Fair Wind of Love

by Rosalind Laker

  She clutched Bryne’s hand excitedly between both of hers, laughing in her exhilaration. “It’s too beautiful!”

  “Come closer,” he said. Together they moved across the stretch of grass until they came to the edge. She dropped to her knees, her amber skirts billowing around her, her enraptured eyes still wide. They were quite alone there in the lush green countryside, two tiny figures, one kneeling, one standing, while the falls cascaded in foamy splendor to the rocks far below where the river swirled away in a rushing, broken pattern of clear crystal water and dark churning depths.

  When at last they moved to retrace their steps, she saw that they were both covered with a fine net of moisture that glinted in their hair and on their clothes. “It’s as though we’ve had a barrel-load of tiny pearls tipped over us,” she said with amusement, shaking her skirts free of it.

  “We’re still in range.” He glanced over his shoulder as another curling feather of spume came drifting toward them. “Let’s escape it!”

  He scooped her to his side, and with laughter they ran until she was breathless. They had reached the slope where the cottage stood and she looked at it appraisingly, taking off her bonnet as she followed him toward it. Built of logs, it was a simple dwelling-place set against the forest, but commanding a fine view of the distant falls through a gap in the trees.

  He turned the key in the lock, but when she was about to enter he halted her. “Wait,” he said.

  Before she realized what was happening, he had lifted her up in his arms, and he carried her over the threshold. She was a little at a loss at being treated as a bride, and was relieved when he set her on her feet again.

  “How did you know about this cottage?” she asked, looking about her in a little tour of exploration. There were two small bedchambers, each flanking the living room, and the furniture was the plain handwork of pioneers, but it smelled fresh and sweet and clean. The woven rugs made bright splashes of color that were reflected in the brass lamp, which hung from a center beam.

  “I’ve stayed in these parts when riding out to do business with Indian tribes,” he answered. “Officers from the fort rent it as a hunting lodge when they go out after the game and fowl in the forest. I prefer it to the tavern, which is usually crowded, but this is the first time I shall have stayed in it for more than one night. Usually I’ve been on my way again by dawn next morning.”

  When the porter arrived with their luggage from the tavern, Bryne directed the placing of her trunk in the bedchamber with a view of the falls. When she had unpacked and changed into a spotted muslin gown she picked up her shawl, expecting to walk back to the tavern to dine, but she found that Bryne had ordered food to be brought to the cottage. The waiter was lifting a pewter cover from a dish of steaming roast duck.

  After the meal she did put on her shawl, for Bryne had suggested a stroll in the fast-fading sunlight. The forest was full of little sounds and rustles, and in the grass the crickets chirped. The wild flowers delighted her in their abundance. There were purple, yellow, and white violets making thick clusters, the brilliance of wild marigolds, and trailing arbutus. She would have stooped to pick a bunch here and there, but Bryne restrained her gently with a touch on the arm.

  “Leave those,” he advised mysteriously. “There are other blooms to suit you better. We shall find them soon.”

  She was puzzled, but did as he said. They strolled in silence until they came to a spread of tall-stemmed lily flowers touched by the rosy glow of the sunset.

  “This is the flower for you,” he said, bending to pick one. The tiny root came with it. She took the bloom with both hands from him, and studied its three curved white petals and the flick of its golden stamens.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The trillium.” His eyes held hers. “You should have carried a bouquet of these flowers of Ontario today.”

  She lowered her lashes and stood motionless while the darkness of night extinguished the sunset like a candle flame. He moved among the trilliums, gathering a bunch, and eventually came to lay them in her arms.

  “Sarah,” he said softly, making her look at him.

  He drew her to him, and kissed her deeply but with great tenderness. She relaxed, all tension ebbing from her, and her lips responded gently under his.

  “You’ll not regret this marriage,” he vowed in quiet tones, holding her face between his fingertips. “You shall have anything your heart desires.”

  Except love, she thought achingly. That was not for her.

  They retraced their steps to the cottage. She took the flowers inside to find a jar to put them in, leaving him to light a cigar as he sat down on the bench by the cottage wall.

  It took a little time to find a suitable container, and she went into her room to fetch the pitcher of water from her washstand to fill it, a single ray of lamplight following her across the floor from the living room. But the view from her window held her attention, and as she pushed the window wide the roar of the falls leaped at her through the still air.

  She put her chin on her hand, resting an elbow, as she stood there in the darkness gazing out. Somehow she felt strangely content. In spite of everything, being with Bryne was proving to be more enjoyable than she had anticipated. It was thoughtful and imaginative of him to have chosen such a glorious setting for their getting to know each other, and through that sensitive show of consideration she had warmed to him already.

  Suddenly she stiffened, her eye having caught a shadow of movement in the forest. It was a man approaching stealthily. Her first instinct was to warn Bryne, but there was no need. He had risen abruptly from the bench and was hurrying purposefully through the trees. She saw his left hand lift in a warning for silence. Even as she watched, they met, black silhouettes against the silvery falls. A few brief words passed between them before Bryne took a packet of papers from his pocket and handed it over. The stranger tucked them into his coat, and slipped away as secretly as he had come. Bryne turned to walk casually back to the cottage.

  Quickly Sarah drew away from the window. All peace of mind had vanished, and she was conscious of an angry disappointment mingled with fear. Bryne had not brought her to this romantic place to set a pleasing pattern for their future days together, but had had some prearranged appointment with a confederate who could only be from the other side of the boundary! What plans had he passed on to that dark shadow from the United States? Had it been vital details about the reinforcement of defenses that they had seen en route from York? Or information he had obtained from some other source? How could she have allowed herself to forget even for a little while that she was married to a dangerous adventurer?

  When Bryne looked in the doorway of the cottage he found her arranging the trilliums at the table under the lamp. He smiled, holding a hand out to her. “Come and sit outside for a while.”

  She put the last flower into place and looked at him coolly. “It’s too late. I’m going to bed. Good night, Bryne.”

  “Sleep well, Sarah,” he replied evenly.

  Her hands were shaking as she closed her door. She did not lock it. There was no need. The gulf between herself and Bryne was as wide as ever.

  They went riding next day on horses that he had hired from the tavern. She found it somewhat nostalgic to be in the saddle again, for she was reminded of the many times she and Giles had ridden over the Downs. But the scenery was so different around Niagara, sweeping and wild, its colors richer and deeper, the blue of the sky brilliant to the point of harshness, and its forests a seemingly endless maze of tall trunks holding high a dark, all-enveloping canopy of foliage. Amid such alien surroundings it was not difficult to let the past slip from her mind again, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of the ride.

  Once she reined sharply when Bryne pointed out a black bear lumbering off through the trees, and soon afterward they sighted another. But it was she who saw the Indians. She was following Bryne along a narrow trail when she happened to glance up at the rocky slope soaring
above them. Outlined against the sky sat several Indians on horseback, their immobile faces painted with tribal marks, all with rifles slung across their backs and knives at their belts.

  “Oh, Bryne!” she cried to him in alarm.

  He wheeled his horse about, looking up quickly to follow the direction of her anxious gaze, but he gave a reassuring grin as he reached her. “It’s a hunting party—and not for scalps!”

  Solemnly he saluted the watching riders, and received a gracious acknowledgment in return. Encouraged, Sarah also inclined her head in greeting before she and Bryne rode on again.

  “They looked so arrogant and fearsome,” she remarked. “Not like the Indians I’ve seen in other places.”

  “Those were Mohawks. It may surprise you to know that they’re as fiercely loyal to the British flag as the Missisaugas who come trading in York. This is not the American side of the boundary—there’s no enmity between white man and Indian here.”

  “Why should there be such a difference in relationships?” she inquired with interest.

  “The gentlemanly British,” he answered with mocking emphasis, reminding her of the time she had brought the gentleness of his manners into question on the occasion of their first meeting, “have—on the whole—treated the Indians fairly. Not so in the United States, I regret to say. The Mohawks were driven from their hunting grounds there, and—like so many other Loyalists, Indian and white—were forced to cross the boundary into British North America for remaining true to King George in the War of Independence. As a result, Upper and Lower Canada can rely on the support of such powerful Indian chiefs as Tecumseh and all his braves in the face of an invasion.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. The Indians had vanished as though they had been absorbed into the white cloud that was scudding over the cliff top where they had been standing. If war came Bryne, as a spy, could fall victim to those scalping knives should he fall into their hands. The thought terrified her.

  The days at Niagara slid by, spent in walking, riding, and picnics by the river. He taught her how to load a pistol and fire it, saying it was a useful thing to know, but she was well aware that he wanted her to be able to defend herself in the face of an invasion of York by his own countrymen. It must mean that he thought that the Canadian defenses would be easily overcome.

  On their last evening they dined at the tavern. A couple of local fiddlers had come to play, drawing in a crowd from the surrounding farming community, who threw themselves with jollity into the dancing, joining up with travelers staying there and the visiting soldiery. Heeled boots, leather shoes, and thick-soled clogs all thumped and thudded together, making the floorboards bounce.

  Sarah, watching at Bryne’s side, saw that the steps of the dances were the same as those danced in England, and when he invited her into a quadrille she took her place opposite him with a swirl of her muslin skirts, dipping in curtsy. Afterward they joined in the reels and the cotillions, the fun becoming more hilarious as the night wore on, the girls twirled faster by their partners, and the bashing of a tambourine adding to the riotous din. Sweat was pouring down the faces of the fiddlers, but the row of full tankards donated by the appreciative dancers did not lessen, and there was no sign of the music coming to an end when Sarah and Bryne left the tavern.

  It was very cool and peaceful in the forest, although the sound of the fiddles followed them as they made their way along the path to the cottage.

  “We partner each other well,” Bryne remarked easily, holding back a low branch to let her pass. “I see it as a good omen for our lives together.”

  She made no comment, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders. There were no good omens that she could see. Only fear and mistrust, combined with an overwhelming concern for his safety. When she felt him take hold of her arm she stopped, turning to face him.

  “Sarah,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head at her, “there’s a barrier between us as high as ever. I had thought that being alone here would bring us closer together, but that hasn’t been the case. You are so wary of love. Why can’t you let your heart soften towards me in any way?”

  But she was remembering the real reason why he had brought her to Niagara and the dark shadow that had crossed the river to receive a packet of secret documents. His deceit angered her anew, the hurt and humiliation she had suffered still raw within her, and she resisted when he would have gathered her to him.

  “You said yourself that love, romance and all the frills—if I remember your words correctly—were not part of our bargain,” she reminded him sharply.

  “That’s right,” he admitted with a shrug, “but that contract was a thing apart. What we choose to make of it is a different matter. Is it so strange that I should want to court you before all other women? After all, we are destined to spend the rest of our lives in each other’s company.”

  “How do you know how long we shall have together?” she challenged. “Have you forgotten that war is threatening this colony? And that every day traitors are undermining its strength! What will happen to colonists who fall into the clutches of the United States army? You at least have no fear on that score!”

  He gave her a whiplash of a glance, the skin went tight over the bones of his face. “One of the reasons I married you,” he informed her harshly, “was that I could be sure of leaving Lucy and Flora in safe hands if circumstances should necessitate my leaving York after the outbreak of hostilities. I admired the way you had taken charge of the situation when fate landed two infants on your hands, and it would take more than a war to make you surrender your responsibilities.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted it, looking down into her eyes. “You’ve plenty of spunk. It compensates for your sharp tongue and accusing glances. I know this marriage was not of your choosing and we’ll keep to the bargain as it stands. But you care for me more than you’re prepared to admit, even to yourself. I’ll wait. I can be patient when it suits me.”

  He seized and crushed her to him, locking his mouth to hers in a frenzied loving that was unlike any other kiss she had ever known, stirring her violently, making her whole body newly alive. When he finally released her she flung him one furious look and hurried away along the path, breaking into a run as she neared the cottage. Perversely it was not the kiss that had enraged her, but the fact that he had taunted her with the hardheaded reasons why he had married her. The angry tears were hot in her eyes.

  The last thing she did before leaving the cottage next morning was to throw out the faded trilliums. But one had been preserved. She had saved it and pressed it into a book she had been reading, not really knowing the reason why.

  Six

  On the way back to York, Sarah started to look forward eagerly to seeing Jenny and Robbie again. At the house she found them waiting for her in her room under Mary Anne’s watchful eye.

  “Hallo, my darlings!” she cried, throwing out her arms to them. They rushed to her and she bent down to hug them close. Robbie was so full of news that it came spilling from him in a stutter, but Jenny was silent, her face buried against Sarah, arms clutching as if never to let her go again.

  “They’ve been real good, Mrs. Garrett,” Mary Anne said happily. “No trouble at all.” She went from the room, leaving the three of them together.

  “Let’s see what I’ve brought you,” Sarah said when Joe Tupper had carried up her trunk and set it down. There was a wooden doll for Jenny and a brightly painted horse and cart for Robbie. They were excited with their gifts and went running off to show them to Mary Anne. Sarah saw that Flora had come to hover enviously in the doorway, and she held out a third gift that she had bought. “This is for you, Flora,” she said, smiling. It was a fan of beaded lace.

  Flora’s eyes lit up with delight, and she took it from Sarah to whirl it awkwardly before the mirror. “I have never seen a fan so pretty!”

  “Not like that,” Sarah said patiently, taking up one of her own fans, “but like this.” She demonstrated, and Flo
ra quickly mastered the action with a natural grace. “Well done!”

  The black child let out an exuberant sigh. “I guess I’m not so dumb after all!” She went darting off triumphantly.

  Sarah turned to the rest of the unpacking.

  When Sarah went downstairs again Beth came to her with a letter. “This was collected from the post office soon after you’d left for Niagara, ma’am.”

  A tremendous wave of excitement swept through Sarah as she broke the seal. It must be from Will Nightingale! But disappointment when she glanced at the signature was overlaid immediately by mingled surprise and pleasure. It was from Dr. Philip Manning.

  Dear Sarah,

  No doubt you will be much surprised to hear that soon I shall be in York. Quebec, although a very fine city, has not offered me the opportunities for which I had hoped, the conditions of partnership offered to me proving to be far from satisfactory, and not at all what I had been led to expect. I have no address yet, but intend buying a house that will be large enough for me to have both a surgery and a small operating theatre. When I arrive in York I hope to find a reply to this letter at the post office telling me where I might call on you without delay. I trust that the children were joyfully united with their father. The task you took upon yourself was no easy one, and Mr. Nightingale must be ever in your debt. You have been constantly in my thoughts since we parted. Indeed, I stood on the Rock and watched the Griffin sail out of sight, never dreaming that the chance to meet again would come so soon. I am sure you have found the employment that you desired and I look forward to hearing all your news before long. It is my cherished hope that the good memories of the friendships you made on board have remained with you; I refer, of course, to those of Hannah and myself.

  Your servant,

  Philip Manning

  Sarah folded the letter. The date showed that it was already a month old. He could be in York already. There had been an unwritten message in the last sentence, which she understood only too well. He had been asking her to overlook the little contretemps that had ruined their moment of parting. It was obvious he wanted to make a fresh start, although it would not be as he expected.