by Laura Frantz
Facing Opechancanough, he stored the sweet memory away as his lengthy absence settled over him. Opechancanough bore a slight limp, and a jagged scar marred his naked side. From the English or a warring tribe?
Standing before such an assembly, Xander felt the weight of the Powhatans’ grim regard of the Tassantassas, the English. Though they feared the colonists’ guns and weapons, they found the settlers a helpless bunch, unclean and equally foul of temper, blindingly arrogant and greedy for gain, unable to provide for themselves and nearly starved out of existence early on. From an early age he’d purposed to be guilty of none of those things.
Hand straying to the precautionary pistol hidden in his pocket, he was unsure if he’d even survive this unexpected summons. Though he was able to speak with a certain freedom of expression, knowing their tongue, he was by no means fluent in all their ways. But to the headman’s every query, Xander had, in the past, given a truthful reply. He did not flatter or deal in deceit. Nor did he take sides. He had earned his name among them.
To his relief, he was seated as a guest and offered a pipe of tobacco, which was shared with the chief and his attendants. Only after the ritual smoking could any discussion ensue. Grateful to be off his feet and collect his thoughts, he found their leaf bitter, a far cry from Rose-n-Vale’s smooth sweetness.
Gradually the awkwardness of first arriving in camp abated. Opechancanough’s eyes narrowed with humor as he observed Jett sitting obediently at his master’s side. Powhatan curs were small hunting dogs, not pets, and were an unruly lot oft eaten during starving times. To see a sleek, well-fed English dog, obedient to his owner, was a startling sight. Even now most were warily regarding the giant greyhound, no doubt sensing he would defend his master at all costs. Or perhaps transform into a more frightening apparition at will.
“I bring gifts.” Xander gestured to his horse, which patiently bore his load beneath a willow oak. “I can provide more at your bidding, the best to be had from Tassantassas ships that come over the great water from the land of the English king.”
At the chief’s nod, he and Meihtawk began unpacking saddlebags, displaying the wares on corn-husk mats spread upon the ground for that purpose. A whisper of excitement stirred among the wives at the bright ribbons and sewing notions.
Opechancanough lingered with pleasure on the copper, though he seemed pleased enough at the variety and abundance of offerings. Yet all knew these were but a pittance, mere trinkets, meant to mollify at worst, promote peace at best. An expected gesture of goodwill.
“My desire is to reopen a path between our people.” Xander could state his aim no more simply than that. He could not help it if the men of James Towne had different motives, would mock his being here as a fool’s errand. He purposed to do what he could, the Lord guard his life. Never did he forget he had farmed Powhatan land, or what once had been.
“You speak and act from the heart and make me strong, True Word. And you will not be against what it is I have to tell you.” The chief stood and motioned for the proceedings to continue. “But first, we will feast.”
Heaping trays of roasted bear meat and venison, smoked fish, oysters and crab, birds of every feather, dried maize, and powcohiscara, a delicacy made from walnuts and other nut meats, soon surrounded him. Finally, a full two hours later, Xander tossed a bone Jett’s way. Sated, he could not help but feel he was being fattened for slaughter. At best, he needed fortifying ahead of the private, intense meeting to come.
Alone with the chief, Xander stifled a yawn. He’d long schooled himself to the Naturals’ unhurried rhythms and ponderous silences. In his youth while part of an English delegation, he’d witnessed one of the chief’s attendants slain on the spot for an untimely interruption, after which Opechancanough resumed speaking where he had left off. ’Twas a lesson not soon forgotten.
As usual, Opechancanough began with a recitation of the misdeeds done them by the Tassantassas since Mattachanna had died and the old alliance between them had again eroded. But even this trailed off into more personal matters. It seemed the chief’s grief for his favored daughter had given way to his interest in Oceanus, whom he had seen but once since his birth.
“And how is my daughter’s son, my grandson, who lives across the great water?”
The question struck an increasingly raw nerve. How could he honestly answer with so many leagues and lost time between them? “Last I heard, Oceanus is well and old enough to travel. I have written to his guardian to tell him the time has come to return him home.”
“Such is well and good.” A slight smile eased the chief’s weather-beaten features. “A boy should not be so far from the land of his birth lest he forget the old ways and the faces and customs of his people.”
On this they agreed. Overcome by a twist of pathos, Xander fixed his attention on the elaborately carved corner post of the chief’s dwelling. Yet it was Oceanus’s face he saw. A baby, not a boy. “Once he returns, I will bring him to see you here. Surely he has the look of his mother about him and perhaps you yourself.”
With a nod, Opechancanough’s warmth vanished. “Let us now speak again of other, more serious matters. My spies bring a bad report. Of late, we learn that the white chief, Harvey, attempts to sway the Susquehannock and lesser tribes to serve as guides in expeditions to make war on us.”
Spirits leaden, Xander listened, unsurprised at news of further scheming. “I keep no company with Harvey as I have decided to step down from the governor’s council. I know nothing firsthand.”
A long pause, filled with purling tobacco smoke and displeasure. “Yet surely you hear secondhand of the mischief the governor and his men make? Though you are not among them, their treachery knows no end.”
“I do know this . . .” Xander exhaled a wisp of smoke. “Beware of armed slavers sent to harm or capture any Naturals on the borders of English settlements, the tributaries foremost.”
Another nod. “It is as you say. There was harm done recently to the Nanticoke.”
Xander longed to dissolve the ill will at play. “In the pursuit of peace, I recently came before the council to ask that two or more royal commissioners investigate and handle any and all disputes between Indians and English. To establish accountability and rectify wrongs done.”
“How was this proposal received?”
Badly. Harvey’s arrogance had been contemptible. Xander cast about for an answer, hesitating till the tightness in his throat eased. “I am still awaiting action.”
Passing Xander the pipe, Opechancanough lifted his eyes heavenward. “Then what I am about to propose to you might help smooth the way.”
6
The May day was balmy, the sandy beach occupied by children at play. One old man was roasting oysters over a fire, shells strewn at his bare feet, gray smoke billowing with the unmistakable tang of the sea. He held up a pearl with a toothless grin as Selah and Cecily passed by in search of Shay’s canoe hidden in the reeds.
“’Tis my first foray up this river.” Cecily put a tentative foot in the boat, trying to be graceful while Selah prepared to push off. “What do you Virginians call it?”
Selah handed her an oar. “The Naturals named it the Powhatan, the English the James.” Thrusting the canoe into the water with unladylike strength, Selah jumped in and seated herself in the stern.
“My, such a rustic mode of transport.” Cecily looked askance at her own oar once they were under way. “How do you navigate without getting all wet?”
“Practice,” Selah said simply, buoyed by her many childhood jaunts upriver, an expertise born of coastal life. “If the wind holds, we’ll be pushed along as much as we paddle.”
“Though you are adept with the oar, it seems quite a masculine pursuit. I’m afraid I’m little help.” With awkward strokes, Cecily fixed her attention on the shore. “What if we overturn?”
“I pray not. Can you swim?”
“Nay, but I’m sure you can.”
“I’ll keep to the shallows. You en
joy the shoreline from the bow. Soon you’ll see plantations, tobacco fields, wharves, and all manner of watercraft.”
“I do believe upriver is best.”
For a time, they glided along in silence, taken with the vast blueness that made Virginia’s largest river so memorable. Selah felt remarkably free and unencumbered, the sunlight warm upon her back. On such a sublime spring day, she wouldn’t ponder Xander’s journey toward the western mountains that marked the river’s beginning. Or her father’s persistent aches and pains. Or Helion Laurent’s increased visits to the store. Or—
“Look over there near that pretty cove,” Cecily called over her shoulder. “A house appears to be abandoned.”
“’Tis my father’s property, Hopewell Hundred, meant for my brother in time.”
“Why does it sit empty?”
“The tenant died last year.” She’d not confess he’d been felled by a tomahawk while hunting on disputed territory. Steering the canoe away from the sight, Selah said, “Keep your eyes open and prepare to be delighted.”
They traversed another winsome blue bend in the river, and Cecily’s paddling ceased. “Who owns that comely hill just ahead?”
Truly, Rose-n-Vale was perfectly placed. “’Tis home to Alexander Renick, whom you’ve met.” Always, that wistful twinge followed, the beauty shot through with the bittersweet.
“A commanding house, fairer than any I’ve seen in James Towne.” Cecily gave a sigh more of delight than exertion. “And bricked more than timbered. Fit for a handsome master. Shall we land the canoe and rest?”
“I suppose.” Selah aimed for the sandy shore and a widespread oak, which offered both shade and privacy. Well out of sight of any at Rose-n-Vale.
Cecily stood when the canoe stilled, then stepped from its rocking bottom onto the shore with far more grace than when they’d launched. “’Tis ironic that we’re on Renick land and ’tis Renick I wish to discuss.”
Despite her misgivings, Selah spread a blanket on the sand. She offered Cecily a flask of cider, a sense of foreboding building. Cecily’s interest in Xander was no secret, so her next words hardly came as a surprise.
“I should like you to go to Rose-n-Vale”—Cecily handed back the flask with the hauteur of a queen giving orders—“and ask the master if he is of a courting mind.”
Forthright, she was. Straight to the point as any man. Still . . . “For so delicate a matter, perhaps you should send my father instead.”
“On the contrary. I think you may be more persuasive. Your mother tells me you were a friend of Master Renick’s former wife. Matto . . . ?”
“Mattachanna.”
“Ah. I’ve yet to see an Indian. What was she like?”
“Beautiful. Gracious. Astute.”
“A pity she died young.” Cecily made a contrary face. “The only fly in the ointment is this. I shan’t want charge of a half-breed boy.”
Cecily’s distaste was commonplace yet unpalatable. Selah bit her tongue, her thoughts veering in a new, nettlesome direction. Was that yet another reason Oceanus was left behind? So Xander’s remarrying might have no obstacles?
Cecily reached for a twig in the sand. “He hardly seems the devoted father, leaving his son behind in Scotland.”
Selah chafed at both the slight and the truth behind it. Their separation tore the heart out of her. Did Xander not feel it too? Why had he not heeded Mattachanna’s dying plea to not part? True, the latter was just rumored, but . . .
“You are a friend of his aunt, are you not?” Cecily fixed her with a near glare. “Visiting Rose-n-Vale wouldn’t be amiss.”
“Under pretense of speaking with Widow Brodie?” Selah shook her head. “I would not go in deceit.”
“Ha! We must be coy in these affairs of the heart. Play it sly.” Cecily smiled as if the matter was settled. “Your father said you would do everything in your power to assist me.”
“My assistance is hardly needed. A man like Alexander Renick knows his own mind. The very thought of appearing in his study about any bride business makes me shudder.”
“Well, I cannot do it. The council gave you charge of these fair maids, of which I am one.”
Selah schooled her temper. “Truth be told, I cannot see you at Rose-n-Vale.” There, she had said it. The resulting offense on Cecily’s face was plain. “I don’t see him remarrying, is what I’m saying. He is ever preoccupied with his crops, his many indentures, the affairs of Virginia. Even now he has gone over to the Naturals. He has little time for courting and less for a bride.”
“The right maid might change that. He strikes me as a shrewd, perceptive Scotsman well deserving of a wife equally so.” Cecily’s confidence remained undimmed. “Say you’ll go to him when he returns and plead my case.”
“You realize that living on a plantation—one of the Hundreds, as they’re called—places you at greater risk for Indian attack?”
“I suppose so.” Cecily shrugged her slender shoulders. “But James Towne holds no charms for me. Already I feel hemmed in by all the fences and rowhouses there, few and crude as they are. I belong in the country.”
Selah sighed. She’d oft felt the lure of open fields and unfenced lands herself. Yet the danger remained. “Perhaps one day Rose-n-Vale will be as safe and lovely as it sounds.”
Cecily began drawing in the sand with her twig. Selah made out the initials A and C. “Mistress of Rose-n-Vale. How I warm to the title.” Tossing aside the twig, Cecily stood. “Let’s go nearer the house, shall we? ’Tis scandalously large, I hear.”
“Trespass, you mean?”
Already Cecily had started up the bank, skirts raised above her scarlet garters. Selah trailed her uphill, relieved Xander was away and would never know they’d encroached on his territory. Winded, they came to the place that gave them a territorial view, the James River at their backs. Up here where the wind blew free, the air smelled sweet in any season.
Wildflowers spread before them like a floral carpet, a few mighty oaks casting shadows and breaking up the cleared landscape. A sizeable arbor stood at the back of the main house, a showy display of red blooms not yet ablaze on leggy stems. The expanding mansion so talked about in town was now before them, its newest windows large and sashed with crystal glass, the roof crowned with diamond-turned chimney stacks.
Surrounding the house stood orchards, all young, mostly of stone fruit, some trees thriving, some struggling. Timbered dependencies fronted a lane to the west beyond the summer kitchen.
Cecily came to a stop. “Why, even Governor Harvey cannot boast of such a dwelling! And fences as far as the eye can see. But all wood rails, not stone like in the Old World.”
Selah felt a grudging admiration. Truly, Xander had accomplished much and come by it honestly given the sweat of his brow and his agile mind. No one had handed him anything with a velvet glove.
“What’s that curious structure in the far field?”
Selah followed Cecily’s finger. “’Tis a drying barn to cure tobacco. One of them. His indentures work year-round building, not just toiling in the fields.”
Even as she said it she heard the ring of a hammer and voices. Labor was in force all around them, the very pulse of the growing plantation. And then came a deep, resounding bark, carried on the warm wind.
Selah’s attention narrowed to the dog sprinting at full speed toward them, a streak of deep red amid so much spring green. Cecily stepped behind her, peering over Selah’s shoulder in alarm. “What on earth . . . ?”
“’Tis Ruby Renick,” Selah said as the hound stopped at her bidding, tongue lolling and tail wagging wildly. “But where is your constant companion, Jett?”
Cecily extended a careful hand to stroke Ruby’s sleek coat. “What an odd-looking breed. All legs. And such a small head! One would think there’s not a brain in it.”
“Don’t be fooled. They’re quite clever. Devoted, even gentle. Oceanus adored them. He’d sometimes ride on their backs.” ’Twas Oceanus’s laugh she most reme
mbered, and his delight in the natural world. She’d come visiting whenever she could. But not nearly enough.
Cecily raised a hand to shade her eyes. “I believe I spy his aunt coming out of the house.”
Had Widow Brodie seen them gawking?
“We’d best hie home.” Selah scoured the darkening horizon, mindful of the last hailstorm. “Those coming clouds cry rain.”
They bade Ruby farewell and hastened down the hill toward shore. Their return downriver was swifter, Cecily’s attempts at paddling surer. Once they landed, the wind shifted, their skirts along with it. They returned the canoe to its hiding place among the reeds as raindrops began falling, dimpling the water.
The Bountiful Ann, newly arrived from the West Indies, now shadowed the James Towne wharf, its sailors roaming free of the vessel. Some drank openly from flagons of ale. A dash of ribaldry rode the air amid coarse conversation and laughter. The tawdry tavern near the waterfront, a favorite haunt of seamen, would not sleep tonight. Eyes down, Selah paid the sailors no mind, but Cecily returned their brazen stares.
“Who was it said these Virginia wenches are toad ugly?” roared one, to drunken laughter. “I beg to differ!”
Passing the sheriff making his rounds, Selah hurried down a safer street arm in arm with Cecily. Home was but a few minutes outside town, and never had she been gladder to arrive.
As they entered the kitchen, Candace turned around from the bake oven, hands full of a golden loaf of wheaten bread. “There you are! I was beginning to fret.” She set the bread on the table to Cecily’s admiring exclamations, voice fading to a whisper. “There’s a visitor in the parlor.”
“A visitor?” Cecily said.
“One who desires your company. Goodman Wentz. You can invite him to sup with us if you wish.”
