Only slightly comforted by his elaboration, Rose had to be sure. “So then everything is fine at Mr. Smith’s trading post, just as if he were in a foreign country like Spain or Portugal.” It was more question than statement.
Kinyon cocked his head back and forth. “More or—”
Following his gaze, Rose saw that the trader had risen.
Smith peered at the two men then at her. “I see ya got breakfast goin’. Good. We’ll be hittin’ the trail soon as we’ve et.” He strode toward the Indian camp. “You boys start loadin’ the horses.”
“Reckon we better get to ours, too.” Kinyon stood to his feet. “No sense keepin’ Eustice waitin’.”
As far as Rose was concerned, the later they broke camp and left, the better, because nothing Mr. Kinyon or Mr. Bloom had said made her feel any more at ease about what lay in her future. She’d overheard the frontiersman tell the trader last eve that several hundred French soldiers were heading south…and they had Indian allies aiding them in their intentions.
Chapter 7
Rummaging through the sacks by the campfire, Rose unearthed enough spoons, wooden bowls, and cups for herself and the three men to use for breakfast. Now she had to figure out where to set things. What she would give for a proper table covered with pristine linen and lovely china, a real home. She’d taken such niceties for granted back in England, where she had no difficulty acting the hostess and serving guests. But out here in the woods, nearby logs and stones would have to suffice.
The ever-present awareness that the men in both camps observed her slightest movement both perplexed her and filled her with a strange sense of worth. Back home in Bath, most locals had considered her only goldsmith Henry Harwood’s spinster daughter. Those who knew how she’d taken her mother’s place and cared for her family members looked on her with pity that she’d never experience the benefits bestowed by matrimony.
Lifting the kettle away from the fire to pour in tea leaves for steeping, Rose glanced up to see how far along the men were with tying the bundles onto the packhorses. Obviously this was the accepted mode of transporting goods in the colonies, as normal and common as the freight wagons that rumbled along the cobblestone streets of Bath to deliver wares to the city’s wealthy inhabitants.
One particular detail set the Indians apart from the English, however, and that was the variety of ways they dressed their straight black hair. Two of the braves wore braids. Another had his head shaved except for a short, narrow strip running from front to back, and a fourth let his hair flow loose, except for a small braid on each side. The one herding cows had the front portion pulled up in a topknot that exploded with feathers. But all of them used beads and feathers in assorted ways to decorate their hair.
And one of them leveled a bold stare right at her.
Diverting her gaze, Rose walked purposefully over to her bedding, gathered it up, and carried it to her trunk. Except for Mr. Smith’s disgusting blanket, she folded each item and packed it away so her things would be ready to be picked up when the men carted off the foodstuff. Thank goodness the trader hadn’t required her to load her chest onto a horse. It was one thing to drag her property along on the ground, as she’d done when they’d traveled by flatboat, but quite another to have to lift the heavy belongings over her head.
After she finished packing the chest, she locked it and laid the folded tarp and red blanket on top. Another glance toward the men revealed Mr. Kinyon, Mr. Bloom, and Mr. Smith heading toward her. She reached up and gave a quick pat to her hair to make certain no stray wisps had worked loose before pouring the tea.
“Everything’s ready,” she said on their arrival. She fixed a cup of half tea, half milk and handed it to the odorous trader.
Slightly out of breath, as if he’d just completed backbreaking labor, he dropped down on a log, eyes closed, and took a sip of the hot brew.
Rose flicked a glance at the other two men. “Would you care for milk in yours as well?”
“No, it’s fine like this.” Mr. Bloom reached out a hand for his.
Mr. Kinyon nodded as he accepted the one offered to him. “Same here. We don’t wanna be no bother.”
“An’ I’ll be holdin’ ya to that,” the trader announced in his weary tone. He opened his narrow eyes enough to glare at them.
Rose leaned over the pot and scooped a portion of mush into a wooden bowl, adding some crushed sugar, milk, and a spoon. She handed it to her owner. “’Tis such a lovely morn.” She dished out a second bowl. “The sun has come up, the birds are singing, and the hand of Almighty God kept us safe through the long night. I do believe we would be remiss if we forgot to ask Him to bless our food and today’s journey.”
The three swapped dubious looks. Mr. Smith put down his spoon.
Rose handed Mr. Kinyon the next bowl, oddly aware that he didn’t meet her gaze this time. He just stood there, cup in one hand, bowl in the other. As she scooped out Mr. Bloom’s portion, an awkward sort of silence permeated the air. Nevertheless, Rose was not about to retract her request. If her lot was to accompany these men into the wilderness, she was determined to take the Lord along with her.
Finally the trader cleared his throat. “I b’lieve Nate here’s the one who usually gives the blessing, don’t you, boy?” He winked at Mr. Bloom.
Mr. Kinyon’s eyes flared wide. He glanced from Mr. Smith to his partner, who was losing his battle against a grin. Adjusting his stance, the frontiersman inhaled a sharp breath and turned to Rose. “Once you’re settled, I’d be glad to do the prayin’.”
Though he’d given in to the woman to be polite, Nate felt as if he’d just been cornered by a pack of ravenous wolves. Nobody had asked him to say grace over food in—in—how many years? Not as far back as he could recall. And both those jokesters knew it.
Miss Harwood remained calm, as if she’d just asked the most natural thing in the world, then she sprang to her feet. “Oh! I’ve forgotten to bring out the dried meat.” She set down her bowl and hurried to retrieve some from one of the sacks.
Given a moment’s blessed reprieve, Nate racked his brain for the words his father always said before meals. Father in heaven…Father in heaven…bless the food…. What else?
All too soon the woman was back, passing strips of jerky to each of them.
His partner and that snake-in-the-grass Smith still sported mocking grins.
Miss Harwood retook her seat on the trunk and looked expectantly up at him with those luminous blue eyes, eyes filled with so much hope they stole his breath.
Nate shot a quick glance to see if the Shawnee were watching, but they were occupied with their own meal and not paying them any mind. Relieved, he filled his lungs and let out all the breath at once. All right. He could do this. How hard could it be?
Three heads bowed. Waiting.
Nate removed his broad-brimmed hat and cleared his throat. He swallowed. “Father in heaven, bless this food, an’…an’ thank You for…for a cloudless day an’…a pretty woman to look at.” Couldn’t hurt to be charming. “Oh, an’ amen.” Then, realizing he was the only one still standing, he slapped his hat back on, plopped onto his buffalo robe, and balanced his mush along with the cup of tea, glad the ordeal was over.
A snicker issued from the log as Mr. Smith hiked his shaggy brows. “Didn’t know ya had it in ya.”
Nate branded him with a glower. “There’s a lot about me folks don’t know, Eustice.”
The trader gave a grudging nod. “A lotta truth in that. You long hunters spend most of yer time braggin’ and lyin’ about how you can shoot out the eye of a squirrel at a hundred yards, or how you outwrestled some she-bear. We never hear the real stuff.”
A span of uncomfortable silence magnified the sounds of forest creatures coming to life. Already the tree toads’ chorus drowned out the trill of the birds cavorting from branch to branch in the nearby thicket. Overhead a hawk circled against the blue sky, on the hunt for a warm, tasty morsel to carry off in its talons and devour.
Miss Harwood’s gentle voice broke into the quiet. “Mr. Kinyon, I believe you spoke of going to visit your mother yesterday. Pray, where does she live?”
Glad for the change of subject, Nate felt his tension ease. “A couple days downriver from where you docked, miss. My older brother took over my pa’s place after he passed on. Ma stayed there with him an’ his young’uns.”
“Then I’m sure she’s well cared for.” She took a spoon of mush and swallowed it. “It must give you great comfort to know your mother’s in good hands when you’re deep in the wilderness.”
He spoke in all candor. “Never gave it much thought, to tell you the truth. With the farm goin’ to the oldest son, I figger the duty of lookin’ after Ma fell to him, too. Besides, she’s real partial to his offspring. Young Nathan, the one they named after his handsome, adventurous uncle, he’s a real corker.” Feeling the tips of his ears heat up at the outrageous boast, Nate gave her a lopsided grin. “An’ I myself was named after someone in the Bible, Miss Harwood. Ma was pretty fond of a couple of the prophets an’ liked to read their writin’s over an’ over.”
At this, Bob set his empty bowl aside and chimed in. “Far as names go, I got Nate’s beat by a mile. I was named after Scotland’s greatest king, Robert the Bruce.”
She smiled. “How splendid. That man was a great leader, freeing the Scots from an oppressive English king.” She looked back at Nate. “And Nathan in the Old Testament was a brave prophet indeed to stand up to King David and cause him to face the dreadful sin he’d committed by taking another man’s wife. I should like you gentlemen to know I think it’s marvelous that you both honor your heritage…as I do mine.”
Smith snorted under his breath, but Nate ignored him. “From your manner an’ speech, Miss Harwood, I can tell you came from a fine family. Whereabouts is it, exactly, that you hail from?”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Kinyon. I do indeed come from fine, God-fearing folk. And had it not been for the untimely death of a young lord who owed my father a great deal of money, I allow I’d still be living in the bosom of my family in Bath, England. But alas, many sacrifices had to be made to spare our family from total ruin.”
The trader guffawed with such relish, mush spewed out of his mouth. He wiped his chin on his sleeve. “Woman, I’d say any family what has to sell off its daughters is already in ruination.”
She hiked her chin and arched her brows higher, answering him with a tinge of vexation in her voice. “I should have you know, Mr. Smith, that my sisters and I gladly took it upon ourselves to sell our services for a mere four years to save our family’s home and livelihood. I’ve not the slightest doubt that our father will have saved enough funds to send for us by the time we have completed our terms, if not before.”
Intrigued by her story despite the limited details she’d provided, Nate wanted her to be sure he was on her side. “Know that I’m at your service, lass, for as long as you need me.”
She returned an appreciative gaze to him and opened her lips to speak but was interrupted.
“Me, too,” Bob injected. Nate glared at his irritating partner for butting in.
The trader shook his head in disgust and got up from the log, not bothering to dust off his backside. “Just remember, both of ya, she’s at my service and in my service…which reminds me. Get done eatin’, woman, and git this mess cleaned up. Day’s a’wastin’.” Swinging around, he stalked off toward the heavily laden packhorses.
Fifty pounds. Glaring after him, Nate bit his tongue at the man’s churlish treatment of such a refined young woman. Somehow, some way, he had to get his hands on fifty pounds. And a profit.
Chapter 8
Settled again on the horse she’d ridden the day before, Rose did her best to ignore her aching thighs—which doubtless would feel added torture by day’s end. Ahead of her, Mr. Smith’s mount lumbered along, the muscles of its rump twitching, its straggly tail swishing away blackflies. The steady plodding of the horses’ hooves, along with their blowing and nickering, made time pass slowly. From time to time a break in the forest canopy overhead allowed a view of fluffy clouds floating across the expanse of blue. Colorful birds flew among the branches, and the occasional squirrel scampered up a nearby tree trunk. In other circumstances, this could be a pleasant day’s diversion from one’s daily life. Alas, these circumstances were far from that.
Rose reflected back on the panic she’d experienced at the start of the journey. No amount of praying had calmed her fears about accompanying a strange man and five Indians into deep, dark wilds filled with unidentifiable sounds. This morn, however, she had two knights in shining armor—well, not so shiny, attired in buckskin instead of hammered mail—but still, they were in attendance and hopefully would protect her from harm. She smiled thinly, feeling a bit safer.
The ache in her heart, though, she could not dismiss. How were her sisters faring? Had Mariah settled into her life at the Barclay Plantation? Did she get along with Colin Barclay’s mother? And was she remembering to act ladylike and not be a flirt?
And what of dear, sweet Lily? Had she reached her new home? Mr. Kinyon said she’d be located quite a distance from Baltimore. Was she safe now and providing the needed care for her new owner’s sickly wife? Please take care of both my sisters, Father…and please hasten the day when we’ll be together again.
The trail broadened, and Robert the Bruce Bloom moved alongside Rose on his sleek black horse. Strange, he appeared every inch as much the savage as Smith’s Indians, yet he seemed as endearing to her as her youngest brother, Tommy. With skin several shades deeper than a white man’s, his features were pleasant, his form tall, lean, and honed. Since he and Mr. Kinyon had joined the party, one or the other would ride next to her whenever space allowed, each regaling her with exploits that outshone his partner’s.
As Mr. Bloom approached, Rose planned to take charge of the conversation. His civilized ways fascinated her, and she wanted to learn more about his unusual past.
“Miss Harwood.” He greeted her with a broad grin.
She started right in. “Mr. Bloom. I’d like to ask you something, if I may.”
“What is that?” Concern furrowed his dusky brow, making his dark brown eyes appear almost black.
To put him at ease, she offered him a small smile. “I’m curious regarding your parents. Having just arrived from across the water, I’ve never had occasion to meet someone with your background.”
His smile fell flat. “You mean about me bein’ a half-breed?”
“Not at all. That term hardly describes your heritage. You’ve actually had the advantage of having parents from two different continents…a man of two worlds.”
His jovial grin reappeared, and he sat straighter in the saddle. “That does have a more pleasurable ring to it.” He paused then continued. “My ma was captured and sold as a slave when she was young, and my pa took it on hisself to marry up with her an’ take her to live on his farm. So you’re right about the two worlds. Trouble is I never feel like both my feet are welcome in either one, an’ no matter where I go, seems part of me’s left on the outside.”
Rose gave a light laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. From the moment I stepped foot on this continent I’ve felt as if neither of my feet is touching solid ground. In my wildest girlhood dreams, I never expected to be here in the colonies, let alone find myself traversing a wilderness trail to an unknown destination.”
“You came as a surprise to us, too.” He chuckled along with her. “It’s different with me an’ Nate, though. His pa’s place bordered ours, so him an’ me grew up together as boys, playin’ together, fishin’ together, best friends. I even had me some schoolin’ along with him. When we go out on our own, explorin’ some new piece of country, my feet’s jest where they wanna be. A’course, there was a spell when the two of us was separated for some years, when Ma run off with me back to her own people.”
“Mercy. I’m sure going to a whole new world must have been difficu
lt for a young lad.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Not too bad. They was more willin’ to accept my English blood than the white man was my Indian side. I got used to bein’ looked down on or just plain ignored by folks. But I had some catchin’ up to do with Ma’s people, learnin’ to hunt with a bow an’ such. A lot of their ways seemed strange. Pa’s Presbyterian teachin’s pulled one way and theirs the other.”
“I can understand that.” But she wanted to know more, so she plunged on. “How were you able to reconcile the two different teachings?”
He laughed. “If you’d a’knowed my pa, you wouldn’t ask that. When I was near sixteen, I came back out to see how him an’ Nate was doin’, an’ Pa wouldn’t let up on me till he set me straight. He took down his big ol’ Bible ever’ night an’ read it out loud at the supper table after we finished eatin’. An’ once when that preacher Reverend Whitefield come through our town, Pa drug me to the meetin’ place to hear him. That Reverend Whitefield was one powerful preacher, a true man of God, an’ like they say, I ‘saw the light.’ I like to think of myself as one of them New Lights. Nate doesn’t b’lieve like me yet, though. I’m still workin’ on him.”
Rose wondered what Nate’s beliefs were. He’d prayed that rather odd prayer at breakfast this morn, but it seemed to come from his heart. She barely restrained herself from turning around to look at him. Instead, she moistened her lips and inhaled deeply. “George Whitefield has also preached to great crowds in my country. I never sat under his teaching myself, however. My family’s in good standing with the Church of England. And from what I understand,” she added with diplomacy, “the Reverend Whitefield’s beliefs differ somewhat from our own.”
“That makes you an Anglican, don’t it?”
Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140) Page 8
