Tidewater Bride

by Frantz, Laura

  Perhaps he’d reconsidered taking a tobacco bride. Or her father had persuaded him. Lord knew Rose-n-Vale needed a mistress. Raising her gaze, Selah focused on the bedchamber window of Cecily Ward. Might Cecily suit? For all she knew, matrimony might be the matter her mother had mentioned.

  An interesting assemblage graced their supper table. Ustis presided with his usual good humor and candor, thus talk was never dull. Even though he’d been a bit wan of late, slowly recovering from a severe winter’s cold, the malady hadn’t dimmed his spirits. And with so many hands in the kitchen, the table boasted early English peas and new potatoes, mounded into their best stoneware bowls. Shay, also in fine fettle, regaled them with tales of whale sightings and the Seaflower being pursued by a Spanish galleon till they’d outrun the enemy on a favorable wind.

  If not for company, Selah would have stayed riveted, rooted to her place in their oak-paneled dining room amid the gentle flicker of candlelight. But tonight, with the click of utensils scraping pewter plates and the men’s tankards being refilled with ale, she and her mother and Izella wove in and out, finally serving dessert, a custard sweetened with West Indies cane sugar and crowned with candied lemon peel and the strawberries Xander’s aunt had brought. Such a delicacy raised Cecily’s russet brows.

  “For our guests.” Candace smiled as Izella served them. “Especially for Cecily Ward as we welcome her to Virginia.”

  Clearly enjoying being the center of attention, Cecily sampled a spoonful and pronounced it sublime. “I’d never thought to taste such a wonder in the New World.”

  Her pretty speech only added to her comely appearance. Red-haired and jade-eyed, she looked more Scots than English, a mystery soon solved.

  “My mother, God rest her, was from the Highlands. She never lost her Scots speech even after marrying my father and making her home in England.” Her gaze traveled round the table in turn as if assessing each of them before resting on Xander. “I heard there were Scotsmen aplenty among the colonists here.”

  “Mostly indentures. A few poor gentlemen, tradesmen, serving men, libertines . . .” Ustis sent a droll look Xander’s way. “Ten times more fit to spoil a commonwealth than begin one, so said our infamous founder, John Smith.”

  All laughed, and Xander leaned back in his chair. He smiled in that maddening, almost apologetic way, which Selah noted with a beat of exasperation. “I am but a humble Scot, Miss Ward. The son of a silversmith from Culross in the kingdom of Fife.”

  Humble Scot, indeed. Most men would boast of being a burgess and council member, tribal negotiator and foremost landowner in Tidewater Virginia . . . if not ruthless tobacco lord.

  Cecily already seemed smitten as she slid another coquettish glance Xander’s way. Selah tensed. Should she warn her? Xander looked down at his tankard, his neatly trimmed beard hardly masking his swarthy hue.

  “The Scots part is true, but don’t believe the ‘humble’ part.” Shay grinned, spoon aloft. “He’ll own all of Virginia one day, some say. Makes the gentry of James Towne squirm.”

  Reaching out, Xander rubbed his knuckles across Shay’s sunburnt scalp affectionately, earning a wince and a chuckle.

  “Harrow!” Shay exclaimed, asking for seconds in the same breath.

  “Shush, Shay,” Candace scolded gently. “Your tongue is too loose!”

  Smiling, Izella served him the last of the custard as talk turned to settlement matters.

  “What’s this I hear about you burgesses wanting to carve all of Virginia into pieces?” Ustis questioned. “And appoint a sheriff of James Towne?”

  “There’s truth to it, aye.” Xander set down his tankard. “Virginia is to be divided into eight shires.”

  “Shires?” Ustis lay his napkin aside. “Betimes I regret stepping down from the governor’s council. Sorting fact from fiction is quite tiring but for your confirmation.”

  “I advocate for counties, not shires, as do most settlers coming into Virginia who want to handle matters differently than England. Five thousand strong to date, most at odds with English custom.” Xander looked to Selah, brow raised. “Rather, five thousand fifty-seven, aye?”

  She smiled, surprised he’d kept tally. “And once the brides marry and the begats begin, a great many more.”

  “Daughter!” Candace flushed like a schoolgirl as Xander gave a low, roguish laugh. “No such talk in the presence of company.”

  “She is only speaking truth, God be praised. ’Tis no secret these brides were sent for to increase the populace.” Ustis sent a nod Selah’s way. “A far cry from the hundred or so poor fools who first set foot on our shore, most of them men.”

  “I’ve had many a fear we’d become like the lost souls of Roanoke Island.” Widow Brodie gave a noticeable shudder. “God rest them.”

  A sorrowful hush descended till Xander said, “We still hear secondhand reports of Roanoke survivors living among the interior tribes.”

  “One can only hope.” Candace raised a Delft blue cup to her lips. “A great many people vanished without a trace. How can that be?”

  Selah looked at Cecily, wanting to protect her from such dire talk. But truly, much of life in Virginia was still an ongoing fight for survival, thus anything other than the utmost honesty seemed misleading.

  “We’ve made it through the terrible starving time, the lengthy droughts, and all sorts of Indian unrest. For that we can be thankful.” Ustis stood, praising the meal before withdrawing to his study with Xander.

  When Shay excused himself to reunite with friends down the lane, the four women remained at table, sipping their beverages and talking of daintier matters as the candles sank lower in their holders. Now and then Selah’s attention strayed to the study, where wisps of pipe smoke surrounded the conversing men like Scottish wraiths.

  Raising a hand, Cecily suppressed a yawn, which didn’t escape Candace’s attention. “You must be exhausted, my dear.”

  “On the contrary.” Cecily looked considerably fresher than she did upon her arrival. “The hot bath you insisted upon and a nap this afternoon has quite revived me, not to mention this fine elderberry tonic.”

  “I suppose the courting commences as soon as you’ve rested.” Widow Brodie’s eyes lit with interest. “We all await to see which gentleman you fondly bestow yourself upon.”

  Selah smiled, her prayers for felicitous matches unending. “Tomorrow shall prove interesting once formalities are finished and matchmaking begins in earnest.”

  “Indeed. But why is it with so few women here”—Cecily all but pointed a finger at Selah—“you remain unwed?”

  “Why, indeed,” Selah replied, draining her cup only to have it refilled by Izella. “I am too preoccupied with storekeeping to settle by some hearth with bantlings about me.”

  “Bantlings are needed more than merchanting,” Candace said quickly. “’Tis not for the want of offers our daughter remains cloistered behind the counter.”

  Feeling the start of a scold, Selah made light of such. “Never mind me. Any woman on two stumps is considered a catch and has offers aplenty.”

  “You are a modest miss,” Cecily replied. “Tell me, for I fear a false start, who is the settlement’s foremost bachelor?”

  A sudden hush.

  Widow Brodie smiled a tad smugly. “You need only look to the study for your answer.”

  Cecily’s expression turned conspiratorial as her voice faded to a whisper. “No man I’ve seen since making landfall I deem your nephew’s equal. But tell me, why was Master Renick not amongst the throng of eager men at the docks? Is he above taking a tobacco bride?”

  Widow Brodie pursed her lips as if pondering her reply. As blood kin and housekeeper and aware of his many habits, she knew best. “Alexander is a man of singular intentions. His days are a blur of tobacco cultivation, and his horribly ill-bred greyhounds—”

  “I adore dogs!” Cecily replied with equal vehemence. “The fawn-colored greyhounds especially.”

  “His are but red and blac
k, though he jests about sending to England for the coloring you describe.” Her aging face collapsed into fiercer wrinkles. “I do not share your fondness for canines, but a finer man you’ll not find on Virginia soil.”

  Cecily leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

  Candace eyed the study as Ustis and Xander passed into the adjoining parlor. “You see, when our men first came to James Towne, most were genteel English, unaccustomed to laboring and hardship. That sort soon foundered. But Master Renick is cut of a different cloth. He simply rolled up his sleeves and got to work, fearing no Indian or wild animal or anything else. After many trials, he cultivated seed from the West Indies, a milder, sweeter tobacco than what had come before. We carry it in our store, though most is shipped to England to fetch the best price.”

  “Surely there is more to the man than his tobacco.”

  Precious little, Selah thought, breathing in the fragrant pipe smoke.

  Widow Brodie sighed as a burst of masculine laughter issued from the adjoining chamber. “He has a young son—”

  “A son?” Cecily’s countenance clouded.

  “He is a widower like so many.” Widow Brodie’s tone turned mournful. “We all grieve the loss of Mattachanna—”

  “Matta—an Indian?” Cecily’s eyes narrowed. “How is it that a man of his supposed standing took such a bride? Are not these natives as the newspapers describe? A rude, barbarous, naked people who worship the devil?”

  At that very moment Xander’s gaze pivoted to them from where he stood by the hearth. Had Cecily’s voice carried?

  Candace put a finger to her lips. “Lady Rebecca was her Christian name, God rest her. She was a believing Anglican, baptized in the faith, second to none with her catechism, schooled by Reverend Criswel himself before her marriage.”

  This passionate defense was met with scandalized silence.

  Stemming a sigh, Selah steered the conversation to safer shores. “Master Renick is but one of many eligible men. But in truth, our recommendations may not dovetail with your affections.”

  Curling her nose, Cecily took a fan from her pocket and stirred the smoky air. “I shall proceed with due caution. Glad I am we brides may court at our leisure, though I shan’t impose on your hospitality overlong.”

  “Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” Widow Brodie cautioned. “I’ve often pondered marrying again, but at my advanced age . . .”

  “You’ve not one foot in the grave,” Candace told her. “Though Rose-n-Vale would be loath to lose you.”

  “Alexander is in need of a wife more than a housekeeper,” Widow Brodie said. “Perhaps then he could remedy that sad situation of his in Scotland . . .”

  Cecily nearly pounced on that slip, opening her mouth to inquire further, when Selah intervened. “Please, let us speak of other things.”

  Candace nodded. “Tomorrow Shay will give a tour of our humble town to all the tobacco brides, starting at the fort, or what is left of it, then the old church and current marketplace.”

  “What of the plantations so talked about outside of town? I should like to live inland or upriver, away from the coastal swamps and miasmas the ship’s captain warned about. Be mistress of my own plantation.” Cecily snapped her fan shut. “Besides, we brides were led to believe James Cittie was quite populous. A bit more refined than we have found it to be.”

  “There are some lovely vistas east of here that might suit your fancy,” Selah said. ’Twas her dream, too, to flee town. She couldn’t fault Cecily for that, yet she did not care for the ambitious glint in her eye. Was she a schemer? A shrew? Looking to her aproned lap, Selah put down the ungracious thought. “There’s many a man in need of a wife at Bermuda Hundred, the plantation at the falls of the James upriver. A picturesque spot.”

  “Nearer the Naturals?”

  “Aye, but we have come through a second war and are trying to keep peace.”

  A very tenuous peace, Selah did not add. Many of their friends and neighbors had been killed in the Indian wars. How they themselves had survived the last conflict was nothing short of a miracle. The Powhatans were a powerful people, unwilling to be a conquered nation or be Christianized. If not for Xander and the few men like him whose continual overtures to honor and keep peace . . .

  “I feel a bit wilted.” Cecily yawned again, this time more openly.

  But the men showed no signs of weariness as the conversation continued robustly. Selah stifled her own yawn and helped Izella clear away the empty cups and dishes.

  “To bed with you.” Candace spoke briskly when Cecily drifted toward the parlor. “In the morning we’ll have mush and mulberry syrup at first light.”

  3

  Of all the seasons in this New World, spring was Xander’s favorite. Virginia even trumped Scotland in his recollections. He recalled his childhood with dimming clarity. The mists and woodland bluebells, the stretches of light as the land embraced the sun after a long winter, the deep lochs and windswept coasts. He closed his eyes, grasping for details denied him. So much had slipped in and muddied the memories since he’d landed on Virginia shores as a lad. His own Scots speech seemed muted too.

  This day, as he stood on his own ground, his thoughts were pressed full as a hogshead of tobacco with a great many unsavory things. Tobacco flea beetles. A barn roof riddled with hailstones from the latest tempest. Spoiled seedbeds. Ailing indentures down with the seasoning. Recently appointed, unscrupulous tobacco inspectors.

  “True Word!”

  His eyes opened at the sound of a youthful voice hailing him by his Powhatan name.

  “Wingapo!” Xander called out the customary greeting as the lad emerged over the brow of the hill scored with green fronds of transplanted tobacco and the noonday sun. He’d not seen Meihtawk in a month or more. But whenever he did, he was struck by Meihtawk’s similarity to Mattachanna. Same bone structure and wide-set eyes. Same handsome Mattaponi bearing and warmth of expression. Though they were cousins, the resemblance was remarkable.

  “I bring news,” Meihtawk said in English, clearly coming in his role as tribal courier.

  At once came the clutch of concern. It seemed all of Virginia braced for another onslaught of terror after a recent tentative peace. Xander leaned his hoe against a stump and gave Meihtawk his full attention, including his leather flask.

  Swallowing a drink of well water, Meihtawk looked him in the eye. “Chief Opechancanough asks that you come and kindle a council fire at Menmend, where he hardly has room enough to spread his blanket.”

  So, the invitation came with a complaint. Yet the complaint was a valid one. The Powhatan Confederacy, made up of many tribes including the Mattaponi, continued to lose beloved ground, their villages thrust farther west year by year, their once vast territory shrinking before their very eyes. Frustration formed a tight knot in Xander’s chest, eased only slightly by Meihtawk’s obliging manner. It was he who had saved so many colonists in the latest hostilities, warning them of the last planned attack.

  Xander nodded. “Tell Opechancanough that I have heard his request and will come. But I will need time to prepare. If all goes well, I will meet you in six sleeps at Monacan Fields when the sun is three fingers high.”

  At this, Meihtawk’s face lit with undisguised gratitude. His was a hard task as emissary. Yet surely he knew Xander would not refuse the invitation. Though Xander was continually torn between his loyalties to the English and his ties to the Naturals, the Naturals oft gained his allegiance and the upper hand.

  With a farewell, Meihtawk disappeared over the hill, a few indentures watching his going.

  Xander drew a linen sleeve across his sweat-spackled upper lip, returning to his hoeing. Field hands spread out on all sides of him as far as the eye could see. His goal at first light had been five hundred tobacco hills by dusk. Orinoco was a laborious crop, robbing the soil and depleting the workers along with it. His attempts to be versatile, to cultivate other exportable crops, were unending.

  At suppertime, he sat d
own at his own table, heaping his plate full of pickled herring and bread. He ate slowly, thoughts full of another table, the fine feast they’d had at the Hopewells’ a sennight before. Tomorrow he’d return, not to dine but to buy. And he’d go early to avoid the usual bustle.

  Supper done, he made a move to retire to his study and the quiet to be had beyond the clatter of his aunt cleaning up. Her question caught him at the door.

  “Did I hear you say you were going to James Towne on the morrow, Alexander?”

  He turned around. “Aye. Are you in need of something?”

  A decisive bob of her capped head. “A Border ware jug, if you please. I tripped over Ruby and broke one. And any gossip that can be had about the tobacco brides and their courting.”

  “Thankfully, the latter is as easily gotten,” he replied. “Consider it done.”

  “Thank you, Nephew,” she said over her shoulder as they went their separate ways.

  Once ensconced in his study, his greyhounds near the hearth, he pondered a pipe. Ruby looked up at him moodily as his gaze swept the planked floor where she lay in all her gangling splendor.

  “You’re a beauty, girl. Don’t let Aunt Henrietta tell you differently.” He stooped to scratch her velvety head, her reddish coat agleam in the fading light. “As for you, Sir Jett, as noble a creature that ever lived, I believe you shall accompany me to visit Chief Opechancanough. His continued awe of you may serve me well.”

  Ruby’s black companion gave a deep, resounding bark, eyes alive with the excitement of hearing his master’s voice. Only with difficulty did Jett finally lay his sleek head on an outstretched paw.

  “And let us not forget Selah Hopewell’s kind regard of you both. Surely that speaks to your canine character.”

  At once, Selah’s comely liveliness at their shared supper leapt to mind. ’Twas usually Mattachanna’s dusky face that stared back at him. Reaching for an elaborate brass tobacco tamper, Xander pressed last year’s leaf into the pipe’s bowl, tamping down the old, festering ache along with it. Once lit, he inhaled, wanting to banish the vision.