by Laura Frantz
Leaving them to their chatter, Candace rose and resumed her weeding as the sun spread more light across the garden’s colorful enclosure.
“Why are you not storekeeping?” Cecily asked, picking a yellow crocus to tuck into her bodice.
“I needed to speak to Mother a moment but best hasten back,” Selah answered as she turned out of the garden gate. “I shall be home eventually, anxious to hear more of Goodman Peacock’s pursuit.”
Cecily’s low laugh followed her down the lane. “Don’t forget the brides’ meeting at church this afternoon.”
“Three o’clock, aye.”
Selah returned to a store brimming with men perusing trinkets to aid their courting. Her father raised a concerned brow over her sudden departure, but she simply smiled, and he returned to his ledgers.
All morning she kept busy, glad for the distraction, amused and touched by turns with the men’s choices. Shoe buckles in satin-lined shagreen cases. Deep red and pale pink coral necklaces. Toilet water with hints of orange flower and musk. Small gifts that bespoke good intentions and the social standing of the giver.
If Master Renick was bride seeking, she doubted he would need any additional enticements. Rose-n-Vale was fetching enough. As for his personal merits . . . Those quicksilver eyes. That elusive half smile. The dark mane of hair that couldn’t decide whether to curl or lie straight. Or was it more his character? Stubborn Scot that he was, he was as remarkable as Mattachanna in many ways.
What was it that turned her thoughts to him? Her desire to see him reunited with his son? Selah knew her old friend would be unhappy with their separation. She missed Mattachanna as she missed Oceanus. Her fondness defied the grave. Once she and Mattachanna had been no bigger than minnows, turning cartwheels across James Towne’s common, picking fruits and flowers in her mother’s garden, admiring trinkets at the store. Often present when her kinsmen came to trade or make a treaty, Mattachanna was a ready, willing playmate. Though other folk shunned the Naturals, even their children, Selah’s parents made no uncharitable distinctions. Miss Mischief, her father called Mattachanna affectionately. She was ever merry and given to pranks.
Two years it had been since her passing. Oceanus would now be four. Selah’s mind spun back to that day at the dock when the woods began to fill with autumn color. Xander and his family had embarked on the Pleasure, a handsome, forty-ton pinnace, Mattachanna’s hope to visit his homeland a reality. Waving till her arm ached, Selah watched them depart till their ship was no more than a speck of wood riding the azure horizon.
And then long months later her joy turned to gall when Xander returned and came down the gangplank alone. Where was her beloved friend? Their delightful son? Selah scoured the deck to catch sight of Mattachanna trailing behind or preoccupied with baggage. Xander seemed a bit dull-witted after so many weeks at sea, his muscled frame gaunt. The long voyage had gone hard on him. Had he fallen ill? Selah’s heart seemed to stop as her father spoke the words she could not, so thick was the lump in her throat.
“Welcome back, Xander. You have been sorely missed.” Ustis embraced him heartily while Selah stood apart. “But what of Mattachanna and your son?”
Xander answered with a terse, sorrowful stab to the heart. “Mattachanna is no more. Felled by a fever and buried in England at Gravesend.”
Ustis’s joyful expression turned slack with astonishment. Speechless, her father was.
Xander stepped aside as unsteady, sea-legged passengers moved past them. His features were tight with pain, his eyes more bloodshot than blue. “Oceanus remains in Culross with my kin.”
Another blow straight to the heart. Nary a word could Selah speak, neither in shock nor solace. She stepped back, swallowed the hot words thickening her tight throat, and ran home. After fumbling at the latch of their back door, she entered the kitchen, tears spotting her hands and coursing in warm rivulets down her flushed face. At her sudden appearance, Izella nearly dropped a copper pot. Brows arched, Candace set down the herbs she fisted and walked toward her distraught daughter.
Selah choked on the hateful words. “Mattachanna is dead.”
As her mother’s arms went around her, Candace’s own frame shook from grief. Together they stood locked in a stunned embrace.
When they drew apart, Candace took out a handkerchief and dried Selah’s tears and her own. “So Xander returns a widower.”
“That is not all. Xander has left Oceanus in the care of his kin.” Selah took a breath, voice rising, her heart rent by more than sorrow. “How dare he deprive his son of a father at such a time? Oceanus adores him. This is their home. He’s even robbed him of his Indian relations. ’Tis a cruel mind and heart he has to leave the lad amongst strangers in Scotland while—”
Too late did Selah realize the extent of her outburst. Only when a door shut soundly behind her did she cast a look over her shoulder. Xander stood with her father, hat in hands. Oh, how his piercing eyes haunted. Her ire seemed to kindle his own anguish like sparks from a forge fire.
Her father’s stern voice cut through her mortification. “I have asked Xander to share a meal with us before he returns to Rose-n-Vale, to not only partake of sustenance but be comforted in his trouble by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”
Oh, how the timely Scripture smote her. Shattered, she fled upstairs to nurse her disgrace and heartache in the privacy of her bedchamber. Let them sup without her. How could she ever look Xander Renick in the face again?
Ever since, the shame of her hasty, heated words felt like a branded S upon her forehead. Often she had avoided him. Mourning kept him cloistered for a time. But now he was oft in James Towne . . .
Later, her mother had confided his reasons for doing what he did. But Selah felt she did not deserve to hear them. “Oceanus fell ill with the same fever that took his mother’s life. Once he’d recovered, Xander decided he could not subject a child to a long voyage, nor conscience returning the lad to Rose-n-Vale without a mother amid the ongoing perils of life in the colony.”
Further humbled, Selah didn’t dare mention Oceanus again. She simply prayed for him an ocean away. That he would be well and good and soon return to them. That he would, even at a young age, not forget his James Towne roots and his extraordinary mother.
Even now as she stood behind the store counter, another prayer lifted from her empty, contrite heart. Father, can Thou not mend this frightful feeling? Of wishing sore words unsaid?
How she longed to rewind time and set foot again on the docks, greet Xander with the solace and understanding he deserved in time of grief. But nay, ’twas too late. The bitter memory struck another lick.
Ask his forgiveness.
What? She was alone in the store, yet the voice was as clear to her as if spoken by her earthly father. But before she had time to ponder it . . .
“Ah, Mistress Hopewell, how glad I am to see you this morn. You’ve been so preoccupied with all this bride business that I’m oft left to the devices of your rascal brother!”
“What is it you buy?” Selah inquired with a smile as Goody Wyatt approached the counter.
“I’m desirous of some of your Aztec chocolate.” The aging matron leaned heavily on her cane. “But only the freshest, newly imported will do. My dear sister desires mustard powder and horseradish.”
Selah nodded. “None of your usual hartshorn or vinegars?”
“Of course, how could I have forgotten? All of them, please.”
She paid for her purchases once Selah had bundled them, and the door shut at the stroke of three. With a word to Shay in the anteroom, Selah let herself out again, this time for the timber-framed church where the remaining unwed maids were assembling. The parish rector greeted her as she entered. She paused to admire the flowers her mother had brought to sweeten the place ahead of their meeting.
Cecily appeared, tardy yet smiling. “I have a private matter to discuss with you as soon as possible. Your father said you shall do everything within your p
ower to assist me.”
Curiosity soaring, Selah took her place before the seated tobacco brides, some who looked downcast, others smiling. Her heart turned over. These were extraordinary women who’d bravely come, many orphaned, all seeking a better life. How she wanted the best for them. Kind husbands. Rewarding toil. Healthy children. Manifold friends.
A prayer was said. Selah listened as a few women stated grievances that she and Reverend Midwinter sought to mend. One was heartbroken her husband-to-be had died the morn of their wedding. Another was in a fury her choice had been stolen by another maid. Two women wanted to return to England.
At meeting’s end, Selah took a fresh tally. Two maids remained abed with maladies while the rest were settling into their hosts’ homes and pondering their prospects. Sixteen brides were already wed, and four more marriages were to occur on the morrow.
“Well done,” the reverend said at the close with a glint in his eye. “‘Hear my soul speak, the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.’”
Selah smiled at his wit. “Shakespeare. The Tempest.”
Her gaze wandered to a near window. At almost every hour, strolling couples could be seen about town. All were adjusting to new faces, new names. These fair maids had a gentling effect on the masculine town and somehow created a wistful tug to Selah’s carefully hedged heart.
As she exited the church, Cecily caught up with her. “’Tis such a lovely spring day. I’ve a mind to go beyond James Towne. What say you?” At Selah’s hesitation, she clutched her arm. “At home in Yorkshire, we often took an afternoon stroll in the country.”
“If you don’t mind carrying a weapon, aye,” Selah said. “Danger might be lurking. A boat is sometimes more easily managed and allows one to go farther at greater speed. And in better weather, ’tis safer.”
“Do you have one?”
“Shay has a small canoe that will suit. Are you willing?”
“Of course. Let’s be away!”
5
On a cloudless, mid-May morn, Xander left Rose-n-Vale when the dew lay heavy on field and forest. More than two and a half years had passed since he’d traveled to the Powhatans. Not since Mattachanna died had he ventured there of his own accord, nor been invited. Much had changed. Thrust back as they were by the English, the Powhatans’ principal village was no longer in the same place.
And he was no longer the same man.
Pondering this, he took his time. His horse, Lancelot, was content to simply canter. Saddlebags stuffed with gifts from the Hopewells’ store, Jett loping alongside him, he made good time, crossing streambeds and traversing great stretches of forest cleansed by a recent rain. Meihtawk would meet him just ahead, where the recent treaty laid the boundary line between English and Powhatan land. Glad for company, he never liked to be too much alone with his thoughts. Of late they’d taken him in a direction he was unwilling to go.
The troublesome matter had begun with his aunt, when he had asked her to join him at the Hopewells’. A simple shared supper it was not. Somehow the courtesy of her coming had turned into a hope he might take a bride.
But not Cecily Ward.
“Nephew, pardon my temerity . . .” She paused long enough to cough at his pipe smoke. That noxious weed, she called tobacco. “Have you ever understood the reason Selah Hopewell is not yet wed?”
He stretched out his legs and managed to say despite his discomfiture, “I have not given it much thought, Aunt.”
“Perhaps it begs considering.” Her powdered face assumed a rare excitement. “That night at supper I was struck by her winsome manner. She moves and speaks so becomingly. Once I thought she possessed more of her father’s merits, but she has grown into her mother’s graces. And there’s no denying she is lovely with her corn-silk hair and those intelligent green eyes, even if she is a tad befreckled.”
He didn’t respond, nor did he need to, as she kept up a steady volley of adulation.
“’Tis a wonder no man has claimed her. I once heard something about a smitten sea captain, but I cannot recall the details, which were precious few, only that her wise father thought a seafaring husband little better than no husband at all.” She took a breath. “With all this fuss over tobacco brides, I feel Selah Hopewell is being overlooked. Tell me, Alexander, do you find her the least comely?”
He nearly choked on his pipe. “I would have to be in the ground to say nay.”
A raised brow. “How thankful I am you are above ground and aware of her charms.”
Smoky rings spiraled to the ceiling as he weighed his reply. “Mistress Hopewell shows no inclination to marry.”
“Well, have you asked her?”
“I have not.” How to best put it? “She is a tad too independent minded for me. Too . . . spicy.”
She chuckled, then sighed and studied the dogs lounging at his feet. “I daresay a woman’s company would exceed these baneful creatures’. In honor of your mother, my dear sister, please give remarrying some thought.”
She left him then to retire to her bedchamber. But the questions she had raised refused to be quelled. They followed him now into the howling wilderness, where he’d best be concerned about watchful eyes and launched arrows. Still, the thought of Selah Hopewell would not budge.
Even recollecting her passionate rebuke of him when he’d returned from England alone failed to hold its usual sting. And she had, at last meeting, called him . . . what?
Irreplaceable.
If ever one word had the power to go to a man’s head, if not his heart . . .
Jett growled, a low, throaty foreboding. Xander slowed, Lancelot showing no sign of disquiet. Meihtawk? In seconds the lad appeared between a break in the trees ahead, a feather aflutter in his loosened hair.
“Wingapo!”
The familiar greeting dissolved Xander’s tenseness. He reached into his pocket and tossed Meihtawk a quantity of candied lemon peel. Meihtawk promptly popped a piece into his mouth and stroked Jett’s black head. Dismounting, glad to stretch his legs, Xander fell into step beside him.
“You smile today, True Word. You are glad of your visit after so long?”
“I am remembering that first time.”
“When you came to the People with the spinning circle?”
The reference to his compass stole Xander’s smile. “I nearly lost my life that first foray into the woods.”
God rest the three colonists who’d gone hunting with him but were soon bristling with arrows. He’d been but a boy, no serious threat to the tall, painted warriors surrounding him. When they’d taken him back to their village, he’d stayed quick witted enough to remain alive, surrendering his coveted compass without being told to.
With a flash of his dark eyes, Meihtawk said, “Do not forget the talking bark.”
Xander’s smile resurfaced. “When I charcoaled a message to my mother?”
Though the incident had occurred long ago, the harrowing if amusing story still warmed countless ears.
He had taken care to send a message to Rose-n-Vale on a piece of bark he’d etched with coal. The reply penned on paper by his fretful mother and delivered by a Powhatan courier left the Naturals in varying degrees of astonishment over the talking wood. Rather than feeling superior, it led him to be thankful for the basic things he took for granted that made the Naturals marvel.
Later, after wedding Mattachanna, he’d been caught by surprise when she’d dragged out a quantity of gunpowder from his stores and attempted to sow it as if it were seed. Exasperated with powder being in short supply, he’d explained such a substance could not produce what she hoped, that the precious commodity could only be had a more laborious way.
Such artless unpretentiousness made the arrogance and guile of James Towne beyond enduring.
He took a deep, untainted breath and drank in the lushness of late spring. Beyond settlement borders there seemed an uncanny stillness, free of the ring of anvils and axes and gunshots, the relentless cacophony of settlement
life. There was danger here, aye, but the wonder of the undisturbed natural world was uppermost.
“I miss your summer residence near the falls of the Powhatan River,” Xander told him in the Powhatan dialect. “And your winter camp on the Pamunkey.”
“The old days are gone.” Meihtawk entered a fragrant pine barren. “That land is now scarred and broken by land stealers.”
Of which Xander was foremost. He’d earned his own land by venturing to James Towne, inherited his father’s, and been awarded a vast tract by Chief Opechancanough upon wedding Mattachanna.
“Do you know why I have been asked to come to Menmend?”
“You are the father of the chief’s grandson, the husband of his favored daughter.”
True. Yet Xander sensed this did not safeguard him. “What are the chief’s current thoughts about the English? I would be prepared.”
Meihtawk batted away an insect. “He and his warriors are still united in their desire to subdue the English, to make use of their trade goods. The men of James Towne are regarded as much an enemy as the Monacans and other warring tribes.”
And in turn, the English would stop at nothing less than all Naturals becoming subjects of the English king.
He heaved a rare, unguarded sigh. Why the previous all-powerful chief, Powhatan, had not wiped the fragile settlement of James Towne off the map in 1607 remained a mystery.
They reached Menmend in the noonday heat, famished and sweating heavily. The vast village contained a great many yi-hakan, those round huts made of reeds and bent saplings. A great stir rose up at their appearance, a few of Mattachanna’s kin rushing toward them. The women especially were gracious, their features carrying such an echo of Mattachanna that his eyes smarted. Amid much fanfare, they led him to Opechancanough, who stood with favored wives and esteemed werowances beneath a large arbor.
Tall and lithe, the powerful chief looked first at Jett, then at Xander, his pleasure in their coming apparent, though the werowances stayed stoic. Rife with superstitions and spirit worship, all but a few of them regarded him with equal wariness, even hostility. He was reminded of the outcry that arose at Mattachanna’s heartfelt plea to be instructed in Christianity, to learn more about the talking book and the living God of the Bible. Because of her openness to his faith, their own relationship had flowered.