by Laura Frantz
His latest leaf smoked pleasant, strong, and sweet. Consignment agents in England told him buyers were paying thrice what other crop masters made. Even the lowly outpost merchants were clamoring for more Rose-n-Vale hogsheads. ’Twas even rumored a thoroughfare in the town of his birth had been named after him. He shrugged off such ridiculousness as more fancy than fact.
He, a Scottish silversmith’s son.
While Shay removed the merchant scales from their box to begin the day’s business, Selah unpacked newly arrived crates from England holding coveted Chinese porcelain. These fragile goods she displayed in a front window to entice passersby. Such fine wares never lasted long. Obsessed with appearances, James Towne gentry were the first to storm in when a supply ship arrived. Since the tobacco brides’ coming, the brass bell at their door seemed to jingle sunup to sundown.
Glad she was her father as cape merchant took care of accounts while she and Shay handled anything from axes and adzes to linen thread and glass buttons. Goods were arriving regularly now, her favorites from the exotic Indies. With each passing year their inventory grew. Once, James Towne was clad in rags but now boasted the finest imported cloth. Nor were there shelves enough for the wealth of fragrant spices from far ports alongside sweetmeats and culinary delicacies. Though life continued uncertain, at least they faced the future with their bellies full.
Humming a song learned at sea, Shay passed through an adjoining door to a side room where transactions were once made with visiting tribes. A new trading post had been established north of them along the Chickahominy Path, but the latest treaty forbade any cloth, cotton, or other goods be supplied to the Naturals. Though the walls of old James Fort had come down—literally fallen into disrepair and used for firewood in years past—the invisible barriers between Naturals and English still stood stalwart and unsettling.
Some dared to bridge the distance. Those with the mettle of Xander Renick.
As she thought it, the front door’s bell sang out. Though it was early, with light barely peeping over the eastern horizon and illuminating their counter, he was their first customer. Beyond the open door stood his saddle horse, a handsome black. She wondered its name. She knew its reputation. Gotten from Massachusetts, this hardy breed was said to pace a mile in under two minutes, oft traveling upwards of eighty miles in a single day.
“Good day to you, Mistress Hopewell.” He removed his dark felt hat, his gaze canted toward her. Or was it the wares she’d recently shelved behind her?
For a second he hovered on the threshold, sunlight framing him. Though he’d come through their door countless times, he still managed to make a lasting impression. Blame it on his unusual mode of dress, she guessed. A long linen shirt absent of the ruffles so popular with more foppish men draped his upper body, his lower clad in buckskin breeches, his long legs encased in black leather boots. He’d discarded his doublet, a style of dress she’d never liked, in favor of a looser weskit. Not the common dress of field hands but hardly that of a gentleman. His beard was trimmed, shadowing his jaw in neat angles, a hint of Scots red within.
“Good morning, Master Renick.” She looked to the fragile item she held, nearly forgetting about it. “Are you in fine fettle this Wednesday morn?”
“Aye,” he returned brusquely. “I’ve need of a quantity of trade goods. The better sort.”
“I doubt you’ve come for these porcelain cups.” She returned the last to the shelf as he recited what was needed.
“A large quantity of Venetian glass and Cádiz beads, enough to fill two knapsacks. Nine dozen copper pendants. Small tools. As many brass thimbles as you have. An assortment of buttons. Sewing needles and linen thread. Some glass play-pretties.”
“For the children?” she asked, reaching for an assortment of tiny angels and animals. She began assembling the requested items, counting and miscounting, glad to have something to do other than stand mindlessly before him and fix him further in her thoughts.
He signed for the goods to be paid in tobacco, his signet ring glinting on his right hand. His signature was as striking as all the rest of him, the X boldest of all. She wondered that he never signed Alexander, his given name. Renick was an illegible blot of swirling ink save the R.
“So, Mistress Hopewell, how goes the courting in town?” He gave her that unsettling half smile as he was so wont to do.
A peculiar warmth drenched her as she continued gathering his goods beneath his scrutiny. “Wise you are to be in the country, sir. James Towne’s air positively throbs with the heartfelt palpitations of men and women hurtling toward matrimony.”
His robust laugh ended abruptly with the opening of the belled door. All levity vanished as Helion Laurent’s gaze landed on the goods atop the broad counter. Selah resisted the urge to sweep them all into the waiting knapsacks. If she’d been but a few seconds faster . . .
“Monsieur Renick, I have seen you little about James Towne of late.”
Laurent’s voice, as richly layered as a French patisserie, resounded in the still room. ’Twas the only thing Selah liked about him. That and his sonorous name, seemingly pulled from the pages of a French fairy tale. His attire, from his silver-threaded doublet to the large rosettes on his boots, bespoke his genteel standing in James Towne and his last journey to France.
He drew closer, subtle accusation in his tone. “Going over to the Indians? And Mademoiselle Hopewell is aiding you, I see.”
“My business is none of yours,” Xander replied evenly, gaze never lifting from the purchased goods. “And Mistress Hopewell is simply doing my bidding.”
With a dismissive snort, Laurent sauntered about, examining the merchandise, occasionally reaching out to touch some new or novel item. Eventually he stilled before the apothecary jars along a far wall, the tools of his trade as colony physic. But what he dispensed Selah wanted nothing of.
Quickly, she packed up what Xander bought, taking care not to damage his wares.
The sudden, protracted silence brought her father out of his accounting room at the back of the store. “Well, Xander. You are about your business early.”
“A fine ride to town on a May morn,” he replied. “This wind makes water travel chancy.”
“Indeed.” Ustis’s gaze took in the burgeoning knapsacks. “Though your purchases might fare better by shallop.”
Selah reached out a discreet hand and pressed her father’s arm in warning. Realizing Laurent was in their midst, Ustis recovered quickly, taking up a knapsack and accompanying Xander out the door. Selah followed.
Standing out on the dusty street, well beyond overhearing, Ustis spoke his mind. “Tobacco is not your only business, aye? You are journeying to the Powhatans. But not in your official role of emissary since I see no pearl chain about your neck.” Spying a pendant on the ground, a favorite of the tribes, he stooped to return it to its sack. “Need I remind you that no man shall purposely go to any Indian towns, habitation, or places of resort without leave from the governor or commander of that place where he lives . . .”
Xander finished reciting colony law. “. . . upon pain of paying forty shillings to public uses as aforesaid.”
Ustis stood and adjusted his spectacles. “Granted, forty shillings is a pittance to a tobacco lord.”
“I would rather pay thrice that than ask high-minded Governor Harvey’s permission.”
Selah drew nearer, the scent of horseflesh strong. “Father, you forget yourself.” At his blank stare she said quietly, “You are speaking to the recently appointed commander of his shire.”
“Ah, of course.” Ustis looked to Xander as if seeing him in a new light. “And as such you are free to go and do as you please. With certain limitations.”
Selah gestured to Helion Laurent’s tethered horse. “Such an endeavor is fraught with risk.”
“Risk?” Xander looked down at her, amusement in his tone. “Going over to the Naturals or wrangling with the governor and his councilors?”
She nearly rolled her eyes in
exasperation at his teasing. “Both.”
Yet this bewhiskered English warrior would go unflinchingly into hostile territory, come what may.
She tried a tone of supplication. “You cannot dismiss what happened to those hapless settlers who agreed to Chief Opechancanough’s last summons.”
“Tomahawked to the last man, despite being armed to the teeth,” he returned matter-of-factly. “That I cannot deny. Pray for me, aye?”
The earnest plea tumbled forth, and Selah’s hand shot out to touch his sleeve. “I will pray for you.” That God has mercy on your stubborn, mercenary soul.
His gaze fastened on her hand, and she released him, the burn of embarrassment following.
But Ustis was not finished. “What brings you to their camp?”
“I know not.”
The terse reply did not allay Selah’s alarm.
“Might I beg you to reconsider?” Ustis asked him. “Take adequate weapons? A guard?”
“And give the appearance of an invading army?” Xander shook his head. “Meihtawk brought the summons from the Powhatans’ principal stronghold of Menmend. I trust him with my life.”
“Aye, he has not failed us in friendship yet. But I would not turn my back on the wily chief, no matter what treaty was recently struck. As for our own government, beware of Harvey and Laurent and their minions lest they get word of what you are about and accuse you of spy.”
With that, her father returned to the store while Selah tarried outside. All around them James Towne was slowly awakening, the saltwater air heavy with the scent of hot cross buns from the bake shop across the shell-strewn street. Gulls careened overhead, screeching and scavenging, further raking her nerves.
“Let us return to more amusing matters.” Xander tied a bulging saddlebag shut. “Has Cecily Ward made her choice?”
Selah looked hard at him, surprised at so personal a mention. Was he partial to Cecily at first meeting? “Nay, not yet. No bride should be pressured, the council has said.”
Xander swung himself into the saddle. “Tell that to a great many overeager men.”
“Truly, several matches have been made already.” She smiled, or tried to, still uneasy at his going. “How long will you be away from Rose-n-Vale?”
“Not overlong. Plantation work doesn’t allow for extended leave.” He winked as he looked down at her. “Don’t look so downcast, Mistress Hopewell.”
He that winketh with the eye causeth sorrow.
The timely proverb did nothing to weaken Xander Renick’s spell.
She looked to her feet rather than dwell on him. “I cannot make peace with your dangerous mission.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“It matters to all of Virginia, Master Renick.” Especially your young son. “You are . . . irreplaceable.”
“And you, fair lady, are generous with your praise.” He reined west. “Your prayers go with me and are a far more formidable weapon than any rusted matchlock or rapier.”
Their eyes met a final time. Throat knotted, she watched him go up the street between rowhouses till he was out of sight. Another gull swept down, pecking at some garbage. Its frantic scavenging sent her back into the store, smack into Laurent. She looked about in vain. Shay and her father were occupied elsewhere.
“I’m in need of your assistance in deciding a feminine matter.”
Oh, how he provoked her simply by the overtaxed patience in his oiled tone.
Taking her by the elbow, he led her toward a shelf of fripperies, his cologne overpowering. “What is your personal recommendation for a woman of exceptional taste?”
Shrinking from his touch, Selah led him to more coveted items. “These lambskin gloves here? Or perhaps this blue vial of toilet water?” She refused to lift her eyes to his. “Why not purchase both and let the lady herself decide?”
He laughed. “Well played by the cape merchant’s daughter. Are you always so pecuniary, Mistress Hopewell?”
“If you mean am I trying to pick your pocket, sir, nay.” She moved away from him, relief flooding her when the shop door opened with a jingle and another customer entered in.
To her disdain, Laurent went out without so much as an adieu and bought nothing. Nothing at all.
4
“Father, I must go to Mother for a spell.” Selah fled through the store’s back door toward the outskirts of town, seeking their timbered house with its well-laid garden of four acres. Mulberry trees, planted when the colony was first founded, offered shade on all sides.
Candace was already at her labors, uprooting stones and thistles. She raised a hand to shade her eyes when Selah hurried through the low gate attached to the paling fence. She straightened. “Is something the matter, Daughter?”
Winded, Selah sank onto a low bench. “I’ve just sold a bill of goods to Xander, who’s en route to Menmend.”
Candace’s brow furrowed as she sat down beside her daughter, hoe forgotten. “Well, that is certainly news. Whether good or ill, I do not know.”
“Father questioned him about the wisdom of such a journey, but he seems intent.”
“Such is Xander’s way. Determined. Resolute. But let us consider facts over feelings. He lived with them as a lad in a peace exchange, speaks their language, even married into their tribe. Chief Opechancanough is Mattachanna’s kin. And Xander is held in high esteem by the Powhatans when few white men are.”
“Glad I am of that, but since Mattachanna’s death, the peace their marriage brought has been repeatedly broken. No colonist seems safe.”
“Not all the treachery can be laid at the Powhatans’ door. The colonists’ hands are also stained with blood.”
“Will it never end?” Selah looked west, past newly leafed trees that rustled in the coastal wind. “I pray for peace, but peace does not come.”
“What stake have you personally in this?” Candace asked. “Rarely are you so flustered.”
Selah lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “A great many brave men have perished. I pray he is not among them.”
“I agree. But my motherly instincts tell me your concern is of special note.”
Withholding a sigh, Selah pondered her reply, trying to make sense of her tangled feelings. “’Tis for little Oceanus, I fear. He should not lose both father and mother.”
“Oceanus may well have forgotten his father by now, being raised by his Scots kin so far from our shores. Though I do recall your father saying Xander recently spoke of returning him to Rose-n-Vale now that Widow Brodie is there.”
At once hope took wing, only to be tempered by truth. “I wonder if his dear aunt, aging as she is, would have any more patience with a child than with those hounds of his.”
“If he were to remarry, his aunt wouldn’t be so taxed,” Candace said, plucking a burr from her apron. “I might ask your father to speak with him about a tobacco bride. Cecily is certainly smitten. Then Oceanus would have a stepmother and could come home for good.”
“Cecily? I fear she is . . .” Selah groped for the right words yet couldn’t deny Xander asking about her. “Unsuited to him.”
“Is she? Why not let Xander and Cecily make that determination?”
“Oh, aye,” Selah murmured, trying to quiet herself as something green and vile gripped her belly. “Father warned me not to become personally involved in the brides’ choices, nor let my prejudices or partialities show.”
“Wise, aye.” Candace studied her daughter more intently. “What else has transpired to leave you on shaky ground?”
There was no escaping her mother’s scrutiny. “The physic, Laurent, came to the store, probing into Xander’s business. The ill will betwixt them fairly crackled.”
Candace took a breath. “They have ever been at odds for reasons unknown to us. Helion Laurent is not highly favored in the colony, though he is powerfully placed.”
“I do wonder at their animosity. Mayhap—”
A door slammed. The rising wind snatched Selah’s words away.
<
br /> Cecily appeared all a-fluster at the back of the house. “I am sorry I have overslept—”
“Nonsense!” Candace waved a hand, her voice carrying across greening patches of ground. “Come join us. A lovely spring morn awaits.”
Cecily came down the path, linen skirts swirling. “I asked your maidservant your whereabouts, but she could not answer. Why does she not speak?”
“Izella is mute, injured by a slave trader coming here years ago.” The lament in Candace’s tone never faded when speaking of their faithful maid. “We took her in, helped her heal, and employed her, though we do not own her. She communicates in hand gestures.”
“Aye, she pointed to the garden. A shame she is deprived of her tongue. I told her to expect a suitor.”
“And who is it today?” Selah voiced the question they asked every morn. Of the half-dozen suitors Cecily had entertained since arriving, none had found favor.
“Richard Peacock of Indigo Hundred.” Cecily took the seat Selah offered her. “I must say, becoming Goodwife Peacock sounds quite colorful if nothing else. But I know so little about him. Please enlighten me.”
What could she say about a man she’d always found rather . . . ordinary? “Being a gentleman of the first fashion, he is well named.” Selah dwelt upon the good. “A man of his word who settles his debts in a timely manner at our store. Prefers rum to port and is fond of candied ginger. A faithful churchgoer.”
“He comes well recommended then,” Cecily mused. “A fine prospect. The others, nay.”
Selah and her mother exchanged glances. Courtship was fraught with complications. Ustis had already chased away one suitor who’d played his lute beneath Cecily’s window one moonlit night. But ’twas the Sabbath, after all, and since 1618 music had been banned on that holy day. Outlandish tales about lovestruck swains and unsure maidens abounded. One man was reputed to have even swum across the James River to reach the lady of his choice at a distant plantation.