by Deeanne Gist
Drew thumped his hat’s rim, the impending sense of loss so acute it was that of a physical pain. He sighed heavily. “Because I’d rather her leave now. The longer she stays, the harder it will be to let her go.”
“Be not false with yourself, Drew. It would tear you apart no matter when she left, now or later. Might as well ride it out for as long as you can. Who knows? Maybe she’ll think you’re worth staying for.” He slapped Drew on the shoulder. “In any case, you’re her husband now and she’s foundering. Why not show up on a white steed to save her? Might buy you a few more days--and nights.”
Drew raked his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe he’d done this to himself again. Anger rippled down his spine and he clinched his jaw. But done it, he had, for he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, and this time, this time was by far the worst. Assailed by an overwhelming fear over his impending loss, he settled his hat upon his head.
She wasn’t good enough for him. How could she have been so naïve? Drew needed a woman like...well, like any of these dear ones around her. After listening to them talk, she realized they not only cooked but they made their own soap, their own candles, their own baskets, their own preserves, their own home remedies, their own spirits, their own...everything.
Back home, her father either purchased those items or she had the servants make them. She had a rudimentary idea of what was required, but never had she been involved in the actual process.
She sighed. The only thing the women talked of that she had any skill at was sewing and quilting.
What a shallow existence she’d held. Even her lofty goals for her mathematical pursuits were frivolous compared to what these women did. Why, some trapped and dressed their own wildlife, while others went into the tobacco fields and worked side-by-side with their husbands.
She could hardly tend the garden, much less harvest tobacco. It had taken weeks before she’d even collected the eggs by herself. And she’d made a muck of her most important job, Sally, nearly costing both of them their lives and endangering Drew’s.
He was bound to be having second thoughts. And who could blame him? So she could read Latin, speak French, write in a lovely script, and spell like a master. What good was it?
No wonder Drew had scoffed at her education. She truly hadn’t needed it. She certainly hadn’t used it--not here nor even in England.
It was a waste. She was a waste. How long would it be before he tired of her and her inadequacies? How long before he lamented being forced into marrying her? Already he showed signs of displeasure, storming off earlier because she’d disobeyed him and removed the cape, thus exposing her ignorance for all to see.
And, as she now realized, her shortcomings were a reflection on him. Were the other men at this very moment making jests about poor Drew being saddled with an ignorant wife?
Would these women be forbidden by their husbands to associate with her? Would she be seen as a bad influence? Would Drew lose his place in their society, for there were places, as she’d begun to realize. Nothing as elaborate as England’s hierarchy, but a hierarchy nonetheless.
There were slaves and indentured servants. Then, the small farmer, known as Goodman, and his wife, known as Goodwife or Goody. The larger land owners became Master, often taking a place of office in the community, their wives being known as Mistress.
There was no professional army but rather a local militia. The captain accepted his rank as entry into the gentry, and everyone addressed him by his title. There was also the crown-appointed governor, of course, and his council.
The women cleared away the remains of dinner, replacing it with a dessert course of Indian meal pudding, syllabubs, seedcake, and small tarts.
“I wonder who will win first rights to the mistletoe this year,” someone said from near her elbow.
Now there was something familiar. Constance always enjoyed the scrambling and confusion that ensued as soon as Papa suspended a huge branch of mistletoe from the center of the ceiling. She smiled as she recalled herself and other young ladies running into corners screaming and struggling, threatening and remonstrating. In short, they did everything but leave the room until such a time as they found it useless to resist any longer and submitted to being dragged to the center of the room for a kiss from some charming gallant.
Of course, Papa would merely stand directly under the berried bough, arms open wide, until he was surrounded by the whole body of young ladies and kissed by every one of them!
“First rights?” asked the woman with all the teeth--Kendra, she believed.
She voiced the question of many who were attending this celebration for the first time. Of the fifty or so brides who’d shared the voyage with her, about a score were present. Of those not in attendance, some lived too far away to come, while many others had died. Still, the veterans seemed to enjoy the task of introducing their colonial customs to all the newcomers.
“We’ve a shooting contest between the unmarried men,” Nellie explained. “A keen shot can sever the mistletoe right off the tree outside. The one who retrieves a cluster from the loftiest point on the tree gets first rights. The losers save their clusters, then try to make use of them on the sly.”
“The women,” another girl chimed in, “gather together as the winner walks amongst our ranks. He then holds the cluster above the lady of his choice, who must forfeit a kiss.”
“After the kiss, she picks off one berry,” Nellie added. “Once the berries are gone, so ends the kissing.”
“Granny Apperson made up rules after the year Jordie Bacon kept claiming kisses from the same girl over and over--each kiss a bit longer than the last--and she already married to another!”
The women tittered and Granny Apperson took a long pull on her pipe before blowing out a slow stream of smoke, content for now, it seemed, to let the younger set do the telling.
A woman with skin browned from the sun nodded her head. “At first she wasn’t going to allow any of the married women to participate, but that only left two girls. So then she set down that the men could claim no more than three kisses from any one girl.”
A matronly woman took a sip from her noggin. “It went on like that for several years until the O’Connor boys came of age.”
A collective sigh rippled through the group. Nellie turned to Constance. “Jonathon Emmett had won three years in a row when Drew first came of age. They’re both crack shots, and it was neck-and-neck there for a while as the two of them knocked cluster after cluster off the tree. Drew finally tired of the game, aimed a good ten feet above Goodman Emmett’s last shot, and picked one clean off, proving to all he’d only been toying with his competitor. Emmett couldn’t match him.”
Another woman several years older than Constance smiled in what appeared to be fond remembrance. “I’ll never forget standing with the other girls that day as young Drew looked us all over, each of us hoping to be chosen.” She chuckled. “He didn’t disappoint a one of us, did he, Granny?”
Granny Apperson smiled. “No, he didn’t. Of course, the next year Josh came of age and after that either one or the other of those two won. Call it the O’Connor era, we do.”
“Who finally beat them?” Constance asked.
The group stilled, no one answering. Granny Apperson stirred, smiling sadly. “Leah.”
The hairs at the nape of Constance’s neck prickled. “Who’s Leah?”
Again, no one answered. Granny sighed. “Drew’s betrothed.”
Blood drained from her face. Nellie reached over, patting her hand. “It was a long time ago.”
“Tell me.”
Nellie turned her attention back to her sleeping baby. Constance looked at Granny Apperson.
The old woman removed the pipe from her mouth. “Drew had never before shot like he did that day, nor has he since. It was something to see. The contest had just begun when he walked up, aimed, and felled a cluster from the very top of the boughs. No one else came close.
”
“I thought Leah won.”
“No, child, that’s not what I meant. Certainly, Drew teased not the women as he usually did. When they had assembled, he walked straight to Leah and claimed three kisses. Then slipping his knife from his scabbard, he sliced the end of her cap string off, tied it onto the remaining cluster, and hung it above the meetinghouse archway, announcing to all that he was through and any female caught under the mistletoe was free game.”
Another woman sighed. “It was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.”
Constance furrowed her brows. “Then why did you say Leah beat him?”
“I meant Leah beat down his youthful exuberance, for she died a few weeks later,” Granny said, melancholy touching her features. “Every Christmas since, Drew has still won the contest, but he never again titillated the girls to whom he would award his favor. He’s simply claimed one kiss from his grandmother, then hung the mistletoe above the archway.”
Constance swallowed. “How tragic.”
Granny Apperson lifted her brows. “He seems to be doing mighty fine this year.”
Constance kept her face free from expression, not wishing to disillusion the old woman with what she had begun to suspect was the real truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Constance watched Colonel Tucker lead the men in musket drills. By the time they were through, instead of taking a minute and a half to load their muskets, it took only three-quarters. They practiced many of the rank speeds the men back home did, but Nellie explained it was only so the men could load without thinking, for the Indians didn’t come straight at you the way Englishmen did. Instead, they took advantage of cover, often surprising their quarry.
“I thought relations were friendly.”
“Oh, they are,” Nellie assured her. “But it’s still important to practice. One never knows.”
Constance turned back to the assembly of men who were now breaking up in preparation for the mistletoe ceremony. She’d enjoyed watching Drew go through the choreographed movements with the others as he shouldered his musket, poised it, cast it about, drew forth his scouring stick, rammed down his charger, and so on until finally giving fire.
Even in a crowd, his presence commanded attention. He’d discarded jerkin and doublet, bringing the muscles of his arms and back into prominence as they rippled beneath his white shirt.
She’d seen him shoot the musket before, for several times he’d brought it with them to the creek for target practice after cleansing the dishes. And she’d enjoyed watching him then as well.
Leaning his musket against a tree, he shrugged his doublet and jerkin on and then moved to her, sweat lining his brow. “How fare you?”
She pushed back the hood of her cape. “Well.”
“Are you tiring? Need we leave?”
“I’m growing a little weary, but I’d like to stay and watch the mistletoe ceremony. May we?”
He nodded. “Very well, but we’ll leave as soon as it’s over. You’ve had a long day.”
He placed a hand beneath her elbow, catching up to the others as they moved down a path toward a rather sturdy oak. In the midst of its leafless branches, mistletoe shot from the trunk with boughs of brilliant green, decorated in an abundance of white berries, its richness a precious gem in the otherwise barren surroundings.
Granny Apperson grouped the women together and then the unmarried men. Constance and Mary gravitated toward each other to stand side-by-side for the ceremony.
Shots echoed throughout the forest as men applied their musket drills to loading and aiming for the mistletoe in record time. Within minutes the competition had narrowed to three--Josh, Goodman Emmett, and the man they called Caskie.
Young Caskie wiped a palm against his breeches.
Emmett cackled, his scrawny beard quivering. “Just imagine you’re having yer sights on one of them red-skinned savages, Caskie. That’ll make yer aim true.”
Constance frowned. Caskie raised his musket and fired. He missed.
Emmett pounded him on the back. “Well, son, step back now and take a good look at ’ow it’s done.” Emmett prepared his weapon with exaggerated slowness, drawing attention to each of the forty or so steps it took to prime. “Now, where you fell short, boy, weren’t in your aim but in the picture you held inside yer head. You got to actually see them beggarly devils, naked but for a covering acrost their loins and heathen paintings of all kinds profaning their bodies.”
With what few teeth he had, Emmett uncorked one of the apostles around his neck, pouring powder down the barrel of his gun before replacing the cork onto the little bottle. “Of courst, it’s important to remember those whoresons fight not with honor. Oh, no. They slither like vile snakes behind tall grasses and trees just waiting fer a chance to strike at us God-fearing Christians. And all because they think we’re the fulfillment of some heathen prophesy about whites coming to take their lands.“ Snorting, he opened the gun’s cap. ”Why, everybody knows God meant for us to have this land so we could Christianize them barbarians. Ain’t that right, Preacher?” Shouldering his musket, he took aim and fired at a particularly lofty cluster, bringing it to the ground.
Disgust for his uncharitable words and attitude was soon replaced with a flicker of anxiety as Constance realized his shot was well above the ones Caskie and Josh had felled before. If Emmett won, she could be subjected to his kiss--possibly even three.
Josh took less than a minute to prepare his piece, aim, and fire. He said nary a word. Relief swept through her as a clump of mistletoe bounced from branch to lower branch before finally making its way to the ground.
Emmett rocked back on his heels. “That’s it! That’s what I’m talking about.” Joining his musket to his wrist, he loaded with remarkable speed. “Did you see that, Caskie? Why, O’Connor here was prob’ly thinking about the time them bloodthirsty savages came in ‘22 and set a torch to his family’s cottage, even while his baby sister lay inside, helpless in her cradle. Story has it ol’ Josh here watched the whole thing from up in a tree, his knees a’knocking and doing nary a thing to save her.”
A black silence descended over the crowd. Constance’s gaze flew to Drew, her breath momentarily cut off. Every muscle in his body exuded tension, his face cold with fury.
Josh took a menacing step forward. Emmett quickly shouldered his musket and fired. A cluster of berries tumbled to the ground.
Panic took hold of Constance. What was the range of these muskets? What if Josh couldn’t reach a higher point due to the limitations of his firing piece? Josh loaded his musket with carefully controlled movements, then held the gun loosely within his grip, his focus pinned to Emmett.
Emmett’s smug expression slowly slipped as his eyes darted between Josh and the primed musket. “Meant no offense, O’Connor. Just giving Caskie a few pointers.”
“It’s Christmas day, Emmett, and need I remind you that without the Indians we wouldn’t be here, for our grandfathers would never have survived?”
Emmett’s lips thinned. “Oh, those lily-livered curs saved our grandfathers all right, but only to fatten ‘em up for the kill in ’22.”
“All was fine until your father murdered their leader.”
Emmett’s face reddened. “He was openly wearing Morgan’s cap! And after Morgan had been missing for days!”
“Morgan went with Nemattanew on a friendly trading expedition. Nobody knows what really happened. Morgan could have been attacked by a wild animal for all we know,” Josh continued, “but Nemattanew the Immortal was never given a chance to explain, was he? He was simply killed out of turn by a lowly Englishman whose 'patience had been tried’ because he didn’t like Nemattanew’s hat.”
Josh’s grip on his gun tightened. “The result was a massacre, famine, and epidemic that killed hundreds upon hundreds, then a ruthless counterattack by us where even more perished.” He leaned into Emmett’s face. “I’d just as soon avoid having my loved ones put through that again. Wouldn’t you?”
Constance gasped.
Governor Hopkin stepped forward, placing himself between the two men. “Enough, Emmett. We are at peace with the Indians and, God willing, will remain that way. O’Connor, it’s your shot.”
Constance looked back to Drew only to discover he had moved up to the front, very close to his brother’s back. She started at the explosive report of Josh’s musket, then swung her gaze back to the tree, but saw no mistletoe descending. She scanned the tree’s boughs. Maybe it had gotten caught in another branch. The crowd murmured and her pulse beat erratically. Had he missed?
Anxiety spurted throughout her body. She knew, in the deepest core of her being, that Jonathon Emmett would come to her, not once, but all three times. Bile rose in her throat. With extreme effort, she swallowed.
Josh’s face looked grave as he stepped back, and Emmett reloaded his piece, silent now. So Josh hadn’t missed after all. She folded her arms against her waist. Thank you, God.
Emmett once again took aim. Constance held her breath, tension tightening every muscle. A loud discharge. A miss. A roar from the crowd. Josh had won.
Her limbs went buttery with relief. She shook, she gasped for air, she barely managed to remain standing. Mary grabbed her elbow. “Mistress! Are you all right?”
Drew strode through the crowd, then encircled her waist with his arm. Josh rushed to them.
“Your pardon, Josh. She’s overdone today, I fear.”
Josh nodded. “Best take her home, then.”
The brothers looked at each other, communicating on a level she couldn’t begin to broach. Josh tipped his head once, turned to Mary, and held her focus for a moment before approaching Granny Apperson. He suspended his mistletoe above her head, and the startled old woman looked up as he hooked a thumb beneath her chin, awarding her a gentle kiss right on the lips.