by Laura Frantz
Hours later when Oceanus’s head was sagging and the dancers grew exhausted, all dispersed to their beds. Shay led them to their lodging, taking up his own mat near them. But sleep was long in coming for Xander.
Insects buzzed about them, but as he smelled of smoke from the tribe’s fires, few alighted. He lay awake on his back, gaze fixed on the most brilliant star. Sirius shone upon them, brightest during the dog days of summer.
Turning on his mat, he wished for a pillow, his own bed, the peace to be had on his porch in the gloaming. He yawned, turned again. ’Twas Selah who kept him awake long past his prayers. He smiled into the darkness. Might she be pondering Sirius this long, sweltering night, same as he? The distance between them chafed. Already he was anxious to return. Name a wedding day.
Start life anew with the woman he loved.
Panic propelled one to rash acts. As dawn smudged the sky, Selah traded the security of the house for the courtyard and realized the truth too late. Within seconds of being in the open, she heard a horse move in the woods behind the stable.
“Watseka, where are you?”
Whoever had been prowling rode hard away. At once her father was behind her. In one hand he held a pistol.
“Daughter, come inside.” The breathless words had no sooner left him than he clutched at his throat and then his chest. With a groan, he sank to the dew-damp ground.
“Father—” Stricken, Selah moved toward him when his pistol discharged.
The early morn was rent open by the jarring sound, wrenching her ears even as she grappled with searing pain. Her musket gave way and fell to her feet.
Hit.
Woozy, she sank to her knees, curling her legs to her chest. Scarlet soaked her nightgown, certain to render it nothing but a rag. ’Twas her last fleeting thought.
33
As the next day unfurled, Opechancanough met with Xander privately, though the werowances who usually hovered were not far. “Tell me how my granddaughter Watseka fares with you.”
Xander could not stay a smile at the question, the memory of her playful ways never far. Nor could he staunch his surprise. So much of what was discussed regarding Indian-English relations was grim. He was only too pleased to talk of more cheerful matters.
“She is learning the English tongue and English ways,” Xander told him. “Just as the son of Ustis Hopewell is thriving, so, too, is Watseka.”
They spoke at length between long pauses of pondering and reflection. Tobacco curled from their shared pipe, the aromatic yet somewhat harsher blend of the Naturals that most English disdained. Xander gave a favorable report of the children living among the English and listened as the chief spoke of the children in the Powhatans’ care.
“When will you depart?” The chief’s penetrating gaze made Xander reconsider his leave-taking on the morrow.
“Once I meet with the English in your care and give them tokens and such from their families.”
The chief eyed him unflinchingly with a look Xander knew too well. Something was afoot. His suspicion was confirmed by Opechancanough’s next words.
“My grandson has been separated from his mother’s people for many seasons. It is time to reacquaint him with our ways. I ask that you leave him here till the moon of white frost.”
Late fall. November.
Xander passed Opechancanough the pipe. Dismay cut a wide swath through him. What could he say to this? Denying the chief so heartfelt a request would be taken as a grave offense. Oceanus was his grandson. True, he had many. But no others from his favored daughter. Nor did the lad have other surviving grandparents.
No doubt Oceanus would thrive much like Shay if left in the Naturals’ care for a few months more. What could it hurt? The small qualm he felt was a selfish one, given the boy was all he had of Mattachanna. That, he would miss.
His delayed response seemed to surprise the chief. Trying to quell the last shred of resistance inside him, Xander stared unseeing through the smoke at an array of fine beaver pelts dangling from a support pole.
Opechancanough’s eyes narrowed. “Would a few furs make the separation more agreeable?”
“I would simply ask that Oceanus be told and consent to the plan. He is young and has withstood many changes of late. He still mourns his mother.”
The chief gave a nod of assent, and Oceanus was sent for. He entered the council house with his usual reserve, though Xander had heard him happily shouting and playing with other children moments before. Now, facing his grandfather, he darted a glance at Xander as if to ascertain what was about to happen.
Xander put a hand on his shoulder. “Your grandfather would like for you to have a visit with him while I return to Rose-n-Vale.”
Oceanus fell silent for several strained seconds. “May I have a bow and arrow like Shay?”
The question seemed to please Opechancanough, who agreed.
Bolstered by his approval, Oceanus addressed him personally. “Can I learn to hunt and swim, Grandfather?”
Opechancanough again agreed. “You will have a Powhatan name as well, in time.”
At that, Oceanus went out to resume his play. All the levity vanished with him.
Opechancanough’s eyes glinted hard as flint. “Tell me about the white chief Harvey. Is it true that he has erected a palisade between the great rivers across leagues of land not his own?”
Was her very life’s blood flowing out of her? Would it spell her demise? Selah shook so hard her teeth hurt, her head dangerously aswim. Even as her mother’s voice broke through the darkness, she couldn’t grasp hold of her meaning. Vaguely she was aware of being carried inside and someone shouting for rags.
Where was Father?
When she next opened her eyes, it was light of day. Murmuring ebbed and flowed around her like the tides around James Towne. Not Xander. Not Father. Other masculine utterances she had trouble deciphering.
Rose-n-Vale’s factor, McCaskey?
Nay, the sheriff.
“Tell me what happened with as much detail as you recall.”
Her mother’s voice, broken and disbelieving, hurt her ears. Selah breathed in the shocking scent of hartshorn as it passed beneath her nose. The dark shadow taking slow shape before her was equally abhorrent.
Laurent. Posing as the physic she was desperately in need of.
“You’ve suffered a great loss of blood.” His voice was low as his fingers probed her torn flesh. When he neared her stinging wound, she all but hissed at him.
“Becalm yourself or I shall administer valerian, which you well know is vile to the taste if soothing to the mind.”
Jaw set, she let him do as he purposed, cleansing then wrapping her arm. As soon as the linen was in place, she could feel the blood’s flow again. But ’twas the feel of his hands on her—and the knowledge of his hands on Mattachanna—that had her gathering all her strength and shrinking back from him amid the bed linens. The soft pillow held the scent of her father. Had he not fallen in the courtyard before dawn?
Her voice was a whisper. “How is my father?”
A prolonged pause. “Your father, God rest him, will be buried posthaste due to the extreme heat.”
At that, she slipped back into the blackness. She came to her senses again as her mother’s soft, tear-laden voice droned on in the shadows. “The window was left ajar . . . my daughter went to look for Watseka . . .”
The beloved name nearly brought her upright.
“There’s every reason to believe the Indian girl beneath your roof has simply run off to rejoin her people.” The sheriff’s words were clipped, certain.
Nay, nay. Watseka would not run. The girl did not have a fleeing bone within her small body. She’d been content in their care. The peace of the entire colony might well hinge on her well-being. And Xander’s own life was at stake. The tension between the English and Naturals was always asimmer. Watseka’s vanishing might well lead to more warfare. Another massacre like 1622.
Laurent was still hovering. “I
have prepared a posset for you.”
Something touched her lips. She sputtered, finding it bitter. But it was not valerian.
Mayhap poisonous.
Wrenching her head to the right, she refused, spilling the posset across the bed linens.
“Confound it! You minx—” The epithet was said through clenched teeth, and then he nearly shouted at Izella to clean up the mess.
At last the dark shadow that was Laurent moved away. “It is I, Nurse Lineboro, come to help care for you.”
Selah stilled, eyes closing to stop the room’s dizzying spin. “How is my mother?”
“She is unharmed but, as a new widow, understandably stricken.”
Father.
How she loved him. The fact he’d been ailing—failing—lessened the ache not one whit. How they hoped he’d be well in time. Had prayed to that end. Already the house felt odd without him. Shay was the heir, the head of the family now. And he but a boy far from home.
“Can you sit up, Selah? Take some nourishment?” Nurse Lineboro prodded. “Water, at least.”
Selah raised herself up against the pillows Izella bunched behind her. The effort seemed herculean. But drink she must, if only to stay clearheaded enough to keep an eye on Laurent. A knot of men remained in the parlor, the physic among them. Though she had no proof, she felt him behind Watseka’s baffling disappearance.
“Pray becalm yourself, as the physic said. Think of your poor mother.”
“How did you come to be here?”
“We heard a weapon firing clear to Rose-n-Vale.”
“Has Watseka been found? I fear the physic has somehow done her harm.”
“On what grounds?” Alarm flared in the nurse’s eyes. “I know little of the law in James Towne, but I caution you against offending Helion Laurent. You are useless to your cause if you give him reason to bring a charge against you.”
True, but this did little to relieve the fury asimmer inside her, a fury that would only subside with the return of Watseka if not her beloved father. A fury so consuming that only Xander could douse it.
Downing more water, she lay back, restless for her mother. In time, Candace was at her side, her eyes puffy from weeping.
“Your father has gone from us.” She clasped Selah’s hand. “Though we mourn, we are not without hope. Our concern at present is the here and now. Seeing you well.”
“What felled him?”
“I believe ’twas his heart, but only the Almighty knows.”
Her stalwart father rarely complained, but when he did it was about his chest. Being roused from sleep and pitched headlong into a fright had done him no favors either. A prick of guilt arose, but she countered it. Finding Watseka was now their chief aim.
“Will a search party be sent?”
Candace’s plump shoulders rose and fell as the men’s voices mounted. Pain had ever sharpened her temper, causing her to fling a rebuke over her shoulder. “Have a care, gentlemen! Will you not take your squabbling out of doors?”
The offended silence might have found her pilloried for insolence save for her grief. Without another word, the men betook themselves outside through the open door into sweltering sunlight.
Selah shifted beneath the linen sheet and watched her mother move slowly about the house as if lost, touching this or that. Her father’s beaver hat. His keys hanging on a nail near the door. His pipe and tobacco pouch. The toy flute he’d given Watseka.
Her heart burst anew as she watched her father being laid out upon a settle in the parlor. Bitter sobs she tried to choke down burned her throat before filling the still room and her ears.
The terrible sight was blocked by the return of Nurse Lineboro, who sighed and touched her brow as if she had a headache. “I am to sit by your side, the physic says.”
The men were still outside, the sheriff’s voice foremost. She thought she’d heard McCaskey’s voice, but all was ajumble in her mind. The grief that pressed down on her ebbed, if only for a moment. Laurent’s presence most concerned her.
“Please tell the factor I must speak with him.” Why was her breath coming so hard? Her voice so winded and strange? Had Laurent given her something and she was unaware of it? “Watseka must be found.”
“Such seems the least of your worries.” A crease marred Nurse Lineboro’s brow. “I do think she’s run off, as the sheriff says. Such a wild little thing. One would think you’d be glad.”
Glad? Had she no knowledge of what Watseka’s absence spelled? The grim consequences? “Please summon the factor now.”
Nurse Lineboro, used to obeying orders, did as she was bade. Outside came the sound of departing horses.
Soon McCaskey drew up a chair where Selah lay. “Tell me again what happened this morn.”
With effort, Selah recounted her rising before first light and finding Watseka missing, the commotion outside, the fateful moment she’d rushed into the yard with her father following. A nightmare from which she wanted to shake herself awake.
Selah set her jaw against her throbbing arm. “What is the sheriff saying about Watseka?”
“Very little.”
“Will there be a search party?”
“Nay. The men cannot be spared from the harvest and other responsibilities.”
“Will word be sent to the Powhatans about Watseka being taken?”
McCaskey shook his head. “The consensus is she has not been taken but has run away.”
“She has not run. I would swear to it. ’Twas a horse I heard in the woods behind the stable and kitchen. Surely that speaks of foul play.”
“The officials advise waiting till Renick returns and they hear his voice in the matter.”
“’Twill be too late. She may be hurt, suffering—”
“And you would have me, a lowly Scot, take on all Virginia as to how things should proceed.” The thinly veiled mockery in McCaskey’s eyes told her he knew them for what they were—pretentious, petty men who would waste no more time searching for an Indian girl than they would a stray animal.
“Do they think Chief Opechancanough will respond kindly when he learns we did not even hazard a search for his kin?” Selah hissed. “Perchance the Powhatans shall come down on us in retaliation and without warning, as they once did, when scores died by fire and hatchet. Will these officials not count the cost of their indifference? Their arrogance?”
The unusual ire in her voice returned Candace to the bedchamber. “Daughter, take heart. The sheriff did say he will appoint an armed musketeer to watch over us till we women determine what we shall do next. For now, the passing bell will toll in James Towne to announce your father’s death. I shall begin sewing his woolen winding-cloth.” She took a deep breath, tears close. “Needs be we return downriver as soon as possible.”
34
Laurent returned on the morrow.
’Twas all Selah could do not to lambaste him as he entered the fragile sanctity of their home. A musketeer was outside, his presence providing small security. As it was, Selah regarded the physic coldly and silently as he approached with his portmanteau.
“And how is Mistress Hopewell today?” he asked, coming to stand over her as she reclined upon her parents’ bed.
“I have no need of your services, sir.”
“Your injury may well portend otherwise.” He began unwinding the bandages while Izella went to fetch water at his request. “You are lucky ’tis a flesh wound and the lead ball went awry. The bone is still intact.”
Selah averted her eyes. Luck? Nay. Providence had spared her. She might well have been killed instead. Still, how could a flesh wound cause such pain? She could not sleep. She had no appetite. Yet ’twas nothing like the hole in her heart. Everywhere she looked told of her father’s passing. Another cape merchant had been appointed, a necessary but grievous occurrence. Goodmen came bearing her father’s coffin, an onerous leaded box of elm lined with velvet, soon to be interred at James Towne’s church.
She’d lost count of the people ha
stening upriver to pay their respects. Even now feminine voices floated from the parlor, Xander’s aunt among them. Had she news of his return? Looking toward the open door, Selah chafed. What was taking Izella so long? She didn’t like being left alone with Laurent.
He was examining her arm, his features a mask but so close she saw the black velvet patch on his left temple, the placement signifying dignity. Of which he had none.
She spoke so low that none but he could hear. “Where is she?”
He stilled. “I know nothing of whom you speak.”
“Oh, but you do. And we shall get to the heart of the matter soon enough.”
“We?”
“When Alexander Renick learns how you came here under cover of night, taking a helpless child and thereby killing my father—”
“You Jezebel.” His long fingers encircled the wrist of her wounded arm, tightening till her voice finally faltered. “Take care with such accusations. I can assure you I did not do whatever it is you accuse me of. I would as soon brand you a liar before all of Virginia.”
“If not you, then one of your minions instead.” She tried to pull free of him despite the crushing ache. “As I said, any treachery and deceit shall be found out.”
Izella returned with the requested water. The very air seemed to spark with animosity. If she noticed, she gave no sign, dark eyes down, face as much a mask as Laurent’s.
Selah shut her eyes as he applied a potent-smelling salve to the wound, then bound it up again.
“You shan’t be able to go to your father’s burial.” His tone was low and insistent. “Your wound may well fester. Strict bed rest is called for.”
She marveled at his falsity. Here he stood, playing the part of a capable physician, while he was likely the man whose actions had led to her injury?
“I shall return after the burial at James Towne and look again at your wound.” With that, he excused himself, leaving her alone with Izella.
Selah met the servant’s eyes awash with unshed emotion. Though Izella could not speak, she could feel. Father had taken her in when she’d been irreparably injured by a slave trader, who’d exchanged her for food once they reached Virginia’s shores. Was this uppermost in Izella’s mind and heart? Reaching out, Selah clasped her workworn hand and squeezed, relieving some of her own festering ache.