Jacob nodded. “We passed through Petersburg two days before we found you. I can stock up there just as well as I can in Richmond. With the railroad junctions there are many warehouses where I can buy supplies wholesale. We’ll go to Petersburg then.”
“Thank you, sir,” Clay said with relief. “And thank you, Chantel, for saving my life and now for inviting me into yours.”
Even by the dim light he could tell that she blushed as she dropped her gaze. “You’re welcome, Mr. Tremayne.”
“You’ve allowed me to call you Chantel,” he said lightly, “and I feel that you know me well enough now. Won’t you please call me Clay?”
She hesitated, then a trace of a smile moved her mobile mouth and her eyes lit up. “All right then. You’re welcome—Clay.”
Chantel drove the wagon very slowly, because even though they had waited for two more days, Clay couldn’t ride Lightning for long periods at a time. Sometimes he would lie down in the wagon, and sometimes he would sit up in the driver’s seat with her while Jacob took a turn resting in the wagon. During one of these times, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clay running his hand over the back of his head, over and over again.
“Does it hurt, your head?” she asked.
“It’s better. I get better every day. It’s just that I can feel a lot of little places back there, especially when I wash my hair. They’re starting to itch.”
“Don’t scratch them, They’re where the little pellets were,” Chantel warned him.
“I can’t believe Jacob didn’t shave my head to get to them,” he murmured. “But I’m glad he didn’t. Ruining my manly beauty and all.”
Chantel smiled to herself but said nothing.
They traveled until late afternoon. Clay was riding Lightning while Jacob took a turn driving, and Chantel sat beside him. Clay said, “It’s getting late. We’d better start looking for a place to camp.”
“I see a house up there with lights in the windows,” Jacob said. “It looks very welcoming. Perhaps the Lord is giving us a sign.”
“It’s a little late to be calling on people, isn’t it?” Clay asked.
“We’re peddlers, not rich cotton planters,” Jacob said complacently. “We don’t have to go by such rules.”
“Ah yes. I forgot,” Clay said with an odd look on his face. It was, after all, the first time he’d been a peddler.
They pulled up into the yard and saw a man and a woman peering out of the curtained windows. Jacob got down while Chantel and Clay stayed near the wagon, watching.
Jacob knocked on the door and was met by a tall, lanky man with blue eyes and red hair. He looked suspicious until he saw Chantel, the peddler’s wagon, and Clay holding the horses. Then he asked in a pleasant tone, “Good evening, sir. Are you having some trouble?”
“No, no, thank you, sir. I am Jacob Steiner, a peddler. Although it is late, I saw the lights, so warm and welcoming, of your lovely home and thought perhaps you and your wife would like to see some of my goods. I have hard-to-get spices, dress goods, canned foods, tools and knives, pots and pans, kitchen utensils, and many other things you may find of interest.”
“I see,” he said, considering. “Well, Mr. Steiner, my name is Everett Sloane, and you are welcome in my home. And …?” he made an inquiring wave to Chantel and Clay.
Jacob motioned them over and made proper introductions. “Please, come in, come in, all of you,” Sloane said. As they came in, a thin woman just a little shorter than her husband entered. She had brown hair and kind brown eyes. “This is my wife. Anna, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jacob Steiner, his granddaughter, Chantel Fortier, and their good friend, Mr. Clay Tremayne.”
“Please come in,” Anna said. “As soon as we saw you drive up into the yard, I knew we would have good company for a pot of hot coffee, and I put the kettle right on.”
“Her coffee’s terrible,” Sloane said, his blue eyes dancing. “But at least it’ll be hot.”
She was already returning to the kitchen, and she threw back over her shoulder, “You won’t have to worry about it, since you won’t be having any, Everett Sloane.”
They settled in the Sloanes’ sitting room, a comfortable room with overstuffed chairs, two rocking chairs set by a pleasant fire, a horsehair sofa, and two side tables. One held an open Bible, the other had a stack of books, including The Farmer’s Almanac, Virginia Crop Reports 1850–1855, Common Diseases of Cattle, and surprisingly, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens and Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.
Jacob nodded approvingly as he took his seat on the sofa. “I see the Word is well read in your house, Mr. Sloane. That is a good thing, a blessing upon a house.”
“Yes, my wife and I are Christians, Mr. Steiner. Er … you aren’t from these parts, are you?”
“No, I am Jewish. I come from Germany originally. But God blessed me exceedingly, and I have come to know the Lord Jesus as my Savior. In my travels it is always heartening to meet others of His flock.”
Anna came in with a large tray with a coffeepot, plain stoneware cups, and cream and sugar. She set it on a side table and said, “I’m not much of a one for standing on formalities. I’d feel better if you all came and fixed it the way you like it.”
“Anna, Mr. Steiner here is one of God’s chosen people,” Sloane announced. To Jacob he said, “Pardon us, Mr. Steiner, but we’ve never actually met a Jew. And I wasn’t aware that there were any that were Christians, too.”
“They are few and far between,” Jacob said.
Seating herself beside Jacob on the sofa, Anna said with interest, “A Jew? A Christian Jew? Why, that is very interesting. There are so many things I’d like to know about Jews.”
“You’re welcome to ask me anything you like, Mrs. Sloane,” Jacob said placidly.
“Well, then, the first thing I’ll ask is if you would all do us a great honor and stay the night with us,” she said, beaming. “And the next thing I’d ask is—Mr. Stein, could you, as a Jew, eat ham for breakfast?”
Jacob laughed, an old man’s creaking, wheezy laugh that still was delightful to hear. The rest of them grinned along with him. “Why, Mrs. Sloane, when the Lord Jesus died for me, He set me free from burdensome rites and rituals. And I have to tell you that eating a thick slab of fried ham for breakfast is one of the greatest freedoms I’ve known!”
Jacob told them of growing up in the synagogue, of living in a Jewish family, of the richness of his heritage, of how their lives revolved around their history and their beliefs. He brought Judaism alive to his listeners.
Even Chantel, who had often heard Jacob speak of these things, got much more of a sense of what it meant to be Jewish than she ever had before.
“Although it is true my kinsmen don’t know the Lord Jesus,” he finished, “we, as Jews, learn much more of the great Jehovah, or Yahweh, than is usually taught Christians.”
“Do you speak Hebrew, sir?” Clay asked with curiosity.
“Oh yes, we are all taught Hebrew,” Jacob answered, his eyes alight. “It is my second language. English is only my third.”
Apparently he had forgotten that he had hosts, for Clay requested, “And do you have a Hebrew Bible?”
“Oh, I would love to hear the Word read in Hebrew,” Anna said. “I’ve always been curious as to how it sounds.”
“Chantel, would you fetch my Hebrew Bible?” Jacob asked.
She slipped out of the room and soon returned with a big leather-worn book. She had always been fascinated by the book, wondering at the words written in a language she did not understand.
Jacob read the first five verses of Genesis to them.
Clay murmured, “So that’s what it sounds like. It’s rich and very beautiful.”
They were silent for long moments, the Old Testament sounds echoing in their thoughts.
Finally Everett Sloane roused and said, “And so, Mr. Steiner, I understand that you may have a few items I’m in need of out there in your wagon. I’d surely like to have a new
whetstone. If Anna would be nice to me and make me some tea every once in a while, I might be persuaded to buy her some cloth for a new dress.”
“We’ve been out of tea for months, and you know it,” Anna retorted. “But I’ll take the material for a new dress anyway, particularly if you have any sprigged muslin.”
“Oh, we do,” Chantel said, jumping to her feet. “A pretty light green with little pink flowers, it is, Mrs. Sloane, and it will look so pretty on you, yes.”
Clay and Chantel went to the wagon to fetch bolts of fabric, some tools, a selection of whetstones, and some newly sharpened glittering knives, both kitchen knives and hunting knives. Jacob had taught Chantel how to sharpen knives, and she was an expert cutler.
They talked and looked at much of Jacob’s goods and finery. Everett Sloane did buy a whetstone and the green sprigged muslin for Anna. As a gift, Jacob gave Anna a slim, white leather lady’s New Testament, and he gave Everett a new hunting knife. “And so that peace may rest upon this house,” he said solemnly, “I give you both a tin of Earl Grey tea.”
Clay traveled better the next day, staying on horseback for most of the time. Still, it was early evening when they had reached the outskirts of Petersburg. They decided to camp and go into the city early in the morning.
“What do you want for supper, Grandpere?” Chantel asked as she considered the supplies they had.
“Mm … how about ham and eggs?” he asked mischievously.
True to her word, Anna Sloane had prepared them an enormous breakfast of smoked ham slices, fluffy scrambled eggs, griddle cakes, bacon, little boiled potatoes, biscuits, redeye gravy, white gravy, and a delicious apple conserve, her own recipe. Jacob had eaten three slices of fried ham and a big pile of eggs. Anna had sent with them an enormous smoked ham and a dozen fresh eggs.
“Again? You really do love that ham, don’t you, Grandpere?” Chantel said, giggling. Clay watched her curiously, for he could honestly say that he had never seen such a light, girlish expression from Chantel.
They feasted—again—on ham and eggs and biscuits slathered with butter and Anna’s apple conserve.
After they ate, Jacob said he was tired and was going to bed early, and he retired to the little tent. In the field where they had camped, the grass was so thick and deep that Chantel and Clay had simply laid down a couple of horse blankets by the campfire to sit on.
The night was cool. A thousand fireflies lit up their campsite. Their ethereal lights delighted Chantel. “I’ve never seen so many,” she said softly. “It’s like being in the stars, they twinkle and shine so.”
“I haven’t camped out since I was a young boy,” Clay said. “I’d forgotten how very beautiful spring nights can be. So much better than smoky card rooms and stinking saloons. You always feel kind of … soiled, I guess you’d say, afterward. This is clean and fresh and makes you feel healthy and strong. No wonder I’ve recovered so quickly.”
He watched Chantel. She was sitting gracefully, her face upturned, her legs tucked trimly under her. Her face was dimly lit, and her profile was stunning, with her wide dark eyes and straight nose and generous mouth.
She turned to him, her expression curious but with a trace of pity there that pierced Clay’s heart. “Is that your life, Clay? Is that what it’s been, gambling and saloons?”
He dropped his eyes. “Guess so. Told you I was wicked.” He was uncomfortable, so he asked quickly, “So what about your life, Chantel, before you saved Jacob and he became your grandpere?”
She picked at her breeches. “When I was little, life was good, with ma mere and ma pere. But then he died, and ma mere”—she swallowed hard—“she married a man. A very bad man.”
“Your stepfather,” Clay murmured. “So he was not good to you.”
“Not good at all, him,” she said vehemently, and then she drooped a little and said so quietly that Clay could barely hear her, “And then ma mere died. And I had to run away.”
“Oh Chantel,” Clay sighed. “No one should have to go through what you’ve been through. Especially a wonderful, lovely, giving woman like you.”
“Do—do you really think I am lovely?” she asked shyly. “I think I look like an ugly boy, me.”
“No, no,” he said. On impulse he put his arm around her, and she moved closer to him. “You try to look like an ugly boy, Chantel, and now I think I understand why. But you aren’t, and you never could be. I think that you may be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Inside and outside.”
She listened to him, so closely, her eyes burning on his face, so eager she was to hear this reassurance. A slight breeze stirred her heavy, glossy hair, and Clay smoothed it back then caressed her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. He leaned closer, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was soft, not at all demanding. He merely touched his mouth to hers gently, as if he were tasting her.
Chantel closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and she touched his face. Before he even realized what he was doing, he pulled her to him and kissed her again, with more urgency. For long moments she surrendered to him, her body soft and pliant beneath his hands.
But suddenly she stiffened, her eyelids flew open, and she pushed him away. “What—what are you doing, Clay?” she said with abrupt shock. “Stop it!”
“Chantel, please,” he said gutturally, trying to pull her close again, so deeply was he filled with her sweet scent, the warmth and softness of her lips, the passion but yet the innocence of her kiss.
She slapped at his hands, her distressed expression turning to one of outrage. “Get your hands off me!”
He jerked back, suddenly appalled at what he had done. “No—Chantel, I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not,” she said, grimacing. She jumped to her feet and gave him a last glance, one of disgust. “You warned me, you. You told me you were a wicked man. And you are.”
She ran and jumped into the wagon and yanked the canvas flap closed behind her.
Clay pressed one hand to his now-aching head. She’s right. I am a wicked man. What’s happened to me? How did I turn into this—this—worthless weasel, to treat women like this? With Belle, at least she did know what she was getting into, even if she was drunk. But Chantel? A pure, innocent girl like that, and she saved my life, and this is how I repay her? By pawing her like some sweaty, greasy piece of trash?
Clay had never felt so badly in his life, even after the sordid situation with Belle. He thought that he should saddle Lightning and just disappear. But then he realized how cowardly that would be. He owed Chantel more than an apology. He had to face her and confess to her and beg her forgiveness. And he had to face Jacob Steiner, too, and ask his forgiveness as well, for betraying his trust.
He stayed up most of the night, feeding the fire, berating himself and rehearsing the speeches he would give Chantel and Jacob in the morning. Several times he tried to lie down, but he was so miserable he knew he couldn’t sleep. The self-recriminations going around and around in his head seemed so loud that his head ached almost as badly as when he had first been injured. So he jumped up and paced more. Finally he fell into an uneasy doze just before dawn and slept for about an hour, stretched out on the horse blanket with no pillow and no blanket. When the first cheerful rays of the rising sun caught his face, he woke up with a groan.
He would have made coffee and breakfast for Chantel and Jacob, but all of the supplies were in the wagon. They had camped just beside a small stream, so he went and hurriedly bathed in the cold water. After he dressed, he began saddling Lightning.
Chantel came out of the wagon and warily looked around for him. A question came into her eyes as she saw that he was already saddling up, but she merely said, “I’ll fix breakfast, me. Jacob will be up soon.”
“I’ll help you,” Clay said. “Since you’ve taught me how to cook so well.”
“No,” she said curtly. “I’ll do it myself.”
She had just gotten the pans and utensils and food out of the wagon when Jacob ca
me out of the tent, blinking and yawning. He observed Clay saddling up Lightning and arranging his packed saddlebags and bedroll. He saw Chantel’s grim face and the shadows under her eyes. “It’s a beautiful morning for such mournful faces,” he observed, taking a seat on one of the cracker boxes Chantel had brought out of the wagon.
With the air of a man going to a flogging, Clay came to stand by him and Chantel, who was sitting by the fire, heating up the frying pan. “Chantel, I cannot express to you how very sorry I am for my behavior last night. You have been nothing but polite and kind to me, and I was very wrong in what I thought and what I did last night. All I can do is ask you to forgive me. Can you do that, Chantel?”
She had slowly risen as he spoke, watching him warily. For long moments, her face was hard and suspicious. Then the darkness in her eyes faded, though she still looked distant. “Ma grandpere has taught me this, that we can’t carry around bad things in our hearts, like being angry and upset at people for the things they do,” she said evenly. “I forgive you.”
“Th–thank you, Chantel,” he said awkwardly. He had been ready for her to berate him, to accuse him, to shout how terrible he had been to her. With a grieved sigh, he turned to Jacob. “I have betrayed your trust, Mr. Steiner,” he said simply. “And this is so much worse, so much more treacherous of me, because you and Chantel literally saved my life. Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you, my son,” he said gently. “It takes a very good man, a very strong man, to face the wrongs he has done and to honestly express his sorrow for them. It would be a sin indeed not to forgive you.”
A humorless grin twitched Clay’s mouth. “I’m the only sinner here,” he muttered.
“No,” Jacob said firmly. “We are all sinners. Our sins differ, that is all.” His eyes went to Chantel, who at first looked defiant but then dropped her eyes. His eyes went to Lightning, who stood saddled and already tossing his head, ready to go.
Clay saw his gaze and said, “I’ll be leaving you now.”
“Where are you going?” Chantel asked abruptly.
“I—I don’t know,” Clay said wearily. “I just think it’s for the best.”
The Sword Page 15