Tidewater Bride

by Laura Frantz

  “I, Cecily, take thee, Phineas . . .”

  Selah’s gaze lifted to the church’s timbered walls and high windows, her thoughts returning to another wedding years before. All of James Towne had crowded into this cloistered chamber the spring Xander wed Mattachanna. Beyond the west wall lay a graveyard, an eternal reminder that Mattachanna was missing. If she had been buried here rather than in England, Selah would have tended her grave, brought flowers in remembrance. Was anyone doing that in the Old World?

  Shay shifted on the pew across from her, clearly bored with the proceedings. Ever since Xander had told him the Powhatans’ plan, he’d been preoccupied with nothing else, awaiting the council’s decision.

  As the wedding proceeded, Selah pondered their furious labors since first light. They’d finished the wedding feast, laying tables in the garden for the overflow of guests. Sliced leg of lamb and herring pie crowned the menu, along with assorted sweetmeats and mince tarts. With the help of James Towne’s bake shop, a preposterous pile of buns had been created and artfully arranged on a platter and decorated with edible garden flowers, mostly nasturtiums. Punch was mixed with care and chilled beforehand, sure to quench the thirst of all James Towne. Her father fussed if the punch ran low, so Selah and her mother spent the day before concocting and tasting, leaving them a tad woozy by supper.

  This morn Izella stood watch in their absence lest hungry gulls or other ravenous creatures arrive first. As soon as the ceremony ended, Selah and her mother hastened home ahead of the wedding party. Governor Harvey led the procession, his betrothed on his arm. His presence seemed to subdue the celebratory mood, though few could deny the soon-to-be Lady Harvey looked resplendent in a gown of silver thread, her serene expression a striking contrast to her escort’s familiar frown.

  Guests began streaming through both garden gates, intent on making merry. When Xander and his aunt appeared, Selah smiled past her somersaulting stomach, wondering why she’d not seen them at church.

  Questions that needed quieting burned her tongue. Should she seek Xander out and inquire about Oceanus and the possible peace exchange?

  Bide your time.

  At the heart of her curiosity was the matter of his bride. But that was hardly her business either.

  “Mistress Hopewell, you are in fine form today, I see.”

  Selah situated herself near the punch bowl and found Helion Laurent first in line, his black hat with its ostrich plume nearly tickling her face as it was doffed. Again, he gave a courtly bow, looking as if he’d robbed a pirate’s ship of plunder. Colorful ribbons decorated the edges of his jacket, his frilled shirt and lace stock a stark white, his mustard-yellow hose beneath ballooning breeches stretching down toward red-heeled, bowed shoes.

  She felt plain as a tufted titmouse in his presence. Nor did she feel like sparring with him in the rising heat. With a tight smile, she left the punch to Izella’s keeping and sought the next table, making a show of rearranging wedding buns.

  He followed, displeasure on his fine features. “Surely you can spare a word for a guest.”

  “I did not think to find you at the reception, sir.”

  “When I heard the hospitable Hopewells were hosting, I dared not miss it. I also heard your father continues unwell.” His gaze traveled across the garden to where Ustis stood in the shade, several fellow merchants about him.

  “Best ask my father himself. I cannot speak for him.”

  “He is a hard man to corner, popular as he is.” Laurent twirled his hat in his hands. “You might mention I wish to talk to him about a survey of land that borders your own upriver.”

  “Hopewell Hundred?”

  “Indeed. Your property that lies fallow.” He eyed the wedding buns with apparent distaste. “Such a waste of fertile, cleared acreage. Why not plant tobacco? Wheat and corn?”

  “For a physic whose priority should be the sick, you show a remarkable interest in agriculture, sir.”

  He smiled again, but there was no warmth in it. “Only because my upriver forays to distant patients take me past your idle acreage. One never knows when there will again be a drought or other disaster that requires every kernel of corn, every drop of sustenance.”

  This she could not naysay. She’d oft wanted to see the land fruitful, but as her dowry was only a part of the whole and she remained unwed, she felt she had little right to speak of it. Besides, her father was too busy merchanting to farm or even seek a new tenant.

  “If, by chance, you Hopewells ever tire of landowning, I hope I would be considered first in regard to its sale.”

  So ’twas land he craved, not her company. “Hopewell Hundred is largely my brother’s inheritance.”

  “Of course. Common knowledge.” His gaze sharpened. “But you yourself have a generous land dowry, do you not? Yet you are nearly a spinster.”

  The word sat like a slur upon his garrulous tongue. How dare he ask. And how weary she was of defending the matter. Why did it concern others if she chose to remain unmarried? Truth be told, she paid little mind to her dowry or dower chest. Such stayed in the shadows, gathering dust along with her dreams.

  Another twirl of his plumed hat. “On a more pleasant note, have you heard the council’s latest mandate?”

  Could her hackles rise any further? Again, she sought refuge in silence.

  “You are tasked with accompanying me on calls to the newly wed tobacco brides. Governor Harvey himself recognizes there is none fitter for the task than you, given your successful oversight of the maids coming to Virginia.”

  “But my merchanting duties—”

  “I am sure your brother will stand in your stead.”

  Everything honest and good within her recoiled. Barely could she eke out a response. “What, pray tell, do these visits require?”

  “We shall visit every household with a tobacco bride as its mistress, inquiring as to their health and well-being so that we can give the council a good report.”

  Dare she pair with him for such a task? But with Governor Harvey behind the plan, who could naysay it?

  She batted a fly from the buns, nearly wilting with relief at the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Selah, fetch more punch, please.”

  Excusing herself, she hastened toward the kitchen. Candace’s concerned face bespoke much as she returned to her hostessing duties.

  Moments later, Selah emerged into bright sunlight, carrying a large pitcher to refill the ceramic bowl. Again, relief washed through her. The physic was nowhere to be seen. A small line had formed at the punch table, Xander at the rear. Excusing Izella, Selah took her place. In the wake of Laurent’s unwelcome news, she was all a-fumble, acutely aware of Xander’s direct gaze upon her as if he sensed her discomfiture. Mortified, she sloshed punch, spilling some on her lace-edged apron.

  When his turn came, he took the cup from her hand with a small, reassuring smile. “My thanks, Mistress Hopewell.”

  “You’re welcome, Master Renick.”

  He took a long drink, just the two of them beneath the shade of the kitchen eave. Though she was given to making all sorts of counter conversation in their store and elsewhere, all talk flew out of her head.

  He took another drink. “Excellent punch.”

  “A simple bolleponge.” She smiled past her fluster. “Aqua vitae, sugar, rosewater, and citrus from the Summer Isles.”

  “Your mother’s garden is especially fitting for a wedding.”

  “Truly.” How she hated small talk when other heartfelt matters needed discussing. But small talk they must make. “Rose-n-Vale must be equally lovely now that ’tis summer. All those roses abloom. And a great many robins and warblers and such.”

  “Don’t forget the copper snakes and cougars.”

  “I’d rather”—she winced as a gull shrieked overhead—“dwell upon all things lovely and of good report.”

  “I recollect that was the gist of Reverend Midwinter’s sermon last time I was churched in James Towne. Before I fell a
sleep.”

  She nearly laughed. The reverend, bless him, was notoriously long-winded. “So, you were paying attention?”

  “Not word for word, mayhap.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I also recall something about speaking the truth in love.”

  Startled, she stared absently at her own cup. Might this be the opening she needed? A divine prompting? Summoning all the wits she possessed, she began a bit haltingly. “In that respect, ’tis time I do the same . . .”

  He looked at her, his features suddenly earnest. Inquiring.

  “I—I beg your forgiveness.” The surprise in his eyes left her more tongue-tied. “The asking comes late. I should have done so as soon as I spoke the hasty words once you docked that terrible day. The lapse has haunted me ever since.” Even now the old shame of it burned. “There is no reparation I can make for so foolish an outburst.”

  A weighty pause. “You simply spoke out of your affection for Mattachanna and Oceanus.”

  She had, but . . . “Does it not grieve you?”

  “Not as much as it grieves you.” Yet he seemed relieved to have it aired at last. “I am a man not much undone by words or blows or accusations. I am more moved by your softness, your depth of feeling.”

  For a few fleeting seconds, Alexander Renick lost that stoic, self-possessed manner that marked him. A rare pensiveness turned him vulnerable, his expression easing, features less firmly set. Or was it not pensiveness at all but something else entirely? Reaching out, he took a tendril of hair the wind had pulled free of her coif and coiled it behind her ear.

  His touch turned her soft as candle wax. And then just as quickly his hand fell away as if burned. Their locked gazes broke and wandered to the table where the wedding buns were being devoured, bride and groom giving a customary kiss over the great mound of them.

  Cecily waved a gloved hand, a lovely satin pair gifted by Phineas, her nosegay of orange blossoms and myrtle clutched in the other. With a trilling laugh, she tossed the flowers Selah’s way. They landed at her slipper-clad feet, their ribbon undone. Amused, Selah pressed her fingers to her mouth lest her sip of punch spill out as Xander knelt and retrieved them.

  He passed her the tousled blooms after retying their ribbon. “Do you give much credence to the old wives’ tale of catching the bouquet?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Still, she brought the blooms to her nose, inhaling their sweet, earthy scent.

  A flicker of something she couldn’t name passed over his sun-glazed features. “Is there no man that moves you, Selah Hopewell?”

  He wasn’t looking at her but at all the color and confusion in the garden around them, yet she flushed to the roots of her upswept hair all the same. What could she possibly say to this? Had he seen her talking to Helion Laurent? Did he suspect . . . ?

  Heaven forbid.

  “I ask because my aunt asked me,” he confided. “And I had no answer.”

  She stared down at the blooms in her hands. Dare she reveal the state of her heart? “You may tell your aunt that aye, there is such a man, but . . .”

  A wicked grin turned him roguish again. “But you will make no more mention of him than I my would-be bride.”

  She fought a sudden breathlessness. Such a delicate affair. She would not force it. “I cannot help but think of the possible peace exchange and other pressing matters.”

  “The council’s decision should come by sennight’s end.”

  “Is it true that Oceanus is returning also?”

  An affirming nod. “He’s already at sea, or should be. Pray for a swift, uneventful voyage.”

  Prayers aside, his leaving England guaranteed nothing. Yet she shooed away any melancholy. “I have no words for how his homecoming heartens me. Four is a delightful age. And Rose-n-Vale must seem a paradise for one so small. My prayers won’t cease till he’s in your arms again.”

  “His grandfather wants to see him. His daughter’s death and burial in England are not forgotten, nor likely forgiven. He asks if anything of Mattachanna resides in her son.”

  “I understand, though such is fraught with . . .”

  “Complexities,” he finished for her.

  “Thankfully, your time is your own now that you’re leaving the council. You’ll not be so often in James Towne.”

  “Yet I hear dismay in your voice all the same. Would you have me stay and come to blows with the governor and his men?”

  “I suspect they rejoice to see you forsake matters here to serve your own shire instead. As for myself, I feel a light has gone out with your leaving.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Nay, Alexander Renick, I speak truth.”

  “Then let us dispense with surnames and all the rest.”

  Their eyes met and held. Oh, she was nearly undone. First he’d touched her. And now her name on his lips sounded like a song. She sought some response, but the well of her heart was too full for words.

  “Till we meet again, Selah.” With a low farewell, he moved away from her just as his aunt sought her out.

  “How fare you this joyous wedding day?”

  “Very well, Widow Brodie. And you?”

  She looked at the bouquet in Selah’s hands. “A portent, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” Widow Brodie’s expression was so hopeful she daren’t say otherwise. “Care for a cup of punch?” At the woman’s nod, Selah ladled more of the dwindling drink.

  Voices rose near the garden’s gate fronting the street as several members of the council gathered there. Selah’s alarm swelled. The governing body of James Towne was increasingly divided and bitter, and even amiable occasions such as these were cause for rancor and confrontation.

  Thankfully, Xander was at the opposite end of the garden, speaking with her father near her mother’s prized weeping willow. Other guests milled about, the four acres offering pleasant distraction, each bed meticulously weeded and watered and cossetted to showcase every color of the rainbow. At the garden’s heart, her mother held court, answering questions about certain plants, dispensing advice over which herb was best paired with poultry and which waylaid gout, what thrived in Tidewater soil and what was best left in the Old World.

  “So good to speak with you, my dear,” Widow Brodie said in parting. “I think I shall walk about before I go. This lovely plot is the talk of all Virginia, and rightly so.”

  Selah pushed back the wayward slip of hair Xander had righted. Wooziness again smote her. Perhaps she made too much of the gesture. A friend might have done the same. She took a steadying breath and fought for composure. Her stays felt damp in the noonday sun, the sky as sapphire a hue as the newly arrived silk on their shelves.

  The reception was waning now, most wedding delicacies devoured. Cecily and Phineas spoke with a few lingering guests as most left to seek the shade of their own homes and workplaces. Selah’s gaze returned to Xander now leaving the garden by way of a back street, avoiding the knot of cantankerous men still clustered near the main road. Wise, he was. And bent on a dozen different things that eluded her.

  Especially this matter of a bride.

  12

  At sennight’s end, Ustis sat at the head of the table and admired the salted ham Izella placed in front of him. “Our table is bereft of Cecily but about to welcome Watseka.”

  “Watseka?” Shay was at full attention.

  “It means ‘pretty girl’ in Potawatomi.”

  “Shall we simply call her Pretty Girl?”

  “Perhaps we shall ask what she prefers,” Ustis replied, taking up a knife and fork to carve the meat. “She shall arrive in a fortnight.”

  “So, the council has decided,” Candace said.

  Grieved by the lament in her mother’s tone, Selah awaited her father’s answer as she poured small beer. For once, Shay was more interested in Watseka’s coming than his supper plate.

  “Indeed, the decision has been made, dear wife. With Xander overseeing the exchange, all is in hand. For that we can be thankful.”


  Shay looked toward their mother as if to allay her fears. “Surely God is in this. ’Tis my dream to go where few have trod, distant though it may be.”

  “Distant, aye. To Menmend, an encampment few but Xander have seen or lived to tell about. The Powhatans’ most recent stronghold.” To his credit, Ustis never skirted the hard details. Had his years of misery in early James Towne enabled him to speak the unvarnished truth? “A few other youths will also participate in the peace exchange, lads from Bermuda and Flowerdew Hundred and Middle Plantation.”

  “How old is Watseka?” Selah took her usual place, Cecily’s yawning empty beside her.

  “That wasn’t spelled out,” Ustis replied. “I only know that none of the settlement families are willing to send any but young indentured orphans, though the Powhatans are sending sons and one daughter. Watseka is said to be from the Pamunkey tribe, one of the many grandchildren of Chief Opechancanough.”

  “I strive to remember such an exchange is sorely needed,” Candace said. “Much like Xander and Mattachanna’s marriage bringing a prolonged peace, which bore much fruit.”

  Ustis nodded gravely. “We shall pray to that end.”

  Joining hands, they bent their heads, Ustis’s entreaty a balm to Selah’s conflicted spirits. “O most mighty God and merciful Father, which hast compassion on all men and hatest nothing that Thou hast made . . .”

  Once the “amen” was uttered, Shay only lent to Selah’s barbed edges all over again. “I suppose if I’m old enough to go over to the Indians and learn their language and life ways, I’m old enough to learn what happened to Mattachanna when she was tricked so meanly by our officials.”

  Candace sighed and buttered her bread, obviously waiting to see who would answer. Selah kept her eyes on her plate while Ustis proceeded cautiously. “There are those among us who forsake the Lord’s will and force their own, thus committing all manner of evil. Such was the case with Mattachanna.”