Tidewater Bride

by Frantz, Laura

  Though a great many warriors were present, there were few Indian women. Those Selah did see were at the back of the throng. Wives, perhaps, as the chief had several from nearly every Indian nation. That custom scandalized all Virginia, though it consolidated Powhatan power.

  Somewhere in the throng were the Powhatans’ peace children. Earlier, Laurent had examined all the youth inside the church, both English and Indian, deeming them fit. Reverend Midwinter had led in prayer. None wanted illness or death on either side. Now, standing beside the governor and his officials, the physic’s searching gaze settled on Selah.

  Though the day was hot as Hades, his scrutiny sent a chill clean through her. To escape, she stepped behind a burly Virginian.

  The chief was speaking now as Xander interpreted, all attention on the English peace children. “I lift you up from this place and set you down again at my dwelling place . . .”

  At last the Powhatan children appeared. A low murmur passed through the gawking colonists. Selah softened as her gaze fastened on the sole girl. This must be Watseka. She was by far the youngest, perhaps six or seven years of age, and clad in the whitest doeskin. The fringed garment draped over one small shoulder and fell to her knees. On her feet were equally white moccasins embellished with shells and glass beads. A stout braid dangled down her back, dark as tarred rope. Her oval face was missing a smile. She seemed rather awed by her newfound circumstances, or perhaps confused by all the fuss.

  Governor Harvey was speaking now, and Selah strained to hear his clipped English words. Something about opening a school for Indian youth. Many pounds of sterling were being raised by English churches to teach Indian children useful trades and train them as missionaries to their own people.

  When the ceremonies ended, a group of goodwives rushed the Hopewells, nearly bowling Candace over in their eagerness.

  “What a burdensome task you’ve taken on, you Hopewells. I say train the little urchin in spiritual matters foremost, with the Bible writ large, as well as the psalter.”

  “Do not forsake the catechism. The child must recite it perfectly.”

  “Needlework and a sampler seem in order first. Every young girl needs to learn a good vocabulary of stitches and general housewifery.”

  Wishing they could go straight to the shallop, Selah watched her mother free herself from the busybodies to follow Ustis to where Xander waited with Shay. On her brother’s back was a knapsack stuffed so full the straps bulged. She’d secreted sweetmeats within as well as a letter she’d penned for times of doubt or discouragement, though she prayed there’d be none.

  “Farewell, Sister.” Shay brushed her cheek with a hasty kiss as Xander looked on. “I am feeling particularly brave.”

  She tried to smile, emotion choking her. All she could manage through an impossibly tight throat was one word. “Godspeed.”

  Candace embraced him, her tearful goodbye tearing at Selah’s heart. But ’twas Ustis who left her most undone. He bowed his head as if to master himself before murmuring a few hard-won words in Shay’s ear, looking frail and withered beside his strapping son.

  “Meihtawk will continue as emissary during the exchange,” Xander explained once they’d collected themselves. “If something should happen Shay needs knowing about—a summons to return home—he will convey that posthaste.”

  Ustis and Candace embraced their son a final time, pride and sorrow mingled on their faces. “God be with you.”

  In moments, Meihtawk brought Watseka by the hand to where they stood. This close, Selah marveled anew at the child’s appearance. Slight of build, the girl had fine, dainty features. A delicate shell necklace encircled her throat.

  “She is a granddaughter of Chief Opechancanough. Her mother, a Mattaponi, died of the running-sores sickness after she was born,” Meihtawk told them in accented English. “She has been raised by her aunts until now.”

  Selah knelt in the grass till she was eye level with Watseka, feeling dry as an abandoned well. Sadly, Mattachanna had taught her few Powhatan words, hungry as she had been to learn English. “Wingapo.”

  Pleasure flashed in Watseka’s wary yet lively eyes.

  Selah held out her hand and felt a glimmer of relief when the child took it. Once Ustis and Candace made their own warm introductions, they began a slow walk to the water past their former house and garden to reach the Renick shallop. Xander spoke with Watseka in her tongue, pointing out this or that, as they pushed away from James Towne’s shores.

  With a yawn, Watseka laid her head upon Selah’s lap in a manner all the more remarkable given their short acquaintance. Candace’s face softened visibly as she took in their charge. Ustis seemed lost in thought. Xander was near the bow, the oarsmen maintaining a rhythmic silence in the face of a contrary wind.

  A summer storm threatened over the Chesapeake, heavy clouds as gray and purling as smoke. Likely it was already raining at James Towne and would travel upriver in time. As she thought it, the oarsmen seemed to renew their efforts. Rain was needed, but thunder and lightning were another matter, especially on the water.

  By the next bend in the river, large drops had begun to pelt them. Xander quickly made an awning of a worn sail, beneath which they sought shelter. He scooped the still sleeping Watseka up in his arms and continued to hold her as they neared Hopewell Hundred.

  Seated near Selah, he reassured them about Shay’s journey as well. “They’ll likely press on despite the weather and make camp along the Pamunkey River tonight.”

  By the time their recently restored dock came into view, lightning was lashing them, sending them all scrambling for shore. Xander still held Watseka, who was fully awake now and looking wide-eyed over his shoulder. The oarsmen hastened away, the weather preventing their return to fieldwork.

  Once home, they all began removing sodden garments. Selah’s beaver hat with its wide brim was soaked through, rain dripping from the peak of her nose. She hung her hat from a peg to dry, removed her apron, and tied another on, then started for the door again to fetch what she’d been secreting for Watseka. As she went out, she heard her mother’s voice behind her, ever ready with an invitation.

  “Xander, you must stay on for a meal, or at least till the weather clears. Izella is preparing a bountiful supper. Shay’s bed is yours for the taking too.”

  “I second the notion,” Ustis said. “Let us not bid you farewell only to find you lightning struck.”

  Without hearing Xander’s reply, Selah made her way beneath the eave to a small shed, a scratching at the door muffled by the rain. Not wanting the pup to traipse through the widening mud puddles, she scooped him up and hurried back to the dry house and Xander’s answer.

  Watseka’s expression grew more animated as Selah shut the door on the noisy weather and released the wiggling ball of fur onto the plank floor. “From a litter at Flowerdew Hundred.”

  Watseka looked to Xander. “Attemous.”

  “Dog, aye,” he replied. “Attemous.”

  Getting on her hands and knees, Watseka began growling as the inquisitive pup sniffed her doeskin dress and began nipping at the fringed hem with tiny teeth, which set them all to laughing. Next, she caught the pup up in her arms, its tongue a flash of pink against her merry face.

  Excusing herself, Selah left for the kitchen to help with supper preparations. Candace soon joined her, finishing what Izella had started before she left to do the milking.

  “Though I am happy for Watseka, I fear the wee hound will have its way with our fowl,” Candace lamented as she fried beef collops. “A kitten might have done as well.”

  “We shall make sure the pup respects all poultry.” Selah poked at a kettle of greens, wondering if Xander favored ramps and onions. “Our last cat was carried away by an eagle, if you recall. At least a pup stands a fighting chance.”

  Nodding, Candace brought forth a cake that had been soaking in a cupboard for a sennight. As she removed the linen wrap, the scent of spirits quashed the potent greens. “I do hope The En
glish Hus-wife does not disappoint.”

  Selah eyed the concoction as well as the receipt book open on the kitchen table. “Your cake, you mean?” Big and round and the color of an autumn nut, the cake boasted the best dried fruit and spices to be had, nutmeg foremost.

  “Watseka’s welcome cake.” Candace eased it onto a platter. “Let us hope she likes it.”

  “’Tis a wonder you kept it from Shay before his going. I daresay Father and Xander will waste no time with it, if Xander stays.”

  “He is to stay, aye.” She stole a look at Selah as if gauging her reaction.

  Heartened—and flustered—by the thought, Selah took down their best pewter and glass. There seemed a special intimacy about sharing a meal. She’d sensed it especially at Rose-n-Vale. Remembering the lovely posies set upon that linen-clad table, Selah dashed outside again, only to find little could be had but a few sodden wildflowers.

  When supper came, Ustis and Xander took the table’s ends while Watseka sat by Selah across from Candace, hardly leaving them room to miss Shay.

  “Xander, would you honor our table by blessing what we are about to partake?” Ustis asked.

  Selah sensed Xander’s surprise, her spirits sinking. Oh, Father, can you not pray instead?

  They joined hands and bent their heads, even Watseka, who was a fine mimic.

  “Guide us, Lord, in all the changes and varieties of the world, that we may have evenness and tranquility of spirit, that we may not grumble in adversity nor grow proud in prosperity but in serene faith surrender our souls to Thy most divine will, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  Their joined hands released. Dumbstruck by the beauty of his prayer, Selah sat unmoving for several seconds. Beside her, Watseka squirmed off the bench to approach the hearth’s fire, where she offered the dying flames a small portion of the meat upon her plate. A satisfying sizzle sent her back to the table.

  Xander had a ready explanation. “’Tis Powhatan custom to throw a bit of food into the fire as a thanks offering before eating.”

  Ustis harrumphed while Candace simply managed a small smile as supper commenced. Out of the corner of her eye, Selah watched Watseka try her first English meal. Bypassing her utensils, she partook with her fingers very neatly and carefully, savoring every bite of her collops. Corn pone and greens, familiar to her though perhaps prepared differently, also disappeared.

  At the serving of the cake, Watseka gaped. Though the night was overwarm, Selah poured the girl some herbals in a tiny cup.

  Cake promptly devoured, cup empty, she began yawning again, clearly worn out from her long day. Who knew how far she had traveled before coming to James Towne? And Shay? Was he even now seeking shelter? She turned her uneasiness into a silent prayer. The damp did her brother no favors, oft leading to chest infections and the pursuit of some remedy.

  Removing Xander’s dishes, acknowledging his murmured thanks, she kept her eyes down, glad for the steadying routine. When the men moved to the parlor, she wiped the table clean, wishing her topsy-turvy feelings were as easily discarded as the supper crumbs.

  21

  Ustis, exhausted by the day’s events, his chest rattling with that stubborn cough, took to his bed, Candace following. Once their bedchamber door shut, ’twas only Selah, Watseka, and Xander in the parlor now. Rain mellowed from a downpour to a patter, and the house finally cooled. Full and dry, they sat and watched Watseka play with her pup. To her delight, Xander untied the leather string binding his hair in a careless queue and gave it to her as enticement.

  Leaning back in Ustis’s chair, clearly the most comfortable, he stretched out his legs and crossed his boots at the ankles. With Selah beside him, near enough he could catch the herbal scent of her, he pondered spending the night. His aunt didn’t expect his return till tomorrow, and his tarrying might ensure Watseka’s adjustment was more comfortable for all concerned.

  But none of that explained his dallying.

  ’Twas this sudden closeness, so beguiling, that kept him rooted and opened the door to pondering their future. A future far beyond this sodden eve that might well thwart the coming harvest to a languid winter’s night before his own glowing hearth, Selah by his side, and nothing more pressing to ponder than choosing a favorite pipe.

  Thus ensnared, he threw caution to the wind. “I suppose this might well count as courting.”

  A stunned silence. And then Selah laughed. A laugh so high and musical it had the ring of a bell. She looked sideways at him beneath long-lashed eyes. “Are you making sport of romantic matters, Xander Renick?”

  “Nay. I just do not know how to proceed.”

  “Are you seeking my permission?”

  “I have been seeking your permission for some months.”

  “But not in words.”

  He shook his unkempt head. “A lingering look. A tarrying.”

  She smiled then, somewhat shyly, her eyes never leaving his. “Have you spoken to my father?”

  “Not yet. The timing continues unfavorable. Besides, you know I am not one for bowing to custom. Mayhap it bears considering to court as the Powhatans do.”

  “And how is that?”

  His gaze veered to Watseka, leather string in her mouth as she played tug of war with the pup. “A warrior presents his would-be bride with a gift, often some delicacy to be eaten, that conveys his ability to provide for her.”

  Selah’s gaze swept his buckskin breeches and linen doublet. “I see no food on your person.”

  “Alas . . . given that, you are free to decline my verbal offer.”

  “And if I accept? What then?”

  “I approach your parents. Pay a bridewealth to them.”

  “A bit like the tobacco brides, perhaps.”

  “Something like that, aye. Next comes the wedding feast.”

  “Are we then considered married?”

  “Not until I prepare a place for you. Rose-n-Vale should do. Then we’d marry at your parents’ home.” Caught up in the moment, he’d unwittingly made it more personal, but from the look on her face she didn’t mind. “An elder officiates, breaking a string of beads over our—the couple’s—heads. The wedding feast follows.”

  Another smile. Her eyes seemed to dance. And then the warmth fled her gaze. “Like you and Mattachanna.”

  He gave a nod. The memory, so distant now, seemed almost to belong to someone else. “We married first before her people, then the English in church, if you recall.”

  “I do. Yet somehow, courting you seems to tread on that memory.”

  “How so?”

  “You were—mayhap still are”—she looked to her aproned lap—“in love with her.”

  “Is that your only reservation, Selah?”

  “Nay.”

  “There’s more, then.”

  “A great many things. Shay leaving. Father continuing unwell. I’m needed now more than ever here.”

  He fell silent. Such plain speaking led them down a path thwarted with weeds and thistles. Shouldn’t love be more glad-hearted? Willing to take risks, come what may?

  Watseka’s soft giggling defused the tension of the moment. The pup had the leather string, flinging it back and forth between his teeth.

  “Are you always driven by duty, Selah? What of your heart?”

  “My heart . . .” Wistfulness filled her face. “‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?’”

  “True, aye, as is this—‘a continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike.’”

  “Shall we exchange Scripture for Scripture?” she asked, seemingly chided and amused. “As for me . . .”

  He waited none too comfortably for her answer.

  “I am not at peace with your working night and day and your preoccupation with plantation matters.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Is that not enough?”

  “I sense your resistance goes deeper, is what I’m saying.” His tone was firm, yet the sea
rching words were soft. “Let us have the matter settled between us once and for all, here and now.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. He’d not meant to issue a challenge. Ruing it, he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, no matter what her answer would be. Finally, it came.

  “I would have you remarry for heartfelt reasons, not base practicality like the tobacco brides. With a genuine depth of feeling, a sincere heartfelt commitment, nothing less.” Her shimmering gaze turned him on end. “Is it wrong for me, nearly a spinster, to want to be the object of your best thoughts and intentions?”

  That look she gave him. Entreating. Expectant. It rent his open heart. If not for Watseka he would take her in his arms and silence her endless queries.

  He leaned forward, hands outspread. “Selah, how can I prove to you—”

  A storm of coughing sounded from the bedchamber. Selah stood as the door opened and Candace appeared in her nightcap and gown.

  “Daughter, can you bring dried horehound leaves mixed with honey? Perhaps that will soothe your father’s chest and help him sleep.”

  “Of course.”

  Xander pulled himself to his feet. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Your being beneath our roof is comfort enough.” Selah started for the kitchen. “If Father takes a turn for the worse . . .”

  “I’ll retire, then, but am ready if the need arises.” He started for the steps with a candle, having been told Shay’s room was to the right of the landing.

  He kept his tread light, not wanting to aggravate an already sleepless situation. On his way he gave a passing glance at Selah’s half-open door. A small bed, a washstand, a desk and chair within. One small rug lent softness and color. Still, it looked so spare he felt a qualm over his own sumptuous bedchamber.