The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn

by Benton, Lori

  For all it was gently voiced, the question cut a swath across her heart. “I see myself becoming my mother,” she whispered.

  “Is that the worst thing you can imagine?”

  Why she should think so was beyond her, but Tamsen sensed the man knew more of her situation than she’d revealed—and that he’d help her, if she asked. The impulse to do so swept over her in a dizzying rush. His sharp eyes must have seen it. A hand, big, soiled from mucking, rose as if he meant to take hold of hers.

  Tamsen stepped back, cloak clutched to her chest, fingers digging into the wool. She could never ask this man for help. What could he possibly do for her? Frustration and despair surged up, and there was nowhere else to vent it.

  “Why did you have to interfere?”

  He unfolded his tall self with a dignity she hadn’t suspected he possessed. “To spare your poor horse. If you lack the sense to consider the needs of those that serve you, reckon someone has to step up and do it in your stead.”

  The indictment stung. That this uncouth, rustic white savage had the audacity to reproach her with the very shortcoming she’d laid at the feet of Ambrose Kincaid—

  “How dare you say such a thing to me?”

  “Well, now. I’ve faced down charging bears and starving wolves and murdering Chickamaugas. Reckon the pique of a pretty miss ain’t like to daunt me.” Those striking amber eyes twinkled—with laughter.

  Tamsen had no memory of whirling on her heel and exiting the stall. So complete was her fury at his impudence, his unfairness, not a single thought of her stepfather, the blue gown, or Ambrose Kincaid crossed her mind for the half minute it took her to reach Mrs. Brophy’s back door.

  Torn betwixt amusement at the girl and regret for her unhappiness, Jesse Bird went back to shoveling dung. He’d only meant to tease, not offend, but had to admit the snap in her dark eyes before she’d flounced out of the stable had set his blood to racing. Fragile as a broom twig she might look, but she had spirit, and boldness to speak her mind—to him at least.

  Tamsen Littlejohn. He’d gotten her full name out of Sim, and that of her stepfather, Parrish. He knew they’d come from Charlotte Town so the girl might secure herself a bridegroom, a planter from Virginia besotted by a portrait of her he’d seen. And he knew Tamsen hadn’t taken to the man, even with riches to sweeten the pie.

  ’Course she hadn’t, Jesse thought, piling the last of the manure into the cart. Back on the trace he’d told Catches Bears and Thunder-Going he’d know the one when he found her. He’d said it to hush their fool talk about White Shell, was all. Twice now he’d seen Tamsen Littlejohn to talk to. Neither conversation had ended well. Still he couldn’t shake what he’d sensed at that first meeting of their eyes. Tamsen Littlejohn just might be the woman the Almighty intended for him.

  Jesse wheeled the cart outside. In the yard behind the trade store, he spotted Cade, talking with the clerk and three men he took on sight for poor farmers with big dreams of Overmountain land, looking for a guide to take them west.

  Cade nodded him over.

  Jesse paused at a rain barrel to wash, wiped his hands on his shirttail, and strode over to the men. He shook hands and set names to memory, marking the one who put himself forward as leader of the trio, each head of a family, with stock and canvased wagons camped outside of town.

  Jesse knew his part. He was the white face, the one to ease whatever qualms settlers had in putting their safety in the hands of a man who looked too much like the Chickamaugas they feared. Sure as sunrise, once Jesse made it clear he’d be along for the crossing, their wary faces eased. The lead man voiced his intention of settling along the Nolichucky.

  “Hear tell General Sevier’s got himself a brand-new state yonder. The State of Franklin.”

  “The back country is in a state,” said the store clerk. “Though whether it ought to be called Franklin or the Great Divide, I’ll leave it to you folk to reckon. Politics runs high t’ other side o’ these mountains.”

  Jesse watched their faces as the clerk described the situation Overmountain, where many of the leading men like John Sevier had formed a separate state after North Carolina ceded her western lands to the Union three years back, not knowing till after they’d set up the Franklin government and shaken hands and signed their names that the General Assembly had snatched back those lands in a repeal of the cession. Now everyone’s hackles were up, and neither side was backing down in their say on who should claim, protect—and tax—the Watauga settlers. North Carolina or Franklin. Old State or New State.

  “God alone knows where the confusion will end,” the clerk said. “A man might do better going right on through the Cumberland Gap, follow Boone and his lot up into Kan-tuck-ee.”

  “What of the Shawnees up along the Ohio?” the lead man asked. “We hear tell that’s a bloodier ground by far.”

  Cade and Jesse exchanged a glance. “If you’re fretted over Indians, you’d best keep east of the mountains,” Cade said. “Forting up from time to time, having a crop or a cabin burnt, that’s going to be a way of life once you cross over.”

  Jesse knew Cade didn’t like seeing so many settlers heading west, filling up the coves where the Cherokees and Shawnees once hunted. But settlers were coming whether he liked it or not. What bothered Cade more were tales of women and children scalped in the passes before ever setting foot on the land where they hoped to prosper.

  Movement glimpsed sidelong made Jesse turn to see Sim outside the stable, with him a dark-skinned woman he recognized as Parrish’s maid. The two had their heads together. The woman cast a glance toward the Brophy house, where Tamsen was staying. Sim looked toward the store yard, catching Jesse’s eye. Taking hold of the maid’s arm, Sim drew her inside the stable.

  Jesse knew the look of two people conspiring. Over what, he couldn’t say. Much was amiss in that household.

  “Mata-howesha,” he murmured.

  “What isn’t good, Jesse?” Cade’s Shawnee was still as fluent as his own, but Jesse shook his head, thinking it best he held his tongue—in any language.

  The settlers were saying they’d wait and see the lay of the land and decide whether they meant to file a claim on the Nolichucky or head to Kentucky instead. “All we’re asking of you is to get us over safe,” he said, nodding toward the blue rise of foothills to the northwest. “Help us keep our scalps and stock and young’uns along the way. You swear to that and we’ll talk about compensation.”

  “I can avow,” the store clerk said, “not a man, woman, or puppy dog has regretted placing their lives in the hands of Cade and Jesse Bird.”

  The light slanting through the window heralded sunset; still Mr. Parrish had not returned. With pins and combs and the hot iron, Dell had swept back Tamsen’s heavy curls and tamed them into ringlets, secured at the crown with a lace pinner in place of a cap, to show off more of her handiwork. Tamsen was dressed to stays and petticoat, hose and heeled silk shoes but didn’t want to don the blue gown until certain a meeting would take place.

  “Dell, I think ’tis time. Why don’t you go on out to Sim?”

  Tamsen turned from pacing the room to stare at her mother, dressed in nutmeg silk, then at Dell, who’d just set the cooling iron on the hearth. She’d heard her mother dismiss their maid after a thousand hair dressings, yet never in such a manner. Go on out to Sim? And what did that sorrowing look coming over Dell’s face signify?

  “Go now,” Sarah Parrish said. “If this is still what you want.”

  “Miss Sarah … thank you.” Dell cast her mother an anguished look, then hurried from the room, tears spilling down her brown cheeks.

  Tamsen stared after her. “Mama, what’s upset Dell?”

  Her mother was inspecting the blue gown, hung from one of the bedposts, though there couldn’t be a crease left hiding in its folds. “Never mind Dell. ’Tis you we must speak of now. I’ve been informed of what you tried to do last night.”

  Tamsen sank onto the foot of the bed, twisting her
fingers together. “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Another lie. She’d let desperation drive her to attempt something that, had it succeeded, would have haunted her the rest of her days. Abandoning her mother. Yet remorse ran countercurrent to resentment at being trapped by the person she loved best in the world.

  Her voice shook as she asked, “Does he know?”

  “You’d know if he did. Sim was circumspect.”

  More so than she’d been, apparently. Her mother had been unusually silent the day long. Tamsen, stewing in her misery, had left her to Dell’s company, the pair often whispering together. About what?

  “And there is no need to tell me you are sorry. ’Tis I should be saying that to you.”

  Tamsen frowned at the back of her mother’s neck, at the coil of black hair swept up sleek and elegant, the crown of it decorously covered. “What do you mean, Mama? What are you sorry for?”

  “For every choice I’ve made since the day your father died. For standing by while Mr. Parrish has done all in his power to see you make the same choices.” Despite her words, Tamsen’s mother turned with her beautiful face serenely calm. “There is one thing more on the subject of Mr. Kincaid I need to ask you, Tamsen. Have you considered there is occasion for you to do great good in all of this, in marrying that man?”

  “Good for whom?”

  “For Mr. Kincaid’s people. They will have a mistress eventually, and there are far less kind ones than you would make. Your presence in his house could mean all the difference in their lives. That is no small thing to which to devote oneself.”

  Tamsen had begun shaking her head before her mother finished speaking. “If that’s what you think, Mama, then answer me this. Did marrying you make a difference in how Mr. Parrish treats his slaves?” Look how he treats us, she wanted to scream.

  Her mother must have plucked those stillborn words from the air and taken them to heart. Her face drained of color, yet it held its resolve. Moving as if in a daze, she drew Tamsen to the chairs by the hearth. Her hands were cold.

  “Not a blessed difference,” she said, with a conviction all the more startling for its suddenness. “Still, Mr. Kincaid may prove more open to influence. Aren’t you willing to give him that chance?”

  “Not unless I’m forced to it. Mama, is there a way out of this? If Mr. Parrish doesn’t know I tried to run away, maybe we could try … together?”

  Her mother drew a shaky breath. “I have little doubt of it coming to that, Tamsen. And I believe ’tis here, in Morganton, where we must make the attempt. But not in secret. It must be done openly, with as many as we can muster to bear witness.”

  This wasn’t making sense. At long last her mother wanted to break free of Mr. Parrish, but she didn’t want to run away in secret? What other option was there?

  Her mother read her bewilderment. “There’s something I have never told you, Tamsen. Something that could prevent your marrying Mr. Kincaid, or any man like him. But more importantly, it should free us both from Mr. Parrish, if we can convince the right people to believe it. But ’tis a risk, all the same.”

  Tamsen could barely catch her breath. She grasped her mother’s wrist. The pulse beneath her fingers beat hard. Her mother’s dark eyes met hers, wide with fear but something else that made them shine. Hope?

  “Mama, tell me.”

  “Where do I start? There’s so little time. First I must tell you about your father, about what Stephen did for me when—”

  “Shut—your—mouth!”

  Unheralded in their distraction, Hezekiah Parrish had returned. He crossed the room, snatched her mother’s arm from Tamsen’s grasp, and with the sound of tearing seams, yanked her to her feet.

  “You swore to me, Sarah. Why are you breaking your word?”

  Pain thinned her mother’s lips. “We were speaking of Mr. Kincaid’s slaves. I was explaining to Tamsen—”

  “You were speaking of Stephen Littlejohn.” He spat the name as if it tasted foul. In its wake fell a silence so complete Tamsen heard her heart slamming against her tight-drawn stays. She stared, a coldness in the pit of her belly, as her mother smiled.

  “I made you no promise never to speak of my husband,” she said with a calm that raised the hairs on Tamsen’s arms—in the seconds before Mr. Parrish drew back his fist and hit her mother full in the face.

  Her fall toppled the chair on which she’d sat, her heavy petticoats tangling with its legs. The crack of her head hitting the hearth was audible over the chair’s crash.

  For an instant Tamsen couldn’t move, so cruel was the blow, so shocking its results. She gaped at her mother, sprawled and still. “Mama?”

  Sarah Parrish made no sound. Blood spilled from her nose, running rivulets across her mouth and chin.

  “Stephen Littlejohn is dead,” Mr. Parrish shouted at her mother. “You are mine, and you will do as you are bid. You and your daughter are mine.”

  While behind her Mr. Parrish raged, Tamsen stared at her mother’s blood, a red stain that blossomed until it filled her vision. Filled her soul. With a screech of rage, she flew at her stepfather, fingers clawed to rake his face, gauge his eyes, tear him into a thousand pieces.

  She never even scratched him. He caught her neatly, thick fingers closing over her wrists with appalling strength. Their faces were inches apart, his dark with fury. He freed one hand and clouted her, just above the ear. Where a bruise wouldn’t show.

  Tamsen plowed into the bed. Grasping the coverlet, she pulled herself onto the tick and rolled over, head ringing. Her stepfather hadn’t pursued her.

  “Repair your hair. Put that on.” Issuing orders as though his violence against them had affected him not in the least, Mr. Parrish shoved a finger toward the gown hanging from the bedpost. “Ambrose Kincaid will see you. You’re to apologize for your previous indecorous behavior. If he should offer again, you will accept his proposal of marriage.”

  “I won’t.” It came out a sob, not the blazing defiance she’d intended. “He’s the one who should apologize.”

  Mr. Parrish advanced to the bed. Leaning over her, he grasped her chin with squeezing fingers, forcing her to look at him. To her humiliation, a whimper escaped her lips. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am not the one who cares to hear that lie out of your pretty mouth.” He released her and withdrew, leaving behind a cloud of stale breath. “You will make your apologies—convincingly. You will give him every encouragement to repeat his offer of marriage. Every encouragement. Should he do so, you will answer him with an immediate acceptance. Am I clear?”

  Tamsen risked a glance at the hearth. Her mother hadn’t moved. “Yes sir. But … Mama.”

  Hezekiah Parrish was already at the door, too consumed with the fly at the edge of his web to concern himself with the one long caught. “Let the maid see to her. You’ve an hour to make yourself decent.”

  Unsteadied by the ringing in her head, Tamsen lurched across the room before the front door had shut. “Mama!”

  Conscious now, Sarah Parrish’s mouth sagged as she gasped in breath, a wet, labored sound, more alarming than the blood seeping from her swelling nose.

  “Mama, you’re choking. Can you sit up?” Tamsen slid a shaking hand behind her mother’s head to help raise her. Seeming dazed, her mother pushed herself off the hearth to sit, slumped in a tangle of petticoats. Blood spattered the nutmeg silk.

  “I’m all right.” Her voice was as thick as her breath.

  Tamsen stared at the hand that had cupped her mother’s head. Blood slicked her fingers. “You aren’t all right, Mama. Look.”

  Sarah’s head swayed like a flower too heavy for its stem. She put a hand to her temple. “I don’t know …”

  Tamsen got her mother on her feet and half-carried her to the bed. She lowered her head to a pillow, smearing blood over the coverlet and her embroidered petticoat. “You need help, Mama. I’ll find Dell.”

  Where was the maid?

  Go on out
to Sim. The stable. Before she took a step, her mother grasped her hand. “Dell’s gone her way.”

  “Mama—” Tamsen faltered, looking back at her mother’s battered face. At first she thought it was the light—the sun was setting, casting the room in a swelling amber glow—for a youthful gloss had flushed her mother’s skin despite the cruel effects of her stepfather’s blow. A gloss she hadn’t possessed in years. But it wasn’t the light. It came from within.

  It was joy. Her mother glowed with it, smiling through the blood on her mouth and chin.

  “Has Stephen come? Where is your papa?” Her mother was staring at a corner of the room, as if Dell, their troubles, and her injury were matters too insignificant to concern her now. As if something long anticipated was about to transpire there. Fear slipped cold down Tamsen’s spine.

  “What are you saying? Mama, look at me. Where is Dell?”

  “Tamsen …” Her mother’s voice was losing strength, though her grip still anchored Tamsen to the bedside. “Get the box.”

  “What box?”

  Sarah’s fingers fluttered to the bodice of her gown, fumbling for something tucked beneath her blood-spattered kerchief. There was a cord around her mother’s neck, tucked into her bodice. Tamsen pulled it free. On it hung a key, small and dark. From the clothespress Tamsen grabbed her mother’s scissors, left out for repairs to the gown. She snipped the cord. The key dropped into her hand, warm from her mother’s body.

  Sarah’s eyes strayed again to that corner, seeing something Tamsen couldn’t. Behind their almost feverish glow, urgency glittered. “In my trunk …”

  “Mama, whatever this is, it can wait—”

  “You have to know. Hurry …”

  Sick with dread, Tamsen went to her mother’s trunk, pushed against the wall where Sim had left it. She knelt and rummaged among the few contents still unpacked until she found what she thought her mother meant—a box the size of a bread loaf, dark with age, hinged with iron. She set it on the floor and fumbled with the key. The lock was rusted. The key wedged tight. She wrenched it sideways. Finally it sprang. Inside were papers. Letters with broken seals. She fingered through them, heart hammering, the need to dump them in a heap and run for help all but overwhelming. How long had her stepfather been gone? Five minutes? Ten?