Riding Shotgun

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I think the fox represents happiness: tricky, bright, and just out of reach,” Cig said.

  This set them off on a lively discussion of happiness, which was finally ended with Margaret declaring, “I am happy right now.”

  24

  A light rap on the door prodded Cig, sitting in front of the fire. She’d stretched her feet before the blaze, hoping to drive the last of the Chill from her toes. Beautiful as Wessex was, she longed for twentieth-century insulation.

  She opened the door.

  Lionel, wrapped in a glossy bearskin, his nightshirt visible underneath, whispered, “May I come in? I thought I’d never get to see you alone.”

  She hesitated. “Come on.” She quietly shut the door behind him.

  He pulled up a chair next to hers. His feet were covered in beaded moccasins. “I don’t know when I’ve seen Mother so jovial.”

  “She’s a remarkable woman.”

  “As are you.”

  “Thank you.”

  His dark eyes reflected the fire. “She’s right, as she so often is, you have changed. You’re more philosophical.” He smiled. “I hope that’s the apt word.”

  “Don’t you think time does that to each of us—makes us think about things we used to take for granted?”

  “Yes and—”

  She interrupted him before he could start getting romantic. “The Indians here—do you trust them?”

  “With my life,” he said with a swagger.

  She wanted to reply, “You might have to,” but remained silent. She must have seemed fragile enough to Lionel with her imperfect memory. Accusing a man of murder whom she’d only glimpsed would make her appear more unreliable, maybe even unbalanced. But she feared Lionel had bet too many lives on his faith in his trading companions.

  “Do you think they’re planning to attack us again?”

  “No.” He smiled, reaching for her hand.

  His big hand wrapped around hers. “Lionel, you’re here in a fit of desire or whatever. I apologize for not being the most romantic woman on earth but I am vexed,” she recalled hearing that word, which carried more weight in this time, “by seeing the murdered man and by the Indians lurking about our place. We see them and then—they vanish.”

  “It’s winter, Pryor, and a hard one. They’re hunting and if they can’t hunt they may be driven to steal. I know these people.”

  “And you also know something you’re not telling me.”

  He squeezed her hand. “If I thought you were in danger I would sound a clear warning.” He breathed in deeply. “The disaffection between the Algonquin people and the Sioux, especially the Monacans, is growing. What I hope to do is persuade the Assembly to form an alliance with the Algonquins.”

  “And if an Indian war erupted we would fight with the Algonquins.” Cig instantly appreciated his thinking.

  “Yes. The Assembly is so dazzled by ordnance they think we have little to fear. When I ask them how they intend to drag cannon into the wilderness I am met with stony silence. They believe we can fight European wars here. Impossible! We need allies among the natives. They counter with, ‘Why risk a white life for a red one?’ Now, my dear, you know what I’m thinking.” He smirked. “Frederick Janss said well bring in more Africans and let them kill the Indians. When I mention that they would surely run away or turn and kill us he found me not a bit amusing.”

  “Stupid man.”

  “You’ve heard me say this before but it’s folly to bring in slaves from Africa. Far better to work with the Indians who know the New World than ship in captives who are as lost as if on the moon.”

  “Who are those Africans I saw when we arrived?”

  “Xavier and Petrus, you don’t remember them?”

  “Well—no.”

  “Freemen.”

  “Oh.” She felt the warmth from his hand. “If I were dead, who would you marry?”

  This shocked him. “Don’t say that, Pryor. It’s bad luck.”

  “No, it isn’t. I know you like me well enough but if I were a poor woman I’d be your mistress, not your wife.”

  He sighed, perturbed. “How would I know unless you were a poor woman? I only know you as you are and I love you. Why are you cruel to me?”

  “Not cruel—careful.”

  “It’s all a gamble, like whist. Better to sit at the table and take your chances with the cards than to stand aside and watch.” He rose from his chair and bent over her, his hands on the arms of her chair, his face inches away from her own. “I love you.”

  The blood was pounding so hard in her temples Cig thought her head would burst. “You don’t know me.”

  “I’ve known you all your life.”

  “But”—she fought to breathe—“there are things about me you don’t know.”

  “There are things about me you don’t know. I love you, that’s what matters.”

  “I don’t think you can love someone if you don’t know her.”

  “You’re wrong.” He leaned down and kissed her. As she didn’t resist he put his hands under her armpits, lifting her to her feet, then wrapped his arms around her.

  He felt strong, smelling of tobacco smoke, leather, and sweat. His kiss tasted familiar. Cig wasn’t swept off her feet although Lionel was trying. But she was lonely, adrift, and had lived without physical love for a long time. She kissed him in return, feeling that old heat name up in her belly.

  She whispered as they moved toward the bed. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to marry you.”

  He nodded, tossing off the bearskin robe, pulling his nightshirt over his head, hoping that tonight would put an end to her stalling.

  Later, as the candles sputtered and Lionel slept, Cig propped up on one elbow to study him. She’d not known Blackie this young. She figured Lionel to be thirty to thirty-two. Blackie would have looked like Lionel, except his mustache was a military one whereas Lionel’s, a bit fuller, curved upward slightly and his hair was cut quite short—she wondered what he’d look like in a wig. She’d probably laugh.

  It had felt good to make love with him, but she knew she would never surrender herself as she had done with her husband. Then she had been too young to know any different. Now she was old enough to take a man’s measure. And while there was much of Blackie in Lionel, he was still a separate person.

  Lionel probably told her the truth when he said he loved her. He didn’t need to know her in order to love her. He had a program. She was to fit into that program. He would provide, protect, and honor her as his wife. Her inner life was as foreign to him as Mexico. More to the point, it had no value for him. Lionel was no different than millions of men. Tempting as it was to fall in line and relax in comfort, she wanted more. Many would say that was proof positive that she really was insane.

  25

  “Samuel, don’t stand there like a lump! Get the fur throws.”

  “We’re fine,” Margaret protested weakly.

  “You’ll freeze with only those blankets. Horatio, Horatio, are you deaf?”

  “No, ma’am.” The squat servant stuck his head around the corner.

  “Did you hitch up the sleigh?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely did.”

  “It’s a good thing, Horatio, or I would have had you pull them back to Buckingham yourself.”

  He grimaced. “Miz Kate, you’re…” He shuffled off, not finishing his sentence, his wide Saxon bulk out of place in this refined house.

  “The sky is as blue as a robin’s egg. You all have a safe journey. Samuel’s packed a basket for you.”

  Impulsively Margaret threw her arms around Kate’s neck. “How good you are.”

  “Me? Ha.”

  “Oh, Mistress deVries, we promise not to tell anyone.” Cig kissed her cheek.

  “See to it. Next thing you know I’ll have riffraff lying about the place. Better to be thought a mean old woman than a kind one.” She folded her arms across her chest and greatly resembled the sixteenth-century gentleman under whose po
rtrait she stood. She noticed Pryor’s interest. “You used to stare at him when you were little. My grandfather. He backed Essex, the wrong horse.”

  “Mother,” Lionel opened the front door, shaking the snow off his boots, “can’t you convince them to stay?”

  She looked from him to Pryor. “I do wish you would. Give me the singular pleasure of trouncing you again at cards. Or we could throw the dice.”

  Tom shook his head. “Oh no, I’d sooner roll with Beelzebub.”

  “I’m not that lucky.” She smiled.

  “In your son, you are.” Cig inclined her head.

  “Ah…” Her hand fluttered to her breast. She thought a moment, pursed her lips then set aside that thought. Instead she said, “Much as I wish you to stay, and Lionel, of course, fervently desires it, this weather will not hold. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Kate and Cig kissed one another good-bye, Lionel lingering over Pryor, then walking her to the sleigh. He kissed her again as he lifted her beside Margaret who sat next to Tom.

  “I miss you already.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Lionel.” She touched his cheek. “I had a wonderful time. Thank you.”

  He bowed low. “You honor me, mademoiselle. I shall see you at Francis Eppes’s Christmas party.”

  “Do bring your mother.”

  He smiled wryly. “She’ll vehemently complain of the fripperies of this world but she’ll come along.”

  “Tell her she has to outshine Amelie Boothrod. We count on her for that.”

  He nodded that he would tell her just that. Tom picked up the reins and the sleigh slid easily through the snow.

  As they moved away Cig marveled at the quiet. She could hear the runners slicing through the snow, the muffled hoofbeats of the horses, their rhythmic breathing, the breathing of Tom and Margaret.

  Kate squinted from the windows. She observed Lionel watch the sleigh until it receded from sight. Then he turned and came into the house.

  “She’s become a lady, a force,” Kate noted.

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t be easily led, Lionel. Let her come to you. Don’t pester her.”

  His face reddened. “I’m not pestering her.”

  “You bull ahead. What you see as courting has the whiff of a military maneuver about it.”

  Hurt, he blurted out, “She accepted me into her bed last night.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” came the acid reply. “That doesn’t mean you’ve won the lady. She’s different, Lionel…” Her voice trailed off. “From another world.”

  26

  Kate deVries was right. The weather didn’t hold. By the time they’d reached Buckingham the sky looked like the backside of a skillet. The temperature, which had stayed at just below the freezing point, started slipping.

  Cig unhitched the horses while Tom and Bobby brought down extra rations for the livestock in case a howler kept them from reaching the corn crib.

  Marie had taken the precaution of stacking almost a cord of firewood by the south side of the summer kitchen. She’d also carried a lot of firewood into the main house as well as her own. Margaret could see she was exhausted and sent her to her quarters to rest.

  No sooner had Cig come inside than the wind picked up. “Perfect timing.”

  “What?”

  “An expression.”

  Tom ducked in the back door. “Ripped my breeches.” He laughed, pointing to the tear running from the inside of his thigh to his knee.

  “I don’t think I can fix them. They’re too worn.”

  “Aren’t you glad they tore now and not halfway between Wessex and here?” Cig stated.

  Later, as they sat around the fire, repairing tack and the old breeches, Cig thought of Lionel. It was as though a door had opened. Not love. Not some rush of emotion but a letting go, a willingness to encounter new people and new experiences. She felt as if she had been swaddled in cotton. The cotton was unraveling.

  Tom, also pleased with how the visit to Wessex had transpired, whistled as he worked.

  “Was Kate deVries considered a beauty in her day?” Cig asked.

  “Father thought she was.” Tom deftly braided a torn rein. “She has pleasing features even now.”

  Cig reflected on how important proportion was to people of this time. Proportion along with teeth and complexion were usually mentioned in describing someone’s appearance, male or female. Rarely were bosoms mentioned, they seemed to be taken for granted. Height was also mentioned but no one appeared obsessed by it as they were in her own century.

  Without surgery or good dentistry, without the ability to straighten misshapen childhood limbs, this concern for regularity, uniformity, wasn’t odd, she decided. It mirrored the unspoken concern for mental stability. Since people had few ways to correct defects, the hope was to prevent their occurrence in the first place. The intelligent selection of a mate was an attempt to provide for straight-legged, clear-eyed, intelligent, healthy children.

  Slowly Cig was grasping the reality of this time. She couldn’t help but judge by her own standards. After all, they were the only ones she had, but she was smart enough to know that the standards of this time were born of reality and she had best listen and learn.

  The heaviness of the air made her sleepy. She blinked frequently to try and focus on her task. The awl and waxed thread took concentration or she could just as easily poke a hole in her hand.

  Tom winced, then rubbed his knees.

  “Ache?”

  “Don’t yours?”

  Cig replied, “Everything hurts in this weather.” She remembered the Motrin in her vest. “I have something that will help.”

  “Can’t drink this early in the day.” Tom smiled.

  Cig got up and fished the small, white plastic bottle out from her canary vest hanging on a peg. She filled a glass with cider, giving it to Tom with two pills.

  “Try these.”

  His lips curled upward.

  “Tom, there are worse things than medicine.”

  “Such as?”

  “The doctors.”

  “Yes—” He smiled and took the pills. “Odd shape.”

  “Easier to swallow.” Cig handed him the glass.

  “You first.” He noticed she had pills in her hand.

  She knocked them back. He gave her the cider. She gulped.

  He imitated her.

  About half an hour later Tom stood up and shook his legs. “Sister, what is that medicine?”

  “Motrin. It’s a new painkiller that’s easy to buy…” she thought a moment, “in London.”

  He walked to her vest and pulled out the container. The words Kalamazoo, MI, and USA meant nothing to him, nor did the bar code and EXP 12/96. What fascinated him was the container. He unscrewed the cap a few times then put it back on listening to it click. He squeezed the firm plastic, which indented a bit then resumed its shape.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this—it’s the toughest hide I’ve ever touched. How can it be so white?”

  Cig observed him as he slipped the small jar back in her vest pocket.

  “What will they think of next?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  27

  The heavy snowfall continued as Cig and Margaret strung rope between the buildings so no one would be lost. Sweating, her legs aching from pushing through two feet of snow as well as falling into drifts, Cig stopped at the smokehouse, the last outbuilding.

  “While we’re here, want me to bring back a ham or something?”

  Margaret shielded her eyes. “I can’t even see the hand in front of my face.” Her clumsy mittens made opening the frozen iron latch difficult.

  “Here.” Cig reached under the latch, giving it a rap.

  Together they popped it up, the door swung open in the wind, knocking against the brick wall. They stepped inside.

  Cig blinked the snow off her eyelashes, closing the door behind her. “Winter makes everything look beautiful but,” her chest heav
ed, “what a lot of work. I’m ready to go to Florida.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “It’s a beautiful place with palm trees, beaches, bright sunshine, and in my time, too many visitors. ‘Course, I guess Spain still controls Florida in this time.”

  Margaret shook her head. “We shall yet collide with Spain.”

  “Actually, we don’t. We go to war against the French in the next century.”

  Margaret laughed. “Good, I don’t like them either. Do we win?”

  “Yes.” Cig laughed, too. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Then she shrugged. “I wonder, if I die, will I go home?”

  “Don’t say such a thing.”

  Cig held up her hands in supplication. “Think about it. I’m from another time, a time later than this one. If I die maybe I’ll go forward.”

  “What if you go backwards?” Margaret’s lovely eyes opened wider.

  “I never thought of that.”

  “You shouldn’t be thinking of dying, no matter what. Life is a gift, Pryor, it will be snatched away soon enough.”

  “Yeah—well, I still wonder if it would work, my dying.”

  “You’ll go to ground, that’s where you’ll go.” Margaret’s breath hung, a puff in the cold. “Are you that unhappy?”

  “I’m neither happy nor unhappy. I’m beyond that.” She put her gloved hands in her armpits. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. You have been very kind to me. If it weren’t for you I think I would have lost my mind or tried to kill myself.” She reached up, lifting a cured ham off a hook. “Let’s go back. The cold is creeping into my bones.”

  “Mine, too.” Margaret pushed the door open. “Pryor, when the ham becomes too heavy, I’ll carry it.”

  “All right. You go first and I’ll stay right behind you.” She grabbed the rope with her left hand, balancing the ham on her right shoulder with her right hand.

  They stopped a few times to catch their breath. Cig held onto the ham. When they reached the summer kitchen she eagerly dropped it on the big table. Margaret shut the door behind them. A fire, embers flying upwards, roared in the huge fireplace.