When May smiled at James, he grinned right back at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gabriel watching. Although he said little, the boy noticed everything, every look that passed between her and his father's servant.
"Yes, bring her things to the house," Nathan told him before returning his attention to May. "You must be hungry, my dear. Well, soon you shall taste Adele's island cookery." Again he lowered his voice. "Her former master was French." He wrinkled his nose. "She douses everything in cider, fruit, and broth."
May's eyes followed the girl darting up the path. She hoped the house would be a sight nicer than the Shipwright Inn in Anne Arundel Town, which had been little better than a barn, with straw and horse blankets instead of beds and linen. After the wedding dinner in the tavern below, Gabriel had joined her in the bedchamber, barely bigger than a cupboard. She had held him off, saying she was too weary from her ocean journey. He hadn't objected. The narrow space obliged them to cram together, his slender back pressed to hers. In the night she had awoken, thinking she was back home with Hannah. She rolled over, thinking to throw an arm around the body beside her, hug it for comfort, when the sour reek of the straw reminded her where she was. The day after the wedding, they had sailed in the shallop boat to the river mouth and camped on the banks. Luckily it had been a dry night. She had huddled in her blanket and stared at the stars. The fact that their wedding had not yet been consummated provided a small degree of comfort. The thing was not carved in stone and could still be annulled.
Nathan addressed his son. "Why do you trail behind, boy? Leave the dogs for a moment and tend to your bride."
May felt her face contort. Patrick, the servant with the wet hair, smirked. They were all watching her. Nothing she said or did would escape them. She wished she were bold enough to slap Patrick for his insolence.
"Gabriel," she called, holding out her hand. When she smiled, he blushed the way any other young man would. It wasn't his fault that their fathers had made the wrong match. Although she had known at first glance that she would never feel passion for him, she wanted to like him. There was no reason why they had to be enemies.
His hand in hers was hot and dry, which indicated a choleric humor, according to her father. She detected a sharp intelligence in his eyes. Although Gabriel was as quiet as Nathan was loud, she sensed that it would be too easy to underestimate him. How could she ever come to know him in a natural way with Nathan's merciless gaze bearing down on them both?
"What think you of our plantation, May?" the boy asked her. "I'll wager it is different from what you are used to."
"Indeed, this was not what I expected." She struggled not to appear too crestfallen at the sight of the harvested tobacco field, studded with tree stumps, where goats wandered loose, gnawing at weeds that grew amidst the harvest stubble. Planter's wife, indeed! Her dreams of a life of adventure seemed a mockery. Some adventure to wed a green boy and live at the back of nowhere under Cousin Nathan's thumb.
"What was your home like?" Gabriel sounded genuinely curious.
"Have you never been to England yourself?"
"I was born in Anne Arundel Town."
Poor child, she thought, remembering that dingy jumble of houses. He had never seen anything. "Ninety-nine yew trees grew in our churchyard."
He shook his head. "What sort of trees would they be?"
She laughed in disbelief. "You cannot tell me you have never seen a yew tree." When she looked off at the forest, the trees rose like giants, utterly foreign. Her heart thudded and her chest felt hollow. She was so far from everything she knew. She would never see a yew or a hawthorn bush again. She thought of the roses that grew in Father's garden, how she used to bury her face in their soft petals. What if she lived on this outpost so long that she never saw another rose, never smelled that fragrance again?
"I do hope you brought your spinning wheel." Nathan fell into pace with her. "Your father did write that you had quite a talent for spinning."
"Do you keep sheep, sir?" Sheep, at least, would remind her of home.
"I fear not, my dear," Nathan replied.
"They would not fare well in this place." Gabriel spoke with an authority that took her by surprise. "Easy prey for wolves."
"You have wolves?" May looked from Gabriel to his father.
"Aye." Gabriel laughed. For the first time since she had met him three days ago, he looked happy. "Bears and wild cats as well. I set traps for them in the forest."
The boy certainly showed enthusiasm for blood sport. May snatched her hand free from his grip and rubbed it. She turned to Nathan. "If you have no sheep, sir, then what am I to spin?" It did not look as though they grew flax.
"We barter wool from the neighbors. The Banhams do keep sheep. They have slaves enough to guard the flocks by night."
"Here is the house," Gabriel said.
With its rough unpainted walls, it looked like a cow byre. To relieve Father of his burden of providing for her, she should have run away, living as she pleased. Her own mistress. It began to overwhelm her. She could not imagine bedding this boy, calling him husband. She clenched her hands into fists so she wouldn't lose her nerve. The smell of roasting pork and apples wafted out. Adele appeared in the open doorway and flashed her a smile before disappearing back inside.
"Once you are settled here," Nathan said, "perhaps you might tutor Adele in the ways of English cookery. Have you a receipt book with you?"
"My mother's, sir."
They stopped in front of the porch. Nathan spoke to his son. "What is wrong with you? At least take her arm and lead her over the threshold."
May winced. His face dark red, Gabriel wrapped his fingers around her elbow and walked with her up the porch steps and into the house.
A trestle table was laid with wooden trenchers, spoons, and knives—no forks. Hannah, these colonials are so primitive, they do not possess forks, she imagined writing home. A carved chair loomed at the head of the table. On either side were two backless benches. Then she noticed the jug of wildflowers.
She looked at Adele. "Did you gather those flowers?"
The girl smiled and lowered her head. "For Madame." She lifted her face. "Madame is hungry?"
"Oh, yes." May's mouth watered at the smell of the cider-drenched pork.
"You will mark, I hope, the new furnishings." Nathan put one arm around May, the other around Gabriel, and turned them so that they faced the other end of the room. When May saw the two curtained beds, she swallowed. One was narrow, the other broad with a spray of fireweed draped on the counterpane. So she and Gabriel wouldn't have their own chamber, only the curtains to pull around them, Nathan three feet away.
Her father-in-law glanced at them both and laughed. "Do not look so perturbed, children. Adele has prepared a pallet for me in the attic for this night. You two shall have your privacy." He smiled at May. "The bed does have a real feather mattress. We bought it to celebrate your arrival."
He spoke with such sincerity that she felt herself warm to him. A proper bed must be an untold luxury here. It had probably cost them dearly.
"Sir, I thank you," she said. "You have gone to great lengths on my account." She caught a glimpse of Father in Nathan's eyes. If she could persevere in finding a way around his domineering side, she thought she could like him.
"Let us sit down," said Nathan. He guided her to the end of one bench and had Gabriel sit opposite. Then he took his place between them in the carved chair at the head of the table. The servants squeezed onto the remaining bench space. Studying their faces, May committed the Irishmen's names to memory. James, Patrick, Finn, Jack, Michael, Peter, Tom. Adele sat beside her. Nathan murmured something to Gabriel, who then fetched a massive Bible.
The smell of pork made May dizzy. She was so hungry, she thought she could eat the flowers in the jug. But it appeared Nathan wanted to give them a sermon before allowing them to eat. When he folded his hands, everyone else did the same. Following suit, May peeked at Gabriel, but his head was bowe
d so low, she couldn't see his face. Nathan spoke in a sonorous voice.
"Our Lord and Savior, we thank thee for bringing thy handmaid May safely to our household. Let the union of May and Gabriel be fortunate and blessed with many children."
She swallowed hard to keep herself from laughing, then shot a glance around the table. No one dared to smile. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clasped her hands tighter. Nathan opened the Bible and read.
Who can find a virtuous woman? for the price is far above rubies.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.
She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.
She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.
She is like the merchants' ships; she bringeth her food from afar...
May ached with the effort to keep her hilarity inside. Had Father told Nathan nothing of her past? Did he really think she had come here as a virtuous bride for his son? Her hunger died as the Bible verses spelled out her new world. She had given herself to this boy, this household, bound for life. This wasn't like the sweet game she had played at home. She didn't get to play by her own rules anymore; the rules were handed down to her. She was the prize mare they had procured at great cost, and they expected her to perform. Prove that she was worth the tobacco they had paid for her. Outside it grew dark, but candle flames illuminated the page as Nathan went on reading.
Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman who feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.
Only then did he allow them to eat.
She picked at her portion of pork, apples, and chard. She sipped cider from the same silver cup as her bridegroom.
"This cup did belong to my mother," Gabriel said as he passed it to her. It was engraved with roses. "She did bring it with her all the way from Wales." Yearning tinged his voice. He told her that his mother died long ago. On the ship May had heard that women did not survive easily on this shore. She wondered if Gabriel's mother had missed her home, missed the scent of roses. His Welsh mother certainly accounted for how dark and small he was. Joan used to tell stories about the Welsh, how during battle they could melt into their wooded mountains and disappear. They were furtive by nature. But, May wondered, might Gabriel have grown to be a different young man had his mother lived to stand between him and his hectoring father?
When the meal was finished, the servants bade them good night.
James bowed to Nathan. "I take my leave, sir." Then he bowed to May. "I wish you every happiness, mistress."
Flushing, she nodded.
"And to Master Gabriel," James said. But his eyes lingered on May before he followed the others out the door.
Adele, meanwhile, washed the trenchers and scoured the pots. Her rolled-up sleeves revealed satiny brown arms that flashed in the candlelight.
"Let me help you." May took a clout to dry.
"No, no, Madame." Adele snatched the clout away. "This is your wedding night."
May felt the sinking feeling again, her stomach filled with lead. What she had put off the two previous nights, she would finally have to address. She might as well get on with it—after all, it was nothing she hadn't done before. In fact, a good romp might give the poor boy something to smile about. Still, she felt ridiculous—a grown woman initiating a boy who seemed to care more for dogs and trapping wild beasts than for any civilized pursuit. Growing up out here, he had probably never had a sweetheart, never even kissed a girl before their wedding.
Nathan and Gabriel walked outside, presumably to perform their ablutions, leaving her and Adele alone. Finished with the trenchers and pots, Adele threw the dishwater over the porch railing and hung the wet clouts on the drying rail over the hearth. Then she stepped up to May.
"Can I bring Madame anything?"
"Adele," she said softly, "please call me May."
The girl smiled. "May." On her tongue, the name sounded so lilting. "Yes." The golden hearth light moved across the girl's face as she pointed to May's gown. "I help you unlace, May?"
"No." May indicated the ribbons that crisscrossed over her stomacher. "See, it does lace in front. I can do it myself." It was charming that the girl seemed to regard her as a fine lady who needed a maid to undress her. "But thank you, Adele. You are kind to think on it."
The girl still hung close, seemingly reluctant to leave the warmth and light of the house for the wind and darkness outside. How desolate it must have been for her here—still a child and surrounded by all the men.
"It is good to have you here." May spoke as bashfully as the girl had when first addressing her. "Being the only other female."
Adele met her eye and nodded.
"I hope we might be friends. I know such a thing is not customary, but in truth I've never cared much about what people thought of me."
The girl's forehead wrinkled as she struggled to comprehend the rapid flow of words. May reminded herself that English was not Adele's native tongue.
"I need a friend here much more than I need a servant. Will you be my friend, Adele?"
Her solemn face burst into a smile.
"I have a sister your age."
The girl grinned and ducked her head.
Not knowing what else to say, May glanced around the room. "I imagine I must make ready for bed before the men return."
"I will go now," Adele said. "Good night to you, May."
"Good night to you," May replied, watching the girl slip out the door and into the darkness. Adele had not taken a candle or lantern. The moon shone in the window, a big fat globe to light her path.
Picking up the candle Adele had left on the table, May decided to explore the nooks and crannies while the men were still away. Something wound up in a great circle hung from a hook on the wall. Her fingers traced rawhide, then the stout leather grip. The thing was a bullwhip. But they kept no bull. The Washbrooks are most eccentric, she would write to her sister. Indeed, you would call them savages.
Adele had left her a pitcher of water for washing. Under the bed she found the chamber pot—a blessing, for she had no desire to brave the bushes by night. Afterward she laid out her nightdress on the bed, settled on the mattress, and drew the curtains shut. Undoing the laces, she removed her dress, stomacher, underskirts, corset, and shift, and changed into her nightgown. Joan and Hannah had embroidered roses around the neckline. They had trimmed the cuffs and hem with lace. The linen was so finely woven, it draped her body like silk. May discovered that she was trembling as though she were a frightened virgin. She folded her wedding dress and underthings inside her trunk, closed the lid, and then entered the bed again, drawing the curtains around her once more. What was taking the men so long?
She picked up the spray of fireweed. At least someone had thought of flowers. On their wedding day, Gabriel had been able to find only a few shriveled asters, purloined from a housewife's doorstep. Folding back the counterpane, she inserted herself between the linens, which smelled of fresh air and sunlight. Adele had been industrious. The feather mattress, she had to concede, was enticingly soft. She was so exhausted. Her muscles were cramped from the boat journey, the play-acting and strain. Drawing the bedclothes to her chin, she allowed herself to drift off to sleep.
She awoke to Nathan's heavy footsteps. "Remember what I told you," she heard him say to his son.
May rolled on her side and listened to Nathan climb the ladder to the attic. The bed frame shook when the trapdoor swung shut. She counted his footsteps on the floor above as he made his way to the pallet. Please, she prayed, let him sleep as soundly as Father.
Sitting up in bed, she pulled back the curtains. At first she couldn't see Gabriel. Had he turned to vapor like a ghost? Then, moving her eyes over the walls, she caught his shadow. His back to her, he hunched on one of the benches and tugged off his boots. He removed his doublet and breeches, but left on his
long shirt. The hearth light shone through the thin fabric, revealing the slim outline of his torso and hips. Facing the dying fire, he stood as though rooted in the floor. When she least expected, tenderness welled up.
"Gabriel," she called, hoping that her voice was just loud enough for him to hear but not his father upstairs. It wouldn't be so bad, she promised herself. She only had to let him remove her nightgown and stroke her naked flesh. The rest would happen naturally. Boys his age, even timid ones, were perpetually excitable and cock-led. His animal instincts would take command, causing him to thrust into her. She only had to open her legs to receive him. With an inexperienced boy, it would be over quickly enough. He might even swoon away from the pleasure of it.
His face was in shadow as he approached.
***
With the majesty of a queen, his bride perched on the bed. Her loose hair shone in the light of the single candle. The thin stuff of her nightgown revealed the shape of her breasts. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, yet there was something intimidating about her that reminded him uncomfortably of his father.
"Can you not bring another candle?" she directed, like a mistress to a servant. Never mind that there was already a candle in the sconce near the bed. Did she think they were extravagant as the Banhams and had candles to waste? If they ran out halfway through winter, they would be forced to go to bed at sunset and sleep the long nights through.
Rather than giving her a lecture on economy, he headed for the opposite side of the bed and climbed in. His heart pounded so loudly, he wondered if she could hear. His father had instructed him in what to do. Father had left them alone together, and now they were to mate like cow and bull left in the same pen. He was obliged to mount his bride, service her. Except he wasn't a dumb animal. He wished Father had chosen a girl closer to his own age. He thought he would have done much better with a shy, quiet girl.
May found his hand in the darkness and began to stroke it, which sent shivers through him. No one had touched him so gently since before his mother had died. All thought of rutting cattle vanished as she caressed his fingers.
The Vanishing Point Page 17