by Deeanne Gist
She traced a feather with her finger. “No,” she whispered.
Well, now, what was this? Settling on the ground in front of her, he rested an arm across his upright knee. “When did you discover he’d been press-ganged?”
“It was with friends, he was, when the deed took place. One of the men managed to escape. After he came out of hiding, he told his wife, who then informed me of Obadiah’s mishap.”
“Who did the deed?”
“I know not.”
His brows drew together. “But the man who returned would surely have known.”
She wet her lips. “Yes.”
“Then how is it you do not?”
“I asked not.” With quick jerks, she plucked the feathers again.
He tilted his head to the side. “You asked not?”
The pace of her work increased. There could be only one reason a wife wouldn’t seek out her man. “Obadiah was an unsuitable husband?”
No response. Unsuitable he was, then. “I must still attempt to find him. I’ve given my word to both Drew and the council.”
“I know,” she breathed.
Fire and torment, he hated this. “The man who escaped, know you his name?”
“Arnold Parker. A peddler of oatcakes, he was.”
“How many men were taken, other than Obadiah and Parker?”
“I know not.”
“You were in London at the time?”
“Yes.”
He watched her for a moment. It was a good thing that chicken was already dead, the way she clenched it with every pluck. Reaching out a hand, he covered hers. “It will help me in my dealings with Obadiah if I know of his unsuitable traits.”
Her face tensed. She made no move to enlighten him. He released her. “I must guess then?”
She said nothing.
“Well, I would suppose he either took mistresses, was a slugabed, or overindulged in drink.”
She reddened. “I asked not and cared not about the women. He never missed work, and tipping the cup was not his way.”
“Then what?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
She remained silent. His hand stilled. Beatings. He knew many a man who beat his wife. His father had never once raised a hand in anger, but there were countless who did. “He mistreated you?”
Color drained from her face, yet she continued with her task. He tensed. “And the children?”
The quickening of her task was her only response. He waited. “Mary? Did Obadiah mistreat the children?”
Silent tears began to fall from her eyes. “Yes,” she choked, so softly he barely heard it.
His nostrils flared. Placing his hands on either side of him, he leaned forward. “How did your children die?”
With total disregard to preserving the feathers, her pace became frenzied. He took her chin in his hand and raised it. “How did your children die?”
Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. “Obadiah had no patience for the crying. Quite mad it would drive him. I placed myself between him and the babies, but the more I did, the more vexed he became. Until one day, his anger, it turned into rage.”
He slid his eyes shut. Wretched cur, when he’s found it will go the worse for him.
Her body slumped. “I tried to stop him, I did, but...”
Removing the chicken from her lap, he tenderly reached for her. She came to him without resistance.
The pinks and oranges of the sky had been chased away by the sun, now shining its full glory upon them. A nearby whippoorwill repeatedly whistled the rendition of his name.
How long they embraced, knee to knee, torso to torso, he knew not. Eventually, she tensed.
He released her. “I promise you. Never again will Obadiah lay a hand on you in anger.”
“No, Josh. You mustn’t confront him. It will only make it worse, it will.”
“My word’s been given.”
She touched his arm. “Obadiah can be ruthless, and his ways are not fair.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“You understand not. Where his property is concerned, it’s unreasonable he is. Why, he’ll kill you just for mentioning it.”
“We’ll see.”
Her eyes welled up again. “I’ll not be having another death on my hands. And if you don’t have a care for my feelings, then what of your bride’s? She’ll not be thanking me for the demise of her man, that’s for certain.”
He frowned. “You wound me with such a lack of confidence. He never will lay a heavy hand on you again and that’s an end to it. As for Hannah, she has nothing to do with it.”
“Nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with it. What’s she like, this Hannah of yours?” After a shocked pause, her face flooded with color.
He widened his eyes, hesitated, then sought to put her at ease. “Ah, how to describe Hannah?” He pursed his lips. “She reminds me of Mama’s porcelain cup. Delicate, fragile, refined.”
“And beautiful?”
He shrugged. “Yes. She’s quite lovely.”
She reached for the chicken. A breeze stirred her thick maple hair, while white feathers floated around her.
Glancing at the sun, he noted the time. He needed to go. Stalling, he gathered the runaway feathers and deposited all but one into the pouch resting at her side. “Well, I must away before the captain leaves without me.”
She said nothing, nor did she lift her gaze.
He stroked the downy fringe of the single plume in his hand. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?”
“Good-bye, Master Josh.”
“Josh,” he corrected.
She shook her head. “Master Josh.”
“You called me Josh a few moments ago.”
She glanced up. “Did I? I wasn‘t, I mean, I didn’t--”
He placed the feather against her lips, effectively stopping her words. “It’s all right. I simply want you to continue with that form of address.”
She sat still, her eyes riveted to his. With slow deliberation, he drew the feather to her jawline, following its sleek curve to her ear, then up to the widow’s peak forming the juncture from which her heart-shaped face began. With the gentle slope of her nose beckoning, he ushered the feather to its tip. Her lashes swept down.
Ah, don’t hide those lovely eyes from me, dear Mary. He skimmed the feather across her lids. They twitched, then opened. Extraordinary.
He grazed the rosy buds of pink blooming along her cheeks. What pleasure God must have taken in creating her. She held a subtle beauty, enhanced by her very nature.
Her lips parted. He guided the feather to them, tracing their enticing shape. He hesitated. Tempting as it was, he had no business kissing her, not when he had another awaiting him back in England.
He transferred the feather from her lips to his, brushing it lightly across his own. She dropped her gaze, then resumed her plucking.
Slowly, he stood. “Good-bye, Mary.”
“Happy wedding, Master Josh,” she whispered.
Tucking the feather safely into his cloth pouch, he noted the bittersweet taste her good tidings had caused.
Stirring a batter of cornmeal, salt, and water, Drew determinedly kept his back to Constance as she brushed out her hair in long, slow strokes. The color of it hurt his eyes this early in the morning.
He turned to pluck a cloth from a peg by the fireplace, then paused. She was no longer kneeling by the chest, nor was she anywhere in the cottage.
He glanced at the door, propped open with a rock. He’d given her another old dress of Nellie’s this morning and she’d been anxious to change. A movement up by the rafters caught his attention.
There she knelt, with her back to him, probably thinking the loft’s shadows hid her from view. Not so. She lifted her dress up over her head. His breath caught.
He should turn around. He should leave her to do as she would. Instead, his eyes lingered, moving down to her waist where it curved in and then flared out at her hips. Those hips disappeared in the blan
ket she’d wrapped around her lower body.
He held himself perfectly still. He’d given his word not to bed her, but he’d never said anything about this. It was implied, though, and he knew it.
He swallowed. She’d probably never gone without underthings in all her born days. He’d never really realized until now that she wore nothing underneath the flimsy homespun dress. When the next ship came through, he’d be sure to get her some stockings, at least, and maybe some shoes.
With the help of God Almighty, he forced himself to turn back to the fire and spread some hot ashes over the hearthstone. He poured batter on top of the ashes.
Moments later, she stepped up beside him. “What are you making?”
“Ash cakes.”
“But you’re getting them dirty.”
“When the batter cooks up, you simply lift them up and brush off the ashes.”
He demonstrated how to do the first one, allowing her to do the rest while he poured more batter onto some fresh ashes. “Take that first batch out to the men,” he said, “and tell them to help themselves to anything down in the orchard.”
When she returned, he had another batch ready. “I’ll take these out. You grab a trencher, dust those last few off, and we’ll eat in here.”
He returned to find two trenchers on the board. “Who’s eating with us?”
She blinked from her place at the table. “No one.”
“Then why are there two trenchers?”
“There are two people.”
He picked one up and returned it to the shelf. “No need to wash two when we have use for only one.”
Settling himself on the bench next to her, he said grace, then popped several cakes into his mouth.
She sat with her hands in her lap. “We’re to eat with our fingers?” He chewed a moment more, then swallowed. “Stabbing ash cakes with a knife might prove to be a bit futile.”
She wet her lips. “I see.”
Polishing off more cakes, he suppressed a smile. First no privy, then no bed, now no utensils. He’d make a colonist out of her yet. Reaching for his noggin, he downed the rest of his cider. “Mary and Sally should be back sometime this morn. In the meanwhile, please see to your chores.”
She lifted her brows. “Chores? What would you have me do?”
Taking off his napkin, he stood. “You know--weed the garden, wash the utensils, gather the eggs, that sort of thing.”
He stepped out of the cottage, grabbed a large iron pot, and reentered. “Here are some turtles I caught yesterday.” He set the pot on the board. “We’ll eat them for our midday meal. If Mary doesn’t return within an hour, you’ll need to chop off their heads, then drop them--shell and all--into boiling water.” He plucked his hat off a peg by the door. “See you at noon.”
Constance stared at the large pot beside her. After several moments, she leaned over to peek inside. The turtles were not only huge but alive. She would never make it until spring.
Thoughts of Uncle Skelly and his diary intruded. She took a deep breath. Yes she would. She would, by heaven, make it until spring. She must. But Lord, I’ll need your help!
Wiping moisture from her forehead, she tugged the oversized skirt from under her feet. Before this day was through, she would alter these dresses Drew had given her. Meanwhile, she would make good on her commitment to enjoy a daily bath.
The sun had gotten a jump on her by the time she returned from the creek clean, refreshed, and beaming with pride over the dishes she’d scrubbed. Wouldn’t Drew be pleased?
With a tune on her lips, she carefully stacked the clean dishes in their proper places and stoked the fire. Making a wide circle around the pot, she scooped up a basket and headed to the chicken coop.
Situated on the southeast corner of the clearing, the chickens were imprisoned behind a rudimentary fence. The twilled wooden barricade, comprised of thin rails passing over and under sturdy posts, encircled their little house and yard. Stepping through its gate, she paused as chickens came from all quarters. Ugly creatures. “I’ve come for the eggs.”
The hens clucked.
She backed up a step. “Yes. I don’t blame you. I’d be vexed as well. Therefore, I will only take a few. Would that be acceptable?”
A large, particularly ugly gray-and-white rooster crowed loud and long.
“Ah. You must be the master. Well, I see not what you’re complaining about. You’re not the one that’s done the laying now, are you?”
The rooster took four more steps toward her and crowed again.
She scooted down the fence line, making her way to the hen house. “Easy. I meant no offense. Pay me no mind. I’ll be but a moment and then will leave you in peace.”
The ornery creature charged. Shrieking, Constance swiped the basket in front of her. The other chickens in the coop yelped while the rooster fluttered its wings and tried to flog her again.
She screamed without ceasing, bandying her basket about like a sword. Before she could manage to escape, the monster caught the calf of her leg with its spurs. She knocked him to the side with her basket, allowing barely enough time to put herself on the other side of the gate.
He flew against it, crowing. She screamed again as she fumbled to secure the latch. The hens raced around the coop squalling and flapping their wings.
Jerking up her skirt, she could see nothing but blood running down her calf. “Oh, you awful, awful creature! Look what you’ve done. Why, I’ll have your head for this. Don’t you doubt it for a moment!”
The rooster continued to crow and spread its wings. With a running leap, it managed to lift itself off the ground. Constance screamed and scrambled back, but despite its efforts, the cock couldn’t get higher than midfence.
“It’s supper you’ll be tonight, you worthless clapperdudgeon,” she hollered from a safe distance. “Mark my words. When the real master gets home, we’ll just see whose side he’s on. It’s the mistress you’ve flogged and, so help me, I will savor every bite I take of your wretched hide!”
Spinning around, she limped to the cottage, back straight, head high. The eggs would have to wait.
Once inside the cottage, she jerked her chemise off a peg and ripped a goodly portion from its skirt. Plopping onto the bed, she lifted her dress for another look. What a nasty mess and oh, how it throbbed.
She bound the wound tightly, all the time visualizing that awful bird on a spit over tonight’s fire. She knotted the ends of the rag together, then took a deep breath. She could have been killed. What if she hadn’t been able to get out of that pen? What if the gate hadn’t opened? What if it hadn’t closed? Her entire body began to shake.
None of this should be happening. She should be safe at home, where she knew the rules and how to get around them. Certainly, the war had disrupted everyone’s life, but this...this place with its barbaric ways and uncivilized people. No telling what might happen to her.
I want to go home, Lord. Home. Where the faces are familiar. Where I am loved and protected and cherished. Where we eat real food and sleep in real beds. Where I have shoes and stockings. Candles and parchment.
On the heels of that prayer, though, came not peace, but anger. Pure, unadulterated, full-blown anger. And with it a great urge to unleash it on the men who had done this to her.
She spied the pot. Narrowing her eyes, she rose from the bed in search of the kitchen knife, then made her way to the table with only the slightest of limps, the weapon hanging heavily from her hand.
Rolling up her sleeve, she took a fortifying breath, then plunged her free hand into the smelly water. The reptiles retreated into their shells. The turtle she grasped displayed a perfectly geometrical design on its back. Fascinating.
With the tip of the knife, she tapped what could be construed as the turtle’s shoulder. “I dub thee,” tap, “Sir Hopkin,” tap. “Governor of the Virginia Colonies.” Looking at the specimen with contempt, she lifted her chin a mite. “Because of the shirking of your duties and your treacherous
behavior toward countless unsuspecting women, I sentence you to die, by beheading.”
She held Sir Hopkin high for all to see while she marched him out of the cottage and into the clearing. Dusting off a place in the yard, she set him down.
He did not come out. Typical, the lily-livered fiend. “Come, Sir Hopkin. Take your due like a man, even though all know you to be a spineless, arrogant, useless knave.”
Nothing. She frowned. How did one make a turtle come out of its shell? Squatting down beside the animal, she studied its design. The sun climbed higher and beads of moisture formed at her hairline before Sir Hopkin deigned to poke his ugly head out.
She whizzed the knife down. He withdrew faster than she imagined possible. She took a deep breath. Her leg ached, her anger simmered.
After spending a good part of the morning trying to behead Sir Hopkin without success, she swiped him up off the ground, marched-well, limped--back into the cottage and threw him into his watery home. The turtle soup would have to wait. Cursed animals.
She rubbed her leg, then set out for the garden. It, too, was encircled by a fence woven together with shaved tree limbs. Her expertise was cutting and arranging flowers. Tilting her head, she studied the chessboard of variegated pieces. No flowers, only herbs and weeds. But which were which? She sighed. The gardening, it seemed, would have to wait as well.
Returning to the cabin, she stoked the fire and set a pot to boil. She reached for the dress she’d worn yesterday and took it outside to alter its dimensions.
When Drew arrived home it was to find Constance sitting prettily in the middle of the clearing wearing a dress that actually fit while sewing on another.
The chickens in the coop squawked, the garden remained unchanged, and no smoke came from the chimney.
“Constance?”
“Drew! Oh, thank goodness. You’re home.” Struggling to her feet, she limped toward him.
He frowned, but only for a moment. She’d done something drastic to her gown. It looked nothing like the ones Nellie wore. It was tasteful and modest, covering every inch of her, but simultaneously accentuating all the dips and swells of her person. “What did you do to Nellie’s old dress?”