“And the prize?” Tessa asked despite herself.
“We’ll soon find out.” With that, Ma stood and returned to the cabin, closing the door on Tessa’s resistance.
17
Hands stained purple from the dying shed, nutmeg grater in her pocket, and an unwavering dread in her spirit, Tessa rode her mare, Blossom, into Fort Tygart at week’s end. She’d gladly give a day of her life to move Hester’s cabin as far away from the commander’s blockhouse as she could, even down by the nose-curling privy pits. As it was, she had to sashay past that open blockhouse door, concoct a muster-day cake, and try to stay atop her fractured feelings as the summer slid into July.
If the man said but a few words to her at their last meeting, spared her nary a glance, and went on his way, what cause had she to care? Why did it feel like he’d horsewhipped her instead? Because of it she’d taken no pains with her person. No flounced petticoat. No fine cap and apron. Her careless braid hung to her hips.
Out of sorts, she dismounted, taking care to stay near her brothers, who always made a great deal of commotion mostly because of their number. Hester’s door yawned open, but before she’d walked but a few feet in its direction, Ruth stopped her. Tessa regarded her friend without a smile, in no more of a mind to chat than she was to cross paths with the colonel.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tessa.” Ruth gave Keturah nary a greeting as she and Ma walked past.
The slight turned Tessa tetchier. “Seems like you could call upon your Christian self to bestow a kind word to a former friend.”
“Former, aye,” Ruth spat.
A hasty retort sprang to mind, but Tessa set her jaw. She didn’t care to decipher the depths of Ruth’s dislike. The morning sun poked heated rays into her back as it scaled the east palisades, adding to her present angst. She longed to be free of Ruth as well as her linen stockings and heavy shoes, but being barefoot would unleash the full measure of Hester’s ire.
Ruth looked at her askance, riveted to Tessa’s braid tied with a string of purple wampum. “You think it’s wise, the both of you wearing them beads?”
“I don’t know why not.” Tessa itched to be on her way as well, not stand amid the bustling common like a block of wood. But Ruth’s grip on her arm stayed steadfast.
“You entering the cake contest? Every woman within these walls aims to win.”
“What’s the prize?” Tessa said as Ruth fell into step beside her.
“It’s secret, part of the reason it’s all the buzzle. As for who’s judge, that’s hush-hush too.”
They passed the magazine with its dwindling ammunition, then the garden nearing its riotous peak. Tessa glanced at the west blockhouse, her brothers just entering to mark their mustering.
That terrible tightening coiled inside her, a low-spiritedness born of high hopes shot down. She listened to Ruth’s recitation of the latest settlement happenings, of birthings and grievances and maladies, of Indian sign along Cougar Creek, and of who had gone overmountain.
“Well?” Hands on her hips, Ruth awaited Tessa’s own accounting.
“I’m plumb out of words,” she replied, to Ruth’s disgust.
Ever since they were small they’d chattered like magpies, mimicking their mothers. But today, nay. Absently fingering the nutmeg grater in her pocket, Tessa gave the sky a last look, wishing it would rain in the slim hope the festivities would be dashed. Yet why rob another’s sport with her sour mood?
Without another word, Ruth strode away, spite stiffening her spine. Tessa entered Hester’s cabin, joining Ma and Keturah, the humid air already fragrant with gingerbread. Hester’s cake sat proudly on a tarnished pewter platter at the table’s center.
“We can’t all of us be at the hearth at once,” Hester exclaimed, looking pleased with herself, her usually tidy apron bearing a spackle of grease.
“Keturah’s brought some strawberry cakes,” Ma announced with a smile.
Hester’s focus narrowed to the linen-wrapped offering in Keturah’s hands. “A dish as Indian as your beads, I reckon.”
“Glad I am Keturah won’t be in the contest,” Tessa said, “as her baking might well trump ours.”
They’d grown as fond of Keturah’s corncakes mixed with strawberries as her medicinal teas. Hester pinched off a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Tessa did the same, and soon only the berry-stained linen remained, leaving Keturah looking satisfied.
“Best begin,” Ma announced, giving them ample time to remake a cake if a first one fell or succumbed to some other mishap. But even a failed cake would be devoured. Little was ever wasted.
Summoning her nerve, Tessa set to work, glad Hester had already laid out supplies. Butter. Eggs. Sweetening. Flour. Mace. Cloves. Candied lemon and orange peel. There was a sweet sameness to baking that restored Tessa’s sagging spirits.
By noon the entire fort common was overcome with spices as cabin after cabin turned out an abundance of muster-day cakes. Maddie was soon at their door, looking less wan than before. Had the herbs Keturah given her helped?
“Feel almost sorry for the judges with so many sweets to sample,” Maddie jested as the women rounded the table to look at the three cooling cakes from every angle.
