“Lordy, mum,” Pegeen wailed to Alice, “what if Sheamus O’Dare’s not the right man for me? What if I’m making a mistake?”
Alice, who at the moment was letting out the fabric at the waist of Peg’s best gown to accommodate her bulging figure, laughed at the girl’s belated misgivings. “It seems to me, young lady, that you should have considered that before you let the man impregnate you a second time.”
“I s’pose you’re right, mum. I’ve no choice but to marry him now, right or wrong. There’s never been a bastard in our line for as far back as anyone knows. I’d not want to be the first to put a rotten limb on the family tree.”
Peg’s words pained Alice. Of course the girl had no way of knowing that her mistress had never known who her own father was, but still Pegeen’s reference to bastards hurt.
“There,” Alice said, casting off her sudden depression. “All finished. You’d better get out of it now, or Toby will have you all mussed before time for the ceremony.”
In a moment of sudden enthusiasm Pegeen hugged Alice. “Oh, mum, I’m so happy! I do love that big lug of an Irishman I’m about to wed. Think of it—a new husband, a growing family, and all this great, wonderful land to make our home. It was a fine turn Lord Balfour did me, sending me here with you. I’ll owe him all my days. I’ll owe you, too, mum, letting me choose my own path and find my own happiness the way you did.”
The girl had tears in her eyes. Alice was touched. Any other woman would have broken down and wept along with the bride-to-be. But Alice said quietly, “You owe me nothing, Peg. You’re a good woman with a good heart. If I were more like you, perhaps I could please my man and make him love me the way your Sheamus loves you.”
Pegeen ached for her mistress. “You shouldn’t talk that way, mum. Your man loves you, and you only, I’m certain of it. And there’s no doubting your love for him. It’s just that affection comes easier between us common folk than amongst the gentility. We’re not afraid to show how we feel. We don’t have all society’s prim and proper rules getting in our way. Why, the first moment Sheamus and me laid eyes on each other, he spoke out plain as you please, ‘I’m going to marry you, girl. I don’t know your name yet, but as soon as I can, I’m changing it to O’Dare. So don’t you give me any backtalk. Your future’s settled right this minute.’ By the time he’d finished his pretty speech, I would have let him bed me on the spot.”
Pegeen paused and smiled shyly, then added, “Being the proper upbrought girl I am, I made him court me two whole days, though, before I’d allow him to toss me skirts.”
Pegeen’s confession brought a blush to Alice’s cheeks. She’d felt the same way about Chris, although she’d never admit it to anyone. So why were life and love so simple for Peg and her man, but so complicated for Alice and Chris? It seemed that question would have to go begging for an answer, at least for the time being.
It was a beautiful spring day in Maine. The air was a clear blue, and the bright sun lit patches of wildflowers peeking through the new green shoots carpeting the woods. Seabirds swooped and danced in the sparkling sky over the fort, calling out their excited songs to the world. Everything seemed fresh and new and alive.
The people of the fort were no different. Winter’s doldrums had passed, and good spirits reigned. The soldiers donned their red and white dress uniforms for the occasion. Even Sheamus O’Dare looked handsome in a bearish sort of way. He’d gone to the cold river early to scrub himself clean of his blacksmith’s soot. Pegeen had made him a new shirt and britches, and he wore a spotless leather apron over his clothes. Only the tall, skinny parson, who claimed he’d been chased all the way to the fort by a marauding band of Indians, looked rumpled, mud-spattered, and weary when they gathered in the yard of the fort for the wedding.
Alice held little Toby as the child’s mother and father spoke their solemn vows. He was a sweet baby, with his mother’s large eyes and his father’s open smile. He cooed and gurgled all through the ceremony, making Alice ache to hold an infant of her very own.
A great cheer went up when Mr. and Mrs. O’Dare turned to each other for their first kiss as man and wife. Their embrace lingered on and on until finally the preacher cleared his throat loudly to remind the couple that there was still further business to be attended to.
The baptism of little Toby turned the crowd silent again. Only the infant disturbed the peace, wailing his displeasure at the touch of chilly water on his naked flesh. The moment Toby’s dedication to God was done, the party began in earnest.
Beer, ale, and wine flowed freely. The men had roasted a goat, two pigs, and a deer over open pits in the yard. The aroma of the slowly simmering meat had been tantalizing their senses for hours. Now they could hardly wait to dig in. One of the soldiers brought out his fiddle, another his hornpipe. The spring song of birds was soon drowned out by the tune of a merry jig and the sound of tramping boots. Both Alice and Peg danced until they were ready to drop.
As the sun sank low, Alice saw Pegeen go to her husband and tug at his sleeve. She went up on tiptoe, whispered something into his ear, then kissed his cheek. O’Dare blushed as the men jeered, but he smiled down at his bride and followed her willingly to their own quarters, where their marital bed awaited.
Not until that very moment did the full weight of her loneliness descend over Alice. She felt empty and unloved. Never before in her life had she wanted her husband so deeply. Her whole body ached with need for Chris. The thought of going alone to her bare little room was more than she could stand. She made up her mind what she must do.
Going to the captain of the guard, she said, “I’ll be staying the night at my cabin. Could one of your men escort me, please?”
The tall officer frowned. “That wouldn’t be wise, ma’am. The parson warned us that there are Indians about.”
She stubbornly stood her ground. “Wise or not, I’m going.”
“Very well, ma’am. I’ll send Private Smith along with you and tell him to stay the night on guard outside. That way if there’s trouble, he can alert the fort.”
Alice agreed and soon set out for the home she hoped she would soon share with her husband.
Darkness fell and there was a chill in the air by the time she arrived. In spite of all her work and the fancy touches she’d added, the cabin looked lonely, unlived-in, and uninviting. Quickly she struck a flint to light the fire in the main room. Its warm glow chased away some of the gloom. Candles set about did their part to cheer Alice as well. Soon she felt very much at home, but the ache of loneliness remained.
She went to the tiny bedroom and peeked in. The bed looked soft and inviting. Carefully she turned back the covers and smoothed the pillows. She yawned and stepped out of her slippers. Moments later she crawled naked between the cool sheets, feeling her nipples pucker as the cold silk touched them. How she longed for the warmth of her husband’s body next to hers, for his touch, his kiss, his caress.
“Chris, oh, Chris,” she whispered. “I want you here.”
An altar of pine boughs and wildflowers stood at the edge of the riverbank. Christopher Gunn stood tall and erect, garbed as an Abenaki warrior, looking on gravely as the priest placed the bride’s hand in the groom’s.
The baron cut an imposing figure also, dressed in his French regimental uniform of the Carignan Salières, the unit in which he had served when he first arrived in Canada from his native France.
Mathilde looked fragile and ethereal in the ceremonial dress of an Indian princess. Her costume was of the finest white skins, embroidered with a rainbow of beads that resembled colored lace, and painted with ancient symbols to bring luck to the marriage. An iridescent robe of feathers fell from her shoulders, sweeping out behind like a train.
The pair looked properly solemn, but there was no mistaking the passionate gazes they exchanged. The whole feeling surrounding the ceremony was charged by the bride and groom’s need for each other. Gunn found his own longing intensified by the sensual aur
a they cast.
Feeling a strange heat, he glanced to his left. Ishani stood a few feet away, her lovely dark eyes on him. She did not shy away when he looked at her, but offered him a small, secret smile. Quickly he glanced back toward the bride and groom, but now his thoughts were elsewhere.
He had begged off the night before when the baron offered him a woman. “I’m too saddle-weary to satisfy one of your frisky maids tonight,” Gunn had lied. “A good night’s rest will put me back in my prime, though.”
The Frenchman had taken no offense, much to Gunn’s relief. He knew he was treading thin ice, refusing Abenaki hospitality. To do so was to insult his hosts, and warriors did not take such offenses lightly.
“All right, my friend,” the baron had said, “but tomorrow night I won’t have my offer turned down. You’ll have your pick of the lot and you will choose a woman. How could I enjoy bedding my bride, knowing that my blood brother is sleeping alone?”
If only he’d brought Alice, but he’d had no way of knowing it was a wedding he’d attend instead of war talks. There was nothing he could do about that now. He would just have to think of something before night fell over the camp.
Once the traditional Catholic ceremony was finished, the Abenaki medicine man took over. The baron and Mathilde might be husband and wife in the eyes of much of the world, but the bride’s own tribe would not feel right until their shaman had turned his back on the evil god, Abemecho, to face heaven and the good god, Kichtan, both lying to the southwest, the direction of fair winds. While sacrificing maize and tender birch branches for luck, the wise old man told the assembled tribe once more of how in the beginning of all things Kichtan had created the first man and woman out of stone. When they disappointed their god, he destroyed them, creating a new pair from soft, warm wood.
At this point in the medicine man’s narrative, two Indians dressed as trees danced into the circle. They twirled and whirled, shedding their leaves and branches until finally a beautiful young maid and a handsome brave swayed together, almost naked before each other and their tribe.
Gunn watched the ceremonial dance with growing unease. The woman’s long hair swung to and fro as she moved, one moment covering her chest, the next giving him a tantalizing glimpse of firm breasts peaked with dark nipples. The brave stroked her with long, sensuous fingers whenever she came near. It became quite clear that they were both aroused. At the instant that Gunn thought the brave meant to throw himself upon the maiden, the two dancers vanished into the dark woods. A charged silence fell over the clearing.
Gunn found himself staring after them, swallowing hard. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his own breechclout strained to near bursting. Again, he found Ishani staring at him, but this time she did not smile. Only her dark eyes held any expression, and that expression he knew well—pure animal lust.
Turning from her quickly, Gunn went to the baron to offer his congratulations.
“You’ll sit with us at the feast, of course,” the groom invited.
“My pleasure,” Gunn replied. He only hoped the feast lasted long and late. With any luck he could drink himself into a stupor, the only way he was likely to avoid sharing a tent before morning.
As they took their places at the head of the huge circle formed by the wedding guests, the baron whispered to Gunn, “What did you think of the ceremony?”
Gunn cleared his throat. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, actually. Damned interesting.”
The big Frenchman laughed. “It would have been even more interesting if we’d done it the traditional way. The bride and groom are supposed to do the dance of the trees, but since Mathilde and I are both Christians, it didn’t seem quite proper. Mind you, I was up for it, but the priest threatened excommunication for both of us if we went through with what he called ‘that disgusting pagan ritual.’”
“If I were you, I’d thank that priest,” Gunn replied in all earnestness.
Great trenchers of food were placed in front of them then. Pretending to be starved, Gunn stuffed his mouth full of nasaump, the delicious chowder the Abenaki made of clams, eel, quahogs, and scallops. This was followed by more Indian beer, more French wine, roasted maize, venison, wild turkey, and goose. Finally the long-stemmed pipes of hemlock and crushed ivy leaves were passed around along with more spirits.
While the men smoked and drank, gifts were distributed to the guests. Baron de Saint Castin gave Gunn a handsome wampum belt, woven of purple and white shell beads in symbolic figures. Gunn recognized the significance of the gift. The belt served as a sacred pledge that guaranteed messages, promises, and treaties—another sign of peace, understanding, and friendship between the two men.
“And this is for your wife,” the Frenchman said, handing Gunn a large folded bundle.
Gunn opened it to find a milk-white robe of dressed moosehide, so wonderfully soft that it felt like the finest chamois. Ancient tribal symbols painted in red, blue, and yellow decorated the cloak, and the whole thing sparkled with silver, gold, and copper bead embroidery.
“Alice will think for certain that I found Norumbega when she sees this,” Gunn said with wonder in his voice. “Thank you, Baron.”
The groom chuckled and leaned close to whisper, “Your other gift will be offered soon.”
Gunn tried not to think about that.
By the late hour when the feast finally ended, Gunn was indeed tipsy. The hemlock smoke served to further muddle his senses. If he could crawl to his tent, he would be doing well. The drunker he got, the more often he found Ishani before his fuzzy gaze.
“Getting anxious, are you, Gunn?” The baron nudged Chris and he almost toppled over. “Well, your wait’s almost over, my friend. If I don’t get my bride off to myself soon, I’ll be taking her in public, priest or no priest.”
Gunn meant to tell the Frenchman that he believed he’d just go on to bed so that he could get an early start in the morning, but his brain and his tongue refused to cooperate. Before he could get out a single word, the anxious groom gave a signal and Gunn watched Ishani rise and move toward them.
“This is Wannoak’s woman,” the baron said in formal introduction. “He is a brave warrior. She is the daughter of a sagamore. She will do your bidding and by so doing bring honor to her husband and to her tribe. Will you have her, Christopher Gunn?”
Gunn stared up at Ishani and suddenly his blurred vision cleared, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Gone was the impudent child who had forced herself into his life. The beautiful Indian woman before him wore soft doeskins, embroidered with beads and feathers. Beneath her fine trappings her breasts were high and firm. Her waist was slender, her hips gently rounded. Her large, dark eyes did not plead with him to accept her, but demanded that she be given what she desired.
“Well, Gunn, what say you?” the Frenchman asked. “Will you have Ishani or choose another?”
“Ishani,” Gunn whispered absently, rising slowly and unsteadily to his feet to take her hand in his.
They stood together until the groom escorted his bride to their lodge. Then Gunn turned to Ishani and nodded toward his own tent. Without a word, they went inside.
The moment the flap dropped shut, Gunn realized what a major mistake he’d made. He should have begged off from this custom even if it meant running the risk of insulting the baron, Ishani’s husband, and her exalted father, the sagamore.
Ishani, not waiting for him to make his move, came to him and pressed her full lips to his. He gripped her arms and gently put her away from him.
“No, Ishani,” he said simply.
“But white men desire the pressing of mouths. I have seen how they do it.” Ignoring his protest, she began slipping out of her doeskin jacket. “You chose me,” she said quietly. “I am your woman for this night, Gunn. You cannot send me away this time without disgracing us both and bringing shame on us.”
He tried not to look at her as he said, “I have a woman, Ishani. A wife.�
�
“And I have a husband. I do him honor by coming to you. You know our ways.”
“Yes, but they are not our ways. When a Scotsman takes a woman for his wife, he does not betray his vows. I explained all this to you before when you came to the fort.”
Tears gathered in her ebony eyes. “You wish me to go, then? You want to shame me? As you wish, Gunn. I return now to my husband’s tent.”
She turned to leave, but Gunn caught her arm. If she went back to her husband now, turned out by the man who had chosen her, she would be considered an outcast from this time on.
“No. You can’t do that,” Gunn said softly. “You’ll stay here with me until morning.”
She turned to him, biting her lower lip to stay her tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You are a good man, Christopher Gunn. What do you wish of me? I am yours.”
Alice, who had long since forgotten her mother’s love potion tucked under the mattress, tossed and turned in bed. The harder she tried to sleep, the more elusive falling asleep seemed. The longer she lay thinking of Chris, the more desperately she longed to be in his arms. A scorching fire possessed her whole body. What could have come over her? She loved him, yes. She needed him, certainly. But this was total obsession, bordering on passionate madness.
She lay very still on her back, gazing up at the dancing shadows on the ceiling. Forcing her body to remain motionless, she allowed her mind free rein. Slowly, carefully, she went over every detail of every moment she had ever spent with Chris, going back to that first time she’d met him when she was only a child. She remembered how he had frequented her dreams after that. He became her knight in shining armor, her secret love, her ultimate wish.
Then when she met the real Christopher Gunn, he had come as a disappointment. But how could any man live up to such childhood fantasies as she had woven around him? Still, there was no denying that she’d been attracted to him in an odd way when he rescued her from the ship. Attraction now seemed a mild word for what she felt for him. Once again the man had taken on mythical proportions in her mind. Chris now seemed like the husband she had always wanted, but could never truly have. They were married, yes, but some awesome barrier—much greater than any bundling board—seemed to stand between them.
Silver Tears Page 21