Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140)

by Crawford, Dianna; Laity, Sally

  Her husband tilted his head toward Rose. “This here’s Rose Harwood. I brung her to cook fer me. Miss Harwood, this is my wife, Fawn Woman Smith.”

  Too devastated to utter a response, Rose merely stared as the woman raked her head to toe with her deep brown gaze and grunted. She reached out and felt Rose’s gown. “Want gown.” She pouted at her husband.

  That Indian woman wants my clothes! Not only is she not English, she wants my clothes! Rose all but choked.

  Mr. Smith steered his wife away. “Ya don’t need that rag o’ hers, Fawn. I brung you a gown of yer own. Better an’ much grander than hers. You’ll see.”

  “Hmph.” Only slightly mollified, the squaw crossed her arms in defiance. “She cook for you. I no eat pale-woman food. Woman no sleep in my wigwam.”

  “She won’t have to,” the trader agreed, “soon as ya build her one next to ours.”

  “Me?” The squaw raised her chin and sneered.

  “Aye, woman. You.”

  She huffed and pursed her lips. “Want gown. Give now.”

  Smith appeared noticeably weary of the situation, but his determined stance showed he wasn’t about to give in to his wife or any other female. “First ya build the wigwam. Then ya get the gown. That’s final.” Shaking his grizzled head, he turned to Rose and lifted a hand palm up in question. “What’re you still standin’ there fer? Git a move on. I need that soup quick. I got a powerful ache in my belly.”

  Rose fully understood. Her own stomach wasn’t feeling so wonderful at the moment, imagining the chicken she’d have to butcher with her own hands.

  Having witnessed the conversation, Nate cleared his throat and stepped up beside Rose. “Think I’ll give the little lady a hand, if it’s all the same to you, Eustice.”

  The trader shrugged and stomped away, while his wife cast a scathing glare over her shoulder at both of them and went to see to her task.

  Rose gave the frontiersman a wavering smile. He’d come to her aid again. How could she stay mad at him? Once again God had shown His faithful presence, His mercy. As Papa always said, “God is a sure help in time of need.” She sent a thankful prayer aloft and followed Nate behind the trading post to the chicken pen, her feet dragging the entire way.

  The village lay quiet. Night sounds from the surrounding forest drifted across the area as the moon shed its light on the sleepy settlement. Lounging on his sleeping pallet with a cup of tea at the campfire in front of Rose’s thrown-together wigwam, Nate shook his head, wondering when a gust of wind would blow the pitiful thing clear out over the next ridge. Fawn Woman had put the least effort possible into its construction, her disdain for Eustice’s new cook almost tangible.

  He redirected his thoughts to Rose, already asleep inside the structure’s barely adequate shelter. This day had been a hard one for her, likely the first of many. He’d make her hovel more secure in the morning. Sure had been a sight to behold, though, her chasing after that poor squawking chicken earlier. A smile twitched his lips. How could she be that old without ever having killed a chicken before? Must be because city folk had butchers and bakers at their beck and call. Proper little Rose Harwood was out of her depth, but she did have pluck. She stuck to something till she saw it through.

  Hearing footsteps coming out of the woods, he glanced up to see Eustice Smith returning from answering nature’s call. Nate sprang to his feet and went to intercept the man before he entered his wigwam. “I’d like a private word with you.”

  “What? Now?” Smith let out a weary breath.

  “It’ll only take a minute.” He handed him his leftover tea. “Let’s sit over on your log.”

  Lumbering beside Nate till they reached the fallen wood, Smith sank onto it. “Make it quick. I’m bushed.”

  Uncertain about how to start, Nate decided to go for broke and blurt out the words plain and simple. “Far as I know, Bob still has most of his money from the furs we traded, an’ I’ll be gettin’ some mighty fine pelts myself for that fancy suit I bought before the trip. If you’ll take all of that, plus whatever money I still have on me in trade goods, me an’ Bob’ll go downstream and do some sharp tradin’ in some of the tributaries that don’t have no store. Mebbe get enough in those untried areas so you could retire to that life of ease you was talkin’ about.”

  The old man chuckled. “Ya really do want that little gal I bought, don’t ya’?”

  Not relishing being made sport of, Nate felt his hackles go up. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s French territory you’ll be headin’ into, ya know.” Smith took a sip of the tepid tea.

  Nate shrugged. He’d discerned a hint of interest in the trader’s voice, a good sign. “All the better. Think on it, Eustice. You got finer quality cloth an’ weapons than those Frenchies do. Besides, me an’ Bob can take care of ourselves.”

  Rubbing his shaggy beard in thought, Smith grunted. “Do what you want. I don’t see as how I can lose. I wasn’t much cottonin’ to ya hangin’ around here, distractin’ my cook, anyway.”

  “Distractin’? That what you call help? You should be thankin’ me, man. If it wasn’t for me showin’ her the how-to, Rose’d still be out back tryin’ to catch that chicken you had for supper, an’ you know it.”

  Smith sputtered into a laugh then clutched his belly with a wince and glanced over at Rose’s deplorable wigwam. “That ol’ bird gave her a run fer her money, eh?” He handed the empty cup back to Nate. “Well, there’s no denyin’ the gal cooked me up a fine meal. These innards o’ mine don’t feel near as bad as before. I knowed she’d do me some good.” He nodded in thought and got up.

  Nate watched the man amble away to his wigwam, holding his midsection.

  On his way back to his sleeping pallet, he looked across the moonlit Indian village. It had swelled in size since he’d come through last spring. There had to be thirty-five or forty wigwams now, and at least three longhouses. He could see light streaming from one of those gathering places. Some tribe members must be inside tossing bone dice. Indian men weren’t so different from most footloose men he came across in his travels. They all liked to gamble.

  For a few seconds, he toyed with the idea of joining them. He’d probably get a lot more for his fancy clothes with several men vying for each piece. But then he glanced over at Rose’s shelter and knew she wouldn’t like him gambling. Shaking off the unwonted conviction, he recalled his promise to sleep near her entrance tonight. She’d been pretty jumpy, this being her first night in such a foreign environment. Besides, he really didn’t want to chance losing the few pounds he possessed, not when he needed so much more than that to fulfill his plan.

  He wondered how much money Bob had on him. That partner of his was such a miser, he habitually sent most of his money to his father’s sister for safekeeping. Nate glanced toward the river. Bob should have beaten the caravan and been here long before the party arrived. What was taking him so long? The sooner the two of them went looking for that silver he’d heard about, the sooner they’d get back…and the sooner he’d get his Rose, his Rose of Sharon.

  A small shaft of light fell across Rose’s eyes, awakening her. Blinking against the brightness, she peered up to see sunshine streaming through one of several holes in the cone-shaped wigwam Fawn Woman had slapped together. Rose grimaced, thankful it hadn’t been rain that disturbed her sleep. When she found some free time, she’d patch those spots. Sitting up on the sleeping pallet of furs, she vowed to save up chicken feathers until she had enough to make a softer bed. She took a leisurely stretch as she took stock of the cramped living quarters, half of which was cluttered with sacks and kegs and small chests containing Mr. Smith’s personal foods. There had to be a way to stack them neatly so she’d have more room.

  Sounds from outside drifted to her ears as the village residents began to stir. Rose bolted up from her pallet and opened her trunk, snatching from the contents the now-stained brown gown and its equally spotty apron. No one could possibly envy those. She dres
sed quickly and ran a brush through her hair before tying it back with a ribbon. Then she opened the flap of her wigwam.

  As he’d promised, Nate slept nearby. His thoughtfulness touched her, and she tiptoed quietly past him to take care of her morning needs at the bubbling creek she’d discovered yesterday in a shallow gully behind the crude chicken coop and pen.

  While at the brook, Rose wondered what day of the week had just dawned and calculated it must be Wednesday. She must not lose track again. Scanning the area around her, she found a sharp rock and used it to scratch a line into a nearby tree. She’d make one mark for each day so she’d always know when the Sabbath came.

  In the morning’s quiet freshness, she sat with her back against the beech tree and bowed her head. Dear Father in heaven, thank You that my long journey has finally ended. I don’t understand the reason You brought me here, but I ask for strength and patience as I fulfill my contract. Please help me to be an example of Your love to the Smiths and to remain faithful to my faith, as I promised Mum. And as always, I commit my loved ones into Your loving care.

  On her way back, Rose spied Mrs. Smith emerging from the much larger rounded wigwam in a gaudy red gown more suited for a theater performer than a respectable lady. Her husband’s taste in women’s fashions left much to be desired. Rose kept her features composed as she nodded a greeting to her owner’s wife.

  The Indian woman deliberately averted her face, ignoring her.

  Rose tucked her chin. Surely Fawn Woman Smith doesn’t imagine I’m out to steal her husband. As if I’d be tempted by that filthy old goat! With a shake of her head, she hoped that once the squaw realized there was no possibility of that particular danger, she might become friendlier. After all, they’d be living in close proximity to one another, with wigwams and campfires separated by no more than fifteen feet. With the wigwam belonging to the store’s two guards on the other side of the store, the arrangement was actually quite cozy. A touch too cozy.

  Not wanting to disturb the men, Rose nursed a fire from some banked coals then poured water into the kettle suspended above, all the while adding up how much time being a cook in this primitive setting was going to take. There were chickens to feed, a cow in the makeshift stable to milk, the growing calf and other cattle to drive out to graze in the large pen. Then, of course, there was the garden. That responsibility would probably fall to her as well. Yesterday Nate had mentioned gathering berries and nuts when they were in season. But she’d draw the line at chewing leather to soften it for clothing, as she’d seen an old woman doing in front of a village wigwam. That couldn’t possibly be a cook’s job.

  Once she’d fed the chickens and gathered the eggs, she noticed that Mrs. Smith had started her own fire and stood chatting with another squaw, no doubt showing off that silly red gown.

  “Mornin’, pretty lady,” Nate called with a grin as he came out of the woods.

  She smiled back. “Good morning to you. I’ll have the tea steeping in no time.” She started toward her wigwam for the supplies, intending to ply the frontiersman with a hundred questions. She’d done the same thing yesterday and hoped he wouldn’t lose patience.

  “I’m glad to help,” he said, following after her.

  He always seemed eager to assist her, and she wondered idly if he’d be so accommodating if they were married and he was sure of her. Her cousin back in England complained constantly about being taken for granted. Of course, actually marrying Nate was the furthest thing from Rose’s mind. She got out the ingredients for biscuits and began mixing them. Besides, he seemed more interested in buying her.

  “I’ll see to the milkin’,” Nate remarked. “You’re busy.”

  “That would be wonderful.” And I know you’re hoping to be invited to breakfast. Rose smiled to herself. Mr. Smith wasn’t the only man who appreciated good cooking.

  Moments later, the salt pork sizzled in the pan, and Rose knew its aroma was a magnet, drawing Nate back with milk in a very short span of time.

  “Cows are out grazin’.” He gave a nod, looking rather pleased with himself as he handed her the milk pail, only a quarter full. “That’s all that glutton of a calf left me.”

  “Thank you. It’s plenty.” Rose moistened her lips. “When winter comes, will I be expected to cook outside in the rain and snow?”

  He shook his head. “Folks cook inside then. There’s a flap up top of your wigwam you can open to let out the smoke. Works pretty good. ‘Cept—”

  She paused in her work and met his gaze.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry none about that. I’ll see you’re outta here before then.”

  Rose didn’t want to think about how he planned to accomplish that little detail, and there wasn’t time to dwell on it anyway. She caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye. An unsmiling Mrs. Smith sauntered up to them, her dark eyes glinting with anger. She stepped right in front of Rose and grabbed her hand, drawing her along with her toward the store, where one of the guards sat slumped over, fast asleep. Fawn Woman gave him a swift kick with her moccasin, and he jerked awake as she tugged Rose past him into the store.

  The woman stopped before bolts of material in a variety of colors and patterns. “You.” She pointed to Rose then took hold of her skirt and shook it. “Me.”

  Confused, Rose frowned. “Yes, we both are wearing daygowns.”

  The squaw shook her head and pouted. She placed a hand on some shiny yellow satin.

  “I believe she wants you to make her a new gown,” Nate supplied, having come into the store without Rose noticing.

  Mrs. Smith grabbed the bolt and thrust it at Rose. “Gown. Make.”

  Rose gave her a pleasant smile. “Of course. I shall make you a gown right after we’ve eaten breakfast.”

  She gave a decisive nod. “After eat.” She whirled around, her red skirt flaring into the surrounding goods, then walked away, her nose in the air.

  Nate chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Rose asked, fighting irritation.

  “Your ‘mistress’ is makin’ sure she ain’t losin’ her exalted position as the storekeeper’s only real wife. She wants everyone to know you’re not just Eustice’s slave, but hers, too.”

  Rose sniffed in scorn. “I cannot imagine anyone would want to be that man’s wife.”

  “Now, see? That’s where you have it wrong.” Nate put a hand on Rose’s shoulder and steered her out of the store, back to the cook fire. “Fawn Woman doesn’t want to be Smith’s wife. Fact is, he bought her some time back. But the title does hold importance in this village, plus she has the protection of her two brothers Smith hired to come along when he brought Fawn Woman out here. The three are Susquehannock.”

  “Those two guards outside are her brothers?” Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh mercy. Classes exist even here in the wilderness, and she’s an outsider who wants to be part of the aristocracy.”

  He nodded. “Somethin’ like that. Just do like she says an’ always stay close to Smith an’ the Susquehannocks. No matter how Fawn Woman postures, none of ’em will let any harm come to the ‘cook’ while I’m gone.”

  “Gone?” He’d told her before that he was going to leave, and it remained in the back of her mind, but Rose had dismissed that fact.

  “Any day now.” Reaching the fire, Nate bent to turn the side pork with a long fork but avoided meeting her eyes. “Soon as Bob gets here.” Straightening up again, he stared out over the wide river, his straight brows dipping together in a worried frown. “Funny, I was sure he’d beat us here.”

  Rose glanced from him to the village of people milling about now, all of them speaking words she would never understand…and Nate was going to leave her. How would she manage without him?

  Chapter 17

  Rose struggled to keep the slippery yellow material from snagging on the rough crate top she was using as a worktable to cut out Mrs. Smith’s gown. No matter what ill opinion Fawn Woman held of her, Rose determined to do her finest work on the garmen
t. There had to be a way to encourage friendship with the squaw, since they’d be living near each other for the next four years.

  From several yards away, children’s laughter drifted like music to her ear. Looking toward the youngsters at play, she spied three little Indian girls kneeling in the shade of an oak tree, putting together a miniature wigwam for dolls. Several naked boys with small bows and arrows shot at a thick tree trunk nearby. Rose smiled at the way girls always played house and boys always tried to outdo each other. They weren’t so very different from white children.

  Suddenly one of the boys dropped his bow and pointed toward the river. He bolted for the bank, and the others scampered after him.

  Rose turned to see what had drawn his attention and spotted a lone Indian in a canoe paddling toward shore. Laying aside the scissors, she stood for a better look. “Robert Bloom!” Relieved that Nate’s partner remained alive and well, she felt a twinge of sadness as well, since his coming would precipitate his and Nate’s departure. But at least it was comforting to know Robert was a practicing Christian, unlike his pal. The short, perfunctory prayers Nate offered at mealtimes did please her, but she sensed that pleasing her was his motivation. She would have preferred seeing evidence of some real faith.

  Perhaps the frontiersmen would remain at the village for a while. Rose dreaded being left here with Mr. Smith as the only other white person in residence. She remembered Robert’s desire to have spirited conversations with her about the teachings of George Whitefield and other new Christian thinkers coming into prominence, like John and Charles Wesley. She hoped there’d be time for some good talks.

  A deep sigh came from inside. If nothing else, Robert would have information about the lad taken hostage and how the Lord had answered their prayers. This eve she would make a delicious meal for the men. Out in the wilds they had to exist on whatever fish or game they found along the way—or worse, eat only cold jerky for days on end as the caravan had often been forced to do. Perhaps after some good English cooking, they wouldn’t be so eager to head for parts unknown.