamber and stepped out into the hallway. As much as she wanted to go directly into her own chamber and collapse onto the soft bed, she first had to return the trencher and tray to the kitchen downstairs.

  She took but three steps when the wooden tray slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

  “Allow me to get that for you,” Nathaniel’s voice startled her. The man was like a cat, she thought, creeping silently about the house and springing out of darkened corners when least expected.

  Nathaniel bent to pick up the tray but did not hand it to her. “Go to your chamber,” he said. “I shall take this and the trencher down to the kitchen for you. That is where I am headed anyway.”

  “Thank you, sir, but ‘tis my duty,” Rosalind said. “I shall do it myself.”

  Nathaniel did not step aside to allow her to pass. “Do not your duties cease when my mother goes to sleep?” he asked.

  “I do not believe my duties ever cease, sir. If she calls out for me, what then?”

  “Then ‘tis it not better if you are in your chamber adjoining hers and not down in the kitchen?” His lips curved into a smile, causing the dimples in his cheeks to appear.

  “I suppose so.” Sighing, Rosalind handed the trencher to him and then moved back toward the door to her room. “Thank you.” Her fingers were on the handle when she felt Nathaniel’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Were you not even going to wish me a good night?” he asked.

  Rosalind turned to look up at him. His eyes locked with hers and he moved a few inches closer.

  “Good night, Captain Corwin.” She opened the door to her chamber and stepped inside.

  “Call me Nathaniel,” he called after her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Mistress Rosalind,” Grace’s voice halted her as she walked into the kitchen the next afternoon. “Would you be kind enough to fetch a bucket of water and take it out to the workers? I would do the deed myself but I am in the midst of preparing Mister Corwin’s favorite dish – eel pie.”

  “Eel pie?” Rosalind wrinkled her nose. Although the pie also had been one her father’s favorites, she never had acquired a taste for it.

  “Do not look so concerned, child.” Grace chuckled. “A tasty meat stew is already simmering on the lug pole, and Marian baked several loaves of bread this morn.”

  Grace was not telling her something she did not already know. The scent of freshly baked bread had filled the house all morning.

  “Stew sounds more to my liking,” Rosalind said. She walked over to the hearth and grabbed the water bucket that sat on the floor next to it, then headed out the door.

  The warmth of the afternoon sun surrounded her like a soft
blanket as she slowly walked to toward the knoll. She welcomed the opportunity to be outside, away from Abigail’s dark, musty chamber. She had spent the morning tending to the woman’s needs – bathing her, reading the Bible to her, changing her bedding, brushing her hair and braiding it, and completing what seemed like a hundred other tasks. Although Rosalind was fond of Abigail, the thought of being confined with her for countless hours day after day, was far from appealing. Perhaps, Rosalind, decided, Abigail’s health and mood might improve if she were able to sit out in the sun for a short spell each day. The woman’s wan complexion begged for color, and her lungs could only benefit from a breath of fresh air. Rosalind had offered to open the shutters and let some light enter Abigail’s chamber, but the woman had protested, saying she preferred the dark.

  The Corwins’ land stretched out from the top of the knoll to as far as the eye could see. Rosalind paused at the top to watch a raven flying overhead. A part of her wished she could be like that raven and fly…far away from her new life and back to her old one. To her, it already seemed as if she had been away from her family for weeks instead of only a day.

  She was relieved to spy the two Indians, who were separated by a short distance, toiling in a section of the clearing that was closest to her. Her arm was beginning to ache from carrying the heavy bucket.

  As Rosalind approached the two men, her eyes immediately cut toward Shadow Runner. The Indian wore no shoes or shirt, and his deeply bronzed chest glowed as he worked to dig a stump from the soil. His snug breeches clung to his narrow hips and solid thighs, and when he bent over, Rosalind found herself unable to tear her gaze away from the hollows of his back, just above his buttocks.

  Shadow abruptly straightened and turned to look at her. For reasons Rosalind did not understand, the moment she set eyes on his face, she felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

  “I-I brought you some water,” she said. She plunked the bucket down in front of him with such force, a good portion of the water splashed over his feet.

  Shadow squatted before the bucket, cupped his hands, dipped them into the water and drank from them. He then rubbed some of the water on his face and neck. He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded his silent thanks to her.