Tidewater Bride

by Frantz, Laura

  Eventually Laurent rode abreast of her. “Your father continues unwell.”

  Selah waved her hand at a passing tobacco bride. “We hope for a full recovery now that better weather is here.”

  “Why does he shun my services?” Subtle accusation crept into his tone. “As the most respected physic in Virginia, I could serve him well.”

  “’Tis unnecessary.” With a lift of her chin that echoed his own arrogance, she added, “As a skilled herbalist, my mother’s ministrations are enough.”

  “Bah! She is naught but a rustic, woefully lacking in the skills of a London-trained healer.”

  “Oh? Then why do so many in James Towne and elsewhere seek her out?”

  “I doubt she has the council’s favor to dispense advice and medicines at will.”

  “Sir.” The term was more epithet. “Why do you continue to bait me at every turn? Is it not in the best interest of a gentleman—though you are hardly that with your badgering—to attend to the business at hand?”

  “I rather enjoy our sparring.”

  “I do not.” Selah glanced at the sullen maid. “Nor, I sense, does Ruth.”

  “The maidservant has no say in the matter. She is simply here at the request of your father, which, regretfully, has deprived Governor Harvey a day’s labor in his household.”

  “You expect me to ride about the country with you alone?” She looked askance at him. “I think not.”

  His cold smile grated. “Ah, you are all pins and prickles, Mistress Hopewell. Waspish as well as spinsterish. The proper husband might change that.”

  She fell silent, giving him no grounds to carry the conversation further. By the time the first Hundred came into view with its dozen houses and dependencies, its chimneys puffing smoke, she’d collected herself somewhat. Dogs barked at their approach and turned her mare skittish. Laurent snapped his whip in warning as he led the way.

  “Turn aside, Rufus,” a man called to the worst offender, a small cur with bristled back.

  “We’ve come to visit your brides,” Laurent called out. “Beginning with yours, Monsieur Cassen, if you’re willing.”

  “Obliged.” Cassen gave a red-faced nod, gesturing toward his rough-hewn cottage. “She’s feeling poorly of late. The dreaded seasoning.”

  He led them toward a dwelling where a low fire made the close air smoky. As Selah entered in with the maidservant, she heard Laurent behind her, speaking condescendingly to the husband just outside the door. The house smelled of sickness, making her glad she’d brought a few of her mother’s tonics.

  In an adjoining room lay the former Jane Rickard, a bank of pillows behind her. She rose up briefly, her face flushed with fever. “Mistress Hopewell?”

  “Indeed, but I shall make this blessedly brief, given you are unwell.”

  “Nay, please be seated.” Jane was clearly eager for company as she gestured to a stool near at hand. “A visit might do me good.” Her inquisitive gaze dismissed Ruth and rested on Selah’s burgeoning basket.

  “I’ve brought some things to hearten you, or so I hope.” Selah took a seat, settling the basket in her lap. Out of it she drew thread, a thimble, and needles.

  Jane looked pleased. “You recall my seamstress ways.”

  “If you describe your malady, I may have just the remedy . . . though the physic is here too, and just outside, speaking with your husband.”

  Jane swallowed as if her throat was sore. “Fever. Weakness. Thomas says not to drink the water, but ale just makes me thirstier.”

  “A common complaint.” Selah held her tongue. Sometimes a person was simply made better by a little kindness and a listening ear, tonic or no. “You’re adjusting to settlement life, which takes a toll on every newcomer.”

  “No cure for homesickness, I suppose.”

  “Aye, time. ’Tis a wondrous cure-all.” Selah smiled to bolster her. “What do you miss most about England?”

  “Hot cross buns. You could smell them for a league or more on a warm spring morn in Berkshire.”

  “Oh, I can only imagine it. I’ve never been to England. But my mother, bless her, makes hot cross buns from Eastertide to Whitsunday.”

  Jane caressed the sewing notions. “Does my heart good to hear some traditions from the motherland aren’t forgot.”

  “Traditions, aye.” Selah gave her the tonic. “Britain is ages old, heavily peopled with so much history, unlike newborn Virginia.”

  “I don’t miss the crowds or the stench. Virginia’s air is purer. Sweeter.”

  “And how do you find married life?” Selah asked with a tremor of trepidation. How was an unmarried miss to hazard such a question?

  Jane downed the tonic with a wince of distaste. “Married life suits me. At least when I’m hale and hearty and on my feet.”

  As she spoke of the travails of colony life, Laurent came in. He greeted and then examined Jane while Selah and the maidservant stood by.

  “What is this?” He sniffed the cup that held the tonic and turned a critical eye Selah’s way. “Herbs and simples are temporary at best. What you need, Goody Cassen, is a dose of Gascoigne’s jelly. With powder of pearl for purification of the blood and melancholia, there’s no better remedy.”

  Watching him dispense his own medicines, Selah tried to dwell on the good. Laurent seemed knowledgeable enough, though the colony boasted few physics and she had little to compare him with. Still, his past misdeeds, his trickery of Mattachanna . . .

  Mindful of the other women who needed visiting, they let themselves out. The first call was deemed a success. Hardy as she was in frame, Jane would no doubt survive the seasoning. She had a remedy from both the physic and Selah’s basket. At least she knew they were concerned and tried to help.

  By midafternoon, Selah and Laurent had made all their rounds of the day but one.

  The approach to Wentz Hundred was open, most trees felled, allowing a territorial view that was especially advantageous in times of danger. Framed in a ray of sunlight spearing cindery clouds, Cecily called to her from an open doorway as Selah dismounted. “Is that you, Selah—with company?”

  “Aye, ’tis Doctor Laurent and a maidservant and I. Come to see how you are faring in your new role as Mistress Wentz.”

  “What a pairing!” she said impishly, eyes on Laurent now speaking with Phineas near the stable. “A mercy mission, I suppose. Out and about seeing how we brides are adjusting to these strange husbands of ours?”

  They embraced, nearly upending Selah’s basket, though it was empty of all but a pot of honey and a small token for Cecily’s mother-in-law.

  Cecily eyed the amber contents with satisfaction. “Phineas is partial to sweetening. He stands by molasses, but I prefer the work of bees any day.”

  Selah crossed the well-kept yard, where nary a weed seemed to sprout, a few flowers taking hold around the door stoop. Surrounding outbuildings showed the same careful tending. The house was typical of middling planters, carrying an echo of England with its daub and clay. Over the threshold they went, into a shadowed room where a stoop-shouldered woman sat in a settle near the hearth despite the heat of the day.

  “Welcome, Mistress Hopewell,” she said with a tremulous voice. “I’ve known you since you were so small you couldn’t see over your store counter, though my failing eyesight has kept me housebound since.”

  “Good to see you again, Widow Wentz.” Reaching into her basket, Selah knelt by the woman’s chair. “Mother thought you might like spirits of rosemary.”

  “For headache, aye.” She breathed in the scent as Selah uncorked the vial. “Reminds me so of England—our Rothbury garden.”

  “The Wentzes have wellborn kin in Sussex.” Cecily carried a covered plate to the table. “Phineas has mentioned visiting in future.”

  “Oh, such a travail a voyage is.” Widow Wentz’s voice rose in strength. “Blessed am I that I shan’t risk another crossing at my great age.”

  “We shall wait till your heavenly homegoing to take our
wedding journey, then,” Cecily said matter-of-factly.

  Amused, Selah sat as Cecily served oat scones she’d baked. Amid all the barnyard noises outside, they spoke of the latest James Towne happenings as Widow Wentz fell asleep in her chair.

  “Seems like an age since I’ve seen you, Selah,” Cecily lamented.

  “You look well in your new role.”

  “Do I? Laboring from sunup to sundown?” With a grimace she held up work-worn hands studded with calluses. “Those colony officials failed to mention the endless work awaiting us. I have little time for pleasure, including my silver lace making.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did, sadly. The council has just passed a law banning the wearing of silver thread and all finery, except for the gentry.”

  “What?” Her long-lashed eyes snapped. “The council acts as if they’ve been crowned king! Nor can we spin or weave—”

  The old woman snorted in her sleep, halting Cecily’s tirade.

  “Virginia takes some getting used to, aye, but it has its merits, surely,” Selah whispered.

  An eye roll was her answer. “Snakes that bedevil and torrid temperatures, a hen that won’t lay and two sheep felled by a wild creature, an endless grinding of corn for every meal—”

  “A sturdy house to keep the weather away. A husband who adores you. Other wives near for company.” Selah took a bite of scone. “Delicious baked goods.”

  Still appearing downcast, Cecily toyed with the coral necklace upon her bodice. “’Tis our lot, I suppose, to be content with our fate, not torment our husbands with impatient murmurings.”

  “You are tired and overwhelmed. Would Phineas allow a maidservant to help you?”

  “I shall ask him. But who?”

  “A pair of recently orphaned sisters from James Towne who are both amiable and industrious and seeking work. Would you like me to arrange a meeting?”

  “Please do.” Cecily brightened and rose abruptly as the door opened. “Ah, here is the renowned physic himself! Do come in, sir. How pleased I am that you have graced our humble home.”

  15

  Selah and her party returned at dusk, coming back opposite the way they had started. As they neared the outskirts of James Towne, she resisted the urge to kick at her mare’s sides and bolt home. They’d visited but eleven brides this day. The rest were far flung in the outer shires. Were more visits on the horizon? She prayed not, at least in the physic’s company.

  Vexed by the heat, Laurent had grown notably quiet, saying little till the last. “I believe the council will be pleased with our progress. I shall inform them on the morrow of our success. We make a perfect pairing, you must admit.”

  “I admit nothing,” she replied, drying her upper lip with the back of a gloved hand. “Though I am glad to visit at least some of the brides and ascertain they are adjusting as well as might be expected.”

  “How brusque you are. Allow me to return you home, at least.”

  “No need, I assure you.” Was her glee plain? “I have had my fill of your company. Good day.”

  His exasperating laugh filled the space between them. “Adieu, lovely Selah.”

  His free use of her given name nettled her further, as did his honeyed Gallic voice. How could such a man have even a speck of comeliness about him? Casting a sympathetic glance at the maidservant, Selah reined her mare toward Backstreete as all went their separate ways.

  Her empty basket dangling from the pommel, her head full of how much Laurent annoyed her, she plodded on, glad the dusty streets were mostly empty this time of day. A few dogs and a piglet ran amok as the night watch assembled to make the rounds.

  Down the dusty, rutted street, the light from their store winked gold in the gloom. Was Father at his books again? The front door was locked, the shutters drawn. Selah tied her mare to a post and made her way around the back to the side door, which creaked open with a push of her hand.

  “Father?”

  No answer. She threaded her way through the storehouse piled with the daily necessities and rare luxuries of colony life. The cavernous room held the tang of leather and reek of vinegar alongside fancy foodstuffs and furnishings. An open case of Venetian glass glittered green as she walked past, small casks of Ceylon cinnamon and Dutch nutmeg heady.

  She approached her father’s desk carefully. Hard of hearing, he was easily startled. His back was to her, and his head rested on his open account book, quill pen on the floor.

  Selah rushed toward him, torn with alarm. “Father . . .” Gently, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Are you unwell?”

  He roused, shaking off sleep and his spectacles in the process. She caught them in midair and returned them to his keeping.

  “I’ve been a bit more tired of late,” he said. “Nothing to fret about. Now, what have we here . . . an empty basket and news of the brides, aye?”

  “Fair news for the most part.”

  “And Laurent? He gave no offense?”

  “Offense?” The question struck her as odd. Mayhap he was simply muddled from sleep. She passed him the unused pistol. “The maidservant was a welcome addition wherever we went.”

  “God be thanked.”

  He recovered quickly. But she still took note of his high color and the glassiness of his eyes. Setting the basket aside, she knelt till they were eye level. “Let me manage the books tonight. I’m not at all tired, and you seem in need of Mother’s care.”

  “You fret too much, Daughter.” But he pushed back from his desk just the same, kissing her brow before making his way to the door. “Alas, I cannot leave you here alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” she replied as a plump gray cat wound its way around her skirts. “Smudge is near.”

  He sighed, looking as if he’d like to sit down again. “On one condition. I shall lock all the doors and send Shay to fetch you in an hour and escort you to supper.”

  “Oh aye.” Smiling, she feigned a lightheartedness she didn’t feel. “I’ll get straight to work.”

  She stood by the window as he left, praying him home. Stoop-shouldered, gait slow, he seemed to carry the weight of both new world and old as he led the mare. Would he not ride instead? Slowly it dawned on her that he had not the strength to mount the horse.

  Oh, Father, is there something you are not telling me? Are you beset with some new burden?

  Perhaps he was missing Shay even before he went over to the Naturals. She expelled a pent-up breath, stung by a smidgen of ire at Xander’s tribal dealings. ’Twas all right and good when someone else’s son was sent. Would he have done the same?

  She sought the desk, moving the taper nearer to finish totaling the ledger of figures Father had left undone. Next, she reviewed the ever-pressing orders, the planters’ needs foremost. There always seemed a shortage of packthread for drying tobacco. She wrote down a quick tally of how much to demand from England suppliers.

  Each planter had a separate account, some quite voluminous. She stilled when she came to Xander’s. A very long list, indeed. In the flickering candlelight, she noted the usual needs. Packthread was at the very top. Next came myriad fishing nets. Sundry tools. A quantity of ribbons, thread, and needles—for his aunt, surely. A games box of the popular trictrac—for Oceanus, likely. At four, he might enjoy learning table games.

  But all the rest gave her pause. One oak gateleg dining table. Two candle stands. A walnut armoire.

  Eyes widening, she read on.

  A four-poster bed with linens of the highest quality. A walnut wardrobe and carved mirror. A pair of ornate tapestry chairs.

  Fit for a bride.

  The certainty swept through her like a hurricane. Surely a wedding was imminent. Such an order would fill half a warehouse. Yet another reason to disdain him—this bent toward worldly things. But was her family not peddlers of mammon, ensnaring others by their continual commerce? They themselves lived simply, yet . . . had she no desire for beauty and comfort? No craving for finer things? What did she care if he was outf
itting another room at Rose-n-Vale and adding to his personal inventory?

  With effort, she corralled her musings if not her soreness of heart, readying the order for shipping along with all the rest. When Shay fetched her, she locked the store and they hastened toward home. If only she could leave behind her many questions as well.

  “How is Father?” One look at his empty place at table was Selah’s answer even before her mother spoke.

  “He’s resting after drinking a posset.”

  Going to a washbasin, Selah prepared for a subdued supper. Shay was already seated, playing idly with his fork and knife. What would it be like to sup with the Naturals? Another pang shot through her. Already missing him, she was. She smiled fleetingly as her mother sat across from her, a venison pie between them. Though she’d eaten little all day, she had no appetite tonight.

  “So, tell me everything. How is Cecily especially?”

  Selah caught her mother up on all she’d learned, keeping her voice low so as to not disturb her father lying abed in the adjoining room. “All in all, the brides are weathering the change from the Old World well enough. There are the usual worries about so much sickness, menial work, and talk of Indian unrest.”

  Shay reached for the salt cellar. “The exchange should help with that, aye?”

  “Indeed.” Candace’s head bobbed. “And you are going to be right in the thick of it. One day you’ll look back and be proud at the part you’ve played.”

  He swallowed a bite, looking thoughtful.

  Selah looked at her mother, whose eyes glittered as she studied Shay. “So Watseka will soon arrive on our shores.”

  “Indeed, and with some ceremony, as befitting so auspicious an occasion. I pray your father is well enough to attend. He would hate to miss Shay’s going.”

  “Father is a graybeard,” Shay muttered sagely around a bite of bread. “Needs be he stay in bed and recover.”

  Selah shot him a chary look. “Perhaps a shop boy should be hired in Shay’s absence.”