Tidewater Bride

by Frantz, Laura

  “On the contrary, her presence signals the Powhatans’ peaceful designs,” Selah explained. “Women and children always do.”

  As the hall clock struck eleven, Oceanus returned with Watseka, smelling of the stable, straw sticking to their hair and garments. Nurse Lineboro looked aghast.

  McCaskey, ever a foil to her straitlaced ways, burst into laughter. “Jumping in the haymow, no doubt.”

  Oceanus gave a sheepish smile. “Watseka is fond of my pony. She calls it Aranck. What means she?”

  “Aranck means star, likely for the star on your pony’s forehead,” Xander said as the children came to stand before him. “Well named.”

  “We have rumbling stomachs, Father.”

  “And I thought it the sound of thunder.” Chuckling, he plucked some chaff from his son’s tousled hair. “Have Aunt Henrietta fetch you some cheese and butter bread from the milk house.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Remember your table manners,” Nurse Lineboro put in. “Sing not, hum not, wriggle not.”

  Her terse words chilled Selah’s heart as much as Xander warmed it. Oceanus said nothing, though his face darkened and grew shuttered. Beside him, Watseka picked at her own frayed braid, darting a glance at Selah as if seeking her approval before they went out again. Sensing Xander’s aunt might need a hand, Selah pocketed her fan and excused herself. Xander followed her as the factor and nurse resumed their parlor conversation. By the time she reached the riverfront door, he’d overtaken her.

  “We’re to have an evening’s entertainment Saturday next.” Resting against the door frame as if in no hurry, he looked down at her. “Will you come?”

  She nearly sighed. Could he sense her utter delight at being asked so personally? “A host of warring Powhatans couldn’t keep me away.”

  “They’re not among the invited guests.” His wry smile was her complete undoing. “You are the very first.”

  She turned breathless, her pent-up feelings magnified by his nearness. “Rose-n-Vale has never had a frolic, to my remembrance.”

  “’Tis time, mayhap.” His gaze sharpened in intensity. “Time for a great many things.”

  Her heart beat out a question she could not ask. Many things?

  “Why did you come today, Selah? Was it simply to bring Watseka?”

  “Nay. I also brought stillroom remedies for your ailing indentures.”

  “But none for me.”

  “You?” Her voice became a troubled whisper. “What is your malady?”

  “Insomnia. An acute pain here . . .” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, where she felt the bold beat of his heart. “Something akin to mental torment.”

  She laid her other hand along his bewhiskered jaw, more touched than amused by his teasing. “I suffer the very same. But even if I had a cure, I hope you would not take it. I would not.”

  “Nay.” His fingers tightened around hers.

  “Verily, there’s no relief for so fatal a malady but this . . .” Standing on tiptoe, she brushed his lips with her own, so fleeting it was less kiss and more maddening tickle.

  She sensed his surprise—and profound pleasure. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sudden movement in the parlor. Stepping back, she turned on her heel and fled through the back door toward the dependencies, as abuzz and addlepated as the bees hovering near straw skeps in the kitchen garden. All around her pulsed the rhythm of plantation life, so different from Hopewell Hundred. Rose-n-Vale resembled a small village.

  Was that Xander’s intent? To become so self-sufficient that he had little need of imported British goods?

  Widow Brodie ushered the children out of the milk house, their mouths and hands stuffed with bread and cheese. “Dear Selah, I hope you will bring Watseka to Rose-n-Vale as often as you like. Things can be dreadfully dull for a lad with a busy father, an overbearing nurse, and an ancient great-aunt.”

  “And I was just thinking how impossible it would be for Oceanus to be bored here. I doubt he’ll have hours enough.”

  “Speaking of hours enough, did Alexander mention the coming frolic?”

  “He did. Are you overburdened with preparations?” Though strained at the seams at home, Selah could not deny her help. “Can I relieve you in some way?”

  “I simply covet your advice. I’m sorry to report this heat has flattened our supply of ale for the coming guests.”

  “Mother would tell you to boil it with honey, which seems to revive it.”

  “Oh?” They began a slow walk toward the summer kitchen. “Perhaps you can assist with the menu. Fish, of course, with some sort of sauce? And mutton? Or perhaps a fricassee? I have few banqueting dishes in mind.”

  “Perhaps baked marrow pudding? Or string beans with almonds?” Selah paused. What dishes did Xander favor? “Virginia’s tastes run to New World succotash and Indian pudding. Cherry tart is also a favorite, though I noticed some early apples in your orchard. Perhaps apple tansy. Father may even have marzipan at the warehouse.”

  “Splendid, all. Two heads are better than one.” Widow Brodie seemed relieved. “As I said, feel free to bring Watseka to play any time you please.”

  26

  The stillroom released a vinegary scent in the rising August wind. All morning they’d been at work blending spices and preparing crocks for preserving. Selah felt quite pickled herself, her apron splotched, her hands reeking of brine. She gave Izella a weary smile as she brought in the last basket of beans.

  “What shall you put on for Rose-n-Vale’s frolic?” Candace wore the same frown as when she’d perused Selah’s simple wardrobe that morning.

  “I’ve no idea, but I did see some pretty printed fabric on the last supply ship. Though I’ll be surprised if Father hasn’t sold it, with all the business of late.”

  “Why don’t you take Watseka and see if there’s enough cloth to be made into gowns for the both of you?” Eyeing the crocks of finished vegetables, Candace returned to the garden. “We can put off more preserving to sew.”

  “Go too?” Watseka looked at them from the open doorway, always ready for the warehouse and Ustis’s store of sweetmeats.

  “Of course!” Selah removed her soiled apron. “But let us hurry. We’ve pretty frocks to make!”

  Spurred by anticipation, they set off, making a footrace of it. Watseka won by a good stretch, the pup at their heels. Winded and thirsty, they schooled themselves to a walk as the wharf and warehouse came into view. Scooping Kentke up in her arms, Watseka followed Selah through the back door. Ustis was at the front, out of sight, talking to customers.

  Standing in the middle of all the merchandise, hands on hips, Selah got her bearings. A darkened corner boasted cloth of all kinds, ell after ell of osnaburg common among indentures alongside a host of blues favored by servants. Her hands sorted, uncovered, restacked. Was the coveted fabric gone? When first uncrated midsummer, it had stolen her breath. Weeks at sea had not diminished its luster.

  Lost in her feverish pursuit, she almost started when a voice called from the adjoining doorway, “Searching for something, Daughter?”

  “Indeed I am, Father. That lilac chintz from the East India Company. But you may have sold it.”

  “Not after I saw you looking at it longingly, nay.” With a knowing smile, he went to a small trunk and unlocked it. “Nothing on earth could induce me to part with it, so it has remained hidden. ’Tis yours, Selah.”

  The fabric was even more beautiful than she remembered. And soft, so soft. Eyes damp, she embraced both the chintz and him. “I hope to make a pretty frock for Watseka and myself to go to Rose-n-Vale.”

  “Ah, the frolic. Of course. But I doubt there’s cloth enough for two gowns. Perhaps this printed cotton would be suitable for Watseka’s new dress?” He pulled a lovely lemon-hued fabric from another hiding place. “What do you think, child? Shall you dress up like the sun? Twirl about like a yellow butterfly?”

  “Keshowse. Sun.” Setting down Kentke, Watseka fingered the soft fabric
and smiled her approval.

  Selah bit her lip. Squeezed for time, could she fashion two frocks? She was an able seamstress but no mantua-maker or milliner. None existed, not even in James Towne. Heaven forbid she arrive looking like a seed sack. “We must run all the way home and start sewing.”

  “Not until you have a pocket of sugared almonds, surely.” Ustis went to a stone jar where he kept such, Watseka by his side.

  Pockets full, Selah and Watseka were off again, half running in the unclouded joy of expectation. Selah had not had a new gown in many months and none so fine as this fabric.

  Once home, she set to work, assembling scissors and sewing notions, nearly scowling at the tick of the clock.

  “I shall sew Watseka’s,” Candace told her, examining the cloth with a practiced eye. “Such a lovely lilac ground, and all those tiny trailing vines and leaves in ivory. Dreamlike, truly, while Watseka’s is brilliant like the sunbeam she is.”

  “Father said the same.”

  “Where is she?”

  A sudden rasping from outside gave the answer. Busy with her shells beneath the arbor.

  Candace went to the open doorway to better see her. “What on earth might she intend for them?”

  Selah smiled and began rummaging for a brass thimble and linen thread. “Perhaps she means to wear a bit of jewelry with her new dress.”

  The portico was finished. All but sawdust and a few misplaced nails remained in the trampled grass at its edges. His aunt swept her broom across the expanse of new boards with relish, heels making a little tap at every turn. Xander walked the length and breadth of the long porch, examining the finished work with a critical eye.

  “I’ve a mind to add the same to the front of the house in time.” He’d already talked to the master carpenter. “A great many lessons were learned with this one. But we shall save any future construction for cooler weather.”

  “The craftsmen did admirably. I’m glad you rewarded them handsomely too.” She came to stand nearer him. “How are the ailing men in quarters?”

  “Mistress Hopewell’s tonics seem to be of help.”

  “That and prayer.” She rested her hands atop the broom. “Thankfully the governor saw fit to release your newest arrivals from quarantine since none showed signs of contagion after all.”

  “Aye.” Xander wouldn’t say what Laurent’s misdiagnosing and dallying had cost him. “Hopefully all the workers will be on their feet for the coming frolic. Have you enough hands in the kitchen ahead of Saturday?”

  “I believe so. Cook has nearly trained the new kitchen girl, and some of the indentures’ wives will help. I also asked Selah her ideas for banqueting dishes.” Her casual air did nothing to hide her intent. “She is quite a hand with such things.”

  “Oh aye, no doubt.”

  “Not to mention the copy of The Country Housewife’s Garden you gave me last Christmastide.”

  He’d completely forgotten.

  “And I do hope you’ll trim that beard of yours,” she scolded lightly. “We can’t have you mistaken for one of your indentures.”

  He ran a hand across his scratchy jaw. “Careful, you might turn me foppish.”

  “You? Never! I do take pride in having the handsomest nephew in all Virginia. You can’t begrudge me for wanting you to look your best. Now I must bid you good night. We’ve much left to do. Saturday is but day after tomorrow.”

  With that, she disappeared into the house with her broom, leaving him alone on the portico save Ruby and Jett, who were sniffing at the addition as if debating its merits. Was he half mad to consider a frolic? Though he considered himself equal to most tasks, becoming reacquainted with Oceanus, navigating his nurse, and familiarizing McCaskey with the workings of Rose-n-Vale exceeded the day’s hours.

  He returned to the hall, carried out a chair, and sat down. All he lacked was a pipe, but in truth, he was too spent to cross to the summer kitchen for a spark with which to light it. Besides, thoughts of his beloved didn’t need clouding with smoke. In his mind’s eye Selah was still sitting in his parlor, looking all the world like she owned it, trying her best to make conversation with a fractious nurse and a flirtatious factor amid two rambunctious children. Then hazarding a surprising half kiss before she flew away like a bird eluding his net.

  If he’d only gathered his wits and kissed her back.

  Twilight was filling in all that was left of daylight, the sun a spectacular splotch of gold as it rode the horizon to the mountainous west. From this portico he could both greet the day and oversee its ending. How much sweeter if such glories could be shared.

  Selah, what must I do to finally win your heart?

  His gaze was drawn upward at the rapid wingbeat of a dove. Waiting for its mate, likely, its mournful cooing adding to his own hollowness in Selah’s absence. Before the week was out, a gathering of twigs would be beneath the eave. While the male provided the materials, ’twas the female who built.

  In the same vein, he offered Selah himself and Rose-n-Vale, but ’twas she who would make a house into a home. A husband out of a widower. A motherless boy more whole.

  Lord willing.

  27

  Selah held up the half-finished gown to the dimming light. Her sewing skills had been stretched to the seams in crafting such. Still, she pressed on, inspired by never having owned such a garment before. Now, two nights before the frolic, she lacked finishing the skirt seams and the ribbon pleating. Could she manage it? ’Twas a simple design turned fancy by a sumptuous fabric. Fit for a ball. A wedding.

  Oh, Xander, will you dance with me?

  Every stitch seemed woven with all that remained unspoken. Possibilities. Promises. Tongue between her teeth in concentration, she plied her needle with a dizzying array of stitches. Herringbone. French knot. Eyelet. Cross. Stem.

  “What a glorious gown!” Candace eyed the ivory ribbon, which set off the sleeves and bodice. “Might you catch a certain gentleman’s notice?”

  “I aspire to no such thing,” Selah murmured, then bit her tongue at the half-truth.

  Candace took a seat, her fingers caressing the finished sleeve. “Needs be we discuss the matter further.”

  “What means you, dear Mother?” Selah did not look up from her zealous stitching.

  “I can only hope this frenzied labor is fueled by your heartfelt affections.”

  “You believe I am smitten with Xander Renick.”

  “I would be delighted if so, as would your father.”

  Selah finished another whipstitch. “Xander has not spoken to Father about such.”

  “Oh, but he has. First Xander spoke to me since your father was unwell—even before he approached you. And your father has since told him he has our wholehearted blessing.”

  Selah’s needle slipped. She met her mother’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about ‘aye.’” Her gray gaze lit with exasperation. “Yet I sense you are unsure.”

  With effort, Selah stilled her hands. “I am not unsure of my feelings but his.”

  “His?” Candace questioned gently. “When he has made plain his intentions?”

  “Intentions are not affections.”

  “Your father and I began our marriage with mere intention and little affection. We are quite well suited and content. There is no reason to think you and Xander would be otherwise.”

  “I simply want to be chosen for the right reasons, not simply to warm a man’s bed nor mother a child nor manage a growing plantation.”

  “Many women marry for far less.”

  Such truth. Selah’s conscience pricked her, sharp as a pin. “You think I have overly romantic notions.”

  “That is between you and Xander.”

  Sitting back, easing the ache in her neck and shoulders, Selah focused on Watseka’s finished dress hanging from a wall peg. “I still wonder about Mattachanna at times.”

  “How so?”

  “Their marriage.”

  “You saw her ver
y little after her captivity and even less after they wed, other than the times she came to the store.”

  “And when I did, I sensed a sadness about her. Even after Oceanus was born, she seemed a bit melancholy. I’m ashamed to say I laid the blame at Xander’s door. His overwork. His ambition.”

  Candace shook her head. “Mattachanna parted with a great many beloved things before she became mistress of Rose-n-Vale, which was likely the root of any mournfulness. Under the reverend’s care, she became so homesick for her people that her sisters were sent for, even before she married Xander.”

  “I shall never forgive Helion Laurent and Captain Kersey and those officials who did her harm.” Ire made her eyes burn. She stared down at the chintz that was no more than a purple puddle. “Such men deserve naught but Hades as punishment.”

  “God shall be their judge.” Candace reached for Selah’s needle and thread. “Let me finish this for you. Step outside and walk about. Breathe the fresh air. I believe you are not just overtaxing your eyes and fingers but your mind.”

  Glad to relinquish the task, Selah did as she bid and sought a seat in the arbor’s shade facing west. Though she couldn’t see Rose-n-Vale through the forest and fields separating them, she craved a glimpse.

  Forgive me, Xander. Perhaps I don’t deserve you, thinking such things.

  Forgive me, Lord. Not even You threw a stone, though You had every right.

  Closing her eyes, she rested them and dwelt on a verse she’d taken to heart but seldom put into practice.

  Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true . . .

  Xander cared for her. And she loved him.

  Whatsoever things are honest . . .

  Xander had declared his intent as an honorable man would.

  Whatsoever things are just . . .

  Xander honored his indentures and the terms of their contracts. He opposed slaveholding. His fair dealings with the tribes were second to none.

  Whatsoever things are pure . . .

  Xander had asked her to join him in holy matrimony as his bride.