“A border belle, I see.” She ushered them into a parlor, ringing for a servant to bring refreshments. Mistress Semple had many talents, her uncanny ability to sense a need one of them. “What can I do to help ensure your stay here is a memorable one?”
Clay cleared his throat. “A preacher is in order.”
“Of course. None more respectable than Pastor Guthrie. I shall send for him as soon as you say the word.”
Clay looked to Tessa.
“Aye, once I’ve cleaned off the dust of the trail, thank you,” she answered.
“Glad I am to be of help.” Mistress Semple’s pleasure was genuine. In a border town full of disorderly girls and unruly men, marriage was a rare, elevated state. “Your timing is quite felicitous. Colonel Washington was here in early August, but his rooms are now vacant and suitable for such an occasion. None but the best for an officer and his bride, aye?”
“Obliged,” Clay replied as refreshments were served, a dram of whiskey for him and cider for Tessa. He’d heard of Washington’s private rooms but had never seen them.
“A generous supper awaits you too. Even lovebirds need feeding.” As they finished drinking, their hostess produced a chatelaine, intent on a skeleton key. “Follow me, Miss Swan, and prepare to meet your handsome groom.”
34
Taking Tessa up a back stair, Mistress Semple led the way to the end of a narrow hall. Where Clay would ready himself was a mystery. Since Mistress Semple seemed to have all in hand, Tessa wouldn’t ask. The faint clink of a key in the lock opened a door without a single creak to its brass hinges.
“I’ll have the maids bring up hot water.” Mistress Semple crossed the room and began drawing the drapes closed. “Every bride deserves a fragrant bath.”
Murmuring her thanks, Tessa took in the bower before her. The room might have been in Philadelphia, so lovely were its refined lines. Papered walls. A mahogany bedstead with brocade hangings. Bed steps. An uncracked looking glass. Sterling candlesticks. Framed floral artwork. The scent of beeswax was everywhere.
In such a sumptuous room she felt smaller and more homespun, dirtier and more disheveled than she’d ever been. But surely this was not Mistress Semple’s intent. Her appreciative gaze strayed beyond the immediate. In the adjoining room was a parlor. Two bookcases lined the walls, holding more volumes than she’d anticipated seeing in a lifetime. ’Twas all she could do not to run across the carpeted floor and ransack the shelves in delight.
Instead she took a step toward a striped brocade loveseat—but mightn’t she soil it if she sat on it? A knock sounded, sparing her the dilemma. Two servant girls delivered the promised hot water and hip bath. As they readied everything behind a painted screen in a corner, the memory of her own humble quilted curtain in the cabin turned her pensive.
Clay, one maid said, had gone to clean up in the men’s common area below. Pastor Guthrie had been sent for. The facts were coming hard and fast, cushioned by their genteel surroundings. A table was reserved for them in Semple’s dining room following the nuptials. Cook, having gotten wind of it, was fashioning a small cake. The maids chattered like a mob of sparrows, clearly enjoying waiting on a bride-to-be.
Towels and something called a sultana were laid out for her near the bath. Its steam was scented with lavender, the only familiar anchor in this strange new world. She tried to shed her unease along with the filth of travel, her soiled garments a tawdry heap on the carpeted floor. Soon they were whisked away by one of the maids to be washed—or maybe thrown out.
Stepping into the shiny tub, Tessa set her teeth, the bathwater was so blessedly hot. She was used to the startling chill of river water, cold in any season. On a small table within arm’s reach were toiletries laid out for the taking. No gourd of soft soap but carefully cut hard ivory bars and a wonderment of pretty-smelling creams in small pots, even a hair wash redolent of roses and mint.
Half an hour later, she stepped out of the bath and studied her water-wrinkled fingers and toes. A maid returned and helped her dress, combing out her hair before hauling the hip bath away. Powdered, pinned, and wrapped in the soft sultana, Tessa sat on the love seat by the window, parting the drapes and half expecting to see a lamplighter on the street like Clay had told her about. But this was still a rough border town, not the civilized likes of Philadelphia.
Laughter resounded below, followed by Clay’s reassuring voice. Had the preacher come? Were they waiting on her? She began rummaging through her belongings, searching for her best dress. About to embark on another journey, this one so new, so untried, left her near tears one minute and overcome with a strange joy the next. Hester’s presence seemed to hover, and regret stung her that she must deny her great-aunt the joyous moment to come.
Shift. Stockings and garters. Stays. Petticoats. A flurry of preparation, even a hastily plucked flower from Semple’s garden for her hair. The purple blossom was a bit limp, but it stayed put with a carefully placed pin. Drawing a breath, Tessa turned away from the ornate looking glass and readied to meet her groom.
Tessa came to him freshly washed, still damp and smelling of mint, in her best linen dressed up with a bit of lace at the sleeves and neck. She’d fastened a flower in her hair, the inky mass sun-lightened in places and glinting Scots-red, her skin tawny too. Frontier born and bred to the bone, she was. Clay wouldn’t have her looking like a city miss.
As for himself, out of buckskins he always felt a tad odd, though today he was as well groomed as she. For a few seconds they just stood a handbreadth apart, regarding each other with exhausted pleasure.
“Are you both ready to begin?” the pastor asked with a bearded smile.
“Aye,” they replied in unison like obedient pupils before a schoolmaster. The heavily Scots words of the marriage rites were somewhat lost to him as they stood in this frontier parlor, the best Pitt had to offer.
Clay’s roiling emotions settled as his bride-to-be looked so calm. More like the Tessa of old. And then a sudden qualm intruded on his ease. Was she missing her kin? Dogged by regrets?
They faced each other, holding each other’s hands, and he remembered the locket. At ceremony’s end, he kissed her lightly on the lips before he brought the heirloom out of his pocket. Her eyes lit with surprise, then darkened with emotion. His hands were a bit unsteady as he opened the clasp, moved behind her to encircle her throat, and draped the locket across her bodice once he’d fastened it securely.
“My mother’s,” he murmured.
Her fingers touched the gift, expression softening. It wasn’t as glittery as city baubles went, but it was all he had, and the sentiment behind it was priceless. She seemed to think so too, for she reached up and kissed him on his smoothly shaven cheek, eyes awash.
“How did she come by it?” she asked, holding his gaze.
Again that keen wistfulness took hold in his chest. “I wish I knew.”
